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Dean was tired.
Sam is passed out in the passenger seat, snores reverberating off the glass window he’s resting against. Dean has half the mind to tell him off for it - messing up his baby - but it’s nearing 1 in the morning and they’re so close to the bunker that he can’t really find it in himself to care. He stops at the next gas station - they may be close to the bunker, but not close enough to make it there without a fill-up - and the harsh lights flicker against the dark of night, giving him a headache. Castiel is in the backseat. Dean suspects he half enjoys the company the Winchesters bring, and half is worried Dean would fall asleep behind the wheel.
He yawns as the pump works, leaning casually against the side of the car until it pops, letting him know it’s finished. Self-pumping gas is by far the best invention, in his opinion, so Dean doesn’t have to stand there and hold the handle himself at times like this. He climbs back in behind the wheel and is about to start the car when Cas speaks.
“I never understood why humans give each other seemingly meaningless plants.” He’s staring across the street, where a florist shop sits vacant, closed for the night.
Dean normally would’ve found Cas’s curiosity endearing, but he’s tired. “It’s one of those human things.” He says, but now that he’s starting talking, Cas is looking at him expectantly, and Dean feels obliged to continue. He sighs. He should’ve just shrugged and moved on. “Flowers… they’re not just flowers. They mean something. You know, it means you thought of someone enough to get them something you thought was pretty.”
Cas seems satisfied at the explanation and Dean rolls his eyes as he takes off down the road, watching Cas in the rearview mirror as he glances one last time back at the shop. It doesn’t strike Dean as anything important, and his mind is too tired to remember trivial details.
They make it to the bunker about half an hour later, and Dean is ready to fall face-first into his memory foam mattress. He glances over at Sam, finding him asleep still, and calls his name to wake him. Upon receiving no response, he reaches over to shake him awake but is stopped halfway there. Cas smiles at him gently over their linked hands.
“You’re exhausted,” He says as if Dean doesn’t know this already. “Let me take care of Sam.”
It’s a testament to how much he trusts the angel as he nods because he wouldn’t let just anyone do that. He makes his way over to the trunk of the Impala, propping it open and pretending to gather their duffle bags as he peers around the side to watch what Cas does. With the seriousness of a solider with a task and the tenderness of a mother with her child, Cas opens the door, catching Sam so he doesn’t tumble onto the ground. Sam still hasn’t woken, dead to the world, and Cas gathers him into his arms, cradling gently in attempts to not wake him. Dean sees a flash of grace and hears mumbled words, and though he can’t make out what was said, somewhere deep down inside, he knows Sam won’t be having any nightmares tonight.
Cas makes his way inside the bunker, and Dean finds that his back is grateful that Cas is doing what he is. The angel may be able to lift his moose of a younger brother like it’s nothing, but Dean is getting a bit too old for it, even if he won’t admit it. With both duffles in one hand, he shuts the tail of the Impala with the other and follows Cas inside, glad to be home. He dumps the duffles on the map table, and walks to his room, pausing briefly to catch a glimpse of Cas gingerly removing Sam’s boot, before continuing to avoid being caught.
He changes quickly, screws brushing his teeth and plops down on his bed without a second thought, falling into the depths of sleep just as fast. He thinks that sometime in the night, Cas might’ve come into his room to check he wasn’t passed out on the floor, but realized he hadn’t and left him alone. His suspicions are confirmed when he comes to the next morning, blearily searching for the clock on his nightstand as he tries to figure out what time it is.
The clock’s red letters blare 10:36 am, and Dean starts to think that Cas might’ve used some of his mojo on him too. Sitting next to the clock, however, illuminated by the light of the lamp he just turned on is a small bouquet of red roses. He smiles softly, reaching over and pulling the bouquet into his lap, remembering tired words from just hours before as he fiddles with the card attached.
Thought you might like something pretty. -C