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Through the slit in the thin white curtains over the bedroom window, the sky is cold blue. Dawn. Time to go.
Dean fills his lungs, and the body beside him stirs. When she moves her head, her hair slides across his shoulder. They both lie awake, aware of each other’s wakefulness, as the seconds tick by. Dean watches the blue creep up from the horizon.
“Good morning,” she says finally. There’s an edge to her voice, like Dean was rude to not say it first.
“Morning.” Dean scratches his collarbone.
“Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks,” Dean says.
He feels embarrassed that he told her about his birthday last night. Not for the obvious reasons. Not because of the age he’s turning, or because picking up a stranger at a bar in his forties is nothing like it was in his twenties, or because he actually felt her slipping from his grasp before he played the birthday card. It’s none of that.
He isn’t sure what it is, but he definitely feels embarrassment. At least it’s not regret.
“How old?” she says. “If you told me yesterday, I forgot.”
“It’s complicated,” Dean says, deciding to answer honestly.
She laughs. She presses against his body.
“Yeah, I get it. I’m not even….” She abandons the sentence for a new one. “I know what you mean.”
Dean looks at the sky again. She’s not quite young enough to be his daughter, but the fact that he even had to do the mental calculation is uncomfortable. The whole ordeal of aging is uncomfortable.
He clears his throat. “Got a long drive today.”
“Uh-huh.” She rolls onto her back. Even in the bedroom’s shadows, he can tell she’s looking away.
“You don’t mind if I—”
“No, go ahead.” She must feel like she said it too harshly, because she adds: “I’ll make us some coffee.”
In the bathroom, Dean empties his bladder and splashes his face over the basin. He pulls his flannel on over his T-shirt and buttons it from top to bottom. He checks his zipper and belt and does something with his messy hair. It resists him, even after he drizzles some water over it, and that’s what makes him think about Castiel. His hand goes still at the crown of his head. He smiles, just a flicker, before his features drop again.
The clink of some utensil hitting the kitchen’s metal sink interrupts his reminiscences. Dean flicks off the bathroom light and walks out into the hallway.
“Here you go,” she says, holding out a mug to him in the kitchen doorway. “There’s milk in the fridge if you want it.”
“Thanks, Rosie.”
“Rose,” she says, frowning in the orange stove light. “No one calls me Rosie.”
“Rose.” Dean tries the coffee. “Sorry.”
She follows him to the refrigerator, her slippers scuffing the linoleum. Dean doubts she wants to talk any more than he does, but he makes conversation about the weather anyway, just to keep it from being awkward. The sky is transparent blue. Rose agrees the snow is over for now.
They both finish their coffee quickly. Dean lays his mug and spoon in the sink. He stands up straighter, ready to depart.
“Crap.” He pats one pocket, then the other. “You haven’t seen my wallet, have you?”
“No,” she says warily, like he’s accusing her of something.
“I probably dropped it somewhere. I’ll go look in the bedroom.”
She helps him search, taking the other side of the room while he crouches down to peer underneath the bed. She finds it in less than a minute, including the time she spent turning on every light in the room.
“Right here,” she says.
His wallet is splayed open on the dressing table by the door. The worn photograph of Castiel next to the center crease looks up at them. Dean stares back at it.
“It was….” She shrugs. “I found it like this.”
“It’s alright,” Dean says.
He doesn’t take the wallet; he doesn’t close it. Rose turns to him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He snaps the wallet shut. He pushes his fingertips into the dressing table to stop them from trembling.
“He’s my friend,” Dean says.
Rose sighs lightly through her nose. She’s bored with him. She’s probably been bored with him since early that morning. Dean doesn’t know why she agreed to let him stay the night, or why he asked.
“I’m hoping I’ll see him today,” Dean continues. “Since it’s my birthday.”
“Do you want more coffee?” she says abruptly.
“No,” Dean says, taking his chance to leave. “No, I better hit the road.”
Rose walks him to the door. Dean tugs on his boots and grabs his jacket from the coat rack. They exchange a glance once Dean gets out into the corridor.
“I hope you get to see him,” she says.
“He’s my best friend,” Dean says. “He’ll come if he can.”
“Happy Birthday,” she says, then shuts the door.
Dean takes the exterior staircase down the three flights to ground level, his breath misting out around him as he walks. At the apex of the sky, the last few stars are going out. The parking lot is wedged in the shadows between two apartment buildings, untouched by the canary yellow of daybreak. Dean shivers.
In the car, while he waits for the engine to warm up, he texts Sam that he’s on his way back. He says he’ll pick up breakfast and they can do a straight shot back to Lebanon, get home by late afternoon. Sam doesn’t answer. Their motel’s on the other end of town, so he has another half-hour to sleep, at least, until Dean arrives with coffee and donuts. Dean pulls out onto the boulevard.
As always when he’s alone, it isn’t very long before he starts thinking about Castiel. It’s been months since that day and almost as many months since Jack told him that he’d already brought him back, to stop asking him about it. So, he did. He figures that if Castiel ever wants to see him again, he’ll come back on his own.
He can’t blame him for not coming back on his own. It’s not like he gave him any reason to the last time they saw each other.
Maybe Castiel even regrets the things he said. Maybe he only said them to summon the Empty. Maybe he meant them at the time, but he’s embarrassed now. Like Dean was when he woke up with Rose.
As time goes by, as Castiel avoids him day after day, Dean’s becoming more and more certain that Castiel regrets it.
It’s mostly trucks when Dean gets to the highway. It’s an early weekend morning in a small, rusting city in the Midwest, so the only traffic is truckers and people like him. Dean settles back into the seat. He’s just about managed to stop thinking about Castiel when there’s a whoosh and a flap beside him.
“Hello, Dean.”
“Cass?” Dean swerves onto the rumble strip, then back into the lane. “What the hell, man?”
Castiel blinks.
“I mean, uh, where the hell have you been?”
“I was helping Jack.” Castiel looks down at his lap. “You never called.”
“Neither did you,” Dean says, his eyes straight ahead. “Wasn’t sure you wanted to see me.”
“Oh.” Castiel pauses. “Happy Birthday, Dean.”
Dean smiles at the highway. When he turns to Castiel, he’s smiling too.
“I didn’t get you a present,” Castiel says sheepishly. “I’ve been busy in Heaven. There aren’t any stores there. And I couldn’t think of anything. After…well, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“After what?” Dean says, even though he knows.
“What I said. You…you know. I didn’t know what to do. So, I decided to just show up emptyhanded.”
Dean snorts. He doesn’t tell Castiel that his presence is all he wants. That it’s all he’s wanted for longer than he’s known how to say. That he wants in ways he can’t articulate yet, but that he’s trying.
He thinks about the picture of Castiel looking up at him from his wallet, about Rose’s impatience with him. He thinks about the emptying out he felt when he woke up in her arms and the fullness he feels with Castiel on the other end of the Impala’s front seat, back after all this time.
He thinks about all the things they have to talk about.
“I’m picking up breakfast,” Dean says. “I hope you’re staying.”
Castiel smiles at him and turns on the radio.