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Castiel scowls. He averts his gaze from goings-on at the bar -- where Dean is laughing, flirting with the bartender -- and instead traces the lines of condensation on his glass.
“You okay, Cas?” Sam asks. He shifts forward, brow knit with concern.
“I’m fine.” The words are sour in his mouth.
Over at the bar, Dean touches the bartender’s hand. Her skin is flushed, and her attentions in his direction are well beyond what would be necessary professionally, or to secure adequate tips. At a guess, it won’t be long until Dean waves him and Sam away for the evening. It’s nothing new, but lately it’s gotten more difficult to stomach.
Sam’s concern turns briefly to bemusement. He glances at the bar, then back at Castiel. “Wait a minute. Are you...are you jealous?”
“What?” He screws his face up into his best approximation of human surprise and denial. “No.”
“Dude, you are.” He looks at Dean again, then back at Castiel. “Cas, if you asked, I’m sure--”
“No,” Castiel snaps, loud enough that Dean and the bartender notice. He looks away as he stands. “I’ll wait outside.”
* * *
The night is cool and clear, the breeze crisp, and Castiel does his best to ignore it entirely. He misses his old self, and the he could just stand still and inert without expectations until he was needed. Instead, he finds the whole experience grating, starting with the beauty of the evening all the way down to the seconds ticking away as he waits. He watches the lights on the highway.
He does not turn to look when he hears the sound of the jukebox swell then recede, or the scuff of boots that stops just shy of beside him.
“Where’s Sam?” Castiel asks, eyes still fixed on passing cars.
“Finishing up.”
“Hm.”
“You want to talk about what happened back there?” Dean asks, voice hard and even.
“Not particularly.”
“Yeah, well--” Dean steps in and puts a hand on Castiel’s arm to turn him. “I do. You’ve been weird these last couple of cases. I’m starting to wonder when some shoe or other’s gonna drop, and--”
“There are no…shoes.” He frowns, cursing his inability to express himself correctly or effectively.
“Fine,” Dean says, and lets go of Castiel’s arm. He turns back toward the bar.
“Dean, wait.”
If he were human -- truly human -- there would be certain sensations he might feel. A tightness in the chest, fluttering in the stomach. Dryness of mouth. Sweating palms. As it is, he fears...rejection? Reprisal? Loss, certainly. It’s a disturbance and an ache in its own way, more like dissonance than adrenaline, but no less real.
“The bartender,” he begins, uncomfortably aware of the way Dean is watching him. “You were...she was interested in you. You reciprocated.”
Dean narrows his eyes, his expression uncertain. “Uh, okay.”
Castiel takes a tentative step forward, closing the distance between the two of them again. He wets his bottom lip as he reaches out to touch Dean’s hand and take it in his own. He tries not to worry when Dean’s eyes fix themselves on their joined hands.
They are silent together for a long while. Minutes, certainly, before Dean speaks.
“What happened to marble statues?”
Castiel shrugs, uncertain of where to look or how to answer. “Humanity,” he says, finally.
Dean huffs out a soft, wry laugh and brushes his thumb over Castiel’s knuckles. “Sure,” he says. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and gives Castiel’s hand a squeeze. “Okay.”