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It’s a well-known universal truth that things never go well for Dean long-term. He ponders that fact instead of fixing the head gasket on a god-awful 1975 Chevy Laguna when Cas calls.
“I can’t talk for long, Dean,” Cas says. “Something has come up at work. I don’t know when I’ll be back tonight, but it’ll probably be late. Don’t bother cooking for me or waiting up.”
It’s okay. No biggie. Cas is a senior manager at a local accounting firm. Dean knows it’s bound to be some client’s year-end or annual audit or some shit like that. It’s not like Cas working until late hasn’t happened before.
Dean stares at the screen, waiting for the gif, text string of heart emojis, or something that says Cas loves him.
It doesn’t come.
Bobby chews him out for staring into space, claiming he isn’t paying idjits to mope around all day when there are cars that need fixing. He has a point.
Dean shoves down the ball of anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach.
He and Cas have been together for four years, living together for two. It’s been good—better than good, great. It’s nothing. Dean doesn’t need to be texted reminders that Cas loves him.
The problem, as the little devil sitting on Dean’s shoulder keeps telling Dean, is that only last week when Dean had one of his scheduled days off, Cas had forgotten to bring Dean his morning cup of coffee before he went to work. Then the month before, Cas hadn’t called him at all when he went on that conference to Houston—for three days. Yeah, he’d texted, but they have a routine for when Cas is away. If they're apart for more than one night, there is always one late-night call.
But when Dean wakes up to his ass o’clock alarm the following morning because he’s doing the early open at the garage, Cas is there in bed beside him. He's sleep-rumpled and gorgeous as ever. Dean thinks this even though Cas’s lips are slightly parted, and he’s snoring softly with just the tiniest bit of drool at the corner of his mouth.
Everything is A-okay, perfectly normal. Until it isn’t—again.
Cas rejects Dean’s Sunday morning offer of sex and pancakes. Two of Dean’s greatest talents in the world, and Cas blows him off with something about not being in the mood and needing to watch his waistline now he’s getting to the wrong side of forty. Cas even went for a run. Running instead of a getting a stellar blowjob from his devilishly handsome boyfriend? That has got to suggest that maybe Cas doesn’t see Dean that way anymore.
Fuck!
The following Thursday, Cas calls Dean during his lunch break. Apparently, Meg has had a crisis and needs her best friend to hold her hand. Dean isn’t jealous. Cas and Meg have been friends since before Cas met Dean—there’s nothing between them. Not even as friends with benefits. They’d tried that pretty soon after they got to know one another and, to use Meg’s words, “it was like fucking my brother—eww, gross, yeuch! No, thank you.”
Dean probably could have gone with Cas, but being around Meg is like being a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Dean never knows when the she-devil is going to hiss at him. Instead, Dean watches a Dr. Sexy marathon, eating shitty Chinese out of the carton, and swigging his whiskey from the bottle.
It’s clear when Cas comes in at almost two in the morning that he’s three sheets to the wind with all the banging and crashing around he does before sliding under the sheets.
Dean gags at the smell. Cas stinks like a nauseating mixture of booze, weed, and overly sweet perfume. The latter must be Megs. It isn’t her usual poisonous scent but maybe she’s changed it up. Yeah, that’s it, Dean thinks. In a fit of pique at whatever hasn’t gone her way, Meg has tried out something different. Cas would never use Meg as a cover for seeing someone else. She wouldn’t stand for it. Or you know, that traitorous devil pipes up, given there’s no love lost between Dean and Meg, why wouldn’t she?
Dean thinks things over rationally for the next week. He doesn’t brood, despite what Bobby might think. He simply goes through the likely good and bad scenarios in his head multiple times a day, looking at the problem from all possible angles. That’s all.
By Friday morning, when he knows that he has the full weekend rostered off, Dean has decided to take the bull by the horns. He’ll take Cas out to that really fancy restaurant Cas’s brother Balthazar keeps raving about. Sure, it’ll cost Dean an arm and a leg but Cas is worth it. Maybe he needs to up his game from dive bar, diner, and roadhouse brews and burgers, so he can prove that point to Cas.
Everyone leaves Dean eventually. He’s had a good run with Cas, better than all his previous exes. Time to give in to the inevitable. Dean will give it one final shot and see if he still has any sway left in this game.
Cas says he’ll meet Dean at the restaurant.
Dean’s mouth dries instantly at the sight of Castiel in his grey button-down, which is open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, a silver vest, and dark slacks.
“I have a change of clothes at the office, just in case I ever need one,” Cas says as if that explains things adequately rather than sending chills down Dean’s spine. Why did he never know that? Is this a recent development?
By the time their server has taken their drinks order, Dean is vibrating out of his skin. He can’t wait.
“Uh, Cas...I kinda wanted to ask you a question tonight. That’s why I booked us a table here. I know you’ve wanted to try their Coquilles St. Jacques and Beouf Bourginion since your brother raved about the place.”
Cas quirks an eyebrow at him, head tilting to the side.
It’s so adorable, as usual—No. So not the time, Winchester.
“Okay, here goes. You know that I love you, Cas. Right?”
“Yes, Dean. The answer is yes. Tell me you knew it would be.”
Cas, the heartless bastard, is grinning from ear to ear at him.
“Shit. I mean. Good, at least I know now. Um, when do I have to get my stuff out?”
Cas mouths Dean’s last sentence, brows furrowing as he seems to try to work out what Dean’s saying.
Dean rolls his eyes. It’s not exactly a difficult question. “Well, if we’re over, then I’m guessing you’ll want me out of the house soon. I can ask Bobby if I can—”
“What?” Cas is leaning across the table, usually warm eyes stone cold, and his volume a little too loud for Dean’s comfort.
“No need to cause a scene,” Dean says, holding up his hands in a placating motion.
“I’m not. But I don’t understand. Please, Dean, explain what I did wrong that you’re ending our relationship like this in public.”
It’s Dean’s turn to be the parrot. He’s not the one finishing anything.
Cas pushes back his chair. “I thought I had it figured out, Dean. That you’d asked me here to this outrageously expensive place to ask me a question. Guess I got that wrong, huh? I’d hoped that you’d be asking me to marry you...”
Cas’s voice trails off as he turns and walks toward the exit, leaving Dean floundering. They’d never even talked about marriage. Was that an option? If so, he’d sure as hell say yes.
Sonofabitch.
Dean slams a few bills on the table to cover the drinks they haven’t got yet and sprints after Cas, hoping he can catch him before he drives off. Most likely he'll go to Meg's to lick his wounds and—yup. Not going there again!
“Cas, wait up!”
Dean hates how weak and broken his voice sounds. He’s right royally fucked this up! God, what if Cas won’t let him explain or worse thinks Dean’s so crazy, jealous, and paranoid that he breaks things off anyway?
Cas spins around, keeping the door to his stupid blue Tesla between him and Dean. His lips are drawn into a thin line. His gaze makes Dean feel like he’s about one inch tall, a tiny insignificant bug pinned in place by a predator.
“What is it, Dean?”
Dean lays out all the evidence. Every conceivable thing Cas has done in the past two months that could say that Cas isn't interested in Dean anymore.
“You, Dean Winchester, are an utter, perfect, fucking paranoid disaster.”
Dean doesn’t have a ready answer for that little gem of truth.
“I suggest, that you think over all the other possible genuine reasons for my behaviour over the drive home. Then, we’ll talk.”
“Home. Right, yes. Will do, Cas. Uh, drive safe.”
Seriously? What was that, when doesn't Cas drive like an old lady?
Dean doesn’t need to think about the reasons. Lord knows he’s wasted enough time listing out all the conceivable and a few improbable ones too. He spends the twenty-minute drive back to the suburbs toying with a completely different set of pros and cons for an unexpected new question.
Dean sighs when the garage door opens, and Cas’s car is in its usual spot. He doesn’t lock Baby. Dean barely remembers to press the button to close the garage door. He charges straight to the living room, where Cas is pouring a generous measure of the good scotch.
Dean skids to a halt beside Cas, then drops to one knee. He isn’t going to give Cas the opportunity of asking him what logic instead of years of self-esteem and abandonment issues had said about Cas’s recent behaviour.
“I’m sorry, Cas. This is all fucked up because of me. I know this wasn’t how you expected tonight to go and that’s on me. I can’t pretend I’ll ever be any less of a mess but I’m willing to try. I love you. I have from way too soon after I met you. I can’t offer you much. I don’t have a ring, or a fancy speech or anything, but if you’ll have me—Castiel Milton will you do me the honour of marrying me?”
Cas drains his glass, leaving Dean’s heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. Even after he puts the glass down, Cas doesn’t say anything.
Dean starts counting the seconds in Mississippis.
Cas reaches down, grasps Dean’s forearms, and pulls him to his feet.
“Yes. Of course, it’s yes. I’d marry you tomorrow if I could, mess or not.”
Funnily enough, Cas never does ask Dean to answer the questions he’d asked in the restaurant’s parking lot.