Chapter Text
“Are you—” Dean averts his eyes from Cas’ now perpetually solemn face. It adds a little too much hurt to his already steadily growing pile, knowing neither of them have smiled at each other in entirely too long. “Are you back now?” he asks.
“I believe my current occupancy of your bunker necessitates that I am, indeed, back.”
Dean’s lips twitches at that. He has to clamp down his teeth to curb the amused grin. “No, man, I mean,” he finally looks at him, trying, and probably failing, to ensure his eyes aren’t so very pleading, “Are you back? You staying tonight? There’s—um—we’ve got a room for you if you want some—shut-eye. Or something.”
“I don’t sleep,” Cas reminds him dryly. “It’s as if you’ve not listened to me the last couple hundred times.”
“Cas,” Dean intones, and God, Chuck, whatever, it feels so good to say Cas’ name again, “I’m listening now.”
He can’t say he’s sorry for the last time they’ve talked on the phone when he said naught more than he’d said. He can’t even say sorry for the last time their eyes met in person and Cas left without Dean asking him to not go. All these words, all the regrets, they catch in his throat, and all he can do is say that he’ll listen now. Cas had tried to talk to him, and he was fair in reminding Dean that Dean hadn’t listened. Hadn’t even looked him. Cas isn’t dead to him though, he could never be, and now, the least Dean can do at is look at him. Listen.
“Cas,” he says again, taking a step forward, “we’d like you to stay. I’d like you to stay,” and with some strength that he’s not mustered up in awhile, he adds, “please.” It feels like he’s leapt off a cliff.
Cas, for his part, looks about as stunned as Dean feels over what he’s managed to express. He, likely as much as Dean, plausibly anticipated a much colder and detached parting. Like last time.
Well, fuck it, Dean’s not just going to keep silent and brood like every goddamn time he felt something in his life. The world is falling apart, again, and they need each other.
“We’re better together,” Dean says quietly, “remember?” He offers Cas a small smile, a peace token. His heart hammers in his chest as he hopes against hope that Cas accepts it.
“I don’t have any things to put away,” Cas says faintly, but he’s smiling. It’s timid, even feeble, but it’s close enough of an expression that makes something inside Dean twitch and glow.
They’re finally looking at each other properly. He’s finally able to, yet again, grip to the blue in Cas’ eyes like it’s a lifeline.
“Could you show me to my…room?”
“Hello, Dean.”
“Jesus, fuck!” Dean’s coffee topples over its rim as he jumps about a foot. His hand had flown to fumble for his gun in his surprise before he realised he was only in a t-shirt, flannel pants, and a bathrobe. “What the fuck did I say about doing that? I could have shot you!” he shouts.
It’s more trivial annoyance than he’s felt in awhile during the drinking, the apathy, and the anger of the past few months. He relishes it a little.
“I guess we both have trouble listening sometimes,” Cas remarks lightly with a smile as he shoulders past Dean towards the fridge. He’s jibing at him like they’re friends. Dean doesn’t fight the stupid grin that appears.
“Dean, it seems you are fully stocked up on alcoholic beverages and condiments, but no…actual…ingredients or food.”
“Ketchup is an ingredient,” he argues dazedly.
“Hmm,” Cas hums, lifting his head away from the cold shelves of the fridge with a curious expression. “Do you often have a beer paired with ketchup for breakfast? I don’t think that sounds incredibly appetising,” he teases.
Today has begun so normally and domestically that Dean is starting to grow in anxiety, waiting for the other shoe—or bomb—to drop.
“I—um—I’ve not eaten—properly—in awhile,” he stumbles through his confession. Cas starts to look troubled, so Dean ploughs on quickly before this discussion can snowball into something about how badly he’s been doing. “Sammy keeps some cereal in the cabinets if you’re hungry. Or I can get takeout. We could go to a diner?”
It’s a little embarrassing how excited the idea of a back-to-basics practice is getting him. He hopes it doesn’t show too much in his tone.
“Since when did you eat?” he blurts out, interest hitting him and slowly rising into a stream of panic. “Fuck, when did you start getting hungry? Are you—” he stops himself before he asks if Cas is okay, because he’s not a friggin’ girl and they’re not about to braid each other’s hair while they talk about feelings or some shit.
“My powers have been failing. I’m not sleeping yet, but I am feeling…tired sometimes. Hungry. Sometimes my back aches,” Cas says wryly.
“Yeah, welcome to your forties,” Dean scoffs, trying to not think about Cas being tired, and hungry, and aching, and human. “You’re looking a little grey there too, buddy,” he says, waving at his own hair and jerking his chin at Cas, making light of it, making this easier somehow.
“My vessel, I think, is getting…older,” Cas muses. “I don’t mind it too much, aside from the constant need to relieve myself or when my knees start to burn when I run.” He glances down at his body in grimace.
“Not your vessel, man, you,” Dean says, getting Cas’ attention away from his annoyed observation over his knees. “Jimmy’s long gone. It’s just you in there. Your body is you. Sometimes it sucks, but there’s good things you’ll feel now too. Food, and um—you know—” Dean wonders why it’s starting to feel weird to talk about sex with Cas.
Cas smiles. “Yes. Food. Let’s go get some. We should visit a grocery store. There is one I frequented around here awhile back where the boy is so frightened of me, he offers me a free pie every time I visit.”
“You—what?” Dean laughs, mind being lifted further from his dark thoughts.
“You were upset with me over the angel tablet. I tried to make it up to you by purchasing some of those eastern-asian magazines you enjoy and some pie. The boy ran out of pie that time and I may have…gotten somewhat aggressive,” Cas explains, unravelling with some shyness towards the end.
“God,” Dean shakes his head, his cheeks aching from grinning. He’d forgotten how it felt to grin for a little time. “You’re so friggin’ dumb, man,” he chuckles affectionately.
Cas huffs, indignant. It’s cute. “I was trying to be a helpful friend.”
“Alright. Thanks, then. Friend,” Dean says, amused. “Let’s go to a diner,” he announces, “Two dudes grocery shopping together is a little gay. I don’t judge, but that shit’s not really for me.”
He claps Cas on the back as he passes him. His hand lingers for a second too long, relishing, but he doesn’t think too much about it. The same way he doesn’t think too much about how things are feeling okay again and it’s only going to blow up in his face soon.
There’s something he knows is quivering below the surface, all wrapped up in telling Cas that Cas is the thing that goes wrong, telling Cas to answer his goddamn messages and nothing else, him letting Cas leave, them not talking about it, him asking Cas about Sam but not Cas himself, Sammy, his baby brother, who he’s supposed to look after and he’s failing spectacularly at that again, God being back in the game again, losing mom again, Jack, Charlie, Kevin, Bobby, Jo, Ellen, every goddamn person he couldn’t protect, and now the world is coming to an end again—and—and fuck. They’re going to go eat pancakes and bacon.
“I’m gonna get dressed. You’ll…wait here?” Dean asks to a suddenly bewildered looking Cas.
“Um—yes—I…I’ll wait here. For you.”
“Alright, weirdo,” Dean snorts.
“That waitress though,” Dean whistles as they cross the door back into the bunker. “Did you see the way she kept looking at us? Bending over like that. We probably could have tag-teamed if we wanted.”
“I don’t believe it was wise for you to drink alcohol along with your breakfast,” Cas grumbles, “or objectify women like that even if you are feeling tipsy. You’re better than that.”
“I’m not better than anything,” Dean says, annoyed, “and, I had, like, three beers, maximum. It takes a hell lot more than that to take a tank like me anywhere close to tipsy.” As if cosmic intervention had it out for him—which just about explains everything over the past forty or so years—he misses a step down the stairs and almost plants head-first into the grimy floorboard.
Cas catches his arm tight though. Saves him from the plummet.
“Always gripping me tight and raising me from perdition,” Dean mutters, half-amused, half-irritated, as he’s steadily lifted to his feet.
When Dean looks back to his saviour, Cas has his head tilted in the sweet, novice-human kind of way that reminds Dean of ten years previous. He’s looking at Dean with a mixture of curiosity and tenderness, something of the latter making him feel a dozen different kinds of uncomfortable.
“You remember our first exchange very well,” Cas murmurs, and Dean’s wondering if it’s a question or what, but then he realises Cas’ grip on his bicep has loosened, yet still touching, cradling. Every other thought sort of goes out the window.
“I remember when I first gazed at your soul,” Cas continues, lips lifting into a fond smile. His palm drifts from Dean’s arm towards his chest and he presses down on where Dean’s heart is, firmly but gently. It was getting very weird very quickly. Dean’s never felt so nauseous and delighted. “It glows. It’s beautiful. I wish I could still see it as clearly as I did then, even through the fire and sulphur and brimstone.”
Dean wonders whether his soul burned to Cas as brightly as the blue of Cas’ eyes and the fullness of his lips and the gumminess of his big grins and the comfort of his embrace and—
“Cas,” Dean chokes, “you can’t—” but he wants, “you can’t just say shit like that, man,” he manages through strained, uncomfortable laughter. “It’s too fucking much.”
They’re standing far too close, and when Cas’ hand jerks away from him as well as his backtracking steps, away, further away, Dean wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.
“I apologise,” Cas says robotically, “I didn’t mean to make you ill at ease. Personal space. I get it.”
“Cas—”
“Cas!” Sam exclaims, barrelling through the door like the interrupting moose that he’s always been. Dean curses beneath his breath and shuffles further away from Cas.
“You’re still here,” Sam says with some relief, getting closer to Cas and engulfing him into a hug. His hand pats Cas a couple times on the back before he releases him. Dean notices with some trouble that Sam’s hugs are a little different to Dean’s when it comes to Castiel, angel of the Lord. It’s very much less like he’s clutching on to oxygen, for breath, for life.
“I’m still here.” Cas smiles.
Dean also seems to be the only one that can tell when it’s done out of learnt politeness. He is, however, jealous that despite his falsified smile, Cas does seem genuinely pleased to see Sam, untethered by the webbings of hurt and tension and suppressed strife. Nothing like when he first ran into Dean again after…everything.
“I’m a little sleepy from breakfast. I’m going to go lie down, if that’s alright,” Cas announces, giving Sam another smile, but not Dean.
“You’re sleeping now?” Sam asks, brows knitted in concern.
“No, not yet. Perhaps today will be the day though,” Cas answers with wryness. “I must admit, of all the human things I did miss, sleeping is one of them. It’s nice to be able to…forget and rest for a period of time each day.”
Sam’s distress doesn’t ebb away. “Are you becoming human again?”
“Heaven is dying, I believe…or the smudge of grace returned to me from Metatron is no longer viable to keep me strong. Whichever the case, I am falling. My powers, they…they’ve been fading, weakening. It’s likely I will become fully human soon.”
“Oh, Cas,” Sam says sympathetically. His hand clasps onto Cas’ shoulder. “We’re going to fight this together. Your falling, Chuck, everything else the world has to throw at us.” The way they touch also isn’t the same, Dean thinks.
He also thinks glumly that maybe he should just leave the room, leave them to their easy friendship, easy discussions of feelings, easy everything. Neither would probably notice if he did just get the fuck out of here.
“Get some rest. We’ll talk more later,” Sam says, “You’re here permanently now, right?”
Awkwardness leaks into the room as soon as those words are released. Cas shifts his eyes to Dean, who shifts his eyes away, and now they’re both shuffling awkwardly on their feet, looking anywhere but at each other
“Didn’t realise that was a loaded question,” Sam says, huffing an awkward and stilted laugh. “I’m going on a supply run to get Eileen some clothes, food, and um—lady things. She’s still resting a lot too. Falling angels and people back from the dead, am I right?” He’s blabbering now, rubbing his neck. “Must just be another Thursday, I guess.”
Cas is still locked away in his room, probably back to avoiding Dean. Oh, well. The few hours this morning, cruised through the river of their denial, it was a good run. He supposes now they’re back to the avoidances, and tension, and uncomfortable chats that will occur when they accidentally run into each other in the hallway.
Sam returns some time in the evening, arms overflowing with bags of food and clothes and more things than any human woman Eileen’s size would need. Dean’s nursing his fifth or sixth beer. When their eyes catch, they both make disapproving faces at each other.
“Overkill, much?”
“If you’re talking about your alcohol consumption, then yes,” Sam agrees snootily, striding past Dean with his nose upturned like he’s the Queen of fucking England.
“Bitch,” Dean mutters, necking his beer in petty protest.
“I heard that, jerk!” He calls loudly as he bumbles down the hallway, juggling his multiple sacks of goods that, Dean would like to reiterate, is ambitious for even a Winchester that size to physically transport. The kid is acting like a lovesick teenager with all this gift-giving ritual crap and it makes Dean chuckle under his breath with a degree of fondness.
“What are we laughing at?” Cas asks pleasantly, popping out of nowhere yet again. It amazes Dean how he can still do that the human ways, without his wings and disapparating mojo. God, he had listened in on to too much of Sam and Charlie’s Harry Potter references.
The pang of Charlie hits again, and it’s a little worse when he’s a bit drunk, so he struggles to hide the frown that crawls onto his face.
“And now you’re sad.” Cas sits down opposite Dean at the table where he’s littered all his empty bottles, and looks at Dean with pity. Dean despises that look. “What’s wrong?”
“Wouldn’t the better question be what isn’t?” He laughs humourlessly. “Are we talking again now?” The beer makes him a little braver. Enough to at least confront it. “Or are we doing a thing where we go between realising there’s a mountain of shit between us and ignoring it. As if we’re friends again.”
“We are friends, Dean,” Cas says seriously. His arm reaches out over the table, like he’s reaching for Dean, but he stops halfway there and pulls back. Dean wishes he hadn’t. Dean wishes he never fucking said anything about personal space at all.
“Why do you give a shit?” he demands angrily instead. “It’s not like I’ve been raking in any best friend of the year awards lately. Why are you sitting here, throwing me a fucking pity party as if the ones I throw for myself aren’t enough? Why did you stay when I asked you to? Why didn’t you just punch me in the face and walk out again? Why did we get breakfast, and why did you tell me my soul was beautiful or whatever that weird fucking thing was at the staircase? Why aren’t you fucking livid with me? Why don’t you hate me?”
“Because I’m in love with you,” Cas says straightforwardly, calm and cool like they’re discussing nothing more rousing than the weather.
Dean’s brain short-circuits. He’s drunk. He’s heard wrong. It must be. His heart jumps and his mouth runs dry and he’s shaking his head like it’s possible to shake something in his mind loose.
Nothing shakes loose except an exhilaration that’s too crushed by the panic and anger to let breathe. All he feels now is sickness.
“Fuck. Fuck.” Dean runs a trembling head through his hair. He turns pointedly away from Cas, stands from his chair, knocking it over in his rush to get up, and stumbles away at least a few feet, shouting again. “Fuck!”
“Does it really bother you that much?” Then, humourlessly, like he knows this reaction was inevitable, Cas tacks on dryly, “Did you not know?”
“I thought, maybe—we—I never—“ Dean inhales sharply and holds his breath for the few second that it takes for him to gather his thoughts.
Cas has his hands clasped on the table, waiting for Dean patiently. Always fucking waiting in the wings for Dean.
“Why would you tell me?” Dean eventually yells, “Why the hell would you say this now? Now? We don’t have time to deal with something like this! We’ve not even dealt with the million other things going on with us before. And then there’s the world decaying all around us. There’s Sammy. Now it’s—it’s another thing now. The biggest fucking thing between us now, I’d say! Why would you say it? You know I can’t. We can’t. I’m not—I’m not—” Every part of his body, even his organs, feel like they’re trembling. “I’m not even fucking gay, Cas.”
“Okay,” he replies, frowning. “I’m sorry. You asked some questions and I thought it would be most efficient to give you the one answer that fits all. I never expected you to reciprocate.”
Dean laughs at him cruelly. “You know, I was working myself up to apologise to you for that stupid fucking thing I said, but maybe I was right. You always seem to have a way of making things go wrong.”
Cas’ composure crumbles instantly, and the look he gives Dean is the same one as the last time Dean had said that same fucking thing, but tenfold. This time, everything hurts more. Dean didn’t think that would be possible.
Maybe it’s because he’s a little drunk, his emotions are riding high, and it's spilling over regardless of Dean’s desire to cap it. Maybe it’s because he can’t go through it again, but this time, he manages to backtrack.
He stumbles towards Cas, who has gotten out his seat too, face twisted in pain, and is slowly backing away. “Cas,” he calls, “Cas, don’t go. I’m so—I didn’t mean it.” Then, with a deep breath, he says again what he said yesterday. “Please stay.”
“It appears I will only make you uncomfortable with my…feelings if I do.”
“No, no,” Dean shakes his head, “It’s not—I’m not—it’s just a lot, okay? But we can get over it. We all need to stick together right now.” He knows he’s being too sentimental, eyes feeling wet, but he doesn’t care much right now. “We can get over it,” he repeats, “You can get over it, right? You’re just confused because of our profound bond or whatever you called it. It’s not the same as being in love with someone, man. You need to get over it."
“I need to get over it,” Cas echoes. Dean can’t read his now schooled expression and tone. It terrifies him slightly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You need to fucking get over it.”
The next few days are hell, and Dean’s not exaggerating, because he’s literally been and the only difference is that Hell is warmer. Well, that, and the physical torture. Mentally, however, Dean is wrecked. He’s drinking more every day, he’s sleeping less, and when he does, he’d be lucky if the alcohol makes him pass out so thoroughly that his nightmares don’t make an appearance.
When he’s sober, he’s hungover. When he’s drunk, he agonises over the words Cas said. He can’t decide between what he’d prefer; for Cas to have been confused over what in love means, or for it to all be…real.
He probably should have just let Cas go if he’d wanted to go, because having him gone couldn’t be any worse than having him here but...gone.
Dean barely sees him, though he does hear him talking in murmured whispers with Sam and Eileen around the bunker, hears him in the shower, hears him pottering about in his room, hears him humming to himself as he makes breakfast.
Apparently him and Sam visited the grocery store together. Dean’s not bitter about that at all.
For Dean, his rule of thumb tends to be that if he smells bacon, he drifts to it like he’s in some Disney animation where the character floats towards the mist of pie. Lately, when he smells bacon, he knows it’s Cas in the kitchen and it’s a signal to avoid drifting to the source of the smell because another thing that’s worse than Cas being gone is when he does see Cas, and Cas looks right through him as if he’s a ghost.
Besides the cursory nod of acknowledgment and quiet hello and good morning, he doesn’t get anything else from Cas. He misses hello, dean. He doesn’t even get that anymore. He doesn’t get any smiles either. Maybe Cas just doesn’t smile anymore, whether Dean is there or not. Maybe Dean broke him. Dean tends to do that to the things he cares about.
It’s about Week Two into their mutual evasion of each other when Sam, recently oblivious to any person but Eileen, notices.
“I’ve been a shitty brother,” Sam declares one night when they’re watching TV, enjoying a beer each. For Sam, it’s to unwind at the end of another long day of research. For Dean, it’s to get through the night.
“What reason today are the Winchester brothers hating themselves for?” Dean jokes.
“I don’t hate myself,” Sam says gently, “but I do hate that I’ve not been a good brother to you lately. Not even a good friend.” He takes a swig of his drink—Dean realises it’s not even beer, but pear cider today, something Sam bought for Eileen. “I’ve been all caught up in making sure she’s real, you know? That she’s really back. That I can hold her, and laugh with her, and read up on cases with her. And with everything else going on, with Cas being back and falling as well, I guess I started to turn a blind eye to you. I’m sorry.” Because of course, Sam has no trouble saying the words I’m sorry.
Dean hates this. He hates this touchy-feely crap, especially when he knows where it’s going.
“You’re drinking a lot more. You’re not talking to Cas. You camp out in your room like that and the bathroom is the only place you’re allowed to be. What’s going on, Dean?”
Fuck it. At least this conversation can just be over once he says it. “Cas told me he loved me.”
“Oh,” Sam says, “and?”
“What the fuck do you mean, and? I told him to get the fuck over it,” Dean replies angrily, offended that Sam would even need to ask.
He also doesn’t understand why Sam looks angry too now. “What the hell is wrong with you, Dean?”
“Me? What’s wrong with me?” His voice raises and he’s shaking his head in frustration. “He’s the one who dropped this—this unnecessary bomb on top of everything else we have to deal with right now. He’s the one that fucked up our friendship. He’s an angel, Sam. He probably doesn’t even know what it means.”
“Sometimes I forget what an asshole you can be,” Sam mutters, looking away and training his eyes on the TV. “He’s been living like a human for ten-something years now. He’s even been human. He knows what love means, Dean. He’s told us he loved us before.”
“This is different. This is—this is fucking gay as shit,” Dean snaps.
“Is that your problem?” Sam demands. “That it’s gay? Shit, are you homophobic?”
“Oh my God,” Dean rubs a hand down his face. “Of course I’m not! I just—I’m not that way.”
Sam snorts, as if the idea was laughable. “I’ve seen you check out guys’ asses, Dean, and Doctor Sexy? You’re bisexual, man.”
Dean splutters. “What—I—no—it’s not—I’m not—”
“And Cas? You look at Cas like he hung the friggin’ moon. Don’t get me started on all the gazing you two do.”
“Sam. Stop.”
“What? What’s the problem? I don’t care, mom wouldn’t have cared, dad—well, maybe he would a bit, but he’s dead now so who cares? Who cares except you, Dean?” Sam needles, facing him once more, earnest. “It’s okay to be who you are. Even while the world is burning down around us. Let’s clutch at whatever happiness we can, right? What’s the point in punishing ourselves? God does it enough for us.”
“Sam,” Dean says again, voice cracking. “I’m not ready to think about it. I’m not ready to let myself want it. Okay? Cas, he’s—I just can’t. I don’t even know if it’s real.” Cas’ words echoes in his head. That they are real. Dean wishes it was enough to make him believe it.
Sam concedes tentatively, patting Dean on the back and letting him know for the gazillionth time that he’s here for him. That if he ever needed to talk.
The night ends with Eileen entering to let them know she’s found a standard salt-and-burn case, twenty miles south. It’s a nice night for a drive. Is Dean ready to hunt again?
No, he responds immediately. He isn’t ready to do anything again. Not right now.
Eileen and Sam share a loaded look, and she nods at him subtly, like she understands. They seem to have what Dean and Cas have, but luckily, well—uncomplicated.
It isn’t until they both slam the door of the bunker shut behind them that Dean realises he’s alone with Cas for the first time in two weeks.
“Shit,” he curses beneath his breath.
He considers just sleeping here, no sense risking an awkward bump-in with Cas as he navigates the hallway towards his room. The issue is moot when after a few more minutes of drinking and pondering, Cas enters the room.
Dean swivels his head back towards the door he’s come through and his heart skips stupidly when he catches Cas’ eyes. He’s not looked into them for far too long.
“Hey,” Dean says weakly. “You wanna watch some TV?”
Cas looks caught in headlights. “I thought everyone left for a hunt,” he replies, words a little stunted. “I was invited, but I…declined.” Dean knows what that means. Cas thought he’d have to be in the same car as Dean, around Dean, so he chose to stay behind. Unfortunately for them, Dean is still here.
“I can leave,” he says, sitting up from his couch and gathering the empty bottles to put in the trash. When he looks up, Cas is standing next to him.
“No, I—this is your place. You were already watching something. You should stay,” he says, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder to nudge him back down towards the couch. It’s a functional touch, but Dean savours it like a starving man chewing at stale breadcrumbs.
“You wanna sit down too?” he asks shakily, testing the waters and feeling like he’s about to be drowned for it. “I can scoot over.”
Cas smiles, and even though it’s the clipped one he offers people out of civility, Dean thinks for a second that this is it, they’re going to move back towards whatever normalcy they held onto before.
Then Cas shakes his head. “Thank you, but I only came to gather the clothes Sam said he’d set aside for me. I think he didn’t want me going into his bedroom without supervision. I’ve been known to pick up the human things I find interesting and put them back where they don’t belong. He lost his shaving foam and still blames me for it. I swear I put it back in his laundry hamper, where all the bathroom things go,” he babbles.
“Clothes?” Dean asks dumbly. What a pair they are.
“Yes, I believe it was you that said my ‘look’” he does finger quotes and it makes Dean smile, “is comparable to that of a holy tax accountant.” He grimaces. “Or a third-tier agent.”
“I was just joking around,” Dean says, “you look—um—fine. You look fine to me.” His eyes squeezes shut, and he curses inwardly at his choice of verbiage.
“Thank you, but for tonight I would like to look a little better than fine.”
“What’s tonight?” Dean asks, feeling his anxiety build.
“I’m going out.”
“That’s why you’re borrowing Sam’s clothes? You’re going out? Out where?” He realises he’s starting to sound like a nagging wife but he can’t seem to stop himself.
“There’s a bar a couple miles outside town that I believe you and Sam have frequented. I’m getting an Uber,” Cas says, sounding a little proud of himself. It’s sweet, but Dean feels so huffy that he has no chance to enjoy Cas’ glee in doing human things.
“Why the fuck are you going to a bar by yourself?” he snaps a little too aggressively.
Cas recoils at Dean’s tone, but composes himself just as quickly. He stands a little taller. “I believe you often partake in the same activity enough to know why I’d be going to a bar by myself.”
Dean thinks he’s going to throw up. “You trying to get laid tonight? You’re gonna go out and fuck someone?” he hisses.
“I wouldn’t phrase it so crudely,” Cas sniffs, “but essentially, yes, I suppose. I’m becoming human now. I may as well join in with your mating rituals.”
“Why—why would you—” Dean’s voice cracks and he has to cough to cover it up. “Why would you want that?” he asks, his anger bleeding out into raw hurt.
“I enjoyed sex with April before she stabbed me and tried to kill me. Perhaps tonight will go better. Less stabbing, less attempted murder.”
“Cas,” Dean calls, before Cas can exit with Sam’s clothes piled in his arms. He almost pleads with him to not do this. Instead, he says, “Sam’s shirt on you will just make you look like you’re wearing a friggin’ dress. Take something of mine.”
“No, thank you,” Cas replies coolly. “I think I’ll be fine.”
Dean laughs once Cas leaves. At least one of them will be.
It’s two a.m when his phone rings, Cas’ caller ID lighting up the screen. Dean fumbles out of bed and smacks onto the floor in his hurried bid to get to the phone.
“Cas? Hello? You okay?”
“Um—hi,” replies a man’s voice who is decidedly not Cas. “I found your boyfriend’s phone on him after he went behind the bar and threw up everywhere. He’s pretty drunk, man. You should probably come get him.”
His sleep-addled brain clicks awake in an instant. “Is he okay?” Dean asks, already putting on his jeans. “And…er…boyfriend?”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s slumped over in a booth, but the barmaid’s giving him lots of water. Wait, you are Dean, right? He’s been talking about you all night, I just assumed—and your number is listed on his favourite contacts—I—I’m sorry if you’re not—is there someone else I can call or…?”
“No, no, I…” He’s grabbed his keys and is halfway out the door when he pauses and takes a deep breath in preparation for the obscenely stupid thing he’s about to say. “I am. His boyfriend.” Dean feels his stomach flutter, and even though he feels a rising sickness along with it, he’s still smiling tentatively to himself when slides into Baby, revving her up.