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Sam and Dean stare at each other. Their mouths are open, slightly turned up at one end, and their noses crinkling.
In his wheelchair by the window, Bobby grunts dismissively.
“I'm going to find God.”
Castiel delivers the line completely deadpan as if it wasn't the most ridiculous idea the angels ever had.
Dean claps Sam on the shoulder and jerks his thumb toward Bobby.
Sam nods in understanding. He walks over and pulls up the visitor's chair beside Bobby, who glares out of the window and ignores Sam.
“Okay, Chuckles. We need a few words,” Dean says, holding onto the door of Bobby’s hospital room.
Cas gives him the curious bird head tilt, but he follows Dean into the corridor. He marches out of the room all stiff-backed, blank expression and mouth drawn into a thin, tight line.
Dean doesn't fully close the door behind them. His usual preference when facing the supernatural is to always give himself an exit route. Right now, he’d prefer to stand so he can charge down the corridor if he needs to. For a reason he can't explain, he doesn't. This is Cas is the best he can come up with. Besides, angels don’t have to run. A few flaps of his wings and Cas would be back in front of Dean anyway. So, Dean finds himself with his back to the door, Cas crowding into his personal space close enough that Dean can fill the soft puffs of the angel’s breath on his face.
What Dean wants to do is to tell Cas what he thinks of the idea that God would intervene in this mess. God is long gone—so far off the reservation that Dean doubts the Almighty wants to be found. Chalk up another win for the Deadbeat Dad Society.
Dean swallows. His mouth is glued shut, and his lungs seem to have forgotten that they need oxygen.
Cas doesn't give Dean the chance to speak, either. “My father has to be somewhere. In the same or another...”
The angel trails off, taking a step back.
Dean can breathe again.
Cas runs his hands through his already messy locks. How an Angel of the Lord manages to always look so rumpled and like he's just fallen out of bed baffles Dean.
Dean can't help but let his eyes be drawn to the movement of the long, delicate fingers. His treacherous brain creates images of what it would feel like if it was his hair they were tangled in. Maybe Cas would tug on the longer strands on top. Apparently, Dean's brain has gone on the same permanent vacation as the angel’s daddy dearest.
“It doesn't matter where he is,” Cas says in a decisive tone. “I have to persuade him to intervene.”
Dean scoffs his eyebrows shooting to his hairline. He crosses his arms across his chest for good measure, hoping Cas gets the picture.
Cas’s eyes narrow. Somehow he's impossibly closer to Dean.
There's an itch at the back of Dean's mind. It's a vague recollection of being cornered in Bobby's kitchen with a pissed-off angel getting all up in his face and saying, “You should show me some respect.”
That was when it all started, the crossed wires about Cas. Not when Dean and Bobby were trapped in an Illinois barn surrounded by crackling energy, sparkling lights, and shadows of black wings on the walls. Nope, it was being crammed up against the angel in that gorgeous body, feeling the weight and the heat of him pressed against Dean in Bobby Singer’s kitchen.
Cas is holding Dean by his shirt collar. The angel’s face is a picture of righteous fury and perfect calm before he delivers that killer line.
Dean's not convinced it wasn't a dream, but that is all he can remember other than waking up hard. He has nothing else to blame other than Cas getting all angel-smitey threatening with him. Sue him! It was hot.
Back to the Finding God dilemma.
Dean has the same reaction when Cas crushes him against the wall. He can feel the heat as his blood travels south. The bit of Dean that loves living on the edge raises its head. Dean reins in the stupid, dumb, suicidal idea before it's fully formed. He can't possibly kiss an angel. But he wants to.
Hey, he's died before. This time he could get lucky and get the all-expenses trip to Heaven. He has been working on their side for a while now—sort of.
Dean's voice sounds alien in his ears when he speaks. It's as if another Dean Winchester from an alternative universe is saying the words.
“The world’s been going to crap for a while now, and God ain’t bothered showing up, Buddy.”
“If he's on our side, we can win. I know it, Dean.”
“You're smoking some kind of angel crack if you think that's going to happen.”
Neither of them blinks. The gaze intense, like nothing Dean's experienced before. He couldn't look away even if he wanted to.
“I killed two angels this week. My brothers. I'm hunted. I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you.”
Dean expects Cas to go on about the Winchesters’ failures or feel the searing pain of death by angry angel. What he doesn't have on his bingo card for the day is a pair of plump, pink, soft, yet slightly chapped lips pressing against his.
Dean kisses Cas back, cupping the back of the angel’s head and slotting a leg between cases. They only break apart when Dean runs out of breath. If his brain wasn't working before, there’s no hope for it now. Dean’s grey matter is officially mush.
Cas’s hands bracket Dean’s shoulders.
Dean drinks in the sight of Cas with his cheeks pinked, swollen lips curved up revealing a gummy smile, eyes crinkling at the corners and shining with some emotion Dean refuses to name.
“I do it all again too, Dean,” Cas says as his eyes flicker to Dean’s spit-wet lips. “I'll be back when I know more about God’s whereabouts.”
With that, Cas flies off. He leaves behind Dean, who is all at sixes and sevens.
Sam and Bobby stare wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the space where Cas had been through the now fully open door.