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[set in the nebulous and finite 'after']
Eileen is away for a while so it’s just the four of them. And Jack has long since been put to bed so really, it’s just the three of them, sitting up late drinking shitty beer and laughing. Still revelling in their ability to just be; to drink like there is a tomorrow. Sam likes the way Dean’s face wrinkles in the soft light when he looks at Cas. He hopes his face looks like that when he looks at Eileen. The way that Cas looks at Dean scares Sam sometimes in its enormity, and he’s glad (in a guilty kind of way) that all Eileen’s ever been is human.
Now, however, Cas’ eyes are closed, and his face is flushed red. He’s swaying a little in his chair, still not having quite accepted that he can get drunk and is, in fact, drunk. “Deannnn,” he’s whining. “Dean my face is too warm.”
“Caaas,” Dean matches his tone. Mocking, but gentle. “Cas, what do you expect me to do about it?”
Cas doesn’t speak, he leans forward and takes Dean’s hand from where it’s curled around the cold beer bottle and presses it against his face. Cas’ hands are bigger than Dean’s but he still uses both of them, so his face is completely obscured by fingers. Dean watches this happen for a moment, eyes flitting almost imperceptibly towards Sam (who’s expecting it (because Dean’s eyes have always imperceptibly flickered towards Sam when Dean wants to do something John Winchester would’ve hated) and so knows to keep his own face neutral) before he puts his free hand on top of Cas’, eyes on the odd sculpture they’ve made on the table.
Sam feels (as he often does around Dean and Cas) like he’s intruding but he also doesn’t want to leave. He normally enjoys watching his brother and his friend be happy, even if the expression of said happiness is generally incomprehensible to him. It never used to be, but that’s Cas for you.
Cas is weird, is Sam’s main point. It’s not a surprise, of course it’s not a surprise, but it’s something he’s being reminded of more and more these days, now there’s less and less to worry about.
Cas is reading Jack a story: the book across his lap Jack tucked under his arm with his face pressed against Cas’ ribs. Sam leans in the doorway and watches. Jack isn’t really talking much these days, but he understands a lot, and he’ll repeat what the very hungry caterpillar is eating back at Cas solemnly, and Cas will nod and smile encouragingly. They make it to the end of the week, the caterpillar is a butterfly once again, and Cas points to all the colours on his wings until Jack says them out loud.
“Last one,” Cas says gently, tapping the book. “What’s this one?”
“Pink!” Jack yells happily and scrambles onto Cas’ lap, tiny feet easily finding purchase on Cas’ thighs. “Pink! Pink! Pink! Pink!” His words quickly descend into helpless giggling and he pushes his face up towards Cas’.
Cas leans forward to meet him, until their noses are pressed closely together. They stay like that for a while, pushing their faces into each other, until Jack’s had enough. He leans forward until he can bury his face in Cas’ neck instead, and brings his legs up around Cas’ waist, like some kind of wriggly vest. Cas only smiles more, and hugs Jack closely into his chest. It’s only then that he seems to notice Sam watching him.
“I think he likes the pressure,” is all he says.
So yeah, Cas is weird. And Jack is weird. And Cas and Jack together are weird. That’s to be expected, isn’t it? Cas was an angel, Jack was God, and now they’re not. Sam gets why they’d be weird. But when did Dean get so ok with it all?
For most of what Sam can remember, Dean tends to touch (or permit himself to be touched) for two reasons: the enaction of violence, and the checking of pulses. Dean hugs you when you come back from the dead, or when you’re about to go to your death and that’s about it.
And Sam had never thought much of it until he saw Dean pull Cas close one day so their foreheads were touching, and Sam had found himself checking them frantically for bullet wounds. He’d coughed, expecting them to spring apart, and while they both turned to look at him, their shoulders stayed pressed together. And Sam’s muted panic had given way to confusion.
Cas will drum his fingers softly against the back of Jack’s head, and Dean smiles. Or he’ll walk two firmly up Dean’s arm before grasping onto his shoulder, and Dean lets him. He does it Sam too, announcing his physical presence with a gentle tap to Sam’s back before squeezing his arm in an appropriately platonic and manly fashion, and Dean doesn’t even seem to notice.
In fact, Dean acts just as weird as Cas and Jack do, maybe even worse. He’ll sweep Jack up from his chair and spin him wildly around the room until they’re both breathless with laughter, then he lets Jack burrow into his chest and put his nose in Dean’s armpit and promptly fall asleep. Jack will climb onto his lap and pull expectantly at Dean’s hands and Dean will laugh and press them tight over Jack’s ears before pulling them away and then putting them back and doing it again and again and again. Normally they fall asleep together too, Dean on the armchair, Jack on Dean, snoring in unison.
And if Dean’s not touching Jack he’s touching Cas (or, more realistically, touching both). They both seem unwilling to stray too far from each other, even if all Cas is doing is clearing the table, Dean’s hand will linger on his arm, squeeze his hand tightly before letting go. They sit pressed as closely against each other as the space will allow, Dean taps rhythms into Cas’ thighs, or runs his thumb across the base of Cas’ head, where the hair is shorter. He must be aware of what he’s doing, but he never seems self-conscious. That’s the weirdest part – that Dean is letting himself be.
At first Sam had been too caught up in the relief of Cas’ resurrection (and, as result, Dean’s) that he hadn’t stopped to think about what these changes in his brother could mean. He was too relieved to have his friend back; to have a brother who was alive again, instead of the one who’d done nothing but hold Jack while he cried or (on those horrible days when Jack had refused to let anyone touch him, wordlessly demanding the only thing Dean couldn’t give him) retreat to his room to do things to himself that Sam’s glad he’ll never know the full extent of.
But then, as the miracle became mundane, and life slipped from crisis to comfort, Sam found the time to worry about these changes.
It’s not just Cas and Jack: Dean will swing a casual arm around Sam’s shoulder like he’s always done it. The first couple times Sam had flinched away on instinct, and Dean had withdrawn quickly, mumbling quick apologies. Eventually, Sam had cautiously leaned back in, and had trusted the happiness it brought to both of them.
So it’s not like Sam’s complaining about this new language of Dean’s. He’s just trying to figure out where it came from – was it a miraculous side effect of Cas’ resurrection? Or (as Sam’s vague childhood memories seem to suggest) had it always been there, but Dean had buried it under layers of shirts and scars and teeth, until Cas’ death had torn him open, left a wound so raw and festering, it couldn’t help but ooze back up to the surface. And, in the strange specificity of Dean’s gestures, Sam can’t help but feel like he’s seeing the negative spaces of Dean’s life. That his weird gestures are all he’s got left; the more normal ones polluted by demons and monsters and everything else.
(Sam might be projecting there)
So Sam thinks, which mean Sam worries, about how weird his brother is and if he needs to say something or do something, or if it’s ok to leave it, until Eileen pokes him in the face with her toe.
They're sitting the way they like to sit when they watch movies: backs against the armrests of the sofa so they can face each other, legs tangled up in the space between them. Eileen’s practically lying down, resting her socked feet on Sam’s chest, so she can use them to get his attention when she wants to sign.
“Are you even watching the movie?” She asks.
“Sorry, just thinking.”
“You do way too much of that,” Eileen points at the bowl behind him with her big toe. “Pass me the popcorn.”
She’s weird. Sam thinks, watching her shovel the popcorn into her mouth, thinking that he’s never been happier. Dean glances over at them, a sleeping Jack pressed against his chest, Cas sitting on the floor his head resting on Dean’s knees, and snorts.
“Man,” he says. “When did you two get so weird?”