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The bus to Jersey had a flat tire and while that seems to be a great inconvenience to the other passengers, Cas is rather relieved.
They said it'll take about twenty minutes until the wheel has been replaced, thank you for your patience, and Catiel had stopped listening after that.
Now he's sitting next to Dean on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the small foyer of the travel angency waiting for the repairs to be finished.
Sam decided to remain at the bunker, sending Cas off with a hug and a lopsided smile, and Cas might've taken that as a slight if he hadn't been secretly grateful for that, too.
Sam is his friend, doubtlessly. But being alone with Dean without any pressing matters at hand, without death and destruction just waiting round the corner – that's something he's rarely ever gotten to fully experience.
Even now he is still on the run, on the way to Jersey and then who-knows-where. They are trying to keep it random. They got some allies here and there, Garth and Charlie, Sam called them, but if Cas being at the bunker is too big a risk than he doesn't want to endanger anyone else.
He'll keep to himself and not stop moving. He'll manage. Somehow.
At least now he's got money and clothes and whatever his human body may need. But he has a suspicion that the most valuable things do not fit into a duffle bag.
“First thing you do it get an anti-possession tattoo,“ Dean repeats what they've already gone over several times, “Wouldn't do us a lot of good, if you evaded the angels and then got your ass ridden by a stinking demon. And an anti-reaper-tracker charm, too, if there is one."
There isn't, but Cas doesn't mention it.
One can stall Death, keep Death at bay for a while - they, of all people know that -, but no matter what you do, Death will always be able to find you, even if He does not kill you. The same goes for all reapers.
So all the free-lancers, all the greedy creatures that are out for his blood... they will eventually get to him, just like April did.
No, he reminds himself. April had been a sweet girl. The reaper had merely taken her face... it didn't count.
Dean's presence is comforting and taunting at the same time. Idly he wonders whether this is something he could have had if he chosen differently in the past. If he had stayed on Earth after Sam pushed Michael and Lucifer into the Cage, or if he'd chosen to not engage in a Civil War, not fight Raphael and work with Crowley, not absorb souls and attempt to be God, if he'd simply followed Dean out of Purgatory and never trusted Metatron. Things might have played out completely differnt. Or even worse. He couldn't know. Daydreaming is a new fancy of his, though. It's like Dean right now. Comforting yet taunting.
He feels like he should be saying something instead of just sitting there in a stupor.
After all, this is his first chance to say more than 'I'm sorry' or 'Go' or something even more dreadful.
He lets out a little breath of laughter, despite the fact that there is nothing funny about this situation. Next to him, Dean tenses and turns toward him a little.
"What?" he asks suspiciously, as if he were expecting Cas to have gone mad again, like he was all those months ago.
"Nothing. Just," he half shrugs, half shakes his head, a foreign yet easy motion, "It occured to me that this is the first time I get to say goodbye to you."
But Dean only tenses even more, "What do you mean by that?"
"Very often our partings have be rather... rushed," he tries to explain, "I either died or I ... just fluttered off, as you call it."
Strangely enough, the mention of his own death doesn't hurt nearly as much as the reminder that he no longer has his wings.
"Or I told you to piss off," Dean adds in muttered resignation. He's got his hands folded and his kneading his knuckles, looking at them as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. In a way they are. Castiel once remade those knuckles, those fingers, those calloused hands. They are mesmerizing to look at.
He wonders whether Dean touched him with those hands when he sat dead on the chair in April's apartment, whether Dean wished to be able to give life to this empty body.
Castiel's fall from Grace began the moment he looked at Dean Winchester and felt sinful pride at having shaped him just as God had intended him to be. Only now has he hit rock-bottom. And he won't even get the chance to look at those hands once more.
He blinks, realizing that his thoughts have drifted off. He doesn't feel crazy, though. This is just another part of being human. Somehow, the past few moments of silence have been lost on him and now he notices that Dean has buried his face in his hands.
Castiel tries to recall when people employ such a gesture. Exhaustion, he knows, and it doesn't seem far fetched right now. But also lies and emotions.
Which of those are hidden behind Dean's palms, he wonders. Dean could be weeping or smiling, for all he knows.
He doesn't like it. He used to be able to read Dean's thoughts, grab them out of his head just like that, even if he didn't understand all of them, even if he gradually accepted Dean's wish for him to "stop doing that!"
Now he knows nothing.
"Dean," he says, tentatively raising his own hand and letting it hover in the air before deciding to settle it on Dean's shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting manner, "What is troubling you?"
"It's just-" Dean's shoulders are shuddering a little as he draws in a deep breath inbetween his fingers, "I tell you to piss off and then call you back for help. I push you away and then tell you to stay and get angry when you don't. And now that you're finally here, and you thought I'd let you stay for good, I send you right off again. Can't ever let you get it right, can I?"
"You have valid reasons," Castiel reminds him, though neiter him nor Sam had seen the need for him to leave. But Dean was adamant, desperatley so. Sam had frowned and said something about 'commitment issues' that Cas didn't quite understand.
"I know," Dean nods as if he were trying to convince himself, "Doesn't mean you deserve any of that shitty treatment. Great friend I am."
"My best friend," Cas points out, "Even if it shall become a, uh, long distance relationship once more."
Dean laughs shakily, "You make me sound like a lovesick teenager who's gonna spent hours on the phone."
"You did say you would call," Cas points out, feeling a fearful flutter in his chest. The angels would have been able to track prayers directed at Cas, but disposable phones were a neat invention. And Cas already had one stuffed in his jeans pocket with strict intructions to keep it charged at all times.
"I will call," Dean promised what he had already said several times, "And you can call, too, whenever you want."
Dean was finally lifting his head again, turning to face Castiel in a way he had not done since... Castiel couldn't actually remember. Maybe before they went to get the Impala, just before invading SucroCorp and beheading the Leviathan. They'd had an honest moment, but even then it had only been brief.
"I know I've often brushed you off too quickly," Dean says hurriedly, "And I know I've taken you for granted. But... I'm grateful... no, I'm glad you're in my life. Real glad."
"Mildly put, that's a compliment I'd like to return," Cas replies and tries for something like a smile. Dean returns it, but it looks somewhat wobbly, and Cas wonders whether that is because they are mirroring each other.
"Do you remember our conversations about free will?" he asks and lowers his tone even more. It's strange to recall the Apocalypse with fond memory, but looking back it seemed so easy in comparison. Everything seemed so clear cut. There were angels and demons, and their little group got caught up in between.
Now they've got mercenary reapers, a usurpation in Hell and headhunting angels.
"'Course I do," Dean answers roughly, "One doesn't forget soul deep shit like that."
Soul deep. I've held your soul, Cas thinks. That's another thing he misses, apart from his wings. His human eyes have to content with people's outward faces.
"At the moment there are higher powers working against us once more," Cas tells him, "And once more we'll find a way to thwart their plans."
"And how long till the next disaster comes along?" Dean asks, turning away again, his expression shuttering unexpectedly, "Five minutes and then we're one the run again, one way or the other. You know I kinda miss Purgatory? You and me and Benny. The two of you sniping at each other. Just trying to get back to Sammy. Kinda relaxing. Well, apart from the monsters out to kill us shit, but what else it new, right?"
"I did not enjoy it," Cas confesses, "Because I was keeping secrets without even considering what it might do to you."
If possible, Dean's face darkens even more.
"Yeah, but... you know... sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," Dean says awkwardly.
"I never understood that saying," Cas frowns, "It seems redundant."
"Life is pretty much redundant in general," Dean huffs humorlessly.
"There are good things, too," Cas tells him, "Burritos and hot showers and cartoons."
"Damn, haven't I taught you well," ironcally, Dean turns his eyes heavenward as if there were anyone watching them. Metatron probably was, actually.
"Sex is also quite enjoyable," Cas adds, going for a teasing tone. But Dean only splutteres like he did before.
"Right, you discovered that, too," he says, seemingly to himself, "And all without my help."
"I would not have objected to your help," Cas muses, "I only had a vague notion of what to do. April did say she found it enjoyable. Though looking back, I maybe shouldn't take that at face value."
"Don't worry, most people's first time is kinda crappy," Dean soothes him.
"When was your first time?" Cas asks, feeling oddly curious, but with a sort of forboding expectance, like he knows he won't like the answer.
"Alicia Wu," Dean smiles faintly, "I was fourteen, she was two years older. It was crappy, but an okay kind of crappy, I guess. Nobody got stabbed in the aftermath, you know."
"And who was your last?"
Cas doesn't know why he wants to know. It just seems important in that moment.
Dean opens his mouth to reply, but nothing come out.
"I don't... remember, actually. It's been a while," he admits, "Not a lot of time between running from angels and demons and what not. Also, I guess I'm getting old. One night stands just don't seem as appealing."
"I would like to try intercourse with a person I already know, someone I can get to know," Cas thinks out loud, "It must be very different on an emotional level."
Again Dean only gives a mirthless little laugh, "Yeah, you do that. Who knows, maybe you'll meet some special little lady out there. One who's not out to kill you."
"I highly doubt it," Cas lowers his head, "I won't be trusting strangers as easily any more."
“Understandably,“ Dean nods, “Just... whatever happens, use a condom next time. No needs for STDs or an unwanted pregnancy. You're human now.“
Like Cas could ever forget.
For a few moments they sit in silence. It's strange. It's one of the longest and most intimate conversations he's ever had with Dean, ever had with anyone, yet it still feels like something is missing. Maybe it's the nearing goodbye that's looming over their heads like the sword of Damocles. Maybe talking like this just leaves you feeling somewhat bereft by default.
“I will miss you,“ Cas realizes like it has only just occured to him, “I've always missed you whenever we were separated.“
He's learned how to miss food and warmth and clean clothes over the past weeks, but it doesn't quite compare. Food is something a human needs to survive. This wish for company, for kinship, this he needs to feel content.
“I'll miss you, too, buddy,“ Dean says and Cas likes the way he says 'buddy', like it's a special little thing, but somehow he doesn't like the meaning itself. He's no buddy, no aquaintaince. He doesn't know what nickname he'd prefer.
Suddenly there is a ringing sound over the loudspeakers and a voice announces that the bus for Jersey is now ready to be boarded. Dean and Castiel look up simousltaneously, becoming aware of the world that exists outside of their shared moments.
„Well,“ Dean pushes himself up out of the plastic chair as if he wants to get this over as quickly as possible, „Better get going before they leave without you.“
Cas wishes they would. He wishes that all buses and trains and taxis and planes in the world would break down. He wishes that Dean would offer him a lift, only to realize that the engine of the Impala was dead, too. He wishes they'd hike back to the bunker together, or better yet, to a motel so it doesn't matter if any angels find them there.
But of course, none of that happens. The blown tire and those precious stolen minutes are more luck than Cas could've hoped for in a day. He's grateful to have gotten at least that.
He reaches for his duffle bag, only to find that Dean has already taken it and marched towards the exit where the busses are parked. Cas follows him at a much more leisured pace.
“So that's it,“ Dean says when they are standing in front of the bus doors where the other passengers are already miling about in mild annoyance and urgency. Cas seems to be the only one who really does not want to go to Jersey.
“Call me when you're in Jersey. And then when you take the other bus,“ Dean reminds him, “Call whenever something happens. I want to have at least a vague idea about your whereabouts. When you think someone is following you or listening in, write a text instead. No more telling people about any angel stuff. Try to blend in. Keep away from churches and anyone who might be listening to angels. Or demons. And get the damned tattoos.“
“Yes, mother,“ Cas says dryly, hoping it will put Dean at ease. It doesn't, but he does stop rambling.
“Okay,“ Dean hands him his bag, reaching out to straighten his collar, and maybe the comparison to a mother is apt after all. He's stalling, too, Cas realizes, and a small warm feeling spreads in the pit of his stomach.
“Okay,“ Dean repeats and then purses his lips, “I'll call you, too. And I'll text. Stupid things, probably. Just... just to keep you updated.“
Cas nods, “Alright.“
“So...“ Dean tries, “See you later, alligator.“
“I think I prefer 'buddy',“ Cas decides with dismay, “Or 'feathers'. Or 'Clarence'.“
Dean makes a face, “No. That's... that's Meg's name for you.“
“I know.“ He misses Meg, too, in a way. An angel-turned-human with a strange affection for a morally ambigious demon. But this is his life now.
“See you later, Cas,“ Dean corrects himself and puts on a brave smile like this is everything he doesn't want to do. Cas can relate.
“Goodbye, Dean.“
He wonders whether this is the point to reach out for a hug because shaking hands would surely be to awkward? Dean doesn't seem to be the shaking hands kind of guy.
The desicion is taken from him, however, when suddenly there are two big, warm hands on his cheeks, enfolding him, cradling him, and then Dean has taken a step forward and his lips are on him.
Kissing April had been a sort of instinctual reaction. He should've expected that kissing came naturally to humans, after all that was probably why they were doing it all of the time.
But kissing Dean is instinctual on an altogether different level, and just like that he knows that this is what had been missing before. Everything has been leading towards this and he just had not been able to put his finger on it, the mere idea just at the tip of his tongue.
Now the tip of his tongue is gently running over Dean's lower lip, his hands coming up to cover Dean's, to hold him in place, to never let him go.
Kissing Dean feels like drinking that first bottle of water. He wanted it so much, all of it, quick and greedy. And yet he had known that he should savor it, last it out, enjoy it, keep some for later.
But there is no later. There is only a bus to Jersey and the promise of text messages.
The thought of it makes him pull back finally, though he still keeps his hands on Dean's, their foreheads pressed together.
Dean stands so close they are sharing a breath and Cas has never felt more alive.
Eventually, Dean lifts his eyes and looks at him before carefully taking a small step back. His hands slip down, but the left one finds its way to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of Cas' hoodie.
“I swear as soon as the air's clear, you can come back,“ Dean tells him, “I'll fucking drive down to wherever you're waiting, I'll load you in the Impala and then we'll go home. Together.“
“Could you leave Sam at the bunker?“ Cas asks seriously, “I'd like to have sex in the backseat as soon as possible, and I'd doubt he'd appreaciate being witness to that.“
Dean chokes lightly, but catches his bearing.
“Yeah, we'll see about that,“ he says with a small eyeroll, but it's not a no, so Cas counts that as a win.
“Now go, you idiot,“ Dean tells him. It's even worse than 'buddy' or 'alligator', but Cas doesn't even mind anymore.
With a last gentle shove to his shoulder he turns around and climbs into the bus where the driver is already giving him a somewhat impatient look. He walks to the rear where there are still several seats unoccupied and peers out of the window.
Dean's gaze is fixed on him and he lifts a hand in a small wave.
Cas pulls out his phone and types out a message as quickly as his inexperienced fingers will allow.
Outside, Dean frowns and slips his own phone from his pocket, glancing at it.
Is phone sex an acceptable reason for regular calls?
Dean's eyes widen and then a small grin spreads over his face. He looks back up and offers a very deliberate nod.
Cas counts that as a win as well.
He sits down in his seat, placing the duffle bag beside him.
Jersey doesn't seem quite as daunting anymore.