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Dean gets approximately halfway through his next beer bottle before he can’t help himself anymore. Beside him, the grimoire sits innocently, the ripped page hidden away alongside all the others. He keeps catching it out of the corner of his eye, and the one question he can’t get out of his head is why.
Because if there is one thing on Earth his enigma of a little brother has remembered from his one-time lawyer training, it’s how to dodge a question.
So instead of staying to finish up the bottle, he pours it down the sink. Tells himself it’s because he’s giving up the booze—doesn’t want Mom to know how much he drinks when she gets back and moves in with them—or because he’d drunk enough tonight already. Neither particularly true. Mary could probably drink him under the table anyway.
He knows enough from listening to the sounds of the bunker settling at night himself that Sam isn’t asleep just yet. These last few nights he’s gotten up consistently in the middle of the night to pace in front of his room, back and forth, as if he can wear a hole right through their universe and into the next. He might have turned his light out to throw Dean off the scent, but he’s still in there, staring at his ceiling fan.
Sure enough, when he knocks on the door, Sam answers in a heartbeat.
“I’m asleep.”
Dean takes that as an invitation. “Relax, you can still get your four and a half hours.”
Sam sits up in bed, one flyaway strand of hair smoothed over the completely wrong side of his head. One hand through his hair later and it’s Hollywood perfect. Seriously. How does he do that?
“I know what you’re going to ask,” Sam says heavily. Then, “When two people love each other very much—”
“What?”
Sam allows himself the beginnings of a smirk. “Fifth base, kid.”
Dean is not about to let himself get distracted. Even though he’s got to admit that Sam really does know a hell of a lot more than he lets on about misdirection.
“Shut up. And you know what I’m going to ask.”
Sam folds himself neatly, long legs tucking in. He places his hands on his knees, looking every bit the Zen master Dean knows he wishes he was.
“She’s seen his face, Dean.”
Dean opens his mouth, but it’s like Sam can anticipate his argument.
“Yeah, yeah, she could be faking. Trying to lure me in, preying on my weaknesses.” He spits the word like it’s one of Rowena’s curses. “But I know she’s not. Because unless she’d seen it, she wouldn’t know.”
Dean finds himself floating into the room, almost not under the control of his own legs. He sits at the end of the bed when Sam gestures.
“An angel’s true face blinds you. But in the millisecond before it does, right before you know the pain is coming, it’s—it’s—”
He waves his hand like he can pluck the right Lovecraftian word out of the air.
“Cosmic. It makes you realize that you’re about to be utterly crushed and there’s not a single thing you can do to stop it, not a single way you can defend yourself.” He laughs, shakes his head. “That was always Dad’s big lesson, wasn’t it? Even when you’ve got both hands tied behind your back, you’ve got your feet. Except not there. Not then.”
He plucks at a stray thread on one of sheets, tugging at it until the first layer begins to unravel.
“So yeah, Dean, I gave her a chance. Because even if I’m never gonna have anything that can beat him—God knows I’ve looked—she might. And that’s something.”
Dean just stares at him. “He’s not coming back.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah. Right.”
Dean gets up, brushes his hands off on his jeans. Sam has that faraway look in his eyes that he gets sometimes. It’s the look that makes Dean realize just how many years his brother carries.
“Pancakes at seven, got it?”
Sam nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
It doesn’t feel like he got his question answered, not completely, but Dean knows when he’s been beat. He doesn’t feel much like heading to bed himself, so he wanders back to the kitchen, half wishing that he hadn’t poured his beer down the sink.
He’s met with a welcome surprise at the kitchen table.
“Cas! Sam told me that you were in California.”
Dean sets about making a cup of tea without Cas asking. Five years ago, he would have never been able to picture himself making tea of all things, but Cas seems to enjoy it even if he can’t really taste it. Something about the warmth.
“He was mistaken,” Cas says.
He doesn’t react when Dean puts the mug down in front of him. He doesn’t even cup his hands around it like he usually does. Dean tilts his head to the side.
“Everything okay?”
A hint of a glare, like the Castiel that had once shoved him against the counter in Bobby’s kitchen. Then it’s gone, smoothed away.
“I wasn’t in California.”
Dean holds his hands up defensively. “Okay, okay, maybe he said Colorado and I mixed up my states.”
He doesn’t do it very often, but it’s been a stressful week, so it’s entirely possible he’s on the wrong part of the country with the right first letter.
“I wasn’t in Colorado!” Finally, the full glare breaks through. “I was trapped. Asmodeus captured me.”
Dean’s heart drops into his stomach. Literally. He thinks he can feel the splash.
“What?”
Cas fixes his gaze on the mug. “All those text messages you were getting, all those phone calls. They were Asmodeus.”
His breath catches in his throat. Dean clutches his mug so hard that he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter beneath his grip.
He laughs hollowly. “Well, aside from the ones he let me draft. Those were fun.”
“Cas. I—”
He can tell before he even gets a word out that there’s nothing he can say that can help. Instead, he reaches across the table and touches Cas’s wrist. To his credit, he doesn’t jerk away.
“I thought for sure you’d realize.”
Dean reaches forward and takes Cas’s hand into his own. Cas looks down at it, the corners of his angry mouth softening.
“I can’t believe I didn’t.” He closes his eyes. “Cas. I’m sorry. I wanted you to stay, after you—after Lucifer—and then when you didn’t, I just thought you didn’t want to stay.”
Cas looks at him. “You wanted me to stay?”
“I just didn’t know how to ask.”
Because that would have included saying why and he doesn’t think he’s ready for that little three word phrase just yet.
Cas just stares at him. “All you had to do was ask.”
He gets up, leaving the mug of tea behind, and shuffles off towards his room.
Now Dean really wishes he hadn’t poured the beer in the sink.