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The passing streetlights illuminate their faces in an on-off flicker, orange and burning. It’s late, within those hours where the numbers on the clock lose meaning, and the coffee between them is cold. There is no music besides the steady hum of tires on pavement, the occasional percussive snap of Dean’s knuckles cracking under the grip of the steering wheel.
All things considered, it’s a silly fight. They had been house hunting, finally resolving to leave the bunker for good. Well, not exactly “for good”, but they both agreed that it could no longer be their home. A temporary base for operations, sure, but Dean had put it eloquently in some idiom about eating and defecation. Sam and Eileen had moved out for months at this point, and maybe the quiet without the extra bodies was getting to Dean. Castiel enjoys the silence, and though he too understands the cold in an unreciprocated echo, he’s not as bothered by it as Dean.
It started at the first apartment. Dean immediately complained about the shoddy construction of the new build, to the point where Castiel ran out of apologetic looks to give the realtor. He wasn’t wrong, of course – the drywall was thin, and the neighbours could be heard having a light lunch conversation. The bunker spoiled them in many ways, living several years with a complete disregard for volume control and neighbourly concerns, but having to listen to strangers chew their food certainly crossed the line. That being said, Dean could have been just a tad more polite.
On their way out, Dean continued his tirade over the apartment as if it had personally offended him, and Castiel held his tongue. They had two more places to see that day, after all, and Castiel just to cross his fingers that they would win the coinflip.
They did not.
The second apartment, closer to the centre of the city, was spacious and rustic. Red brick walls, tall windows; a New York vision in the bible belt. Castiel immediately sighed in relief at the sight of the tall ceilings and cement flooring, but Dean was uncharacteristically quiet. Castiel passed hopeful glances at Dean over and over, but his face was hard. He didn’t lay a hand on anything that was being shown to them, instead leaving them firmly in his pockets. As they left, Castiel muttering to no one in particular that it seemed like a nice place, Dean shook his head. It’s frustrating when Dean devolves into the communication patterns of an upset twelve-year-old, but Castiel knows when to just leave it be. He trusts Dean; he knows he’s rational when it comes to things like this, so whatever he saw, or didn’t see, in that apartment was probably a valid reason to say no.
When they stepped into the car, Dean started driving the wrong way. Castiel gave him a confused look, reminding Dean that they had one more apartment to look at, but Dean was unresponsive. It can be unnerving being around Dean when he’s in this state, tensed jaw and white knuckles, furrowed brow and iron will. Castiel is tired – it had been a long day already, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he could make it through a third tour, so instead of arguing he simply stared out the window. The sun’s setting, winter framing the skyline. It went on like this for a long time, just silent driving through empty highways and small towns. Castiel fell in and out of sleep a few times, and not once did Dean speak up.
Castiel wouldn’t describe it as tense – it’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it is somewhat grating. A part of him knows that Dean is waiting for him to bring it up, to be the instigator, and the petty side of him doesn’t want to give that to Dean. So, really, it’s not a fight, but more the deeply uninteresting prelude to a cacophonous suite. Castiel has no idea where they are now, though given the streetlights they aren’t too far from civilization. He knows eventually Dean will take them back to the bunker, and he’d much rather have a discussion when Dean is no longer venting his feelings into the impala. And so, he waits.
Dean’s getting older. He sees it in his face, the lines deepening at the corners of his eyes, the grey that peppers the hair by his ears. He sees it in his body, the way it groans with him as he sits down for breakfast, the way the softness of his midsection feels under his hands at night. Under the passing streetlights he sees the angles of Dean’s profile, the light unforgiving in casting shadows that tell tales of storms weathered. Castiel wonders if he looks the same; his vessel has changed over the years as well, and with no grace he’s certain that aging will be rapid.
He still sees Dean’s soul through the lines etched at the corners of his mouth. That never changed.
Whatever’s bothering Dean could be deeply rooted, it could be trivial, and maybe the excessive stretch of silence has only made it worse, but Castiel lets it be. Words were never their forte, reserved for moments of high tension and lives-on-the-line, bright blue and dripping black.
But when Dean’s hand finds his own, their fingers interlocking over Castiel’s thigh, and the streetlights stop appearing, he just gives it a squeeze.