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It’s a small and greasy burger joint in the middle of goddamn nowhere.
Dean sinks into the booth with a sigh, tries to find position in which his muscles loosen from ten hours behind the wheel, glad he can finally stretch his legs under the table.
Cas is no better off. His suit had grown a myriad of new wrinkles, forming an uneven landscape that no iron in this world will ever get straight again.
The creases in his clothes are mirrored by those between his brows, growing deeper by the hour.
“I don’t like this,” he grumbles while he snatches the only menu and begins to flip the pages as if they personally offended him.
What Cas doesn’t like – the understatement of the year by the way – is the fact that Dean told Sam to stay back at the bunker while he and Cas handled the case of a stray wendigo: cut-and-run as far as their cases go, nothing they can’t handle.
Dean rolls his shoulders to chase the stiffness away but the sudden stab in his neck tells him he probably made it worse. This business makes him feel old on the best of days.
And right now, he feels like he’s running out of time.
Cas studies the menu as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
Fed up, by himself, the situation and the world in general, Dean snags the crumbling paper from under Cas’ nose, takes one look and puts it flat on the table.
“Why did you do that?” There used to be a time when Dean thought Cas was cute when he was upset (and if he’s honest he still kinda thinks that), but right now, he’s hungry and he’s nervous and he needs to eat.
“We already know what we’ll order, Cas, the same thing we order every fucking time in joints like these, so let’s cut the part where you’re unsure if you should try something new and just order our burgers, okay?”
The crease between Cas’ brows deepens, impossibly. Dean almost apologizes for snapping at him, but bites it back at the last moment, instead looks over to the kitchen and winks at the waitress.
“Why are you so tense,” Cas inquires, and fuck if Dean knows the answers to that. He plotted this for weeks, some time alone with Cas between one apocalypse and the next to finally talk a few thing out, set a few records straight, exchange an apology or two.
Who owed those apologies to whom, well that’s a question they’d have to adress when the time comes, don‘t they.
So Dean shrugs, and scans the table for something to occupy his hands with, grabs Cas‘ phone and turns it between his fingers.
Cas‘ shoulders hunch, but he doesn‘t say anything.
The phone is chipped and mangled, has fallen to the ground in one fight or the other too many times. It was cheap to begin with, a kid‘s phone really, that Dean picked up in a rundown store one day and gifted to Cas with a tense “It‘s time you have your own, just in case“ that Cas answered with a huff and a crooked smile.
Dean has seen him fiddling with it in the rare quiet moments, saw him taking pictures of pigeons and dangelions that grow in the cracks of sidewalks.
He turns it on.
And stops.
"Why am I on your lockscreen, Cas?“ he asks, and his own voice sounds all wrong, words pushing against the sudden lump in his throat, strangled by his rising pulse.
Cas doesn‘t meet his eyes, so Dean concentrates back on the picture.
It‘s him, in the bunker, talking to someone outside the frame, Sammy most likely, a beer in hand and a smile on his face he knows has gotten rare, for it‘s genuine and wide. It‘s not his best angle, his chin looks wobbly and there are deep rings under his eyes, but Cas must have deemed it worthy to be the first thing he sees when he turns on his phone.
The silence between them stretches.
The server comes, picks up their order, and leaves.
When Cas finally speaks, it‘s almost inaudible. "I think you know why,“ he says, little more than a whisper, all tension sliding off his shoulders in silent defeat.
His heart leaps in his chest at Cas‘ confession. He does know, did know before, and never let himself acknowledge it.
Dean takes a deep breath. Man up, Winchester. It‘s what they came here for isn‘t it. This is exactly why he orchestrated this whole pointless trip, why he wasted ten hours already and still can‘t bring himself to say his piece.
"Yeah, I know,“ he says just as softly and looks up, waiting for Cas to meet his gaze, meet him in the middle, find a new common ground between them. Cas takes his time, but finally his eyes meet Dean‘s unguarded, with all the questions and the doubt for Dean to see.
Dean wants to say more.
Can‘t.
His arms are heavy, but his heart is featherlight when he digs his own phone out of his jeans. He thumbs it on and lays it out on the table between them, turns it for Cas to see. It feels momentous, that tiny gesture, which is ridiculous, but still… He could have just as well ripped his chest open for how vulnerable he feels.
Cas stares at the screen, at the picture of himself as he‘s sleeping in the back of the Impala, arms curled around himself, hair even more a mess than usual, lips slightly parted.
Cas stares at it for a long time. Then he pushes the phone back to Dean, ghosts his fingers over Dean‘s open palm in the lightest of touches.
The waitress interrupts the moment. "Two burgers, two beers?“
"Yeah,“ Dean croaks against the surge of emotion, the hope and the bubbling joy and all the nagging what-ifs, and he closes his hand around Cas‘.
"That‘s us.“