Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Well, Josie, that’s the problem that many children face today. Every time that they have a tantrum, or an emotional breakdown, no matter what the age, the parent shuts them in another room to make them ‘calm down’ before the parent deals with them. Now I think that--”

Dean sinks into the cheap hotel mattress at the foot of the bed, hunched over and frowning at the screen. He glances at Castiel to his right, who is staring at the bright TV screen, head tilted. Seeing how hard Cas’s brows are furrowed in concentration at the women talking on the TV, Dean’s look softens from a glare to an admonishing stare. “Cas, what are we watchin’?”

Cas tilts his head further, the closest thing the angel does to a shrug. “I’m not sure. The woman is called Josie. She has a guest child psychologist on the show.”   

“This can lead to a number of psychological issues for the child that follow them into adulthood, such as the notion that the child’s feelings should be squashed down, or felt away from other people so as not to be a burden--”

“ Sammy!” Dean hollers over his shoulder. “The Loreal commercial scouts won’t be there for this interview, quit doin’ your hair and let’s motor!”

Sam sticks his head out the bathroom door, face contorted in a scowl. “I’m not doing my hair. This stupid tie is too short.”   

Dean scoffs, pushing his palms against his legs and rising from the bed. “Come on, lil’ sis, I’ll do it for you.”

“No, Dean, the bathroom is too small--no, it’s fine, it’s too short, you can’t fix it by--ugh, Dean!”

Cas pays zero conscious attention to the brothers scuffling in the tiny motel bathroom, instead staying transfixed on what the child psychologist was saying.

“ Parents, take note--when your child has a breakdown, even in public, stay with them until it is done. I cannot stress this enough. They need to know that they are still wanted and loved by you despite the breakdown, and that their feelings are valid. If you leave during their time of most emotional need, then as adults they will live with the constant fear that their emotions are too strong to show to anyone else.”

Cas blinks. His eyes widen. He turns to the bathroom, at the door that was slightly ajar, at the scene of Dean putting the tie on Sam despite Sam’s protests, Dean grinning up at him with the corners of his eyes softly crinkled. After the tie is properly on Sam’s neck (still too short), Dean claps him on the shoulder twice and saunters back into the hotel room. He grins down at Cas, gesturing to the TV with his thumb. “So, you done watchin’ Oprah or you wanna sit this case out while you marinate in your lady feelings?”

Cas continues to stare at Dean with wide eyes. Oh.

***

After Sam died at Stull Cemetery, Dean was silent. He nodded as Bobby grasped his surrogate son behind his neck fondly, murmuring words of encouragement. Mainly, the message he conveyed was “move on and do what Sam would have wanted you to do with your life.”

Dean knew that meant a life of settling down. The closest thing he had to that: Lisa. The prospect of it all didn’t make him feel better. Castiel knew that Dean wanted Sam. He wanted to hold his little brother again and protect him from the fires of Hell.

Bobby eventually left. Castiel remained.

Dean turned to Cas, posture defensive and yet eyes the most weary that Cas has ever seen them. “Well, don’t you have somewhere to wing off to?” he bit out.

Cas looked down at the tips of his shoes; they were a little scuffed. Probably a symptom of exploding and then somehow being stitched back into existence again. “I have nowhere to be at the present moment.”

“Oh, so now you’re gonna stay?”

Cas shook his head. “I didn’t mean I can stay permanently, Dean. I have affairs in Heaven to attend to. But right now I have nowhere that is needing my attention so I can stay if you need--”

Dean stepped forward, advancing on him immediately. “Nowhere to be at--well that’s just great ,” he growled. “Where the hell were you when my brother was falling into a goddamn ditch into hell?!”

Cas’s face crumpled into something he thought emulated sympathy. “Dean--”

“No, goddammit, no!” Dean roared. The anger that had stashed away, simmering, during Bobby’s talk to him was now boiling over and into Dean’s clenched fists as he grabbed Cas by the trenchcoat. “Cas, where the hell were you?!”

Castiel heard the unspoken words. Where were you when I needed you the most?

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he rumbled, still looking downwards as Dean shook him. He let himself be pliant, let Dean move him despite the fact he was an immovable object.

Dean began sobbing. Castiel had expected this. Still clutching Cas’s jacket lapels, Dean buried his face into his fists. Castiel stared at Dean’s back as it shook again and again with sobs. This had never happened to him before. He didn’t know how to comfort Dean.

Castiel knew who could comfort Dean. The woman that he knew Sam was referring to when he told Dean to have a normal life, the one that Dean would eventually make his way to anyway. Castiel knew that his remaining role in Dean’s life was to get him to that place where he could be comforted and healed.

Castiel spared one last look at the back of Dean’s head, feeling his grace weep as well for Sam’s death and Dean’s despair. He never wanted to see Dean or Sam in pain. It was one of the reasons he rebelled against Heaven.

Castiel deposited Dean and his impala on Lisa’s street, parked at the curb in front of her house. Dean was still holding onto him, blearily looking up and around once he realized where he was. He took a shaky breath, “Cas...I don’t…”

Castiel uncurled Dean from his jacket; it was a death grip that anyone weaker than an angel may not have been able to break. “Dean,” he said firmly. “Go inside to Lisa. This is the life that Sam meant for you. Love, and a family.  Not sorrow.”

Dean shook his head. “I can keep hunting. I can find a cure for Sam. You can help me--”

“I am not the one that can help you, Dean.”

His friend stared at him with lost eyes. “But I thought…” He visibly straightened and shook his head, almost as if he pushed a reset button. “Okay,” he said gruffly

Castiel tilted his head. “Dean, this is the life Sam wanted for you. It was his last wish.”

Dean stared at him with glassy eyes. “Okay.”

“Everything will be fine.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Castiel watched Dean walk up the path to Lisa’s front door, his grace buzzing with a lighter energy. Now Dean would have someone to comfort him. Lisa would hold him and heal him, as Castiel knew that women in love were powerfully capable of being caretakers to their beloved.

But through the months that Castiel watched over Dean, one eye on Lisa’s home and one eye on Heaven, he never witnessed him shed more than one tear at a time in front of Lisa. He only cried in the dark, long after Lisa and Ben had gone to sleep, sometimes drinking a bottle of dark liquor that Castiel did not know the name of, slumped over on the kitchen table and slurring Sam’s name until Lisa found him in the morning. She was gentle in bringing him back to bed, nursing his hangover in the later afternoon. But she was never able to heal him. Dean set up an impenetrable wall to her and others around him, shielding his pain from anyone but himself.  

Castiel could never understand why Dean wouldn’t let the woman who could bring him comfort and even joy heal his gaping wound for his brother.

***

Sam and Dean open the doors to the impala simultaneously, the old doors creaking in protest. Castiel climbs out of the backseat and squints at Dean over the car hood, awaiting instruction. Dean gestures to the house behind his shoulder with his thumb. “How bout you scout around the house for paranormal activity? Your spidey angel senses can probably pick up on it better than our EMF readers.”

Castiel arches an eyebrow as Sam rolls his eyes and says, “Dean, angels don’t have spidey senses.”

Dean scoffs at him as they walk toward the huddle of police cars, yellow tape, and crying female witnesses. “‘course they do. How do you think Cas sneaks up on us?”

“You’re the only one who seems to complain about that, Dean.”

Castiel sighs and turns toward the house. He doesn’t pick up anything supernatural at first glance, but with his weak and waning grace he isn’t surprised. He sees a well-tended garden in the front, complete with tulips growing among ten varieties of hostas and a dog restlessly walking the perimeter in the house, assumedly imprisoned by a shock collar. A mother and her child walk by the house, both oblivious to the group of police and flashing blue and red lights nearby. The four-year-old is crying, screaming for a toy that either the mother does not have or will not give. Approaching their car, the mother roughly tosses the child in the back and clips him in his booster seat, shutting the door firmly. She leans against the car, pulling out her phone and idly scrolling through it as the child cries and tosses himself against the booster seat in the car.

Castiel considers the scene with a frown. He knows that something is wrong with the way that the mother reacted to the child, but he can’t decide what it is.

A hand claps him on the shoulder. He doesn’t turn around right away, knowing nothing is wrong; whenever his grace senses Dean close to him, touching him, or looking at him, he feels warmth rather than apprehension. “Find anything, Cas?” is the low rumble of Dean’s voice next to his ear.

Cas turns, offering a small and shy smile to his friend. “Unfortunately not. My grace can’t seem to sense anything from this distance.”

Dean nods. “Well, we’re coming back after it gets dark. We convinced the family to get a hotel. They’re spooked enough that they don’t want to stay in the house that one of them mysteriously and violently died in.”

Cas considers something for a moment, as Dean releases his shoulder and turns around to rejoin Sam by the impala. “Dean?”

Dean looks at Cas over his shoulder. “Yeah, Cas?”

“Are parents meant to ignore their children during a temper tantrum?”

Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Castiel muses that Dean is probably used to but also frustrated by his confusing questions. “Why the hell would I know, Cas? Does this have to do with the case?”

“Well, no.”

“Then why you asking?”

Cas’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not sure.”

Dean can tell there is more to the question, but Cas cannot explain it since he himself doesn’t know the answer. But Dean is the master of ignoring the underlying importance of something if it is an uncomfortable topic. “Come on,” Dean offers, offering him a grin. “Quit wondering about it and let’s get a burger.”

***

Castiel responded to Dean’s prayer immediately. It consisted of no words, but Cas could feel the pull of longing that Dean emulated for Cas to be with him. Perhaps he was in danger? More likely, Sam was. Dean usually didn’t call Cas unless it was his brother’s life on the line.

Castiel landed in the dark room, sparing a glance around the house. The brothers had chosen to squat in an abandoned three-story house, likely low on funds to get a motel. Castiel didn’t see Dean in the room.

“Dean?”

There was a shuffling in the corner, the sound of empty glass bottles clanking against each other and the hardwood floor. When Castiel turned to regard it, he saw Dean wound tightly in a ball, sitting up against the peeling floral wallpaper. Dean flicked open his cellphone and shined it at the angel. “Cas?” His voice sounded deep and gruff from lack of use. “What are you doing here?”

Cas hesitated. He didn’t want to tell him that he was so finely tuned into any need or longing Dean felt, that Castiel was likely to sprint across worlds to him. “I, I sensed you would be here. Do you need anything?”

Dean huffed, leaning his head against a brown flower painted into the wall (which was probably not brown before the house was abandoned). “No, man, I don’t need anything.” His eyes went wider and he stared at Castiel. “Actually.”

Castiel moved closer to Dean, his shoes toe-to-toe with Dean’s. “Ask me, Dean, and I’ll try to fulfill your request.” Castiel knew it was true. After his mistake of attempting to be God, fighting through purgatory with Dean, and finally returning to him, Castiel knew that if Dean requested something Castiel could provide he would not withhold it from him.

“Cas… can you erase memories?”

“No, Dean, I can’t.”

Dean sighed audibly and looked away from Castiel. Before he did, Castiel could see the glint of disappointment and grief in Dean’s eyes. Castiel could not be the one to cause it, so he continued, “I can simply withhold them from the conscious, pushing them deep enough in the mind so that one can’t immediately access them.”

Dean stared at him again, eyes shining dangerously. His tongue dashed across his bottom lip, and he asked haltingly, “Could you… do that for me?”

Castiel knelt in front of Dean. He could smell the strong stench of alchohol on his friend. His grace reached out in tendrils, circling Dean’s presence, aching with the deep pain that Dean was holding to his chest. “Dean…” He sighed, and looked at the ruined planks of the hardwood floor. “I would do anything to help.”

He could feel Dean’s eyes boring into the top of his head, and he wondered if he said too much. He felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder, a gesture of acceptance, and Castiel took a moment to feel the relief that nothing seemed to have changed between them in the wake of his small confession. What he felt for Dean he kept tightly concealed, like a fiercly flaming light shrouded in a tightly wound bush. No matter how many sticks he stacked around the bush, or leaves he grew to conceal the light, it shone through. Cracks of his light that burnt so enthusiastically for his friend spontaneously leapt forward, begging to be noticed by Dean, but also ashamed to be noticed at all. This moment was one of these cracks, and like every one that occurred, Castiel attempted to hide the light further.

He allowed himself to slowly raise his eyes to Dean’s. They looked desperate. “Please, do it,” his friend choked out. “Whatever I’m thinking right now, make it go away.”

Castiel nodded, reaching out two fingers to Dean and touching his forehead. In Dean’s mind, he saw the shadows of a childhood memory: John, with a bottle of dark liquor hanging limply from his hand, and Dean as a small five-year-old child. Dean was on the bed, holding a crying baby Sam, Dean himself sobbing with him like a demented chorus. John plucked Sam from Dean’s arms, and roughly pulled Dean off the bed. Castiel heard John’s voice echoing: “ I can’t fucking deal with this right now, kid, go outside and don’t come back until you’ve shut the hell up!” Castiel saw Dean scramble outside, draw himself as small as possible against the impala in the parking lot, and bury his face into his knees.

Castiel was about to to pull away, ask Dean if he really wanted to rid himself of this memory, when a new shadow pushed in. It was lighter, like a candle flickering away the darkness. Dean was older, sat on the bed with a lanky preteen Sam, who was crying and trying to run away from Dean’s arms. Dean refused to let go, and held his struggling form stubbornly until Sam slumped against Dean’s body and cried into his shoulder. Castiel heard Dean, I’ll never leave you, Sammy. Especially when you’re sad, you idiot. Don’t ever think I’ll leave you.

Castiel withdrew his hand, stood to his feet. As Dean glared at him, likely realizing the memories were still there, and opened his mouth to protest, Castiel felt the shroud around the light crack again. Without a conscious thought, it was simply instinct, he clasped a hand to Dean’s neck, dangerously close to grasping his cheek. He smiled softly at Dean. “I can’t take these memories. You’ll need them someday. And if you were to really look at them, you’ll know you should not live without them.”

Dean spluttered a reply, or he would have, but Castiel’s grace put him to sleep, setting him gently down on the floor, rumpling his trenchoat to put underneath Dean’s head. He would come back for it later.

***

“ Josie, I’m glad you asked that question, I’ll repeat it for anyone who just turned in, she asked: ‘What do you do if you encounter someone as an adult who has had an emotionally abusive upbringing, and they are resistant to feeling any kinds of emotions in front of you?’ I think a lot of couples have this problem, even friends have this problem, where the one who was raised as a child to think that their emotions have no validation completely close themselves off to the other person. This raises many problems--”

“Hey, Cas, you with us?”

Castiel raises his eyes from the television screen to see the youngest Winchester brother smiling down at him. Castiel has no idea what a Loreal commercial is, but it does look like Sam spent extra time on his shiny, immaculately brushed hair this morning, so maybe this was his goal. Sam raises his eyebrows and leans down a little further, trying to get his attention. “You want to chime in about the case?”

Cas blinks over at Dean, who is seated at the table, enthusiastically drowning down a beer. He rises from the bed and joins Dean at the table. “What do you need my help with?”

Instead of answering the question, Dean juts the neck of his drink at the television screen. “Was that what you were watching yesterday?”

“Yes. I believe it’s a re-run.”

“That psychologist still spouting bullshit?”

Castiel knows it’s not a question posed in a way that needs to be answered, but that Dean wants answered (Castiel notices that Dean does this a lot in uncomfortable situations). He taps his fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop. “It helps me understand this world a small margin more. Yesterday I saw a mother put her child in the car when he was upset, and ignored him as he cried. I didn’t understand why this was until I thought about what this psychologist was saying: that sometimes children are ignored during tantrums by their parents because sometimes it’s too much of a burden to deal with them. But according to her this is poor parenting.”

Sam and Dean stare at him, mainly because this is the first time he’s spoken more than a handful of sentences at a time since he regained his remaining fractured grace from Metatron’s hold.

“Cas…” Dean begins slowly. “You don’t have a kid. Why does this matter?”

Cas sighs, “I know I don’t have a child. But children that are treated this way grow up to be adults that do not feel as if their feelings are important. So they refuse to talk about them, or show when they are upset and need comforting. I think this may be important to know.” He stares at Dean meaningfully, who stares blankly back until his friend scoffs and tips his chair back to study the ceiling.

Castiel looks over at Sam, who is boring his eyes into the side of Dean’s head as Dean obliviously swings the remaining amount of beer into his mouth. Sam’s lips are in a tight, thoughtful line as he frowns at his admittedly emotionally stunted brother. “I can see why that would be important to know, Cas,” he grounds out. “That’s very interesting.”

***

Castiel never paused to think that his feelings for Dean were unrequited. He had no assurance that Dean loved him as much as Castiel was devoted to him; it simply didn’t matter one way or the other. Castiel knew that he would keep cherising Dean all the same, despite the fact that he hid it away.

Castiel knows that he is an odd angel. Angels are meant to love, but never this intensely. He isn’t sure he knows how to love; so he simply studies Dean. Studies the fact that he loves food, sex, and his car. Notices that there is more to the fierce bravado that meets the eye. Acknowledges that Dean loves his brother more than anything or anyone else in the world. Muses that Dean is much like the honeybees that he observed during his time with Sam’s memories of Hell: seemingly simple creatures, on their usual path to retrieving pollen to their hive, but full of complexities and connections beneath the surface.

This may be the reason why Castiel holds onto something when it reminds him of an aspect of Dean and carefully turns it in his hands, examining it closely, whether it be physical or metaphorical. Like what a child psychologist might say on a talk show at 4:26 in the afternoon in a run-down motel room.

Castiel returns to the motel with the brothers after eating a large meal of burgers and fries (a turkey burger in Sam’s case), awkwardly sitting on a chair at the table as the brothers strip down for bed. The brothers decided that they may as well get a few hours of sleep before confronting the ghost. He isn’t sure whether they need him anymore.

His question is answered after Sam retreats to the bathroom to do his “nightly primming ritual”, as Dean calls it. Dean’s eyes flick over at him from the bed. He sighs and looks at the bathroom door, at Cas, and back to the door again before rising from the bed. As Dean stands over him in nothing but boxer-briefs and a thin t-shirt, Cas feels his breath catch in his throat, and wonders if that means something is wrong with his vessel’s lungs.

Dean stares down at him, one eyebrow arched. “You stayin’ or goin’?”

“I…” Castiel stares up at him, feeling his cheeks heat. Is he falling ill? He has not been ill since he gained the borrowed grace. “I don’t know.”

Dean nods, his tongue flashing across his bottom lips. He seems to consider something for a moment, then quietly admits, “Stay.” He puts both hands on either of Castiel’s shoulders and leans down, brushing his nose into Castiel’s hair. Castiel is unfamiliar of this gesture from Dean.

“Dean, what…”

Smiling down at him, Dean pats him on the cheek, his hand lingering a bit longer than Castiel knows as “socially inappropriate” between anyone but lovers. “Goodnight, Cas.”

***

Dean is upset by something that happened on the hunt. Castiel knows it as well as Sam, but they both cannot deduce what it could be. Dean throws things aggressively around the motel as he packs his bag, barks at Sam to just “get in the goddamn” car when he asks what is wrong, and makes a point to slam the motel door so hard that a picture unceremoniously flings itself off the wall.

Sam stares at Castiel. “I don’t know what the hell has gotten into him.”

Castiel sighs and closes his eyes wearily. The hunt had been a poltergeist, and although Castiel had left the brothers to research matters on the Mark of Cain, he had been called back by Dean’s cry for help when Sam had been thrown from the third story window. Cas had appeared, mended Sam’s broken bones and swelling brain, and by the time they had joined Dean in the house, it had been taken care of. Sam immediately knew that something was wrong in Dean’s posture and the fact that he was angrily swiping at his eyes, and he crossed the room to talk to Dean in soft murmurs. Castiel stepped smoothly out of Dean’s way when he bursted into profanities and stomped out of the room.

“Hey, Cas?”

Sam’s voice brings him back. “Sam… I’m sorry, I must be tired.”

“Yeah, well, healing me after I fell out of the house like an idiot would do that to you.” Sam’s admonishing tone does not match his crooked smile as he leads Cas to the foot of the bed. “Maybe you should rest here for a while.”

“Sam…” Cas huffs, staring at his filthy shoes. “I am worried about Dean. The mark is only getting stronger.”

  Sam sighs and nods. “I know. Did you find anything while we were on the hunt?”

Castiel shakes his head, slumping forward. “I’m afraid that there is nothing.” He sighs, and looks to the door. “I have to leave. I’ll keep searching.”

Sam grabs his shoulder before he can flit away. “Just… can you talk to Dean first? He won’t tell me what’s eating him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

Castiel nods, and in the next second appears beside Dean, who is leaning against the Impala. He seems drawn in on himself, smaller than usual, gripping his arm above the mark that is hidden under his sleeve. They stand in silence for a few minutes before Dean whispers, “I’m scared, Cas.”

Cas nods. Dean continues, “That poltergeist in there… it was really angry. Throwing shit, killing shit...it didn’t even know what it was angry about anymore.” Dean turns to Castiel, his green eyes hooded by his furrowed eyebrows. “I never thought about it ‘till now, but... That’s going to be me, once this mark takes me over. What if I kill Sammy, but I don’t even know it, because I’m so angry?”

Castiel says firmly to Dean’s slumped form, “I will not let that happen.”

Dean nods, licks his lips. He considers the ground with his glare as his breath hitches in and out. Finally, he lets out a shaky laugh, scuffing at a stray pebble. “I know why you did it.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows at the abrupt turn of subject, facing the side of Dean’s head again. They are very close to each other, so close that Castiel can see Dean’s freckles faded with age, but Dean does not complain about his personal space. “Did what?”

“Left me at Lisa’s.”

“...You were meant to go there. It was where Sam wanted you to go.”

“No, that wasn’t the reason. It’s because I was…” Dean chokes on his next word and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Without Sam, I’m a weak-ass pansy. The way that I was breaking down on you, that was totally uncalled for, man. And now here I am bitching about a stupid mark.” He pointed a finger in Castiel’s face, eyes sparking with anger. “Well, I’m not weak. Don’t you think that. I’m not a fucking charity case.”

Castiel blinks. He doesn’t understand why Dean is angry at him. “All right, Dean.”

His face twists into something that is not anger, the definite opposite of it, and he scrubs a hand over his face before pushing himself off the impala and stalking across the parking lot. Castiel stares after him, brow furrowed.

“I think a lot of couples have this problem, even friends have this problem, where the one who was raised as a child to think that their emotions have no validation completely close themselves off to the other person.”

“I can’t fucking deal with this right now, kid, go outside and don’t come back until you’ve shut the hell up!”

Everything will be fine, Dean. When Castiel himself didn’t believe those words.

Castiel does not have to fly far to find Dean. He appears in front of him as Dean is leaning against a tree in the dark park by the motel, slumped forward with his hands on his knees and making a great effort to keep his breathing under control. He looks up at Cas with an incredulous look on his face as Castiel advances toward him. “Cas, what--”

Castiel grabs Dean into a bone-crushing embrace, leaving just enough lung space for Dean to breathe but only barely.

“Cas, get the fuck off of me.”

“No, Dean.”

“Cas, goddamnit, go away --”

Castiel holds Dean as he struggles, cursing, damning Cas--and then the struggle is abruptly cut off by Dean’s breathing getting heavier and Castiel’s dress shirt getting wetter. Castiel blinks as he comprehends that Dean is crying on him, again, just like on the eve of Sam’s death. Just as before, Castiel does not have any notion of what to do, so he keeps holding Dean as he silently shakes in his arms.

He doesn’t know what to do, but he knows that the answer is not to leave Dean.

Castiel feels his light for Dean crackling from its thorny prison the longer that he holds Dean. He feels his chest become warm, unfurling from a cold winter of repressed feelings and tension, and grips his friend tighter. He is aware of Dean’s arms circling his waist and holding on tightly as he sighs, now pliant, in Castiel’s arms.

Castiel is an odd angel. He knows this. Angels feel love, but never in this intense capacity. Castiel has no idea how to express them. All he can do is echo the words that his own beloved said to a cherised brother years before. Castiel knew, from the time he truly knew Dean’s soul, that he would learn how to love from Dean. So, Castiel has no control over the swell of emotion that causes him to say, “I’ll never leave you, Dean. Especially when you are sad. Don’t think that I’ll ever leave you.”

Dean may never ask for it, or want it, but Castiel knows that he will always offer it. He knows now that his love for Dean is burning too fiercely to be kept hidden any longer. Castiel no longer fears it; he welcomes it. He lets the flame engulf this man that he rebelled for, died for, cried for, who is protected in his arms despite his protests.

Dean grasps him tighter, buries his face into Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel allows himself to carefully run his fingers through Dean’s hair by his neck as Dean mutters, “I know, Cas.”