Chapter Text
Sam glances up from the tome in front of him at the sound of footsteps approaching. “Hey. Find anything interesting?”
Cas carefully sets down the books he’s carrying as he replies, “Not according to Dean, no.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Is he still griping?”
Cas tips his head in acknowledgment. “He’s gotten rather bored.”
“What a surprise,” Sam says dryly. “We’ve only been at this for a day, so he’s going to have to suck it up.”
Cas shrugs agreeably.
“What about you?”
“I think I have a reasonably higher threshold for such work than Dean does,” Cas replies easily, “so there’s no need to worry.”
Sam snorts. ‘Small blessings,’ he thinks. “How’re things looking?”
“We’ve cleared up some more space near the front of the storeroom for whatever items you’ve finished cataloging.”
Sam nods, smiling slightly. “Good. That’s great, Cas.” He glances at the haphazard pile next to his table. “Fingers crossed I should have it done by tonight.”
Cas squints. “What does crossing my fingers achieve?”
“Uh, nothing.” Sam’s lips purse in an amused smile. “You don’t actually have to do it, it’s just a good luck superstition thing.”
Cas’ squint changes marginally, like he’s wondering why Sam was giving such things merit and was debating actually asking. Before he can sideline a discussion he doesn’t really have answers for, Dean wanders up to them with a loud, “Alright, nerds, time for a break.”
Wiping his hands off on his jeans, Dean makes a show of checking the time. “It’s officially lunchtime, and I am starving.”
“Reheated leftovers?”
Dean makes a face at Sam. “After being buried down here with all this junk, I want some fresh air and fresh food.”
“Burgers?” Sam guesses dryly.
Dean smirks, eyebrows raised in a ‘You know it,’ expression. He darts a glance at Cas before clapping him on the shoulder. “You still like burgers, right, Cas?”
“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, deadpan. “Just because I was made to ‘binge’ on them by Famine’s influence in the past doesn’t mean it’s made me entirely averse to them.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Though it has taught me the wisdom of moderation.”
Dean snorts, lips quirked up in an amused smile.
“Good, ‘cause I ain’t buying you a hundred burgers. I ain’t no rich sugar daddy.”
“You’re not made of sugar, nor are you my father, Dean.”
Sam snorts. Hiding his amused smile, he eyes his brother.
“That’s not-” Dean says, trailing off when he sees the amused glint in Cas’ eye. “Ha ha, very funny.”
“I admit, I’m still not sure what a ‘sugar daddy’ is,” Cas says, raising his fingers up for the air quotes again. Dean’s still got no clue where he picked up that habit. It makes him look like a dork, but it’s also kinda cute, in a stupid way. He’ll bite his tongue off before admitting to it though.
“That’s a conversation for another time,” Dean says decisively. And that time will be never, as long as Dean has any say about it. Give Cas an inch and he’s liable to take a mile on his ‘learning about humanity’ questions, seemingly always directed to him instead of Sam. At this rate, the next thing Dean's going to be asked is for tips on how to jack off just because Cas is curious. And that is definitely not a line of questioning he wants to be thinking about right now.
Before Cas can attempt to push for answers, Dean claps his hands together and says, “Let’s get going before my stomach decides to start eating itself.”
Cas squints at him but doesn’t comment, following after him as Dean makes his way out of the storeroom.
When he realizes Sam’s made no move to join them, Dean comes to an abrupt halt. Cas stops short just in time to avoid bumping into him.
“Come on, Sammy! Time to refuel.”
Sam shakes his head with a rueful smile, glancing down at the open tome in front of him and then at his laptop. “I’ve still got a lot to do for us to start making some headway in reorganizing this room. Just bring me back a turkey sandwich or a salad.”
“If you wanna stay here and choke to death from the dust of these ancient relics, power to you, I guess,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t forget to feed Crowley. I don’t wanna come back to deal with him being pissy.”
Sam raises a hand in acknowledgment, reluctantly pushing the book aside as he boots up his laptop.
Dean shakes his head and claps Cas on the shoulder, nudging him along. “Come on, Cas.”
“So, how’s the burger? Good, right?” Dean asks expectantly.
“Yes, Dean,” Cas agrees, taking another bite of his burger. He chews it slowly like he’s savoring the taste, which he does for pretty much anything you put in front of him now, but Dean’ll take it for the well-deserved appreciation it is here. “This place was a good choice.”
Dean makes an agreeable noise, digging into his own burger. Mouth full, he says, “That, and you can never go wrong with a bacon cheeseburger.”
“You still haven’t explained what a ‘sugar daddy’ is.”
Dean chokes, coughing as he tries to dislodge the food that went down the wrong pipe. He thumps a fist against his chest a couple of times, eyes watering.
He blinks the tears back, brain desperately ping-ponging for an exit strategy. He’d been hoping Cas had forgotten about that. Voice a little hoarse, he says, “Let’s leave stuff like that for Sammy to teach you, huh?”
“I don’t understand why you can’t tell me yourself, Dean. It sounds unusual but not particularly shameful.” Cas’ perception skills were getting better by the day if he’d already managed to suss out that the topic was making Dean feel awkward. Not that it stops the guy from asking anyway. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t being overpowered by said awkwardness.
“Jeez, alright,” Dean says, caving under Cas’ pointed, expectant stare. He glances around quickly, making sure no one’s in earshot, before leaning in closer and lowering his voice. “So basically a sugar daddy’s a guy who buys chicks expensive stuff in exchange for sex.”
Cas squints at him.
“I don’t understand.”
“I can’t make it any more simple than that, man,” Dean says a little plaintively. He just wants this conversation to be over; answering Cas was supposed to end this, not keep it going.
“No, I understand the concept, it’s a rudimentary barter system,” Cas says, waving his hand in front of him to dismiss Dean’s statement. It’s still weird every time Dean notices another mannerism Cas has managed to pick up and emulate in decent human mimicry after years of being as stiff as a tree. “I just don’t understand how it applies to us.”
Dean doesn’t get a chance to tell him that it doesn’t apply to them because Cas keeps rambling on, lost in thought. “You bought me new clothes recently and regularly provide me with food, but I don’t trade you sexual favors for them.”
Dean immediately reassesses his earlier thought and decides he should’ve never bothered to answer. There’s no right answer anymore. To make matters worse, the waitress takes that moment to materialize at their table, looking somewhere between amused, curious, and maybe a little weirded out. Dean’s not entirely sure since he’s busy wishing that he could turn invisible, or sink into his seat and be forgotten. Anything. Maybe someone in the diner could have some kindness and give him a mercy killing.
A very, very tiny part of his brain pipes up with wanting to flirtatiously quip at Cas asking if he’d want to trade sexual favors for them. He squashes that part down vehemently. Now was not the time or place, besides which, he's not the kind of asshole to make Cas think he'd need to have sex with Dean for shit he's happy to give him for free.
“You boys want a refill?” she asks, voice more or less even, and not judgmental sounding at the two weird guys she’s serving.
“Yes, please,” Cas says politely, offering his mug up to her.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dean says, raising his own mug up. If she was going to pretend nothing happened, he was going to take it for the metaphorical lifesaver that it was.
“No problem, fellas,” she says, offering them a smile before heading off to serve another customer.
He quickly takes another bite of his burger before Cas gets any ideas about continuing their previous conversation, swallowing it down roughly at the squinty look Cas gives him.
He’s pretty sure he’s going to regret this. Hesitantly, he asks, “What?”
“If there are sugar fathers, are there sugar mothers as well?”
Dean groans, slapping a hand over his eyes. He can feel Cas’ gaze still on him even if he can’t see it. Coughing against the itch in his throat, he lowers the hand covering his eyes, reaching for his glass of water. He meets Cas’ gaze for a second as he sets it back down before redirecting it to look outside, finding himself muttering a reluctant response. “Probably? I don’t know. Look, can we please just drop this?”
Cas doesn’t respond, but Dean can hear the sounds of him eating a few seconds later, so he allows himself to relax a bit. Taking a sip of his coffee, he glances Cas’ way, only to find himself on the receiving end of another squinty look.
“What now?” Dean asks, feeling self-conscious.
“Ingesting too much caffeine can be detrimental to your health. You should consider having less.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says, pointedly side-eyeing the still-steaming mug beside Cas’ elbow. Cas seems to be either blind to it or purposely ignoring his look. “This coming from the guy who needs three cups of it to wake up in the morning. Hi there, Pot, I’m Kettle.”
“That’s different,” Cas says stubbornly, and then adds with a sulky sort of frown, “I’m not a pot.”
“Sure,” Dean says, relaxing with a chuckle. “And don’t act dumb, I know you know what I meant.”
Cas sulks some more but doesn’t deny it. It makes him look like a fussy, miffed cat and Dean can’t help but find it adorable.
Cas notices Dean’s staring and probably doesn’t take too kindly to the smirking, grumbling out a “What?”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re like a grumpy cat?” Dean replies idly. “It’s adorable.”
Cas’ irritable expression vanishes, morphing instead into bewildered confusion. Dean’s got no clue what’s got him looking so surprised.
“What’s-” he starts to say, straightening up, when he suddenly realizes that no, the cat comment didn’t stay inside his head where it was supposed to.
“Did you just-”
“I’m gonna-” Dean interrupts, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. He doesn’t care about how awkward he might look scrambling out of the booth so long as he wasn’t around to hear whatever Cas was about to say next.
‘The fuck just happened back there?’ Dean thinks frantically, pressed against the locked bathroom door in case Cas got any ideas about following after him.
Feeling like he’s about to break out into hives from sheer embarrassment, he’s half-tempted to crawl out the bathroom window and make a break for it like he’s jumping ship on a particularly bad date. Unfortunately, it’s not only overkill but also unfeasible seeing as he’s Cas’ ride back to the bunker.
Trying to rein himself back in, he moves to stare at himself in the dinky little mirror in the hopes he’ll find some answers there. His reflection, unsurprisingly, looks about as bewildered and confused as he feels.
He needs to be a special kind of drunk to be that loose-lipped, but here he is, middle of the freakin’ day, stone-cold sober, and telling his best friend he’s cute while they have lunch. In a setting that could be construed by some as a lunch date. Except it fucking isn’t. This was just a normal lunch outing until Dean went and shoved his entire damn leg in his mouth.
Humiliation churns in his gut. It’s bad enough that he compared Cas to a cat, he could play that off somehow, but how the hell does he play off calling Cas adorable to his face? Sure he’d caught himself thinking it more often lately, (well, it was usually ‘cute’, not ‘adorable’, not that that was any better) but those thoughts had always stayed in his head.
Until today.
He paces in the small confines of the bathroom, running a hand through his hair agitatedly and scowling at his own reflection as he catches a glimpse of it. This was grade-school levels of embarrassing and not the kind of situation Dean Winchester was ever supposed to be caught up in.
He gets abruptly jolted back to reality when someone knocks impatiently at the door. Leveling another glare at his reflection, he points an accusatory finger at it. “Keep your shit together, Winchester.”
Dean slips out of the bathroom, barely dodging the squirming teenager waiting outside who shoves past him, and heads up to the counter, keeping his back to their booth. There’s no one manning the counter, but Dean spots the waitress from earlier with another customer, chatting them up as she tops up their coffee. Noticing Dean waiting at the counter, she gives him a nod to let him know she’ll be right with him.
He fiddles with one of the laminated menus nearby until she’s back, setting the carafe back in the coffee machine before turning to Dean. “You need something else, hon?”
Dean smiles back, a little stiffly. “Just the check.” Something occurs to him and he grimaces a little as he corrects, “Uh, a chicken caesar salad to-go and the check.”
The waitress nods, punching a few keys on the register until it coughs up the bill. She tears it off and sets it in front of him before poking her head into the kitchen to relay Dean’s order. “The salad’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she says, turning back to him and taking the proffered cash. “I’ll bring it over to your table.”
Dean bites back a grimace, nodding instead with a muttered ‘thanks’.
Cas opens his mouth as Dean settles back into his seat, but Dean cuts him off with a gruff, “We’re not gonna talk about it.”
He digs into his now-cold burger to underscore the point, feeling Cas’s eyes on him but resolutely ignoring it. He relaxes fractionally when Cas’ gaze eventually slides away from him to people-watch the other diner-goers.
Dean focuses more on chewing his food than he’s ever done in the past, trying to stretch out the time and keep his mouth occupied until the waitress drops off Sam’s lunch at their table. He hastily swallows the last of his burger, plucking a napkin from the dispenser on the table and perfunctorily wiping at his mouth. Dropping it on his now empty plate, he grabs the takeaway bag as he stands up.
“Let’s go,” he says, snagging his jacket from where he’d tossed it on the booth seat and heads for the door, not even bothering to pause and shrug it on.
The faux leather of the seats squeak under Castiel as he slides out of the booth, grabbing his trenchcoat as he stands up. He glances back up to locate Dean, only to find him already out the door, shrugging into his jacket while digging through his pockets for the car keys.
Castiel’s brows furrow in confusion, pulling his trenchcoat on as he heads for the door. He notices the waitress giving him a parting smile and wave, and awkwardly returns the gesture.
There’s an uncomfortable silence in the car as they back out of the diner’s parking and onto the main road. Dean blindly turns the radio on to the first half-decent sounding station he can find, eyes intently focused on the road.
Castiel carefully side-eyes Dean, confused as to the cause of the sudden change in Dean’s mood. Instead of saying anything, he settles himself further into his seat, slanting his glance away to the buildings slipping past as they drive.
The quiet lasts until Dean pulls up at the gas station near the edge of town. “Gotta refill Baby,” he mumbles, not looking at Cas. He doesn’t wait for a reply as he gets out and sets up to get the tank filled.
Rick’s been working at the Gas & Sip near the edge of town for about five months. Long enough to give him a decent idea of all the different kinds of people that could wander into the place, and how to deal with them. Most of them were locals from town, some were people driving through. And then there’s the guy that walks in in the middle of his completely dead afternoon shift.
Tall, blond, and grumpy wasn’t all that different from the more sullen guys passing through, often tired of being on the road for who-knows-how-many hours.
Rick glances out the window out of habit, doing a double-take as he catches sight of the shiny, black, beast of a car parked by one of the self-service pumps outside. Not many people drove classic cars like that these days. He’s almost certain he’s seen it around town a couple of times over the past few months though he’d never caught sight of the owner. He can see a guy sitting slouched in the passenger seat, but it’s too far for him to make out any details. In any case, he’s more interested in getting a better look at the driver than at his buddy.
Curious now, he watches the guy trudge through the aisles, glowering at the options on display as he grabs a few chocolate bars and jerky. Rick can feel the brooding frustration rolling off him all the way across their little store. He decides to mentally name him ‘Angry Butch Guy’ because ‘Frustrated Butch Guy’ is too much of a mental mouthful and it’s not like anyone else is gonna know what he calls them in his head anyway.
Since there’s no use pretending he’s busy when he’s not, he picks up the magazine he’d set aside and uses it to hide the curious glances he takes of the guy. Not that there’s much he can make out beyond the plaid lumberjack look and bad mood.
For all that the guy seems to be dragging his feet, he eventually makes his way over to the counter. Rick hastily tries to look as casually uninterested and bored as he’d been when the guy wandered in.
The effort’s wasted as it turns out since the guy’s either real deep into the broody, sulking thing he’s got going or he just doesn’t care. Once he’s close enough for Rick to see the guy up close, he mentally renames him as ‘Grumpy Male Model’. It’s counterintuitive to being a mental mouthful, not to mention the guy’s as much butch as he is a male model; unfortunately, the useful part of his brain that helps keep him entertained during these shifts has decided to be useless today. So, the new name stays.
“Need a full tank of gas,” Grumpy Male Model grunts, jabbing a thumb behind him as he sets down his things. Rick nods as he punches it into the register and starts scanning the guy’s purchases, taking surreptitious glances at him all the while.
He can hear the nagging voice of his conscience that somehow manages to sound like both of his last exes telling him to let sleeping dogs lie. He pointedly ignores them, (they’re not here to judge him now anyway), hesitating for all of a second before curiosity gets the better of him.
“Everything ok, sir?” he asks as politely as he can manage. He’s nosy and aware of it, but he’s capable of being politely nosy when he’s at work, thank you.
“None of your damn business,” the guy says irritably. Which, ok, ruder than he was expecting. A saner person would probably back down by this point, but there’s only been one other customer in the past two hours and he’s bored, so sue him. He wants to know what’s gotten the guy so pissed off, so he asks what he feels is the most logical possibility for a grumpy, male-model-looking dude. “Girlfriend put you in the dog house?”
That earns him a glare, and a short, “No,” as the guy flicks a glance back at his car. Rick follows his gaze and sees Grumpy Male Model dude’s friend watching the other cars drive by.
Oh.
Well, his bad. He rattles off the total and starts bagging up the guy’s purchases, figuring he can give one last shot to indulge his curiosity masked under polite sympathy. His expression turns commiserating as he says, “It sucks when the boyfriend puts you in the doghouse.”
He barely finishes mentally patting himself on the back for bouncing back from the grouchy rebuff when the guy suddenly slams the cash down on the counter. Rick flinches back, barely biting back a shocked yelp.
“Keep the damn change.” With that, he marches out of the store.
‘Well,’ Rick thinks to himself as his heart slows back down, ‘I’m definitely not interested in seeing him again.’
Dean stews in his irritation for the rest of the afternoon.
Sam and Cas both clue into Dean’s mood, and aside from some curious side-eyeing from Sam, both of them give him a fair berth. Which is honestly the best for everyone because Dean’s not sure he isn’t going to blow up at someone if they talk to him.
‘The hell did the gas station guy get off thinking he and Cas were…’ Dean can’t even finish the thought, face growing hot as he mentally splutters.
He wasn’t-
They weren’t-
Ugh.
It wasn’t even the first time some dumbass thought he and Cas were… more than just buddies. And Dean’s not blind, okay? Let it be known that he’s actually aware of the vibes they sometimes give off even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to be giving them off in the first place. Usually it made sense to blame it on Cas, what with all the staring and standing too close to Dean and all, but they weren’t even in the same damn room this time.
He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much. Okay no, that was a lie. He knows why. He’s known since they’d found the angel tablet, when he very nearly admitted to more than he ever planned to. Known since he sat across from Cas in a tiny motel room and felt like the solid ground got yanked out from under his feet as Cas told him he might off himself facing the weight of his mistakes. Known since- there’s no one specific moment in time that it dawned on him that Cas’ presence in his life was irreplaceable, he just knows.
But it doesn’t matter. Cas’ entire ‘Cas-ness’ was just how the dude was. He wasn’t interested in Dean that way.
Much as that should be the end of the matter, his brain’s stuck on it. Telling it not to think about it only makes it think about it more.
By the time he gives up trying to pretend he’s actually getting anything done it’s almost dinner time. Not bothering to search out Sam or Cas, he quietly slinks out of the storeroom, making his way to the kitchen to throw something together for them to eat.
He fiddles with the kitchen radio until he finds a classic rock station and turns the volume up high, letting Zeppelin’s tunes wash over him as he cooks.
“Soup’s on!” Dean yells down the hall.
“Be there in a minute!” Sam shouts back, voice echoing down clearly from the library. Dean’s idly scrolling the internet on his phone when he finally ambles into the kitchen. “Gave up on your record-keeper dreams already, Sammy?”
“I’m making space in the library for some books I found that can be moved up from storage. We should be done in a couple days if we keep at the current pace,” Sam says, filling up his plate from the pot on the stove and grabbing some cutlery before taking a seat at the table. He gives a nod of thanks when Dean sets down two bottles of beer and takes a seat across from him.
“I don’t understand how we’re related sometimes,” Dean says, shaking his head with an expression of exaggerated disappointment. “Heaven and Hell are closed for Earth-side business, you and Cas are more or less in one piece, and things’ve been quiet on the hunting side. Of all the things we could do during the mini-vacation we got dropped into our laps, you manage to rope us into spring cleaning a storeroom.”
Sam swallows down his mouthful of spaghetti before he responds, brow raised. “Like what, exactly? I’m not really into celebrating with a Dr. Sexy marathon if that’s what you had in mind.”
Dean scowls. “I don’t need your dumb commentary ruining the viewing experience. I was thinking we could go into town, have a few drinks, maybe meet a few chicks. Y’know, celebrate our win while we actually have the time, for once.”
“And who’d keep an eye on Crowley while we’re out celebrating? Unless you’re planning on inviting him to join us.”
Dean shudders exaggeratedly.
“The words ‘Crowley’ and ‘drinking buddy’ shouldn’t ever be in the same thought-space. The limey bastard’s been keeping to his room well enough since you insisted on moving him there, he’ll survive one more night. Worst case, we get Kevin to keep an eye on him for a couple of hours.”
“You sure that's a good idea?” Sam asks dryly. “Or that Kevin’ll even agree to it? I don’t know if I’ve even seen him step out of his room at all since we brought Crowley back.”
“Pretty sure he’s the one pilfering the leftovers when no one’s looking, so no need to worry your pretty little head, Sammy. ‘Sides, not like Crowley needs to know that Kev’s still moody enough about him being here to go all hermit-y. We just lean on the fact that he knows the guy isn’t a fan of his, and what he could do if we weren’t holding him back.” Dean shrugs easily. “Should give him some motivation to behave."
Sam snorts, giving a half-shrug-nod. Dean pauses, a forkful of spaghetti halfway to his mouth when something occurs to him. “You seen Cas?”
Cas should’ve normally wandered by long before Sam managed to drag himself away from his books, making borderline petulant inquiries about dinner while Dean’s still cooking as he got hungrier and hungrier.
Sam shrugs. “Not since an hour or so back when I told him I’d be shifting those books to the library.”
Dean frowns, darting a glance at the kitchen entryway. “You think he’s still working?”
“Doubt it,” Sam says. “He probably headed back to his room and forgot about dinner.”
Dean raises a brow and gives him a look that says ‘really?’
Sam shrugs. “It can happen. But if you’re so worried I’ll text him to remind him.”
“Wasn’t worried,” Dean mutters into the mouth of his beer bottle as Sam shoots Cas a text.
“If he doesn’t show up, the worst that’s likely to happen is that he’ll wander in here a couple of hours later scrounging for cold leftovers.”
“We’re supposed to be teaching him some semblance of a routine, Sammy. Y’know, all that adult human stuff you’d champion at the drop of a hat.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “You make me sound like some kind of life coach. Besides, late-night snacking is a pretty human thing at any stage of life; don’t pretend like you don’t do it.”
Dean smirks around a forkful of spaghetti but doesn’t deny it.
Sam sips at his beer thoughtfully. “A night out’s not a bad idea. It’ll be a good new experience for Cas too. Might even be enough to get Kevin to stick his head out of his room.”
“Lemme know if he doesn’t, so I can lock away all the kitchen knives.” Dean huffs. “Armory too, probably.”
“Why are we locking away the kitchen knives and the armory?” Cas asks sleepily, rubbing at his eyes as he wanders into the kitchen.
Dean freezes up, in surprise he tells himself, because he’s still got hunter reflexes and Cas’ silent stalking around somehow manages to pass under the radar. Not because of anything else.
Forcibly making himself relax, he answers a little stiffly. “To keep Kevin from practicing knife-fu on Crowley. And hello to you too, Sleeping Beauty. Glad you finally joined us.”
Cas manages a grunt in response, slumping into the empty seat beside Dean. He yawns widely, reaching a hand up to muffle it halfway through as he stares sleepily at the tabletop.
Dean mentally unkinks himself at that, rolling his eyes as he gets up to fill up a plate for Cas. Honestly, no one’d think this half-asleep doofus was an angel a week and change ago if they ever saw him now.
“I fell asleep,” Cas mutters as Dean returns with a full plate for Cas and another beer for himself.
There’s the beginning of a lecture at the tip of Dean’s tongue about screwing up whatever passes for a sleep schedule with Cas by taking late naps or too long ones, one he’s already given twice now, but he bites it back as he surreptitiously takes the empty seat between his and Sam’s and gets back to his own dinner.
Sam, who’d been slanting a curious glance in his direction like he’d been expecting the lecture as well, amps up the look when he notices the new seating arrangement. Dean pointedly ignores it. It’s not like he has to sit next to Cas all the time.
“Thank you,” Cas adds belatedly as he notices the plate in front of him and digs right in. “This is good.”
Dean shrugs it off. “It’s just spaghetti.”
Dinner passes by with Sam and Cas embroiled in a discussion of some book, apparently what he’d been reading before he fell asleep; the most Dean contributes to that is a muttered comment about them starting up a book club which mostly goes ignored. That’s fine with him, not a conversation he wanted to be a part of anyway.
“Well, I’m beat,” Dean says, faking a yawn and a stretch. “Don’t forget to clean up and feed Crowley.”
He rolls his eyes to himself as he says it because this is apparently their life now. The longer he has to actually keep saying shit like this, the more it feels like they’re in a twisted parody of a normal life, one with a dog and the chores related to it. Except here the dog’s a prissy, human-shaped bastard freeloading with them until they can find a way to unload themselves of the responsibility.
Maybe he should convince Sam to reprioritize his to-do list tomorrow.
Just as he’s leaving the kitchen, he hears Sam tell Cas, “I’ll rock-paper-scissors you for it; loser has to take Crowley dinner.”
Dean snorts to himself. At least this wasn’t one game he had to worry about losing.