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The bedroom door slams with a crack that shakes the whole wall. Dean means to close it politely, after the cluster-fuck that dinner turned out to be, but it jerks out of his hands; Cas forces it away, then stalks to the window, slumps against it and hugs himself like a straitjacket, getting a thousand-yard stare as he looks down at his parents' backyard, the place he grew up playing in, the one he swears might as well be Hell on Earth.
"Hey," Dean says in a sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one hand and planting the other on his hip so he doesn't look weak. "What's going on, Gorgeous?"
Stupid question—Dean knows what's going on; he had to sit through the Most Awkward Thanksgiving Dinner Ever, too, and had to listen to pretty much every member of Cas's family call him Cassandra instead of Cas (or even Cassidy, his full legal name for the past six years), insist that he's their daughter or their sister, rabbit on about why does he have to wear men's clothing, can't he just act normal, now that he's gone and gotten himself a boyfriend like a normal girl—
But the intent here isn't to get a recap of the events. It's to make Cas talk about shit instead of just sulking.
Unfortunately, Cas doesn't see it that way. The change in him—in his posture, his behavior, everything about him—Cas's eyes flash, darkening as he whips around, stalks over to and glares up at Dean. Gone is the angry kitten fussing with string look that he gets so often, and in its place is a thundercloud, all rumbling and glooming and threatening send lightning at Dean, strike down everything in its path. Even Cas's perpetually messy hair seems to quiver with the same rage that makes him set his jaw and flex his hands like Dean's about to get punched in the face.
And Dean expects yelling, but gets a low, throaty growl instead: "Do you see why I told you that I had no desire to honor Rachel's invitation, yet? My sister might yet harbor some delusions about mine and our parents' ability to ever reconcile, but I would hope, Dean, that you've learned how futile it is to expect anything decent from them."
"Yeah, well, excuse me for getting distracted by the fact that you, and Anna, and Rach turned out pretty well," Dean huffs. Instinctively, he reaches for Cas's face—but no, Cas is still pale and he's still got his teeth gritted—so Dean's hand falls in the direction of Cas's waist—except, wait. No. That'd be pretty not-good, right now. Trying to initiate potentially too sexual contact when Cas just spent an hour and a half getting the emotional shit kicked out of him. A fact he tries to remind Dean of by shuffling back a few steps. Just enough to make Dean feel lonely, even when they're right next to each other.
So Dean's hand ends up combing back through his own hair as he says, "Look, I'm sorry I meddled, okay? I'm sorry for taking Rachel's invitation at face-value, and for fucking everything up, but you didn't tell me they were this bad."
"You've met Michael and Balthazar. Forgive me if I assumed that hearing the things they have to say about me and Anna would have led you to conclude that, maybe? Our parents are just hateful people and that we have very good reasons for not wishing to deal with them."
"How was I supposed to jump from Michael calling Anna a dyke and Balthazar doing the whole… 'if you're just going to sleep with guys anyway, why not just stay a girl' thing, to… I don't know…" For a moment, Dean trails off, waving his hands around the space between himself and Cas as though this is going to help him find the word that he wants. "To… whatever crawled up your parents' asses and died… with the whole, 'we only have two sons, because Luke and Gabriel never happened, and you're a daughter' shit."
Cas rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest again—and for all he slouches, the anger in his muscles, every inch of his posture, doesn't dissipate. He just looks like he's waiting for the right moment to pounce and claw Dean's face off. "Don't play stupid, Dean," he says. "It doesn't suit you."
Shaking his head, Dean groans—fuck all of this. Invading personal space falls under Cas's dominion, most of the time, but right now? Fuck it. Dean storms right up into Cas's personal space, until there's barely room for breath between them. One hand, he drops to caress Cas's waist, slipping it under Cas's sweater and brushing it up against the binder that tames his breasts, part of his hips. The other hand, Dean curls around Cas's wrist, clenching his fingers around a bone that's too close to the surface for Dean's liking, that might be an indication that he and Cas need to have A Talk about other things—just not here, and not right now.
Dean leans down, knocking their foreheads together, his nose into Cas's. "I've got no idea how else to say this, so just… I'm. sorry. Cas, okay?" he whispers against Cas's cheek. "If you wanna clear out of here right fucking now, I'll pack our stuff, and Anna's, and then I'll drive. I can get us back home so fast, I'll make the laws of physics cry."
Cas sighs—heavily, voice aching with exhaustion—but manages to nuzzle at Dean's cheek anyway. Then gives him a peck on the lips to go with it. "You're too tired to drive right now, but I appreciate the thought," he says. "Leaving first thing in the morning would be acceptable."
Dean steals another kiss—a longer one, more than just a peck; one he can smile into, one that lets him nip at Cas's lower lip. "I'll still pack the stuff, though," he says. "And warn Anna about the change in plans."