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Dean hadn’t slept in a few days.
It wasn’t the first time he’d powered through countless books in the library with coffee and stubborn willpower. The bunker knew all the times Dean had subjected himself to unhealthy coping mechanisms whenever the end of the world started up again. The foggy hangovers, the eye drops Sam left next to the book Dean dropped when he accidentally passed out into a dreamless sleep, and the tourist-trap stained coffee mug he’d stolen when he went to Vegas.
None of this was a first for Dean nor would it be the last.
This time, Sam decided that it was time for them to ‘talk’ about it, whatever the hell that meant. For Dean, it meant less time to research and more time running out. Dean understood it - he knew he looked rough, from the purple bags he caught glimpses of in the bathroom mirror whenever he was forced to peel himself from his seat at the long center table in the library.
That tiredness couldn’t compare to the way he knew Cas was suffering, trapped God knows where and dealing with God knows what. Dean scoffed to himself because he was right - not even fucking God knows or else he would’ve done something, anything .
“I’m not joking, Dean,” Sam said sternly, fists clenching on top of the mahogany of the table that was starting to become Dean’s second bed. “You need sleep . In an actual bed . A few hours of shut eye will do you some good.”
Dean’s jaw locked as he glared at Sam. He cared about Sam, of course he did, but sometimes his brother didn’t know when to commit to solving a problem. Maybe college helped him regulate this sort of thing - not getting sucked into a singular goal, forgetting everything until the target was reached.
That just wasted too much time. Cas was going through worse and worse the longer Lucifer had his nasty hooks dug into him.
“We need to save him,” was all Dean managed to mutter, crossing his arms defiantly like a child.
“He’s fine. Cas is strong, he’s not incapable. He knows how to take care of himself, God knows he’s better at it than you are,” Sam said, somehow not sounding accusing in his tone. It was rather genuine concern as he gestured at the array of coffee mugs and barely-touched takeout.
Dean scanned his eyes over his mess, spanning across the entire table. He guessed it looked a little bad.
“Sam, he’s-”
“Dammit, Dean!” Sam shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. “Cas is a big boy! He wanted this, Dean! You can’t save everyone, and you sure as hell can’t make him save himself. He’s our friend and I get wanting to help him. But he also has control over his own decisions and if he decided that he wanted to sacrifice himself to save you, Dean, then fucking let him!”
Dean stood up, swaying in his place as a wave of dizziness hit him. He placed both his hands on the table, steadying himself. Sam raised from the table halfway, making to catch him if he fell, but Dean waved his hand away, took a few deep breaths, and sent the meanest death glare he could at him. “He’s saving the world, Sam, not just me. And his decision was impulsive, I just know it. He should’ve - we could’ve worked this out, without him being such a fucking martyr.”
Sam scoffed, harshly slumping back down on the chair. “Look who’s talking,” Sam said and Dean sent another death glare, this time with not nearly as much hate. He didn’t have enough energy to do so, instead sitting back down.
“I have to save him,” Dean whispered, almost like a mantra. Sam didn’t say anything as Dean stared down at the table, studying the pencil indents in the table from notes he’d written down that he had thought useful.
“Lucifer wears Cas’ face wrong. He distorts it, his smile - it’s not Cas’. Lucifer smiles like he’s ready to make me his dinner. Cas has something about him- something that’s so Cas. And it’s not there whenever I look at him.” Dean looked up from the table and saw something in Sam’s expression, like pity, acknowledgement, and confused surprise.
“Oh,” was what he said, short and flat.
Dean shifted in his chair, fiddling with the edge of the book in front of him, open to a random page about witches that was written sometime last century. It flaked off in his hand and he rubbed his fingers together as if it was the most interesting texture he’d never experienced. “What?”
“Dean,” Sam said, in that sort of tone he always used when Dean knew exactly what. This time, there was nothing for Dean to know as he stared at Sam blankly. He sighed, resting one side of his head in his palm as he huffed, loudly. “Dude,” he chuckled sadly, flat amusement in his tone as he closed his eyes.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dean said, frowning at Sam, who seemed to be having a really funny midlife crisis.
“It’s just,” Sam said, picking his head up and clasping his hands together, softly smiling at Dean. “I’ve- I’ve never seen you so oblivious before.”
Now, Dean was confused. What could he have possibly missed? Maybe he was hallucinating things. Not sleeping for days could do that to you, right? That had got to be it - there was nothing in their conversation that Dean could’ve missed, although he wasn’t exactly sure. He could barely remember the start of the conversation.
“What?” he asked, squinting his eyes. “What’d I miss?”
Sam’s smile fell as he swallowed thickly, looking Dean top to bottom. That frown appeared again, taunting him with knowledge he didn’t have. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Him? Him, who? Cas? Castiel. The angel of the Lord? Their friend, Dean’s friend, the guy who pulled him out of Hell?
And, in love? Not just ‘love’, like ‘Hey, man, I love you, you’re my best friend’ but rather ‘I’m in love with you’?
Dean had been in love before. He had truly loved Lisa, having kept that relationship steady for longer than he’d expected. That was about it, though - a lot of Dean’s relationships with women were one-night stands or meaningless girlfriends for a few months before he moved off.
But that’s just it - they were all women, not men.
Dean gripped the side of the table. Angrily, he admitted to himself that he’d never really taken that into account whenever that tough-guy facade faltered when Cas looked away.
He knew why his eyes flicked up and down Cas’ body whenever he wasn’t looking, and sometimes when he was. Dean knew why there was that overwhelming want, that uncontrollable desire to have Cas near, that overbearing protective nature that also shouldered along with the brotherly responsibility he felt over Sam.
Cas was more than a best friend to him and Dean could never say that out loud.
“Dean, you’re spiraling,” Sam said, snapping in front of Dean’s face. He shook his head, looking at Sam. He looked concerned, which was valid, he guessed.
“And you’re fucking crazy. I-” Dean choked on the words sitting in his throat, on the ‘I love him’ that almost jumped out of him without warning. He stuffed it back down because he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he admitted that little thing to Sam.
No, in the hunting world, denying your love for someone was the best way to keep both of you alive.
“I care about him because he’s family . I’m not in love with the guy, I really care about him,” Dean said, gesturing nonchalantly, like he didn’t feel as if he was lying through his teeth.
Dean wasn’t, though. There was no lie in what he was saying because he truly did care about Cas. They had been together through thick and thin, through the times they’ve tried to kill each other and the times they’d fought side-by-side.
There was something about the fact that he wasn’t saying ‘love’ though. If he was a stronger man, maybe he’d be able to say it. Maybe Dean would be able to say ‘I love you’ straight to Cas’ face and mean it in every single way Sam was implying.
“Dean, dude,” Sam said in that same damn tone of voice like Dean knew he was saying something wrong. His expression was one of anger, this time, as he got up from the table. “Cas has given everything for you. I’ve watched him drink himself silly over you, I’ve watched him destroy himself for you. You’re blind, Dean, to think that I didn’t see it over all these years,” Sam shouted, gesturing wildly.
The chair under Dean felt as if it would swallow him whole as he sunk into it, directing his attention to the book in front of him - anything but at Sam’s accusing, soul-searching eyes.
“Fuck you,” Dean muttered, standing up from the table, chair legs screeching against the hardwood.
It was easier to convince himself that Sam was wrong, that he misinterpreted Cas’ anguish and emotional constipation for a longing for requited love. It would be easy to continue to convince himself that Dean was disgusting for loving his best friend, for caring about him more than a best friend would.
Dean found himself in front of his room before he knew it, having unknowingly dragged himself there in his haze of blind need to get away from Sam’s words. He pushed open his door and was met with the smell of stale air and Cas’ cologne (because apparently angels wear cologne, too).
He hadn’t been in his room for weeks, having made due with the nearest couch, motel room beds, and the table in the library. That Cas-like smell had always permeated his room, having always kept Cas’ clothes in his room. Sure, Cas had his own room, but the angel preferred to keep his things in a place he knew they’d be watched over constantly. It was some kind of paranoia instilled within him after all he’d gone through and in more ways than one, Dean understood.
Maybe that was one of the things Sam was talking about - how Cas had his clothes in Dean’s room rather than Sam’s. There was no logical reason as to why they shared a closet. In fact, Sam’s closet was bigger than the one in Dean’s room, which would allow Cas more personal room.
Dean was done with this shit.
Like any non believing man who hit rock bottom, he prayed.
“Cas,” he started, clearing his throat. “Hey, Cas,” and despite having prayed to the angel countless times before, he felt like an idiot as he sat on the edge of his bed, hands clasped together. “I don’t know if you can hear me. I doubt you can. I just wanted to say-” Dean cleared his throat again and bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough that he knew it’d cause a sore later in the day. “Uh, that I need you here. I need you to come back, Cas. We’re-” he took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “ I’m nothing without you, Cas. Come back to me, Castiel.”
He waited for a minute, two, three, and maybe five, unmoving and leg bouncing with anxiety. But there was no response, no Cas magicking himself in the middle of his room in that stupid little trenchcoat.
A loud sigh escaped Dean’s lips as he flopped back onto his bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling of his room, absent from Cas and longing for him more than he ever had before.
If he was a stronger man, Dean Winchester would’ve said ‘I love you’ at the end of his prayer.