Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When all is said and done, Cas leaves. 

It's only surprising because of how not surprised by it Dean really is. There's really no lead-up to it. The world shines a new day before them, and everything is okay now—freedom brushing fingertips, if only they know how to grasp it. Chuck is gone, Jack is God, and there's freedom on the other side of it. 

Brittle and battle-worn, Cas looks at him over coffee one morning and says, "I need to go," and Dean instantly knows that he's not coming back. 

He's not really sure how he knows it, but he does. It settles into the pit of his stomach, curling hot and tight like something he instinctively wants to tear out with his bare hands. He takes a breath, and it gets stuck in his throat, hitching there. It hurts, hurts, hurts when he finally exhales. 

"Yeah," Dean says, "of course you do," and he nods jerkily as he looks down at his phone. He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't look up from the screen when Cas gets up and leaves the room. He doesn't finish his coffee, or move for a long time. 

By nightfall, Cas is gone.

"It's just—" Sam grunts as he swings the iron wrench, ducking out of the grasp from the ghost woman from the 1800s who wears an unnecessary amount of frills, "—kinda out of character, don't you think? I mean, he didn't even really say goodbye." 

Dean hums idly and strikes the match, not flinching when the woman goes screeching into flames. Salt crackles under his boots. "I dunno. Cas isn't really known for sticking around, is he?" 

"Yeah, but he usually gives an impression of where he's going," Sam points out. He tosses the wrench to the ground and crouches down by the grave, warming his hands on the burning bones. "He really didn't tell you anything?" 

"No," Dean says softly, "just that he needed to go." 

Sam makes a small sound in the back of his throat, eyes glinting in the firelight. "Did you ask?" 

"If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me." Dean looks up at the night sky, squinting. "Hell, he'd give me a call. But he hasn't, so."

"You could call him," Sam suggests. 

"Yeah," Dean agrees. 

But he doesn't. 

There's a theory around tunnel-vision that Dean has, one he chews over in his mind when he's in the quiet of his own room. Just the ground-breaking idea that there's more outside of the tunnel he can see, if only he's smart enough to look for it. 

He can hear Eileen and Sam laughing in the kitchen. 

It's just. 

Well, there was a time that Dean had been pretty sold on the fact that family—that Sam, in particular—was all he needed, was all he was ever going to get, was more than enough. Family has expanded and constricted through the years, stretching out to include others, shriveling back in when they didn't survive. It's hard having more people to lose, but Dean is starting to realize that it's equally hard not having them at all. 

He's never really thought about it in depth. His end, if not bloody, was always going to have Sam in the background. His life, even, because that's how it's always been. They're in each other's pockets, have been for years, and they have no particular itch to get out and away from each other. They've been through too much to just go their separate ways. How do you breathe without the person you'd give your last breath for? That you have given your last breath for, given so much for. You don't, Dean doesn't think. You just don't. 

But that's the tunnel vision, isn't it? He's not so sure on the theory, but it has solid groundwork. If all you've ever seen is the tunnel, how do you know something exists on the other side of it? 

You have to leave the tunnel. 

Sam's always been curious in the way Dean never really was, not instinctively. He wanted out, early in, and even if he doesn't want that anymore, he's not scared to follow the threads of his wants. He learns more sign language every day, and he's taken an interest in magic, and he isn't wary to dip his hands into the cool tide of freedom and see where he'll end up. If he's stranded, he'll just float. He's never really been one to sink. 

Dean? A little different. He likes the structure of having a purpose. He likes not having to figure out what he wants—sort of just having it laid out for him already. A blueprint of how things should go. A mission he can follow and succeed in. The right thing, already within grasp, all figured out for him. No dipping hands into the tide, just the solid weight of a gun in his grip and the sense of accomplishment from saving the world one corner at a time, doing what he can while he still can. 

But outside of that, around the edges of how he's hardwired, what else is there? Beer and bars and Baby? The low churn of television, or the blaring music that drowns everything else out? It all echoes off the walls of the tunnel. It's what he knows, because he hasn't gone exploring for anything else. 

There's the hot and tight stretch in his stomach that he wants to claw out of him, and Sam's laughter rings out in the kitchen, and Dean closes his eyes. 

It's just a theory. 

It's only a theory. 

Sam leans back in the passenger seat and grits his teeth as he stitches up the gash in his side. It's been a while since either of them have had to do anything like this, but it's not something one forgets. Dean doesn't complain about the blood on the leather, and Sam's hands shake as he pops the needle through sliced skin. 

"Oh, I'm going to need to get drunk," Sam says after, his head leaning back on the seat. 

Dean reaches back over the seat to fumble around for the half-bottle of whiskey he hid in here only two days ago, just so Sam wouldn't see it. Now isn't the time for dodging concern, not when Sam's cupping his side with trembling fingers and obviously flinching every time they go over a bump. 

"Here," Dean says gruffly, passing the bottle to him without taking his eyes off the road. "Don't ask." 

"I'm going to ask," Sam warns him. He waits to do it, waits until he's taken a few gulps, hissing in distaste and perhaps some relief—back to placebo methods of healing, because it's what you got when you don't have angels around to heal you. "You're not drinking and driving and testing fate, are you?" 

"Fate's dead," Dean reminds him. He smirks a little at Sam's grunt. The road continues to spiral under Baby's tires. "No, I'm not drinking and driving. Wouldn't really be fair to anyone else, would it?" 

"And you?" Sam asks. 

Dean hums. "That, too." Except not really. 

"Heard from Cas?" Sam takes another swallow immediately after he says it. 

"No," Dean tells him. 

Sam huffs out a weak laugh. "Gonna call him?" 

Dean doesn't deem that question worthy of an answer. It's a really stupid question. 

The thing is—the thing is, where did he go?

Sam's not wrong to say that Cas usually leaves with the general idea of where he's going, or what he's leaving to do, except for every time he's left when he never really meant to. Cas never means to die, Dean's pretty sure, so it's not like he can warn for that. 

But, when there is nothing to do and nowhere to be, what does that mean for Cas? 

Dean doesn't want to think about it, but he thinks about it a lot. It's like a splinter under his skin, burrowing deeper with each day that passes. His phone doesn't ring—no calls, no texts. He thinks about what Cas is doing, and where he is, and how he's faring. He thinks about the empty room that used to belong to someone who's no longer around. He thinks about the truck that used to have a spot in the garage, a gaping space now, left open for no reason at all. He thinks about the comfort of tunnels and how dark it is inside, making the bright outside of it seem like a threat rather than a chance. 

Many times—far too many times—Dean opens his phone and hovers his thumb over Cas' contact. It becomes a habit. The 21/90 rule comes to mind—it takes twenty-one days of doing something to make a habit, only three weeks, and then you do it for ninety more days for it to feel like breathing. He can barely breathe for the entirety of every single time he nearly makes the call or sends a text. 

And it's stupid. It's so stupid. It's possibly one of the most stupid things that's ever happened to him, to sit down day-in and day-out and almost call, almost text, almost and never actually doing anything. Almost only matters in horseshoes and hand grenades. This is neither, but it sometimes feels as volatile as the latter. Explosive, if not handled with care. 

What's even more stupid is that Dean's not even sure why it matters so much. Did he expect Cas to stick around when the world stopped trying to end? Yeah, so maybe he did. That doesn't mean that's how things work out. Cas is his own person. He's family, without a doubt, but he's not required to find a home with them. Jody is family, too, and he's never wanted her to move in. 

"Dude," Sam says. 

Dean looks up from the phone, his thumb tracing the edge of it. Cas' number is on the screen, but he's looked at it so much that he has it memorized. He almost reaches out and presses on it, but ends up not doing it, just like all the other times. That's always how it goes. Almost, almost, almost. 

"What?" Dean mutters. 

Sam sighs, tapping his fingers lazily over his keyboard, not looking away from his laptop. "If you want to call him, just call him." 

"I'm on Google," Dean lies—a reflex, as if he has something to hide. He doesn't. Maybe it's shame, or simple embarrassment. 

"Uh huh." Sam shoots him a flat look, then focuses back on the laptop, eyebrows raised. "To call or not to call—all signs point to yes." 

"And his signs point to no?" Dean challenges, before he can really stop himself. 

"Um." Sam's fingers go still on his keyboard. He looks at Dean, then quickly away. His foot scuffs against the floor under the table, shifting in his seat. Outside, a storm may be brewing. "Are you upset?"

"No," Dean denies instantly—a reflexive response yet again. Another lie? Can't be. Sounds like it, even to him. He used to be better than this. 

"Cas is...succinct," Sam says. 

Dean frowns. "He likes emojis. Even that would be better than—"

"Two-way street, man," Sam mutters, ducking his head and focusing on his laptop with sudden intensity. "Your phone works as well as his does. Hell, you know how to find him if you really want to. You could do that, and you know it." 

"Yeah," Dean mumbles, "I know," and he ignores that heated branding in his center that makes him want to gut himself. 

He cuts his phone off. 

Dean watches the news and tries to stop himself from wishing for a sudden meteor shower, or some kind of phenomenon that could be considered a threat on a massive scale. It's not a very sane thing to be wishing for, sort of like how he used to wish for vampires to suddenly overrun the school just so he could get out of class. Selfish of him. A desire for something, even if it ends in blood. 

Just, if there was a meteor shower, there would be a collective effort to try and find ways to save the world, right? If it was supernaturally-induced, perhaps. Everyone would come together for that. 

There are no threats, global or otherwise. Just regular hunts and regular life. The joys of freedom. It should be a relief, Dean tells himself. It is a relief. Life goes on, quiet about it. It just used to be so loud, that's all. His ears are ringing. 

"Do things seem kinda quiet to you?" Dean asks Sam over lunch one day, palming the back of his neck as he drags his gaze from the door. 

"No, not really," Sam replies. He doesn't wish for unnatural disasters, Dean bets. "Why?" 

"Dunno." Dean waves a hand around vaguely, looking down at his half-finished plate of food. He doesn't remember tasting any of it. "Just seems kind of—quiet, I guess. Could be the Bunker. You ever notice how big it is? It's pretty big, dude. It feels a little empty, ya know?" 

Sam taps his fork against his plate, but even that seems muted, somehow. "Maybe." 

"I just—" Dean tightens his fingers around his fork, lips pressing into a thin line. He doesn't know how to say what he's trying to say, how to explain how cavernous this place feels all of a sudden. Even how, maybe, he feels the reflection of it on the inside, too. A lot of space unexplored and unused, space that could be teeming with activity, so empty that he feels small in his own skin. He can't explain that, even to himself, so he doesn't try. "I don't know." 

"I was thinking…" Sam pauses, clears his throat, and sets his fork down. "Well, I've been thinking about asking Eileen if she'd like to stay." 

Dean hums. "Figured you'd get around to doing it eventually. She's too cool for you, Sammy." 

"Yeah, I know," Sam says, smiling. 

"I think it would be good for you," Dean admits, because he does. Sam always seems happier whenever Eileen visits. 

Sam flicks his gaze to Dean's phone on the table, always within reach, then quickly away. "Right," he says, and that's all he says, and that's for the best. 

There's a hunt in Ohio that takes about a week, and Dean does it completely alone. Sam is handling a thing with Eileen, already gone from the Bunker when Dean got in Baby and followed the lead. 

It's the first time Dean does something like this alone—really alone—in a while. Sure, he and Sam check in with each other, but that's it. Truthfully, it's just Dean. Just him, and his car, and some monster that doesn't win but manages to get a few hits in before its last breath. That survival instinct kicking in, urging it to put up a fight, such a human thing that doesn't really solve anything in the end. 

Dean walks away. The monster does not. 

Afterwards, he sits in a quiet motel room and cleans the dried blood out from under his fingernails with his pocket-knife. He's careful about it, dragging the blade along the caked in blood, watching it fall to the bedspread in flakes. Perhaps the person who cleans the sheets will think it's chili powder. 

He gets a shower, unnerved by how fucking muffled everything is. He cleans out his ears for too long, even when they're long dry, and then he stares at himself in the mirror for a while. He has a split lip that would ache if he was in the business of smiling very often these days, and there's no real reason to reach up and prod at it, but he does anyway. Eventually, the dull throb gets on his nerves, so he dismisses it and gets dressed—his pain tolerance makes this injury seem laughable. It's mostly just annoying. Something to ignore. 

When he sprawls out on the bed, he turns on the TV and watches things get made. He's more inclined to  things getting built up, rather than torn down, these days. There's something almost sweet about it, innocent in the mere creation, like a windmill that keeps on turning long after there's nothing else to power up. God is gone, but creation continues. 

Even still, he gets tired of it. He turns the TV off and lays down way too early, staring at the ceiling. Against his better judgement, he finds himself wondering what Cas is doing right this very second. He could call and ask. Hey, man, it's been a while. How's life treating you? Mine sucks. 

Dean wisely doesn't pick up his phone. 

Except he does, hours later when he jerks awake in the middle of the night, because he can't take it anymore. He just can't. He needs to know, and it's going to drive him crazy if he doesn't, and it's past two in the morning, so this is most definitely a stupid idea, but he does it. He does it anyway. Just picks up his phone, squinting blearily at the screen, heart racing in his chest as he types in the number off the top of his head with trembling fingers, and he makes the fucking call, tense in a bed that isn't his own. 

And Cas doesn't answer. 

So, Dean closes his eyes and hangs up. Doesn't leave a voicemail. Doesn't call a second time. He puts the phone on the stand by the bed and turns away from it, keeping his back to it. He tries to go back to sleep. Doesn't do that either. 

The next morning, when he's sliding into Baby, his phone rings. He stares at the screen, stares at Cas' name on his screen, thumb hovering over the green arrow that he can easily tap and slide to pick up. A returned phone call, one that Dean doesn't answer. 

Cas doesn't call a second time, and Dean doesn't return that phone call, and it's like two ships passing in the night. Except those two ships used to be a part of the same fleet. 

Things change, though, and they clearly have. 

"You look like shit."

Dean sighs and gives Eileen a sarcastic smile, holding his coffee up in salute. "Thanks, Eileen, really appreciate you saying that." 

"Sam's too nice to tell you," Eileen informs him, leaning back in her chair. She regards him for a long moment, tapping her fingers against the table. "I just find it odd." 

"Find what odd?" Dean mutters, watching her snatch a piece of bacon from his plate with narrowed eyes. She's a goddamn menace. 

Eileen makes him wait, eating the bacon and staring at him. When she swallows, she very bluntly says, "I find it odd that the world's not ending, but you act like your world has stopped." 

"I don't have a world," Dean tells her. 

"We all have our own little worlds, Dean, and it's not often that we actually care about the one we're living in," Eileen replies. 

Dean snorts. "Well, ya know, human faults. We get distracted too easily." 

"Yeah," Eileen agrees. "Probably for the best. Could you imagine being aware of the full scope of the world and the weight of everything involved in living in it, but all the time? Just doesn't seem feasible. Too much exposure would be terrifying, I think. I don't know how you and Sam do it." 

"Years of having no choice," Dean says. 

Eileen nods. "Well, you have a choice now. You have a lot of choices now. It's a big world out there, Dean. Yours doesn't have to be so small." 

"Sam put you up to this, didn't he?" Dean asks with a wry smile, watching her eyes light up with humor. 

"He says I pull no punches." Eileen inclines her head, lips twitching. "But you do look like shit, or I probably would have left it alone." 

"You're great at this, Eileen," Dean tells her, arching an eyebrow. "I can feel the wanderlust coming on already. Tomorrow, I'm on the fast track to the moon." 

"Never been to the moon," Eileen comments idly. 

Dean huffs a laugh. "Ya know, neither have I." 

It hits Dean at approximately three in the morning that Cas could be in danger. Hurt, lost somewhere, or even killed. In trouble, maybe, because he's always been good at getting into trouble. 

The thought sends him careening from his bed, heart abruptly tripping all over itself in his chest. Because what would happen if Cas was in danger? Dean doesn't know where he is, or what he's doing. He could go a long, long time not knowing whether Cas is okay or not. He could be one of those sad stories he's heard through the years where no one made the call, and it was far too late. 

The idea of it makes Dean feel like his skin is stretched too tightly over his bones. He has his phone on and against his ear in seconds, hunched on the edge of his bed in panic, because—because—

"Hello, Dean," comes the rumble of Cas' voice down the line, perfectly safe and perfectly okay, sounding as he always has, and Dean is so fucking stupid. 

Dean closes his eyes and presses the back of his hand to his mouth, breathing hard and sharp through his nose. The relief is drowned out by the swell of embarrassment that squirms under his skin. Briefly, he considers hanging up. 

He doesn't. Instead, he rasps, "Hey, Cas." 

"Is...everything okay?" Cas asks, slow about it, unsure. He has every right to be. It's three o'clock in the goddamn morning. 

"Yeah," Dean says, helplessly. He runs his fingers over his eyes, shaking his head. "I didn't—I… Uh, is everything...okay with you?" 

There's a long beat of silence, then, "Yes, everything is...okay, Dean." 

"Okay," Dean mumbles. 

"Is that why you called?" Cas ventures, now sounding confused on top of everything else, and Dean wants to die. 

"No, I didn't—um, I didn't actually mean to," Dean tells him, which is an outright lie, and he winces at himself. Why lie? What is the reason to lie? There isn't anything to hide. Nonetheless, he digs the hole deeper. "My phone's been on the fritz. Randomly calls people lately. I should...probably replace it." 

"A technological error," Cas states. There's a long pause. "So, this call is entirely pointless?" 

Dean purses his lips, considering, then he scrubs his fingers through his hair. "Well, I don't make it a habit of calling people at the ass-crack of dawn, Cas. Not unless it was really important. Which...this isn't. So, yeah, it's pretty pointless." He winces and drops his hand down to the edge of his bed, digging his nails in. "Sorry if I woke you up or something." 

"Mm, it's fine," Cas says—probably a lie, a habit he picked up from Dean. "Why are you awake?" 

"Couldn't sleep," Dean admits, grimacing. 

"That's unfortunate," Cas tells him. 

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Dean chews on his bottom lip for a moment, then stands to his feet, flexing the fingers of his free hand as he starts slowly walking towards his door. "It's, uh, been a while since—since I've heard from you, Cas." 

There's some more silence, then the muffled sound of shifting, like sheets on skin. A bed? It's three in the morning, of course Cas is in bed. "I could say the same for you, Dean." 

"You didn't call," Dean points out, pivoting on the spot and slowly moving back away from his door. Pacing. He's pacing. 

"Neither did you," Cas retorts, though the words aren't barbed. Just a fact. 

Except it's not a fact. Dean has to bite back the immediate urge to argue and say that he did call, because he did, but he can't say that because he's already said that he didn't. "Bygones," he says instead, forcing himself to say it, because some battles aren't worth fighting. "We're talking now." 

"Yes," Cas agrees, and that's it. 

"Right." Dean clenches his jaw and reaches up to clasp the back of his neck, squeezing it as he hangs his head and turns to start walking back in the opposite direction. "Right, well, that kind of requires talking. Just so you know." 

Cas makes a low sound through the phone, an amused one. Asshole. "I'm aware. Fine. How have you been since we last spoke, Dean?" 

Managing, Dean starts to say, then doesn't. "Great. Yeah, I've been—pretty great," he murmurs. "I'm getting back into the swing of things, anyway. Ya know, the usual. The, uh, acceptable usual, I mean. No pissed off cosmic beings. Not even a goddamn meteor shower. So, yeah, great. You?" 

"I've been doing well," Cas answers dutifully, then goes into absolutely zero details, frustratingly enough. "Jack has recently brought up the idea of visiting, if you and Sam were okay with it. He wants to stop by. Is that alright?" 

"What?" Dean comes to a halt in the middle of his room, chest tight, head snapping up. "Are you seriously asking? Of course he can, dude. Is that even a fucking question? Are you bringing him? Hell, he can come tomorrow, if he wants." 

"I'll let him know." Cas sounds vaguely pleased. "I won't be bringing him, no. Jack can just...go wherever he pleases." 

Dean swings his arm out lazily and starts walking again. "Oh, right. Because of the God thing. How's that going for him?" 

"He seems well-adjusted. I think it suits him, as surprising as that may be. For all his divine power, he's remarkably untouched by greed. He mostly just wants to watch Teen Titans," Cas muses. 

"The original, right?" Dean checks. 

Cas chuckles. "Yes." 

"It's the better version." Dean's lips curl up, and he reaches out to drag his fingers along the side of his desk as he passes it. "So, outside of monitoring the new God, what do you spend your time doing?" 

"I don't always monitor him," Cas argues, huffing through the line. So bitchy. It makes Dean's lips curl up more into a full-fledged grin. "He does have other responsibilities, and I help him with those. Heaven, mostly. He's not always around." 

Dean's eyebrows furrow. "You visit Heaven?" 

"No. Not me, personally. I...can't, now that I'm human, not without consequences, and Jack is firm in staying uninvolved in things. I just give advice when and where I can." 

"Do you miss it? Heaven, I mean." 

"Not really," Cas tells him bluntly. 

"Oh." Dean swings himself around, looking down at his bare feet. "Miss being an angel?" 

"Sometimes," Cas answers with equal bluntness. 

"Right. That's—well, I'm sorry, man." 

"It's fine." 

"Yeah." Dean chews his lip again, tapping his fingers against his own hip a little distractedly. He tilts his head back as he swivels around and starts pacing in the other direction. Again. "You never really answered me, you know. About what you've been up to since you—" 

Since you left blares into the resounding silence from where he cuts himself off, and if Cas hears it, he shows no sign of it. He just says, "Mm, staying busy, mostly. What have you been doing?" 

"Ah, uh…" Dean blusters for a moment, lost, because he's just now realizing that he doesn't have very much to say in this regard. He hasn't been doing much of anything lately. Just, "Hunting, mostly. Had a couple of things fall into our laps. Um, Sam's been doing good. Really good. Eileen moved in. They're going steady, I guess." 

"That's nice," Cas says softly. "I'm glad." 

"Yeah. She's great." Dean turns around again, taking a deep breath, then slowly letting it out. "I handled a case on my own about a week ago." Thought about you, made the call, and you didn't answer. "It was fine. I should probably get used to it, huh? Eileen and Sam take on some cases together a lot, so I kind of keep my distance. Could be some kind of mating ritual I don't know about, ya know?" 

Cas huffs a quiet laugh, amused. "Hunting together is some form of mating ritual?" 

"Who knows?" Dean asks, dropping his chin as he grins again. "They always have eyes for each other. A whole lot of staring and unnecessary touching. I mean, it's not like I would really know. I've never actually had a serious thing with a hunter, so I'm not exactly an expert. Just seems like something they do together that I don't need to intrude on, I guess, even though they try to get me to come sometimes, but I'm capable of doing this shit on my own. S'been a while, but I'm not an idiot. I mean, I do go with them, or even with just Sam, but I think it's good that they get out and hunt alone together, ya know?"

"Is that your way of trying to show your support?" Cas asks, sounding curious. Dean can perfectly picture him tilting his head, squinting his eyes. 

"Probably," Dean admits. "I really like Eileen. If Sam screws that up, I think I'm gonna be just as hurt about it. She's fucking hilarious, man." 

"Yes, I've met her," Cas tells him, like simply knowing Eileen is explanation enough, because you can't help but adore her. And yeah, that's pretty much it. "Even still, perhaps you shouldn't do a lot of cases alone. Just...be safe, Dean." 

"Sounds like you're worried about me," Dean suggests, raising his eyebrows as he brushes along the edge of his desk again, picking up a pen and idly flipping it between loose fingers. 

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't die," Cas says, his tone dry. Such a little shit. 

Dean grins again. "That would be a shame, wouldn't it? Nah, you don't gotta worry about me, Cas. I'm Dean Winchester, dude. I got this." 

"Arrogance begets mistakes, Dean Winchester," Cas tells him, wisely and solemnly. "Tread carefully where you walk, lest you trip." 

"Okay, Yoda," Dean mutters, snorting. "I think I've got it covered, so pump the brakes, oh wise one." 

Cas hums, and Dean can hear the smile in it—a small one, no doubt, curling at the corner of his lips, crinkling his eyes. It's crystal clear in Dean's mind, even if he can't see it. "If you say so, Dean. Just be cautious, please. It would be a shame if anything happened to you." 

"It would suck to get this far and then, like, die at the hands of some medieval ghost who probably doesn't even know what a toilet looks like," Dean admits, flipping the pen in between his fingers carelessly, tipping his head from side-to-side. 

"Very anticlimactic," Cas agrees. 

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. "And you. I mean, you're not getting into any trouble, are you?" 

"Ah." Cas is silent for a long moment, then he clears his throat. "At the moment? No." 

"Cas," Dean says, his voice coming out sharp without his permission. He flips the pen again and catches it, clenching his hand around it. 

"I'm Castiel," Cas tells him sagely. "I got this." 

"Don't do anything stupid," Dean mutters automatically, grimacing as he squeezes his eyes shut, ducking his head. "Cas, I'm serious. How did you even—I mean, what are you even doing that gets you into trouble? Jesus, man. Whatever it is, stop." 

"Well, now you sound concerned for me," Cas points out, the bastard. 

"I'm not. I mean, I am, I just—" Dean heaves a sigh and wrenches around to start pacing again, unaware that he'd stopped. He tosses the pen back on the desk, scowling when it clatters over the side and disappears. "Just be careful, that's all. You're human now, so your chances of walking away from major injuries are very slim. It would be—" His throat sticks for a moment, and he has to clear it. "Well, it would be a shame, too, I guess. All that you've done, only to die on the insistence that tis but a scratch." 

"I'm aware of my vulnerability, Dean," Cas murmurs. "It's not my first time being a human, if you recall. I've had some practice." 

Dean winces, reaching up to swipe his hand over his face. He rubs it up through his hair, resisting the urge to slap himself very hard. "Right, no, I know. But you're also a stubborn bastard, so." 

"Perhaps," Cas replies, as if that's even up for debate. "However, I have no desire to do anything stupid, as you say. I'm fine, I assure you." 

"You'd—" Dean pivots on the spot, fingers flexing again. He halts, swallowing. "If you weren't fine, you'd call, right?" 

Cas is silent for a long beat, then he says, "Yes, Dean, I would call if I needed to." 

That hooks right into Dean's chest, burying deep, because it means he hasn't called before because he hasn't needed to. The sting of it is unexpected, and Dean isn't prepared for it. He clenches his jaw, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath. An anger he didn't even know he had swells up within him, bitter and burning in the back of his throat, and it's not really a surprise for all that he wasn't aware of it—he's always angry about something or another, always and always. 

It causes him to lash out, takes him places he never wants to go until he's fully in the middle of being pissed off. It makes him grit out, "Yeah, well, ain't that a fucking relief? Would hate to hear you died or something from the goddamn news. That would just ruin my whole damn day." 

"Would it?" Cas asks stiffly. 

"A couple of hours, at least," Dean drawls. "Kind of like how I'm probably ruining those precious hours of sleep you need now. I should let you get back to that, shouldn't I?" 

Cas huffs out a harsh breath. "Dean, I'm—" 

"Goodnight, Cas," Dean snaps, wrenching the phone from his ear to hang up, then immediately regretting it as soon as his phone lights up with the call ended screen, revealing that they only talked for a little under half an hour. 27mins:42secs. 

When Dean's screen goes dark, he hangs his head and blows out a deep breath. Slowly, he shuffles over to plug his phone into the charger, and then he gets back into bed. He doesn't go to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Two days later, Dean receives a text message from Cas that's a hummingbird perched on the edge of his finger, long beak half-poking into a bird feeder that's nearly out of the shot. There are no words, no explanation, and Dean doesn't understand how he knows that it's Cas' hand just from looking. 

He spends a long time looking at the picture. 

Real life Disney Princess, Dean sends back, eventually, and gets an emoji of some girl in a crown for his troubles. It makes his lips quirk up. 

Later that same day, Jack suddenly pops into the Library where Sam is, which earns a startled yelp from him so loud that Dean hears it from the war room. Eileen stands up when he does, noting the alarm, if not understanding why it's there. She follows him, gun in hand, and Dean drops his the moment he walks in and points it right at Jack's head before he even realizes it's Jack at all. 

For a second, there's just one moment where they look at each other, Dean holding his gun, Jack staring down the barrel of it. In that second, Dean feels something within him shrivel and rot, cracking off and falling away. He can't get that back. 

So, he drops his gun like it burns him, his breath punching out of him. It clatters to the floor, loud in the silence. Sam's shoulders have gone tight, not moving like he's not even breathing. Slowly, Jack dips down and picks up the gun, holding it out to Dean with something guarded in his eyes. 

Dean wants to say that he doesn't want it. He wants to say that he doesn't want Jack holding it. He wants to say that he wishes his palms weren't shaped to the weight of a firearm, molded from his youth from where his father practically stitched them into his hands. Made him run the scenarios. Made him take a gun apart and put it back together with his eyes closed. Made him practice reloading a gun over and over until he could do it faster than his dad could hit him. He wants to say he's had guns put in his hands all his life, and maybe he found too much comfort in them, but he can't when Jack is in the same room. 

What he says, in the end, is a gruff, "Thanks," as he takes the gun and slips it away, shame souring in his throat, bitter like battery acid in his chest. 

Jack seems happy to visit, and he spends most of his time with Sam. He doesn't seem to want to be alone with Dean, which is well within his right. Dean has earned the caution, the distance, the uncertainty. 

There was a time Jack would gravitate towards him, eager to mimic, eager to please. He used to look to Dean for approval, like if he could make Dean believe he was good, that was proof enough. He trusted Dean, considered him family. That's all gone now. Jack watches him with that guarded look in his eyes always, no matter if Dean has a gun, no matter if he's God or not. He never quite speaks to him directly, and when he almost does, he's quiet and careful about it. 

It reminds Dean, rather painfully, of his own relationship to his father. That iron-clad hope in the beginning before he had time to separate himself from the man, before all the suppressed anger and vitriol turned to poison in his chest, before his love got so tangled up with his fear that he could find hate flickering at the edges. That hate grew and infested, and it's woven through and wound tight within him, existing right alongside the love that never really wavers, to this day. It's complicated. It's messy. Dean's glad his father is dead, and he aches with it sometimes, still. But mostly, he's glad. 

To see Jack like this, it's—well, it's something else. Dean doesn't know why his own ability to fuck things up so royally even surprises him anymore. He's gone off and given Jack his own fair share of daddy issues—literal God, by the way. But hey, are you even a Winchester without 'em? 

Shamefully, Dean uses the kid as an excuse to reach out to Cas again. He snaps an off-guard picture of Jack when he's not paying attention, smiling slightly at Sam, and he sends it with the caption: proof of life, so you don't freak out. Cas doesn't reply for a very long time, and Dean wonders what he's doing. 

Dean asks Jack, just once, because he thinks Cas will be some kind of middle ground for them, something they can talk about freely without addressing any of the issues carried between them. Issues that Dean put there. Hammered away the foundation until he found dirt, then tilled the soil and planted it there. It has roots now, settled in, and that's his fault. 

They're alone only once for the three days that Jack sticks around. Dean goes into the kitchen for coffee, and Jack is sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. Dean doesn't know if he can still taste food, but he seems to be enjoying it, so maybe. Maybe he can. Maybe there are countless things about Jack that Dean doesn't know, that he didn't take the time to learn, that he didn't stop and consider every single time he treated the kid like the monster he never wanted to be. He doesn't get to learn them. It's too late for that now. 

So, he doesn't ask. He doesn't say a word as he moves to make up some coffee. He does glance over his shoulder before it's finished, and he catches Jack watching him with his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. He looks like a kid trying to understand big, unfathomable horrors that adults don't want to expose them to—hate, and pain, and death, and how not everyone can be trusted to treat you kindly in an unkind world. The moment he catches Dean catching him, he jerks his gaze down to his bowl and resolutely doesn't look back up. 

"It's nice, huh?" Dean ventures in a croak, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before turning around with his coffee. "Living with Cas, I mean. Just—you like it?" 

"Yes, I really do," Jack tells his cereal. 

Dean watches him mechanically eat another bite, and he thinks about making him a birthday cake. I'm sorry, he doesn't say. That's who I should have been to you, but that's not who I am. That was just who I wanted to be. And he thinks about that, about what sets them apart. Jack's the kid who made mistakes that got people hurt, and he never wanted that, and that's not who he was. Dean's the guy who made him a cake, but when it came down to it, that's now who he knew how to be. For all that he wanted it, for all that he tried, he's just the guy with the guns in his hand and the taste of blood in the back of his throat, turning this kid into a target and letting his anger burn brighter than some candles on a cake. 

"How is Cas?" Dean murmurs, his mouth dry and his heart jamming up into his throat, fluttering at the hollow of it like a hummingbird. 

Jack's jaw tightens, fingers gripping his spoon tighter. He looks up slowly, looks at Dean, the muscle in his cheek jumping. Dean is suddenly reminded of the time Jack had his power stolen by Lucifer, furious with feeling helpless, almost throwing tantrums because he considered himself useless. It's that frustration that clings to him now, except ever so slightly aged, just a little bit older. Less baby, more toddler. His tantrums are brighter, more about the screaming than the tears, everyone else's fault besides his own. And, in this case, he would be right to blame Dean for anything. 

As it turns out, Cas is not a safe subject for them. It seems Cas is probably the worst topic to use as some fucked up version of an olive branch. Something about it pisses Jack off like nothing else, and it's a wrath that turns his irises up a little too bright, a flickering reminder that he has power of which no one can fully understand. Dean thinks Jack might want to use it on him because of this, because he's mentioned Cas at all. Dean thinks he'd let him. 

"He's great," Jack tells him firmly, holding his gaze, not backing down like this is a challenge, or a fight, and Dean's stomach squirms with something that's too little, too late. What good does pride do for either of them now? 

"That's—" Dean swallows, his throat clicking into the silence between them. "That's good. I'm—I'm glad to hear that he's… Yeah. I mean, yeah, good for—good for—" 

Jack looks away, back down to his cereal, and he doesn't say another word. Dean finishes his coffee in record time, knocking it back even though it's too hot. He puts the cup in the sink and makes his escape, trying not to notice the way Jack's shoulders slump with visible relief as he leaves the room, as he stays away from him. But he sees it. He doesn't think he's ever going to forget it. 

But, again, that's his own fault, ain't it? 

There's a text on his phone from Cas when he checks, asking how Jack's doing, if he's behaving, ridiculously enough. It makes Cas sound so much like a dad, and Dean has to close his eyes for a long moment before he can reply. He texts Cas back and says: he's doing great. 

Dean almost calls Cas and asks will you come back? 

It sits behind his teeth, begging at the back of his throat, wanting so desperately to exist in a place where an answer might make the question hurt a little less. He swallows it down and swallows it down until he just feels sick. 

He doesn't know what's wrong with him. It's just this constant, consistent ache that he wants to rip right out of his skin, but he can't. It nags and nags and nags at him, his mind only a hop skip and a jump away from Cas at all times. What he's doing. Where he's at. Whether he's safe. 

Dean braces his hands at his hairline, staring down at the map table without really seeing it. He thinks South America is near his elbow. He thinks he needs to get his shit together, because somewhere along the way, he lost it completely. Years ago, he's sure, but it's suddenly so much more obvious now that the world is okay again. He isn't, and it's fucking awful. 

There's a ping from his phone, making it vibrate against the surface, and that ache in Dean simultaneously eases and sharpens all at once as Cas' name flashes across his screen. It stays, and Dean stares at it, realizing that Cas is calling him. 

Immediately, Dean sucks in a sharp breath and dives for it with an eagerness that would embarrass him if he actually allowed himself to think about it. 

"Hello?" Dean answers, just shy of breathless with worry, maybe, or something. His heart is preemptively quivering with fear, and he doesn't even really know why. "Cas, you okay?" 

"Hello, Dean. Yes, I'm alright," Cas says, and Dean feels like a popped balloon, complete with deflating against the table with a small sigh. 

Dean clears his throat, closing his eyes for one long beat, then he opens them. "Good. That's—good. Is there something you need?" 

"I just…" Cas' words filter out, and then there's silence for a while. Eventually, there's a quiet sigh, something a little...lost about it. "I read the manual for my truck today. It was—I never realized that I have seat-warmers. Did you know that?" 

"Um. It's a King Ranch Ford F-150, right?" Dean asks, eyebrows crumbling together. "Yeah, I knew that. You also got a heated steering wheel." 

Cas hums. "Yes, I learned that today as well." 

"Right. Why'd you read your manual?" 

"I had to replace a lightbulb in my headlight. I thought the manual would assist. It...didn't."

"Oh." Dean chews on the inside of his bottom lip for a little bit, then coughs. "Did you, uh, figure it out? I could—if you needed me to, I would—" 

"I met someone," Cas blurts out, and Dean's mouth snaps shut with a violent clack. Cas sucks in a sharp breath. It's so sharp that it crackles through the line a little. "No, that's—that was just a statement. I did meet someone today. He's technically a neighbor. Well, something like it, in any case. He did it for me. The headlight, I mean. It was kind of him." 

Dean stares down at Canada. He doesn't respond for a long time, his brain very quiet, the whole goddamn Bunker equally so. He swallows and reaches up to swipe his palm over his mouth, fingers curling in around his jaw, squeezing a bit too tight. 

If Cas was ho—if he was here, Dean would have done it. He would have fixed it, and Cas would have never had to read the manual. Instead, a neighbor did it. A kind neighbor. Just a friendly neighborhood man who saw Cas' struggling and did Dean's job for him, because it is Dean's job to do shit like that. Or, it always has been in the past. But then, Cas would have never known that he has seat-warmers. 

The ache in Dean flares hot, burning for some inexplicable reason, and he's right back to wanting to fucking turn his insides out. He doesn't know why; he just can't help it. He curls his fingers around the edge of the table and scoots in until the side of it is digging into his stomach a little too harshly. It helps him feel a little less like he's about to blow chunks, which is such a fucked up thing to feel just because someone helped Cas out. 

"Well," Dean croaks, closing his eyes, "I'm glad that you got it all worked out. Lucky you had a friendly neighbor to—to fall back on, man." He feels like he's suffocating. "That's just...great."

"I don't know why I called you," Cas says quietly. He sounds so—tired. Exhausted in a way that doesn't have shit to do with sleep. There's just the tiniest note of frustration in his tone as well, but it doesn't seem aimed at Dean. No, it sounds more like it's pointed towards himself. "There was—I had wine, and I just thought… I suppose I wanted to tell you about the seat-warmers. Remind me not to drink."

Dean leans into the table harder, ducking his head. Great, so even just talking to him is equated to a dumb decision only made through the dampening of alcohol. Awesome. Right about now, Dean could go for some drinks of his own. 

"Cas, you can—you can always call me," Dean mumbles, feeling like something has sprung loose in his chest and got clogged in his throat. He swallows to try and dislodge it. "There's no reason for you not to. I mean, we're—we're friends, right? Friends can call and just...shoot the shit. Why shouldn't you?" 

"It was Barefoot Cellars Pink Moscato. The wine. It was nine dollars and sixty-three cents at Food Lion. It tasted very cheap, but also strangely nice, and I drank half of it before I even realized that it was working. I never had wine as a human, the first time that I was one. The effects are… Well, I do like them. I feel—fuzzy. And warm, slightly," Cas murmurs. 

It's a blatant subject change, or it seems like one, but Dean allows it. He almost welcomes it. "Yeah, dude. Wine can be—it can get ya when you're not paying attention. Not my drink of choice, I won't lie, but if you like it...then great. Don't drink too much, though. It sneaks up on ya." 

"I don't think I like beer, Dean," Cas informs him, and he sounds like admitting it is some kind of declaration of failure. "I tried to, but it's just not… I much prefer the wine, though I do think it has perhaps gotten me a little tipsier than a few beers would. I think it was a bad idea for me to call you after drinking half a bottle of it." 

"Come on, Cas, you don't sound that drunk," Dean says easily, lips twitching. "You sound alright to me. Besides, what's a little drunk rambling between friends anyway? I know I've said some stupid shit to you while I was three sheets to the wind. You didn't judge me, so I ain't gonna judge you. It's fine." He pauses, then rolls his eyes. "And dude, you don't have to like beer. I mean, there's different kinds, so maybe you just haven't found the right one yet." 

"No, I have. I know that I have," Cas announces, his tone sharp and insistent. Then, abruptly, his voice breaks off into a very sad, very solemn register. "I did find it, Dean. It's all I've ever known, or wanted, but the feeling isn't mutual." 

"Okay, now you sound kinda drunk," Dean admits, amused despite himself. 

Cas sighs loudly. "I shouldn't have called." 

"Cas, stop saying that. It's fine, man. What's the big deal?" 

"When Henry was helping me with my truck, I thought about the time when you were angry with me about—something. I can't recall now. I used to have a perfect memory, Dean, but now I get things mixed up and no longer know exact dates or words exchanged. It's annoying." Cas makes a low sound of frustration, but nonetheless continues. "I think it was when I stole the colt, perhaps. Maybe. I don't know, but my truck—not this one now, but the other one I had—was malfunctioning. I do remember that you were furious with me, and despite that, you fixed my truck anyway." 

Dean tucks his lips in and reaches up to brace his hand against his forehead. "I remember. I know what you're talking about. I was just—I mean, I was pissed at you, yeah, but I still… I just wanted…" 

"It was kind of you, so terribly kind," Cas mumbles, heaving a sigh. "Henry was kind as well, and he wasn't even angry at me." 

"Good for Henry," Dean snaps before he can stop himself, then he immediately cringes and shakes his head, blowing past it like it never even happened. 

"But I just—I just remembered you," Cas informs him. "You should have fixed it, Dean." 

"I know, Cas," Dean whispers, and he doesn't know why he's saying it, why it feels like confessing a sin, an honest one. It's just that he should have fixed it, fixed whatever Cas needs him to, except that he didn't—he doesn't, he never fucking has. 

Cas groans. "Oh, I shouldn't have called. I'm sorry. That's not—none of this was my goal. I think I'm going to hang up now. If you'd forget this, I'd be very grateful." 

"Hey, hold on, just—just—" Dean holds his breath, then lets it explode out of him. "I'm glad you called, Cas. I really—I'm really fucking glad." 

"If you feel the need to ingest enough alcohol to significantly lower your ability to grasp common sense and find yourself calling me, I promise to be as gracious as you are now," Cas vows with solemn sincerity, like it's a promise to save the world. 

Dean's lips curl up against his will and he's so fond without even meaning to be. "Yeah? I'll, uh, keep that in mind, Cas." 

"I should...sleep," Cas murmurs. 

"Yeah, man, you should probably do that. Hey, do something for me before you crawl into bed, okay?"

"Mhm. What is it?" 

"Put a glass of water beside your bed and maybe some ibuprofen if you've got it." Dean reaches up to scratch at his cheek, trying to will away the growing smile there as it stretches farther and farther at the thought of Cas waking up with a hangover. He'd be so pissy about it. "Trust me, Cas in the future will thank you for it. Oh, and uh, breakfast of champions for this kinda situation is always gonna be strong coffee and some eggs. Probably some pancakes, too. Helps soak it up, I always thought. Write yourself a note or something. You think you can do that?" 

"Yes, Dean," Cas says. "I have Tylenol." 

"Works just as well. You good?" 

"Better. I'm still pleasantly fuzzy." 

"Hey, uh, don't—don't make it a habit, okay?" Dean grimaces slightly as he says it, knowing he has no right. He's the biggest goddamn hypocrite alive right this second, but he can't help it. 

"I don't think I will, if only to make sure I don't do something ridiculous again," Cas tells him, sighing slightly. "Goodnight, Dean, and thank you." 

Dean scrubs his fingers over his eyebrows and nods before he remembers that Cas isn't actually here. Again, he wants to claw out that tight heat that sears through his gut. He feels like he's choking, and he sounds it when he rasps, "Night, Cas." 

The moment the phone goes dead, Dean leans down and puts his head down on the map table, turned to the side, ear pressed against the cool surface. He tries to locate that low hum of life that all appliances seem to have, that noise that electricity makes, but he hears nothing. It's just absent, empty, muffled to the point that he's convinced he imagined it in the first place. The whole Bunker is just so silent now when it used to creak and hum and shift like a living thing. And now, everything everywhere is just so fucking quiet. 

The silence seems so much louder after getting off the phone with Cas, for some reason. 

He hates it. 

Dean jams his thumb bad enough on a hunt that Sam makes him go to the hospital to get it seen to. In fairness, it's so purple that it's nearly black, swollen so much that he can't locate the knuckle, and he curses up a storm every time it twitches. 

So, he ends up in a tiny thumb splint, which has got to be the stupidest thing that he's ever heard of. He's not pleased about it, but he knows how to make the best out of a shitty situation. 

In this case, he finally has an excuse to stay out of some hunts for a while. He didn't even really know he wanted it until he realized he wouldn't be able to hold a gun or weapon at all and felt immediate relief. Sam informs him that he can hang out at the Bunker and do research if he and Eileen need it, and as much as Dean hates being the bookworm over the groundwork, he can't help but be a little grateful to get the chance to put his feet up. 

He relishes in it on the first day, lazing around and eating snacks one-handed, watching his favorite movies and jamming out with his music turned all the way up. For one day while he's seeped into his many distractions, Dean is thriving. 

The second day? Not so much. 

If he thought the Bunker was quiet before, it's nothing compared to when Sam and Eileen are out and about. It doesn't help that Dean's thumb fucking hurts. It doubly doesn't help that his mind is always an inch from where he doesn't want it to be, so any and all distractions fall short every time. It triply doesn't help that he keeps getting unwelcome reminders of the thing he's doing his damnedest not to think about. The person, more accurately. Cas. 

It's just that Dean watches a movie and remembers making Cas watch it. He listens to a song and wonders if Cas has ever heard it, if he likes it or doesn't. He eats something and imagines what Cas considers comfort food in his second round of humanity. Does Cas watch movies in his spare time these days? Does Cas still like those stupid pop songs? Does Cas indulge in snacks every now and again, and what the hell are they? 

Dean ends up sitting in the Dean Cave, staring at the TV that's turned off, silently begging himself to just stop. It's like his brain won't quit when it comes to Cas. And it's the stupid shit, too, not just the weird day-to-day musings that he can brush aside. He wonders if Cas is okay, if he's hurt, if he needs to call for help but finds himself unable to for some reason. More than once, he has to calm himself down from where he's worked himself up just from worrying so goddamn much. 

He doesn't get it. He doesn't understand why he's being like this. Well, okay, he's always kinda been like this when it comes to family. Wanting them around, worrying about 'em, driving himself a little crazy if he doesn't know. But, even outside of that, there's something else to it, something that exists in the parameters where he never once entertained the thought that Cas would actually, sincerely leave with no intentions of coming back. It wasn't a surprise, not at all, but Dean sure as shit didn't see it coming. He didn't expect Cas to choose to go like that, not as soon as things calmed down, not when there wasn't any fighting or forceful pushing away. 

Cas just left. He just decided to do that, like he wanted it. Not out of anger, or hurt, or because someone made him. It was all him. Just him. 

Dean's struggling with that a lot more than he thought he would. He knew it'd eat at him, just as Sam wanting to get away from the life and the family where all this started ate at him. And yet, this is wholly different. This eats at him in a way he can't put his finger on. It's more. 

By day three, he's starting to think that he's not going to be able to do it forever. Whatever this is, it's not a long-term solution. Something's gotta give, because Dean thinks he might actually go a little crazy. Like, 'show up uninvited to Cas' house just to punch him or hug him, or both' kind of crazy. Like, 'bust out his headlights just to fix them myself and maybe invite Henry over for the sole purpose of making him watch' kind of crazy. Like, 'if I can't have him, no one can, so I'm gonna abduct him now, say your goodbyes' kind of crazy that he would associate with insane exes, not best friends with possible anxiety problems. 

If he would be honest with himself for fucking once, then he'd realize that this is actually pretty bad. He forgets to eat two days in a row and drinks a lot more than a little too much and finds himself wrapping his fingers around his splinted thumb to add pressure just to escape the ache within him when it spikes out of nowhere. He facetimes Eileen for three fucking hours just because he's tired of listening to the sound of his own breathing, and when he hangs up, he's not satisfied in the least. If anything, he's just as restless as before, if not more. 

There's just this stupid, stupid anxiety that slithers under his skin, squirming relentlessly, never letting him relax fully. Just the constant, paralyzing thought that the last time he talked to Cas will be the last time altogether, and the mere chance has him pacing for hours, raging at himself and Cas and the entire fucking world. 

That's the thing, too. Dean's still so goddamn mad at Cas that he can barely see straight. He's gotten pretty good at being absolutely furious with someone, even while he cares so much about them that it only serves to piss him off more. In fact, he's particularly skilled at that when it comes to Cas, so he can multitask, basically. 

Simply put, Dean is angry at Cas without rhyme or reason, as far as he knows. He can't pinpoint what it is, exactly, that has him so bitter and pent up, but it works a treat at keeping him right up on the edge of losing his collective shit that's been scattered in the wind for a while now anyway. It's so much worse because he despises being like this, acting like this, feeling like this. He just can't stop. 

For what feels like days, he stares at his phone and stares at his phone and stares at his phone, and then he stares at it some more until his eyes burn. He doesn't make the call, and there's no almost about it. 

He just doesn't. 

It's just a few days after Dean gets his stupid thumb splint off when Jack abruptly shows up out of the blue, unannounced. And hey, he's always welcome, of course, but the thing is that Sam and Eileen aren't quite back just yet. So it's just Dean. 

"Hello," Jack murmurs, his lips ticking down the moment he looks around the room. "Oh. Sam isn't here, is he?" 

"Nah, it's just me," Dean admits, not at all pleased with how lonely the words sound echoing in his head. "You need something from him?" 

"I wanted to visit again," Jack says, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. 

Dean clears his throat. "You can, uh, still do that, even though it's just...me. If you want, I mean." 

"Right," Jack mumbles, his eyebrows furrowed. His gaze slowly slides from side-to-side like he's searching for something—probably a polite enough excuse to leave. 

"Jack, I'm not gonna trap you here, kid," Dean mutters. "Relax a little." 

Jack's gaze snaps to his, abruptly intense. "It wouldn't be the first time you tried, though." 

"Ah, shit," Dean breathes out, the words feeling punched from him and sounding it, too. He looks away, grimacing. "You're right. I, uh, did try to do that. Me and Sammy both, but—but mostly me." 

"Cas never wanted to do that," Jack informs him, as if Dean doesn't know. 

"That's why Cas is the best father you're ever gonna have," Dean replies, that ache in him surging to the point that he feels like he's being split in half. He nearly fucking doubles over from the force of it. 

"And you're the worst?" Jack asks. 

Dean's breath shudders out of him, and he has to sit down right the fuck now before he falls down. He sinks into a chair, looks Jack right in the eye, and he nods. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I am." 

"I love you anyway," Jack declares, his words strong and soft simultaneously, wrapped in something a little tragic and sad. Dean's face goes slack, likely wearing a stunned expression like it has been slapped on. Jack holds his gaze. "Say it back." 

"I—" 

"Only if you mean it, Dean." 

"I—Jack, I—" Dean blunders, messing it up, always messing it up. Why is it so hard to do right by him? Why does he fail every fucking time? He exhales harshly and closes his eyes, forcing himself to get his shit together. If he's gotta talk slow, if that's what it takes, then he will. "I know I didn't do anything right when it came to you, kid, and I can't fix that. I wanna tell you it wasn't me, 'cause you're just a kid, and you're my kid, so I'd never. Right? I'd never do that, but I—I did, and that's all there is." 

Jack sighs quietly, and when Dean opens his eyes, he's frowning. "I want to forgive you. I want you to forgive me. I don't want to hate you, and I don't want you to hate me." 

"I don't hate you, Jack. Even when I thought I did, even when I tried my hardest to, I never hated you," Dean croaks, because it's true. "But you—kid, you don't gotta forgive shit. You can hate me. I don't blame you. Hell, nobody does." 

"Cas thinks you and I are...okay," Jack whispers, like it's a confession. He blinks hard and fast, looking ashamed. "I've been—Dean, I've lied to him." 

"About...me?" Dean asks warily. 

"Yes." Jack looks so guilty, as if lying to Cas is something he can never bounce back from. "I tell him that you and I are okay, that we text, that we've settled our past issues. I just don't want to upset him, so I—I lie." 

Dean takes a deep breath, then slowly lets it out. Okay, he can work with this. "You don't gotta lie to him, Jack. Cas wouldn't be upset with you for something that's not your fault." 

"Will he be upset with you?" 

"Maybe he should be." 

"That will upset him," Jack murmurs. "I know it's wrong to lie, but...I don't always want it to be a lie. Sometimes, I want us to be okay." 

"Just not always," Dean concludes, because he knows. He knows exactly what that feels like. He's felt it for his own dad. Sometimes he still does, and his dad has been dead over a decade. 

Jack glances at him, apologetic, so goddamned kind that Dean hates himself a little more. "Not always," he confirms. "It's not just the mistakes from the past, you know. It's also the ones you're making right now, and I have no right to be angry with you for them, but I can't help it. I am, Dean. I am so angry at you, and I don't want to be. I'm sorry." 

Dean stares at him for a long time, his heart abruptly slamming away in his chest with something akin to genuine fear. Here God stands before him, his child in more ways than he's not, because only a father can hurt a child like this, and it's not Jack's unfathomable power that terrifies him. It's his apparent knowledge of Dean's current mistakes, somehow aware of them with such certainty that he can simply point them out and be angry about it. 

Stupidly, Dean wants to ask. It's selfish of him to make this about him right this second, but it's clear that Jack sees what Dean's been trying to make sense of for so long now. He must see how deeply fucked up and unhappy Dean feels all the time, constantly stuck in this loop of trying to make his life work, except nothing is working. He's just fucking miserable all the time, and it's supposed to be better now that things are different. He doesn't know what he's doing wrong, and for a split second, he just wants to beg Jack to tell him. 

Maybe it's not something Dean's doing. Maybe it's just Dean. Maybe he's the mistake, overall, and this is all there is. He's been through enough that things never getting better seems more likely than the opposite. Maybe if he asks what's screwing everything up, Jack will just look at him and say that it's him, and Dean will be forced to tell him that he knows that already, that he always has. 

But, ultimately, it's not about him right now. It's about the fact that Jack is mixed up about him, angry with him and apologizing for it when he shouldn't have to. 

"Look, we've had our problems, and we've had our good times, too. We've both made mistakes, but the thing is, you're the kid and I'm the adult. The mistakes I made when it comes to you are mistakes you didn't deserve. I should have—there are countless things I should have done instead of what I did, and I can't take that back." Dean spreads his hands and sighs. "So, what we got now is something really complicated, but you get to steer this boat. I don't get to demand a damn thing from you. And you gotta know that Cas wouldn't be upset with you, Jack, not about what you're feeling. He'd probably understand, if I'm being honest. You ain't exactly the first person I fucked up with. Sam and Cas know all about that, so they'll get it." 

"They've made mistakes too, though, haven't they? Just like I have. Like we all have." 

"Yeah, but the difference is that you're four years old, Jack, and we're grown." 

Jack frowns at him. "If our lives were different…" 

"Maybe," Dean allows, already knowing where Jack is going with this. "Probably not me. I'm probably destined to be fucked up no matter what my life is like. Some people just are. But you and Sam and Cas? I think it'd be different for all of you." 

"It is different for us now, isn't it?" Jack points out, eyebrows furrowed. 

Dean swallows, and he doesn't know how to tell Jack that things are different, that Jack's the one who made sure of it, that it's supposed to be better—and, for most people, it is. Just not for Dean. Somehow, things are worse, and he doesn't know why or what he's doing wrong. It's just him. It's gotta be him, like he's fundamentally fucked, even in an easier world. 

"Yeah, Jack, it is," Dean rasps. "You did good, kid. Did I—have I ever told you that? That you did good, and I'm—" He halts, searching for the right words, wishing he had them. And then, with the equivalent to a slap to the face, the words strike him. Because he knows exactly what to say—things he wished he'd heard from his own dad, complicated as their relationship might've been. "I'm proud of you. Not just because you saved the world, though that was pretty damn awesome of you. But in general, too. I'm proud of who you are, and I don't have a right to be, 'cause I didn't really have a hand in it, but I am."

"But you did," Jack whispers, just staring at him, his eyes a little bright. "You, Sam, and Cas all contributed to my best qualities. I learned from all of you. It's just—you and I have… We're just…" 

Dean sighs and offers a weary smile. "It's a complicated relationship, kid. I know that. My fault, I know, and I'm sorry. However you wanna handle it, that's up to you. Whatever you want." 

"I want…" Jack trails off, looking away with a small frown. He doesn't say anything for a long time, then he shakes his head and meets Dean's gaze. "I don't want it to be a lie when I tell Castiel that you text me to check on me, and I don't want it to be a lie when I tell him that we visit when I come here. I want you to try, even if I don't make it easy." 

Releasing a deep breath, Dean lets that settle in his mind. He remembers being twenty-four, waiting for his dad to call, to check in. He remembers not ever really knowing if his dad cared, a secret fear that sprouted from the lack of effort he ever put in for his boys. He remembers being furious with himself for doubting his dad, for his own anger, for being so goddamn needy that it blistered his insides when he wouldn't hear from his dad for weeks. He remembers the sour burn in the back of his throat when he realized that his dad checked on Sam, but couldn't be bothered half the time to do the same for him—he was always just calling about cases, or to give orders. He used to think gee, Dad, would it kill ya to ask how I've been every once in a while, and he hated himself for it, for being a bad son. 

I want you to try, even if I don't make it easy, Jack had said, and that's pretty much it, isn't it? That's what any kid wants, at the end of the day, for someone they look up to and love to care enough to try. 

"Okay," Dean rasps, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. "So, that's what we'll do. I'll check in, and I'll hang out with you when you come around, and I'll try." 

Jack looks at him for a long moment, then nods and moves forward to sit across from him, watching him expectantly. "Okay," he says and waits. 

"Uh." Dean blinks. "You mean—oh, you mean right now? Oh, okay." He pauses, wracking his brain for something to do or say. Finally, a little awkwardly, he ventures, "Wanna go get something to eat?" 

"Can I drive?" Jack asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Dean snorts. "Hell no." 

"But you said I can have whatever I want," Jack points out, apparently not above a little manipulation to get what he wants. 

"Ah, hell, I did say that, didn't I?" Dean grimaces and reaches up to scratch the side of his neck. Grudgingly, he fishes in his pocket to pull out his keys, and with a deep breath, he tosses them over with a small nod. "Alright, you're driving." 

Jack beams at him. 

Chapter Text

Cas sends him a picture of a rock. To be fair, it's a pretty rock—gray with blue accents, shaped a little funny, something kinda shiny on the inside. It's large enough to rest in Cas' palm, and yet again, Dean's not entirely sure how he knows that it's Cas' palm just by looking at it. 

Following the picture of the pretty rock, Cas sends him a link that Dean blindly follows without even sparing a second to be wary. He's led to an article about gemstones, rocks, minerals, and fucking geodes. He didn't even know what geodes were before he clicked on the link, but fuck if he doesn't spend the next hour squinting at his screen as he reads the article and flips through the pictures with his eyebrows raised. 

He takes a screenshot of one of the geodes that's sort of shaped like a mouth, if mouths were full of sharp and painful-looking teeth. He sends it to Cas with the message: don't stick your dick in that. 

Cas responds with a sad face. 

Dean cracks up without meaning to, putting his phone face down on the table so he can clap one hand over his mouth and scrub the other over his forehead as he tries not to wheeze too loudly. God, as much as he doesn't want to admit it, Cas can be so funny sometimes. Half the time, he's not even trying to be, Dean's convinced. 

When he checks his phone again, Cas has sent a message that just says: oh no, there goes my afternoon plans. Dean fucking loses it immediately, choking on a loud burst of laughter, and he nearly drops his phone trying not to fold in half from the force of his chuckles. He laughs so long and so hard that Sam wanders in with his eyebrows raised, and Dean takes one look at him before cracking up all over again. 

"Dude, what's so funny?" Sam asks, watching him with his lips twitching reflexively, like Dean losing his collective shit is amusing. 

"Geodes," Dean wheezes, then proceeds to laugh even harder. 

Sam is clearly judging him, not really getting it, but he's also chuckling because Dean's laughing, so whatever. Dean lets it wash over him, basking in it, because it's been so goddamn long since anything has struck him this funny. Truth be told, Dean hasn't laughed like this in… Well, it's been a long time. Long enough that he can't remember the last time that he did, so he's not wasting this moment. 

When his stomach-clenching laughter fades to the random little chuckles and sighs of amusement, Dean dives for his phone and texts Jack. Go ask Cas what geodes are, then tell me if he laughs. 

He puts his phone down, shaking his head, then glances up to see Sam watching him. 

"What?" Dean asks. 

Sam shakes his head. "Nothing. I just haven't seen you…" He clears his throat and looks away, trailing his gaze over the bookshelves casually. "So, when'd you start talking to Cas again?" 

"Couple of weeks ago, now. Around the time Jack came to visit," Dean says, narrowing his eyes. "Why? Wait, how'd you know that? I didn't tell you that." 

"You didn't have to tell me," Sam mutters, looking seconds from rolling his eyes. "I noticed, that's all." 

Dean scoffs. "Bullshit. What, do you and him talk?" 

"Who? Me and Cas?" Sam shoots him a strange look. "Yeah, every now and again. We don't—I mean, we don't talk about you or anything. It's mostly Jack. Why?" 

"Oh. Right." Dean ponders that for approximately five seconds before he decides he wants to pretend that he doesn't know it, simply so he doesn't have to react. "Sure, good for you and him, whatever." 

Sam's eyebrows jerk up, making his forehead wrinkle. "Yeah, it's nice. It's, you know, what friends do. They talk to each other, Dean." 

"We talk," Dean mutters, pointing to his phone. 

"Somehow, I get the feeling it's a little more complicated than that. It always is with you two." 

"Shut up. No, it's not. Cas and I are—normal. I mean, okay, none of us are normal, but we're normal friends with no issues, because why would there be issues? You don't got any issues with him, right, so why would I? I don't. So." 

"Sure, Dean," Sam says, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair to dig his phone out of his pocket. 

Dean ignores him and goes back to his own phone, because Sam's a shit sometimes who needs to be ignored. He always makes things out to be bigger or more complex than they are anyway, so Dean's not entertaining it. Whatever, so he and Cas talk. Fine. That's fine. Hell, it was probably easy for them. 

Sam probably texted Cas the day after he left, easy as you please, and Cas likely texted right back. No awkwardness, no waiting around for someone else to reach out first. Sam doesn't have qualms about shit like that, not when it comes to Cas, and apparently it's super fucking easy for Cas to talk to Sam. Oh, so it's okay to talk to Sam, huh? Dean bets Cas doesn't treat talking to Sam like a bad idea. 

Oh, fuck him. Fuck them both, actually. 

Dean is scowling when Jack texts him back with: he laughed. There's a smiley face tacked on at the end, because Jesus Christ, he is Cas' kid. It wipes the scowl right off his face, and Dean shakes his head with a small smile as he shoots back a quick text. Hey, wanna go do something? 

Jack replies mere seconds later. Can I drive? 

Grimacing, Dean sighs and types out yeah, I guess. 

Jack's definitely on board then, so Dean pushes to his feet and pointedly ignores his brother as he heads out. Seeing as he is currently pissed off with him and Cas, he's more than pleased to take the kid and get the hell away from them both—either in person, or through distraction. It's easier not to think about Cas when he's focusing on Jack. 

In fact, he doesn't even text Cas back. 

So there. 

On the anniversary of his mom's death—the first one, not the second—Dean gets very drunk. 

He doesn't plan to, not really. It's not like they make a huge deal out of it after all these years, but the date has always itched unpleasantly for him and Sam both. November 2nd. It's always been a hard day. 

It starts out innocently enough. He sits down with Sam and Eileen, and they all start off with a couple of beers and a slow card game. It's Eileen who brings it up, just bluntly saying that she noticed they're both a little off today. Sam, being Sam, confides in her what the date is and what it means. 

When the conversation turns heavy, Dean fishes out some harder liquor, and then they all drink and drink and drink. They talk, too, while playing cards and falling into the solemn atmosphere around them. Sam gets pretty trashed before Dean ever does, surprisingly, and he nearly passes out right there at the table. He's always been a pretty affectionate drunk, so he tells Eileen no less than eight times that she is very pretty, very wonderful, and so very loved. Eileen takes this in stride, also a little drunk herself, and she uses Sam's state to win the card game because she's a little evil. 

"I should take him to bed," Eileen says at some point, nodding to where Sam's face is resting against his loose fist and nearly slipping down over and over, continuously waking him up with a jolt. 

Dean hums. "Probably for the best. You need help? He's a giant, and I dunno how good he is for walking right now." 

"I got it." Eileen waves him off and flashes him a quick smile. "Will you be okay?" 

"Pfft, me? I'm not even drunk," Dean says easily, because he isn't. Yet. 

Eileen shrugs. "Yeah, I know, but it's a hard day for you two, right? I can toss him and come back in here to hang out with you, if you want." 

"Thanks, but I'm good. Somebody should take care of him, and I reckon that's your job these days," Dean teases, winking at her. 

"I don't even get paid," Eileen complains, her lips twitching as she stands up. For a second, she has to hold out her hands and wobble a little, blinking as she exhales. "Woah. Maybe I had one too many." 

Dean snorts. "Story of my life. You good?" 

"Yeah, I'm good," Eileen assures him. "I should probably pass out with him, now that I'm thinking about it." 

"If you're up before anyone else in the morning, we've got ibuprofen in the bathroom," Dean tells her, and she flashes him a grin again. 

With that, Dean watches as Eileen coaxes Sam fully awake and out of his chair. She's gentle with him, patting his hair, letting him lean on her, the both of them stumbling up the hall. They nearly trip every other step, and Dean feels a pulse of fondness for them both. That, and there's something else, something inexplicably sad that he can't make sense of. It feels like loneliness, which isn't fair. 

Dean doesn't mean to think it, but it crosses his mind that he doesn't have that. He doesn't have someone to half-carry him to bed when he drinks a little too much, or someone who provides affection on his harder days. He doesn't have someone to give any of that to, and up until this very second, he didn't even think he wanted it. 

But there is a part of him that does. He doesn't want to give it power, this flickering longing that can't take root, but he feels it starkly. 

He swallows down the acrid taste of his envy with a deep gulp from the bottle he's abruptly determined to finish himself. He can hear the faint sounds of Sam and Eileen moving and mumbling from their room, then nothing when the door shuts. All Dean's exposure to a connection like that, just cut off so easily, because it's not something he has or gets to have. It never really has been, not really. 

Dean drinks and thinks about it. Even when he tried, it never really worked out. Even when he thought it could work out, it never really did. Back then, when he wanted it, there was force behind it. Some kind of pressure to actually, genuinely want it when he feared that he didn't and never would. 

But here he is, wanting it—too little, too late, yet again. It's kinda stupid, too, because he's not looking back on the chances he had and missing them. He doesn't wanna turn back time and fix his mistakes with Lisa or Cassie. It's not that. It's something that somehow feels worse, because he wants it without wanting them. 

He's not the same person he was when he wanted them, so maybe it makes sense that he no longer does. But it's more than that, too. He doesn't want them, as in he does want someone, or something. Fuck if he knows what it is. Of course he doesn't, because why the fuck would he? He doesn't know a goddamn thing about himself, not really, and it sort of hits him right in the chest to realize it. He doesn't know himself. He doesn't know who he is. 

He used to, he thinks, or maybe he just thought he did. Either way, he now knows for damn sure that he really doesn't. Seriously, now isn't the time for an existential crisis, but drinking does bring it out of him on rare occasions. He keeps drinking anyway. 

Eventually, Dean finishes the bottle and gets well into the territory of being loaded. When he stands, he nearly faceplants because he almost doesn't catch himself against the table in time. He thinks, a little miserably, that it wouldn't have been a problem if he had someone to lean against. 

Dean finds his way to bed alone. 

He flops down with a groan and breathes in the scent of his pillow—cotton and detergent and a little bit like his shampoo from where he fell asleep with his hair still wet from a shower last night. He closes his eyes and reaches out to touch the space next to the pillow, noting the flat space of bed beneath his palm. There's no other pillow, no other smells, no other body heat. It's just him. 

Sighing, he flops on his back and rolls his head to the side lazily, grunting quietly to himself at the way his stomach sloshes a little. A beat later, he squints at his phone where it sits on his nightstand. For a brief, thoughtful moment, he considers not doing it. In the next second, he does it. 

Well, Cas said he could, right? So, whatever. 

"Hello, Dean," Cas answers, as always, even after all this time, even after the fact that they haven't talked in nearly a week. Not even a damn text. Why? 

Oh, right, because Dean was mad at him again for being so at ease with Sam and not him. He never texted Cas back, and Cas didn't text him. Right back into the same damn cycle that Dean was mad about in the first place. He never fucking learns. 

"You gotta be graceful," Dean informs Cas, then frowns at the ceiling. "No, the other one. Gracious, I mean, 'cause that's what you said. Hi, I'm drunk." 

There's a beat of silence, then Cas huffs a quiet laugh. "Ah, I see. Is there any particular reason that you—" He halts, then sighs. "Oh. November 2nd. How are you, Dean?" 

"M'fine," Dean mumbles, wrinkling his nose. He's not really surprised that Cas knows. Cas would know. He always knows. "You?" 

"Doing well," Cas replies calmly. "I took Jack to a Science Museum today. I would say that I took Claire and Kaia as well, but they drove themselves there to meet us and paid on their own, and I'm sure Claire would not be pleased to hear me say that." 

Dean blinks slowly. "Science Museum. Claire?" 

"Mm," Cas agrees. "Jack wanted to see the butterflies, and I asked Claire if she would like to go. She said she didn't have anything else to do and Kaia was getting bored. It was nice." 

"Butterflies," Dean echoes, his face scrunching up as he stares at the ceiling, his head a little fuzzy. "It was—it was nice? Sounds nice, I guess. What're the exhibits? Animals?" 

Cas proceeds to launch into a basic rundown of the Science Museum and what went on there—the interactive exhibits, the various animals, the space shuttle replica that Jack was so fascinated with that he declared he wanted to be an astronaut, which is ironic purely because he's technically God. Dean closes his eyes and listens, humming in all the right places, lulled into this calm state of serenity where hearing Cas' voice makes him relax. 

It does sound nice, as it turns out. Dean listens to Cas recount the day he had with Claire, Kaia, and Jack, and he finds himself smiling throughout. He can picture exactly what Cas is describing. Claire threatening to punch a sloth because it was too cute. Kaia being enthralled by the fossils and asking Cas endless questions about the prehistoric world. Jack making people uncomfortable because all the butterflies in the outside exhibit flocked to him and perched on his outstretched arms, landing on his nose and head. Cas having to step in multiple times when Jack and Claire argued about where they would go next, or which built-in bistro they'd eat at, or who would take what picture, so on and so on. 

Dean listens and doesn't think about the Science Museums he and Sam could have gone to if their mom didn't die on November 2nd. He tries not to, but can't help but think about the Science Museum he could have gone to today, had he been there, or had Cas been here. 

It's kinda stupid, really, because Dean has no interest in Science Museums. He doesn't care about fossils or butterflies or videos on earthquakes. It's not even about that, which is where the stupidity comes in. He's a goddamn idiot, because nothing about it is something he's secretly wanted to do, but he wishes with a sentimentality that humiliates him that he'd been there anyway. Been there to watch Jack get overly excited about things in the way only children can, to see Claire and Kaia relax and let loose a little, to just—just be near Cas. 

"Dean, did you fall asleep?" Cas asks abruptly, yanking Dean right out of his internal self-pity. 

"Hm? No, man. Was listenin' to you," Dean assures him, turning his head to trap the phone between his pillow and his ear. He stares at the empty space next him, his chest aching. "I'm glad you had a good day."

"I doubt I need to ask how yours went," Cas murmurs, his tone kind, because he's a kind person for him to be such an asshole. 

"Well, Sammy, Eileen, and I sat around playing cards and drinking. Coulda been worse." Dean swallows as he thinks about the day Cas had, and he places his hand against his stomach, pressing in until the pressure helps. "Coulda been better.

"Do you wish to talk about her?" 

"Not really." 

"I assumed not," Cas says. "You know, there was something I think you would have enjoyed at the Museum. It made me—well, I thought of you immediately when I saw it." 

"Oh, yeah? What was it?" Dean asks quietly. 

"The overall exhibit had to do with energy and resources, but there was an interactive portion. They gave out half-built model cars, and you were allowed to modify and finish them, as well as race them. I imagine you would have gotten ever so slightly invested in it, as well as competitive," Cas explains, and there's a smile in his voice, so clear and obvious that Dean has to press harder on his stomach. 

"Oh." Dean's eyes drift shut, and idiotically, they heat up and prickle for no reason at all. Jesus, he's so fucking drunk right now. Drunk enough to be weepy, apparently, as well as forthcoming. His mouth runs away from him before he can think to stop it, and the next thing he knows, he's blurting out, "Fuck, I miss you, Cas." 

He instantly wants to hang up, or just die, preferably, because they aren't—they don't say shit like that. It's something Dean has spent a lot of time not saying, mostly sure that Cas doesn't return the sentiments. He's a pretty blunt guy. If he missed Dean, he'd tell him. Hell, he'd visit. Or he wouldn't have left in the first place. But he did. 

Dean balls his hand up against his stomach and presses in until it hurts in a different way. He scrunches up his face, lifting his head and knocking it back against his pillow harshly. Goddammit, why is he so stupid? Why the fuck would he say that? Yeah, he misses Cas. Sure, obviously. He's going to, because Cas is his best friend, he's family, so it makes sense. Doesn't mean he's gotta fucking announce it, especially when Cas doesn't— 

"I miss you too, Dean," Cas tells him, soft and serious and somehow sounding even sadder than Dean feels right now, which isn't fair. 

"If you didn't leave, you wouldn't have to," Dean mumbles, knowing that he sounds petulant and being unable to stop it. His mouth is taking no prisoners tonight, apparently. If there's anything that'll get him to stop drinking, it's this. 

Cas sighs. "Dean…" 

"No, don't—I'm just…" Dean cringes and reaches up with his free hand to drag it down his face. "I'm just drunk, Cas. Don't listen to a word coming outta my mouth. Just spewin' bullshit. It's not even worth a grain of salt, man." 

"I did promise to be gracious, Dean. We agreed there would be no judgement, and considering my reaction to wine, I certainly don't have a hand to stand on," Cas assures him. 

Dean frowns. "Leg." 

"Hm?" 

"It's a leg. You don't have a—you know what? It doesn't matter. Thanks, Cas." 

"You should rest," Cas suggests. 

"Not tired," Dean lies. 

Cas chuckles. "You sound tired. Or you did, before, when I was doing most of the talking." 

"Voice." Dean yawns and hates himself for it. He knows Cas can hear it. "It's nice." 

"My...voice?" 

"Mhm. Do a podcast, dude. Talk people to sleep. S'like ASMR, but not the weird kind, ya know?" 

"I don't, actually. What's ASMR?" Cas asks, and Dean just knows that he's squinting in confusion. 

Dean hums—a low, tired sound. "The fuck I look like? Google? It's, ya know, noises and shit that are satisfying to listen to, I guess." 

"And my voice is satisfying to listen to?" 

"It's insane, but yeah." 

"You've never told me that," Cas says softly. 

"Huh," Dean grunts, his eyebrows drawing together. He wonders why he never told Cas that, then recalls that he is wasted and wouldn't tell him otherwise. The closest he's ever come to it was telling Cas it was nice to hear his voice, that one time that he did. He frowns. "Hey, forget I said that." 

Cas surprisingly snorts, somehow sounding both amused and annoyed at once. "Unlikely." 

Dean yawns again, and through it, he manages, "Uh huh, whatever. Talk about the kids and the Science Museum again." 

After a long beat of silence, Cas does. He starts talking, and Dean keeps listening, right up until he can't hear anything else because he's finally caving into the pull of sleep. The transition is a little weird with Cas' voice in his ear, making him dream that Cas is talking to him, even if he has no idea what he's saying. It's kinda strange to dream about it, but it's better than any of his shitty nightmares he's much more accustomed to having. 

He dreams that Cas is talking to him right up until he wakes up the next morning, eyes cracking open blearily, head pounding in the silence. 

His phone died throughout the night. 

Sam hits him with an announcement out of the blue one day and says, "Dean, I think you're unhappy." 

Dean stares at him across the front seat of Baby until he's forced to look away to watch the road. A part of him considers leaning forward and pointing out that the sky is blue, seeing as they're apparently drawing attention to obvious things. Another, smarter part of him wants to outright lie to Sam, because the result of his honesty likely can't lead anywhere good. 

Either way, Dean knows this isn't a conversation he wants to have. He wants to say that he hasn't ever really been happy, not as an overall state of being, just as something he lucked up on like playing slot machines for random bursts of joy. God, when he was younger, he used to win so often. Now? He's lucky enough to win a prize worth paying for half the time—hell, not even half the time, honestly. 

He wants to say that he doesn't really know what "happy" is, and in this life, he doesn't think he gets to find out. After the life they've led, he thinks it's a fucking miracle that Sam gets a little slice of it himself. They've been through too much shit for it to come easy to them, and it hasn't for Sam. He's pretty sure that Sam has worked really hard for it, and continues to work hard for it every goddamn day, but he isn't sure if he's got it in him to do that, if he even can. He doesn't know where to start. 

He wants to say that it's been bugging him more than he thought it would, mostly because of the expectations he's got for himself. Things are easier now, right? It shouldn't be this fucking hard to relax and enjoy life a little, now that it really is theirs, now that they're not running themselves ragged trying to save the world or fight cosmic beings. It should be easier to know what he wants and even easier to care enough to go after it. He's just old, he thinks, and maybe too used to not having it. 

There's a lot that Dean wants to say and wants to never say in equal measure, so what he says instead is, "Nah, dude, I'm good. I'm fine." 

It's kind of what he always says, unless maybe Cas is asking. He thinks he might've told Cas some of the other shit if it had been him who asked, but it wasn't. Cas isn't here to ask, so. 

"I'm not sure that you are," Sam replies, taking a deep breath and sitting up a little in the seat. He cranes his body towards Dean, clearly settling in like this is about to be a serious talk. "Look, I'm not saying that life is automatically supposed to be simple now that Chuck isn't around to make it extra shitty. That's not what I'm saying. It's just… Well, there is a little more breathing room these days." 

"Sam, I said I'm fine," Dean declares with more force, his tone firm and unyielding. 

Sam heaves a sigh. "No, you're not, Dean. You barely freaking smile anymore, and the only time you do is when—" He cuts himself off for a long beat, then seems to change tactics, no longer trying to tread carefully. "Do you know how relieved you looked when you nearly fucked up your thumb, all because you had an excuse not to hunt?" 

"The fuck does that—what are you trying to say, Sam?" Dean snaps, bristling instantly. 

"I'm just saying that—that—" Sam makes a low, frustrated sound. "Dude, do you even like hunting anymore? I'm serious, Dean." 

Dean shoots him an incredulous look. "Is that a trick question, or something? That's not what this life is about. As long as there are creepy-crawlies, then somebody's gotta be out there handling 'em. It's what I do. It's not about what I like." 

"You wanted to retire, once. You told me that. You said we earned it," Sam grits out. 

"That was—" Dean grimaces and waves a hand around jerkily, as if he can physically bat away that small moment of him being a dumbass. "Look, I ain't gonna say we haven't worked hard. We have. We've given a lot. Hell, we've given everything. And if you—if that's something you want, then you should do it. I won't hold you back this time." 

Sam heaves a gusty sigh. "Jesus, Dean. This isn't about me, okay? That's just—I don't even know where to start with what you just said, but we're not talking about what I want." 

"Maybe we should be. What do you want?" Dean challenges, shooting him a cutting glance. 

"Trust me, Dean, I have what I want. Or, shit, even if I don't, I'll at least let myself try to get it," Sam hisses, and his words cut Dean right at the knees, burrowing right into the heart of him. "You can't just keep deflecting forever, man. I asked you a question. Do you even like hunting anymore?" 

Dean squeezes the wheel a little too tight, his jaw set so hard that he's nearly grinding his teeth. He doesn't know why Sam is fucking hounding him about this. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't even wanna think about it. 

Because, when it comes down to it, Dean knows there's a reason he once treated the idea of retiring like the fixed point of all his most unrealistic hopes and dreams—the endgame he dared to want, not letting himself sink into the reality that he can't have it. He's never been meant for that, not even when he was younger and just starting out. He picked up a gun at six and was taught to idolize dying with it still in hand, and while the shine of such a thing has been lost over time, the gun still stays within reach anyway. He never wanted to put it down, any of this, not the way Sam once did. 

Truth is, Dean's tired of waking up with his fingers wrapped around his gun. The truth is, retirement is still what he finds himself wistful for, but now he's come to terms with it always being out of reach. 

What the hell is he gonna do? Quit? Just like that? Hang up his hat and...do what, exactly? He's not good at anything else. Is he supposed to just hang around the Bunker, lost in the silence, thinking about all the people he could be saving and thinking about how fucking miserable he is? He'd rather be miserable and helpful, rather than just miserable with no goddamn direction. 

"Dean," Sam presses. 

"What?! What the hell do you want me to say?" Dean bursts out. "I'm good at it, alright? It's all I fucking know, and who cares if I like it? People need us. At least I can do this one thing right, most of the time. It isn't about me. It's about them, the people we save. So it doesn't matter." 

"Okay, but you're one man. A very good, very skilled man, but just one man. There are others. There are so many people who do what we do, if a little differently. I'm not stupid enough to say that one man can't make a difference, because you have, and I have...but this? Dean, you said that if you knew the world was safe, you'd like to retire. This is as safe as the world's ever gonna get, and you deserve—" 

"Shut the hell up about what I deserve. Life ain't fair, Sammy. It never has been. I'm okay with that." 

"You know what? No. Bullshit." Sam scoffs and turns further in the seat. "I don't think that's what this is about at all. Yeah, sure, you'd wanna help out every now and again. I know that because I know you. But it's not the idea of retiring fully, or even just slowing down a lot, that you have a problem with. It's that you don't have a freaking clue what you'd even do with it, if you let yourself have it." 

Dean jerks the wheel a little, pressing in on the gas, reacting accordingly to his anger. He always drives a little more harshly when he's pissed off. Someone honks at him, and he sticks his hand out the window to flip whoever it was off. Sam doesn't even bat an eye at his road rage, apparently expecting it. 

He's pissed because Sam is—well, he might be a little bit right. Whatever. So what? It's exactly what Dean knows down in his soul. He wants something he doesn't even know what it'd look like. There's so much goddamn longing wrapped up in this when he doesn't even know what he'd do with it. 

"You're scared," Sam continues, his tone just a touch softer. "You want it, but you barely even know what it is. It's the unknown. Scares the hell out of anybody and takes a whole lot of bravery to try your hand at it. You think I don't know? You think I haven't been there? Do you think it was easy for me when I got out at the start of all this? I wanted it so bad, but I didn't have the first clue how to do it, or what would come of it. I was an angry, spiteful kid who took a lot of things for granted, and I was so scared to fail and prove Dad right. But I did it anyway, and it wasn't easy or simple or perfect. I don't regret it. Even to this day, knowing that it's not for me, I don't regret it, Dean. I had to know. Don't you wanna know? You deserve to know, if you want to."

Dean presses his lips into a thin line, briefly squeezing his eyes shut, only to snap them right back open because he's driving. He says nothing. He finds that he can't say anything at all. 

"Dean," Sam murmurs, not letting it go, only growing more gentle with each word, "I'm asking you, man. Do you even like hunting anymore?" 

Quietly, in a rasp, Dean says, "No, I don't." 

Sam exhales. "Okay. Okay, that's—it's okay. It's good, even. That you know, I mean. You don't like it anymore, and there's nothing wrong with that." 

"Sammy," Dean whispers, "I never liked it." 

"What?" Sam breathes out. 

"I mean, I did, I do, but it wasn't—that wasn't all I liked." 

"What do you mean?" 

"You think—" Dean swallows around the lump in his throat and flexes his fingers on the wheel again, his chest tight. "You think I didn't have other shit I daydreamed about? When I was four, I wanted to be a firefighter, right up until Mom died. Real ironic, right? When I was a teen, I was getting praised left and right for how good of a wrestler I was. 'Course it crossed my mind that maybe I'd wanna do something with that. When I'd help Bobby out at the Salvage Yard, working on cars—hell, just working on Baby—it was more than just me knowing my way around every engine and frame I put my hands on. I liked it, Sam. I still do. You think I would have picked my life to go the way it has, huh?" 

Sam is quiet for a long moment, and he's still quiet when he asks, "Why didn't you ever talk about it? You never mentioned any of that stuff. I always thought that you—I mean, you always said—" 

"Think about it, Sam. Really fucking think about it. Use that big brain of yours." 

"Was it...Dad?" 

"Partially," Dean admits with a snort. "You know how he was about the life, and more than any dream I ever had, I wanted to make him—" He braces his elbow on the window and scrubs his palm over his mouth, shaking his head. "Well, you know how it was, how Dad and I...worked. What he said, went. That was all there was to it, so I didn't entertain half the shit I'd get distracted by. I mean, it wasn't so bad, as far as I was concerned. We were heroes, man, or that's how I saw it then. 'Cause Dad was. Or I thought he was. I liked hunting a lot more when he was alive, because he said it was worth doing." 

"Did you ever tell him that you wanted other things? I mean, I figure it would have been a huge fight, right?" Sam asks warily. 

Dean sighs. "I brought it up one time. The wrestling thing. I told him I was hoping we could stay somewhere a little more permanently, 'cause they were saying I was good enough to get a scholarship if I kept at it. I mean, it was good, right? You'd think he'd be proud. A normal dad would have been, but no, not him." He gives a derisive snort. "Dad told me to stop talking out the left side of my mouth about stupid shit. What did a scholarship for wrestling matter in our lives, right? He took me out to make me train with a gun, then had us packed up and across the country by the next week. Told me not to think about shit like that anymore, because there was no point. So I—I didn't." 

"Jesus," Sam mutters. 

"I didn't even really mind," Dean muses, lips twisting into a mockery of a smile. It's bitter and he knows it. "I liked the idea of living the kind of life we did. Well, in theory, at least. But there were times when I—just… Every once and a while, I slipped up. We all do it, I reckon. Why d'ya think I tell anyone I can, especially the young ones, to steer clear of this shit if they're able to? It needs to be done, I know that, but the life… It isn't really much of one." 

"Well, this is a weird role reversal I wasn't expecting," Sam mumbles, sounding absurdly awkward. When Dean glances at him, he shrugs a little sheepishly. "I mean, I kind of love it, man. Obviously there are parts I don't like, but I've got ideas about how to make it better. I'm excited about being involved and—and really influencing the community. And it does make me feel good." 

Dean looks away, huffing out a quiet, incredulous laugh. "Twenty-two year old you is raging on the inside right now, dude." 

"He'll get over it. He's got some growing up to do. Besides, twenty-six year old you is probably so confused right now. You, wanting out the life? Sounds insane," Sam says lightly. 

"Probably not as confused as you might think." 

"Dean, you might've forgotten, but you used to be all about hunting. You wanted to die young in a blaze of glory. You ate, breathed, and slept the life. Just like Dad did." 

"'Course I did," Dean murmurs, dragging his fingers up to rub lightly at his temple. "You saw me at my peak, when I really started enjoying it. You wanna know why I was so focused on it, on hunting; why I acted like it was the only thing worth doing? You already know. You just don't know that you do. You never really got it, not back then and not now." 

Sam hums thoughtfully. "Well, it was about finding the thing that killed Mom at first, right? But not just that. When we thought we had and I mentioned going back to school, you lost it, dude. Said there was always gonna be another monster to gank. The only thing I can think is that you wanted to stay close to Dad, unlike me." 

"It wasn't about Dad," Dean croaks. "It was about you. Sam, it was always about you. The only reason I loved hunting that much was because I got to do it with you. When you were at school, and I was doing it alone, it was—it wasn't the same. All I knew was that hunting kept the family together, and anything else ripped us apart. I was just glad you stayed." 

"Oh," Sam says softly. He's quiet for a solid minute, then he takes a deep breath, like he's bracing himself for something. "It's not—I mean, you don't still think it's like that, right? Like—like hunting is the only thing that keeps us...us. You don't, right?" 

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, man. I think I stopped leaning into half the shit Dad lectured into my head years ago. I figured if hunting was the only thing that kept us hanging around with each other, you wouldn't be so—I don't know—gung-ho about it. You really do like it, don't you?" 

"Yeah, I do. There's so many things I wanna do. It just feels right for me, ya know?" Sam pauses, then coughs. "Well, no, I guess you don't. You really don't like it, do you?" 

"No," Dean admits, "but it's like...going to the doctor. You might not like it, but you gotta go. It's just one of those things, Sam, and that's fine." 

"Dean, you kinda never go to the doctor as often as you should," Sam points out. Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam sighs. "Look, it's not fine, alright? You don't have to do it anymore if you don't want to." 

"Sam, who else is going to—" 

"Me, Dean. Eileen. Jody and Donna. Claire and Kaia. There are others. A lot of others, actually, some that you don't even know about. You know what you need? You need to find a you." 

Dean glances over at him, narrowing his eyes. "What the hell does that mean?" 

"You're so worried that—that not hunting will tip the scales, right? Cost some lives you could have saved, because...what? No one does it like you?" 

"No, dude, that's not—I'm not saying I'm the best or anything. It's not like other people can't; it's just that my extra hands do help." 

"You think Bobby thought like that when he passed hunts off to us, simply because he didn't want to do them? Hm? No, he didn't. He trusted us. He trusted our skills and knew he'd help if we needed it, but the rest of it? That was on us, because it was our turn, because we chose that for ourselves. He chose it once, then stepped back when he didn't want to do it anymore, and he trusted us to take over. So find your you, or even me, and trust them." 

"You're saying, like, an apprentice?" 

Sam chuckles. "Well, maybe not that. Just someone you trust that you're cool with handing cases off to. Why not Claire? You know she's good for it, her and Kaia. You've kinda seen her work before, right?" 

"She's so young," Dean can't help but mumble, his face screwing up. 

"No younger than we were," Sam says. 

Dean tips his head, conceding that. "Yeah, but she's kinda like, um, Cas' kid. Sort of. Well, you know it's complicated, but…" 

"So? She's a young hunter. Maybe she could use a Bobby. You could be her Bobby, and get the benefits of being Bobby while you're at it. Retirement, or semi-retired," Sam suggests. 

"Bobby was like a dad to us," Dean says. 

"Yeah." 

"Claire's already got a Bobby in Cas." 

"Okay, what about Kaia?" Sam asks. 

"They got Jody and Donna. Those girls already get enough work from them as it is. I'm not adding to their workload, Sam, not when I could just handle it myself," Dean mutters, clenching his jaw. 

Sam heaves a sigh. "Why are you being so difficult? Just—I think you should try. Reach out to Claire at least once. Or Kaia, even." 

"And then what?" Dean snaps, jerking his hand towards the windshield. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with my retirement? You're not retiring, are you? The way I understand it, you and Eileen have a lot of gas left in your tanks." 

"Yeah, so? It's not about us. You're running on fumes, Dean." 

"Hey, fuck you, I'm still—" 

"No, that's not—" Sam grunts in frustration. "I'm not saying you're not still good, because you are, but you don't want to do it. Which is still fine, by the way. Just because some of us are still on board doesn't mean you have to be. Dean, we don't need hunting to be okay. You and me? We're gonna be fine no matter what we're doing." 

"You don't get it," Dean mumbles, scrubbing his fingers over his eyebrow, grimacing. 

The thing is, Sam doesn't get it. Maybe he's right about certain things, but he's missing most of the point. Yeah, so Dean's tired of this shit and wants to pump the brakes, but that's not the only part of this. Stopping, in theory, is fine—the problem is that he doesn't have a goddamn clue where he'll be stranded if he does. Say he stops. Then what? That's what keeps tripping him up. He doesn't know what comes after, what he'll do with it if he allows himself to have it. When he said it's all he knows, all that he's good at, he wasn't lying. What else is there? 

"You're not happy, Dean. Doing this actively makes you unhappy. So, you shouldn't do it. You should do what you want, whatever that is," Sam tells him, like it's the easiest thing in the world. 

That's the problem, Dean thinks, I don't have a clue what the fuck that is. 

He doesn't say this out loud, of course. In fact, he doesn't say anything else for a while. Sam seems to feel that he's made his point and actually gotten somewhere with it, and Dean lets him believe it. If nothing else, it keeps Sam from pestering him. 

Dean cuts on the radio and keeps driving. Ironically enough, they're on the road to a case. 

Just like always, he sucks it up and does it. 

After the case, Dean texts Cas kinda out of the blue. They haven't really talked since Dean called him while drunk and stupid. Dean's pretty sure it's his fault. Cas had texted to check on him the next morning, and Dean hadn't responded. That means that the ball is metaphorically in his court now, because Cas never presses communication without getting a reply. He doesn't double-text unless it's back-to-back for the specific topic. He doesn't call a second time if Dean doesn't answer the first. And, for as long as Dean doesn't reach out to him, Cas doesn't reach out to Dean. He is the epitome of giving something and refusing to chase after it to get it back, and it's infuriating. 

It forces Dean to work for something he never had to before. Cas never used to do that. He would text or call Dean over and over if he wanted to talk to him, especially if it was urgent, but even about weird shit. Dean used to be just as bad. If he wanted to talk to Cas about anything—usually about his whereabouts or whatever stupid thing he was doing at that point in time—then he'd just call or text Cas back-to-back and get pissed if Cas didn't answer. 

It's like something, somewhere along the way, changed without him knowing it. The moment Cas left, it was like they were in a stand-off, both refusing to be the one to crack first. Dean had, which he'll forgive himself for. The only bastard more stubborn than him is Cas, so he's not gonna be too hard on himself for caving first. But, ever since that first phone call, after a month of silence, they've been doing this. Dean's not even sure what it is, or if he's just looking too deeply into things, but it's irritating. He hates how self-aware it makes him. 

He spends a lot of time thinking about talking to Cas for a guy not talking to Cas. A lot of times, he'll just stare at his phone and wait for something, anything, but there's always nothing. He always has to give a little to get something in return, and for some fucking reason, it's so goddamn hard to do. It's like he's admitting that he wants to talk to Cas when he knows damn well that Cas doesn't give a shit either way. Obviously he doesn't if he can't even bring himself to be bothered to reach out twice. No matter how much time passes, Cas flatout refuses to give even an inch more than Dean gives him. 

It makes Dean uncomfortably aware how hard it is to give what little he does, when it should be easy. It's easy for literally anyone else. Dean can text or call Sam, or Eileen, or Jack, or Jody, or—hell, even Garth. He can do it at any time for any reason and has. But Cas? Oh no, there's a problem when it comes to him, which is such bullshit. 

Cas is his best friend. He's said it out loud that Cas can always call him. There's no reason for it to be an issue. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, Dean struggles every goddamn time. 

Not this time, however. 

With no warning whatsoever, Dean sends him a message, which is just: Hey, I'll trade my brother in for the kid. You think I could use Sam's birth certificate like a receipt and get my time back? 

It's not even five minutes before Cas replies with: I might actually be willing to trade, so don't tempt me. At least you have a birth certificate to barter with. I am, as you would say, "shit out of luck" 

Dean chuckles as he scoots up further in his bed, getting more settled against his pillows. Despite the fact that he's not-so-accidentally keeping score—and he was technically the last one to call, so it should be Cas' turn—Dean lazily taps the call icon and holds the phone up to his ear. Ridiculously, by the second ring, he's tapping his free hand impatiently against his thigh, frowning. 

"Hello, Dean," is Cas' answer, likely forever and always, and Dean's hand stills as he smiles. 

"Hey, Cas," Dean replies. "You busy?" 

Cas sighs, and there's the sound of clanking and running water. "Not particularly. I have been working on hand-eye coordination as a human, so a little bit of multitasking is good for me. Why has Sam earned a sudden desire for a return policy?" 

"We just, uh, finished up a case," Dean says. 

"Did something happen?" 

"Not really. No, just Sam hounding the shit outta me about something." 

"What about?" Cas asks, sounding genuinely curious. There's the faint noise of something hissing and a crackling pop. 

Dean snorts weakly and tugs at a loose thread at the seam of his jeans, right near his knee. "The kid's got it in his head that I should retire. Ain't that crazy?" 

There's a long beat of silence, then Cas hums calmly. "I suppose, if you wanted to retire, then it makes complete sense. If not, then he shouldn't push for something that wouldn't make you happy, though I can't really see Sam doing that. Have you given him the idea that you want to retire?" 

"Do I seem like the kind of guy to just throw in the towel, Cas? The type to give up?" Dean grumbles, immediately pissed that Cas isn't going along with him on this. 

"No, of course not. My question remains the same, because taking a step back from hunting is not throwing in a towel, or giving up." 

"Uh, it kinda is, though." 

"Would you feel that way if it was Sam?" Cas asks. 

Dean rolls his eyes. "It's not Sam. He's signed on for another few years of this bullshit. He likes it." 

"Do you?" 

"Oh god, not this shit again. That's not the point." 

"Very well. Different tactics, then." Cas sighs through the phone, and there's the background noise of something hitting a counter, maybe. He's a ballsy guy, Dean's gotta admit. He just bluntly says that he's using strategies and shit when talking or arguing with Dean, as if he knows precisely how to handle him. Shameless asshole. "So, to be clear, if someone knows about the supernatural world, no matter if they wish to be involved or not, they should risk their lives and ruin their bodies and force themselves to do it, even if they don't want to? Is that what you're saying, Dean?" 

"No, dude, you know it's not like that. You know I don't mean it like that. It's just—it's different for me," Dean mutters, eyebrows drawing together. 

"How?" Cas challenges, though his voice is just as even as it has been this whole time. 

"Come on, Cas, think about all the shit I've been through. Think about how much I know. I'm capable. If I can help people, I should, and it's as simple as that. I can't just—just—" 

"I see. In that case, I'll just start hunting on my own then, shall I? By your logic, I should, even when I have absolutely no desire to." 

"What?" Dean blinks, jolting forward in the bed, wrapping the thread around his finger and pulling it tight. "No, man, if you don't wanna, you shouldn't have to. That's not what I—" 

"But I'm very capable. Even more capable than most, in some cases. Frankly, based on the knowledge I have alone, it's a disservice to dedicate myself to anything else. I can help people, Dean, so I should, right?" Cas replies, easy as you please. 

"No. I mean, yes, but—" Dean releases a quiet groan of annoyance. "Goddammit, Cas, you're twisting my words here. Yes, if you can help someone, you should. But you don't gotta hunt if you don't want to. It's not on you. And hell, after all that you've done, you've earned the break if you want it." 

Cas laughs quietly, gently, and then he says, "If only you'd give yourself the same effort that you feel obligated to offer the rest of the world. Dean, everything you just said to me can and does apply to you. Even more than me, actually." 

"It's all I know, Cas," Dean whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. 

"There was a time when all I knew was complete servitude to Heaven. If we're only meant to be what we're taught, then change would never impact us positively. My change—was it positive?" Cas asks. 

Dean's eyes snap open just so he can roll them. Cas sounds like some kinda self-help hippie type, which is ridiculous. "Yeah, yeah. I'd say so. If you'd never had changed, or rebelled, we probably wouldn't have been able to, uh, save the world. Like...multiple times. Sounds pretty positive to me." 

"I learned. I changed. It was for the better. Why can't you do the same?" 

"I'm not saying I can't, but—" 

"No, of course you're not. You never blatantly say things like that. You just think that things like that aren't available to you, as if you—specifically—do not deserve anything good in your life, even the possibility of it. Every time, it always comes back to what you believe you deserve and how it amounts to practically nothing," Cas says tightly, now sounding irritated. "From the moment I met you, this has been something you wrestle with. You didn't think you deserved to be saved, and I'd be willing to bet that you still don't." There's a sharp clatter in the background, and Cas lets out a huff. "Now, you don't think you deserve to rest, on top of every other ridiculous notion you've had in the past, because I'm well aware that those didn't magically vanish when Chuck did. Why can't you just—" 

Cas cuts himself off, and Dean stares down at the thread wrapped around his finger, snug enough to start turning the digit cold and a light purple. He swallows in the sudden silence, that ever-present ache within him abruptly turning as hot as a brand. He unravels the thread and draws his knees up a little, folding in half slightly, resting one elbow on one knee. While holding his breath, his eyes slip shut and his head falls back to rest against the wall behind him with a dull thump. 

Dean isn't really sure how the conversation got so intense. He wasn't aware that Cas had such strong feelings about this, but it's clear that his opinions aren't the kind he's just now forming. They've been there a while, festering. And, as always, he knows Dean so scarily well that it's a trial and a half not to just hang up on him and flee the observations. 

"I apologize," Cas says, finally, clearing his throat. The background sounds are fainter now, not as sharp, like he's done throwing shit around. "That was...rude of me. I suppose I just think you should get to do whatever you like. And, well, perhaps I'm passionate about the subject of change." 

Helplessly, Dean chokes out a weak laugh. "You think? Jesus, man. It kinda sounds like you got some unresolved issues to work through." 

"You could say that," Cas replies dryly. 

"It was hard, wasn't it?" Dean ventures cautiously, screwing his eyes shut even tighter. 

"Changing?" 

"Uh. Um, yeah. That." 

Cas makes a pensive sound. "I was...resistant at first, admittedly. It felt like betraying everything I had always believed in. It felt shameful as well, due to the—ah, the thrill I got from it. I constantly went back and forth on whether I was doing the right thing or just making one mistake after the next. Yet, once I made a solidified decision, I knew I would never be who I was before I changed, and I found that I—well, I quite liked that about myself. Then again, my motivations were very...selfish." 

"Selfish? Dude, you can't seriously be trying to tell me that what you did was more selfish than what you're suggesting I do. You changed to save people. I wanna give up on people." Dean rocks his head back and forth, exhaling harshly. "It's not even remotely the same. You can't even compare 'em." 

"Dean, I assure you, my reason for change had very little to do with people the way you believe." Cas clears his throat. "Furthermore—" 

"Who the fuck even says that?" Dean cuts in, lips twitching against his will. 

"Furthermore," Cas repeats sharply, ignoring Dean's snort, "you have no desire to give up on people. Let's ignore that it's not your job to—" 

"Tell that to the last fifteen years of my life. Hell, the last thirty." 

"Dean, shut up and listen." 

Grinning, Dean opens his eyes to find the thread to start tugging on it again. "Uh huh. I hear ya." 

"Let's forget your ludicrous inclination to feel obligated for one moment. Isn't this what we were all fighting Chuck so hard for? Freedom. The chance to be free. The world free from the constant danger Chuck forced on it, and those perpetually saving it free from doing it over and over. You wanted to be free, didn't you?" Cas' voice softens a little. "So why won't you allow yourself to be?" 

Dean is no longer grinning. He stares listlessly down at the thread again, holding his breath, his brain running in circles. The moment his breath bursts from him, he breaks. "I don't know, Cas," he croaks, and his voice cracks like two rocks colliding off of each other. "I don't—I have no fucking idea why I'm like this. I don't even know what I'm doing half the time, and I'm so—" 

He snaps his mouth shut with a loud clack. He can't finish that, for some reason, his body and mind revolting entirely. Cas can't know that he's unhappy, that he's miserable, that the whole goddamn world is so quiet and he hates it, that everything feels wrong no matter where he goes or what he's doing. There's no way he's telling Cas that, because then he'll ask what makes all of that better, and Dean knows that retiring isn't the answer, no matter how much he still wants it. 

There's another reason he doesn't feel like he should slow down to a crawl. Deep down, he knows that it's not going to change anything, not really. Not much. That ache will remain, and he'll still be fucking miserable, and everything everywhere will feel wrong all the time. Why is he even entertaining this shit? What good will it do? 

"Dean?" Cas murmurs. 

"Yeah, I'm here," Dean rasps. 

Cas is silent for a beat, then he says, "If nothing else will get through to you, maybe it will comfort you to know that you can always just...return to it. I'm almost certain that coming out of retirement is a common thing in society for various reasons. At the very least, you could try it just to try it." 

"Do you—uh, do you like it?" Dean asks, swallowing as he twists the thread around his finger over and over, somehow soothed by the way it digs into his skin lightly. 

"I do," Cas admits. 

Dean takes a deep breath. It hitches in his throat, which is a surprise. He's about to ask something, and his heart is picking up the pace in anticipation. It's kinda stupid, but he can't exactly help it either. It's not even a big deal, not some kinda secret—it can't be—but…

"What do you do?" Dean blurts out. "Just—I mean, how do you spend your free time?" 

"Ah," Cas says. "Well, I have a part-time job." 

Dean blinks. "You have a—wait, seriously? How? At a store again?" 

"Mm, no. It's a delivery service. People order food, I go and pick it up, then I deliver it to their home. There was minimal paperwork, thankfully, and anything I needed, Sam was more than willing to help me with," Cas informs him, oh so casually. 

"Sam knew about this?" Dean sputters. 

"Yes." 

"And I didn't?" 

"You never asked," Cas says sharply. "Sam did." 

"Right, but—I mean, you could have told me. Wait, no, fuck you. I did ask, actually," Dean snaps, surging up in the bed, jabbing his finger at no one, heat skittering across his skin as his anger spikes with no warning. "I asked you what you spent your time doing and you fed me a line of bullshit about giving Jack advice on Heaven. I remember." 

Cas huffs. "Well, at the time, I wasn't doing the job that I am now. I never 'fed you a line of bullshit', so I'm not sure why you're so upset." 

"Don't say I didn't ask. I asked, Cas." 

"Not recently, apparently, or I would have mentioned it." 

"I ask you how you are every goddamn time we get on the phone!" Dean explodes, reaching back to grab his pillow and drag it forward, lifting it and shoving it back down on his bed. He barely even acknowledges the dramatics of this. 

"And I tell you how I am, because asking how someone is pertains to their state at that moment, Dean," Cas grinds out. 

"Oh, give me a fucking break. You're just splitting hairs now, asshole. You know damn well what I mean when I ask you a—a blanket question like that," Dean says with a scoff. 

"Oh, do I?" Cas challenges, his tone getting rougher and colder. "How am I supposed to know, Dean? If you don't mean precisely what you say, how would I know? Is this one of those normal, natural human things that go without saying? How am I to know when you say one thing, do another, and mean something else entirely? You never tell me, so how can I know? How? Go ahead. Tell me how." 

"You're acting like I speak a whole other language or some bullshit, Cas." 

"It feels that way sometimes, now that you mention it." 

Dean clenches his fingers into the fabric of his pillow. "Yeah, well, you know a lot of languages. Besides, you know me, and don't even pretend like you don't know what I mean. You always have." 

"No, I haven't," Cas snarls. "Just because I know who you are does not mean I know what hidden messages you slip in your words. Just because I understand you does not mean that I'm not persistently confused by the way you—how you act towards me. I don't know, Dean, because you never tell me. You've never told me, and I've just had to assume, or hope, or—" There's a sharp clatter over the phone, followed by a very loud shattering sound, and Cas shouts, "Shit! Ow, fuck, ow!" 

"Cas? Hey, you good?" Dean asks, snapping up straight and fisting his pillow hard enough that his nails make a scraping noise against the fabric. There's more sounds over the phone, and Cas' voice goes far away, tinny and short. "Cas?" 

"Hello?" Jack answers, suddenly speaking directly into Dean's ear. 

"Jack?" Dean blurts out. 

"Oh!" Jack chirps. "Hello, Dean. How are you?" 

"I'm good," Dean rattles off, then scowls because he just accidentally proved Cas right. Whatever. Not the point. "Is Cas okay?" 

Jack hums. "Yes, I believe so. He just burned his hand and broke a plate. He says he's fine." 

"Oh. Um, shit, tell him to rub some mustard on it. Stings like a bitch at first, but it does take the burn out," Dean says wearily, heaving a sigh and letting his fingers relax around the pillow. 

"Dean says to rub some mustard on it," Jack says. 

From a distance, Cas—very bitchily—replies, "Oh, Dean says. Did he say why, or am I supposed to just assume there's some hidden message?" 

"Cas says—" 

"Jack, don't actually say that." 

"Oh." Jack is silent for a beat. "Well, he did say that it would sting like a bitch but would take the burn out, if that helps." 

"Thank you, Jack," Cas mutters. 

Dean snorts. "Don't mind him. He's in a mood. How've you been, kid?" 

"Good," Jack says cheerfully. 

"Right." Dean grimaces and tilts his head back, annoyed with Cas and himself. "Any, uh, life updates you wanna tell me about?" 

"Well, I've been reading about space shuttles," Jack informs him, genuine excitement threading through his voice. "Did you know that the longest any space shuttle has been in space was for seventeen days? Oh, and they've sent more than three million pounds of cargo into space. Did you know that, Dean?" 

"Uh, can't say that I did. Sounds pretty cool," Dean tells him, his eyebrows raising. Actually, that does sound kinda interesting. Huh. 

Jack makes a low, excited sound. "I want to go to space one day." 

"Really?" Dean asks. "Can't you just fly yourself up there? It's not like you'd die." 

"No, I know, but I want to go like humans do. I want to wear an astronaut suit. Did you know that they're puncture proof?" Jack says. 

Dean huffs a weak laugh. "No, I didn't." 

"The very first suit worn by a human in space was the Soviet SK-1 in 1961." 

"Who wore it?" 

"Yuri Gagarin." 

"He still alive?" 

"No," Jack says sadly. "He crashed a jet in 1968." 

"That sucks," Dean murmurs, lips curling up at Jack's genuinely dejected tone.  

Jack sighs. "Yeah." 

"I'm alright now, Jack, thank you," Cas says, suddenly closer to the phone. "Sorry I alarmed you."

"It's okay. Do you want to talk to Dean again?" Jack asks. 

"Define want," Cas mutters. 

Dean's stomach roils and tightens, that ache cutting him right at his center yet again. Fuck, Cas can be such an asshole sometimes. Dean knows he's just being pissy, like he gets sometimes, but the words still hurt more than he would like. 

"Cas is reaching for the phone again," Jack announces, completely oblivious. "Bye, Dean." 

Dean clears his throat. "Bye, Jack. I'll text you later, okay? The next time you show your face around here, I'll take you to go fishing or something." 

"Can I drive?" Jack asks immediately. 

"I—" Dean blows out an explosive breath, amused despite himself and still grimacing a little. "Yeah, kid, you can drive." 

"Awesome!" Jack declares, and Dean's eyes bulge because that's him—that's his word, said exactly the way he says it in the exact same cadence, a perfect replica except for how it's in Jack's voice. 

"Yeah," Dean agrees weakly. "Awesome." 

"Yes, those are for us," Cas says, his voice coming closer through the line. "No. No, Jack, only one. You don't need more than one." 

"Cas—" 

"No, Jack." 

"Why do you get two?" 

"Because I'm human and I've just burnt my hand, that's why. You only—Jack, I can see you. Jack!" 

"Thanks, Cas," Jack shouts from a distance, laughing, drifting off. 

Dean presses the back of his hand to his mouth to hide his grin, like someone might see it, even though he's safely hidden in his room. When Cas sighs over the phone, sounding exasperated and extremely fond, Dean can't help the short laugh that escapes him. The ache is missing. Gone entirely. 

"Giving you trouble?" Dean asks, amused. 

Cas hums. "His terrible twos apparently extend to frightful fours. He no longer knows what the word no means. Are you still willing to trade?" 

"Name the time and place." Dean flops back into his bed with a sigh. "Actually, maybe not. You and Sam are apparently close enough already." 

"Dean," Cas says, strained, "I don't want to argue about this. You don't get to be angry at me because other people know things you never cared to ask, or continue asking. I won't accept it." 

Dean freezes on the bed, stiff as a board. He listens to Cas breathe for a long moment, then he slowly sits up. He scrubs his hand over his mouth as he pushes to his feet, suddenly needing to pace for this. He can't be still, not right now. 

"That's bullshit, and you know it, Cas," Dean says, his voice low. 

"Stop assuming that I just know things. Dean, I just said that I don't want to—" 

"I don't give a shit if you don't wanna argue! What the fuck, man? Just because I ask how you are instead of fucking specifics? It's just words, Cas! It—it means how are you right now, and how the fuck have you been, and tell me everything that's on your mind. You're acting like I don't care!" 

"How am I supposed to know that you do?" Cas snaps, his words so harsh that Dean comes to a screeching halt mid-stride. "I think the best of you, I always have, so I would very much like to assume that you do care, but that's all it is—assuming." 

"Since fucking when? Why wouldn't I?!" Dean yells, his voice steadily getting louder as his anger rises. 

"Oh, I don't know, Dean. Maybe because you've never said it?" Cas retorts, his volume increasing as well, getting harsher and harsher with each word. 

"Boo-fucking-hoo, Cas! Because I'm the guy who goes around speaking purely in warm-and-fuzzies. Since when have you needed that, anyway? Actions speak louder than words," Dean spits, "and you're the one who fucking left!" 

He immediately whirls around and, in the same motion, tosses his phone as hard as he can at the wall. It instantly shatters and falls apart upon impact, the busted screen going dark, and Dean follows behind it with his fist. He strikes out and punches the wall once, twice, a third time. He goes for a fourth, but his knuckles protest and blood dribbles into the crevices of his fingers. 

"Fuck!" Dean shouts, yanking his hand away from the door and pacing a tight circle, his breathing erratic and thin. 

His door bangs open to reveal Sam, looking very alarmed. "Jesus, Dean, are you—" 

"Not now, Sam. Get the fuck out," Dean snarls, shooting him a sharp look. 

"Your hand," Sam starts, apparently forgetting that they don't discuss Dean's blow-ups like this, especially in the midst of one. 

Dean reaches out and grips the door, flinging it shut in Sam's face so hard that the slam sounds more like a gunshot than anything else. 

Sam doesn't try to open the door again. 

Grimacing, Dean marches over to the sink in the corner, shoving his shaking, bruised hand under the tap. He grits his teeth through rinsing the blood, then pops open the mirror-cabinet to get the rubbing alcohol, gritting his teeth through pouring that over his hand, too. 

The stinging pain brings the world into focus rather abruptly, and he inhales sharply as he tries to curl his hand into a fist, to no luck. It's already swollen and busted pretty bad, so he leaves it be. It'll be worse in the morning, but he doesn't actually care. 

Clenching his jaw, he looks up at the mirror, staring at his reflection. He hates looking at himself these days. He always just looks a little—empty, or blank. That, or pissed when he has no reason to be. There's that right now, but what makes him flinch away from the sight of himself is what he sees in his own gaze. Hurt. Not physical pain. Something worse. 

"Dammit," Dean breathes out, bracing one hand on the sink and leaning forward until his hot forehead hits the cool mirror. "Son of a bitch." 

It takes a while, but he eventually backs away. He forces himself to approach his phone, staring at the remains with a lump in his throat. Yeah, there's no salvaging that. Great. Just fan-fucking-tastic. 

Blowing out a deep breath, Dean turns around and goes to bed, though he doesn't sleep a wink. 

The ache keeps him awake.

Chapter Text

Dean finds a case, and he stares at the article on his laptop for a long time, his mouth dry. He thinks he's been to the town once or twice, maybe even worked a case there before. He can't remember details. 

Against his will, his gaze slowly slides to his phone. 

He got a replacement two days after the first one broke. Made sure to keep the same number. Even went through the trouble to recover everything backed up on his old phone. Not the text or call history, unfortunately, but some of the photos from them, at least. He still has that screenshot of the geode he sent Cas, as well as the picture of the hummingbird and rock. He'd asked the nice lady who helped him set everything up if there was any way to see if he'd missed any calls or texts while his phone was shot, feeling like a fucking idiot when doing so, and he'd felt like shit when she told him that they couldn't. 

Dean has no idea if the ball is in his court, or if Cas just never reached out after their argument. He's pretty sure it's the latter. After what he said, there's no reason Cas would have checked on him. He just gets so fucking angry, and then he does some stupid shit, fucking everything up like always. 

It's been over a week. 

Either way, that's not what has him staring at his phone like it might bite him, even though it usually is. Now, it's something else… 

The thing is, Dean doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to take the case. He's just—he's so fucking tired. Not that he couldn't do it, he could; he just really doesn't want to. Hell, it's one case. Who cares who does it, right? Everyone's jonesing for him to retire or take a break, so he might as well, if only to try it just to try it, like Cas said. 

Ah, hell, thinking about Cas again. He keeps doing that. Like...literally all the time. It's starting to piss him off. Things were so much simpler when he didn't have to think about Cas all the time, but now he's compelled to because they can't have one casual conversation to save their lives, and also Cas isn't here. But that's not a road Dean's willing to go down again. He refuses to acknowledge his anger about that, not since the last time cost him his phone and a pretty fucked up hand that still hurts in tandem with the ache in his gut. No reprieve for him, no siree, but what the fuck else is new? 

Again, not the point. 

Dean glances around the Bunker, even though he knows Sam and Eileen are holed up in their room. Eileen has the flu, as of two days ago, so Sam's spoiling the shit out of her. It's kind of amusing because Eileen is apparently very dramatic when she's sick. Sam's doting on her, and while she would usually hate that, she's milking it for all it's worth now. Dean plans to leave 'em to it, seeing as Eileen is in no condition to take a case and Sam sure as shit isn't going to leave her side, nor should he have to. 

It's on Dean. He found it. He should do it. But… 

Claire picks up on the fourth ring, sounding a little out of breath. "Kinda busy here, old man. Make it quick or—ah, fuck, hold on." There's a grunt, a gunshot, then a bright burst of laughter that most definitely didn't come from Claire. The laughter abruptly cuts off, then Claire snorts, suddenly back on the phone. "Nevermind, I'm done. What's up?" 

"You're handling a case," Dean notes, sighing. 

"Observational skills are off the charts there, Dean," Claire says, sarcastic as ever. "Yeah, Kaia and I were having a fun little night in, and I do mean fun. Turns out, the motel we were staying at was booked by some demons trying to summon some ghosts. Didn't notice at first, 'cause I thought the moaning was just Kaia, but—" 

"Claire!" Kaia hisses sharply in the background. 

"Chill, it's just Dean," Claire replies, laughing. 

"Yeah, and just Dean would appreciate it if you kept that shit to yourself," Dean mutters, heaving a sigh. Jesus, was he that bad at her age? All evidence points to yes, but he will just...ignore that. 

Claire hums. "Gotta torture you somehow." 

"You're an awful person, Claire." 

"Takes one to know one. So, what's up? Why are you calling me?" 

"What, I can't call you?" Dean asks, frowning. 

"Sure, and you can braid my hair and I'll paint your nails the next time we see each other," Claire replies flatly. "What do you want?" 

Dean frowns. Great, now he feels bad that he doesn't call her. She isn't even his kid. Jesus. "Yeah, yeah. Listen, I found a case that I, um, was gonna see if you wanted, but you sound like you got your hands full at the moment, so…" 

"Yeah, I do," Claire confirms, "but I got a buddy who's been a little dry lately. Where's it at?" 

"Uh…" Dean glances at the computer. "Cross Plains, Wisconsin." 

"Oh, that's even better. Practically right up the street from him. I'll send you his number and warn him that you'll call. Give me an hour." 

"Wait, who is this guy? Can you—I mean, have you ever worked with him before? You trust him?" 

"Well, obviously, or I wouldn't suggest him," Claire says shortly, clearly offended that he's questioning her judgement. "He's—wait, no, don't do that. Sweetheart, leave the dead bodies to me, okay? Don't worry about that. Take a load off." 

"I got it," comes Kaia's distant reply, still sounding a little strained. 

Claire huffs. "What did I just say? No, don't—you never listen, you know that? Put the dead guy down. Kaia, if you don't—" She groans loudly. "Look, Dean, I'll call you back in an hour, okay? I got to stop my girlfriend from getting blood everywhere. She's clumsy as shit and taking her can-do attitude a little too far." There's a far off affronted noise, and Claire laughs softly, fond. "Well, you are. Not that this isn't the hottest thing I've ever seen, but I can do it for you. Let me do it for—" 

The phone clicks, and Dean drags it from his ear, staring at the black screen. He doesn't know whether to laugh or sigh. A part of him wants to just take his keys and go handle the case. Another part of him wants to stick it out and see where this goes. 

There's something kind of intriguing about the idea of a next generation of hunters. Claire has buddies. The same way John and Bobby and Rufus had buddies. The same way Dean and even Sam have had buddies in the past. Those that are in the life, willing to trade information and help each other out. Well, less so for John because he was a prick, but still. Now that Dean's older, he's gotta admit that his dad kind of...sucked as a hunter in some ways. 

But shit, there is a community here, and there are a lot more younger people than Dean's used to. He's not sure how or when he became an old one in the mix, but it happened when he wasn't paying attention. He's closer to Bobby's age, which is such an uncomfortable thought that he doesn't know what to do with it. Yeah, he feels old and exhausted, but being confronted with the reality of it through seeing younger people getting involved, just like him when he first started out, is just...a lot. 

Dean doesn't really decide to wait it out. He spends the next hour unaware that time is passing at all. He's a little too wrapped up in coming to terms with his own age and the concept that times are a'changing, and he can either get with the times like Sam plans to, or get the hell out. He's pretty sure he could adapt because he has through the years already, but he really, really doesn't want to. He just kinda wants to be the old guy that tells old man stories and can rattle off crazy information the younger people might need. Bobby, basically. He wants to be Bobby, as it turns out. Jesus, for all that changes, Dean sure as shit doesn't. He's always trying to be like his dad, and Bobby counts. 

Thankfully, he's yanked forcefully from his inward spiral by his phone ringing, and it's only then that he realizes that an hour and a half has passed. It's Claire again, so he picks it up. 

"Done with clean-up?" Dean asks. 

"Finally," Claire breathes out with a gusty sigh. There's a grunt and the sound of squeaky hinges before a door slams. A beat later, a car starts up. "I hate that part, truth be told." 

"Yeah, not a fan of it myself," Dean agrees, more than sympathetic to her plight. He gets it. 

Claire sighs again. "Alright, I'm good to talk. I texted Michael already, so he'll be expecting your call. Before you get all weird on me, I can vouch for him. He's got a few years on me, but not that many. He's been hunting for the last seven years. Apparently, he had a run in with a Shtriga when he was a kid. It nearly killed his brother, but a couple of hunters blew in and used him as bait to kill it. Dick move on their parts, but Michael never forgot it, so when he got older, he started poking around. Poke too hard, shit starts oozing out, you know how it is. Anyway, he's good, and I've worked with him before. Fun guy, too. He usually lets hunters recover at his hotel for free, so that's a good resource. Convinced yet, or do I need to keep going?" 

"Wait. Wait a second." Dean reaches up and squints down at the map table. His brain is starting to hurt, but he thinks… No, he knows. "Michael. Michael with the younger brother named Asher, right?" 

"You've got to be shitting me," Claire says, barking out an incredulous laugh. "Oh, I can't believe it. It was you and Sam, wasn't it? The hunters who helped save his brother." 

Dean blinks rapidly. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure. Shit, that was—that was years ago. Over fifteen years ago. Christ. That's—that's—" 

"Childhood trauma really cultivates a person, man, lemme tell ya. I mean, I would know, but it's nice to know I'm not the only one," Claire declares with a derisive snort. 

"Is it?" Dean asks softly, swiping his hand over his forehead. A strange sense of guilt slams into his chest. Michael was just a kid, one that he and Sam wanted to protect from all of this, and he ended up in it anyway. Probably because of them. Jesus. 

Vaguely, he wonders just how many people that happens to. Like Claire said, it happened to her. Happened to Patience. Hell, it happened to Jody and Donna. People get dragged into this shit all the time, and trying to save them doesn't always help get them out, but what can they do? If they hadn't helped at all, Michael would have died. From there, the kid made his own choices and chose to get involved. Dean forgets sometimes that not everyone has it passed down to them like a legacy. For some, for most, it just—it reveals itself to 'em, and then it depends on what kinda person someone is if they decide to keep looking or turn a blind eye. 

"Damn, Dean, you used the poor kid as bait. That's cold," Claire teases, sounding light, just a joke. Guilt twists the knife anyway. 

"He wanted to save his brother," Dean murmurs, thinking back on it, remembering it. God, that case had been a walk down memory lane in the worst way possible. Too close to home. "He was a good kid." 

Claire chuckles. "You know, me and him can't hang out for longer than a few hours before we nearly come to blows. Too much alike. Makes sense now."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asks suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. 

"Don't worry about it. You sound like shit, by the way. You're usually cracking jokes during a phone call like this. Where'd all your light go, now that it ain't shining outta your ass?" Claire mocks.

"I think you got me confused with Sam," Dean says with a snort. 

"I really don't." 

"Hey, you can't fool me, kid. I know you're just as bad about it as I am." 

"Most tragic thing about me. I'm a little too much like you," Claire replies, then she chuckles like she can see him wincing in sympathy. "You sound all down and shit. Slump-y."

"Slump-y," Dean echoes, eyebrows jerking up. 

Claire hums. "Yeah. You know, down in the dumps. Faking it until you make it. Takes one to know one, so don't try and deny it with me." 

"I'm fine," Dean denies anyway. "Why haven't you hung up yet?"

"Being nosy, mostly." Claire muses. "It's like someone took your favorite puppy away." 

Dean snorts. "Again, I think you got me confused with Sam." 

"No, definitely not. Sam would never name his favorite puppy Cas, but I get the feeling that's the name of yours," Claire says. 

"What?" Dean swallows, feeling like he's been kicked directly in the stomach. That ache that never really leaves somehow settles in deeper, splintering on the inside so badly that he's right back to wanting to cut it out of himself. 

Claire sounds amused when she says, "Probably shouldn't be too surprised that I noticed. It's like I said. I'm a little too much like you, which means I'm not only an asshole, but I'm an observant one." 

"I have no idea what we're even talking about right now," Dean tells her, and that's partially true. 

"Uh huh, sure you don't. It's cool, old man. Dogs tend to find their way home eventually."

"Claire, stop calling Cas a dog. It's weird. And hang up already. Jesus." 

"I thought it was a good metaphor," Claire mutters, a touch defensive. 

"It wasn't," Dean retorts. 

Claire sighs. "Fine. How about I be a little more blunt? You're all sad because Cas isn't there, and it's kinda hilarious. How's that?"

"False information, for one," Dean says, staring resolutely down at the map table. If he keeps scanning Africa with his eyes, he'll eventually need to blink, but he suddenly can't stop. "Maybe you're...uh, what's the word? Projecting. Yeah, that." 

"What do I have to miss Cas for? I saw him a couple of weeks ago," Claire tells him, obviously amused. 

"Must be nice," Dean mumbles, then immediately grimaces and plunks his elbow on the table as he covers his face with his hand. 

Claire laughs again, clearly enjoying herself immensely. "Yeah, actually, it was." 

"Goodbye, Claire," Dean growls, pointedly. "I'm calling Michael now." 

"You do that," Claire says lightly. 

Dean clears his throat. "And...thanks." 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Claire replies flippantly, then finally—thankfully—hangs up. 

Dean exhales heavily, his cheeks rounding out with the force of it. He knows he'd probably kill and die for that girl, but damn if she doesn't get on his nerves. What's that thing Bobby used to bitch about? Kids driving him crazy, making him go gray, being a consistent pain in the neck? Yeah, he gets it now. Silently, he shakes his head and throws out a mental sorry, Bobby into the universe. 

When his phone pings again, he checks it to see that Claire has sent him a number. Before he can click on it, she sends another message that's just a picture of a dog walking itself, a leash in its mouth. Dean scowls and clicks on the number. 

"Michael's mortuary—you stab 'em, I grab 'em," is the answer Dean gets through the phone, belonging to what sounds like a young man who is most definitely sporting a cheeky grin. 

Dean's eyebrows hit his hairline. "You always answer the phone like that, Michael, or do I just get special treatment?" 

"Why would you get special treatment? I hardly know you, man," Michael replies lazily. "Dean, right? Yeah, I remember you. Claire said you look old now." 

"Bet she did," Dean mutters, scowling. Great, now he sounds like an old, ornery bastard, too. He sounds grumpy. "Not sure you get to crack jokes if you're still sporting that unfortunate haircut, kid." 

"What, from 2005? Hell no, and fuck off. Do you still look gay?" Michael retorts. 

"I—" Dean snaps his mouth shut, then lets it hang open like it wants to, then snaps it shut again. After a beat, he heaves a sigh and scrubs his hand over his face. "You know, yeah, probably. Fuck if I know. How's your brother?" 

"Alive and kicking, thanks to you," Michael says, and his tone gets a little softer, a tinge of respect and gratitude threaded through it. "He's off being some big, hot-shot CEO in New York. Raking in the money by the boatload." 

"S'good," Dean mumbles gruffly. "Your mom?" 

Michael sighs. "Died five years back. Cancer. How's your brother? Sam, right?" 

"He's—yeah, he's great." 

"Still hunting?" 

"Yep. Now he's just got a hot girlfriend to do it with, so really, he's on the up-and-up," Dean says. 

"Mm, sounds like it. What, you don't?" 

"Nah, nothing like that. You?" 

"I have a thing. Could be more if he'd ever pull his head outta his ass," Michael mutters, sounding ever so slightly bitter. 

Dean squawks in offense. "Hey! You make fun of me for looking gay, and you actually are." 

"I never said it was a bad thing, dude. You made that call, so it sounds like you got some issues falling through the cracks. Might wanna patch that up. People beat up homophobes these days—and by people, I mean me. I also happen to own a gun." 

"Jesus. You and Claire must have a great time together." 

"Yeah, usually. Well, it's short-lived most of the time. One of us always ends up either getting drunk and trying to fight, or we stay sober and pull guns on each other. Fun times." Michael snorts. "And, not that it matters, but I'm not actually gay. My not-girlfriend turned out to be my not-boyfriend, so I found out I liked all, and what's in someone's pants just doesn't matter, apparently. Also fun times, except he's kind of a dick, so." 

Dean can't help it, he chuckles. "Probably should get a new not-boyfriend." 

"I would, but he's got his claws in me pretty deep, so I'm kinda stuck. There's always one, right?" 

"I guess." 

"Oh, right, you wouldn't know anything about that. Well, you're no fun." Michael clicks his tongue, then sighs. "Alright, this has been great, but we can chit-chat when I don't have other shit to do. Claire says you got something for me." 

"Yeah," Dean mutters, shaking his head in both bemusement and amazement, "I do." 

Another week passes. 

Dean's back to staring at his phone like he can will it to ring. It's stupid. It's obsessive. Worst of all, it's impossible to stop. He knows what he's doing, and he doesn't want to be doing it, but he can't help it. 

He hadn't realized how things had improved because they still sucked, but it had definitely sucked less. It's back to sucking really fucking badly. It's just like it was in the beginning, but somehow worse. He's angrier, more worried, even more distracted. He can't focus for shit, and things seem quieter in a way that makes him want to blast music in his ears at all times.  

"You could call him, you know," Sam says idly, standing in the doorway, his arms crossed. 

Dean snatches his gaze from his phone, fingers tightening around his beer. Can't a man enjoy a mid-afternoon beer in his own kitchen in peace? No, apparently not. "Shut up, Sam." 

"I'm just saying." Sam holds his hands up in surrender and moves into the room, heading for the fridge. Without even looking, he keeps on just saying, because he's awful as fuck. "I know you two got into that fight, but what are you gonna do? Just never talk to him again?" 

Those words sink into Dean the same way a set of sharp teeth would. He cringes before he can cover it, thankful that Sam's turned away. "Seriously, man, stay out of it." 

"Mhm, sure," Sam says, and then continues with the over-the-top casualness. "You know, he asked about you when your phone was still fucked up." 

"What?" Dean's head snaps up, and he squeezes the beer bottle so tight that his knuckles ache. "He did? When? What'd he say?" 

Sam draws out of the fridge, turning around with one of those handheld applesauce packs in his hand. He twists the top and starts slurping on it, his eyebrows raised as he stares at Dean. He looks so calm that Dean is considering violence. Such a little shit, taking his time, drawing it out. It's been too long since Dean has punched him. His fist itches. 

"Well," Sam says slowly, after pulling the applesauce away from his mouth, "he asked if you were okay." 

"And?" Dean narrows his eyes. "What'd you tell him?"

"I told him you were the same old Dean." 

"Oh. Okay. And what'd he say?" 

"Dude, do you wanna read the messages?" Sam asks with a snort, clearly joking. Dean absolutely is not. He holds his hand out, and Sam stares at him. "No, I'm not doing that. What Cas and I talk about is our business." 

"Your—" 

"Dean, he's not yours." 

Dean's mouth slams shut so hard that he's pretty sure he just chipped a tooth. He stares up at Sam with wide eyes, and then his throat bobs. "I—I know that. Never said he was. I was just…" 

"Losing it a little? Yeah, man, you're starting to get a bit freakishly territorial about him. He's my friend, too," Sam murmurs, rolling his shoulders in a lazy shrug. "So, what he and I talk about is our business."

"Okay," Dean says woodenly, turning his gaze to his beer. He stares at it. He wills himself not to shatter it and use the sharp edge to try and carve out this stupid, relentless fucking ache that he can't escape. 

Sam sighs. "He did say he tried to call you." 

"Okay," Dean repeats, monotone, and then the words fully hit him. Yet again, his head snaps up, heart jolting in his chest. "Wait, he did? You mean after I—after my phone broke? He tried to call?" 

"Yep," Sam confirms, the corners of his lips twitching up and down like he's trying to suppress a laugh. Terrible brother. Just the worst. 

"Right." Dean's eyes crawl back to his phone and get stuck there. Okay, so the ball is in his court, as it turns out. Without meaning to, he starts chewing on the inside of his bottom lip, his mind racing. 

Should he? He can't imagine the conversation being anything short of awkward and terrible, and that should be enough to keep him from wanting to do it. And yet. And fucking yet. It's so stupid, because even when he knows that the phone call will be teeth-grindingly uncomfortable, he still wants to call anyway. Right now. Immediately. His fingers twitch. 

"Dean," Sam prompts, fixing him with a bitch face of the likes that Dean hasn't seen in a while. 

"Yeah?" Dean croaks, then clears his throat because he doesn't need to sound that hoarse and distracted. It's really not a good look. 

"Call him," Sam says. 

Dean swallows. "Yeah, okay." 

He reaches out to scoop up his phone, typing out the number by memory alone, nearly pressing the button to call and then thinking better of it. He cuts a look at Sam out of the corner of his eye. After a beat of silence, he coughs and stands, abandoning his beer and heading to his room. 

The moment the door closes behind him, he presses the button and moves over to his bed. He sits on the edge, one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other running restlessly over the scruff on his chin or the line of his jaw. The phone rings, and he breathes. The phone rings, and he holds his breath. No one answers, and he almost throws up. 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and hangs up before the voicemail even finishes. It's automated, so it's not even a weird, quirky message that Cas left behind. He lets his phone fall from his limp fingers to his bed, then tucks both hands into the bend of his stomach where it connects at his waist, at the core of him. Pressing in hard, Dean tries to breathe. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? He doesn't know how to be normal about this. Actually, he's not sure if he's ever been normal about Cas. 

Dean, he's not yours, Sam had said. 

But that's the thing. Cas is his. He just—he fucking is, okay? He's Dean's, first and foremost. He's always been Dean's, even from the beginning. That was, like, his thing. Their more profound bond, or whatever the fuck. Always picking up when Dean called, when he wouldn't for anyone. Coming to Dean's prayer and ignoring everyone else. Doing everything—all of it—for Dean. His words. He said that once. Yeah, he said it while beating the shit out of Dean, but he still fucking said it. 

No one had ever said that before. 

This is getting ridiculous. Yeah, sure, Dean knows that Cas is friends with Sam. Cares about him. Considers him family. All that jazz. But he's always been a hair's breadth away from slapping a golden star sticker on Dean's forehead and just declaring that Dean's his favorite. Everyone fucking knows it, that he's Cas' favorite. He knows that. Or, well, he thought he did. He never really acknowledged it until he started having doubts about it, and now he's starting to doubt it like he never really has before. 

It's just that things are different now, and Dean's feeling the rough scrape of change like an unwelcome drag of sandpaper. It's chafing, getting under his skin. It's so obvious, which is worse. All the things that are different feel like neon signs in Dean's mind, and he can't stop noticing them. 

He doesn't like it, and that's probably the worst part of all this. All those goddamn years where Cas consistently, continuously put Dean before practically everyone, and Dean never even… And now, he can't even get a goddamn visit from the asshole. Cas just left. He just left, and it's not—it's— 

Dean folds forward, pulling his hands from his cramping stomach to cover his face, dragging his palms up and down. Come back, he thinks helplessly, pretty much gagging on his misery. His stomach recoils, revolting, and he feels the ache sink deeper. His intestines must be in intricate knots by now. 

He thinks he misses it. Misses Cas, yeah, but also the way Cas used to treat him. Putting aside the fact that Cas has betrayed him, has used him, has stolen from him, has lied and lied and lied… Just setting all of that to the side, there's something deeper to it, something that always made it hurt more than it made him angry—which only made him angrier. It's the reason Cas did that shit. 

Dean knows. He's never looked directly at it, even when Cas said it outright. It was always: I'm doing this for you, I needed to come back with a win for you, I didn't want to worry you, I will find a way to redeem myself to you, I made a mistake trying to fix things for you, I killed for you, I could go with you, I just want to help you. Always you, you, you. Dean, Dean, Dean. 

It was like Dean was the focal point of nearly every decision he made, even if he was fucking things up or making things right. And Dean—he misses it. Fuck, but he does. Because it's gone. 

It's not about Dean anymore, not to Cas. 

It's an awful fucking thought, one that strikes him cold, just fully hits him when he least expects it—a sucker punch of the cheating variety, completely unfair, blindsiding. But, the thing is, it's not about Dean to anyone anymore. It sure as shit isn't about him to him; it never has been. It's always been about Sam to him, and he learned how to add others to that pile over the years, but never himself. He hasn't figured that out. He doesn't think he ever will. 

But Cas? Oh, it was about Dean. Every goddamn thing was about Dean. His favorite was Dean. His fucking reason, most of the time, was Dean.

Was. That's the thing. It's not anymore. 

It's probably the most selfish thing for Dean to feel bereft, for him to miss that. He never deserved that. He sure as shit doesn't deserve it now, but fuck if he doesn't want it anyway. He just—he wants to matter to Cas again, and he doesn't know how to get that back. He doesn't know why it stopped. 

Well, he doesn't know why definitively. He has a few ideas. Probably because Dean's the biggest fucking asshole on the planet, and he literally finds some way to screw up every good thing he's ever found himself lucky enough to have. Cas was certainly the longest he ever held onto something good, even when he was just leaving over and over, because he always did that, too. That's why it didn't surprise him when Cas did it yet again at the end, but it also did because the way he mattered to Cas seemed to argue against that. Somewhere along the way, Dean fucked up. He did something, and he doesn't even know what it was. 

His mouth, probably. Hell, the way he treated Cas at times. That shit was bound to catch up with him eventually. If not that, then his anger. Or maybe his countless fucking mistakes with Jack. It could be anything. There's too many possibilities, so maybe it was only a matter of time before Cas realized that. 

If he could go back—if he could just— 

Dean's head snaps up at the sound of dull buzzing from his phone vibrating on the bed. He stares at it, a lump in his throat. Oh, this is a bad idea. This is a really bad idea. Talking to Cas right now…

He picks up anyway, taking a steadying breath and closing his eyes as he presses the phone to his ear. 

"Hello, Dean," Cas greets, sounding—breathless? Dude sounds like he just ran a marathon. 

"Hey, Cas," Dean replies, so goddamn thankful that his voice doesn't shake. He sounds fine, so he's off to a great start. "Were you just running?" 

Cas blows out a deep breath, still panting a little bit. "What? No, I—of course not. Running? Me? No." 

"Oh. Kinda sounds like you were," Dean admits, dropping his free hand down to rub it back and forth over his thigh, fingers curling into his jeans. His leg is jumping up and down against his will. 

"I...wasn't," Cas says, obviously lying. Dean can always tell. He's a shit liar. "I, um. My apologies for missing your call. I was indisposed." 

Dean clears his throat. "Yeah? What were you doing?" 

"I was outside, working on my garden." 

"You have a garden?" 

"Yes. The carrots are growing nicely. I've decided to expand because I wanted to try my hand at peppers. You made stuffed peppers once, and I—well, I suppose they looked...appetizing. I think Jack would like them. It's—with gardening, I've found that speaking to them is beneficial. The plants, I mean. Even the soil. They communicate and—" 

"Cas?" 

There's silence for a long moment, then Cas exhales slowly. "I apologize. Again. I know you have no interest in—" 

"No, it's not that. It's just—I mean…" Dean coughs and reaches up to idly scratch at his cheek, feeling the uptick under his fingers. Ah, he's smiling. When the fuck did that happen? "Well, you were kinda rambling, dude. Didn't seem like you were breathing for a minute there, and you sort of have to do that to live, so...yeah. But uh, keep going. I'm listening. Maybe slow down a little so I actually get to hear what you're saying, but—yeah. Go ahead." 

"It's just...gardening," Cas says, a touch awkward, mostly sheepish. 

Dean hums. "Yeah, and? Tell me about it." 

After some more silence that feels brittle against Dean's skin, Cas actually starts talking. Once he gets started, he slows down and dives into it. It's obvious that he genuinely enjoys it, that he gets a sense of satisfaction from it. He talks about the feeling of soil in between his fingers the same way Dean talks about the rumble of Baby's engine. 

Dean listens. He doesn't add much input, humming along or randomly butting in with a question when it strikes him. Mostly, though, he's just listening. He doesn't really know anything about plants and gardening, and honestly, he doesn't really care about it. It's just not his thing. But he likes hearing Cas talk about it. He likes that it's Cas' thing. He likes the way passion bleeds into Cas' voice when he talks about the health of his plants, or the size of his vegetables, or the satisfaction of unearthing something he planted to see that it grew really well. 

He thinks he'd be alright to listen to this for hours. It's calming. It erases the ache in him, leaving only the faintest impressions behind, granting him a lot more relief than he's earned. 

But, like with all good things, it eventually comes to an end. Dean knows that more than most now. Even the things you don't expect to, the things you stupidly take for granted, they come to an end. This does, too. Cas' words taper off, Dean has no more questions, and silence descends on them both. 

It's as uncomfortable as Dean expected. 

"Dean," Cas says eventually, just when the silence is getting a little too unbearable, "are you—how have you been?" 

"Good, I guess," Dean replies, stilted without even meaning to be. "I, uh, gave a case away." 

"Oh? So you're—you plan to retire?" 

"I dunno. Not sure if quitting cold turkey is for me. Slowing down, though. That, I can do. Probably. The kid I handed the case off to is...something else. I actually knew him when he was a kid-kid. Helped save him and his brother with Sam a long time ago, way before you ever came along. It was a Shtriga." 

"Ah, I see. Have you enjoyed the break?" Cas murmurs, and if Dean isn't mistaken, there's a small glimmer of pride, or approval, in his voice. Weirdly, it makes Dean feel like he's goddamn blooming or something, the same way Cas talked about his plants, flourishing under the praise. 

Dean shakes his head at himself. "Don't think it's really set in yet. It's only been a few weeks since I last had a case. Sam and Eileen haven't done anything recently. She got the flu, and then Sam got the flu 'cause he never left her side. They're good now, but they haven't gotten back out there just yet. They plan to, though. Anyway, I haven't really done anything with the break." 

"You should." Cas pauses, then hums. "Do something nice. I took Jack to the movies. I'd never been. It was overpriced, but nice." 

"Yeah, maybe," Dean mumbles, knowing that he won't. What's the point? He won't really enjoy it. He'd be alone, and he can't think of anything sadder than a middle-aged man at the movies by himself, miserably stuffing his face with popcorn while randy teens try to screw in the back row. 

Cas seems to pick up on his lack of enthusiasm. "I would suggest some sort of car event. Do those exist? You might enjoy that." 

Despite himself, Dean's lips quirk up. "Yeah, Cas, those exist. It's a thing. I'll—I'll think about it. If nothing else, I could show Baby off." 

"Well, there you go," Cas says, sounding pleased, as if genuinely delighted that he provided assistance. "I hope you have fun. You should do the things you want, whatever they are." 

"I guess," Dean allows, noncommittal. He doesn't say that his wants are more selfish than he'll ever admit out loud and that an unfortunate amount of them are wrapped up in the way Cas acts towards him. "Listen, Cas, I should—" 

"I'd rather you didn't," Cas cuts in, quick about it. 

"I wanted to say sorry," Dean admits, whispering now for some reason, like it's some kind of shameful confession when it's just a goddamn apology. 

Cas sighs. "There's no need. I—" 

"You say I never tell you things, and when I try to tell you things, you don't wanna hear it." 

"That's not always the case. I'm not presumptuous."

"You kinda are, dude. You said you don't always know, right? So there is a need," Dean insists. 

"I think I ask for things I can't—handle," Cas says quietly, and Dean can hear the dry swallow over the phone. It's so loud. "I ask for too much." 

"I give too little," Dean counters, his hand dropping to the edge of his bed, curling over it and hanging on too tight. He plays those words back over in his head, knows they're true, then still has no idea how he managed to say them. Jesus. 

"You're not required to give anything, Dean. We're friends. It's not—I've been reliably informed that it's meant to be simple, and I believe I've been making it difficult," Cas murmurs. 

Dean stares at his closed door, his chest tight. "It is supposed to be simple. It's—not. I dunno if it ever has been, not for us. I think it's my fault."

"I disagree," Cas counters immediately. "Truly, Dean, this isn't your fault." 

"Is it simple for you and Sam?" Dean asks. 

A pause, then Cas warily murmurs, "Yes, but—" 

"Then it's not you. I'm the common denominator here, right?" 

"Perhaps we're both to blame, though in very different ways. I think you do your best, and I...struggle with certain things." 

"I don't make it easy," Dean says, knowing it down to his bones. 

"Neither do I," Cas assures him, gentle about it, like he's trying to soften the blow for both of them. 

Dean swallows. "It's kinda stressful, huh?" 

"It can be." 

"I don't know what to do about it."

"Dean, I'm not sure if…" Cas trails off, then his breath hitches when he inhales. When he exhales, he does so slowly, carefully, like it's painful. "As I said, I think I make it difficult when it wouldn't be with anyone else, and I wish—I truly wish that I could stop it from being this way, but I can't. It's not your fault, and it's not fair to you. I'm sorry, but I don't think there's a way to fix it. For as long as you are you, things will never be simple, and that's on me." 

"For as long as I'm me, huh?" Dean gives the quietest, most breathless laugh he ever has. There's no humor in it. It's just hollow. "Yeah, sounds like me. Jesus. Okay, um. That's—I hear you loud and clear, man." 

"I'm not sure that you do. I think, once again, we have talked past one another and drew our own conclusions. We are abysmal at communicating, but for the sake of honesty, I'll admit that this is my fault as well. There are some things I can't say." 

"Hey, I get that. I do. I've got my own shit, too." 

Cas hums. "I know." 

"So, uh, no solution?" Dean asks, rocking a little to try and dislodge the swelling ache in his middle. It's coming back with a vengeance. 

"I make things worse for you, and you don't deserve it, so…" Another dry swallow. Thick. Pained. When Cas speaks, he sounds like he's aching, too. "No, Dean, no solution. I can't—I don't know how to—" 

"Okay," Dean rasps. "Hey, it's okay. It's fine. Nobody made it a law to be my best friend, dude. I know I'm a fucking basketcase. I know I'm not easy. We don't have to be—if it's best for us to just—" 

"Are you crying?" Cas asks, sounding horrified. 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Trust Cas to notice that before Dean when he's not even here. "No," he lies. "It's not like that. Just—bad signal in the Bunker. It's fine. I'm fine." 

"This is what I mean," Cas whispers. "You just want a friend, and I want—I—" 

"What?" Dean asks, blinking open his eyes. 

"It doesn't matter," Cas says, abruptly sounding fiercely serious. "What I want doesn't matter. It shouldn't—it ruined me. Us. Me. I'm—Dean, I am so sorry. Please know that." 

"Before you—" Dean has to pull his phone from his ear, ducking his head and pressing the top of his phone against his forehead. He breathes for a long moment, willing himself to get a grip and stop fucking crying. Jesus Christ, this is humiliating and so, so goddamn stupid. He tries to settle himself and brings his phone back. "Um, I can tell a goodbye is coming, so just… Before that, can you answer me one thing? It'll drive me crazy if you don't." 

"Of course, Dean," Cas says, subdued and solemn. 

"Cas," Dean chokes out, "why'd you leave?" 

Silence. Complete and utter silence. Dean feels like he's about to crawl out his skin. He knows Cas can hear him, hear the wet sounds of his breathing, fucking crying like an idiot. All because...what? Because Cas doesn't wanna be his friend anymore? It's like he's a goddamn first grader. It shouldn't hurt this much, not like this. 

Cas finally exhales, because he was apparently holding his breath, and he says, "It's best if you don't know. Is that—okay?" 

It's not. 

"Yeah," Dean rasps, "s'fine. I get it." 

"Dean," Cas murmurs, so soft about it, so gentle. 

Dean shakes his head sharply, even though Cas can't see him. "It's all fine. We should—I won't keep you on here. I'll—I'll let you go." 

It's a common turn of phrase when hanging up the phone. Just something to rattle off, usually when you've jabbered someone's ear off. Alright, alright, I'll let you go now. Except Dean says the words, and as he says them, they strangle him because it's literal. 

Almost as soon as he gets it out, he jerks the phone down and hangs up, his hands shaking so bad that it tumbles from his grip and falls the short distance to the floor. He stares down at it, appalled by how fuzzy and blurry it looks. It's not until he watches a tear drip down from the tip of his nose that he realizes what the fuck is going on. 

Oh, right, he's crying. Jesus, you'd think he just got his heart broken, or something. 

Chapter Text

Dean wakes up the next morning and caves like a stack of cards in a storm. He opens his eyes, and that's it. 

It's immediate. 

"Sammy! Sammy!" Dean stumbles into the kitchen with one of his legs raised as he kicks his way into a pair of jeans, hopping and wriggling in place. 

Sam stares at him incredulously, jerking back in his chair. He blurts out, "Dean, what the hell are you—dude, have you been crying?" 

"Yeah," Dean gasps out, struggling a little with his button. "Pretty much all night. Look, can you make me coffee? Put it in a cup I can take on the road." 

"What?" Sam asks, staring at him like he might have hit his head a little too hard recently. 

Dean scowls at him and yanks the socks he's got hanging on his collar, raising one bare foot to start tugging the sock on. "Just make me the damn coffee, would you? And get your laptop on." 

"Why have you been crying?" Sam frowns at him, eyebrows furrowing. "Did something happen?" 

"Cas kinda broke up with me," Dean mutters gruffly, wrinkling his nose at the phrasing as he stuffs his other sock on. That's one way to describe it. An exaggeration if he's ever heard one. Cas doesn't even wanna be his fucking friend, let alone anything more. Still, it kinda felt like a breakup, and that's a quick way to sum it up, so that's what Dean's going with. If nothing else, at least he's got his jokes. 

Sam's eyes bulge. "You were together?!" 

That...wasn't the reaction Dean was expecting. He kinda figured Sam would roll his eyes, or even snort, or tell him to quit fucking around and answer the question like a grown-up. He didn't think Sam would fucking take it literally. 

"What? No, Sam, what the—" Dean huffs and whirls around, needing his boots. He waves his hands a little wildly, batting away the issue carelessly. "Just make me my damn coffee! And get that goddamn laptop on!" 

By the time Dean returns, Sam's laptop is on, but the coffee is not finished. Sam eyes him skeptically. "I have so many questions, but first one is, why does my laptop need to be on?" 

"Find Cas," Dean says simply, rattling through the cabinets to find the thermos he knows they have. 

"I thought you and him, um, broke up?" Sam replies, his words turning up a little towards the end, making it a question. Lots of confusion involved. 

"Yeah, kinda. Well, he dumped me. We weren't together, obviously, but saying he friend-dumped me doesn't have the same kind of...pizzazz," Dean mutters. The thermos is here some-fucking-where. 

Sam makes a quiet choking sound. "He friend-dumped you? What does that even—" 

"It means that he doesn't wanna have shit to do with me, and I can't blame him, really, but I have a question I need answered, so I'm gonna go ask. I don't hear you fucking clicking, Sammy." 

"Wait, so let me get this straight. You're saying that Cas—Cas—told you he didn't want to have anything to do with you? Are you sure?" 

"Pretty positive, yep." 

"And—and now, you're gonna disregard this supposed request entirely to ask him a question." 

"Got it in one." Dean hisses in triumph when he finally locates the thermos. "Why aren't you typing? You're still not typing. Dude, come on." 

"Why can't you call him and ask?" Sam muses. 

Dean shoots him a sharp look. "Because calling got us into this mess in the first place. We're better in person. Face-to-face. This phone tag bullshit hasn't helped either of us. Just caused problems. So, I'm gonna go ask him to his goddamn face, and this time, he's gonna have to tell me." 

"Oh, you've asked him already." Sam's eyebrows fly up. "What's the question?" 

"Nunya. Can you get me the address or not? You're just sitting there." 

"Dean, I'm—maybe you should...think about this, man," Sam says carefully. "You haven't seen him in months. Maybe give him a little warning." 

"I've already made up my mind," Dean mutters, reaching out to grab the coffee pot the moment it finishes. "And no. I think I'll just show up, actually, and then he can answer my fucking question, and then he can dump me to my goddamn face, and then we can go our separate ways if he's so determined to do that. Also, you better not warn him." 

Sam blows out a deep breath. "You two are so… I mean, seriously, I've never seen anyone as ridiculous as the two of you. Or as oblivious, even while being so transparent that you—" He cuts himself off, then raises a finger and shakes his head. "No. Nope. You know what? I'll let you go stumbling into this on your own. You're clearly determined to, so sure." 

"Glad we're on the same page." Dean clicks the lid of the thermos back into place, fixing Sam with a scowl. "It'd help if you'd get the address."  

"Oh, yeah. Uh, I already have that." Sam offers him a sheepish smile, shrugging. 

Dean stares at him. "You have it." 

"Yeah." 

"Because you just got nosy one day, or because—" 

"Because I visited him, yeah," Sam confirms. 

"You—" Dean inhales sharply and looks away, clenching his jaw. It takes actual effort not to throw the thermos at Sam's head. He settles for glaring at him. "Thanks, Sam. Thanks for inviting me on that little adventure. Thanks for telling me. Thanks oh so fucking much for stealing Cas. Really appreciate it." 

Sam rolls his eyes. "I didn't steal him." 

"You stole him. He was—he liked me first." 

"Like I said, he's not yours. Does that bug you?" 

"I hope you swallow a bug," Dean snaps, snatching up the thermos and flipping Sam off with his free hand. "Send me the goddamn address." 

"Good luck!" Sam calls after him. 

Dean huffs and continues on his way. 

Less than five minutes later, Dean's staring at his phone with what's possibly the blankest expression he's ever managed in his life. 

Cas is one hour and forty-eight minutes away. 

That's it. 

One hour. Forty-eight minutes. 

One—

Dean's going to kill him. 

The thing is, Dean is a lot more nervous than he lets on, and he can't say why, exactly. For the whole drive, he taps a nonsensical tune out on the steering wheel, his radio off and silent. His free leg is bouncing up and down, up and down, up and down to the point that Dean himself is starting to get annoyed by it. He listens to the GPS, and his heart jolts every time he looks down and sees that he's one minute, five minutes, twenty minutes closer. 

A part of Dean wants to go back home. He can't just show the fuck up at Cas' door, especially after last night. Well, he can, but it's common sense to know that he absolutely shouldn't. This is him getting angry, or hurt, or both, and doing something stupid again. Cas will have every right to kick him right off his stoop, and he might. Hell, he might just slam the door in Dean's face and be done with it. 

Despite knowing this, Dean can't help but keep going. When he woke up, the very first thought he had was about Cas—as it often is these days—and with it came the strong compulsion to turn his head and hack up his lungs, intestines, and any goddamn thing in him. He just—he wanted to get all of it out, however he could, because dealing with everything hurting on the inside like that, especially when it has gotten as bad as it did this morning, following the events of last night… 

Nothing helped. Not until the stray thought—the memory. You should do the things you want, whatever they are, Cas had said. I want to get my question answered, and I want to see you, Dean thought, a bitter little thing in a passing response, belated but honest, and the rolling ache in his gut had lessened. The moment he followed that thread, thinking about it seriously, so many things got better. Dean just flatout felt better the very second he decided for sure that he was going to go see Cas. Rejuvenated, even. Possibly a little...unhinged, but whatever. 

He doesn't really have a choice in the matter now. He knows if he doesn't go, if he doesn't do this, he'll never get any fucking reprieve. It'll keep him up at night, drive him a little crazy, weigh on his mind until he snaps and ends up—doing exactly what he's doing. At this point, he's just cutting out the middleman. And fuck that, ya know? Dean's had enough of whatever the hell has been wrong with him for the past few months. He's done with it. 

So, away to Cas he goes. Flicking his gaze to his phone, Dean blows out a deep breath to see that he has forty-two minutes left. That's two twenty minutes. Four ten minutes. That's nothing. That's practically a blink in Dean Winchester driving time. Jesus, Cas is so goddamn close to home. 

Along with many, various other things, Dean still has that famous anger kicking around in his chest. Is he mad? Hell yeah, he's pissed. He's so fucking angry that he can barely stand it, but he has been for a while now anyway. He almost always is. The fury has direction, pointed towards himself and Cas and the invention of phones. He's angry because Cas never answered his fucking question, and he's angry because Cas left him high and dry, again, and he's angry that he's so goddamn miserable for so many reasons, but this might just be the worst thing that's happened to him since Cas left originally. 

He tries not to think about how this is going to go, tries not to imagine it. A door slammed in his face, maybe. Or Cas actually getting pissed at him like he did when Dean showed up at his gas-n-sip. Or worse, Cas ever so gently, ever so kindly, asking him to leave because he doesn't want Dean there. 

Exhaling shakily, Dean glances at his phone, his stomach flipping a little stupidly. Twenty minutes. 

The rest of the drive is spent in frenetic energy. Dean tries to listen to the radio, only to frantically cut it off when the universe decides to have a laugh at him by playing it's been raining since you left me, now I'm drowning in the flood; you see, I've always been a fighter, but without you, I give up. Yeah, no, he shuts that shit down quickly. Bon Jovi can fuck right the fuck off right about now, actually. As if Always is the kind of song that's going to help. 

Dean taps his thigh, taps the wheel, taps the seat. He looks at his phone—thirteen minutes—then very firmly doesn't look at his phone. He holds his breath, only to force himself to breathe. It's okay. He's being ridiculous, but it's fine. 

Despite having the GPS, Dean nearly misses his turn entirely. It's not his fault. Apparently, Cas lives up a very long dirt-path driveway with a lot of woods on each side, very secluded, right up until it isn't. 

The trees open up to bright, open areas with one house immediately visible closest to him, and one just a little visible farther away. The one closer is much smaller—it's painted a yellow that could seriously use some varnish, and it has a porch with three brick stairs coming off of it. Dean knows that it's Cas' place almost immediately, simply because there are plants hanging off the rafters. Plants and wind-chimes, by the looks of it. 

The house further in the distance is much larger and much nicer. It has multiple floors, from what Dean can tell, and a lot of the land seems to belong to that house, some of it sectioned off. Cas' amount of land ain't nothing to snub your nose at, though. Dean can see he's clearly got a lot, and he's using about a third of it for his goddamn garden. 

It's kind of funny, Dean thinks. This is sort of something he would associate with hunters, except a little nicer and fancier. It's out of the way. Minimal neighbors—just the one, apparently. The only thing is that it's not some cabin in the mountains. No, it's just a lovely little yellow house surrounded by green fields of grass and trees in the distance. 

It's nice. 

Dean pretty much likes it instantly, which is weird because he's really in no state to be forming opinions about anything. He's idling at the turn-off that will lead him to park right next to Cas' truck, and he's so stiff that it's a wonder he's not a goddamn statue; he's doing a fair impression of one. 

It's only the thought that Cas might see him sitting in the middle of the long, winding driveway—it probably leads to the other house—like a fucking idiot that has him taking the plunge. He sucks in a deep breath, releases it all at once, then turns in and parks his car. Before he can think better of it and just abandon this idea entirely, Dean shakes out his hands and gets out of the car, careful not to slam the door, feeling like a fool with each passing second. 

He walks across the grass because there's no path, moves up each step slowly, then halts in front of the door. For a long moment, he just stares at it. It's kind of an off-white with a pewter door-knocker and a peep-hole that could use a shine. He holds his breath until he can't anymore, giving himself that little bit of time, and then he knocks. 

Dean is so tangled up about this that it's kind of pathetic. His heart is racing, and he wishes it would just calm the fuck down. It's just rejection, just a part of life, he thinks. It's such a miserable, lonely thought that he wants to turn around and leave as soon as he has it. What the hell is he doing? 

Things are oddly loud now, in a way Dean hasn't heard in a while. He can hear every chirp of the bugs in the surrounding woods, every rustle of the trees in the light breeze, every creak inside and outside of the house. He hears the steps as they approach the door, and it's so loud—louder, even, than the steady thump of his heartbeat in his ears. There's the turn of the doorknob—a little squeaky—and then Dean is freezing in place, all of his emotions emptying out of him all at once as the door swings open. 

It's Cas, and Dean doesn't know why he's so surprised. Of course it's Cas; this is Cas' house. 

He's just standing there, looking a little tired and grumpy, his hair a mess and a spot of dried toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. It's a little strange to see him out of his trenchcoat getup, especially when that's what Dean saw him in last. Instead, he's just wearing a thin, black t-shirt with a hole in the collar and a pair of blue plaid pajamas pants. He looks frighteningly normal and human and kind of—naked, in so few clothes. Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Cas' bare feet before now, and he for sure hasn't been exposed to Cas' naked forearms like this, not for this long. 

Cas is, like, not small. It's a stupid realization, because Dean sort of knew that, deep down, but this is something else. Cas isn't just not small; the dude is bulky. He's—well, he's sturdy-looking. He's not some thin, dorky guy being swallowed by a trenchcoat. He's—he looks— 

He looks so startled. The moment he sees Dean, his eyes fly open wide, his mouth falls open a little, parted around a small huff of shock, and he looks so goddamn stunned to see Dean at his door. 

Dean is startled in his own way. Startled by the way Cas looks, yeah, but it's more than that, too. He's been caught off-guard by the sudden absence of the ache in his gut and the way the world comes into sharp focus, like a bubble around someone's head finally popping. The ringing in his ears is just gone, and Dean feels like that perpetual pain in his center has vanished in its entirety, nothing lingering at all, almost like it was never there in the first place. 

Dean looks at Cas and wants to reach out. He wants to wipe the small bit of toothpaste away with his thumb. He wants to poke the hole in Cas' shirt. He wants to pat his hair down, or maybe push his fingers through and make it stand up even more. He wants… It's almost violent, how much he wants. All this time wondering what the fuck it's like to actually want something, and here Cas is… 

Oh, Dean thinks, then continues to think it on a perpetual loop of steadily rising panic. 

This is—this is so bad. This is even worse than he could have ever imagined. Jesus Christ. He recalls in sudden clarity what it was that Michael said. He's got his claws in me pretty deep, so I'm kinda stuck. There's always one, right? And yeah. Yeah, that's— 

Fuck, that's exactly it. Shit, shit, shit. 

Dean doesn't know what to do with this. Actually, all of a sudden, he doesn't even know what to do with his own body. He's frozen in place, staring at Cas while his brain fires at all cylinders for once and overheats. He knows, and he thinks he's got to be the biggest goddamn idiot alive to have missed it in the first place. He can't even call it his lightbulb moment because it's as glaring as the fucking sun. 

He thinks about how he's been since Cas left, not even including the shit they've been through before Chuck was handled, because that was just—that was so much. The things he did, the shit he said… Yeah, he can't look directly at it, because while some of it was awful, other parts were just incriminating. 

So, he's kinda reeling with the sudden realization that Cas is… He's something. He's a lot more than Dean ever allowed himself to acknowledge. It's not even attraction—or, okay, maybe it's— 

Dean can't think about that right now. What it is for sure, however, is pretty much exactly what everyone has been saying. Like Eileen said, Dean has been acting like his world just stopped—Cas left, and it did. Like Sam said, Dean is unhappy—Cas isn't around, so he's not. Like Claire said, Dean is fucking sad because Cas is gone—and it's true. Hell, even Jack. What was it that Jack said? Dean's still making mistakes, and he has been, hasn't he? Jesus. 

Everyone has been telling him to do what he wants, that they're all free now, and Dean wants—

Fuck it all, he just wants to be near Cas. 

This is a terrible time to have this revelation, because Cas doesn't wanna have anything to do with him. All he wants is Cas, and Cas wants him to stay the hell away from him, because they suck at being friends. And shit, that's even more Dean's fault than it was originally because Dean's been, quite literally, aching for—for...something else. Something more. Something decidedly not friends. 

Maybe. Possibly. Dean hasn't decided yet. There's still the small chance that Dean has a secret desire to just spend the rest of his life hanging out with his best friend. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe that's all this is. It doesn't have to be...more. 

For a long time, Dean thinks they're just going to stand opposite of each other and stare at one another, but then there's a distant clanking from inside the house that shatters the tension. 

Cas jerks in the doorway, blinking rapidly. "Dean, what are you doing here?"

"I—I, um…" Dean rocks back a little, biting down on his bottom lip and letting it slowly free itself from between his teeth. His heart is galloping hard and fast, making him jittery. "I wanted—I guess I just…" 

"You look hot," Cas says very abruptly, then stiffens when Dean's mouth hangs open. He immediately starts shaking his head. "No, I meant—as in your temperature. You're red in the face. You likely need to hydrate. If you want, you could come in." 

Dean kinda wants to crawl in a hole and never resurface, but for some reason, he doesn't think Cas would help with that. He coughs. "Yeah, uh, sure." 

"The kitchen is this way," Cas murmurs, averting his eyes as he half-turns, leaving space for Dean to step in. When Dean does, slipping past him, his eyes flutter shut. Dean stops there for a second, staring at him, gaze roaming over his face. Cas' eyes snap open and land on him, oddly intense, but they always have been, haven't they? Dean wrenches away and shuffles forward, listening to Cas close the door and clear his throat. "Excuse the mess." 

The mess, Dean thinks incredulously, staring around the living room with his eyebrows raised. There's not really a mess. It's all just...clutter. 

There's something on pretty much every shelf—a stack of books, glass figurines, tiny plants that may or may not be fake. That's not even including the bigger plants littered around the room. Underneath the TV that is smaller than the one in the Dean Cave, but still moderately big, there's a goddamn piano—an old-type kind, complete with engraved wood and a small stool that's probably heavier than it looks. On the coffee table in front of the couch, there's strewn papers on top of it, an empty wine glass, and three coasters stacked on top of each other. The rug on the floor is one of those multi-colored ones with the trippy shapes, kinda weird and kinda fitting. 

The more that Dean looks, the more that he sees. It's a definite mixture of Cas and Jack both. There's a weird lamp with no shades, one of those three-way lamps that can be moved, and a lanyard with what looks to be some kind of information on the card inside is hanging off one of the sections of the lamp, like tossed over a hydra head. There's a pair of shoes in the corner near a plant, the kind that light up when you stomp 'em—definitely Jack. The trenchcoat Dean would recognize anywhere is draped over the coat-rack, the collar popped like something out of a fifties film noir. 

Cas moves past him, not looking at him. He leads him towards a door right next to an open hallway. Dean pokes his head to the side, glancing down the hallway curiously, immediately coming to the conclusion that it leads to the bathroom and bedrooms. He can just make out one of the doors that's open, revealing a flickering light like from a TV. If he strains hard enough, he can hear the quiet sounds of—is that Scooby-Doo? Probably Jack's room, then. All other doors appear to be closed. 

Dean forces himself to stop being nosy, shuffling in through the door—a swinging one, which is pretty cool—behind Cas, who leads him into the kitchen. 

Against his will, Dean's almost immediately charmed by the kitchen. There's a table off in the corner, a bar with a spice rack, and a large window longer than it is tall behind the sink that looks out at what Dean assumes is the backyard. He can see Cas' garden from there. Nothing is as industrial as in the Bunker—more modernized—but the fridge has magnets and drawn pictures on it, definitely from Jack, and there's something so...domestic about that. 

Jack's already in the kitchen, standing at the stove, and he whirls around the moment that the door swings open. His cheeks are puffed out, no less than four bacon strips stuffed in his mouth, some of it sticking out. He's frozen for a second, then his eyes land on Dean and bulge. He starts frantically chewing, then swallows quickly. 

"Dean!" he greets, sounding surprised but also a little delighted. He smiles broadly. 

"Hey, kid," Dean mutters, feeling wrong-footed somehow, as if he's intruding. 

Jack half-turns, gesturing to a plate behind him on the stove. "Want some bacon?" 

"No, I'm good, thanks." 

"Jack," Cas says quietly, "are you still—" 

"Yep. I have to leave in about…" Jack tugs his phone from his pocket, then looks panicked. "Oh, I need to go now. Carla will be sad if I'm late. Keys?" 

"In the bowl, where they always are," Cas replies, sounding amused and fond. 

"Oh, right. Thanks, Castiel." Jack snags another piece of bacon, darts over to a pink bowl sitting on the bar, and scoops out a set of keys. He grins at Cas, only to pause and drop the keys right back where he grabbed them. He looks at Dean. "Can I—" 

"Jack," Dean says, pained. Usually, he ends up letting Jack drive Baby, simply because Jack wants to and because, well, he's never seen someone as excited about his car without looking into a goddamn mirror. He's never let Jack drive her alone, though. Jack fixes him with a hopeful look, and Dean crumbles with a sigh. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he holds them out, giving Jack a gravely serious look. "Be easy on the brakes. No crazy speeds. Where are you going?" 

"To the library," Jack says, staring at the keys with genuine excitement. "I'll only be gone for a few hours. I promise to be careful." 

"Just—treat her right," Dean mutters, strained no matter how hard he tries not to be. When Jack tries to take the keys, Dean clings to them for a second. He exhales and lets go. 

"Awesome! Thank you, Dean!" Jack explodes, gripping the keys like they're gold and bursting forward to abruptly hug him, squeezing tight. Before Dean can so much as respond, he yanks back and moves over to hug Cas, too. "I'll text you when I'm about to leave. Bye!" 

"Bye, Jack," Cas says dutifully, turning his head as Jack darts out the swinging door. He tilts his head back, raising his voice. "Remember your badge!" 

"Aw, man, I nearly forgot," Jack calls back. There's the sound of something clinking, then the squeak of the front door. "Thanks, Cas!" 

The front door slams shut, and Cas' small smile falls into a small frown. He narrows his eyes at the swinging door. "He always slams it. I tell him not to, and he always slams it." 

"The front door?" Dean asks. 

"Mhm," Cas confirms, sighing in faint exasperation. He shakes his head. "He's very excitable, especially about the library. He volunteers to read to the children on the weekends. I've been told that he's exceptionally good with them, but I suppose he would be. He is in their age range." 

"Oh," Dean says, blinking. "Cool." 

"He enjoys it." Cas finally glances at him, his face softening a little. "It was kind of you to let him take Baby. Not only will the kids admire it, but Jack genuinely likes your car. A lot." 

Dean offers a weak grin, reaching up to scratch at the back of his head. "Yeah, I know. It kinda crushes me every time, but...well, it makes him happy, so." 

Cas stares at him for a long moment, gaze trailing over Dean's face, getting lost along the line of his raised arm. It feels like being studied, and Dean's face goes hot as he drops his arm. Cas jolts, blinking, and he abruptly turns away. 

"Water," he declares sharply. "That's—you needed water. Or, we have flavored water with sugar—it's called kool-aid. Or, we have—" 

"Cas, water is fine," Dean cuts in. "Thanks." 

"You're welcome." Cas moves over to a cabinet with familiarity, reaching to grab a cup with different colored circles on it. He goes into the fridge and brings out an honest-to-god pitcher with a filter in it, half-melted ice clinking as he pours some into the glass. When he finishes, he turns and holds it out to Dean, not meeting his eyes. "Here." 

"Thanks," Dean says, yet again. He takes the water and drinks it, staring at the wall. The water has no business being that cold and good and refreshing, but it is. Doesn't help the awkwardness, though. 

They stand there in complete silence. Dean drinks the water. All of it. He steals sneaky looks at Cas out of the corner of his eye, unable to stop himself. He stares at his shirt. It's kind of stretched snug across his shoulders. Dean didn't know Cas was that...built. He is, though. He's—he's definitely defined. 

Okay, so maybe—maybe— 

Exhaling shakily, Dean snatches his gaze back up to Cas' face, only to find that Cas is staring at him already. His eyebrows furrow slightly, and he tilts his head, just a little. It takes Dean a second to realize that this is what he was worried about, somehow knowing unconsciously that Cas would do something—roll his eyes, smile, squint, tilt his head—and that ache in his gut would ease. It's a dangerous thing for it to happen, because it can't stay that way. Cas doesn't want him here, or at all. 

He doesn't have control of it, when the relief comes or goes, how bad it gets or how it happens. There's just the abrupt absence, gone like it never existed in the first place, making him feel good—really, really good—in a way that he hasn't in a while now. It's as if that feeling of being perpetually, physically ill has been syphoned right out of him against his will, just because Cas is here. And, as easily as it can be taken away, it can be bestowed once again. 

It will, is the thing, and it'll hurt all that much more the second time around. 

"I have a dishwasher," Cas informs him, holding his hand out for the empty glass. 

Dean passes it over. "You like it?" 

"It took a while for me to learn how to use it. I still don't know all the settings, admittedly, but it does come in handy when I have no desire to wash dishes by hand. Jack doesn't like it. He prefers to do it traditionally," Cas murmurs as he puts the glass in the dishwasher, closing it back. 

"Gets that from me," Dean says before he can think better of it. He wants to bang his head into the wall as soon as it passes his lips. 

Cas just hums. "Possibly. He has a lot of habits that I've decided to blame on your influence. His most annoying traits, generally." 

"Gee, thanks, Cas," Dean mutters, his lips twitching against his will. God, what an asshole. "Lemme guess, he tosses the wrappers back in his snack drawer? Doesn't separate the whites in the wash?" 

"Yes to both, actually." Cas shoots him an amused look. "He also insists that we have to wash my truck at least twice a month, or else I'm neglecting my vehicle. And he makes fun of my plants." 

Dean snorts. "Yeah, I thought your truck was awfully shiny for you to be living off a dirt road. Also, I wouldn't make fun of your plants." Cas arches an eyebrow at him, and Dean looks away as his lips quirk up. "Well, only a little." 

"Are you sure you don't want any bacon?" Cas asks, gesturing towards the stove. 

"Nah, I'm good." 

"Okay. We could—sit. Ah, living room?" 

"Yeah, sure," Dean mumbles, hating the way the tension creeps back up on them, crowding them. He follows Cas into the living room, taking one end of the couch while Cas takes the other, and it still feels too close. And not close enough. 

Cas looks down at his hands in his lap, then looks at Dean, holding his gaze. "Is there a reason you're here? We—just yesterday, we…" 

"I just—I—" Dean can't. He's trying, but he can't. 

A part of him that's bigger than he likes just wants to beg, if he's got to. And that's not him. He doesn't do shit like that—except he has, for Cas, and would be willing to again right now. Just hit his knees and say that yes, it is stressful, and yes, they do struggle with it, and maybe it would be easier to just stop subjecting themselves to the same push-and-pull of complications they cradle between them, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care if they stay the exact fucking same, so long as they don't leave each other alone. He doesn't know how to leave Cas alone. 

He wants to say that his life has been pretty shitty since he was four fucking years old, but he has never, never been as miserable as he has these last few months without someone dying. He wants to say that he hates him a little, because all he does is leave, and Dean just wants him to fucking stay. He wants to say that he doesn't hate him. Doesn't know how to. Can't. He wants to say that this should be painful and uncomfortable, due to their last conversation and the persistent tension now, but all he feels is at complete ease. He's not happy, no, but he's not unhappy, and there is a significant difference. He wants to say that Cas is the source. 

He's tempted to say that things aren't quiet here, and the ache is gone, and he doesn't have to think about Cas, or worry about Cas, or tear himself to pieces over Cas—because Cas is right fucking here, and it's okay, it's okay, to just look at him. He's tempted to admit that he's been driving himself crazy ever since Cas left. He's tempted to confess that he's so angry at Cas that he has the urge to hit him, and hold him, and yell at him, and just steal him back from everyone and every goddamn thing that's taken him away, inch-by-inch. He's tempted to offer himself up, however Cas will have him, whatever he wants, as long as he'll take him. 

He wishes he could open his big fucking mouth and put it to use, maybe articulate his tunnel theory and how badly he wants to leave it, if Cas is what's waiting outside of it. He wishes he could make Cas understand how he'd choose their difficulty over the difficulty of not having him at all. He wishes he could just—just come clean and tell Cas that he cares so much he legitimately feels strangled and sick with it. He wishes he knew how to put words together to explain that he wants Cas, however Cas would be willing to give, even if he doesn't have the first clue what any of it means at all. 

All of that and more, and he just...can't. 

"Dean, I don't—this is one of those things that I don't know. You have to tell me," Cas murmurs, not looking at him, staring down at his hands. 

Jesus. Dean wants to touch him. He opens his mouth and what falls out is, "I just wanted to see you, Cas," and it's true. It's possibly the most honest he's been with Cas in a while. 

Cas raises his head, squinting at him. "After our conversation last night?" 

"Yeah," Dean admits, kind of choking on the admission. It feels so revealing, like he's stripping down when he usually refuses to. When Cas squints, wrinkles form beside his eyes. Dean wants to reach out and brush his fingers over them, which is so goddamn weird that he's judging himself. 

"I told you that I make things difficult for you, that I am largely responsible for our issues, and you wanted to come see me?" Cas asks, skeptical. 

Dean laughs weakly. "Dude, you could probably set me on fire, and I'd still wanna see you after." 

"I wouldn't—" Cas frowns at him. "Dean, I don't understand. I don't—" 

"The plan was to, uh—to…" Dean sucks in a sharp breath, holding it. Cas stares at him in blatant confusion, an undercurrent of concern in there. He's fixated entirely on Dean, and Dean soaks it up like a dried-out sponge, kind of starving for it. He's missed that, the way Cas looks at him, the way Cas cares about him. Dean feels parched. 

"Dean?" Cas prompts. "The plan?" 

"Right," Dean rasps. "That. It was—I was supposed to come here and make you answer a question, then force you to, um, say you don't want me to my face. That was the plan, originally, but—" 

Cas snaps up straight, suddenly looking both offended and appalled. "Who said I don't want you? Why would I ever tell you that?" 

"That's—Cas, you kinda said that, man." 

"No, I never said that. I would never." 

Dean narrows his eyes. "Okay, either you and I had two entirely different conversations last night, or you're just fucking with me." 

"You think I—" Cas rears back, his eyes wide, lips parting. "Dean, I have never genuinely questioned your intelligence, but frankly, I'm starting to. I'm not even sure what the...stipulations for this assumption is, but whatever they are, it's false." 

"The hell does that mean?" Dean asks. 

"It means that I don't know what way you're implying that I don't want you, but it hardly matters, because I—" Cas halts, snapping his mouth shut. 

Dean blinks at him. "No, don't stop while you're ahead, dude. Keep going." 

"It's best if I don't," Cas murmurs, clearing his throat. "In any case, whatever ridiculous notion you have in your head now, I assure you it's not true. Erase it entirely. You are not and have never been the problem, Dean." 

"So why'd you leave me, Cas?" Dean asks, and it comes out raw and strangled, sort of just ripping right out of the pit of him, where that ache lives. 

Cas stares at him. He swallows, the line of his throat rising and falling. When he speaks, it's raspy and rough. "I didn't leave you. I left for you." 

"You left for me," Dean repeats flatly. 

"Yes," Cas says, his voice hoarse. 

"You—you left for me," Dean says again, and now he sounds properly pissed. "You mean to tell me that you—" He launches himself off the couch, whirling around to jerk his hands out at Cas. "Are you fucking kidding me?! How can you be so goddamn smart and so fucking stupid at the same time?! In what shitty world is you leaving for me, Cas? Hm? How can it be for me if I didn't want it?!" 

"You don't—you don't understand. It's complicated, Dean." Cas releases a low sound of frustration and reaches up with one hand to scrub it over his forehead, back and forth. 

"So uncomplicate it!" Dean shouts, flinging both hands out. He feels like he's about to explode. He's fucking shaking. "You don't get to do shit like that, Cas! You didn't even ask. You just made another stupid decision without even—" 

"Trust me, Dean," Cas grits out, dropping his hand back to his lap, "you really don't want to know. I'm trying to make things easier for you." 

"You're always trying to do something for me, and like fucking always, you get it all wrong! How many times have I told you to just fucking talk to me? Why can't you just open your goddamn mouth and consult with me before you run off and do something stupid that helps no one?!" 

"That is the definition of stones in glass houses, Dean, so do not. You should know better than most how it's not very simple to speak." 

"But it's me, Cas," Dean says, gesturing to his chest emphatically. "It's me. You can't talk to me?" 

Cas' nostrils flare. "That is a double-standard. You find yourself unable to tell me things all the time." 

"This directly affects me, you piece of—" 

"I'm not entirely sure how. My leaving impacted me, more so than you. Yes, it was for you, but this shouldn't have affected you. That's not what this was about. I'm sure that you missed me from time to time, as friends do, but you had complete authority on—well, us. When you wanted to talk, you were free to contact me. If you wished to see me, you had the liberty to visit, or request that I visit you." 

"You goddamn idiot," Dean says, staring at Cas, feeling a slow trickle of horror pour through him. 

"Don't speak to me like that," Cas snarls. 

"Then stop being a fucking idiot," Dean snaps back, jabbing a finger towards him. "Your plan? Your stupid fucking plan to give me, what, complete authority? It was stupid, Cas. It was so goddamn stupid. You can't do that. You can't just—just—" 

"You can't be angry with me for your choices, Dean. They were yours," Cas tells him forcefully. "You decided when we spoke. You decided if we saw one another. You decided—" 

"I didn't decide anything!" Dean explodes. "I didn't know it was my goddamn decision, because you didn't tell me. That's not how relationships work! Friendships, whatever. It's—it takes two." 

Cas shakes his head before Dean even finishes, his lips tightening, a sign of his own anger. "Don't. It wasn't as if I gave nothing. I gave exactly what you gave me. I gave what you asked for. You just only asked for very little, and that's perfectly fine, but you don't get to be dissatisfied." 

"Well, I am. I'm very fucking dissatisfied. Jesus, you're treating us—this, whatever, like it's some kind of exchange. Is there a customer service number I can call and put in a goddamn complaint?" 

"Again, you shouldn't have been affected by—" 

"I was, though!" Dean yells, resisting the urge to reach out and ring Cas' goddamn neck. Cas drives him fucking crazy. No one can piss him off like Cas can, making him boil over and just let his mouth run away from him, just like now. "I was affected, and it is on you, you son of a bitch! You left me. I didn't want that! I've never wanted that! You wanna know the fucking impact it had on me? I can barely sleep without worrying that something bad has happened to you. You're on my mind twenty-four fucking seven—where you are, what you're doing, if you're okay. I spend half my time staring at my phone, just hoping I'll cross your mind at some point, and maybe, maybe, you'll call. There's this—this stupid piece of shit ache in my gut that I can't get rid of, and it's your fault! Everything is wrong. It's all wrong, and you're the reason. I'm so goddamn miserable without you, don't you get that?!" 

The silence following his tangent rings in his ears, and he exhales harshly, reaching up with a trembling hand to swipe his palm over his mouth. He glares at Cas until he can't take the look on his face anymore, then turns away. His heart feels like it's quivering. His whole body feels like it's rattling. He doesn't know how he hasn't stormed off yet. 

Vaguely, he thinks that this makes complete sense. Trust him to be able to say this kind of shit when he's angry. It's always anger with him, isn't it? 

Dean hears the couch creak, and he tenses automatically, his shoulders hiking up to land somewhere around his ears. Cas can't touch him right now. They might actually fight. At this particular moment, Dean is so pissed that he can barely see straight. He wants to take Cas and shake him, like maybe if he does it hard enough, some common sense will shake loose and fall out. 

"Dean," Cas says softly, "how was I supposed to know? I am sorry, truly, but you never told me. You had every opportunity to change your own situation. If you were unhappy and wished to see me, or talk to me more frequently, you could have said so. You never did." He draws in a quiet breath, then slowly releases it, and Dean can feel him getting closer. Too close. "And, as I've said to you before...I left, but you didn't stop me." 

"Why can't you just stay?" Dean chokes out, screwing his eyes shut and hanging his head forward. He shakes it back and forth. "Why do I have to ask, man? It's like a punishment. Half the time, I don't even know what the hell I want, and even when I do, asking for it is… It's—I just—" 

"I thought I was—saving you from something. Leaving was a precaution, frankly. Getting ahead of a problem that I wanted to avoid for both our sakes. It was never meant to be a punishment. Yes, if you had asked, I would have stayed. I didn't know that you wanted me to," Cas murmurs. 

"What problem?" Dean asks gruffly, lifting his head, staring at the hydra-lamp without really seeing it. His response is silence, heavy and stilted, and that's what makes him turn back around. He stares at Cas, lips pressed into a thin line. "Tell me." 

Cas swallows, looking briefly scared. The expression quickly shutters, and he shakes his head. "No. If this is where we're at now, telling you won't salvage anything. It will only make things worse." 

"Stop with the fucking secrets, Cas. Just—I'm done, okay?" Dean gestures between himself and Cas, clenching his jaw. "I'm done with this bullshit. No more making decisions without talking to each other. No more trying to keep shit to ourselves. We either show our full hands, get it all out on the table, or this—us—will never work. It's never gonna be simple if we keep making it harder on ourselves." 

"Dean, you want me to stay now, but that will change the moment I tell you," Cas says quietly. 

"Stop telling me how I'm gonna feel. You know what, fuck you, you are presumptuous. You have no idea what I'll do," Dean snaps, "but I know for sure that I'm still gonna want you to come back." 

Cas opens his mouth, then closes it. He blinks at Dean. "Oh. I—Dean, I don't want to go back." 

"Yeah, I figured," Dean says, looking away. 

"No, you misunderstand me. Yet again." Cas heaves a sigh and shakes his head. "It's not that I don't want to stay with you. It's that I have a home. I like it here. I don't want to live in the Bunker. It's genuinely not you." 

"Okay, so I'll just stay here," Dean declares. 

Cas blinks at him, and Dean blinks back, and then they're both dipped into awkward silence. Dean is just as startled that he said that as Cas is. It feels like they just skipped a few steps, abruptly arriving at the resolution before they've even fully identified the problem. Dean didn't even think that through. 

Jesus. What the hell is he gonna tell Sam? Shit, does he even want to— 

Stupid question. 

"You'll...stay...here," Cas ventures cautiously, unsure, clearly offering Dean the option to backpedal. There's an uncertain expression on his face, like he, too, feels that they've gone out of order. 

Dean clears his throat. "Well, you never stay, so if I want something done, I guess I gotta do it myself."

"Dean." Cas scowls at him. "You can't just—" 

"Why not?" Dean challenges, a little cocky and arrogant, because at this point, what does it matter? What does he have to lose? He's so goddamn angry and bitter that he barely cares how much of an asshole he's being. "You gonna kick me out? Tell me you don't want me here? Go ahead." 

Cas glares at him. "Well, you never ask me to stay, so perhaps I should lead by example. I would really like it if you stayed, actually. In fact, I'll stop you if you try to leave and at least put forth the effort to tell you that I don't want you to go." 

"Would you look at that?" Dean taunts. "Looks like we were doing it backwards all this time. If only you'd stuck around and talked to me, maybe we could have worked that out a little sooner." 

"And if you would have realized that I don't know everything and considered just telling me, we wouldn't have had these problems to begin with," Cas says sharply, sweeping up his eyebrow. 

"Fuck you." Dean huffs out a harsh laugh and shakes his head, tipping his head back and tossing his hand up. "Actually, no, fuck me. You've been screwing me all this time as it is, so what's the difference?" 

"I definitely haven't been. If that were the case, we'd have one less problem," Cas snaps. 

Dean nearly swallows his tongue. He chokes as his head snaps up, and he has to beat on his chest for a second as he stares, wide-eyed and incredulous, at Cas. Those words seem to hit Cas a little belatedly, and he blanches, actually jerking back slightly. 

"Uh, run that by me again," Dean wheezes. 

Cas immediately shakes his head. 

"You wanna—you—" Dean sort of just...waves his hand at himself, and Cas doesn't even blink, or move. "Um. That's not, like, a requirement for me to move in with you, right? Because, dude, I can probably swing rent." 

Cas still does nothing. It's like someone just unplugged him. He's there, but the lights are definitely not on. He's just—frozen. 

Dean flicks his gaze over Cas before he can stop himself, considering it a little more seriously than he has so far. He'd told himself that it wasn't attraction, that it didn't have to be more, but at the same time… 

Well, Cas is a pretty good-looking dude. Dean's kind of crazy about him as it is, so it's not like he's got that far to go to get here. So, what, Cas wants to have sex? With a guy in general, or specifically Dean? That's the big issue? Cas having a boner for him? Jesus, he did all of this because he thinks Dean's hot, and that's got to be the dumbest goddamn thing he's ever heard of. Like Dean would give a shit.

Maybe some odd years ago, Dean would have had a mild crisis about this, but he's a little wiser these days and exposed to gay people more than he ever thought he would be when he was younger. If that's Cas' schtick, then cool. And if Dean's his thing, then that just means he's got good eyes and shitty taste in guys. Dean can be perfectly normal about this. 

Probably. 

There's almost some kind of irony to this, actually. Not that long ago, Dean was so torn up about Cas not wanting him at all, even willing to offer himself up in whatever way Cas would have him, and now… Ha, would ya look at that? Cas does want him. Carnally, apparently. So, there's that. 

Stupidly, it's kind of a relief. Dean much prefers that to Cas not wanting him at all. He'd literally rather Cas want to fuck him than want him to go away. He's not sure what that means, or what that says about him as a person, but there it is. It's as simple as that. And hey, this is even something he's good at. Sex? That's his pièce de résistance. 

Dean circles the topic in his brain for a little longer, the same way someone would appraise something before they buy it. He considers the merits of it, weighing the pros and cons, trying to figure out if there's any reason he wouldn't be able to do it. The whole not-gay thing seems like it would be an issue, but upon serious consideration, the fact that not wanting to do it never comes up kinda cancels that one out. That makes him give his sexuality a suspicious side-eye, but he's also very comfortable with just...not exploring that. He'll just kind of throw a towel over it until it's necessary to uncover it and figure out what the fuck he's looking at. 

A project for another day. For now, there's this. 

"Hey," Dean says, "you can fuck me if you want." 

That wakes Cas up. He jerks, his eyes getting all big and blue—even bluer, somehow, despite the way his pupils visibly expand. He blinks at Dean, then recoils back. "What? Dean, no, it's—it is not a requirement for you to live here. I—I would never—" 

"What? Oh." Dean snorts. "No, dude, I know that. I wasn't saying it for that. I'm just saying, if you want to, you can." 

"I—" Cas stares at him, eyebrows drawn together, looking so helplessly confused. "Why?" 

Dean purses his lips, then clicks his tongue. "I mean, why not? I don't exactly, uh, mind. And, well, you said it would solve a problem." 

"And create many more," Cas hisses, his eyebrows drawing down. "That is a very bad idea. It's a terrible idea, and I—we will not." 

"Oh, wow," Dean muses, his eyebrows jerking up in genuine surprise. "You really want to. Like, a lot." 

"I just said—" 

"I heard what you said, I also know what someone looks and sounds like when they want something really bad. You've always been a shit liar."

"I don't want to have sex with you," Cas bites out. 

"You sure?" Dean crosses his arms. "Because, from where I'm standing, it seems like you do. Buddy, you just had an out-of-body experience because you hinted at it. If it makes you feel any better, you're getting really good with those witty retorts, man. It was quick. Just—you know, you gotta be careful not to give up the shit you're tryna hide." 

Cas narrows his eyes. "Again, you misunderstand me, as usual. I wasn't referencing sex." 

"Bullshit," Dean says instantly. "Cas, you can't talk your way outta this one. I know you wanna have sex with me now, and I'm not just gonna forget it." 

"That's—wanting to have sex with you wasn't the point," Cas snaps. "Yes, it was the implication, but the problem isn't that I want to have sex with you. I am perfectly capable of coexisting with you in spite of that desire. That was never the issue." 

Dean slowly drops his arms, letting them hang at his sides. A sense of dread drops down his spine, like someone cracked an egg at the top of his back. "So what's the issue? Come on, man, you gotta give me something here. I didn't freak out about the sex thing, so give me the benefit of the doubt. You said you left for me, right? If it's not because you want to rip my clothes off, then what the fuck is it?" 

"Dean…" Cas' expression twists a little, and his fingers catch against the bottom of his shirt, twisting it around and around. A nervous gesture. He's anxious, and yet, he continues. "I'm at fault for our friendship failing. It's because I don't—I have never treated you as one treats a friend. You need only look at my friendship with Sam to see that. Dean, you have always been—more. I don't treat you as a friend should because I do not feel for you as a friend would. I—I—" 

"Stop," Dean croaks, his eyelids fluttering. He breathes. He stares at Cas. Something—oh, something is happening. He feels stretched out and stripped, someone plucking at the threads of him. He feels numb. "When you said you want me, you meant—you meant that you—" 

"Yes," Cas rasps. 

Dean blinks slowly, so slowly that it almost counts as closing his eyes for a beat. When he opens his eyes, he stares at Cas some more. That ache that has fled him doesn't so much as return as it spreads out, warm and fluttering, turning soft instead of ripping at him. From a sickly sensation to butterflies. There's a nearly-overwhelming pulse of something in his chest, and he'll be damned if it doesn't make him feel like he needs to catch his breath, exhilarated when he hasn't even done anything. 

"You left me," Dean whispers, "because you love me."

Cas swallows. "Yes." 

"Because you thought—you think that it would bother me, or make me uncomfortable, or cause me to freak out and pull away, or even drive a wedge between us, or—or—" 

"Yes. All of it. Anything. Every single terrible thing that could happen because of it, I've thought of." 

"And you didn't think I'd be okay with it?" Dean asks hoarsely. 

"I don't think you're cruel, Dean," Cas says softly, smiling sadly. "I just know that it changes things." 

"Did you even stop to consider that maybe—maybe I—" Dean cuts himself off with a choked-off laugh, still a little breathless. "Maybe I'm more than okay with it, Cas, you ever think of that?" 

Cas slowly shakes his head. "I'll admit, I didn't consider that option." 

"You're so stupid," Dean breathes out. "We're both so stupid, but you, Cas… You're also presumptuous as fuck, man. Don't ever presume anything ever again, you hear me? Just—just ask next time." 

"You're not upset," Cas notes, scanning his face like his reaction is a marvel. He sounds...reverent. 

"No, I'm not," Dean agrees. "I told you. I'm more than okay with it. I, uh… Well, I don't mind it. I've kinda been—" He waves a hand awkwardly, averting his eyes. "I mean, I sort of knew already. Or uh, I didn't realize it fully, but yeah. I've always been your favorite. Dude, you rebelled against Heaven for me. I think I've always been aware on some level, and I just—let you do whatever because I, um, like it." 

"You...like it," Cas says carefully. 

Dean coughs. "Kinda missed it, actually. Um, these past few months, I mean. The special treatment, because you—well, now I know why. I knew, but I didn't know, ya know?" 

"Not really," Cas mumbles. "If I hadn't left, and I told you this, would this be the same response?" 

"I—" Dean snaps his mouth shut. He stares at Cas with wide eyes, feeling like he's shutting down a little. He doesn't—fuck, he doesn't know. He has no idea what his response would be, not initially, not without all of this hanging over it. He's pretty sure he knows where it would have ended up, though. He clears his throat. "To tell you the truth, I don't have a clue how I would have reacted without all this shit. I do know that I would have eventually come around and got my head out of my ass and realized that I'm kinda stuck with you." 

Cas frowns at him. "You're not stuck with me." 

"If I wanna be happy, then yeah, I am," Dean says. 

"Oh." Cas' face clears, then he nods seriously, like that's settled. "Then yes, you are." 

"You're really okay with me moving in?" 

"Of course." 

Dean purses his lips. "Wanna break the news to Sammy for me?" 

"Ah, no, that's between you and your brother." 

"Thanks, Cas. Really appreciate your support." 

"What is the term? Ah, yes. Godspeed," Cas says, his lips curling up slightly. Dean flips him off, and his smile grows, only for it to fall a second later. He frowns again. "Dean, I think there's a problem with you moving in that I didn't consider." 

"You can't take it back. Stuck. We both said it. You know what that word means? It means we're—" 

"Dean, I don't have an additional room." 

"Oh." Dean stares at him, and Cas raises both eyebrows, waiting. Right. Okay. One bedroom, one bed. Sharing is caring, ain't it? Hell, he's already offered to have sex with Cas, and he thinks this is going to be a problem? Fuck that noise. Dean's already made up his mind, and he'll dig heels in every time an issue tries to drag him away. He's gonna hold on so tight that they're gonna have to pry his fingers off Cas when he dies. "Alright, we can just share. If you're okay with that." 

"I'm...not opposed," Cas murmurs. 

"Great. Anything else, any other reason you think I might change my mind?" Dean challenges. 

Cas doesn't smile, but his eyes do. "No, Dean." 

"Good," Dean mutters, clearing his throat and clapping his hands together. "In that case, you and the kid have to come with me back to the Bunker. Just for a few hours, at least."

"To help you pack?" 

"Yeah, Cas, to help me pack."

Chapter Text

Dean smacks a duffle in Jack's hands, points to the dresser, and says, "Clothes," then digs around for a separate suitcase to shove at Cas as he very firmly declares, "Guns. Ammo separate, and for fuck's sake, make sure they're not loaded," before turning around and calling over his shoulder, "I'll be right back," as he walks away. 

He leaves them to it and starts his journey to find Sam, who is not in his room, even though Eileen is. When he sticks his head in, she looks up from her book, clearly spotting him out of her peripheral vision. Dean signs brother, and she frowns. 

"Library, I think," Eileen tells him. 

"Come with me?" Dean asks, crooking his finger. 

Eileen nods and sets her book aside, slipping out of the bed. As she moves towards him, her eyebrows climb up her forehead. "You seem—lighter. Sam said you were going to visit Cas." 

"I did." Dean nods. "He's here." 

"He's back?" Eileen's eyes light up. "He's staying?" 

"Uh...not exactly," Dean mutters with a wince. She taps his arm, shaking her head, and he repeats himself so she can see it. "Not exactly." 

"Uh huh," Eileen says, narrowing her eyes at him a bit. "Well, it'll be nice to see him. Is Jack here, too?" 

Dean bobs his head at her, and she flashes him her signature grin, so bright that he's abruptly overcome with the urge to hug her. He doesn't, because that's just going to make her ask questions he doesn't wanna answer yet, but the fondness he has for her is substantial. He's so damn glad Sam has her, but he's also glad that she's a friend. Family, even. 

They walk together to the Library, and sure enough, Sam's sitting at one of the tables. He's surrounded by books and files, his head swinging back and forth as he types on his laptop and reads from an open book. He pauses to glance up when he sees them, then bookmarks his page immediately. 

"You're back," Sam notes, smiling reflexively at Eileen before focusing on Dean. "How'd it go?" 

"Um. It...went," Dean mutters, then points towards the table. "What are you doing?" 

Sam shrugs lazily, but when he speaks, there's a thread of something excited in his voice. "Well, I was just thinking about how hunting was for us when we were first starting out. A couple of times, if we didn't have Dad's journal, we would have been shit out of luck. Plus, we have a crazy amount of information in the Bunker, so I'm putting together something like a codex. Just a whole bunch of info that could help people out. I'm hoping to make it easy to navigate so someone could use it in a pinch, and it should be accessible and printable by the time I've finished it. Oh, and get this, I'm going to have, like, a resource page. A list of contacts to call for aliases, like with the FBI covers. Actually, hey, are you cool if I list you a couple of times?" 

"Oh, uh...yeah, sure," Dean says, blinking rapidly. He stares at Sam, surprised but pleased. "Dude, that's smart as hell." 

"Right?" Sam's eyes are bright, and he's starting to grin a little bit. "I'm also gonna include some magic stuff. Just a few things that anyone can do with the right ingredients. Good, right?" 

"Yeah, Sam, that's great. Woulda came in handy for us, at least," Dean admits, bemused and amused despite himself. "You still got Dad's journal? He's got some stuff in there that's not in the Bunker." 

"Right there." Sam leans over and shifts some books around, unearthing the familiar journal. It's open to a page on Shapeshifters. "It's taking some time, but I think it's going to be useful. It might even save a life or two. Also, if you've got any contacts I don't know about, I need their numbers. Anyone willing, I'm gonna put in the resources, just in case something comes up and a case falls through the cracks somewhere. You know anyone I don't?" 

Dean purses his lips. "Maybe. I'd have to check. Most recent I can think of is—uh, Michael?" 

"Who's that?" Sam asks, swinging around the table to pick up his pen and start scribbling away on the page. "You got his number?" 

"Yeah, I do. He's—well, do you remember about fifteen years or so back, when we were in Wisconsin? We handled that Shtriga case." 

"Yeah, I remember." 

"The kid we used as bait?" Dean swivels his finger near his head. "Yeah, he's a hunter now. Him and Claire are buddies." 

Sam's head snaps up, and he blinks. "Really? Shit. Talk about a small world. We all really are just six people away from knowing everyone." 

"What?" 

"It's this theory that we're six or less people away from knowing somebody. It's kinda cool. Look it up. The six people rule. Anyway, how'd you find out about Michael? What, Claire told you?" 

"Well, uh, I kinda...gave a case away. Tried to give it to Claire, but she was busy. She sent me his way, so that's how I found out," Dean mumbles, grimacing slightly. "He seems like a good kid. He handled it with no problems, so there's that." 

"Dean, that's great, man," Sam says. 

"Why didn't you give it to us?" Eileen asks with a frown, staring at his mouth. Dean feels bad for failing to sign along like Sam does automatically these days. Eileen pretty much always just stares at Dean's mouth when he talks, but she only needs to look at Sam's hands. 

"Sorry," Dean says, a knee-jerk reaction, raising his hands to sign that. He doesn't know enough to sign the rest in full, but he knows a few of the words, so he tries anyway. "You were sick at the time. Trust me, you and Sam would be the first I would call." 

Eileen grins. "Good." 

"So, you're—I mean, you're actually doing the retirement thing?" Sam asks, clearly trying not to seem overly encouraging, going for casual and missing by at least a mile. 

"Kind of. Maybe? I don't know. Right now, let's just say I'm on a break. But it's also sorta…complicated," Dean admits, flicking his gaze over to Eileen. 

"Because Cas is here?" Eileen asks. 

"Cas is here?" Sam blurts out, perking up. 

Dean cuts him a narrow-eyed, sharp look before he can stop himself, bristling without even meaning to. He has to actively smooth down his metaphorically ruffled feathers, willing himself to get a grip and stop being ridiculous. Jesus. Jealous of his own brother. What the hell is wrong with him?

Well, he knows the answer to that now. He hates that it's a small comfort that he now knows with unwavering certainty that Cas is, like, in love with him. He is, right? There's no way Dean's mixing that up. Maybe not unwavering, as it turns out. 

Coughing, Dean mutters, "Yeah, Cas is here. Jack is, too. I dragged 'em along." 

"For good?" Sam asks, eyebrows jerking up. 

"No," Dean says, strained. 

Sam frowns. "Dean...you didn't ask him—them—to come back permanently? Seriously, dude?" 

"Cas doesn't want to live in the Bunker anymore. He said his house grew on him. He likes it there." 

"Oh. So, you did ask?" 

"Kinda," Dean mumbles, averting his eyes. 

There's a long beat of silence that keeps stretching and stretching until Dean can't take it anymore. He glances up to find Sam looking at him thoughtfully. After a beat, Sam looks over at Eileen, and then they proceed to sign back and forth at each other way too quickly for Dean to catch. They're also doing a lot of communicating through facial expressions the way only really close people can. Idly, Dean thinks that he and Cas do that. For all that they're not simple, there's a lot of simplicity between them. 

"Okay," Sam says, finally. He crosses his arms and leans back against the desk, careful not to upset any stacks of books. He looks Dean straight in the eye, his voice calm. "Do you need help packing?" 

Dean jolts, staring at him with wide eyes. How the fuck did he know? "Sam…" 

"I knew it bugged you when I said he wasn't yours," Sam tells him, lips twitching. "It was supposed to." 

"I'm sorry," Dean croaks.

Sam's tiny smile falls, and he blinks. "What? Why are you sorry?" 

"I'm just—I shouldn't have—" Dean swallows, his stomach lurching a little bit. Okay, so yeah, he planned to dig his heels in against any issue, but this is something else. Sam is not and has never been an issue. He's Dean's little brother, and if he asked, if he needed it, Dean would stay. He'd drop the idea immediately and never bring it up again. "Just say the word, Sammy, and I won't go. I'll—I'll—" 

"What? Dude, no, that's not—it's okay. It's perfectly okay. What are you talking about?" 

"If you need—" 

"What I need," Sam cuts in, "is for you to be happy, or try to be, at least. That's the only thing I need out of you, and if that's Cas, then it's Cas. And, well, it's not like you're going very far anyway. You'll be a couple of hours up the road. We got phones, we can talk. Hell, Jack can stop popping in and scaring the shit out of me, because you can just drive him and visit when he does. Plus, now Cas will come and stop trying to, like, leave you in charge of whatever weird dancing around each other thing you two do." 

Dean almost doesn't even know where to start with that. He can't touch the first part just yet, but the end? Yeah, he's on that like white on rice. "Wait, you knew Cas was doing that stupid shit?" 

"Yeah," Sam admits, only a touch sheepish, not nearly remorseful enough. "We do talk, you know. He asked me not to, um, interfere and leave you to it, but sometimes I just had to. You're both impossible, you know that? You, especially. You needed the nudge." 

"I think he's, like, head over heels for me," Dean mumbles awkwardly. 

Eileen chokes on a laugh, and Sam stares at him with a blank expression. "Oh, whatever gave you that idea? Finally get a clue?" 

"I kinda wanna kill him a little," Dean says. 

"Ah, so you're, like, head over heels for him, too?" Eileen teases, her eyes sparkling with humor. 

Dean shrugs stiffly, and he very firmly ignores the way his heart seems to freeze and skip for a second. That's a sign of lying, right? What, because he shrugged? Acted like he doesn't know? 

He stops trying to give himself a mental lie-detector test and throws a metaphorical towel over this subject, too. A project for...never, maybe. 

"You're still impossible," Sam announces, exasperated, shaking his head. "But hey, you're gonna go be impossible with him, so you're getting somewhere. Proud of you, man. Happy for you, too."

"Shut up," Dean snaps immediately, and Sam grins at him. "You're—I mean, you're seriously just...fine with it? You sure?" 

"Dean, hunting and living together aren't requirements for us to be brothers. Wherever we're at, that's not going to change. And really, it's not like it'll make that much of a difference. Eileen and I are in and out of the Bunker all the time as it is. I might actually see you more where you're at, because we'll probably swing by and crash there after cases, just to visit. We've done it with Cas a lot. His couch pulls out, did you know?" 

"I fucking hate you." 

Sam's smile is soft. "Nah, you don't. You're not allowed. We're brothers, remember?" 

"Yeah, yeah, cut the warm-and-fuzzies out, bitch. Come help me pack, if you want," Dean grumbles, flapping his hand at Sam like he can dispel the sincerity of the moment. He's almost drowning in a rush of affection for his brother, and he's had a very taxing few days, emotionally speaking, and quite frankly, he could use a break. He pauses and glances at Eileen. "You're not a bitch. You're wonderful. You're too cool for him, have I mentioned that?" 

"Only once a week, but I'm happy to hear it a few more times," Eileen replies, grinning at him. 

Dean bobs his head. "One more for the road. You're too cool for him." He tosses his arm lazily across her shoulders and gives her a conspiratorial look as he starts tugging her from the room. "It's a shame we share responsibility now, because you don't get to go running for the hills at this point. I will come get you and drag you back when it's your turn." 

"We really should be getting paid," Eileen says agreeably, and Sam squawks in offense, trailing behind them. She doesn't even glance back, but there's mischief in her gaze as she looks at Dean, like maybe she knows exactly what protesting noises Sam's making without even hearing them. 

They continue to pick on Sam back and forth, not sparing him any attention, which he pretends to be huffy about. They're still going at it when they finally reach Dean's room, and Sam pushes past them both with purpose. 

"Hey, Cas," Sam chirps, shooting Dean a semi-smug look as he walks forward and just fucking hugs Cas, as if it's the easiest thing in the world to do. 

"Hello, Sam," Cas responds, his eyebrows furrowing. Nonetheless, he accepts the hug and returns it.

Dean picks up a pair of balled up socks and launches them at the back of Sam's head, pulling away from Eileen to do it. Sam barks a laugh and doesn't even glance at Dean as he pulls away to go hug Jack, who looks delighted at the sight of him. 

"I see you're winning in life," Eileen says casually as she moves forward to hug Cas as well. 

Cas once again allows it, looking at her as she pulls back, openly baffled. "I am?" 

"Aren't you?" Eileen asks, gesturing at Dean.

"Ah," Cas says, following the motion to flick his gaze over Dean, then quickly looks away. "Well, that's one way to look at it. I'm starting to question it. He has an uncomfortable amount of guns." 

"We all do, Cas," Sam teases lightly, running his gaze over the assortment of firearms on the bed. He tilts his head a little, kinda like a puppy. "Dude, if you're retiring, you don't need this many. You should leave a few here." 

Dean narrows his eyes. "Over my dead body." 

"You won't get any use out of them," Jack points out, picking up a shotgun and twisting it curiously in his hands, eyebrows furrowed. 

"Put that—give me that," Dean hisses, surging forward to yank it out of his hands. Jack blinks at him, startled, and Dean scowls. 

Jack frowns. "Will you teach me how to—" 

"No," Dean says coldly, his tone brooking no argument, not giving a shit that everyone is frowning at him now. 

"But I—" 

"I said no, Jack. You're just a fucking kid. You don't need to know how to shoot a goddamn gun." 

"And I wasn't a kid when you pointed one at me multiple times?" Jack snaps harshly. 

They both flinch in unison. Jack looks horrified in an instant, and Dean physically cannot bring himself to see the expressions on anyone else's faces. Swallowing, he scrubs a hand over his mouth. 

"Sorry," Dean croaks, "I was just—" 

"No, I'm sorry," Jack whispers. "I didn't mean to." 

"It's fine. It's okay. It's—" Dean drops his hand limply and blows out a deep breath, glancing wearily at Sam. "Keep 'em. All of 'em." 

"Dean," Jack starts. 

"No, I just—um, just gimme a minute," Dean mumbles, turning around and marching out the same way he came. 

He escapes to the kitchen, going for a beer. He leans back against the counter and nurses it, his head tilted back as he thinks. It's not that he has a problem with guns. He never has. Considering his life, it's a wonder that he doesn't have one in his hand at all times—only most of the time. It's just, when it comes to Jack, there's issues there. For both of them, by the looks of things. 

He doesn't begrudge the kid his anger. He's growing up, falling prey to less innocent emotions, far more volatile. Not only that, but he's also God. He likely has this odd, unfathomable power that feels like something no one can even imagine. Of course that's going to affect him. Honestly, he's still so kind and innocent sometimes that it's easy to forget all the times he's gotten angry enough to lash out. 

Maybe he gets that from Dean, too. The anger. The kind he doesn't even know he has until it abruptly explodes out of him. He looked just as surprised by it as everyone else. The thing is, he and Dean have been doing good. Ever since they had their talk, things have been smoother for them. Dean's put in the effort, conscious to reach out, texting and calling and putting in the time. Jack allows it, and Dean knows how happy it makes him. 

Despite that, there are going to be things like this. It's not magically perfect just because they both want it to be. Most things that are worth doing aren't easy, and Jack's definitely worth it. 

"Dean?" 

Glancing up, Dean sighs when he sees Jack hovering awkwardly in the doorway. He jerks his head, waving Jack inside. "C'mere." 

"I am sorry," Jack mumbles as he shuffles in, frowning as he comes to a halt beside him. 

"You don't have to be. You were right." 

"I was just upset that you don't want to teach me."

"I know, kid." Dean sighs and looks down at his beer, swiveling it around in both hands. "Listen, it's not that I don't wanna teach you things; it's that I don't want to teach you that thing. It's—it's kinda complicated, especially because of the fact that I've tried to shoot you before. But it's also—" He swallows, throwing Jack a look out of the corner of his eye. Jack's focused entirely on him, listening, so trusting. It makes Dean's heart clench. "The first time I picked up a gun, I was six. The way my dad taught me, it wasn't...right. Not even just him being a hardass, but Sam and I were just kids. We shouldn't have had to know to shoot to kill. I don't want that for you. You get me?" 

"I think so," Jack murmurs. He pauses to process that, then nods. "I'm still sorry. I've forgiven you for that already. I forgave you a long time ago. I know why you did it, and I even understand it. I shouldn't have used it to be so—so mean." 

"Yeah, well, you're only four. When I was your age, I used to toss myself down to the floor and scream at the top of my lungs because my mom refused to read my favorite book if I didn't clean up my toys. I think you're very mature for your age." 

"Really? What was your favorite book?" 

"It's Not Easy Being A Bunny," Dean admits. 

Jack blinks at him. "I've never read that one. What's it about?" 

"P.J. Funnybunny," Dean rattles off, squinting as he tries to recall. The memories are fuzzy, but they're fond, so he's clung to them for a long time. "It was about this bunny who didn't wanna be a bunny, but every time he left to try and go be something else, like a bear or a bird or a beaver, it always fell through and he ended up right back where he started because...because…" Dean frowns, thinking about that message more deeply than he ever has and how fucked up it is. Jesus, early childhood does cultivate a person, doesn't it? "Ya know, on second thought, it was a shitty story. Don't read it." 

"Okay," Jack says, then offers, "I like Junie B. Jones."

Dean makes a small huh sound. "They still got those?" 

"Not any new ones in years, but I've been reading them at the library. They're very good." 

"I'll take your word for it." 

Jack looks over at him. "Are you really going to leave all your guns here?" 

"Does Cas have any guns in the house?" Dean asks, uneasy at the mere thought that Cas doesn't. 

"He has his angel blade," Jack says. 

"Yeah, no dice. I can't—I'm really not comfortable with that. Anything could happen." 

"You're saying it's necessary to have a gun for precaution. To protect ourselves."

"Yeah." 

"So, shouldn't I have one?" 

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Something in him struggles back and forth, wrestling with the need to keep those he cares about protected, to keep them capable of protecting themselves if he can't, versus the part of him that riots against the idea of Jack having a gun. He's just a kid. He's God, and he's suffered a lot already, he's even killed before, but he's still just a kid. Dean can't help but protest the idea of a gun being near Jack in any way. 

"Dean," Jack murmurs, "either it's safe enough that no one needs a gun, or it's not safe enough that we all need a gun." 

"I—I have to talk to Cas," Dean blurts out, because that's the only thing he can think to say at that moment. Cas will know. He'll decide for Dean, and honestly, it's his house. 

Jack considers him for a moment, his face clearing as his lips curl up. "You like him, don't you?" 

"Who? Cas?" Dean frowns at him. "'Course I do. Who said I didn't? You know that already." 

Jack—with all the infinite wisdom of a four year old—shakes his head and sing-songs, "No, I mean you like-like him. You do, right?" 

Dean's mouth goes dry, and he just stares at Jack, not saying a word. 

"It's good if you do," Jack continues cheerfully, beaming at him. "I was really mad at you for acting like you didn't. It was making Castiel very sad." 

"He was—sad?" Dean rasps. "You said he was doing great, Jack." 

"I lied," Jack admits bluntly, unapologetic. "He wasn't always sad, but he always missed you. I thought it would make you sad if you thought he was happier without you, and I was angry at you, so I lied. Sorry. That was mean." 

"Yeah, Jack, that was mean as fuck," Dean mumbles, huffing out an incredulous laugh. "That was so spiteful and—and bitchy. Jesus, you're so much like Cas sometimes, it's insane." 

"Thank you," Jack says sincerely, taking it as the compliment that it secretly was. "I'll go get him now, if you want." 

"Yeah, thanks," Dean mumbles. 

He claps Jack on the shoulder as he moves away, and Jack tosses him a blinding smile, looking so young that it's almost painful. As he disappears into the hall, Dean takes another pull on his beer. 

What the hell is getting himself into? Not only is he about to invest ninety-nine percent of his time into Cas, he's gone and decided that moving in with him as well as a miniature-Cas is a good idea. Between the both of them, they're sure to drive Dean fucking bonkers. If he didn't like 'em so much, if they didn't make him happy, he'd probably hate 'em a little. 

Dean's almost finished with his beer by the time Cas appears in the doorway. For a second, they just stare at each other, and then Cas narrows his eyes. 

"Do you want to explain to me what that was about?" Cas asks, moving into the room. 

"Not really. Hey, did you know your kid has a lying problem?" Dean mutters. 

Cas sighs. "I was aware, yes. It's apparently common at this age. We're working on it." 

"Another one of those annoying traits he got from me, huh?" Dean jokes weakly. 

"Actually," Cas cautiously ventures, "I would say that was a joint effort between us both. Sam, too."

"Fair point." Dean clears his throat and knocks back the rest of his beer, pausing long enough to toss it in the trash. "So, uh, I have a dilemma." 

"What's that?" 

"Lemme ask you something. You don't have a gun, right? Doesn't that feel—weird? Wrong, I mean. You ain't worried something will...happen?" 

"Honestly, Dean, I've never been fond of guns. I'm not sure if you noticed, but my main weapon of choice has always been a blade, and it still is. Guns aren't…" Cas wrinkles his nose a little, moving closer without even seeming to notice. "Well, they lack intimacy, but I also don't trust my aim. I don't have very much practice. Point-blank is fine, or close-range, but anything else is questionable." 

Dean snorts quietly. "Well, at least you're honest. Okay, fair enough. Would you, uh, feel better with a gun in your house, though?" 

"You would," Cas says, knowing it. 

"The kid's got it in his head that if I think I need a gun for protection, then so does he." 

"Key words: the kid. Dean, he is a child, above all. He just wants to do what we do, as children tend to do. If you've forgotten, he also just so happens to be God. In any scenario where things go wrong, he's invulnerable. We are not. He needs no protection."

"Oh, shit, I didn't even think of that," Dean blurts out, half-turning to face Cas, shaking his head. "So he's good across the board, right?" 

"Yes." 

"I don't want him to have a gun." 

Cas eyes him for a second, then nods. He needs no elaboration. This, apparently, is something he seems to understand about Dean without needing an explanation. "I don't have the same reservations as you, but I'm content with the idea of him never having a firearm. That's fine." 

"Right. But I still—" Dean cuts himself off, just looking at Cas. 

"Bring one." 

"Just one?" 

"One handgun and one shotgun," Cas offers, like a compromise, his lips curling up. 

Dean's echoing smile is wider. "You spoil me." 

"Perhaps." Cas squints at him, then looks away. "I will handle Jack's newest rebellion. Push come to stumble, I'll just get him a pocket knife." 

"Shove, Cas. It's push come to shove." Dean grins at him, laughing softly and curling in towards him to look at him from up close. He does it instinctively, not even thinking about it. 

Cas tilts his head up, looking irritated, but only a little. "Does it matter? The idiom is referring to additional pressure following the original point, and stumbling follows a push. I would think that it makes perfect sense to—" 

"No, no, it means that you gotta be a little more forceful than you planned to originally. Like you've got your hands tied, so you'll do what you gotta do. A shove is just a more forceful push, which is—" 

"Are you two seriously bickering about a phrase right now?" Sam asks from the doorway, sounding exasperated and amused. 

Dean wrenches back from Cas with a violent cough, abruptly uncomfortably aware of just how close they got to each other. He shoots Sam a look. "We're not bickering, or whatever. Just—just talking." 

"I'm loving this new development for you guys, really, but I kinda need to know if you were serious about me taking all the guns," Sam says, rolling his eyes at them. 

"I'm keeping a couple," Dean replies. 

Sam hums. "Cool. Which ones?" 

"I'll show you," Dean mumbles, then hurries forward to head back to his room. 

The next few hours are spent in the safety of ready company, Sam and Eileen never too far away. Dean can tell they're hovering a little, getting in some time now before they have the Bunker to themselves. A part of him feels guilty, but not to the point that he's going to back out. It helps that Sam and Eileen seem to be sticking close simply because they've missed Cas being here, seeing as he refused to come without Dean first asking him to. 

Packing, as it turns out, is mostly just an excuse to joke around and talk in Dean's room. At one point, Jack just ends up sprawled out on the floor, his limbs star-fished so everyone has to step over him so they won't trip. He keeps humming Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, so the tune is now in Dean's head, which must be a new form of torture. 

Eileen and Cas spend at least thirty minutes having a very long, very silent conversation, only broken by Eileen's bright burst of laughter while Cas signs something with a small smile. Sam helps Dean pack, already knowing exactly how he likes to do it, seeing as he does it the same. They both do. Their dad taught them to pack light and tight, making sure they knew how to do it efficiently and quickly, just in case they had to leave in a rush. Most of the time, they just lived out of suitcases and a car anyway, but it's still a skill that stuck with them. 

Even when they finish, and the last thing packed is the pictures Dean accumulated over the years, they all still are in no rush to separate. They leave his bags and reconvene in the war room, settling at the map table. Dean, Sam, and Eileen all take beers. Cas politely refuses one, so he and Jack just share a water bottle between them. 

A few more hours slip past this way, and Dean inwardly marvels at how different things feel. Mere days ago, being in the Bunker almost felt like being imprisoned—but, then again, he couldn't escape that feeling no matter where he went. Every single place was just so quiet, so big, and still somehow so fucking stifling. Dean ached here, constantly. 

And now, he's fine. He's at complete ease. The Bunker feels just like it did before Cas ever left. Feels like home. It makes him think that he'd follow Cas anywhere, even to the ends of the earth. Hell, he's pretty sure he'd even get on a plane and fly for that asshole, and that's really saying something. 

The crazy thing is, Dean can't say what they're doing. If someone asked what they are to one another, or what they're doing with each other, he wouldn't have the first clue how to answer. All he knows right now is that they're a little bit of everything, a whole lot of anything, and most definitely not nothing—and he can live with that. 

The day slowly creeps into the afternoon, crawling towards evening, getting later and later. Sam's the one who calls it to a close, standing up with a groan and looking at Dean as he says, "You gotta get out of here if you want to get there before nine. Come on, I'll help you with your bags." 

"Right," Dean breathes out, rubbing his hands back and forth on his thighs under the table before standing up. 

"Dean," Jack says, "can I—" 

"Almost two hours by yourself? No, I don't think so," Dean cuts in, shaking his head. 

Jack frowns. "But—" 

"Jack," Cas speaks up, his tone firm, "he said no. You can ride with me." 

"Oh, okay," Jack chirps, giving in immediately and seeming perfectly happy to. 

Cas stands up, too, not looking at Dean at all. "Say your goodbyes to Eileen and Sam. We'll leave first."

Dean slips out on Sam and Eileen moving forward to steal hugs from Cas and Jack both. He heads to his room, trying to convince himself that this is fine. He's already made up his mind. He already knows he wants to be wherever Cas is, so staying will only lead back to the same miserable shit as before. 

That doesn't mean it's not new, and kinda terrifying in a way Dean won't ever admit to out loud. He does his best to shake it off, exhaling heavily as he steps into his room, staring around at it. 

It looks so...bare now. Empty. Kinda hollow. This has been his home for years, whether or not Cas was around. Deep down, he knows the Bunker was only Cas' home in a distant, abstract way. His "room" was void of any personality, but then again, he was an angel back then. Dean has no idea how he would have decorated if he would have stayed, if he hadn't made a home elsewhere. 

In a weird way, Dean's kind of proud of Cas for doing that. Yeah, he hates that Cas left to begin with, especially for such a stupid reason, but he thinks there's something sort of amazing about the fact that Cas kept going no matter what. He's like that, though. He's so resilient. If it's love—huge, earth-shattering love that makes one do very dumb things—then the fact that Cas left and made a life for himself while essentially heartbroken is admirable. Dean doesn't think he could have done that. Actually, he didn't do that. 

But Cas did. Cas made a home for him and his son. He decorated it. He grew to love it. So much so that when Dean wanted him to leave, he admitted that he didn't want to. It must be a part of his happiness, and Jack's. Dean wonders what would have happened if he hadn't offered to stay, if he'd reached the end of their conversation and asked Cas to come back. He could ask, but he almost doesn't want to know. He's already made his decision; he doesn't need any incentive to change his mind. 

"You gonna be alright?" Sam murmurs from the doorway, his face soft and open when Dean turns and looks at him. 

Dean hesitates for one moment, then nods. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure. Worst comes to worst, I just come running back with my tail between my legs."  

"You won't," Sam declares, sounding sure. 

"Why's that?" 

"This isn't the first time I've ever considered this, you know. When I walked into Cas' house, the first thought I had was oh, Dean would like it here, and the only thing I'd really looked at by that point was Cas. Dean, you've been—you're always upset when Cas is gone, no matter how or why he goes. You've been so unhappy, man, and it can't be blamed on any of the crap Chuck puts us through, because he's gone and the world is hanging in there just fine. I wasn't sure if you'd ever really allow yourself to do this, so I tried to help with something else—the retirement thing, because I could tell it was something you wanted. But you and I both know what—or really, who—will make you happy." 

"I just—he's just—" Dean makes a helpless gesture with his hand, holding it up and letting it flop down. There's a lump in his throat. "I can't explain it." 

Sam shrugs lightly. "The heart wants what the heart wants. It's good, you know? It's kind of comforting. For me, I mean. I like knowing that you're gonna be alright, and it's nice knowing that Cas and Jack will be, too. You've got them, and they've got you." 

"Yeah, but…" Dean looks away, his heart feeling twisted the wrong way in his chest. "I think there's always gonna be a part of me that feels like it's wrong to leave you. Like it's my job, even now, to look after you. It is, so it's like I'm failing." 

"Dean," Sam says softly, "why don't you look after yourself for once? I'm grateful, okay? For everything you have ever done and given, I'm so freaking grateful for all of it, and I'm sure I don't even know all of it. But this is something you want, something good for you, and you should get to have that. I'm gonna be alright. It's not like you're just abandoning me, and you already know I'm going to come to you if I need help. Who the hell else am I going to, if I can't figure it out? It was never Dad. It was never Mom, when she came back. It was you, and it's always going to be you. Doesn't matter where you go, I know I can come to you with anything. Does that sound like failure to you?" 

"And if something happens to you when I'm not here?" Dean rasps. 

"It's the same in reverse, isn't it? You could kneel over with a heart attack while doing yard work, or fall off the roof, or—or something. It could happen, just like something could happen to me. But that's life, right?" Sam gives him a small smile, something sad and peaceful about it, a strange mixture. "There are no more deals and defying Death, Dean. That stopped the moment Chuck was gone. Our lives from here, they're ours and it's all we got, just like everyone else. If something happens, then something happens, and that's all there is to it. It'll suck, and it'll hurt, but it's just—life. A natural life, and I think that's good. Don't you?" 

"All this supernatural stuff, and the goal was a chance at natural all along, huh? Is that it?" Dean asks, reaching out to fiddle with the strap on his bag. He frowns down at it. 

"That's up to you. But for me? Yeah, man. It's kind of a relief knowing that everything that I do is on my own terms. The things I can't control, that I'm not supposed to, they're out of my hands. To tell you the truth, it's peaceful," Sam murmurs. 

Dean glances at him, quirking a small smile. "You've always been smarter than me, Sammy." 

"I don't know about all that," Sam says casually, rolling his eyes. He moves forward to grab the handles of one of the suitcases. "Seriously, Dean, go forth and be happy, dude. If anyone has earned it, even when no one should have to, it's you." 

"Even though it's Cas?" Dean mumbles, staring down at the zipper he's plucking at, abruptly anxious. He's peeking under metaphorical towels that he knows damn well are better left alone. 

There's a long beat of silence, and then Sam sighs quietly. "Eileen makes me happy. Is that okay?" 

"Yeah," Dean says, like duh. 

"Well, there ya go," Sam says easily, waving one of his hands out in a wide arc, like he's presenting the answers to the universe. 

"Okay, but Cas is—you know." Dean gives him a significant look, tipping his head. "A dude." 

"Eileen is a woman." 

"What? Yeah, I know that." 

"Sorry, I thought we were pointing out things that really don't matter about people." Sam raises his eyebrows at him. "I mean, does it matter that Cas is a man, that Eileen is a woman? If Cas was a woman and Eileen was a man, would that change anything?"

Dean blinks at him. "It—I mean, I probably would have hit on Cas if he was a chick. Wait, if Eileen was a dude, you'd still…?" 

"I love her." Sam shrugs. "Easy enough." 

"Huh." Dean considers that for a second, then finds himself thinking about Michael, about his thing with his not-boyfriend. He'd had a thing with him when he thought the not-boyfriend was a not-girlfriend, and that hadn't changed when other things did. Dean wonders what would be different if Cas' vessel had been a woman. He thinks he would have known a lot sooner that he's crazy about him, but he'd still be crazy about him. "Okay, you made your point. Thanks, I guess." 

Sam nods and opens his mouth, only to pause and consider Dean thoughtfully. "Um, do you want to talk about it? The details, I mean." 

"Details?" 

"Like your sexuality and—" 

"Nope," Dean interrupts instantly. "No, that's not necessary, thank you. We can just...not. Ever." 

"Yeah, I kinda figured," Sam says with a small snort, lips curling up. "That's okay, you know. It's no one's business, not even mine." 

Dean clears his throat and looks away. "I know that. I'm not, like, keeping it from you. I just…" 

"Don't know?" Sam offers sympathetically.

"Maybe." Dean grimaces. "No. I don't know. Does it have to be a thing? I don't think it's a thing for Cas."

"He said gay once. I think he was drunk-texting me, actually. There was some confusion, honestly, but I don't think Dean-sexual is a thing," Sam says dryly. 

Dean grins before he can stop himself. "Oh, that's definitely a thing." 

"See? Look at you. All happy and smile-y and shit," Sam points out, like he's showing evidence. "Just because, what, Cas likes you?" 

"Dude, you smiled for almost three hours just because Eileen said your hair looked sexy when it was pushed back, and she was just making a Mean Girls reference," Dean retorts flatly. 

Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Shut up, that's not the point. The point is that it doesn't have to matter, not unless you want it to. It matters to some people who find pride in it, but it doesn't have to mean you're ashamed if you don't want it to matter to you." 

"I'm already tired of it," Dean grumbles. "Just—a lot of people are hot, or whatever. What's that? Slut? Is my sexuality just slut?" 

"That's...kinda fucked up, Dean." 

"I don't mean it in a bad way." 

"It sounded like you meant it in a bad way," Sam murmurs, his eyebrows furrowed. 

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it, then releases a deep breath. "I'm old, Sammy. It's like starting a new school in the middle of Senior Year. I don't know anybody, I don't know where to go to sneak smokes, I don't know the unspoken rules. Hell, I don't even know the course material because the school I'm coming from was behind. So, I just wanna drop out. That's what it's like." 

"Okay, well, slut isn't a sexuality, for starters. And it's not really a thing anyway. There's no such thing as a slut; it's just a shitty word. But thinking a whole bunch of different people are hot is pretty common. Like, very common," Sam says. 

"I don't wanna join a club," Dean mutters, mildly appalled that they're actually having this conversation when he specifically said he didn't want to. "I just—I don't even—" 

"Bisexual," Sam cuts in, tapping his fingers to the bag. "You're bisexual. Bi for short, which is fitting because you like nicknames and stuff. Possible stereotype, but still." 

Dean purses his lips. "Wait, why do you get to decide? I could be gay." 

"Are you?" 

"Nah." 

Sam rolls his eyes again. "I'm telling you this because I've been around you for literally all of my life, save a few years here and there. You look at guys. You look at ladies. You look at both, and technically, you look at other things too, because you've spent a long time looking at Cas. So, if someone asks and you wanna tell 'em, the word is bisexual. Learn it, live it, love it. Does it matter? If you want it to, sure. If not, then no. The only thing that matters is that you get to be happy." 

"Yeah, yeah, sure." Dean waves a hand, his face screwing up. He ignores that clench-and-release in his chest that may or may not be relief with an undercurrent of intrigue. He's gonna toss a towel over that, too. Pretty soon, he's gonna run out of towels. "Just help me get my shit into Baby." 

Sam does. They carry the bags out to the car, and Eileen joins them to say her goodbyes as well. She hugs him for a long time, and it warms him. They've gotten pretty close over the last few months. When she pulls back, she pinches his side and grins, and he tugs lightly on her ponytail with a small smile. 

As for him and Sam, well… It's the tunnel theory again. Sam's all but holding his hand and leading him out of that tunnel, but Dean still hangs right there at the entrance, unreasonably resistant. Dean wastes twenty minutes just promising to visit and call, and needling the same promises out of Sam. It's the fear of the unknown, like Sam says.

What Sam says now, however, is a very gentle, "Go home, Dean." 

"Okay," Dean whispers. 

They hug, and then Dean goes home. 

Chapter Text

Dean arrives later than Cas and Jack, seeing as he left after them—way after them. It's a little after ten when he pulls in. For a long beat, he peers up at the sky in vague surprise. It's so open out here, and he can see the blanket of stars. It's nice, the kind of place he'd wanna grab a beer and sprawl out on Baby's hood on a calm, cool night. 

As he's getting out, Cas appears on the porch, the dull light coming on to cast him in a warm glow. Dean can see him squinting all the way from here. 

Bisexual, Dean thinks, then firmly tucks the towel back in place as Cas starts moving down the steps.

"Do you need help?" Cas asks as he approaches. 

"What, you wanna help me unpack tonight?" Dean asks, his eyebrows raising. 

Cas hums. "If you'd prefer to wait, you can. If not, I'd be willing to help. It's up to you when you want to get settled in." 

"No reason to wait," Dean mumbles, moving back towards the trunk. "Where's Jack?" 

"In his room, likely watching a cartoon. Either that, or Ben 10 reruns." 

"That's the kid who turns into a bunch of aliens, right?" 

"Mhm." 

"A little on the nose." 

"Perhaps," Cas agrees, amused. He shuffles closer and takes the bag Dean holds out to him. "I think he just enjoys animated television. I had to put parental controls on when I found out he was watching Family Guy. He said he related to Stewie." 

Dean hauls the last two bags out of the trunk with a grunt, nodding in thanks when Cas reaches up to shut it. "Well, I kinda get that. Stewie's a baby who acts like an adult. It makes sense to me, at least, but yeah, he probably shouldn't watch that." 

"I thought not," Cas says, walking ahead of him a little as he leads them into the house. 

It's cooler inside, a notable temperature drop that Dean appreciates immediately, so he finds himself sighing in relief like he can finally take a load off. This earns him a quick glance from Cas, and it makes his face go hot, despite the cool air. 

Cas looks away and keeps going, heading down the hall with familiarity. When they get to the door to Jack's room, Dean can hear the muffled sound of his television and see the thin line of flickering light at the bottom of the door. Cas pauses to bang his elbow against it a few times, his head cocking to the side like he's waiting. 

"I know, I know!" Jack calls. "Ten more minutes!" 

"I don't have to work tomorrow, so I'm not going to be able to get you up," Cas responds, his voice raised. "Set your alarm." 

"Okay!" A pause. "Is Dean here yet?" 

"Hey, kid," Dean says, shifting the bags in his hands awkwardly, briefly asking himself what the hell he's doing. Seriously, how did he end up here? 

"Hey, Dean! Will you be up at nine?" 

"Uh...probably?" 

"Could you make sure I get up?" Jack asks, sounding sincerely hopeful. 

Dean blinks at Cas, who is staring at him over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched. "Yeah, I can do that." 

"Thanks, Dean!" Jack chirps. 

"Goodnight, Jack," Cas says, his lips curling up. 

"Goodnight, Castiel. Goodnight, Dean," Jack replies, his voice pitching even louder. There's a beat of silence, and Dean realizes that Cas is staring at him expectantly again. 

"Goodnight, Jack," Dean offers. 

There's no reply, and Cas immediately turns and starts back down the hall. Dean follows, sort of drowning in the domesticity of it all. A few steps later, Cas is leaning into the door farthest down the hall, right across from what looks to be the bathroom. He seems to have to fight with the doorknob a little, so much so that when the door opens, he sort of stumbles in. He doesn't look surprised, so Dean assumes this isn't out of the ordinary. Dean automatically wants to fix the door for him so that stops happening. 

Cas moves inside, dumping the bag on the bed with a gusty sigh. It's a pretty big bed, actually. Kinda extravagant in a way Dean wasn't expecting from Cas. It's pushed up into the farthest corner of the room away from the door, a nightstand on the only open side—the left. There's a desk along the opposite wall, a closed laptop on it, a neat row of stacked books lined along the back of it where it meets the wall. Dean catches sight of a plant right next to it, directly by the window, nearly as tall as the desk itself and a pop of green. On the wall next to the door, there's a dresser with a weird assortment of rocks in different colors, and Dean recognizes the one from the picture instantly. 

There are no lamps, just a light switch, and the moment Dean sets his bags down, Cas points back at it where it is by the door and says, "Cut that on for me, please." 

Dean does, and there's the sound of what can only be the string connected to the fan Dean caught sight of being pulled. He stares at Cas, who's standing on his tip-toes to reach the light on the fan, as well as the shorter string that apparently adjusts the settings. He tugs it twice, and the fan starts turning. 

Dean stares a little helplessly at the strip of skin on Cas' back above his jeans that shows where his shirt rode up from his stretching. He snaps his gaze up when the shirt settles back into place, just in time for Cas to turn and regard him sheepishly. 

"I always cut the light off with the switch when I leave. I have to turn the fan back on with the string," Cas admits, shaking his head. 

"S'probably the wiring." Dean coughs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Noticed your doorknob is a little janky, too." 

Cas frowns. "I've been meaning to fix that." 

"Is Jack's like that, too?" Dean asks, trailing his gaze to the bed. There's a lot of pillows. Five by his count. One is a long black body-pillow that's draped across the top of the bed. There's only one blanket, though. A fitted sheet and a dark blue comforter. 

"No, his is fine. The back door doesn't have a doorknob at all, but there's a screen door immediately behind it, so it's fine." Cas pauses when Dean glances at him, then smiles slightly. "The back door is in the kitchen." 

"Didn't notice," Dean admits. 

"Mm, it's there. We have a back porch. I like to drink coffee out there in the mornings before I check on my garden," Cas tells him. 

Dean huffs a weak laugh. "Sounds nice, Cas." 

"It is." Cas continues to look at him for a long time before abruptly clearing his throat and focusing on the bag on the bed. "Here, I'll help you. There's a closet on the other side of the dresser. It's not very large, but I haven't used it for anything outside of storage. You're welcome to it, and there are three drawers available in the dresser." 

"Thanks," Dean says gruffly. 

For the next hour, they work in silence most of the time. The quiet is only broken by Cas randomly holding up a shirt and asking if he wants it in the closet or a drawer. Otherwise, he generally seems to just know how Dean usually likes it. This kind of quiet isn't grating, even though it is awkward. Overall, though, it seems to be pensive. 

When they move on from Dean's clothes, the very first thing that Cas picks up are the guns. He gestures to the closet with the shotgun, then points the handle of the other towards the nightstand, telling Dean where to put them without saying a word. Dean takes them and does exactly as he's told without being told, nodding in thanks as Cas passes him the ammo for both. 

His books are stacked right along with Cas', right next to them. For a few minutes, Dean stands by the desk and curiously peeks at the titles of Cas' books. A lot of them have to do with gardening, but a few seem to be romance novels, and one is a memoir called Becoming Michelle Obama, which is self-explanatory. And, at the very bottom of the stack, there's a bible—King James version. 

Dean risks a glance over his shoulder to see that Cas is pawing carelessly through his bag, separating the bathroom stuff off to the side. He leaves Cas to it and curiously thumbs through the bible, having to swallow a sudden bout of amazed laughter when he sees that Cas has written in it. There's red ink all over the place, things circled, and little critiques in the margins, as well as a few notes. Dean squints at them, reading a couple. This never happened. That's actually true. That's not what that word means at all. 

It takes a lot of effort not to burst out laughing. He shakes his head slightly, so fucking fond that he can barely breathe around it. He just—he likes Cas' weird habits so much. 

"I'm putting your bags in the closet," Cas announces from behind him, making him jump a little guiltily and whirl around. "I'll handle your bathroom supplies. Place your photos wherever you like." 

Cas moves around to do exactly that, storing the bags in the closet, then scooping up the bathroom stuff to cart out the room—the toothbrush, shampoo, body wash, and Dean's favorite towels. 

All that's left to put away are the photos on the bed, and Dean approaches them, carefully picking them up. He doesn't have that many. Just the one of him and Sam with the old photo of his mom tucked into the frame. He has another one of him and Sam, one of Cas in the cowboy hat that he took and actually went through the trouble of printing off—three copies because there was a sale—one of Jack, and one of a more recent version of his mom, after she came back and before she died again. He also has one of the group facing down the end of the world—Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Sam, Dean and Cas. 

He glances around the room, then decides the top of the dresser is the best bet. There's space behind the rocks, so he sets the photos out, secretly pleased by how nice it looks. It's kind of a seamless fit, the rocks scattered in front of the frames. He likes it. 

On the nightstand, there's just an outlet surge protector with an alarm clock plugged into it, as well as a phone charger. There's two more open slots, so Dean scoops up his own phone charger to plug it in, leaving his phone there. After, he stares down at the bed, lips pursed. 

It's a big bed. Like, big enough for two grown men to sleep in it together and never have to touch. Well, they could, but they don't have the excuse of small space to do it. Not that Dean wants that. Just. 

Maybe he does. He doesn't know. He doesn't think he'll know until he gives it a shot, but that requires a level of bravery he's just not at right now. It's kinda ridiculous that he's a-okay with the idea of fucking, but cuddling? Oh, that's where he's gotta draw the line. There are moments where he's hyper-aware of how sincerely messed up he is, and this is one of them. Sure, sex is on the table, but intimacy that might be in any way emotional? No can do. 

Jesus. 

"Dean, are you hungry?" Cas asks as he comes back into the room, his hands free. 

Dean looks away from the bed. "Actually, yeah. I haven't eaten anything today." 

"Hm." Cas frowns at him, then immediately swivels on the spot. "Come on." 

"What's your pantry look like?" Dean muses as he follows Cas up the hall, hooking the immediate right to push through the swinging door. 

"Slightly empty at the moment. I was planning to go grocery shopping tomorrow, which looks to be good timing. You can come," Cas says, glancing over his shoulder. "You should have input." 

"Dude, it's not a big deal. It's—" 

"I'm actually hoping you'll be willing to cook, so it is a big deal. It's necessary." 

Dean snorts. "Okay, fair enough. You know I don't mind. Hey, I'll bet you get a lot of stuff from your garden, huh?" 

"I do," Cas agrees, sounding distinctly pleased. He cocks his head at the fridge. "Would you like a ham sandwich or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?" 

"Doesn't matter." 

"Dean." 

"Ham," Dean blurts out quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. 

Cas hums in approval and reaches into the fridge to pull out the ham, moving over to the bar to grab a half loaf of bread. Without even batting an eye, he drops both down on the table and arches an eyebrow at Dean. "Condiments?" 

"Um. Whaddya got?" Dean asks warily. 

"Mustard," Cas says pointedly. "Ketchup. Barbecue sauce. Mayonnaise. Steak sauce." 

"Mayo's good, Cas, thanks," Dean mumbles, watching Cas immediately peel away to grab it and a butter knife from one of the drawers. 

"I apologize that it's not very filling. I have no desire to wash dishes and running the dishwasher keeps me awake at night. We'll have a large breakfast," Cas murmurs, passing him everything before leaving him to it. He pulls away and moves to grab a wine glass from the cabinet, then goes to the fridge to pull out some wine and pour a hefty glass. 

Dean makes his sandwiches slowly. Two will tide him over. He barely focuses on them, though, too busy watching Cas drink. "S'cool. I'm not that hungry anyway. Hey, do you—do you usually drink that much?" 

"It's one glass of wine, Dean. Very cheap wine." Cas fixes him with a flat, judgy look. "It will make me fuzzy, and I would very much like to be fuzzy tonight. Yes, I usually drink this much, or more, but not every night. I certainly don't drink every day." 

"Yeah, yeah, I know I'm a hypocrite, but still. Can't help it," Dean says, chagrined. "Why do you wanna be fuzzy, or whatever?" 

"It'll help me sleep, and I think I will need the aid if I'm going to be sleeping next to you," Cas informs him bluntly. He takes another gulp. 

"What, you don't want to?" 

"Mm, no, I do. Hence the wine." 

Against his better judgement, Dean chuckles as he ties the bread back up. "Liquid courage, huh?" 

"Precisely," Cas agrees shamelessly. "Rinse the mayo off the knife before you leave it in the sink. I won't be able to sleep if you don't." 

"Sounds like you have trouble sleeping." 

"I struggle to quiet my mind." 

"Ever tried playing music?" 

"It keeps me awake." 

"Damn." Dean shakes his head and moves over to the sink, rinsing the knife dutifully. He waves it at Cas after, so he can see, and Cas nods before taking another swallow of his wine. "What about counting sheep? That's a thing people do, I think." 

"I lose count and get frustrated," Cas murmurs with a small sigh. 

"Meditation?" Dean suggests as he heads back to the table. He squishes his sandwiches down and plops into the open chair, tilting his head back to regard Cas patiently. He takes a big bite. 

Cas shakes his head. "No, that requires me to empty my mind, which is an impossible feat. I can barely make it shut up, let alone empty it." 

Dean chews on that and the sandwich for a while. He swallows and waits for Cas to start drinking again before he says, "Masturbating?" 

Cas coughs into his wine glass, jerking forward, his eyes bulging. For a few seconds, he sputters, then he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. He scowls at Dean, who's grinning. "Not that it's any of your business, but orgasms energize me, not tire me out. Those are best for the shower." 

"Noted," Dean says through a mouthful. 

"Dean," Cas murmurs, abruptly serious, "don't offer to have sex with me tonight." 

"Why?" Dean asks, narrowing his eyes. 

"Because I don't want to," Cas replies, then rolls his eyes when Dean snorts. "Okay, yes, I want to, but I'd prefer not to. I'll say yes if you offer, so do me the favor of not offering. Please." 

"Okay, sure, but wanna elaborate on why?" 

"Right now, I'm comfortably in love with you with very little strain. You're not uncomfortable with it, and I'd like to—appreciate it for a while." 

"You think sex would make me uncomfortable?" 

"Not exactly, but it would change things. If not for you, then for me." 

"What, how?" Dean blurts out, offended instantly. 

Cas peers down at his wine, still half a glass. He abruptly tosses it back and downs the rest of it in one go, grimacing when he finishes. "Dean, when I'm convinced that there's no possible way that I can love you more, I am proven wrong every time. I always believe I love you as much as I am capable, and then—miraculously—I find myself loving you even more deeply. I won't fool myself into thinking sex would not be one such occasion." 

"Oh," Dean says softly. He stares down at his sandwich, his heart dancing in his chest. He's got this pleasant warmth spreading through his whole body, tingling in the tips of his fingers. Stupidly, he smiles at his sandwich. "Alright, I hear you. So, uh, you like how things are right now." 

"Very much," Cas admits, turning away to go and wash his wine glass out at the sink. 

"Are you gonna ask me why I'm just chill about the idea of us fucking?" Dean wonders out loud, stuffing his mouth with the beginning of his next sandwich. 

Cas glances over at him as he flicks his wet fingers out over the sink. "No. I believe I know why." 

"Wha's'at?" Dean mumbles, still chewing. 

"Your experience with sex has rarely been about love. It's been a long time since it has been for you, since Lisa at the very least. It's nearly been a decade since sex was anything other than a fleeting connection and exchange that allows you to show and receive affection without having to invest yourself in someone, or allow someone to truly know you. That has become your perception of sex, and I think you believe you'd be willing to do that with me because you, at the very least, find me attractive and like me as a person. You forget, however, that we are and have always been very close and know one another more than anyone else, so our sex would be very different than what you're used to." 

Dean slowly stops chewing, just staring at him. Cas holds his gaze, not backing down. 

It takes a second, but Dean finally manages to swallow. He almost feels like he's choking on it because his throat is thick. A part of him feels such a visceral stab of fear at what Cas said, while a whole other ridiculous part just feels—eager. Jesus, he's like one stray wind from popping a boner right here at the table, even though he can't think of anything less sexy than ham sandwiches. 

It's just the way Cas talks. His voice, his certainty, his ability to know Dean so well that it's kinda creepy and kinda amazing. It's the way he holds Dean's gaze with each word, the intensity in his eyes holding Dean hostage in a way that feels way too good for it to be so frightening. Dean's about to sport a fear-boner here in a second if he's not careful. God, the effect Cas has. It's insane. 

"How, uh—how would it be different?" Dean says, his voice coming out hoarse. He has to clear his throat. Twice. He feels short of breath. 

"It would be good," Cas murmurs, sounding so sure about that, "but it would mean something. It would be so good that it would alter us both."

The bread rips under Dean's fingers, tearing slightly from where he squeezes it against his will. "You're not really helping convince me not to offer, Cas. You're—you're kinda doing the exact opposite."

"I shouldn't have had the wine," Cas says, and now that he mentions it, Dean can see the slight flush of his cheeks and the glaze in his eyes. 

"No, that's—that's probably for the best. If you're drunk, I'm not gonna… It'd be wrong." 

"I'm not drunk. I'm fuzzy." 

"Yeah, buddy, I can see that," Dean tells him, his lips curling up fondly. He wills his heart to calm down and forces himself to go back to his sandwich that's now sort of falling apart. 

"Are you tired?" Cas asks when Dean finishes his last bite. 

Dean eyes him cautiously. "Yeah, kinda. You sure it's cool for us to share? I could use the couch." 

"That's not a long-term solution, and it's fine." Cas pushes away from the bar and heads for the door, glancing back when Dean trails after him. 

They don't say anything else while getting ready to sleep. They take turns in using the bathroom, but between the both of them going in and out to grab clothes and change, they somehow both end up in there at the same time while brushing their teeth. Their elbows knock as they stand side-by-side, staring at each other through the mirror.

Dean spends an unholy amount of time singularly fixed on the motion of Cas' toothbrush moving in and out of this mouth, and he feels like a fucking heathen, like a teenager getting horny at the drop of a hat over the littlest things. He's actually a little relieved when they finish up and head back into the bedroom, but that relief is short-lived. They both stand beside each other, staring at the bed. Silent.

"So…" Dean glances over at Cas, who still looks a little tipsy, his cheeks red and his eyes bright. "Uh, which side do you—" 

"I have to sleep by the wall," Cas declares. He glances over at Dean, his eyebrows furrowed. "Is that okay?" 

"Yeah, dude, it's fine. I wanna be closer to the door anyway. I like direct lines to my exits," Dean assures him with a small, nervous laugh. 

Cas hums. "Okay. You can't wake me up before ten in the morning, or I'll be in a terrible mood all day. If you wake me before ten-thirty, it'd be in your best interest to have coffee already made." 

"Yeah, I'm a bitch without my coffee, too. I get it," Dean admits. "Hey, if I fight you in my sleep, just kick me right outta the bed." 

"If I'm asleep and you attempt to wake me, even unintentionally, I assure you, I will kick you to the floor. It likely won't be an issue. You may be an angry sleeper, but I'm a heavy sleeper." 

"Oh, okay… So, just one blanket?" 

"I get hot in the middle of the night." 

"You turn your fan off?" 

"No, it has to be on, or I won't be able to sleep. I suppose my core temperature rises when I rest." 

"Okay." 

"Okay," Cas echoes, and they fall silent, standing there in pajamas and staring at the bed again. 

"I'll, uh, get the light, if you wanna go ahead and climb in," Dean offers quietly, subdued. He gestures towards the fan above them. "I'm taller." 

"Thank you, Dean," Cas says, sending him a sincerely grateful look. 

Dean watches him crawl into bed, feeling another pulse of fondness so strong that it nearly strangles him as he sees Cas curl up under the cover and sort of just tuck himself up against the wall. He takes one of the extra pillows and puts it at his back against the wall, leaning into it, and he basically just forms into this semi-human shaped ball. There's so much space left in the bed that Dean doesn't feel as weird as he could when he cuts the light off, not needing to balance on his toes, and slips into the bed with careful movements. 

It's a little strange, admittedly. Dean hasn't shared a bed with anyone in...years, he thinks. This can barely be called sharing as it is, considering the gaping space between them. He can get perfectly comfortable without even bumping into Cas' heat, let alone his actual limbs. The sheets are cool under him, and the fan keeps the air cool above him, and he just knows he's gonna get cold in his sleep. Either he'll end up in a ball, like Cas, or he'll seek out whatever heat is closest...which is just Cas. 

Who knows? Maybe it won't be a thing. Dean's sort of banking on this not being a thing. He settles in and closes his eyes, willing himself to fake sleep so good that he actually ends up doing it. 

"Dean," Cas murmurs, his voice muted like he's actively trying to be quiet. 

"Hm?" Dean hums, raising his eyebrows but keeping his eyes closed. 

"I'm sorry I left you," Cas says softly. 

Dean's eyes snap open. He turns his head to peer at the faint outline of Cas in the dark. "I'm sorry I didn't ask you to stay." 

Cas exhales slowly, and there's the quiet sound of something rustling the sheet a little, something sliding across it. As it turns out, it's Cas' hand, reaching out across the space between them. It lands on Dean's arm closest to him, just above the elbow, and all he does is rest it there. 

Swallowing, Dean brings his other hand over and covers Cas' fingers with his own. His pinky slips down into the empty space between Cas' pinky and next finger, and it's sort of easy to just let the rest of his fingers follow suit and fall into place. His heart hammers away as their fingers loosely tangle, almost but not quite holding hands. He thinks he should move it. He thinks he should chew his own hand off before he endures the bullshit feelings cresting in him now. He thinks he's going to hold still and never move again, just to keep at it. 

There's no change. It's just this. It happens, then keeps happening, then happens for so long that Dean eventually stops having a meltdown about it. Afterwards, there's just an odd sense of relaxation. He lets his eyes close and lulls himself closer and closer to sleep by repetition—a command tactic that usually works for him. He listens to the pattern of the fan creaking and swinging over and over, perfectly timed to the beat of Another One Bites The Dust, which is very satisfying. He moves his thumb back and forth along Cas' thumb, sweeping up and down, a mindless action that only ushers him closer to drifting off. He can tell when he's about to fall into oblivion entirely because his thumb slows, and he's too lazy to go back to it.

And, just like that, he's out like a light. 

On his second day, Dean wakes up in bed exactly how he fell asleep, his fingers loosely tangled with Cas' and a large space between them. Cas is still out like a light, so Dean leaves him to it. 

First thing he does is wake up Jack because it's nearly nine when he crawls out of bed. He knocks on the door, pokes his head in, and Jack squints at him sleepily from his bed. He stays sleepy for approximately three seconds before he blinks and brightens, abruptly awake as if he has been for hours. He shoots out of bed and calls dibs on the shower first, which Dean allows with a quiet grunt and lazy flap of his hand. 

After that, Dean familiarizes himself with the kitchen, feeling a little better about doing it with no one around to see him. He figures out where everything is, then goes about making some coffee. Cas has clearly invested in the works when it comes to coffee—it's not the cheap shit either, or instant. He's got a coffee machine and creamer that comes out of the fridge and not a packet. Dean's in hog heaven about it. His first cup of coffee is so good. 

By the time he's finishing up, Jack comes wandering in. He chatters away about going to the library, not seeming to mind that Dean's not exactly responsive. It's like he's used to doing all the talking in the morning, as if Cas doesn't either, or maybe Cas simply doesn't wake up at all. Jack eats some cereal and makes sure to rinse the bowl out when he's done, even going as far as filling the dishwasher with it and the knife and wine glass from the night before without having to be asked, which is nice. 

He fishes Cas' keys out of the bowl, throwing Dean a long look before apparently deciding that asking to drive Baby this early won't do him any good. He leaves a note on the counter to Cas, which is just don't forget the fruit gummies, and then he calls out a cheerful goodbye while heading out the door. Five minutes later, he's right back because he forgot his volunteer badge, so he says goodbye a second time before he's gone for sure. 

Dean—after finishing two cups of coffee—goes and takes a shower. It's strange only because it's new. The water pressure isn't as good as it is at the Bunker, but it actually gets a lot hotter, so there's that. Dean risks slipping into the bedroom in just a towel to get his clothes, silently begging that Cas won't wake up and see him. Turns out that he really is a heavy sleeper, kind of like the dead, because he doesn't so much as twitch as Dean goes in and out. 

Once suitably ready for whatever the day will throw at him, Dean has yet another cup of coffee—the last in the pot—and then goes outside to get used to the area. He strolls around with his coffee in hand, eyeing Cas' garden in the back, enjoying the mid-morning warmth that seeps into him. He texts Sam, who texts him back like five minutes later to congratulate him on not dying through the night, to which Dean responds with fuck you. 

When he goes back in, it's between ten and ten-thirty, so Dean puts more coffee on and starts throwing together some breakfast. Cas said he wanted him to cook, right? It probably won't be an issue. There's not really a whole lot to choose from because Cas really does need to go grocery shopping, so Dean works with what he's got—some eggs, a pack of sausage, and bread into the toaster. 

He's almost finished when the kitchen door swings open and Cas comes shuffling in. He looks pretty pissed off with the world, actually, his hair a mess and his face set into a deep scowl. He goes straight for the coffee and seems to unthaw a little to see that it's fresh and hot. Dean doesn't bother trying to talk to him, but he finishes up cooking in faint amusement, watching Cas move around with all the enthusiasm of a zombie. Because he's nice sometimes, he makes Cas a plate and brings it to him at the table. Cas manages a small noise that conveys thanks, and they eat in silence otherwise. 

The food and cups of coffee—because he has multiple—seems to wake Cas up, finally. He even manages a smile as he finishes up his toast. Dean chuckles and shakes his head. 

"Done?" Dean asks, risking conversation as he nods towards Cas' mostly empty plate. 

"Yes. Thank you, it was good," Cas says, his fingers curling around his last cup of coffee like it's precious. 

Dean hums in approval and steals Cas' plate, taking it and his own to scrape the last bits off into the trash. He busies himself for the next few minutes loading the dishwasher with everything he cooked with, but then he's a little hung up. 

"Dude, come show me how to use this," Dean mutters, squinting at all the buttons in annoyance. 

Cas just holds up his finger, then raises his coffee like it explains everything, which it does. Dean rolls his eyes anyway, waiting and tapping on the counter a little impatiently. Cas doesn't rush, but the dude can suck down some coffee apparently, because it doesn't take long. He gets up when he's done, rinses out his mug, then shows Dean how to use the dishwasher. It's simple enough, but that's because Cas himself seems to know the bare minimum. 

After, Cas says, "Let me get a shower, and then we'll go shopping. Or, if you don't want to take Baby, we can wait until Jack gets back." 

"No, it's fine. Do your thing, man," Dean mutters, waving a hand a little lazily. 

"The TV remote is on the piano," Cas murmurs, gesturing towards the living room as he starts towards the hallway, not even batting an eye at the way Dean sort of just shadows him. 

With that nudge, Dean changes directions and moves into the living room, grabbing the remote and settling down on the couch. He straightens out all the papers on the coffee table because it's right in front of him, then splits his attention between the TV and texting Sam. 

A good hour passes this way, and Dean's brain goes in a direction it most definitely hasn't before—likely because Cas didn't have to take showers when he was an angel. He remembers Cas saying that he usually gets off in the shower, simply because it energizes him. Dean's mind fixates on that for a while, wondering if he's doing it right now, then he beats those thoughts away with a metaphorical stick. No more towels; he's getting violent now. 

He can't help but eye Cas critically when he gets out of the shower, trying to look for any signs. Mostly, Cas looks normal. He's definitely awake now, but that could be attributed to the shower itself. Short of asking, Dean will never know, and he's not asking. 

Seeing Cas in normal, everyday clothes is something else. His style isn't much like Dean's—no flannels, no ridiculous amount of layers, because apparently that's only saved for the trenchcoat getup. No, Cas' style seems to be geared towards personal comfort. Broken-in jeans that fit criminally well, a soft sweater that's pushed up around his elbows, bunching the fabric. His shoes are black and have no laces—not boots, but clearly a comfortable pair. He's done absolutely nothing with his hair, but it seems to have sorted itself out after the shower, still a little messy but no longer all over the place. 

He looks different like this, softer, and Dean never really realized that Cas had aged or changed at all. He barely catalogued that before now, despite the fact that it must have happened before his very eyes, much the same as he's aged and changed. Weirdly, in Dean's mind, Cas has always been closer to the very first time Dean laid eyes on him, so young and wide-eyed and oozing with unfathomable power. Untouchable. And now, now, he's older and softer and something that would be easy to touch. 

Curious about it, about the apparent ease of it, about whether or not he wants to, Dean stops Cas at the door and reaches out to touch his arm, dragging his hand down just to—to feel. The soft fabric of the sweater brushes against his palms, and when he squeezes, Dean can feel the bulk of Cas' arms under his fingers. He keeps going until he gets at skin, fingers trailing down and brushing the warmth and faint hair on the forearm. Cas squints at him, clearly trying to figure out what the hell Dean is doing, and Dean wants to tell him—he really does—but he doesn't have a fucking clue either. 

He's just kinda...feeling Cas up. Which is. Well. 

Dean drops his hand hastily and covers the moment with a cough. "Ready to go?" 

"Yes," Cas answers, still looking at him oddly. "I'll give you directions. I know where to go to get the best deals." 

"It's not like you're hurting for money, man. Wait, you aren't, right? You've got one of those credit cards just like we do. I asked Sam, and he said he gave you one. Why'd you get a job?" Dean asks. 

"I have no financial issues, but it doesn't hurt to be frugal." Cas pauses long enough to slip in the car at the same time that Dean does. "My job is part-time and the hours are very flexible. I just wanted to have something to do, because sitting around the house became very annoying." 

Dean swings around in the yard and drives them out to the dirt path, turning and pointing them towards the main road. "You like it?" 

"For the most part, yes. In this area, since it's not the city, I drive nearly the same route every time. There is an elderly woman who struggles to go out and get her favorite Chinese food, so I help her with that. It's not—saving people, but it is providing a service that enriches their life, and I enjoy that very much," Cas explains. He looks out the window, tipping his head. "Of course, there are a few very rude people, but I suppose that comes with the territory of humanity. You never know what you will find yourself contending with, but I find that I like the surprise quite a bit." 

"That's—hey, no, that's actually great, Cas," Dean says, aware that his tone is warming up, fond. He can't help it. 

"Thank you. Take a left up here." 

They idly chit-chat on the way into town, Cas telling him about his various customers, Dean telling Cas about the paper route he used to drive when he was seventeen—very few run-ins with actual people that early in the mornings on the weekends, but plenty of birds in mailboxes that flew out into his shitty car at the time, scaring the crap out of him at the suddenness of wings flapping in his face. It's an easy, mindless conversation that Dean doesn't even think about interrupting with the radio, and he's a little bereft when they arrive at the first store. 

As it turns out, shopping with Cas is something of an experience. Apparently, he's worked this out for himself, got it down to a science. He's figured out his formula and has no intentions of deviating from it, Dean or no Dean. 

Cas insists on starting at one end of the store—not the frozen section—and going up one aisle, before turning and going down the next. The frozen things are handled next, and then the meat and other oddities along the back are handled last. After that, they loop back around in one finished circle to end up at the checkout lines. Dean can't really fault the system, seeing as it works, but it's kinda cute that Cas gets all up in arms when Dean suggests they skip an aisle because they already know they're not going to need anything off of it. He refuses to skip any aisle whatsoever, fussing that it throws the whole thing off, and Dean grins at the back of his head as Cas marches off with the cart, grumbling under his breath as he goes. 

There's some confusion because there's a list, and when Dean sees something on the list, he points it out. More times than Dean is prepared for, Cas waves him off and says that they'll get that at another store, since there's a deal going on there. It makes Dean remember a time from when he was younger, penny-pinching and cutting out coupons, internally remembering what store had something cheaper. He hasn't done anything like that in years, and it's odd that Cas does it when he doesn't need to, but it's like Cas...enjoys it, or something. 

They bicker a lot, simply because Dean picks at Cas about various things, just to get his feathers a little ruffled. It's funny. It's kinda adorable. It's also very harmless, because Cas usually ends up just turning away and continuing along when he's had enough of it. They do get into a mildly serious argument about what meat to get, but that's because Dean puts his foot down on the importance of the cut of the meat and not falling prey to any and every sale Cas comes across. For about ten minutes, they just hiss at each other back and forth, shooting tight smiles at the various amused people who walk by, and in the end, Dean comes out victorious, so there. 

When they leave, they repeat this process at yet another store, then they finish up at a farmer's market. That's the one place that Cas seems to relax his process on, which is probably because the stalls change and shift from time-to-time. As it turns out, this is where Cas is happy to indulge himself—and the pantry, by extension.

And people, like, know Cas. 

"Hey, Cas!" A woman standing behind a large table of very red, very big tomato bundles comes surging forward when Cas slows to a stop. There are little mason jars with what looks to be pureed tomatoes inside, thick liquid of red. "Just like clockwork. Every other Sunday. You like those, huh? I thought of it with you in mind, and I gotta thank you—they're selling like hot cakes!" 

"I'm very glad to hear that, Trina," Cas rumbles, picking up one of the jars and squinting at it. He looks up at her and arches an eyebrow. "I gave you the idea?" 

The woman—Trina—bobs her head, beaming at him. "Sure did! I've never met someone so particular about tomatoes before, but you can't be the only one. You should take one, try it out. It's on the house. If you like it, you can find 'em here again." 

"I can pay for it, Trina, I don't mind," Cas says, his eyebrows furrowed. 

"Well, I won't let you. It's your fault my sales have boosted, so take one little jar." Trina turns her gaze to Dean. "Give me one second, sweetheart, and I'll be right with you, okay?" 

"He's with me," Cas says casually, lifting the jar up to examine it curiously. 

"Oh! Well, hey, take the jar for him, then," Trina insists, gesturing at Dean to grab it, nodding. 

Dean flashes her a smile and snatches the jar from Cas, sticking it in the cart. When Cas cuts him a sharp look, he raises his eyebrows. "Don't look at me like that. You should know better than to refuse a woman as nice as her anyway. Just take it, Cas."

"Listen to your handsome friend," Trina says, chuckling heartily when Dean offers her a grin, the kind that makes younger women melt and older women laugh at him. Seeing as she's the latter, she laughs at him. "Oh, by the way, I think Marshal will have something a little special for you today, too." 

Cas blinks at her. "The honey vendor?" 

"Mhm," Trina confirms. "Go on, get out of here. You're taking me away from all my paying customers. You, what's your name?" 

"Uh, Dean," Dean says, pointing at himself. 

Trina wags her finger at him. "Well, my name is Trina. You make sure Cas takes that honey from Marshal, you hear me?" 

"Yes, ma'am," Dean replies immediately. 

"Oh, I like him," Trina tells Cas appraisingly, winking at him. 

"Very few people don't," Cas replies, and she laughs when Dean's face goes hot, likely turning red. 

Trina isn't the first or last who knows Cas by name and face. A few people spend a couple of minutes catching up with him, meeting Dean, while others can only spare a few words and don't even seem to notice Dean at all. Not everyone knows Cas, though, and there are some stalls he doesn't even stop at. 

When they reach the honey stall, Cas steps forward to talk to Marshal—a young man who looks only a little older than Jack, smiling brightly and wearing multi-colored dreads piled on top of his head. As soon as he sees Cas, he nearly turns over a box of honey to rush forward and start shaking his hand a little frantically, talking a mile a minute. 

Cas seems kind of alarmed at the abrupt assault, but he takes it with grace, meaning he blinks rapidly and awkwardly tries to get Marshal to slow down. Dean raises his hand to hide his quiet laughter, leaning on the cart and watching in amusement. 

Apparently, Cas has been singing praises about Marshal's honey to his own customers and helped boost his online shipping sales. Marshal explains that he has a question asking how people heard about it, and the new rush of people who came in all mentioned Cas, so he's to blame. Cas asks Marshal to stop thanking him, but Marshal doesn't. 

He doesn't slow down until he seems to realize that Dean is hovering in the background, and then he says, "Oh, hey, man. You here with Cas, or are you looking to get some of the best honey in town?" 

"I'm with him," Dean says, pointing to Cas. 

"I haven't seen you before," Marshal points out. 

Dean smiles. "He keeps me locked in the house, only lets me out once in a blue moon." 

"Yeah, I feel you," Marshal tells him with a grin. "My wife doesn't let me go running around either. Keeps me on a short leash because I'm—how does she put it?—a walking disaster." 

"I heard that!" comes the distant shout from behind the counter, and a woman's head pokes out from around a table in the back. She's on her knees, sorting through jars of honey. 

"You were meant to," Marshal calls back. 

"Is that Cas?" 

"Yeah, babe, it's Cas." 

The woman stands up, brushing her shorts off as she comes over. She beams at Cas. She's pregnant and glowing. "You know what you did? You helped me get the crib I wanted, Cas. Seriously, we can't thank you enough. Please take some honey for free. We know you like it, and we'll give you extra as long as you promise to stop by and see us even if you haven't run out yet." 

"Maria, it's fine. I'm happy to purchase—" 

"Oh no, none of that. Marsh, get the basket we made for him. Cas, don't argue with me. My feet hurt, my back hurts, and I am in no mood." 

"I—" Cas stalls out, then smiles sheepishly and bobs his head at her. "Very well." 

Maria grins. "Good. And who's this?" 

"The husband he keeps on a leash, 'cause he's apparently like you when it comes to that," Marshal says as he walks back up with a small basket, a few jars of honey and other various honey-related things inside, up to and including a face-mask. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name, man." 

"Dean," Dean says, then blinks. 

"Nice to meet you, Dean," Maria greets with a smile, taking the basket and holding it out to him, like she knows Cas would be hesitant to take it. As Dean grabs it, she focuses on Cas. "Bring him around more often, Cas. I just know Holly will go nuts. Have you seen her yet?" 

Cas nods. "She was busy, so we didn't have much time to speak. Next time." 

"I know it'll be a while before you run out, but I'm serious about you stopping by and saying hi anyway. You, Dean, make sure he does that," Maria orders. 

"Sure thing," Dean assures her, giving her a two-fingered salute and a weak smile. 

It's not long after that before they're all saying their goodbyes, and then he and Cas continue on. They don't speak between stalls, which is good because Dean's not exactly sure what he'd say, especially after meeting Marshal and Maria. Those are two people who just think they're married now, and Dean's brain doesn't know how to process that. Either Cas is having the same issue, or he's already forgotten it, because he doesn't bring it up. 

When they finish up at the farmer's market, the ride home is quiet. Dean fiddles with the radio station until he finds the one he wants, and they listen to that in silence. It's comfortable, so he relaxes into it. 

Jack is already home when they make it back, and he comes out to help them unload the groceries, as well as help put them up. He gets excited about various things, but especially the fruit gummies he asked for. He tells them about his day, going into detail about the kids and families he interacts with at the library—his favorite, apparently, is a little girl named Carla who thinks he's the coolest thing since sliced bread and tells anyone who listens that Jack is her best friend. 

It's late enough in the day to have an early dinner, and there's not really a discussion on how that's going to go. Cas just starts pulling stuff he wants out, and Dean forms an idea in his head, and then they both move around each other in the kitchen to somehow cohesively make it happen. Jack hangs out with them for a while, more than happy to peel potatoes and chatter away cheerfully. 

Dean's not sure why he likes it so much. The cooking together. The meal together. The cleaning up after together. It's so—it's blatantly domestic, very family-oriented, and a lot softer and safer than he's ever allowed himself to yearn for. But it's so nice. He sinks into it, in the bustle of bodies, in the aimless conversation, the easy laughter. He thinks he could do this every day. He thinks he wants to. 

Cas goes outside and tends to his garden for a couple of hours. Jack goes with him, so Dean follows them out, too. He sits out on the back porch with a beer, watching them kneel in the dirt, talking quietly back and forth. It's calm. Peaceful. 

It's a little after seven when they all go into the living room. Jack drags the stool from the piano and sits on it right in the middle of the room, his head swinging between them on the couch and the TV. Cas leans over Dean to get the remote, suddenly very close, and Dean freezes in place. 

For a second, Cas stays right where he's at, hovering across Dean, their faces a little too close and somehow still not close enough. Dean stares at him, unable to rip his eyes away. Cas holds his gaze and his breath, by the looks of it, before abruptly pulling back like that never even happened. Dean releases a deep breath as quietly as he can, feeling stupidly rattled. He digs his nails into the couch cushion. 

It takes Cas a few minutes to settle on a movie, but Jack makes a low, excited noise when he sees Sylvester Stallone on the screen, so Cas leaves it on one of the Rambo movies without any fuss. 

Dean tries to watch it, and he thinks he does a little bit. He just keeps getting distracted. He doesn't want to be staring at Cas as hard as he is; he just can't stop it. His gaze drags over the side of his face, lingering on the curve of his neck, then follows the line of his shoulder, down his arm, snagging on his hand. Cas has got faint raised veins on the back of his hands, which Dean didn't know could be this interesting until this very moment. The fingers twitch, and Dean's gaze snaps up.

Cas clearly caught him. He's just looking at Dean, his expression obviously conveying that he saw Dean staring at him. Dean doesn't say anything, because what the fuck is he supposed to say? Your hands are apparently distracting, sorry? Yeah, no way in hell he's admitting that. 

He apparently doesn't have to. Cas lifts his hand and holds it out towards him, like he's offering it. He arches an eyebrow, waiting. Dean feels like his face is about to melt off, and he shoots a quick look over at Jack, but he's entranced by the movie. Despite the fact that this is the weirdest fucking thing, Dean hesitantly nods, not even sure what the hell he's agreeing to. 

As it turns out, it's not anything crazy. Cas just drops his hand off into both of Dean's, like he's handing over a package that isn't his problem anymore. He turns back to the movie, ignoring him, leaving his hand resting in Dean's. 

It takes at least a minute before Dean's brain kicks back online, but he decides not to use it to think about anything too seriously. While Cas may struggle to empty his mind, Dean can do that shit at will. He does so now, aggressively not thinking about a goddamn thing as he starts touching Cas' hand with both of his own. He traces the veins, staring down at it, even bends the fingers and straightens them out. Cas lets him do whatever, not even glancing over at him, so Dean spends a while just feeling up Cas' hand like a fucking weirdo. 

It's actually kinda nice, to be fair. Cas' skin is soft where Dean's is a little more rough. They would be, though, because all the cuts and calluses he would have had always healed as an angel, and he hasn't been human long enough to start roughening up his hands yet. Dean, on the other hand, has busted up his hands a lot over the years, so he's covered in scars and calluses and rough skin. 

Dean can make out the small burn scar on Cas' palm, a tiny arc of one long healed that Dean's sure came from where he burned his hand over the phone. Dean traces it lightly, his head tipped down. Cas' hands aren't stained brown from his garden like Dean's would expect. They're so soft, Jesus Christ. 

It's like a bubble pops when Cas draws his hand out of Dean's grip with no warning. Dean automatically tries to grab it back, a reflex that comes with holding onto something long enough to be used to how it fits in your hands. When it kicks in that Cas' hand is actually attached to him, Dean stops trying to take it back, dropping his hands and clearing his throat as he blinks. 

"That was good," Jack announces as he stands, pushing the stool back to the piano. 

Cas also stands up, cutting the TV off. "What are your plans for tomorrow?" 

"I think I'm going to work on Heaven again," Jack says. "Unless, do we have something else to do?"

"No. Are you going to bed?" 

"Mhm." 

"Leave a note if you go before I wake up. Or tell Dean if he's awake," Cas murmurs. 

Jack nods. "Okay. Goodnight, Castiel. Goodnight, Dean." 

"Night, Jack," Dean mumbles at the same time that Cas fondly says, "Goodnight, Jack." 

"I'm going to lay down. I like to read in bed," Cas informs him, turning to look at him. He holds out the remote. "Do you want this?" 

Dean takes it with a shrug. "Sure. Thanks." 

After that, he's left alone to flip through channels. He does that for a while, before leaning his head over on his hand and lazily watching some talk show going over current dramatic events in the world. He doesn't really care, so it's perfect to allow his mind to drift for a while. 

He's not exactly bored, just kind of relaxing. He doesn't know if he feels out of sorts because he hasn't looked for a case today, or cleaned his many guns, or actually laid eyes on his brother. He thinks he does and also doesn't, because it is new, but it's not like it was a bad day. Actually, his day was marginally better than it has been in a long time. 

His phone rings in his pocket, so he digs it out. His heart immediately jumps in instinctive alarm when he sees that Eileen is trying to facetime him. But, when he answers, she's grinning at him. 

"Hey, Dean," she greets. "Are you busy?" 

"Nah, not at all," Dean says, shaking his head. 

"Good. It's your shift. Entertain him for an hour," Eileen tells him, then presumably shoves her phone at Sam, because the screen blurs before he appears. 

Sam looks off to the side with a frown. "I already told you, I am perfectly fine." 

"No," comes Eileen's voice in the distance, "you need a break before you work yourself to the bone. I know it's important to you, Sam, but the codex will still be there if you relax for an hour. Talk to your brother, get up, walk around. Breathe a little, okay?"

"I—oh, well, bye," Sam mutters in frustration at the sound of a door closing. He huffs and looks down into the phone. "Hey, Dean." 

Dean grins at him. "She's right, you know." 

"Don't even start. I don't need you two double-teaming me right now." 

"I know you're excited about the project, but you're gonna melt your brain down if you push too hard."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam grumbles. The screen wobbles, and then he groans. Dean can hear something pop, like a back. Sam exhales loudly. "Okay, maybe she was onto something about me getting up. Jesus, my spine just sounded like a xylophone." 

"I heard it," Dean says. "Walk it off." 

Sam snorts, the phone swaying as he apparently starts walking around. "Where's Cas?" 

"In the room, reading. Wanna say hi?" 

"Sure." 

"Hold on." Dean groans a little as he hefts himself off the couch. He heads up the hall and pokes his head into the room, lips twitching when he sees Cas sitting up in the bed with a book in hand. "Cas, Sammy's on the phone. He says hi." 

"Hello, Sam," Cas replies dutifully, not even looking up from his book. 

"Where's Jack?" Sam asks. 

"In his room. I think he's sleeping. You want me to tell him you said hi?"

"You can. I talked to him a little earlier. He said he was at home alone and bored. Where were you?" 

Dean moves into the room, shutting the door, then kicks off his boots. As he heads for the bed, he says, "We went grocery shopping. Cas is kinda famous at the farmer's market." 

"No, I'm not," Cas speaks up, idly turning a page. He doesn't move over when Dean flops down next to him, close enough for their legs to jostle each other. 

"Yeah, he is. Everyone loves him there," Dean tells Sam. He turns the screen so Sam can see Cas for a few seconds, then turns it back as he settles against his pillows. "He gets free stuff." 

Cas makes a small, displeased noise. "That's the first and only time that happened. It's not a normal occurrence." 

"I wanna go to a farmer's market," Sam says wistfully. "Maybe next week I'll have the time." 

"You think you'll have the codex finished by then?" Dean asks, propping one hand up behind his head. 

"I seriously doubt it, but it'll be close. It's so much information, dude. Don't get me wrong, I'm loving it, but there's a lot. My freaking fingers hurt from typing for hours. I think taking a case might be a good idea, just to break it up, ya know?" 

"Sounds like a good plan. You heard anything about any cases through the grapevine?" 

"Here and there. Why? Don't tell me you're looking to come out of retirement already." 

"No. Well, I mean, I'm not really retired. I was just asking, is all. Shut up." 

Sam hums, smiling at him. "Sure, Dean." 

The conversation continues for the next hour, ebbing and flowing. Occasionally, Cas makes a comment, but he mostly just sticks to reading, his knee pressed against Dean's leg. Sam eventually finds Eileen and joins her in laying on their bed beside each other. Sam dutifully holds the screen so they're both in the frame, that way she can see and contribute to the discussion. At one point, she and Cas are doing most of the talking back and forth, and it's the only thing that gets Cas to put down his book—freeing up his hands to sign. Dean and Sam shoot each other amused looks through the screen. 

When they start yawning at each other, they hang up. Dean puts his phone on to charge, and Cas closes his book. 

"Did you leave the TV on?" Cas asks. 

"Uh...maybe?" Dean says, frowning. 

Cas sighs. "When you get ready for bed, can you check? Turn it off, if it's not. I'll never sleep otherwise." 

"Things kinda have to be a certain way for you to sleep, huh?" Dean muses curiously. 

"Yes," Cas admits, and he sounds like it frustrates him. "It's not necessarily just for my sleep, either. Things irritate me if they're not a certain way. It makes me uncomfortable, and logically, I know it doesn't make a difference, but I just…" 

"Has the TV been bugging you this whole time?" 

"I've been trying to ignore it. I don't know for certain if you cut it off or not, and it shouldn't matter. I can't even hear it, if you didn't." 

"Yeah, but dude, you coulda told me. I would have checked for you, man. It's not a big deal." Dean frowns at him and sits up. "Seriously, if it makes life a little easier on you, just lemme know." 

Cas' eyebrows draw together. "It's frustrating." 

"Hey, we've all got our things, I guess. I'm weird about my car, you know that. It's fine, Cas. I'm gonna go put you out of your misery and check on the TV now. At ease, soldier, all will be right in the world soon," Dean teases, reaching over to clap Cas on the knee, trying to get him to loosen up a little. 

It works, thankfully. Cas relaxes a bit and smiles at him. Dean smiles back and heads out to go do just as he said he would. The TV was not off, as it turns out, so he fixes that and puts the remote back where Cas got it from. After that, he putters around, getting ready to go to bed. Cas is already changed, probably has been since he came to read his book, so Dean's tasked with cutting the light out again. 

They're a little closer together tonight, and Dean has no idea what that means. He can actually feel the heat from Cas under the cover. They're not touching at all, though, and there's no danger of it. 

"Was the TV on?" Cas murmurs. 

"Is it gonna bug you if you know?" Dean asks. 

There's a pause, then Cas grumbles, "Yes." 

"Then don't worry about it." Dean snorts and scoots down a little, drawing the blanket up. He shuts his eyes. "Hey, Cas?" 

"Yes, Dean?" 

"What do you even eat honey with?" 

Cas laughs softly and proceeds to list all the ways he incorporates honey into his meals, giving Dean a few ideas of his own. His voice is quiet, but as deep and gravelly as ever. Dean turns towards him on his side, stuffing a hand under his cheek, letting the other one rest out in front of him for reasons he won't identify right now. 

"And Jack sometimes eats it right out of the jar," Cas finishes. 

"Now there's an idea." 

"I'd rather you didn't." 

"Is that one of those things that bugs you?" Dean asks curiously, genuinely wanting to know. 

Cas makes a low sound. "No, not really. I'd just rather the honey be used in a meal." 

"Just the idea of someone eating honey straight out the jar keeping you up at night is kinda hilarious," Dean admits, grinning in the dark. 

 "I'm glad you find my quirks so amusing," Cas says dryly, only for his tone to turn sour. "At least someone does." 

Dean's smile drops. "No, not like that. It's not, like, a joke. It's, you know, what makes you you. I've always liked that you're...you know. Quirky. S'kinda like how I tease Sam for being a nerd, but I'm actually proud that he's so smart." 

"Yes, but I'm quite sure that Sam's intelligence doesn't impede his sleep." 

"Yeah, probably not. Did you sleep bad last night?"

"Not any worse than usual. Perhaps even a little better," Cas admits quietly. 

"If me being here makes it worse, I could—" 

"Dean, I'm quite sure that simply holding your hand last night helped. You being here is not an issue." 

"Oh." Dean's fingers twitch in the space between them, and he clears his throat. "Well, it's there. If it helps. If you—if you want to, uh…" 

"Does it bother you?" 

"Nah, not really." 

"Okay," Cas says softly, and in the next moment, his fingers are fumbling and bumping into Dean's. 

The moment they tangle together, Dean can no longer form words, and Cas seems to sense it. They don't say anything else. They just fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Living with Cas and Jack is… 

Well, as it turns out, it's kinda great. Dean doesn't think he's got the stones to admit it out loud, but it's mostly perfect. The only downside is that Sam isn't here, which just feels weird, but they both more than make up for that by frequently texting throughout the day and facetiming pretty much every night. 

Dean falls into a rhythm, figuring out the days one at a time, finding where he fits in. Day-by-day, it gets easier and easier, better and better. 

Cas works four days out of the week, and his shifts last for five hours, generally. The first time he goes to work, Dean feels unreasonably off-kilter, like someone just snatched his safety-blanket off of him, which is just ridiculous. Jack's still in Heaven that first day, so Dean's alone. He's left to his own devices to find something to do. 

What he does is something that's been bugging him a little from the very first night. He goes into town and gets the necessary tools and equipment to replace the janky doorknob on Cas' bedroom door. Their bedroom door. Whatever. He also installs a doorknob on the back door, seeing as it doesn't have one at all. He wastes a couple of hours this way and feels much better when it's done. 

When Cas gets back, Dean's in the middle of cooking something for dinner. The way his eyes light up at seeing the lasagna in the oven sticks with Dean for hours, only beaten by how delighted he is while eating it. None of that holds a candle to Cas' reaction to the improved bedroom doorknob. 

The moment he opens the door with no problems, Cas whirls around and squints at him. "You fixed the doorknob." 

"I did," Dean confirms. "Put one on the back door, too. It was bugging me. You mind?" 

"Do I—" Cas cuts himself off, and he stares at Dean with a very peculiar expression. Dean raises his eyebrows, and Cas exhales softly and shakes his head. "No, Dean, I don't mind. I—thank you. I appreciate it. Very much." 

"How much?" Dean asks, not even sure what the words mean as he says them. 

"Very," Cas murmurs, his gaze fixed on Dean's mouth in a very obvious way. There's so much want slapped onto his face that Dean considers breaking shit in the house just to fix it. He wonders what Cas would do if replaced a door or something. 

Dean tries to open his mouth and say that Cas can just—just do it. Whatever it is. All of it. He doubts he would mind, and in fact, he's pretty sure that he wants it. That's where the issue comes in, he thinks. Back when he wasn't fully sold on wanting it, he could just flippantly offer, no problem. Now that he's positive that he does, he can't figure out how to say a goddamn thing. When it's an offering, he's fine; when it's asking, he's fucked. 

So, he says nothing, and Cas eventually shakes himself out of it and continues on his way. 

Jack's back the next time that Cas goes to work, so Dean spends those five hours with him. They watch TV for a few hours, and then Jack asks if he can drive Baby, but Dean's in no mood to leave the house. His compromise is taking Jack outside and letting him get under Baby's hood, teaching him how to maintain her, how to take care of her. 

They're still going at it, covered in grease and sweating, when Cas' truck pulls in. Dean apologizes for not having any food made, but Cas just smiles and tells him to keep doing whatever he's doing, promising to handle dinner on his own. He's a little insistent about it, and Jack is having the time of his life learning about Baby, so Dean agrees. 

Things start to fall into a routine. When Cas goes to work, Dean finds ways to pass the time—locating something around the house to fix, spending time with Jack, usually teaching him about Baby. He takes to it so well that Dean's sure Jack will know his way around her almost as much as he does. 

Cas tends to his plants in the house, his garden outside, and sometimes he disappears for an hour or two, only to return with a few new rocks to add to his collection on the dresser. He always shows them to Dean, waiting for judgement, so Dean's forced to find new ways to compliment fucking rocks. He does it anyway because Cas always smiles. 

Cas also shows him the bird feeders he's got set up. He's apparently on good terms with the hummingbirds, because he shows Dean his neat little trick of patiently and quietly holding out his finger so the random hummingbird will land there. He's so calm and careful about it, smiling tenderly and talking softly to the birds, in his own little world. Dean watches and thinks ah, fuck. 

Jack has this one-day-a-week gig where he walks dogs for an older lady across town. He admits that he usually just appears close to there, hidden, because Cas is at work when he has to go. At first, he asks Dean if he can take Baby, then he switches gears and asks Dean if he'll come. 

Dean goes, because why not? Cas is at work, so he doesn't have anything else to do. Jack plants himself at the driver side of Baby, dramatically splaying across the door, his eyes imploring. Dean sighs and hands him the keys, which earns him one of those hugs that come out of nowhere. They go and walk two tiny, yipping dogs together. Jack says he gets paid twenty dollars and would be willing to give Dean ten for his assistance, but Dean says no, that's fine, and Jack spends the next hour talking about how much he likes the dogs and how nice Ms. Geraldine is. Dean finds the dogs very annoying, but he refrains from saying so.

Things feel like they even out again when Cas is off for three days. Jack's gone during most of the day on Saturday and Sunday, reading to the kids at the library. That leaves Cas and Dean to find ways to pass the time, which could lead in a certain direction but doesn't. Dean's not even that upset about that, because they actually go and do stuff. 

They go into town to walk around the local flea market, which isn't something Dean has ever done in his life. It's right up his alley, though. He has a ridiculous amount of fun with it, strolling along with Cas, haggling for shit he doesn't even need, talking to perfect strangers. He buys a new pocket-knife, some alligator-skin boots he'll probably never get the opportunity to wear, and two slices of pie. Cas buys a lava lamp and a weighted blanket that Dean assumes is for him until Cas corrects him and admits that it's for Dean. 

"It's a gift," Cas says, when Dean tries to refuse. 

"Yeah, but—" 

"We can share it." 

"Like...at the same time?" Dean asks carefully, glancing at the packaged blanket. It's heavy as fuck, but it's not that big. He and Cas would have to be pressed right up against each other to share it. 

"That wasn't what I was suggesting," Cas replies, arching an eyebrow at him. "Is that an option?" 

"Dunno." Dean shrugs and very firmly doesn't look at Cas for a while. "Don't care. Doesn't matter." 

Before Cas can respond, Dean's tugged away by Sam calling him. He walks around, talking to him for a little while, narrating his day. Apparently, Sam and Eileen are off to handle a case in Virginia, and since she's driving, he thought he'd see what Dean was up to. He seems to find the fact that Dean's just lazily walking around a flea market with Cas absolutely hilarious and also delightful. 

The next day goes in a different direction. There's no flea market, but Cas wants to go fishing, which is so surprising that Dean's unable to wipe the shock off his face. Cas scowls at him for it, but he shows his hand when he admits that he has no poles or proper bait. Dean gets the feeling that Cas is just suggesting it for his sake, but he doesn't mind. 

It's really nice, actually. Dean's always liked fishing, and Cas seems to enjoy it for the most part, too. Well, he doesn't like putting the bait on the hook, so Dean has to do it for him. He feels bad for the worms, which shouldn't be cute but is anyway. He also insists on throwing all the fish back, no matter how many times Dean insists that they could actually have fish for dinner. He won't hear a word of it, and he murmurs quiet apologies every time he works the hook out of the various fish's mouths. 

The first week rolls into the second, and it doesn't change that much. Dean mows the lawn. On Sunday, he goes with Cas to get groceries again, chuckling when people at the farmer's market comment on him coming back. He learns how to fix the wiring for the fan in their room, so Cas doesn't have to struggle with it anymore. He fucks it up bad enough that the fan doesn't work at all one night, and Cas genuinely doesn't get a wink of sleep, so Dean stays up with him in solidarity. He has it fixed by the next night, and despite his exhaustion, Cas looks like he wants to kiss him again. 

By the third week, Dean's pretty settled. He's comfortable. He knows the house in the dark. He has a routine that he falls into, rarely deviating from it, at ease with it. He figures out most of Cas' quirks and does his best to accommodate them, because Cas has always accommodated his, even in the beginning when he was just an angel and didn't actually understand them. 

Sam and Eileen show up one day, not even calling in advance. Dean's outside with Jack, showing him Baby's undercarriage, and he crawls out with faint suspicion when he hears tires turn into the yard. His defensiveness disappears entirely when he sees who it is, and then he's like a little kid on Christmas. His enthusiasm almost outweighs even Jack's. 

They plan to stay the night, so Dean calms down a little, simply basking in their presence. They all have dinner together, but afterwards, everyone heads outside. Cas and Jack insist on showing Eileen the garden, and she pays attention with a glazed look in her eye, clearly being indulgent. She obviously doesn't give a shit, but she's being nice, which makes Dean chuckle under his breath. 

"Look at you," Sam murmurs, sitting next to him on the steps of the porch, beaming at him. "You look happy, Dean." 

"Nah, I'm just laughing at Eileen's misery," Dean teases, nodding his head to the pained smile on her face as Cas signs and points to the ground. Cas' head keeps swiveling towards the kitchen window. 

"No, I don't mean like that. I just mean—you know, you look...content. Settled. Shit, Dean, you look younger," Sam informs him, shaking his head in amazement as he scans Dean with his gaze. 

Dean looks down at himself. "I do?" 

"Yeah. No offense, but before...you looked kinda older. And more exhausted. And pretty done with the world as a whole," Sam points out. 

"Well, I ain't got a new skincare routine or anything, if that's what you're hinting at," Dean mumbles, brushing his knuckles in his fingers against one another from where his arms rest on his legs and his hands hang between his knees. "S'just, ya know, getting to rest a little. You should try it, man." 

"Some form of retirement is in my future, that's for sure, but not for a while. I'm glad you're liking it, though." Sam flashes him a broad grin. "I could do with a vacation every now and again, maybe." 

"Well, that's good, 'cause you gotta come with us when we go to the beach," Dean declares, reaching over and lightly smacking Sam on the arm. "You and Eileen. Maybe we can get some of the ladies who have some free time to come. Make a day out of it, ya know? Cas will work it out." 

Sam snorts quietly. "Oh, Cas will work it out?" 

"Yeah. Dude's, like, happier than a pig in mud when he gets to plan shit out. He likes lists and stuff. Ya know, schedules and set plans, things like that." 

"Uh huh." 

"What?" Dean mutters, looking at Sam, then following his gaze towards Cas. He's starting to look a little restless, head turning to the window over and over. "You're about to say something, I can tell."

"Well, I was going to ask," Sam admits sheepishly, sounding amused. "What's going on with you two anyway? Did you ever—you know?" 

Dean shrugs lazily, lips tipping down. "I don't know what you're—" He halts when he sees Cas edge closer towards the porch, his gaze planted firmly on the window. With a sigh, he leans forward and darts a hand out, tugging on Cas' wrist to get his full attention. "You good?" 

"I'm fine," Cas replies in what seems to be an automatic reflex. He's clearly not, though, and he can't hold Dean's gaze for very long before he's going back to staring at the window. 

"It's the dishes, isn't it?" Dean asks, squeezing Cas' wrist. He knows already. "We didn't rinse 'em off."

"It's fine," Cas bites out, though the heated words aren't pointed at Dean. He turns his hand and grabs Dean's wrist, too, squeezing it in distracted apology, which Dean accepts easily enough. "It should be fine. It's just—I'll go and—" 

"I'll take care of it, Cas. Go back to your fancy little garden," Dean says, dropping his hand and waving him off. "Go on. Go away. Leave it to me." 

Cas frowns. "You should be visiting with Sam." 

"Oh, Sammy's coming with me. His hands ain't broke." Dean grins and reaches down to smack Sam on the shoulder. "Seriously, Cas, it is fine. We'll be back out in a few minutes. We need to grab some beers anyway. You want anything?" 

"Wine," Cas says immediately, always his drink of choice. He narrows his eyes. "A full glass, Dean." 

Dean waves him off and starts tugging on Sam's shirt to get him to stand up. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." 

"Thank you, Dean," Cas calls after him. 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Dean repeats, slipping into the house, frowning when Sam lets the screen door slam shut. "Hey, be easy. Damn." 

"Sorry. I thought it had one of those little stoppers, like Bobby used to have." Sam grimaces in apology and follows him into the kitchen. "So, uh, you wanna tell me what that was all about?" 

"What?" Dean asks. 

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Cas. Something wrong?" 

"Oh. No, no, nothing like that." Dean waves his hand and steps up to the sink. "He's particular about a few things. It bugs him if those things aren't like that. Dishes gotta be rinsed off, even if they're not going in the dishwasher for a while. The fan's gotta be on so he can sleep. He has to make sure the door's locked three times every night and he won't be able to sleep if any appliances are running, like the TV or the dishwasher. Stuff like that." 

"Huh," Sam grunts, getting with the program and helping rinse dishes. "I didn't know he cared about stuff like that." 

"I don't think he really did when he was an angel. Maybe a little. Now that he's all settled into being a human, he's figuring out that we're all a little weird about stuff—him included." Dean waves a hand at the stack of plates in front of him. "He obsesses over it, even though he says it shouldn't be a big deal. It pisses him off, ya know? But it's kinda strange, because what he doesn't know for sure doesn't bug him as much. Like, he has no idea if I'm actually in here doing it, or if I'm just lying to him, and he won't know until he comes to look. But he's cool up until he comes and looks." 

"It's like his Schrodinger's cat," Sam muses, cocking his head a little. 

"His what?" Dean blurts out. 

"For as long as he's not looking, he can decide that you've done what you said you would. But, at the same time, he's content with not knowing either way. It's—you know, the cat in the box. Is it dead, is it alive? Is Dean rinsing the dishes, is he lying? It's both or neither, and there's probably something kind of comforting about it," Sam suggests. "If he knows one way or the other, it'll just upset him if it's not the way he wants it. So. Schrodinger's cat." 

"I understood most of that," Dean tells him, mostly sure that he did. "I guess that's one way for him to fight it. I dunno why he feels like he has to. I told him that it doesn't matter, 'cause does it, really? I have no fucking clue why he insists on making it worse for himself, but it's like he's bucking the idea of being different like this so hard that it's just making things harder on himself. I told him to just accept it, especially if it'll help him sleep at night." 

"He has trouble sleeping?" 

"Dude, the other night, I kid you not, he stayed up until nearly three in the morning because he didn't check that the door was locked a third time. He said he knew it was locked, so why did he have to check it again? But he had to do it. Me doing it for him didn't work; it had to be him. I almost smothered him with the goddamn pillow." 

"No offense, Dean, but I think you're the last person who gets to judge someone else for being difficult and making their lives a little harder," Sam says, lips twitching as he passes over a glass. 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm kinda a hypocrite when it comes to him. Can't help it." 

"What does that mean?" 

"It means he's not getting a full glass of wine, and I think he should get a full eight hours of sleep, and I wish he'd stop being so hard on himself sometimes."

Sam stares at him, then grins. "Aw, Dean." 

"Shut your face," Dean snaps, then adds, "bitch."

"Yeah, that's really hypocritical of you, to be fair. But hey, at least you're self-aware," Sam teases. 

Dean shrugs and stares down at the last plate as he swivels it under the water. He swallows. "I don't know. It's different. When it's—when it's him. It's just different. I can't explain it." 

"I probably can, but you've come this far, so I'll let you work the rest out on your own." Sam laughs quietly and flicks his fingers as Dean cuts off the water. "I won't lie, and I'm sorry to say it, but I honestly didn't know if you would make it this far at all. It's good, man. I'm happy for you." 

"It's not what you think," Dean mumbles. 

"Between you and him?" Sam asks. He glances over at him, eyebrows raised. "Dean, you two share a bed, a house, and—technically—a kid. You wanna take care of him, even in the small ways. You do, as far as I can tell. He's in love with you." 

"I know, but we haven't even—" kissed, Dean almost says, distantly aware that he sounds put out. He grimaces and shakes his head. "I don't know." 

Sam sighs. "When are you gonna stop letting him be afraid of you?" 

"Afraid?" Dean jolts, his head snapping over. He stares at Sam incredulously. "The fuck does that mean? What's he got to be afraid of me for? He knows I wouldn't kick his ass if he—" 

"No, I don't mean it like that. He's not scared you'll beat him up. Hell, he could probably beat you up, if he was that determined." 

"He's human now." 

"And he was a warrior for Heaven. Not only that, but we both know you'd let him kick your ass before you ever hurt him seriously," Sam says knowingly.

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it, then sighs and nods. "Yeah, whatever. So, what's he afraid of?" 

"Did he ever tell you about the, uh, the deal?" Sam asks, watching him warily. 

"What deal?" Dean retorts sharply, bracing his hands on the counter, his heart kicking in his chest with an age-old fear. 

"Ask him about it. That's not my whole point, anyway." Sam waves a hand and turns toward him, heaving a sigh. "Look, losing you in any capacity is pretty much his biggest fear, as far as I know. He literally left to avoid it, because he was scared you two would fall out if you figured out how he felt about you. He made peace with the idea of having you how he believed he could, because I think—I think he doesn't believe he can have you in any other way. Every time it seems like he can, it's great, right? Should be, because it's what he wants. But then, if he gets to have it, only to lose it later… He's afraid to have more, because it's a lot more to lose."

"Well, he doesn't have to be a wuss about it," Dean mutters, frowning as he heads for a cabinet to get a wine glass. One of the smaller ones. 

He tries not to think of Sam's words too much, or take them too seriously. He's pretty sure that Sam is right, but he doesn't want him to be. This is a lot more complicated than he was expecting. 

He wishes he could just tell Cas that he can have everything. Whatever he wants, he can have. Dean knows without a shadow of a doubt that he'd give it to him. He has no idea how to prove that he's not going anywhere, that he won't just up and decide that he and Cas want different things. He imagines saying it would probably help—like Cas is always pointing out that him telling Cas the important things would solve a lot of their issues—but if this is on Dean, they're shit out of luck. If it's up to his ability to open his goddamn mouth and say something worth listening to, especially without the aid of anger, then they're not going anywhere. They'll be stuck here like this forever.

Which, ya know, that's fine. It's not like Dean's not happy. He could do with more, but as long as he doesn't have less than exactly this, he's perfectly content. It's just that, if Cas wants more, he should get to have it, and Dean—well, Dean can't admit it, but he wants it, too, if Cas does. Why can't Cas just do it? Dean suspects that Cas is asking why Dean can't just say it. What a conundrum they are. 

"Dean, you're a wuss about it," Sam tells him, pointedly. He's clearly judging him. 

"Shut up," Dean snaps, glaring at him over his shoulder as he pours Cas some of his cheap wine. He jerks his head towards the fridge. "Grab us a couple of beers. You think Eileen would want wine, or is beer good for her?" 

"Beer's good." 

"Grab three. I'll get Jack some kool-aid." 

Sam blinks at him. "Kool-aid?" 

"Yeah, the kid loves that shit. Don't act like you don't know what it is. We used to drink it all the time when we were kids, 'cause it was cheap and easy for me to make. Ours was kinda bitter, though. Couldn't always afford enough sugar." Dean hums and shakes his head, making room for Sam to grab the beers. He sits the wine down and moves to get Jack a cup. "Fruit punch is good with some ice." 

"Jesus," Sam murmurs, staring at him. He looks over at the sink, at the leftovers in the open fridge, at the pitcher of kool-aid in Dean's hands. "You're actually a—like an actual family-man, Dean. On purpose." 

"It's not like it's my first time," Dean says quietly, not looking up as he puts the pitcher back and shuts the fridge. 

"Yeah, but… I mean, it is the first time you chose it for yourself, and not just because I told you to." 

"I liked it, then, for the most part. It was—hard, yeah, but some of it was… Well, I remember feeling good about it sometimes. Not the normal stuff. That kinda stuff used to grate on me, ya know? But the family stuff? S'good. It was good, and it still is." 

"But it's right this time. Completely," Sam says. 

Dean considers that, then nods. "Yeah. Does that make me gay? Settling in more comfortably with a man than I ever did a woman?" 

"We've been over this," Sam replies, rolling his eyes. He chuckles and swings the beers from his fingers as Dean grabs the wine, already carrying the kool-aid. "Besides, I don't think it's the man part that makes it right. I'm pretty sure it's just Cas." 

"Yeah, maybe," Dean allows as he starts for the back door, his face hot. "Plus, there's not really much normalcy. Even our normal is a little weird. Kinda like that better, I think." 

"Normal's overrated," Sam announces cheerfully, sounding so genuinely different from how he was when he was younger—a complete one-eighty. 

"M'gonna have to find a job, though. Something to do to keep me busy," Dean admits, throwing Sam a cautious look as they step out onto the back porch. He's concerned Sam might drop all the beers in his excitement. "Don't freak out. Nothing big. I just don't wanna sit around the house all day when Cas is at work or Jack's in Heaven. I might go and mow people's yards for real cheap, or something." 

Sam grins at him. "Okay, hear me out, because I've got just the thing. I've been meaning to ask, but I didn't want to upset your flow just yet." 

"My flow," Dean echoes flatly. 

"Yeah, you know, your groove. Settling in. You know what I mean." Sam rolls his eyes and waves his hand around carelessly. "Anyway, listen, get this. So, I've been getting into contact with a lot of Hunters because of my codex and stuff, and do you want to know what one of the leading issues a lot of them have that keeps them from taking on cases?" 

Dean raises his eyebrows. "No, what?" 

"Car trouble," Sam says. He holds up a finger when Dean opens his mouth. "Shh, shh, listen first. Not everyone knows how or cares enough to take care of their car the way you take care of Baby. But just think about it. A lot of Hunters put crazy amounts of miles on their vehicles, and a lot of them don't know how to keep their car from breaking down. It puts a lot of them in this position where they have these extra expenses on top of Hunting, and it's not like they all have the Charlie Bradbury special. And shit, Dean, at least half of some of these Hunters came from a world where they hadn't used cars in years." 

"Okay, okay, you're making sense. I hear you. Still, what am I gonna do? Drive out to wherever someone's car broke down and fix it?" 

"Well, if you want to every now and again, just to scratch the long-drive itch you've always had, but I was thinking of something a little more proactive, too. You wouldn't have to leave your house. People could come through, and you could give 'em a little tune-up, make sure they're good, and send them on their way. Or, hell, if you don't want people coming here, you could get you a small shop or something. Charge them, don't charge them, up to you. And get this, technically you'll still be doing hunting stuff by proxy, so you can be semi-retired and not feel bad about it. That'll help them out and give you something to do with your time." 

Dean purses his lips. "I mean, I don't hate it." 

"And, if you're willing, you could help with the phone lines. Like we always do, but on a bigger scale. Kinda like Bobby, but not a huge workload because it'll be broken up between people. Cas already agreed to help, by the way." 

"Sounds like him. Again, I don't hate it. I don't mind helping that way, you know that. Is this all going in your codex? That thing ain't done yet?" 

"It is, mostly. I keep making revisions and adding stuff as more ideas come to me. The bulk of it is handled, though. Eileen looked it over, said it looked good. Would you, uh…?" Sam looks at him hopefully, just like he used to when he was a little kid, wanting Dean to look over his homework—not because he was scared it wasn't right, but because he wanted Dean's approval. It makes Dean's heart clench. 

"Yeah, I'll read it," Dean agrees, lips twitching. "I'll make Cas read it, too. Gimme one sec. Cas!" 

Cas' head snaps up from where he's showing Eileen one of his rocks—one of those he keeps outside because they apparently make his garden look prettier, or whatever. "Wine?" he calls, the same way a dog would say squirrel? 

"Yeah, c'mere," Dean replies, rolling his eyes. 

"I said a full glass, Dean," Cas grumbles as soon as he steps up onto the porch. 

"It is full. Just 'cause it isn't all the way to the rim doesn't mean it's not, ya alcoholic." 

"Okay, pot." 

"Bite me, kettle," Dean mutters, passing him his glass and Jack's kool-aid, as well as one of the beers for Eileen. "Listen, Sam's gonna send us his codex to look over. Reading material before bed, and hey, remind me to run something by you later." 

Cas takes a swallow of his wine, then nods. "Okay. Did you rinse the dishes?" 

Dean has to bite back the instinctive no, I just went in there and twiddled my thumbs, his immediate response of sarcasm helping no one, not about this. "Yeah," he says instead, watching Cas' shoulders lose some tension. "You can fill the dishwasher when you go back in, man. For now, just chill out." 

"Thank you, Dean," Cas says, offering him a soft smile, and then he turns and goes to hand out the other drinks to their proper owners. 

"You're gonna run the car thing by him?" Sam asks, leaning on the railing of the porch, his beer cradled loosely in his hands. 

"Yeah, so?" Dean mumbles, shooting Sam a stern look. 

"Nothing. It's just…" Sam coughs around a laugh, grinning. "Dude, you're practically married. I mean, you two have been like that for years, but it's definitely worse now." 

"Oh, shut up." 

Sam laughs. 

It's nice having Sam and Eileen over. Jack brings out his video game system to the living room, one he bought with his own money from walking dogs and the random side job someone offered him while watching him walk the dogs. He's got Mario Kart, and it turns out to be a whole thing. No one in the house isn't anything short of competitive, so there are times when a few people nearly come to blows. 

Eileen wins every goddamn time, and at one point, she and Dean are elbowing and shoving at each other hard enough that they nearly fall outta their seats. Cas plays once, keeps falling off the track, then refuses to play anymore because it is—as he so delicately puts it—a waste of time and brain cells. Dean mocks him for being a sore loser, and Cas kicks him right off the couch, which makes everyone laugh at him because they're all terrible. 

Sam and Eileen leave the next day later in the evening after dinner, and Dean's kinda mopey when they go. He snaps back into himself, however, when Sam sends him the codex. He and Cas sit up in bed with the laptop resting on one leg each, squinting at the screen like a couple of old men. 

"This is very good," Cas muses at one point. "He even has a search engine, where someone can look up keywords and go directly to what they're looking for. This is going to be very helpful." 

"Heh. Hold on." Dean draws up the search bar and types in boobs, frowning when nothing comes up. 

Cas sends him an unimpressed look. "Dean, don't be ridiculous. That's too informal. Try breasts." 

Dean types in breasts, then cackles when three hits pop up in the results. He backspaces and types in dick, which gets no hits. Cas arches an eyebrow at him, and Dean silently types in penis, wrinkling his nose when one hit comes up. 

"Don't tell Sam we did this," Dean says gleefully, backspacing and typing in ass, before correcting to anus, which doesn't get one hit at all. 

"Sam put in all this work, and this is what you do with it," Cas mutters, not sounding surprised, just exasperated. Maybe a little fond. 

Dean chuckles and backs out, leaving it alone, suitably satisfied with his brief moment of childish indulgence. "He did work hard, though. You're right. This is gonna help a lot of people." 

"Mm," Cas agrees. "What was it you wanted to run by me? Something to do with this, I'm assuming." 

"Kinda," Dean admits, abruptly remembering Sam's offer. "Sam kinda had this idea, and I maybe kinda like it. Dunno how it would work out, but I figured you'd have something sensible to say about it." 

Cas glances over at him, looking startled but pleased as well. "You think I'm sensible? I am, of course, but I didn't know you were aware." 

"You can be, sometimes." Dean rolls his eyes, but can't stop himself from smiling at way Cas starts smiling—small and still so fucking sweet. Dean looks away and clears his throat. "Anyway, listen…" 

Dean explains Sam's idea, and they proceed to bounce more ideas back and forth off of each other. Cas is okay with the idea of people coming to the house, but Dean is very much not. He leans into the idea of a small shop in town, but Dean doesn't really want to do that either. He suggests that Dean just goes the traveling mechanic route, which is fine sometimes, but Dean doesn't want to do that all the time. Finally, Cas says he should just start small and see what it will be like, figure it out as he goes, because—in his words—that suits Dean's personality more than just settling on one idea he's not mostly sure about. 

Dean figures it can't hurt just to feel it out. It still bugs him, and Cas seems to sense that, because he spends a little longer thinking about it. They decide to go back to the codex and leave it alone, maybe think about it later. It's unsatisfying, but that's life for you. Dean kinda hates not having a solution, and it gets under skin more than he likes, but he picks up his phone and starts sending Sam a long stream of approval through text. 

For about an hour, they sit up in bed and go over the codex some more. Cas starts texting Sam some additional information that might come in handy, things that only an angel might know, Enochian stuff mostly, and Dean starts texting Eileen just to pass the time. He's still annoyed, his mind running in circles about what the hell to do. 

A part of him thinks he should just go back to hunting. It's productive, he's good at it, and the dad he knows—the dad he remembers—would be fucking pissed about what Dean's doing as of now, and not just because he's doing it with a man and a kid that's not human. He starts getting into his head about it, wondering how many lives he could have saved in the time he's spent doing nothing, thinking about how selfish he's been for the past three and half weeks. In less than twenty minutes, he's about three seconds from just calling it quits and calling Sam, telling him he fucked up and this isn't right. 

Then, out of nowhere, Cas looks up abruptly and says, "Oh, wait. Dean, the Bunker. You could use the Bunker to work on vehicles. Not only would it be helpful for Hunters who need somewhere to rest for a while, you will also see Sam more frequently." 

Dean stares at him, blurts out, "You fucking genius, Cas," and darts forward to press a short, quick kiss right to his scruffy cheek before launching himself out of the bed. He's already got the phone to his ear, Sam's number ringing, not even thinking. 

"What's up?" Sam answers. "Done reading the codex? There's no way." 

"What? No, Cas and I haven't finished it yet, but Cas just gave me the best fucking idea." 

"The mechanic thing?" 

"Right, yeah, but instead of doing it here, I do it at the Bunker," Dean informs him, pacing down the hall with far too much energy. He passes Jack's room, sees that the door's cracked, and peeks in to see the kid watching what looks to be music videos on YouTube. Dean leaves him to it and keeps going, needing to walk. "It's good, too, because Hunters can rest up in the guest rooms while I work on their crap cars. Plus, it'll help you keep in steady contact with everybody. Cas is so fucking smart, Jesus." 

Sam snorts. "He can be, on occasion. Not usually when it comes to you, so this is a nice change of pace. That actually works out really well. Damn, why didn't I think of that?" 

"I don't think I'd charge anybody, 'cause what would be the point if we're trying to help 'em save money anyway? Maybe for parts, but labor can come free." 

"Yeah, that makes sense. That'll be good. So, can I put your number down for mechanic? It'll be another week or two before I send out the codex for good, so you've got time to work out the kinks." 

"I'm good with that," Dean says, because he thinks he is. "If anything changes, I'll let you know." 

"Sounds good, dude. You wanna talk to Eileen? I'm about to go get a shower," Sam tells him. 

"No, I left Cas with the codex, so I should—" Dean chokes, coming to an abrupt halt in the mouth of the hallway, staring at the dim living room without really seeing it. "Oh, shit." 

"Dean?" Sam asks, now alarmed. 

"Sammy, I gotta go," Dean blurts out, pivoting on the spot. Sam makes another alarmed noise, and he huffs. "No one's dead or dying. Everything's fine. Probably. I just did something stupid without thinking. Talk to you later." 

Dean hangs up on Sam's response, which starts out as, "Well, no surprise th—" because he's terrible. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and heads back to the room, feeling like an idiot. He's almost hesitant to go back in, but he forces himself to do it anyway, trying to convince himself that it's fine. Not a big deal. It was just—it was only a kiss. A small one. On the cheek, no less. 

Cas doesn't even look up when he comes in. He's squinting at the laptop screen—the codex—and Dean wouldn't think he even noticed the moment at all if not for the fact that he's red in the face. He's also determinedly not looking at Dean, apparently fascinated with the codex with intense focus. 

"Was that weird? That was weird," Dean mutters as he shuffles over to the bed. He sits down on the end, his back to Cas. 

"It was fine," Cas replies. 

"That was—I didn't even think—" Dean squeezes his eyes shut and blows out a deep breath. "Sorry." 

Cas sighs. "Dean, it was fine. You were excited. You didn't mean anything by it." 

"I—" Dean tries to say that he didn't not mean anything by it, that it felt natural, that he hasn't ached in nearly a month, that he thinks he's smiled more lately than he has his whole damn life. He tries to say anything, and he says nothing. 

"I'm tired," Cas announces abruptly, heaving a sigh and snapping the laptop shut. "Was the dishwasher still running?" 

Dean doesn't know for sure, but he knows what Cas needs the answer to be. "No, man, it's done. You're good to sleep. I'm, uh—I'm kinda keyed up, so I'm gonna go hang out in the living room. Don't worry, I won't turn on the TV." 

"Okay," Cas says softly. "Cut out the light when you go?" 

"Yeah, sure," Dean mumbles. 

Ten minutes later, Dean is sprawled out on the couch, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. The quiet hum of the dishwasher makes him feel guilty until it finally goes off, but at least Cas is asleep. Dean's fully prepared to just sleep on the couch tonight, if he can manage any sleep at all. 

He feels weird. Well, no, that's not quite right. He always feels pretty good these days, just knowing that he doesn't have to obsess over Cas because he's always within reach. He remembers how bad it was before. He remembers the first time he saw Cas again after months of the bare minimum in the communication department, that tiny release that felt like something unclogging from his lungs, that immediate realization that he sincerely, desperately missed Cas and was always going to. He remembers his tunnel theory and how he's on the outside of it now, how he's sometimes called back towards the comfort of it when things get rough, how things on the outside are better than he could have imagined.

He's not sure what's wrong. Is it really that Cas is genuinely that terrified? What, like Dean isn't scared, too? Like the only reason he's brave enough to do this at all is because he knows how awful it is on the other side of it? Like this uncharted territory is easy for him, compared to the things he knew like the back of his hand before? Cas isn't the only one with doubts and shit. They could be in this together, but something is unbalanced. Something's wrong somewhere, somehow, no matter how right everything feels. 

Dean lays there for hours, his phone on his chest. He flexes his fingers, grimacing at himself. From the very first night sleeping together, he and Cas haven't touched outside of tangling their fingers together across the bed. They do that every night, always at the end of whatever they're talking about, never saying a word after. It's like a signal that they're about to go to sleep. Dean feels wide awake. 

A little after midnight, his phone screen lights up with a message. When he checks it, he squints and frowns to see that it's from Cas, who should be fucking sleeping. It just says: Are you awake?

Yeah, Dean replies. 

A second later, Cas' response pops up. Come to bed? 

Dean sighs and heaves himself up off the couch. Shuffling up the hall and into the room, he manages to make it to the bed with minor incidents. He only stubs his toe on the side of the dresser, which makes him hiss and curse under his breath, but he's otherwise fine. He slides into bed in silence. 

He hears the shush of skin across the sheets, so he reaches out, offering and taking all at once. Maybe if he stops framing it as something of an exchange based on wants and who has them, it'll be easier. It just—it feels so fucking good, which is so fucking stupid. It's just hands, but fuck if it doesn't make him feel soft and warm and—and happy. God, he's pathetic. Their fingers tangle, and Dean has to swallow past the lump in his throat, his affection and fondness and stupid neediness strangling him. 

"Were you going to sleep on the couch?" Cas asks quietly, despite the fact that they do not and have never spoken while touching like this. 

It takes Dean a few minutes to figure out how to reply, and even then, it comes out hoarse. "Maybe. I dunno. Why? You can't sleep without me here?" 

Cas doesn't respond, which is answer enough. Dean shouldn't feel so good hearing that, because it's kinda selfish as fuck, but he does. 

They're silent for a while, and Dean thinks they both know they're supposed to be sleeping, except they can't. Cas' fingers keep twitching against Dean's, and Dean keeps shifting his legs. The fan swings around above them to the beat of Stayin' Alive. 

"I, uh—" Dean pauses to clear his throat, coughing a little. His mouth is so dry. "I kinda can't, um." 

That's as far as he gets. Give him a cookie. 

"Dean," Cas whispers. 

"Yeah, Cas?" 

"I'm sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. I just…"

"Got scared?" Dean offers, wondering, but Cas doesn't answer that either. All of this feels so fragile, and it shouldn't. They're them. No matter what, they're them, and that can't change. At the heart of them, they don't know how to change that, change whatever they are when it comes to one another. There's just this, and it's survived every single thing thrown at them, all the insane tests and trials they've faced. It'll survive this, too. It has to. 

"I'm sorry," Cas murmurs again. 

Dean swallows. "Sam mentioned some kinda deal. You wanna tell me about it?" 

"Do you remember when—when Jack was dead? I went to retrieve him from Heaven." 

"Yeah." 

Cas takes a deep breath, then releases it. "The Empty wanted to...take him. It believed that Jack belonged to it. Heaven was collapsing, and I couldn't get Jack out in time before the Empty located him. It was going to take him, so I—I—" 

"Cas," Dean croaks, his fingers tightening, making their hands press together, "what did you do?" 

"Let me preface this by saying that Jack handled it once he became God. He fixed it, so it's no longer an issue. But I...I made a deal, Dean," Cas says softly. 

"Of course you did," Dean mutters, turning his face into the pillow a little, the rest of his words coming out muffled with exhausted sarcasm. "Why wouldn't you? It's stupid, so of course you did." 

"Don't crucify me for doing something you have done multiple times and would have done for those that you love," Cas tells him firmly. 

Dean turns his head and sighs. "What was the deal?"

"Me instead of Jack. The Empty would take me, but there were...modifications to the deal. The Empty would only take me when I felt a true moment of joy. When I was happy. When I, as it said, forgot and moved on with my life and let the sun shine on my face. That was when it would take me." 

"Jesus, Cas. Fuck. So, that—that means you weren't happy any time after that and between Jack getting you out of the deal? That's what you're saying." 

"Yes," Cas confirms. "I never forgot the deal. I never allowed myself to be happy, which wasn't a very hard task, as it turned out. There was always something to be upset about. But I knew that there was one thing that could bring me genuine joy, if only for a moment. A moment was all I needed, however. Do you remember when Billie was chasing us through the Bunker?" 

"I remember," Dean says. 

"If she hadn't died prematurely, or as quickly as we expected, that way we could escape with our lives, I had all intentions of—of using the deal to save your life. You insisted we wait before saying any goodbyes, and it was just pure luck that Billie died before she got inside." Cas pauses, then takes a deep breath before releasing it. "I had a plan, if she didn't slow down, if she did manage to get in." 

"Something that would make you happy in all that shit," Dean rasps as he realizes it. His eyes fly open, heart restricting painfully in his chest. "Something to do with—with me. Cas, you wouldn't. You wouldn't do that to me. Tell me you wouldn't—" 

"It would have made me so very happy to tell you that I love you knowing that I wouldn't have to lose you after," Cas whispers. "I realized at that moment that believing you weren't the happiest part of my very, very long existence simply because you were what I wanted and couldn't have was rather foolish of me. It was never about having you. The fear comes from losing you because I want you, and the joy would have been knowing that I could have you for that split second where I let you know how loved you are, all without losing you." 

"Because you would have been in the Empty, Cas. What the fuck? What the fuck?" Dean bursts out, surging up on his elbow, his ire rising. "Do you have any idea what that would have done to me?" 

"I imagine you would have been upset." 

"Upset. Upset?! You bastard—" 

"Dean, that never actually happened," Cas reminds him a touch forcefully. 

"It could have! You would have done it!" Dean yanks on Cas' hand a little, trying to shake him. "That would have fucking killed me, Cas. You wouldn't have saved my life. Maybe extend it, yeah, but that would have just—just—" Dean snatches his hand away from Cas, exhaling harshly. "You can't do shit like that to me. Ever. Do you hear me?" 

"Dean," Cas says softly, "calm down. I'm right here."

"I know that. I'm just—" Dean flops back down, laying rigidly on the bed. When he speaks, it comes from a place of anger. "You're so scared of losing me, but what about me, huh? All I ever seem to do is lose you, man. But it's worse when you choose to leave me. Why do you always choose to leave me? You have no idea what that feels like, because I can't—it's not even an option for me." 

"It's always an option chosen carefully with your best interests in mind," Cas murmurs, sighing a little sadly. "I suppose I don't know what your best interests are. Either I severely undersell my importance to you, or my fear clouds my judgement. I'm not really sure which." 

"Both," Dean snipes. He jerks his arm away when he feels Cas' fingers bump into it. "Don't touch me right now. I'm tempted to break your goddamn fingers. Why the hell did you tell me this?" 

"Partially so you can understand that—that I'm still sometimes very wary of any joy I feel. I know there are no chances of anything happening, but I spent a long time moderating my own happiness, constantly on edge when I would feel anything positive. At times, you would smile at me, and I would think this is it, nothing gets better than this." 

"Shut up." 

Cas sighs again. "Dean, I understand that you're angry, I do, but it would be helpful to remember that my decision to leave was never because that's what I truly wanted. I have never once walked out on you with the true desire to do it. I always wish to stay." 

"Goddammit," Dean chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut, a strangled feeling in his throat. "Cas, why—why do you—" 

"Love you?" Cas asks, his voice softening, and Dean manages a very tiny, very stiff nod. "That's like asking why the world's tilted a little. There are countless explanations, but when it comes down to it, some things just are, and we're better off for it. We'd never know the seasons without that tilt, and I'd never know love without you." 

Dean grits his teeth, his chest tight, an ache of an unfamiliar origin threatening to surge forward within him. "I get that you're scared, okay? It's scary for everyone, Cas, especially when they're fucked up. It's just a part of being human. When you love someone, you're going to be scared to lose 'em; that's just how it works. I've been terrified for years, Cas. Don't you get that?" 

"I'm starting to," Cas breathes out. "If it's like that, then why do people—why is love so—" 

"Because it can feel—it can be so good," Dean says, pushing himself to the side. He reaches out, putting his hand on Cas' arm, listening to the hitch in his breath, noting the tingle in his own palm. "When you love someone, they just do something to you, ya know? And there ain't no rhyme or reason for it. It's just them, and how you feel about 'em, and it can suck so bad, but when it feels good...it feels better than anything else." 

Cas is quiet for a long moment, his arm twitching as Dean drags his hand up. Softly, he says, "You were just very angry with me." 

"I'm still very angry with you," Dean clarifies, then huffs out a harsh laugh. "I think I'm always very angry with you, but I'm also never very angry with you, and you drive me fucking crazy, you know that?"

"So, in a phrase, I just...do something to you?" Cas asks. When you love someone, they just do something to you, Dean had said, and Cas is asking. He's asking, because he's still somehow unsure. 

"Yeah, Cas, you just do something to me," Dean croaks, his fingers clenching around Cas' arm. His breath shudders out of him. "But mostly, you make me so fucking happy that it's—that I can't—" 

"Can I…?" Cas' hand lands on the side of his neck, his body twisting towards him like his plants growing towards the sun. His thumb presses into Dean's jaw, then shifts to rest against Dean's lips, and there's a question there. Unspoken in the tense silence, but so very loud. 

Dean's answer rips out of him in a gasp. "Please." 

Cas is on him in a second, his thumb getting out of the way just in time to be replaced by his mouth, and Dean's hand slides up to grip the back of his neck to keep him there. Dean has kissed a lot of people in his life, but Cas was right to say that things like this are different when there's love involved. It alters him, just like Cas said it would. 

He can feel himself rearranging accordingly with every slide of Cas' mouth against his own, every swipe of tongue, every scrape of teeth. Just like that, he's not the same anymore. He's practically obliterated, come to think of it, because the kiss reduces him to a shaking mess of want, nothing more than shrapnel in a storm. He knows he's going to want to do this all the time, whenever, every day. He's going to want this, and everything, and more for the rest of his godforsaken life. 

Dean curls in closer and groans, because it's so good. It's so good, and it—it just does something to him. Something inexplicable. Something terrifying. Something amazing. He wraps around Cas like a goddamn vine, now that they're here, because not even an act of God could pull him away now. Some delirious part of his brain thinks that he and Cas should have just done this to defeat Chuck, because there's no way he could've beat this. 

The kiss is like the metaphorical hump on the hill of their issues, and all that's left to travel is down the other side. Dean embraces the freefall with relish, inhibitions and reservations tossed aside like a kite snatched away to nowhere by the torrential wind. Cas pulls back just a little, and Dean's so shamelessly gone that he makes a protesting noise. 

"I want—" Cas cuts himself off with a groan when Dean tugs on his hair, trying to get him to shut up and kiss him some more. Cas indulges him until Dean admits defeat and breaks off, his chest heaving and his body moving closer, as close as it can get, of its own accord. Cas swallows and breathes for a few seconds. "That's really—Dean, I really—" 

"I know, I know. Just—just touch me, Cas, just touch me," Dean babbles, losing the thread of his usual inability to speak far too quickly. He no longer cares what he says, or how he sounds, and he needs no anger to motivate him. Arousal seems to do the trick just as well, if not better. "Wherever, however, I don't care. Just fucking touch me." 

Cas does, cupping his face and kissing him again, which shuts Dean's brain down entirely. It draws out, long and hot and heady. Dean's stupid about it instantly, a whimpering noise ripped out of his throat. He feels it, the catch of teeth, the supple density of chapped lips above his own, and it's the motion, the slow drag of tongues, and he's gone. 

At some unclear time later, Cas tugs himself away just enough to sit up and start working his shirt over his head. Dean can see the outline of him in the dark, and he lays there, chest heaving, so goddamn ready that he's blown past eager and landed on desperate. He watches the blob of Cas' shirt go sailing away, lost in the dark. 

Dean surges up with frantic energy, scrambling to his knees and almost falling over. He nearly smacks Cas in what he assumes is his face as he swipes his hand through the air, searching for something. He finds it just as Cas' hot breath wafts over his jaw, his hands curling under the hem of Dean's shirt. There's the sound of the string being pulled, then light floods around them without warning. 

Cas flinches instinctively, his eyes squeezing shut, but they snap open a second later. Dean squints for a second, adjusts, and then curses softly under his breath as he takes Cas in. He's a mess in his own right, his hair already ruined, pupils blown and the blue rings in his eyes bright. His mouth is puffy, pink, and wet. He looks sinful. He looks heavenly. 

He's also shirtless, and Dean spends a good few seconds just staring. He's so much broader than Dean's brain thinks is correct, or fair. Jesus. All the towels in his mind shrivel up and disappear, like they've been set on fire. 

"Are we stopping?" Cas croaks. 

"Fuck no," Dean blurts out immediately, incredulous, appalled at the mere insinuation. 

"Oh, good." Cas leans forward and smacks the back of his hands to the inside of Dean's forearms, silently ordering him to lift his arms. Dean does, and he whisks the shirt off with efficiency that shouldn't be so attractive but is anyway. "You said you want me to touch you, so I'm going to touch you." 

Dean's eyes flutter shut, his stomach quivering, his heart racing. "That simple, huh? Ask and I shall receive?" 

"Anything," Cas murmurs, pressing in close after tossing the shirt away. His hands—broad and hot and soft—press against Dean's sides, dragging around like he's cupping his ribs. "You can have anything, Dean. There's nothing I would not give you. You only need to ask." 

"What about you?" Dean mumbles, his head feeling heavy and eventually falling back. He inhales sharply when Cas' mouth presses against his throat. 

"I want to ruin you," Cas whispers, like the confession is shameful instead of the hottest thing Dean has heard in years. "You couldn't possibly understand how deeply I want to just ruin you. I want to ruin you for anyone else, anything else, until you are your truest self, bared to me, no longer holding anything back. I think it would be a release for you, but for me… I want to. Is that alright?" 

"Jesus Christ," Dean chokes out. He feels like he's short-circuiting, like someone just spilled something on his keyboard and sparks are coming off of him. "Fuck. Yeah, it's—that's alright. It's so alright. It's the most alright thing I've ever heard." 

Cas hums, mouthing at the side of Dean's neck and shoulder with sudden leisure, as if there's no sense of urgency, as if he's got all the time in the world. Dean rocks with the motion of it, his mouth falling slack, little hisses escaping between his teeth when Cas gets rougher and starts sucking hard at skin, even biting when it apparently suits him. Dean doesn't recall putting his hands on Cas' chest, but he's dragging them up and down, mapping skin and divots out. His thumb catches against one of Cas' nipples, and Cas jerks a little, a quiet groan muffled into the bend of Dean's throat. 

"Do you—" Cas' voice is so gruff that he has to clear it so he doesn't sound like he's growling. He pulls back, one of his hands cupping Dean's jaw, tipping it forward a little. His thumb presses against the seam of Dean's mouth again, like he can't help it, like he really likes it. "Do you want to have sex?" 

Dean blinks at him lazily, feeling hazy. He bobs his head, his lips parting, and he can feel Cas' thumb lightly bump against his teeth by accident. But, really, from there it's so simple to just...suck the digit into his mouth, and his foggy brain thinks that would be good for Cas—maybe even for him—and so he does it. He can tell instantly that it's a good decision because Cas' breath hitches, his eyes get brighter and darker simultaneously, somehow, and watches with transfixed fascination. 

"You do want to have sex," Cas states, slowly pulling his thumb out of Dean's mouth to the very tip before deliberately pushing it back in. Dean does what feels natural, which is swirling his tongue and tasting the salty-skin of Cas' thumb, and he gets two passes before Cas is slowly pulling his thumb back. 

Vaguely, Dean realizes that he's slowly lowering down onto his haunches, pretty much kneeling on the bed and looking up at Cas. It all feels like it's coming from far away, as if he's being hypnotized by the slow tug of Cas' thumb out of his mouth, followed by the steady press of it back in. Saliva is gathering in his mouth, making him slurp a little, which should be obscene or over-the-top like he's in a porno, but it's just—far off, distant. He barely notices it, too focused on swirling his tongue and feeling Cas' free fingers curling over his jaw. 

Dean's in some kind of trance, admittedly, and Cas doesn't look better off. He's just staring down at Dean with the utmost intensity, looking so enraptured that it makes Dean feel good—too good, stupidly good. On the next pass in, Cas curls his thumb a little and presses down on his tongue, trapping it in place, and Dean moans without meaning to. His eyes close halfway, only to snap right back open when the thumb in his mouth pulls free all the way. He sways forward, blinking rapidly, feeling like he's just been smacked down to earth, his mouth feeling empty, and he's—fuck, he's bereft. 

"Dean," Cas rumbles, getting his attention. 

Dean rocks backwards again, tilting his head back up to look at him, swallowing the collected drool in his mouth. His mind is starting to wake up. He realizes like a slap to the face that he was just sucking on Cas' finger and fucking liking it, enough to moan and be upset when it stopped, enough to literally drool. It was just a goddamn finger. Christ. 

Cas apparently doesn't mind, because he offers two fingers this time. It's his pointer and middle finger, broader and longer than his thumb, and the tips of them tap at Dean's bottom lip. It's just fingers, so Dean doesn't have a fucking clue what the hell is wrong with him, but he doesn't want his brain to interrupt whatever good thing they've got going on—and it's really good—so he opens his mouth wider and holds Cas' gaze, waiting. 

He doesn't have to wait long. Cas indulges him quickly, not dragging it out. He pushes inside, and Dean's brain instantly takes a vacation, thankfully. His eyes flutter shut at the sensation, at the weight and width and pressure. He has to breathe through his nose, and sometimes he forgets because he's so goddamn taken with the feeling of—of… Well, Cas is just fucking his face with fingers, isn't he? That's what this is. And Dean likes it. 

Dean would probably have a crisis about that if he had the room in his steadily shrinking brain to do so. He's actually done this to women before, just the same as Cas is doing to him right now, and he'd never really pondered how it felt to them, simply thankful that they seemed to like it because he certainly did. But, if they all felt like he does right now, he can see why they keened for it, why they moaned in loss when he stopped. He's no better off, feeling lost in the fog, lit up from the inside out and drifting along for the firework show. 

A stray thought manages to stick, just the passing question of what it would feel like to have Cas' actual dick in his mouth, since his fingers are pinging every happy point in Dean's brain. The mere idea draws a groan out of him that feels like it's coming from somewhere else, from someone else, and he sucks on Cas' fingers harder. 

"You are so beautiful," Cas whispers, which Dean would usually want to argue—and, really, now's the time for it, because Dean knows he must look kinda ridiculous with Cas' fingers pumping in and out of his mouth, a little bit of drool around his lips, his head tilted back and his hands sitting on his thighs, being useless all around. 

But Cas says it, and right now, right now, Dean lets it sink in. Sure, if Cas says so. Who is Dean to argue? He's just the guy whoring it out for fingers, and if Cas finds beauty in that, then so be it. Good for him. Good for Dean, too, because he likes the compliment way more than he should. 

Cas' thumb—still slick—drags across Dean's jaw as his fingers pause on his tongue, pressing down harder in increments. Dean's responding groan is muffled, but he doubts he'd be embarrassed if it wasn't. He's way too relaxed and loopy right now, especially for what the situation calls for. 

Dean's eyes are still closed, so he has no warning for Cas' hand pressing into the front of his pants against the straining dick trapped underneath the fabric. He surges up a little, bucking into it, and he gets Cas' fingers shoved farther into his mouth for his troubles. Cas isn't moving them; it's just Dean, so it's on him when he gags a little. It forces him to breathe hard through his nose and back off, going still, a study in self-correction under Cas' guiding hand. Or fingers, technically. Quite literally.

"Dean, take your pants off," Cas says hoarsely, sounding short of breath. 

Cas doesn't remove his fingers or give Dean any extra room to move, leaving him hanging there on the edge, forcing him to go slow so he won't gag and choke. Dean wants to rush, to get out of his clothes as quickly as possible. He has to take it carefully, be precise, and shift his body to minimize the threat of getting fingers too far down his throat. 

It's like a challenge, one that Dean's way too into. It heightens everything, so goddamn stimulating that his muscles are jumping and every brush of his own fingers as he rolls his pants and underwear over his thighs makes him tremble. The few times that he gets too eager, he ends up gagging and having to slow down, and it makes him moan way too loudly, too obviously, showing how good this is for him. It exposes him, and he just doesn't care. 

When he has no choice but to rise up and shift around to get the rest of his clothes off, he braces himself, fully prepared to just fucking choke himself to get it done—maybe looking forward to it—but Cas relents. He slips his fingers out to the tips again, and Dean takes the silent cue to fuck his mouth onto them as he moves. Cas moves with him, his hand rocking and his wrist rolling, keeping his fingers in Dean's mouth through the whole transition until he's done. He settles again, naked. 

Cas makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and it's so fucking filthy and good. "Now me."  

Jesus Christ, Dean thinks fuzzily, his hands flying out to complete the task he's been given. It's a little easier from the front like this, even with him splitting his attention between sucking on Cas' fingers and tugging his pants and underwear off. This is what gets him to open his eyes finally, just the feeling of Cas' dick being revealed. His eyes only open halfway, like he's coming out of a daze, but they immediately latch onto his target. 

Again, it's lucky he doesn't have the space to be mortified right now, because there's something kinda pathetic about how his mouth waters at the sight. Drool quite literally comes out of the corners of his mouth, slipping past Cas' fingers, and there's another distant slurping noise that Dean's brain has decided doesn't come from himself. 

Cas works with him through the transition yet again, fucking his mouth slow as he shifts and gets his clothes off. He has to reach back with his free hand to tug them off completely and toss them away, and then they're both naked. Dean's almost overwhelmed with how much he wants. 

"We need lubricant," Cas notes. 

Dean's not in any place to reply right now, not with his mouth stuffed and his brain offline, so he leaves that issue in Cas' capable hands. It doesn't sound like Cas wants a response anyway. More like he was just making an observation, or commentating on what's to come, hiking up the anticipation probably on purpose. He's so—he's just… Fuck. Whatever he is, whatever he's doing, it's really working for Dean. 

Cas spends another few moments just working his fingers in and out of Dean's mouth, watching the progress of it, likely seeing Dean lose himself to it. And then, slowly, he pulls his fingers out completely. Before Dean can even make a noise of disagreement, Cas leans in and kisses him hard. His tongue in Dean's mouth serves as a suitable replacement for his fingers. Dean moans again, helplessly. 

"One moment," Cas rasps when he pulls away. Dean's eyes flutter open, only to shut again when Cas thumb drags across his bottom lip. "Lay down."

Dean flops to the side instantly, breathing out a gusty sigh that sounds content even to his ears. He feels the bed shift, hears Cas pad away, and listens to the closet door open. Willing himself to stay just like this, where nothing is creeping into his mind, Dean works his jaw and brings his hand up to wipe away any residue of drool. It's sort of a lot, and he can't resist using his wet palm to grip his dick, his breath punching out of him the moment he realizes just how aroused he is right now. 

Once he gets started, he can't figure out how to stop. He stays perched on the edge Cas took him to, lost in a haze of pleasure. He has the most ridiculous urge to shove his fingers into his mouth, which isn't an impulse he's ever had before, but he's now very certain that it'll be one he has for the rest of his life. 

The closet door clicks shut again, and Cas sucks in a sharp breath before he says, "Dean, stop." 

"Fuck," Dean gasps out, his hand going still, squeezing. He opens his eyes and rolls his head lazily to the side, looking at Cas and groaning out loud at the sight of him. "Do it for me, then." 

"I will. I promise I will. Just give me a minute," Cas tells him, moving towards the bed. "Besides that, what do you want? Tell me what you want." 

"You," Dean blurts out, then his gaze drops to Cas' fingers again. "Those." His eyes crawl down and to the side, latching onto Cas' dick, and he speaks like he's ordering off a menu. "Or that. Both. Any. All of it. Something, anything, just—just get in me, Cas." 

"Then get situated," Cas says, coming to a halt beside the bed. 

Dean sits up, only to look down at Cas' dick. He swallows. "Can I…? Before we—can I just—" 

"I don't know if I'll last," Cas tells him bluntly, and a thrill shoots through Dean so fast. 

"Jesus," Dean exhales, his gaze flitting up to lock with Cas'. "Yeah, that's—I'm okay with that, if you are. I don't care. I just want—I want—" 

Cas nods. "If you're sure, then yes." 

"How?" Dean blurts out, and he's not talking about technique here. He's legitimately so fried that he's not even sure how to make what he wants happen, trying to figure out positioning and coming up blank. "How do you—where do you want me?" 

"I liked you on your knees," Cas admits, and Dean barely manages to swallow a small sound in time. 

"Fuck. Okay. Yeah, okay," Dean babbles, swinging around to grab Cas by the hips and push him back a few steps. The moment he has room, Dean slips off the side of the bed and hits his fucking knees, and something about the motion causes the equivalent of a curtain to go down in Dean's brain—not that it was raised that much to begin with. 

Cas groans this time, the sound so rough and deep that Dean's tempted to reach up and touch his chest just to feel it, sure that it vibrates and resonates there. He's distracted by Cas' fingers—still slightly damp—cupping his cheek, tilting his head back. He looks down at Dean, just studying him, so goddamn bold about it that he starts turning Dean's head this way and that like he's appraising something he might buy. He looks so fucking pleased by what he sees that Dean's sure his metaphorical petals are splitting and starting to bloom. Any other time he would blush or make an assholish comment, but in this moment, he stares up at Cas and feels the unspoken praise like a caress over his skin, seeping into him, and he's straining towards it. He wants it. He wants Cas to be pleased by him and with him. 

"You are so very beautiful, Dean Winchester," Cas whispers with a sudden ferocity that strikes Dean right at his center. "Heart, body, and soul. Your mind is not kind to you, but I want you to see it, if only for the time that we're like this. I want you to believe it, to know with unwavering resolve that you are beautiful and good." 

Dean swallows, staring up at him. He nearly just asks Cas to stick his dick in his mouth and skip this part, but another part of him sincerely wants to give Cas whatever he wants. It's awful that it's this, of course, because even right here, Dean's not going to be able to wholeheartedly believe it. 

"I don't think that's gonna happen, Cas," Dean admits in a croak. "Sorry." 

Cas hums. "Not yet. It will. Open your mouth." 

That, Dean can do. It's a little bit of emotional whiplash, but he's more than happy to shift with the proverbial wind and go in this direction. He opens his mouth and immediately closes his eyes when Cas' fingers slip back in like they're slotting into place, finding a home in the wet heat between his lips. It's so good. It has no business being that good, but Dean doesn't question it. He's losing himself to it again, like it's Pavlovian already, and he's more than happy to do it. 

"I like you like this," Cas tells him casually, his fingers splitting in Dean's mouth and circling his tongue, pressing down beside teeth. "Of course, I love you in any state, but I like this. I'm quite sure that you like this, too." 

Dean feels the pad of Cas' fingers curl down underneath his tongue, adding pressure to the sensitive flesh, and he moans both to confirm Cas' words and in response to the sensation. The fingers slide back, dragging across his bottom teeth, and Dean opens his eyes to see the string of spit that hangs between his lip and Cas' fingers. 

He watches as Cas uses his wet fingers to slick himself up, pumping his hand right in front of Dean's face with no shame. Dean's nails curl into the top of his thighs. His breath hitches in his throat. He's only distantly aware of the tiny ache in his legs and the feeling of their scratchy carpet under his shifting knees. His entire focus is on Cas' dick right now, and he's not even ashamed of it. 

"Wider," Cas orders, his voice cracking, deep like tectonic plates shifting, rumbling. He sounds like he's losing it a little, too, which is a heady thing. 

Dean opens his mouth wider, raising his gaze to Cas' as he shuffles closer, locking eyes and refusing to look away first. He doesn't even allow himself to blink when he feels the head of Cas' dick rest against his bottom lip. He wins, though. The moment he shifts forward to fit his mouth around Cas, he wins. Cas chokes out a soft whimper, his eyes fluttering shut, and Dean feels fucking drunk off it, without any of the shitty side effects. 

Honestly, Dean doesn't think he's felt as powerful as he does for that first moment where he's cranking his mouth down Cas' length slowly, going as far as he can, watching in real time as Cas' expression all but falls apart, shattering around pleasure. Dean's almost convinced that giving a blowjob is better than getting one, and he has no idea what that says about him as a person, but this is fucking fantastic. 

Cas' breath punches out of him, stuttering, and he opens his eyes. He looks down at Dean like he's the one on his knees, actually, his gaze worshipful and reverent. Awed. Fully fucking blown away. If Dean could grin with a dick in his mouth, he would.

Either seeing the spark in Dean's gaze, or just being unable to hold still anymore, Cas' hips shift forward a little bit more, and ah. Oh. Well. Dean's mouth suddenly adjusts to the feeling of something in it, something that's moving and filling up the space, something hot and heavy, and the feeling of power slips from his fingers. He doesn't even try to hold onto it, exhaling through his nose and closing his eyes, letting his mouth soften and go slack, waiting. 

Cas hisses out something that sounds like Dean's name, except it's a little too drowned out by his groan, so Dean can't be sure. Frankly, he's not sure of much, not when Cas' hips start moving and his dick starts sliding in and out. It's slow at first, tempered, letting Dean get used to it. He even pauses and lets Dean suck, or swirl his tongue, or turn his head to feel the head in his cheek, and hell, he even lets Dean try his hand at ever so gently running his teeth over sensitive flesh. Trusting him to do it, holding still, allowing it. 

But, eventually, Dean's just on his knees getting fucked in the mouth and liking it so much that he's moaning about it. He can feel Cas' fingers on his cheek, and they sometimes run through his hair, or move down to grip his naked shoulder tight. His mouth continues to fall wider until Cas can go in deeper and faster, and he does gag occasionally, but he always makes a sound of protest if Cas tries to pull out all the way. Halfway is fine to let him catch his breath and suppress the urge to cough, and once Cas figures that out, they have a rhythm. 

It's the same as with the fingers, but on a border scale. Bigger, for a lack of better term. Because, well, Cas' dick is bigger, so Dean's mouth is fuller, and this somehow correlates as better to Dean's brain. He's not aware of the ache in his legs, or the strain in his knees, or the twinge in his back. He actually likes the pain in his jaw, and nothing seems as important as how good it feels to kneel here and do this. He's lost to it, his eyes closed, in a trance, simply just...happy, oddly enough. Yeah, he's fucking delighted right now. Relaxed in a way he's never felt before. At this point in time, Dean would be more than okay with just—doing it forever.

That's not actually possible, though, and this is proven when Cas gasps out, "Dean, I'm—I—" and Dean's so far gone that he hums in approval, not even considering the consequences. He sucks Cas in harder, and Cas' hips jerk before abruptly pressing in deep and holding there. 

Naturally, Dean chokes a little, his eyes watering as Cas spills in his mouth. He realizes a little quickly that the only option he has is to swallow, so he gives that a shot, and whaddya know? Works like a charm. He can breathe after swallowing, so that solves all his problems. Cas tastes different than he does, but Dean has tasted himself before, so it's not like it's a total shock to the system. 

Cas stays exactly where he is until he actually softens, and oh, Dean actually likes that. He likes that he can flick his tongue over Cas in his mouth and make him whimper a little, his body twitching. He also just likes things in his mouth, as it turns out, so there's that. Apparently he's not picky. 

When Cas does finally slip free, Dean's eyes open again, just in time to see the thumb coming and keep his lips parted with an eagerness that he has no business feeling considering all the things he's had in his mouth already. Still, he likes it a ridiculous amount when Cas pushes his thumb inside. Cas' whole body fucking shudders, and he pulls it right back out, breathing hard. 

"Get up," he says gruffly, then blinks and clears his throat. He offers both hands. "I apologize. Here." 

Dean huffs out a croaky laugh and grips Cas' hands, letting him help with the whole standing thing. His legs are not very happy with him at the moment, but he doesn't give one fuck. Right now, he's sure that he'd hit his knees again if Cas asked him to. There's this quivering excitement in his chest that beats out the pins and needles in his legs, and he's grinning. He knows he's grinning, doesn't know why, doesn't care, just can't stop. He feels—he feels—

He stops grinning when Cas grabs his dick, which is still hard enough to hammer nails. His knees nearly fucking buckle, and he chokes out, "Ah, fuck," as his hips jerk forward into the circle of Cas' hand. 

"Mm," Cas says agreeably, dragging his thumb over Dean's slit, spreading Dean's spit from where his thumb was in his mouth a moment ago as well as precum. Dean's eyes roll back a little. "Is the lubricant still relevant, or would you prefer this?" 

"I don't—I'm not—" Dean cuts himself off with a groan, his head falling forward to land on Cas' shoulder. He pants into his neck, his hands flying up to grab Cas' arms, nails digging in. "Don't know. Don't care. Just—just… In. I want—get in me, just—"

Somehow, it always comes back to that. Dean's not sure why it does, just that it always does. It's not limited just to him, either. He's aware that, at some point, he wants to do the same exact shit to Cas. Just like he wants Cas to open him up and crawl inside, he knows he wants to do the same in reverse. He wants to do everything, anything, but right now… Right now, he's pretty sure he's going to go crazy if he gets nothing, after the promise of something. 

"We'll be figuring this out together," Cas murmurs into his ear, pressing a kiss to his temple, sliding his hand slow and steady over Dean's length. "You'll have to tell me if you're not enjoying it. Can you do that? If you can't, I'm not doing it." 

"I can, I can, I can do it," Dean chants, his whole body strung tight, rejecting any notion that it's not gonna happen. Talking is not his strong suit, no, but for this? He'll fucking recite the preamble of the United States constitution if he's gotta. How does that go? We the people… 

Thankfully, Cas doesn't need that, because he pulls his hand away and says, "Okay, get on the bed." 

Dean rocks backwards and stumbles towards the bed on unsteady legs, just a mess of a human being at the moment. Sex. Fuck, he loves sex. It's good, and this is—it's fucking mind-blowing. 

Cas swoops in to pick up the bottle of lube he must have thrown there when Dean was too busy wanting things in his mouth. He waits until Dean is settled before following him down, slotting in between his legs and ducking in to kiss him. 

They do that until they're both struggling for air, so caught up in the movement of lips and the exploration of hands that they get a little distracted. Despite his near-painful arousal, Dean's content just to kiss and touch for the rest of however long they've got on this shitty rock floating in space. Cas, on the other hand, takes his arousal into consideration. 

"I think it'd be helpful if I used both hands," Cas announces as he pulls back and plants himself between Dean's legs like he owns the spot. He widens his stance a little, using his own legs to push Dean's knees further apart. "One for—" 

"I get the picture, Cas," Dean cuts in breathlessly, telling his brain to shut the hell up when it points out how exposed he is right now. What he would not give to have Cas' fingers in his mouth right this second, but he unfortunately only has two hands. 

"Are you relaxed?" Cas asks. "You don't look relaxed." 

Dean chokes out a laugh. "Dude, I hate to tell you this, but I'm wound so tight I'm pretty sure I'm gonna lose it in, like, five minutes. If that." 

"Ah, so you're just very close to orgasm. Not uncomfortable," Cas checks. 

"Right." Dean blows out a deep breath and lets his head fall back onto the pillow. "Just do it, man. Maybe don't start off with both hands, or I might, um. Well, ya know." 

Cas hums in easy agreement, no judgement. There's the sound of the lube top popping, and Dean closes his eyes, forcing himself to breath out calmly. Relax. He's supposed to relax; he knows that much. 

Dean tries his best not to tense up when he feels Cas' knuckle press up behind his balls, and he thinks he manages it, mostly because the sensation is kinda good. His whole body is already hot, and his brain is starting to go slippery again, losing track of whatever alarm he feels when things aren't actively happening to him. He smooths his fingers out over the sheets, focusing on the feeling of Cas' free hand sliding up the middle of his chest, just touching to touch, it seems like. 

Cas works his finger down further, and Dean can't stop himself from fixating on it immediately, his lips parting in response to the feeling of the pad of Cas' finger circling his entrance—he massages it, mostly, adding a little pressure but never pressing in all the way. His finger is cool from the lube for a split second before it starts to warm up. 

"You know," Cas says softly, "I think it might comfort you to know that you're not the only one vulnerable between us. Truthfully, I feel as if I'm handling something precious." 

"My ass?" Dean wheezes, his legs twitching. 

Cas clicks his tongue lightly. "Well, it is a part of you, so technically, you're right. But I meant that in broader terms. I meant that you are precious, both on your own and to me. I never endeavor to mistreat you, though I've failed in that respect before. I don't wish to fail now, and you should know that I feel just as vulnerable as you likely do." 

"You fuckin' poet," Dean bursts out, his hips canting up at the feeling of Cas' finger sliding in just a little, only the tip. The joke flashes through Dean's mind, then dissipates before he can grab onto it and toss it out into the world where it belongs. "If you're tryna make me feel better, you're wasting your time, man. I feel—I'm feeling pretty good as it is." 

"That's reassuring," Cas tells him bluntly, slipping his finger in slowly, up to the first knuckle. "I read numerous articles and watched a very clinical video on how to do this properly, just in case." 

"That's embarrassing," Dean says shakily, even though it's actually sweet and so very Cas. 

"Is it?" Cas asks, crooking his finger in a come-here motion, except it's in Dean's ass, and Dean chokes. 

"If—if—if you keep doing that," Dean stutters out, his fingers clenching the sheets, "I'm going to—" 

"According to men's health magazine, there are almost as many nerve-endings in the prostate as there are in the clitoris," Cas informs him. "In some cases, it's been called the male g-spot." 

Dean's heart jams up into his throat, a small sound ripping free from his throat as Cas moves his finger again. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm getting that. Makes sense." 

"Men of various sexualities—straight, included—have enjoyed this," Cas continues. 

"Bisexual," Dean manages to wheeze, like this is the time, like that needs any clarification at this point. 

Cas hums. "If you don't mind me saying, that suits you. I'm not sure if you're aware, Dean, but you have a very big heart, in more ways than one. You're almost limitless at times, in how much you care, in how you appreciate the world and the beauty in it. I suppose I followed your example, but I got so caught up in the beauty of you that I couldn't see anyone else. But I know that you have, and I like that about you. Perhaps it's selfish, but I've always liked that I'm included in what you find beautiful." 

Dean's brain is mush, so he can only gasp out a slightly frantic, "You are, Cas, you are," and cling to the sheets with all his might, his hips jerking with the motion of Cas' finger, steadily curling now.

"I know," Cas says gently. "I saw glimpses of it through the years, but with so much going on, I wasn't sure if it meant what I thought it might, or one day could. However, as of late, it's been very blatant. I know now, and you should know that I see all the beauty in you that you can find in this world, in the people in it. You believe you don't deserve to be perceived this way, but you are. You're the most beautiful being I've ever known, Dean." 

"Cas," Dean whines, trying to squirm and let go all at once, smothered by sensation, swirling in the storm drain of Cas' words, dragged in. 

"I want you to know how I see you is how you truly are, not how you believe yourself to be. You deserve so many wonderful things. You're good, Dean," Cas murmurs, his free hand sliding further up Dean's chest. His fingers skate over his jaw, brushing his lips in passing, and Dean opens his mouth, panting for it. "Tell me you know. I want you to know." 

Dean holds off for as long as he can take it, too much going on in him and around him for his resolve to last very long. He breaks and starts babbling, like all the blocks that's kept him from saying everything he's wanted to have come crumbling down all at once. 

"Okay, okay, yes. I'm—I'm beautiful to you, and not just my body, and I try. I try, all the time, and you like it. You like me, you like me so much, and I love you for it. I love you for you, and for everything, and I just—I love you. You drive me crazy. I miss you, I miss you all the time, and I love you. You're in my head, and I can't get you out. It's been that way for years, okay? Fuck. Shut me up. Shit, Cas, please—" 

Dean's tangent gets interrupted by the much more preferable fingers slipping into his mouth, and he groans way too loudly in relief, his whole body unlocking like he's about to fall apart. Cas clamps down in his mouth and around his jaw, tugging him up a little so he can fold his body nearly in half and get his mouth around Dean's dick, all while his finger still works in his ass. 

All of that lasts maybe thirty seconds before Dean is curling inward even more, nearly fucking gagging on Cas' fingers because he's trying to shout at the same time as he's trying to suck on them with knee-jerk enthusiasm as he comes. The orgasm is pretty fucking groundbreaking, as it turns out, and Cas doesn't spare one drop to make a mess. He waits until Dean is legitimately twitching like a fish out of water before he pulls his mouth and finger free, leaving his other hand in Dean's mouth, loosening his hold and gently guiding Dean back to the bed. 

The moment Dean's settled, Cas pulls his fingers free and leans over him, looking at him up close. Dean blinks at him dazedly, his chest heaving, still trembling all over and riding out the aftershocks. 

"Was that alright?" Cas asks, like he doesn't know that he actually managed to ruin Dean, just as he set out to do from the start. 

"C'mere," Dean croaks, reaching out for him, frowning when Cas pulls back. 

Cas sees the frown and smiles. "I will. I'm just going to wash my hands and bring us some water." 

"Mmkay," Dean mumbles, his eyes fluttering shut. 

He half-ass listens as Cas gets dressed, grunting in thanks when Cas tosses him his pants and underwear. He flops around to tug them on, then settles back down. Jesus, he feels good. Better than good. He feels kinda floaty, like he's drifting off, and he thinks he might actually be half-asleep by the time Cas comes back. 

"Dean," Cas says, lightly nudging his shoulder. Dean cracks open one eye to see Cas holding out a glass of water that's half-full. The good water from the fridge. "Drink this, then we can sleep." 

Dean manages to lift himself up on one elbow, taking the water and drinking it down quickly, more thirsty than he expects. Probably all that drooling. At that thought, he can feel his face getting hot. Suddenly, in the aftermath, he's a lot more humiliated by the things he did and said than he was while doing them. He hardly knows who that person he turned into was. Must've been possessed by pleasure, if that's a thing. 

"Thanks," Dean mutters, passing the empty glass back. He frowns when Cas turns around, a protest falling from his lips unbidden. "But—" 

"I have to rinse it," Cas reminds him, holding up the glass and tossing him a smile over his shoulder, looking a lot more energetic than Dean does. "I will be right back." 

Dean huffs and flops back into the bed, refusing to close his eyes this time. He squints at the fan. Dun-dun-dun, he thinks, and another one goes, and another one goes, and another one bites the dust. 

When Cas comes back, he sweeps in without pause and stands on his tip-toes to cut the light off, despite the fact that Dean fixed the wiring for him. Dean doesn't complain, though, not when the room goes dark and Cas slips in next to him without any hesitation whatsoever. No space, either. He just crowds in close, curling right up to him. 

"Yeah," Dean breathes out in approval, turning into his arms and closing his eyes, for good this time. 

Cas chuckles softly and kisses his forehead, and that's pretty much the last thing Dean remembers before sleep drags him under. 

Chapter Text

When Dean wakes up, it's to a hot arm thrown over him and a hot body pressed along his back. He is currently being spooned. There is definitely a dick pressed against his ass—thankfully not hard, because Dean has no idea what he'd do about that. Probably rock back into it. He's not going to think about that right now. It's way too early. 

What follows is something Dean is mentally labeling as The Great Escape From Octo-Cas. Dude is latched onto him like a goddamn leech, complete with digging his nails in when Dean tries to scoot even an inch away. He does his absolute best not to wake Cas up, trying to be careful, working slowly as he lifts the arm off of him as much as he can manage and slide away at the same time. It doesn't actually work because Cas isn't having that shit at all. Even in his sleep, he's being a grumpy little asshole about it. 

With a quiet huff, Dean has finally had enough. He's not complaining about the positioning, not at all, but he needs to get up and piss and start on breakfast and Cas is just gonna have to let him go, dammit. Stubborn bastard. 

"Cas," Dean hisses quietly, stopping with the niceties and fully just shoving Cas' arm off of him. He doesn't manage to roll to the side in time, and he hears a severely displeased grunt from behind him. 

"What," Cas bites out, his voice so sleep-thick and rough-and-tumble that Dean's a little dazed about it. He sounds all snarl-y and pissed off, like he gets when he wants to burn things down. 

Dean clears his throat. "You're kinda holding me hostage here, dude." 

"Unfortunate," Cas mumbles, his words vague and distant with sleep, no doubt drifting right back off. 

"Hey, no, none of that. Dude, c'mon." Dean squirms some more, rolling his eyes when Cas' arms tighten around him. "Okay, tough guy, I get the picture. I need to get up, man."

"Ugh, stop talking," Cas gripes. 

"Let me go, Cas," Dean snaps, which gets him no results. Cas—the rebellious little fucker—just seems to wrap around him tighter. Dean goes limp in the bed, blowing out an explosive breath. After a beat, he tries a different tactic. He brushes his fingers over Cas' arm, and his voice goes soft. "Hey, pal, you with me? You hearin' me?" 

Cas hums out a vague little noise. "Mn." 

"I'm just gonna go use the bathroom, and I'll put some coffee on for you, okay? Then I'll be right back. Sound good?" There's no response, and Dean sighs. "Cas? I'm coming right back." 

"Mhm," Cas hums, and his grip finally eases. 

Dean darts to freedom the moment he's got it, unwilling to wait for Cas to change his mind. He glances back quickly to see that Cas is practically out like a light yet again, his fingers slack against the spot Dean just vacated. He's kinda ridiculous. Sure, he struggles to get to sleep sometimes, but once he's asleep, he's out. And don't let him wake up before ten-thirty, 'cause he's just terrible to deal with when that happens. 

It's currently 9:23am, which explains why Cas is taking no shit at the moment. Dean shakes his head and leaves him to it, going to do exactly as he said he would. Bathroom first—relieving himself, brushing his teeth, all that jazz. Kitchen next, except Jack is already up, reading a book at the table. 

"Morning, kid," Dean greets.

"Good morning, Dean," Jack responds, looking up with a broad smile. "Are you about to make breakfast?" 

Dean flicks his gaze in the direction of the room. "I was, uh, actually gonna hold off, at least until it's closer to Cas getting up. But I can whip something up for you really quick if you're hungry." 

"No, thank you. That's what I was going to tell you. Claire and Kaia are on their way here now to pick me up. I'll be spending the next few days with them, and she told me to skip breakfast because we're going to eat on the road," Jack informs him. 

"Oh, hey, sounds good. I reckon I should get Cas up then, huh?" Dean mutters, making a beeline for the coffee immediately. If anything will soften the blow of him getting up earlier than usual, it's coffee. 

Jack winces in sympathy. "If he wishes to see Claire and Kaia, yes, and I think he will. He'll be in a bad mood. I'm sorry." 

"Not your fault." 

"Well, no, but I feel sorry for you." 

"Thanks, Jack." Dean huffs a laugh and pulls down a mug from the cabinet. "So, what are you and the girls gonna get up to? I didn't know you spent a lot of time with them, especially one-on-one." 

"Actually, I'm helping her with a case. Her and Kaia, more accurately," Jack says cheerfully. "She asked if I would like to, and I said yes. I like Claire a lot. Kaia is wonderful, too. They're my friends." 

Dean flashes him a quick smile as the coffee continues to pour out. "That's good, kid. It's, uh, good having friends. Even better when the friends are like family, ya know? And they're definitely family. Hell, you and Claire are practically siblings in a weird, complicated way." 

"We are?" Jack's eyes light up immediately, and Dean winces. "I didn't know that, but I think you're right! Cas' body used to be a vessel, and that was her father, and he cares about her a lot. We sort of are, aren't we? Does she know that?" 

"Um, ya know, I dunno," Dean mumbles. "Maybe it's best not to bring it up, though. She might get—well, if she's anything like me—" Dean snaps his mouth shut, then sighs. "Okay, correction, she is like me, so if you bring that up...she's probably gonna get pissed. It's like, um, family trauma? Something like that. She's got issues when it comes to Cas and her dad and her mom. It was before your time, so don't go poking the bear, you get me?" 

Jack dutifully bobs his head. "I get you. Make her love me first, then tell her." 

"Your funeral, kid." 

"I'm God. I can't die." 

"Hey, don't doubt what older siblings can make happen. Trust me, I know from experience," Dean says lightly. The coffee pot goes off, and he grins as he grabs it. "Yahtzee! Alright, Jack, when did Claire say they were getting here? I'm gonna try to let Cas sleep in as much as possible." 

"In the next twenty minutes, I think," Jack replies. 

"I can work with that." Dean finishes making Cas' coffee, then makes his own. He puts a napkin over Cas' to keep the steam in, to keep it hot, then raises both mugs at Jack. "Wish me luck."

Jack beams at him. "Good luck!" 

Dean has to hip-check the bedroom door open to get inside, both coffees perched in his grip. He sips on his own, eyeing the Cas-shaped lump on the bed over the rim. He's still conked out, and his face is slack with sleep. His hair is kind of a mess, there's a crease line on his cheek, and his mouth is open just a little bit. He looks, frankly, kinda ridiculous and adorable all at once. 

Quietly, Dean puts Cas' coffee down on the nightstand and lowers himself onto the edge of the bed carefully. For a while, he sits right there and stares at Cas, studying his face. He realizes belatedly that he's just drinking coffee and appreciating Cas' face while he's asleep and unaware, then realizes even more belatedly that it's kinda creepy of him. It takes him a long time to reach that conclusion, at least until he's nearly finished his coffee. 

Embarrassed, he looks away and drinks the last two swallows in his cup. All those damn times he got uncomfortable about Cas watching him sleep, and now look at him. Oh how the table turns. He doesn't mean in it a creepy way, though. Cas just looks nice while he's sleeping deeply—kinda soft, kinda messy. Lovely, if Dean were inclined to such verbiage. There's really no other way to describe him. 

Dean glances towards the coffee once he sits his down. It's still hot, because it's covered. It's probably going to be the main bargaining chip here, but he wonders—as the guy Cas is actually, legitimately in love with—if he'll be able to soften Cas up a little. He's back at it again, always looking for that special treatment Cas gives him. So goddamn needy that it's pathetic. 

"Cas," Dean mumbles, slowly laying down on his side, facing the sleepy lump across from him. He gets no response, so he scoots in a little closer, reaching out to tap his finger to the end of Cas' nose. He pokes it lightly. "Cas. Hey, Cas." 

"Mmph," is Cas' muffled response, his eyebrows drawing together as he pulls back to try to escape the likely very irritating finger poking his nose. 

"Ca-as," Dean sing-songs, soft about it, his lips curling up. He trails his finger up the bridge of Cas' nose, stroking the wrinkled skin between his eyebrows. It's soft. "I know you can hear me, buddy. Don't ignore me. Wakey-wakey." 

"Why?" Cas snaps, his face scrunching and relaxing in quick succession. He seems to like the feeling of Dean's finger tracing over his right eyebrow. 

"Claire and Kaia are coming over. Jack's going with them for a few days on a case. You gotta get up and see 'em," Dean says, grinning when Cas' groans a little pitifully. "Hey, that's the price of adopting kids, man. Ain't no rest for the wicked, or parents."

He drags his finger down Cas' right cheek, seeing as the left is smooshed into the pillow. He can feel the slight scritch-scratch of Cas' scruff under the pad of his finger. Cas is due for a shave, but Dean's tempted to tell him to let it grow out a little. 

"Time's'it?" Cas mumbles, his eyelids twitching. 

"Trust me, Sunshine, you don't wanna know," Dean says with a quiet laugh. "C'mon, I got you some coffee. You can go back to sleep after they leave."

"Mm, mind won't let me," Cas replies. His eyes crack open just a smidge, foggy and blue. He looks like he wants to close them again. "Coffee?" 

Dean slides his finger along Cas' jaw, humming quietly and staring at him. "Yeah. Want it?" 

"I want to be asleep, but coffee will do," Cas grumbles, blinking finally and lifting his head from the pillow. It displaces Dean's finger, and Cas blinks a little harder. "You're touching my face." 

"I was," Dean corrects, pulling his head back and heaving himself up again to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He looks over his shoulder, reaching out to ruffle Cas' hair a bit. "Up and at 'em. Here, sit up. I got your coffee." 

With apparent herculean effort, Cas manages to drag himself into a semi-sitting position, mostly slumping over towards Dean. He reaches out greedily to take the coffee as soon as Dean offers it. His eyes flutter shut around the first swallow, and Dean's heart does something stupid in his chest.

"I don't want to be awake," Cas states, staring down into his coffee with a scowl. "Why are Claire and Kaia arriving so early? They're young. No one should be awake at this hour without having to work." 

"Well, they are working, Cas," Dean points out. 

Cas grunts. "They can make their own hours." 

"Not if they wanna save lives. You know that." 

"Why are you arguing with me right now? Can't you indulge me just this once, Dean?" 

"Okay, okay," Dean murmurs, fond despite himself. He reaches out to squeeze Cas' leg. "It's a crime to wake up before ten; you're right and everyone else in the world is wrong. Better?" 

"Much." Cas closes his eyes again and slumps forward some more, letting his head drop to Dean's shoulder. He sighs and cradles his coffee with both hands in his lap. 

"Keep chugging. I'll make you some more while you get up and get dressed. The girls will be here soon, so put a little pep in your step." 

"Just stay here for a minute." 

"Yeah, man, sure," Dean mutters, staring at the crown of Cas' head. He has the most invasive, ridiculous urge to press a kiss to the top of Cas' head, and it's genuinely a struggle not to. 

When Cas lifts his head, he doesn't automatically go for his coffee. It seems like he starts to, but halfway through the motion, his hand freezes in the air. He stares at Dean, so close and soft and sleepy, and his mouth must taste like morning and coffee, but Dean wants so badly to lean forward and kiss him anyway. 

He thinks he could. The way Cas is looking at him, Dean thinks he'd be more than willing. There's no reason not to, is there? Nothing really holds them back but themselves, at this point. When they're caught up in each other, fear seems so nonexistent. 

Cas lowers his coffee slowly, almost hesitant about it, and he doesn't lean forward. It looks like he wants to, like he's actively straining not to. Dean takes the dive for him, swiveling on the bed and leaning in without a goddamn thought in his head, his breath caught in his chest. 

It's a short kiss, chase and simple. It still puts a warm feeling in Dean's chest. Though it's not like it was last night, it's definitely not bad. There's something soft and sweet about it, and Dean doesn't really want it to end. 

"Dean," Jack calls from down the hall, "Claire and Kaia are pulling in! Is Castiel awake yet?" 

Instantly, Dean jerks back, and Cas nearly spills his coffee as he does the same. He immediately lifts it, small drips spilling over the side from where his hand shakes a little. Dean can relate. He feels like he's rattling from the inside out, all shaken up for no damn reason. He exhales and stares at Cas, surprised that they're holding each other's gazes. 

"Kids, huh?" Dean croaks. 

"Mm," Cas agrees around his coffee, his eyes narrowing. He swallows his mouthful and lets out a resigned sigh. "Entertain them. I'll be out in a minute. And...thank you, Dean. For the coffee." 

"No problem, man," Dean mumbles, flashing him a weak smile as he stands from the bed, leaning over to grab his empty mug. He pauses for a second there, holding Cas' gaze, and even though his face feels like it's on fire, he ducks in quickly to steal one more kiss—a peck—before ushering away. 

Claire and Kaia are stepping into the house when Dean swings out of the hall to push his way into the kitchen. He rinses the mug out and pre-loads the dishwasher, then heads back out. Jack's perched on the piano stool again while Kaia and Claire get comfortable on the couch. Kaia smiles at Dean, warm and familiar. Claire outright grins him, the sharpness of it and the humor in her eyes very pointed. It makes Dean sigh. 

"Wow, you really did miss him, huh? Bad enough to follow him home. Looks like you were the dog in the scenario, after all." Claire's voice is strangled with laughter, not with him, but blatantly at him. "Good for you, Fido. How's life treatin' you?" 

"Can't complain," Dean says flatly. "Cas gives me three square meals a day, and if I'm really good, I get a treat." 

Claire wrinkles her nose. "I don't wanna know what you two get up to in your free time, thanks. It's gross. It should be illegal for old people to be sexually active in any capacity." 

"Claire," Kaia says, shooting her a look.

"What? He's basically fifty," Claire mutters. "That's, like, half of a hundred. Can you imagine? No thanks. If I don't kick it by the time I'm forty, I'm jumping in front of a bus. Sorry, sweetheart." 

Kaia rolls her eyes and turns to Dean. "How've you been, Dean? I haven't seen you in a while." 

"Alive and kicking, even though I'm apparently old as fuck, according to your girlfriend." 

"Sorry. She has no home training." 

"And who's fault is that?" Claire leans forward, craning her head towards the hallway. "Speaking of, where is Cas, anyway? It's no fun talking shit about him if he's not around to hear it." 

"He's getting up. Give him a minute, and be nice for once in your life," Dean mumbles, a touch defensive for literally no reason. He's ridiculous. "Anyway. Kaia, how're you?" 

"Resisting the urge to commit a crime of passion, most of the time." Kaia grins at Claire, and her gaze is so very warm. She looks smitten, so her words hold little to no impact. Claire winks at her, like the threat on her life is a form of flirting. "Doing good, otherwise. It's been really nice staying at Jody's." 

"M'glad to hear it," Dean says lightly, smiling, meaning it—as sincere as he ever gets. "I know it probably hasn't been the easiest adjustment, after coming back." 

Kaia shrugs. "I've been managing. Claire helps." 

Claire sort of sits a little taller, which shouldn't be so damn funny but is anyway. Dean's about to tease her in retaliation, but Cas abruptly comes into the room, coffee mug in hand. Before anyone can say a word, he pivots and disappears into the kitchen, not even saying hello to anyone. 

He comes back a moment later, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, a scowl etched into his face. 

"Good morning," Jack offers cheerfully. 

"Good morning, Jack, Claire, Kaia," Cas replies stiffly, punctuating his words with a deep swallow of his coffee, despite the fact that it should be hot. 

"Hey, Cas," Kaia greets casually. 

"Looking a little sleepy there, tree-topper," Claire notes in amusement. "We didn't wake you, did we?"

"Technically, Dean did, but you're partially to blame," Cas answers bluntly. 

"Well, you're up now. We're just stealing away the child of divinity for a little while. Couple of days, at least. A week, at most. Don't worry, we'll return him in the same condition we got him," Claire says. 

Cas squints at her. "His condition can't be altered."

"Is that a challenge or a dare?" Claire asks, raising her eyebrows—and Jesus, she looks like Cas. Too many fucking kids look like Cas. 

"It's an observation, and one we will do our best to adhere to," Kaia cuts in with a flat look in Claire's direction. She sighs and smiles at Cas. "Do you guys wanna go grab breakfast with us before we get on the road? We figured we'd offer." 

"Can we go to Christie's?" Jack leans in and smiles at Claire. "It's a local diner with really good milkshakes. They put so many sprinkles." 

Claire snorts. "Ain't it a little early for a milkshake? I'm not carting you around if you're just gonna be bouncing off the walls of my car." 

"I promise not to bounce," Jack vows seriously. 

"They got good pancakes?" Claire asks. 

Jack nods. "Very good." 

"Yeah, I'm good with that if everyone is," she says, casting a look around expectantly. 

"Cas?" Dean asks, looking at him, and Cas nods mutely. "Yeah, sounds good." 

"Dean, can I drive?" Jack blurts out. 

Claire wrinkles her nose. "Dear god—well. Whatever. You know what I mean. Anyway, tell me you are not teaching him to be crazy about your car, like you. Come on, you're bad enough, especially about a car that probably drives like a boat." 

"Hey!" Dean and Jack burst out at the same exact time, in the same exact tone of reproach, then they stop and stare at each other. "No Baby slander," Dean mutters, and Jack says, "Exactly," and Claire looks mildly disgusted. 

"I can't believe you let this happen, Cas," Claire grumbles, shaking her head. "Jack's idolizing a car, for fuck's sake. Dean's a terrible influence." 

"But it's awesome," Jack insists, terribly confused, his eyebrows furrowed. He's clearly offended, and Dean probably looks the picture of a proud parent, but he can't exactly help it. "Don't you want to drive it? Dean might let you drive it." 

Claire rolls her eyes. "My car suits me perfectly fine, Jack." She flicks her gaze to Cas. "Your truck, on the other hand… Well, I wouldn't say no to spinning those tires." 

"You can drive it," Cas offers. After a beat, he tilts his head. "You can have it, if you want it." 

"Wait, are you serious?" Claire blurts out, her eyes getting a little wide. 

Cas hums. "Yes, of course." 

"But—why? Don't you need a—" 

"I'm not too terribly attached to it, and if you like it more than I do, you should have it. Dean can just buy me a new vehicle." 

"I can do what now?" Dean wheezes, his eyes bulging. "With what? My looks?" 

"I imagine you could, if you were determined enough. But no, I was inferring that you could use your credit card," Cas says.

Dean blinks. "Oh. Right. Okay."