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It’s been happening more and more, lately.
Sometimes, they’ll be driving and Baby will go quiet, and Dean will catch a glimpse of Cas in the rearview mirror, head tilted back against the leather.
Other times, Dean’ll be galloping into the library on some sort of research-related quest (likely one of Sam’s innumerable geek errands) and find the angel head down on one of the antique oak tables behind an open tome.
Once, Dean even swears Cas was snoozing with his eyes open while Sam puzzled over Enochian texts in hopes of mustering the angel’s expertise.
Dean can’t blame him for that one, but it bothers him.
Dean worries about Cas’ Grace. About his prolonged disconnection from Heaven. About his devotion to staying with the Winchesters after all these years, even though it seems to be eroding his supposedly immortal health.
Either way, Cas’ sudden aptitude for unconsciousness could mean a lot of things, but none of them are very good. All Dean knows is that angels don’t sleep, and as a result, Dean spends a lot of time worrying about Cas.
The thing is, Cas makes it a point to pretend it isn’t happening, like he’s been awake the entire time, and “ Yes Sam, it does mean donkey with that accent. ” He never misses a beat, so Dean hasn’t asked. He wants to desperately -because he’s gone far past worried and into afraid territory- but he doesn’t. He respects boundaries, after all.
…Until Cas completely destroys them by conking out on his shoulder during movie night.
That’s a lot to process.
It troubles him as usual, of course. More importantly, it’s so exhilaratingly far beyond their usual tip-toeing that Dean can almost overlook Cas sleeping through Empire Strikes Back. Not quite, though.
Torn between wanting to tenderly kiss Cas’ slumbering forehead and violently shoving him off for having breached personal (and outer) space rules, Dean’s confounded brain opts instead to gently boop Cas’ head with his chin. He’s glad no one else was around to see that, but it does the trick.
Cas grunts himself awake.
“Hrm, oh. Dean?”
“Dude.”
“Sorry.”
The angel catapults himself into a ramrod sitting position, and stares back at the screen even as the popcorn he spilled in the process tumbles all over them. He’s instantly back to his rumpled and uncomfortable-looking standard. This isn’t what Dean wanted either, but his usual tact got them here and he’s got no one else to blame. He clicks pause, because no one is going to interrupt Harrison Ford again, so help him.
“What’s up with you lately, man?”
Dean can practically hear the draw-bridge being raised as Cas stiffly turns, expression darkening as his head tilts in question. His fists clamp inwards and his shoulders draw tight like he’s ready to take to the skies.
Yeah well, Dean’s not having it.
He narrows his gaze and latches it onto Cas. He crosses his arms and steels his jaw in wait, determined to win the staring contest.
Maybe it’s because Cas’ eyes were already watery with sleep, or maybe Dean really is a stubborn bastard but somehow, he does.
“Nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.”
Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Exactly.”
Cas sighs.
“It’s not as efficient, but I’m trying different ways of recharging my Grace, other than relying on Heaven.”
“Why?”
“I should think that was fairly obvious. They’re not,” and he raises his famous finger quotes, “the good guys.”
Dean’s eyebrows scrunch.
“Okay yeah but, they’re about as threatening now as Sam’s hair.”
He ponders.
“Well, less, actually.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction,” replies Cas.
“What- can they tell when you’re sucking on the Wing Juice or something?”
If Cas rolled his eyes any more dramatically, Dean thinks he might be able to see Jimmy’s brain. Rude.
“No. Not really. It’s- complicated. But no. It doesn’t compromise us.”
“Then what’s the big deal?” Dean asks incredulously, “Why are you catnapping when you could be chugging on the big battery in the sky? Haven’t had many lately, but it wouldn’t be good if you went all Rumplestiltskin during a fight, Cas.”
As usual, Dean’s turn of phrase goes unappreciated and Cas just goes quiet again. He seems irritated, but that’s kind of just part and parcel of his expression around Dean. Figures.
“It’s a matter of principle.”
“Principle?”
Cas’ fingers flex open and closed, just once. His jaw jitters minutely under the strain of clenched teeth.
“It’s not what you would do.”
Dean blinks at the record scratch in his head.
“Me?”
Cas stares down at his lap.
“When you were in the Green Room, you were offered all the splendors of Heaven. You could have eaten and drank your fill, but you didn’t.”
Dean has to grin at this unexpected turn and takes a swig of his El Sol.
“Well yeah, Zachariah was a pretty nauseating fucker, Cas.”
Cas doesn’t look appeased, and somehow glowers even harder at his pants.
“It wasn’t that.”
“Dude, that was like a million years ago; why are you bringing this up n-
“It was that you were - are- righteous,” Cas interrupts. “You wouldn’t depend on ill-gained advantages.”
Dean lets that sink in and turns his body towards Cas some, dumps the paranormal magazine he was skimming during the film (to justify to Sam that they were “working”.) A sheepish sort of confusion bears down, but he clears his throat and takes a deep breath, trying to untangle this mess.
“Cas… I think you got your wires crossed. It’s me we’re talking about. Mr First Blade; Mr Said Yes to the Michael Dress. I’ll use whatever advantage I can for the team; nothing righteous about it.”
At this, Cas turns with the full force of his cobalt blues locked on. Dean feels his heart buckle as expected, but he remains steady.
“But that’s just it. You did those things for the love of your family. To save people. You’re always doing the right thing, and I’m just trying to do the same, that’s all.”
Dean wants to debate him on this, because it’s all patently ridiculous. After all, if ever there were ever prizes for Best Role Model, Dean would rank absolutely last in line in the entire Galaxy of contenders.
On the other hand, Dean is so thoroughly touched by the situation that he has to blink in morse code to stifle the burn of tears. God, he’s getting sappy in his old age.
Fortunately, he’s able to focus on how profoundly the perverse Winchestrian self-sacrificial love thing has tainted Cas. Dean feels a bit sick with the realization; wishes he’d been a better example of humanity even though sometimes believes he lacks the fundamental equipment. He figures coming back from Hell more than once might scrub away a few key components.
It’s a conflict he and his lukewarm beer are summarily unprepared for, is the point, and his best assessment of the situation involves an awkward chuckle.
It’s better than crying, at least.
“Cas, why’re you getting all bent out of shape about this stuff now ? We’ve known each other for over a decade and even though you had your fuckups, your heart’s always in the right place. We’ve been over this.”
Cas’ blazingly earnest gaze has returned to the pleats of his pants, from which he plucks errant kernels of popcorn. He pops a few into his mouth, crunches with all the discerning gravity of a surgeon making the first cut, and grimaces. Dean hadn’t expected anything different, but he finds the effort heartwarming.
The angel licks his lips in thought.
“I’ve always looked up to you.”
“Aw c’mon, man-” Dean grumbles, rubbing at his temples.
“Well, it’s true. Questionable methods aside, you’re always looking out for your family. And now with Jack looking up to me - to both of us- I suppose I’ve been thinking about the weight of that responsibility.”
Dean suddenly gets it, and the click is brutally sobering. He’s not much, but whatever little he’s managed to be in life, he’d done it for Sam and the others he’s tucked under the umbrella of their strange family. He nods into the ensuing pause, allowing Cas to collect his thoughts.
“I just want to set a good example.”
“Cas…” Dean begins, grating at the label on his bottle with his thumbnail, “I get that. More than you’ll ever know. But let me tell you something: the people you love don’t want you halfassing your well-being for their sake, principles or not.”
He lets that simmer for a moment and conjures a small smile.
“Trust me, I’ve died enough times to know. Nobody likes it, or appreciates it. Friggin’ ingrates,” he adds in a frail attempt at humour.
Cas remains silent, unseeingly boring holes into Leia’s frozen face. Dean takes advantage of the rare, distracted moment to glance at his profile.
He swallows and places a hand on Cas’ shoulder; squeezes gently. That compels the angel’s attention back towards Dean in a hurry.
“And as long as you’re doing your best, that’s what matters, man. You keep trying; you keep getting up and you keep showing up. That’s all you can do. Doesn’t matter where you’re getting your mojo; it’s how you use it,” he grins.
Cas huffs a quiet chuckle but doesn’t grant Dean the mercy of looking away. The amicable quiet veers loaded in seconds, as it tends to along the tightwire tethered between them. This late at night with a few beers on board, and not to mention with Cas’ azure stare hooked in like that, Dean doesn’t have much inclination to resist. He’s just a guy, after all. A tired, middle-aged guy with too many scars who’s fought way more than his due. He yields just a bit, allowing his hands to slide down the tan fabric until they find Cas’ coiled fist and gently wrap themselves around it. Like magic, it slowly uncurls under his touch, and though he’s about 5 seconds from passing out, Dean lets his thumbs slide over Cas’ knuckles; watches his fingers gently squeeze into the meat of his palm. He’s in awe at being allowed for now, but doesn’t dare meet Cas’ gaze. One thing at a time.
“B’sides,” he mutters, voice unsteady as he forces some bravado, “I say suck Heaven dry if you gotta. Those bastards owe you more than a few rounds.”
Cas seems to mull it over for a while and finally, Dean is delivered from his torment as he finally looks up to find a small smile gracing the angel’s lips. He doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand.
“I suppose so.”
“Damn right.”
In the seconds that follow, there’s a familiar blue-white flare that surges in Cas’ eyes. It’s subtle, but Dean can immediately see the revitalized glow in Cas’ posture, the sharper focus to his expression. All that for a few seconds’ charge. Dean wants to clobber the stubborn idiot for all this angst, but instead, just swells with relief.
“There he is. Feel better?”
“...Yes.”
“No more naps, then?”
“No more naps.”
They both come up short, and Dean finds his stunted actions reflected in Cas’ stiff disposition as they both stare at their joined hands. Dean's grown impatient, over the years.
“Eh, maybe one more nap for the road?” Dean blurts, face scorching. “Y’know, movie’s not over.”
“Fair enough,” Cas easily agrees.
“C’mon, then.”
Dean pulls Cas towards him until his head rests properly on his shoulder, and this time, wraps an arm around his solid frame to lock him in place. This new position doesn’t even do his lifelong misgivings the favor of being weird in the slightest. It’s warm in fact, and more comfortable than it has any right to be. Ignoring the caramel hum in his chest, Dean reaches for the remote and settles in for the rest of the movie, letting his worn frame gratefully sink into the warmth pressed into his side.
“For what it’s worth,” Dean says into Cas’ hair, “Jack’s lucky to have you, so don’t worry about it so much. You’re a great Dad to that kid.”
Dean immediately assumes he’s fucked up with how rigid Cas goes beside him, and he’s about to apologize when Cas’ arm flings itself around his midsection and squeezes. All words wither and die on his tongue as he feels Cas’ face pressed into the sensitive skin of his neck for a few precious seconds.
“Thank you, Dean. So are you,” is what Dean thinks he hears during the hug, but he can’t be certain.
He tells himself it’s the carbonite scene that’s making his eyes prickle.