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Waves of adrenaline slowly faded away, making way for exhaustion. He had pushed his angelic powers to their limits—first to stop the relentless vampires, then to swiftly transport the Winchesters back to the safety of their motel room, and finally, to mend their injuries. Each act had taken a toll, leaving him utterly spent.
He was exhausted.
Not that the Hunters cared much about that little detail. As long as Castiel could perform the miraculous tasks they expected of him, they gave little thought to the cost it exacted on him. Their focus remained solely on their own needs, lost in the relentless pursuit of their mission.
....Well, maybe that’s a bit harsh.
Sam cared—there was a softness in his gaze and a storm of concern in his questions whenever Cas faltered or let out a weary sigh. But Castiel often chose to generalize the issue; it felt simpler that way. Easier to swallow, easier to mask the pain that lingered.
Still, deep down, he was well aware that the younger Winchester wasn’t the problem.
It was the older one. It was always the older one.
Just the thought filled Cas’s chest with a confusing, tightening sensation that wouldn’t let go, no matter how much he tried to push it away. What even was that feeling?
Dean wouldn’t even look at him—not when he transported them back to their motel room, nor while healing their wounds. While Cas tirelessly tended to their injuries, Dean remained distant, an impenetrable wall standing between them. Now, with his part of the work done, Cas stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure whether he should stay or leave.
Dean wouldn’t look at him. Not once.
Cas’s eyes were fixed on Dean, following his every move and desperately trying to catch his attention. Just for a second, just one tiny glimpse would be enough. One look could make all the hardships and efforts worthwhile, washing away any bad feelings.
But Dean didn’t look. Not once.
While Cas was focused on him, Dean’s eyes were locked onto his younger brother, a quiet openness flickering in his gaze—a subtle signal that only the most observant would notice. After all the time Cas had spent with the Winchester brothers, especially studying Dean’s nuances, he could recognize that familiar look without a second thought.
In Sam’s presence, Dean seemed to effortlessly unwind. Cas watched as the tension melted from Dean’s muscles, his expression softening and radiating a sense of comfort. Their conversations flowed freely, punctuated with laughter and easy banter that felt completely at home. Sam would toss out a quip, and Dean would light up with a warm, genuine smile that conveyed how completely at ease he was—a sight that felt all too rare.
Why couldn’t he be that relaxed with Cas?
When Cas reflected on his interactions with Dean, they felt so... tense. Dean always seemed on edge, like a coiled spring ready to snap. The slightest touch made him withdraw, and Cas quickly learned that standing too close caused Dean to shift away as if he were trying to escape. They had spent countless hours in what could only be described as lectures, with Dean patiently explaining the intricacies of 'personal space' to Cas, who struggled to grasp the concept. Despite Dean's best efforts, the idea remained a foreign puzzle.
But one truth stood out clearly: Dean didn’t want to be near him any more than absolutely necessary.
Cas tried to rationalize it, telling himself that perhaps it was simply Sam’s presence that allowed Dean to relax. After all, Dean’s younger brother was the cornerstone of his world, the person he’d go to the ends of the earth for. If Dean had found solace only when Sam was around, Cas could have accepted that without question. If it was just Sam, Cas wouldn’t see a problem.
But it wasn’t just Sam.
It wasn’t Sam at all.
It was the women. The countless figures Dean encountered in the dimly lit bars he frequented. All those nameless, long-legged brunettes and blondes—and especially the one with blue hair and piercings adorning every visible part of her body.
And there were a lot of visible parts of her body.
These encounters were at the heart of the issue—or rather, they were the catalyst that made Cas see the truth.
If Dean Winchester was truly the lone wolf he pretended to be, someone who kept everyone at a distance except for his beloved little brother, then why did he let these women swarm around him? Why did he throw himself into their warmth, revelling in the attention as if it were the only thing that mattered?
The ‘personal space’ rules that Dean usually adhered to didn’t seem to apply to those women. In fact, Dean was often the one taking steps to reduce the distance between himself and his potential female companions. He would flash a charming smile and dive into animated conversations about topics that, Cas knew all too well, Dean couldn't care less about—unless, of course, the person talking happened to be one of the long-legged beauties around him.
It was fascinating to watch how Dean poured so much energy into capturing their attention, weaving his charisma into every exchange.
In contrast, Dean never put any effort into his interactions with Cas. He never bothered to mask his indifference. There were no warm smiles or engaged discussions about the things that excited Cas—no hint of effort to bridge the gap between them. Not even when Cas mentioned bees! Bees! And Cas wasn't just talking about mundane trivia anyone could read up on; he was prepared to dive into a step-by-step account of when bees were first created!
“Alright, Animal Planet, stop being cute and move your feathery butt. We have a wendigo to track down.”
Dean never wanted to listen. He never cared—whether it was Cas passionately recounting facts about bees, lending a hand during hunts, or even now, when Cas had just pulled both his and Sam’s lives from the brink.
Not a single glance from Dean, not even a flicker of gratitude.
How was it that those women at the bar, with their casual laughter and fleeting smiles, captured Dean’s attention so effortlessly? Did he genuinely feel closer to them than he did to Cas? Cas—the steadfast companion who stood by him through every battle, who had risked everything time and again just to keep him safe. The same Cas who had dared to defy Heaven itself for Dean’s sake. It was hard to fathom that any of those women would ever go to such lengths.
So, what was the missing piece? What was it that Cas was failing to understand? Why did all his sacrifices and devotion seemed to fade into the background, overshadowed by fleeting encounters with strangers? Why did he feel so small, so easily forgotten?
“Thanks, Cas. You really have great timing. A few more seconds, and we’d be toast.”
Finally, there was some gratitude—some acknowledgment of Cas’s efforts. Yet, instead of the warm glow of satisfaction he had anticipated, he felt an all-too-familiar ache inside. Those appreciative words weren’t coming from the person whose praise he desperately craved; no, they came from the wrong Winchester.
Sam flashed a bright smile at Cas, his usual warmth lighting up the room. He looked genuinely grateful for Cas’s presence, which only deepened the knot in Cas’s stomach.
Meanwhile, Dean stood with his back turned, rummaging through his duffle bag as if it held the answers to the universe and more, apparently deciding that now was a great time to do some weapon inventory.
Even the wooden stakes and knives received more attention than Cas did.
Finally, when Dean spoke, that familiar sardonic edge cut through the air like a knife.
“Yeah, great timing,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “It would be even better if you could show up before the vampires decide we’re their new favourite chew toys.”
A bitter, uncomfortable feeling spread like a shadow through Castiel’s heart.
Of course, Dean hadn’t sought him out to express genuine gratitude. No, Dean acknowledged him only to air grievances, expressing disappointment in his performance. What else did Dean need but an angel bodyguard? Sometimes, he served as Dean’s angel delivery boy or angel nurse—something useful, something he could utilize… nothing more than that.
“Forgive me, Dean. It seems my powers fall short of your expectations. I cannot read the minds of your enemies to determine which one among them plans to attack you at any given moment. My abilities must be a source of great disappointment to you,” Cas said bitterly, the weight of sadness creeping into every word.
Confusion swirled within him. Where were these emotions coming from? It was that strange sensation thrumming in his gut, a feeling that had become disturbingly familiar. He didn’t fully understand what this longing was or why it had taken root in him, but one thing was painfully clear: it was there, and it was impossible to ignore.
“Whoa, is everything alright, Cas?” Sam’s voice cut through the tension, a mix of concern and urgency.
The younger Winchester looked at him with those unmistakable "puppy eyes"—wide, filled with worry, and entirely focused on Cas. It stirred a complex mix of gratitude and irritation in his chest. It was genuinely touching to receive such deep concern from Sam, but it made Dean’s usual indifference feel even more pronounced.
Why couldn’t Dean look at him that way, just once?
The unease in Cas’s stomach twisted tighter, and the bitterness bubbled up as he retorted,
“No. I am not alright.”
And just like that, he had Dean's attention.
The older Winchester froze, his hand hovering mid-air, the item he had been reaching for forgotten. Then, with an almost pained look, he turned sharply toward Cas.
When their eyes finally locked, Dean's expression was perplexing—he looked like he was scrutinizing every detail of Cas’s face, his brows drawn together in a fierce frown.
Before Cas could decipher the meaning behind that intense gaze, Sam blurted out, “Oh, shit, Cas, are you injured?”
His voice was tinged with alarm as he leaned forward, searching for any wounds or signs of pain on Cas’s body.
“No. I’m physically healthy,” Cas responded, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions.
At those words, Dean’s expression noticeably softened. The tension in his shoulders relaxed, and the shadow that had lingered in his eyes seemed to evaporate for just a moment. A rush of warmth spread through Cas’s chest. Did Dean… actually care?
But just like that, the moment slipped away as Dean broke the silence again.
“Then what are you getting your panties in a twist for, man?” he shot back, rolling his eyes as he returned to rummaging through his duffle bag.
Cas felt the warmth drain from him; Dean's tone was so casual, so dismissive. Of course, he wouldn’t be concerned—at least, not beyond ensuring his tool was functioning properly.
An unsettling knot tightened in Cas's stomach. Those rare moments when Dean showed genuine concern or the hopeful glimmers that vanished just as quickly were so confusing.
Dean was an enigma—so layered and complex. Cas struggled to grasp even the simplest aspects of human interaction, but with Dean, the stakes felt impossibly higher. Why was this so challenging?
“If you’re not injured, then what’s wrong, Cas?” Sam interjected, casting frustrated glances at Dean’s back.
For a fleeting moment, Cas considered Sam’s clear disapproval of Dean’s flippant attitude. But that thought slipped away just as quickly. He couldn’t put into words what was wrong—even he didn’t fully understand it. Sam’s concerned gaze pressed into him, demanding an answer he simply couldn’t give.
This was too much. It wasn’t something he could deal with right now. But what was he supposed to do? What do humans do when they feel overwhelmed?
What did Dean do when he wanted to avoid something?
Now, that answer was crystal clear.
“I’m going on a bender,” Cas declared.
Just before he vanished, he saw Sam's jaw drop in disbelief.
Castiel lingered at the entrance of a bustling bar, the air thick with the sharp, tempting scent of alcohol. Inside, cheers and groans merged into a joyful cacophony, showcasing a range of human emotions that felt both foreign and tantalizingly close. His gaze drifted to a corner where a large crowd was fixated on a flickering TV screen, tiny figures darting across a vivid green field, chasing after a round object—soccer, he reminded himself, though the game made little sense to him.
He hesitated, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him like a storm. Was this truly the refuge he was seeking? He had often heard Dean insist that alcohol was effective for drowning out one’s deeper feelings. That idea pulled at him, making the decision to step inside even more daunting.
“Hey, are you going in or just playing statue?” a voice interrupted his thoughts.
Castiel turned to find an impatient man glaring at him, frustration etched on his features.
“I’m evaluating my options,” Castiel replied coolly.
“Well, take less time or get out of the way,” the man shot back.
“Very well,” Castiel said.
In that moment, he vanished from view, his form dissipating and reappearing behind the man with a soft thud. The sudden shift startled the guy, who spun around in disbelief, his eyes darting between the empty spot where Castiel once stood and the angel now casually taking up space next to him.
With a resigned shake of his head, the man ran a hand through his slightly dishevelled hair.
“I really need to cut back on the drinks,” he muttered under his breath as he shuffled past Castiel and entered the bar, leaving the angel alone once more to wrestle with his indecision.
If he was honest with himself, Cas had to admit he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t truly know what he was doing there. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, not backed by any deeper thought process.
The air in the bar was foul, and the whirlwind of emotions around him was disorienting.
Yet, the longer he stood there, a logical chain began to form in his mind. He felt bad and wanted to feel good. Alcohol made people feel good. Castiel needed to consume alcohol to feel better.
Without any further contemplation, he entered.
He swiftly separated himself from the thrumming crowd of exhilarated, perspiring patrons glued to the TV screen. His gaze landed on the intriguing array of bottles glistening behind the counter. With a sense of purpose bubbling within him, he walked over to one of the stools and flopped down as if he were on a mission.
The squeak of the chair caught the attention of the woman behind the counter, who had been busy wiping glasses. When she turned around and spotted him, a smile spread across her thin, elongated face. Her curly black hair bounced as she approached him.
Cas immediately noticed that the top three buttons of her crisp white shirt were undone, revealing the beginnings of a black bra. Cas frowned. She must have been in a hurry to get to work if she hadn’t finished dressing. Clearly, she took her job seriously. He felt comforted, knowing he would be in professional hands.
“Hey there, honey!” she greeted him, leaning casually against the bar, her smile radiant.
Cas frowned again. Why would she…?
“While I do enjoy bees immensely, I am not the product of their hard labour,” he replied.
She blinked, momentarily taken aback.
“What?”
“I am not honey,” Cas clarified, although he didn’t understand why he had to.
What baffled him further was the way her laughter rang out so cheerfully, accompanied by a playful slap on his arm.
“You’re funny, aren’t you?” she teased, her eyes sparkling as she appraised him, an eyebrow arched in playful approval.
Approval of what, exactly? Cas had no clue.
“And you’re rather handsome, too,” she added, her smile unwavering. “A charming package, I must say. So, let’s start this off right—your first drink is on the house! What can I get you?”
“Alcohol, please.”
Once more, her laughter bubbled up. Cas’s brow furrowed; what could possibly be so amusing?
“Could you be a tad more specific?” she asked, her smile teasing.
Cas paused, realizing there might be a misunderstanding. Humans had a plethora of alcohol types, and not all were appropriate for drinking.
“An alcohol suitable for human consumption.”
Again, she replied with laughter. What a delightfully baffling human she was.
“All right, you jokester. I’ll make you one of my signature cocktails. Just don’t come back later complaining about a hangover,” she warned, though her tone held no real threat. She smiled brightly as she began preparing the drink.
Cas nodded, intrigued. He still didn’t fully understand her behaviour. Still, he was getting what he wanted—alcohol—so evidently, he had done everything right.
He had grown so accustomed to spending time with the Winchesters that he had forgotten how confusing human interactions could be without their guidance; without Sam’s gentle nudges and helpful tips or Dean's frequent interjections of, “Hey, what the hell, man? That’s not how this is done!”
Just the thought of the older Winchester made his stomach churn again. He really wished the woman would hurry up with his drink. He watched intently as she grabbed bottle after bottle, pouring a bit from each into a single glass. In the end, she added a few ice cubes and a bright little... umbrella? Yes, a tiny umbrella.
“Voila! I call it the ‘Memory Eraser.’ It’s a potent mix of rum, vodka, a splash of whiskey, a touch of blue curaçao, and zesty lime juice,” she proclaimed, pride radiating from her.
As she slid the vibrant concoction his way, Cas wasted no time. He lifted the glass and downed it in three quick gulps. By the final swallow, the little umbrella pressed against his nose, making him blink in surprise.
“Is this part of the drink? Do I eat it?” he inquired, holding up the bright accessory for her inspection.
Her expression was one of utter disbelief, mouth agape as she processed the sight in front of her.
Finally, she sputtered, “N-No, you don’t eat those! It’s just for decoration!”
Cas stared at the umbrella, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
“I see. It is aesthetically pleasing.”
The woman continued to stare at him, her expression a mix of confusion and amusement. Cas took a moment to let the alcohol settle into his system before furrowing his brow.
“I drank alcohol, but I still feel bad. I require more alcohol... please,” he said, trying to infuse his request with the kind of politeness Sam had always insisted was essential when interacting with those who served food or drink.
For a heartbeat, she remained silent, then let out a burst of laughter that echoed through the bar.
“Alright, this should be interesting,” she muttered to herself as she set about concocting another drink. “So, what’s eating at you, buddy? Why the long face?”
Cas sighed, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.
“It is complex.”
“Always is. Come on, spill it. I'm a bartender; it’s like an unspoken part of my job to listen to the woes of troubled patrons and offer my support,” she said with a wink, sliding a fresh glass toward him.
He blinked, surprised. Cas wasn’t aware that bartenders had such a responsibility. Maybe that’s why Dean frequented bars so often? He had heard Sam mention more than once that Dean needed to find a professional to talk to about his issues. It all made sense now.
"I have trouble communicating with someone very dear to me," Cas confessed.
The bartender’s smile softened into something sympathetic.
“Oh, so it’s a heart matter, huh?”
Cas frowned, perplexed.
“No. My organs function perfectly well.”
Her laugh rang out, bright and carefree, and she didn’t hesitate to start preparing another drink without him needing to ask.
“So what? Is this a girl issue, or are you just trying to be funny again?” She leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief and curiosity.
“Why would I have a girl issue?” he replied, raising an eyebrow.
She paused mid-motion, her hand frozen with the drink poised in the air. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she regained her composure and gently set the glass down.
“No interest in girls, then?” Her tone was oddly innocent.
“I’ve observed many fascinating female lives unfold...” he began, but she interrupted.
“No, no, honey, that’s not it! I probably shouldn’t even be asking, but what the hell? Are you not interested in women... romantically? Like, bam chicka wah wah?” She punctuated her question with a sound Cas had never heard a human make.
“I don’t quite grasp this… onomatopoeia.”
She blinked, clearly taken aback by his response.
“And I don’t understand your… topeia! Oh my god, dude! I’m asking if you’re sexually attracted to women?” Her voice was a blend of exasperation and amusement.
Now it was Cas’s turn to blink.
Why was she asking that? And why was she bringing his father into this?
He pondered her question, a frown creasing his forehead. Perhaps this was all part of the process. She needed a deeper understanding of him to suggest how he might find solace. So, he allowed her words to sink in.
Her inquiry focused on sexual attraction—a concept Cas had encountered before. After all, it explained the rapid and effective way his father’s creations multiplied. Was that why she prefaced her question with a reference to his father?
Cas contemplated deeply, seeking to provide her with the most honest answer. He wanted his response to resonate with the truth of his being. As an angel, he existed beyond the limitations of earthly desires; the allure of either male or female forms held no power over him. To him, gender was inconsequential—a mere shell that contained the essence of a person's identity.
What truly captivated him were the souls that animated those vessels, each unique and vibrant in its own way. Yet, in all his eternal existence, only one soul stirred something profound within him, igniting feelings he could hardly comprehend. It was the only soul that ever made him feel… things.
He took a steadying gulp from his glass, feeling the warmth spread through him before he spoke.
“Dean. I am attracted to Dean.”
The moment the words spilled from his lips, a tidal wave of realization crashed over him, leaving him breathless—how profoundly true it felt. Relating his feelings to her question illuminated something significant: he was drawn to Dean Winchester, both physically and romantically.
An ache blossomed in his chest at the thought of being close to Dean, imagining intimate moments that sparked a longing he had never felt for anyone else. Though he had sensed this magnetic pull before, he had never dared to explore the deeper implications of such closeness.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to vivid memories of Dean flirting effortlessly with a parade of women. He could picture the casual grace with which Dean would lean in, an arm draped around their shoulders, his laughter bubbling forth like a bright melody that danced in the air. But each time his thoughts strayed to those women, a sharp twinge of discomfort twisted in Cas's gut—a stark contrast to the unexpected warmth that surged within him when he envisioned himself occupying their place beside Dean.
With each fleeting thought, a shape began to form, a glimpse of clarity cutting through the fog of confusion that had clouded his mind, compelling him to confront the reality he had long kept buried.
“So, men, huh? That’s what you’re into?” The bartender’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, her smile bright and eager.
Cas shook his head slightly, his mind racing.
“No. Not men. Dean,” he clarified, his tone earnest as if that single name could unravel the complexities of his emotions.
She leaned on the bar, refilling his glass with practiced ease.
“So, this Dean… he’s the one causing you trouble? Is he your boyfriend?”
Cas felt a warmth rise in his cheeks at the suggestion. Well... Dean was a boy, although he would probably prefer to be called a man. And in Cas's mind, he was a friend—though that sentiment might not be reciprocated. Still…
“Dean doesn’t belong to me,” he asserted firmly.
Dean didn’t belong to anyone. He was his own person, something he was quite vocal about, as evidenced by his rebellion against Heaven’s plans. Cas admired that resilience above all else, cherishing the essence of who Dean was—a brilliant whirlwind of aspirations and audacity.
“So, you guys aren’t together?” the bartender asked.
“Not anymore.”
They had been in the same room together some time ago, but not anymore. Cas frowned, wondering why the woman couldn’t see Dean's obvious absence. He had come here alone, after all.
For some unknown reason, his response brought a look of sadness to the bartender’s face. She reached out and gently squeezed his arm, offering a comfort he hadn’t expected.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
Well, Cas was also a bit sorry that Dean wasn’t here, but he didn’t understand why this woman felt so strongly about it. Still, he nodded and thanked her, recalling Sam’s lesson about being polite.
He then downed yet another glass of alcohol. A dozen more, and maybe he would finally start feeling the effects.
“If it’s not too painful to talk about, how did you and Dean first meet?” the bartender asked, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
With a firm grip of nostalgia, he replied,
“I held him tight and raised him from perdition.”
The bartender blinked, momentarily confused. Then, slowly, understanding washed over her.
“Prison or addiction?” she asked, her tone serious.
“Hell."
Her expression shifted to one of surprise, but she quickly raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Alright, no need to share if it’s too personal. I understand,” she said, a warm, knowing smile breaking through.
“But I did share,” he pointed out.
“Touché!” she chuckled, winking at him, “But listen, If you two went through hell together, that experience creates a strong bond. The good times may fade, but the painful memories stay. When you supported him during tough times, you made a lasting place in his heart. I'm sure that you both can get past whatever issues you have now.”
Cas pondered her words. From the very first moment he had encountered Dean—when he laid eyes on Dean's wounded soul, ensnared in the darkest corners of hell—he felt an undeniable connection. Now, after peeling back the layers of this incredible man, that bond felt deeper than anything he had ever known.
Yet, despite the depth of their connection, an unsettling distance lingered between them. Cas noticed how Dean instinctively recoiled at his touch, his body tensing. The moments they spent together felt strained; Dean would only tolerate being in the same room for the bare minimum, his presence starkly cold and unwelcoming. He exhibited a cutting dismissiveness, as if each interaction with Cas was a burden—his words were sharp, and his tone was callous.
“I don’t think Dean feels that way,” Cas mused, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Seriously? There’s no way he doesn’t have feelings for the guy who literally saved his life. That’s just not how this works!"
“Then why is he treating me so coldly?” Cas pressed, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone.
“Honestly, I wish I had the answer,” she said, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone as she leaned against the bar. “But maybe there’s something deeper going on that you’re not seeing? We all have hidden struggles that can make us act in confusing ways. It can feel like trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. But I have an idea that might just shine a light on things.”
Cas found himself leaning in, his heart racing with a mix of curiosity and hope.
“Just go talk to him,” she urged, her eyes locked onto his with an unwavering intensity, “Be brutally honest—lay it all out there. And make sure to truly listen, even if you hear something that’s difficult to accept. You owe it to yourself to seek clarity, don’t you think? Instead of just sitting at bars and drowning your confusion in drinks?
Cas felt her words settle in, both comforting and challenging. The thought of addressing Dean felt like a brick lodged in his stomach, yet the idea of unravelling this tangled mess of emotions was intoxicating.
Maybe it was time to heed her words. After all, she was a bartender; her whole existence revolved around listening to people's stories and helping them navigate their dilemmas. Perhaps she was onto something.
“Alright then,” he declared, a newfound determination settling in his chest. “Could I please have a bottle of alcohol?”
The woman furrowed her brow, genuine concern flickering across her face.
“After everything you've had, you really want the whole bottle?”
“It’s for Dean. He needs something calming for the conversation we will have,” Cas replied, his voice steady and filled with purpose.
With a resigned sigh, she muttered, “Guess it was a prison then,” a comment that floated over his head, leaving him puzzled.
She ducked beneath the bar and returned with a bottle, a playful grin on her face.
“Here you go—a bottle of whisky. Is this what you were hoping for?”
Cas’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he accepted the bottle. “Absolutely, thank you!” he exclaimed, rising from his chair with renewed energy.
“You’re not planning to drive, are you?” Her voice was laced with concern, her gaze locking onto his with intensity.
“Of course not,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll fly.”
Her eyes widened, disbelief washing over her features.
“W-what?” she stammered, clearly taken aback.
Cas didn’t give her reaction much thought; a sense of impatience surged within him. He just wanted to get to his conversation with Dean. He fished out some bills from his pocket, the ones Sam had given him some time ago—just in case. He had never had an opportunity to use them before, so it was with considerable satisfaction that he placed seven one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter.
“Thank you for your alcohol and your wisdom,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
The last thing he registered before he disappeared was the surprised look on her face, her mouth agape in disbelief, as the empty glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.
Castiel found himself back in the dimly lit motel room, feeling a familiar yet disorienting sensation lingering from his recent flight. The world around him felt slightly off-kilter, and his mind was swirling in a haze that could only be attributed to the alcohol he had consumed.
As Cas glanced around, he noticed there was no sign of Sam, but Dean was present. He sat at the edge of the bed, holding a bottle of beer and wearing an undeniably sour expression. Castiel frowned; he wasn’t sure why Dean was in a bad mood, but he wished it weren't the case. This conversation would be much easier if Dean were in a better frame of mind.
“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, attempting to break the tension.
Dean flinched at the sound, jolting so abruptly that beer splashed over the neck of his bottle. A string of curses spilled from his lips before he turned to Cas, his expression softening in a way that felt almost strange.
“Cas!” Dean exclaimed, springing up from the bed and closing the distance between them in a few long strides.
“I consumed alcohol,” Cas informed him.
Dean blinked, visibly taken aback. “Um, right…”
“I brought you some as well,” Cas continued, presenting a bottle of whiskey like a peace offering.
“Okay… that’s nice, but where have you been?” Dean pressed, urgency creeping into his tone. “Sam was worried sick—he went off looking for you.”
Again, that unpleasant feeling tightened in Cas’s stomach. Sam was worried—not Dean.
“I told him it was stupid. You could have flown to Mexico…”
“I was in Detroit.”
“Sure… and why's that?”
“I went to drink, but I ended up seeking professional guidance from a bartender. Now I wish to speak with you.”
Dean’s expression changed, a flicker of unease crossing his features as he shifted on his feet.
“Look, about earlier… I owe you an apology, man. Sammy pointed out that I might’ve been a bit of a jerk. I was just worn out and on edge. I really do appreciate you saving our skins… you know that, right?”
Cas contemplated Dean’s words, the weight of them washing over him. Had he heard those sentiments two hours ago, things might have felt different. They could have moved forward, forgiven and forgotten. But now, things had shifted; the questions burned within him more intensely than ever.
“Thank you, Dean, but I still need to talk with you,” he said, his voice firm.
Dean paused for a moment. A deep sigh slipped from his lips, laced with an undercurrent of apprehension.
“Alright, man. If there’s trouble, you know we’ve got your back. But if this is about some emotional stuff—just hold off until Sammy gets back. He’s way better at that mushy stuff than I am…”
“Dean, this isn’t about Sam. This is about you—only you.”
The words hit Dean like a cold splash of water. He froze, his gaze dropping to the floor, suddenly looking awkward.
“Yeah? What the hell did I do now, Cas?” he shot back.
Yet even as he tried to sound casual, an unmistakable tension crept into his voice. Cas could see the walls rise, Dean preparing himself for whatever revelation was coming.
“I need to have a conversation,” Cas replied, steady and unwavering.
Dean inhaled sharply, waves of visible unease washing over him. He approached the small cupboard, opening it slowly as if it concealed some hidden danger. He retrieved two glasses, his expression clouded with resignation.
“Alright, let’s do this. We’ll have ourselves a little tea party with whiskey,” he declared, plopping down at the little table with a dramatic thud that echoed in the otherwise quiet room. “And afterward, we can even braid Sam’s hair. Hit me,” Dean added, sliding an empty glass across the table.
Cas stared at him, genuinely startled.
“I don’t want to harm you, Dean,” he protested, concern etching lines across his face.
Dean chuckled softly, the laugh a brief release of tension that quickly returned.
“I meant pour me a drink.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“I did…ugh, just hand me the bottle,” Dean muttered, snatching it from Cas’s grip.
As he poured their drinks generously, he leaned back, a façade of relaxed confidence draped around him like a well-worn cloak. But beneath that easy demeanor, Cas sensed a brewing storm—a palpable energy that felt both unsettling and familiar. Why did Dean have to be so… complicated?
“So, what’s on the agenda today, Suzy? What pearl-clutching issues are we tackling?” Dean’s voice was playful yet strained, a tension simmering just beneath the surface, as if he was bracing for news he dreaded.
Why couldn't Dean's words and body language align just once?
As Cas settled deeply into his chair, he straightened his spine, determined to approach this with utmost seriousness. This was crucial. This was monumental.
His heart thudded in his chest, each beat echoing a nagging worry. Was it anxiety or something more?
“Being around humans…it’s harder than I expected,” he finally confessed, steeling himself. “Before, I watched from a distance, never truly involved. But now, I realize just how complex humans are—more intricate than I ever imagined.”
Dean rolled his eyes, the gesture somehow comforting despite the situation.
“Yeah? You angels don’t exactly fly around with user manuals taped to your asses.”
Cas blinked, trying to process the bizarre imagery.
“Why would we have manuals stuck to our—”
“Sarcasm, Cas. We talked about this... so many freaking times,” Dean's tone morphed into something almost affectionate.
No—definitely affectionate. The tension in Dean's expression eased, and a genuine smile broke through—one that felt real and warm. It fluttered through Cas’s chest, leaving him breathless and more perplexed than ever.
This wasn't just any smile—it wasn’t the forced one he wore for strangers. This was warm, and real, and it sent a flutter through Cas’s chest that left him momentarily breathless.
It was so confusing—truly very confusing.
Cas recalled what the wise bartender had said: going through hardship creates unbreakable bonds between people. Could it be that Dean felt the same way? Perhaps there was something beyond Cas's personality that made Dean uneasy and reluctant to accept him into his life?
“Can I ask you a question, Dean?” Cas ventured cautiously.
“As long as it’s not twenty questions,” Dean muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching with a hint of amusement. But when he caught Cas's confused gaze, he sighed. “Ask away.”
Cas watched as Dean took a generous swig from his glass, grimacing slightly as the liquor burned down his throat.
This was it. Cas inhaled deeply, resolved. He would be honest and open—perhaps for the first time, he would unravel the mystery that lay between them.
“Would you feel more comfortable around me if I worked at a den of iniquity?”
Dean’s reaction was utterly unexpected. Cas had envisioned two possible answers—a resounding 'no' or an enthusiastic 'yes.' He never imagined Dean would sputter, whisky nearly escaping his mouth as he choked, completely caught off guard, and then spent the next minute coughing and gasping for air.
“What?!” Dean finally gasped, his voice thick and laced with disbelief, eyes wide as though Cas had lost his mind.
“Dean, I would appreciate it if you didn’t answer my questions with new questions. The situation is already confusing enough for me.”
Dean blinked rapidly, opening and closing his mouth several times, clearly wrestling with his thoughts.
“Wait, hold on,” he said slowly, his hands weaving in the air as if he were trying to grasp the right words. “When you say ‘den of iniquity’... you mean... are you talking about... like a brothel?”
Cas frowned, annoyance creeping in.
“I thought I had been perfectly clear,” he replied, slightly irritated. “Yes, Dean, I am indeed referring to a place most commonly known as a brothel.”
It seemed that the more Cas tried to clarify, the less Dean understood, as if the mere concept of the question was somehow absurd.
But to Cas, it seemed entirely reasonable. Dean appeared more welcoming and willing to engage with ambiguously virtuous people. The particularly loose women at the bars always brought a smile to his face. And, of course, Cas could never forget the night Dean decided to take him to a brothel. It was a spontaneous outing, and Cas vividly remembered the excitement in Dean’s eyes as they navigated the dimly lit hallways filled with laughter and the scent of cheap perfume. Dean seemed completely immersed in the atmosphere, his laughter echoing off the walls.
That was the night Dean laughed so fully and heartily that the sound lingered in Cas's mind for days afterward. Dean's laughter was genuine—a sound that Cas cherished, one that resurfaced on quiet days when he longed for a reminder of the deep connection they shared.
The common denominator of Dean’s good mood seemed to be sexual promiscuity. Unfortunately, Dean didn’t see it that way.
“Why the hell... What are you even... Are you... You’re not going to work in the brothel, Cas! What’s wrong with you?!” Dean's voice sliced through the air, sharp as a knife and leaving no room for argument.
Confusion flickered across Cas's face, surprise mingling with the weight of Dean's intensity. He hadn’t expected such a vehement response; yet, Dean’s last question made it clear he understood exactly what they were talking about.
“That’s what I want to figure out, Dean. I don’t actually plan to seek employment at such an establishment. I am simply exploring...”
Dean shot back, his tone as unyielding as steel, “You’re not going to explore anything in the brothel, Cas."
A heavy sigh escaped Cas’s lips as the realization settled in that he was up against a brick wall. Dean wouldn’t budge an inch, not even for a hypothetical scenario.
With a determined glint in his eyes, Cas decided to pivot the conversation, ready to bring up something that had been nagging at him for a while.
“Would you prefer it if I had a female vessel instead?” he asked, his tone almost casual.
Dean’s response was both swift and shocked, “Whoa, Cas! What the heck are we even talking about here?”
“I’m merely discussing a hypothetical situation regarding a sex change. It’s not something that weighs on me the way it does for humans. This vessel was just… convenient, you see? After a while, I even developed a sense of attachment to Jimmy Novak. But I would be open to considering…”
“Whoa, hold on! Just stop right there! What are you trying to do? Who even asks questions like that? Seriously, Cas, what’s wrong with you?” Dean interrupted, frustration bubbling up and spilling into every syllable.
Cas felt a rush of irritation rising within him. This wasn’t easy for him! Why couldn’t Dean understand the complexity of what he was trying to work through? Did he have to make it more complicated?
“Exactly! That’s what I’m trying to figure out by asking you these questions, Dean! I’d really appreciate your cooperation here!”
Cas couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that he and Dean were speaking entirely different languages. The furrow in Dean’s brow and the confusion swirling in his eyes told Cas everything he needed to know—his words weren’t landing.
“Hold on a second,” Dean said, his tone light but edged with tension. “Can you break it down for me? Just, you know, say it in simpler terms. Less… crazy.”
Cas felt a flicker of annoyance. He believed he’d been perfectly calm, even rational. But Dean looked so lost that he decided to give it another try.
“You’re uncomfortable around me,” Cas stated deliberately, his voice steady. He studied Dean’s posture, noting how his body stiffened at the admission. “I see it in your body language every time I’m near. I want to understand how I can make my presence more tolerable for you.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick like smoke. Cas didn’t look away from Dean, searching for a flicker of understanding in his eyes, but what he found was a storm brewing—much more intense than he had expected.
“Tolerable…” Dean echoed, his voice chilling and devoid of warmth, drifting away into a vacant distance.
Then, as if struck by a sudden realization, Dean’s expression shifted. It was like watching a storm break over the horizon, only to be overshadowed by darker clouds of remorse, regret, and a heavy undercurrent of pain. Amidst all this, one feeling settled between them like a stone—complex and burdensome, squeezing tight around Cas’s chest. The turmoil emanating from Dean felt like a deep, unreachable battle. What unnerved Cas the most was that these feelings didn’t seem directed at him; it felt as if Dean was wrestling with himself.
“Fuck, you thought I… No, damn it, Cas, you’ve got it all wrong…” Dean's voice trembled, urgency creeping in.
Cas tried to interject, “I know, that’s why I’m trying to—”
“No, listen!” Dean interrupted, desperation threading through his tone. “You don’t have to change anything. Didn’t I tell you once to never change?”
Cas frowned, confusion swirling in his gut. Yes, Dean had once told him to never change. That moment replayed vividly in his mind: Dean’s hand firmly on his shoulder, his intense gaze as if he feared losing something irreplaceable.
“That was a while ago, Dean,” Cas noted. “Things have changed since then.”
“Damn right they have,” Dean bit out bitterly, his frustration palpable. “But that doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong.”
“Clearly I am,” Cas replied, frustration lacing his voice. “I may not be an expert in human interactions, but even I can tell it’s become increasingly difficult for you to be near me…”
“It’s not you, Cas! Just stop!” Dean's voice wavered, “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s me! Damn it, Cas! Why would you even think about changing for someone like… I’m the one who’s messed up inside, not you!”
As he listened, Cas could almost see the shadows of self-loathing wrapping around Dean's words like dark vines, choking the confidence from his voice. He cherished every facet of the man sitting across from him, yet it was this haunting self-doubt that he detested most—the cruel, insatiable beast that gnawed relentlessly at Dean's spirit, leaving behind a trail of insecurity and pain.
"I'm just a messed-up hunter with more baggage than brain cells," Dean continued, bitterness edging his voice. "And yeah, I'm an asshole too — just to make it clear in case that point hasn’t been driven home yet. You deserve way better than this, Cas. Why do you even care what a loser like me thinks?"
In that moment, Cas felt a whirlwind of confusion and irritation clash within him. Wasn’t he the one who struggled to read people? Why couldn’t Dean see what was so painfully obvious?
With a burst of determination, Cas shot to his feet, his heart pounding. Words clawed at his throat, desperate to be heard, and he couldn't bear to let them be lost in the space between them.
Yet Dean refused to meet his gaze, now staring intently at the floor.
Cas remembered only one other time feeling this furious at Dean, a fire kindling in his chest just as fiercely. Driven by that recollection, he moved closer, gripped the front of Dean's shirt, and yanked him up to meet his gaze, demanding his attention and compelling him to listen.
"What the hell—?!"
"I’ve seen your soul, Dean," Cas declared, his voice steady and unwavering, each word heavy with conviction. "I've seen it in its rawest, most unguarded form. I’ve stood witness to your darkest times when you felt utterly alone... And let me tell you, it’s the most beautiful soul I’ve ever had the honor to behold. So, stop with the nonsense."
Surprisingly, Dean offered no resistance. No protests, no frantic attempts to escape — he simply stood there, arms hanging limply at his sides, caught between confusion and something softer, something that hinted at hope. For the first time in days, their eyes locked with piercing clarity, and in that heartbeat of connection, Cas saw a raw vulnerability in Dean that sent a shiver coursing through him. It was an unguarded look, a stark contrast to the emotional armor Dean habitually wore. Cas felt his breath catch.
He had never witnessed Dean like this before, with the depth of emotion aimed solely at him.
"Fuck, Cas," Dean rasped, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and something deeper. "You can’t just say things like that!"
"Why not?" Cas shot back.
"Because you just don’t, man! That’s not how—"
"What is the ‘normal’ thing to say, then?" Cas pressed, an urgent need to bridge the gap between them swelling inside him.
"Not that!"
"Dean, you have to understand — human interactions are incredibly challenging for me! I just need some clarity..."
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
Before Cas could unravel the storm of emotions churning within him, Dean surged forward, crashing his lips against Cas’s with fierce intensity that sent Cas’s mind spinning.
Everything inside Cas short-circuited.
Dean was kissing him.
Dean was kissing him.
Dean was kissing him.
Cas’s heart raced, the pounding in his ears drowning out everything else. Panic and exhilaration churned within him, leaving him momentarily paralyzed. His fingers gripped the collar of Dean’s shirt as if it were his only lifeline. Yet, Dean's hands were sure and steady—one cradling the back of Cas’s neck, the other pressing possessively against his back, as if he were holding on for dear life, afraid Cas might disappear into thin air if he dared to let go.
A part of Cas knew he should respond, to mirror the kiss. But just as that realization sparked in his mind, Dean abruptly pulled away, the warmth of his lips retreating like a flame extinguished.
Cas blinked, struggling to regain his bearings, breathless and bewildered as the world snapped back into focus. He hadn’t even noticed he’d closed his eyes. The silence pulsed around them, only broken by the heavy rhythm of their breaths.
“Clear enough for you?” Dean's voice crackled with barely contained anger. “If you keep throwing stuff like that at me, I’m going to react in ways you probably won’t like. So just… quit it. Quit it all. Stop standing so close all the time. Stop looking at me with those intense, piercing eyes. Because if you don’t stop, this is what I’m going to do to you.” Dean spoke with frustration, but his quiet whisper softened the intensity of his words.
Dean wore a troubled expression, a flicker of self-deprecation dancing across his features.
Slowly, Cas began to connect the dots. The simmering anger that flickered like fire in Dean's eyes, the way he shied away from meeting Cas's gaze, and those countless moments when he flinched at Cas's touch—all of it began to weave a story more complex than Cas had first assumed.
It dawned on him: Dean didn’t recoil out of disdain; instead, he pulled back because, deep down, he yearned for Cas to bridge the chasm between them and draw closer.
How wrong Cas had been to misinterpret everything. With newfound understanding, he raised a tentative hand, cradling Dean's cheek gently, feeling his heart race with both hope and trepidation. Leaning in, cautious yet resolute, their foreheads nearly touched, igniting a spark of connection that filled him with warmth.
To his relief, Dean didn’t pull away.
“But I genuinely enjoyed you doing this to me,’” Cas breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, steeped in vulnerability.
“What?” Dean asked, confusion dancing in his eyes, as if he’d stumbled into an entirely different world.
“I liked what we just did, I liked it a lot,” Cas admitted, his tone soft yet filled with sincerity.
As he watched Dean's expression shift, it was like witnessing the first light of dawn; realization sparked in Dean's gaze.
“You… you actually liked that?”
Cas nodded, his heart racing.
“Do you even… understand what I’m saying? What we just did?”
“Don’t patronize me, Dean. I am well-versed in the subject of sexual attraction. I even watched a pornographic film once, as you should know; you were in the room with me, as was your brother.”
Dean inhaled deeply, his mouth opening to voice his thoughts, only to close it again in uncertainty.
“Alright, let’s slow down for a second. You just said a lot of things that need unpacking. So let me get this straight: you’re genuinely okay with me feeling this way about you? I mean, really okay with it?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he shot back.
“Because you’re… well, you! You’re basically a celestial being, straight out of Heaven. All pure and angelic... I mean, for crying out loud, you’ve got feathers coming out of your ass!”
“There are no feathers—”
“Seriously, Cas! That was sarcasm! Just… focus! Are you actually saying that I could do what I just did, and it wouldn’t bother you at all? You won’t tattle on me to your dad and send me back to hell?”
“Dean, I would never send you to hell. I would have to come get you again, and it’s not a pleasant experience for an angel to—”
Before he could finish speaking, Dean kissed him again.
But this kiss... it carried a new weight. It was neither rushed nor forceful; instead, it enveloped the air around them with a gentle understanding. Dean had come to realize that Cas wouldn’t pull away—how could he have ever doubted that? With this newfound clarity, Dean allowed himself to dismantle the barriers he'd built, diving deep into the moment. His lips brushed against Cas's, hesitant at first, like a sailor testing the waters before plunging into the sea. It became a delicate dance of exploration, filled with both nerves and sheer exhilaration. For Cas, the world around them faded away, leaving only the electrifying connection they shared—Dean's lips, sweet and intoxicating, mingling with the softness of their lingering kiss. As Cas felt his eyes flutter shut once more, a thrilling warmth flooded through him, wrapping him in a cozy embrace, as if time had paused just for them to savor this moment.
Finally, as his instincts screamed for him to act, he opened his mouth just enough for Dean’s tongue to find its way inside.
“Cas,” Dean breathed out, a mix of desire and urgency underscoring his words between kisses, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted—”
They were pressed together, their bodies entwined. Yet, the closeness was still not enough; an insatiable longing thrummed through every nerve. Just as Cas gathered the courage to slip his hands beneath Dean’s shirt, sending electric shivers across Dean’s skin, a sudden sound shattered their moment. A rattling echo—was it a key? Yes, unmistakably the lock was turning, followed by the cautious creak of a door being opened. But the noise felt distant, far away, almost inconsequential.
“Hey, he wasn't at the bar down the street, so maybe we could try... WHOA! GUYS, WHAT ARE YOU...?!”
Dean’s body went rigid, the palpable tension rippling between him and Cas. They turned toward the doorway, and Dean's eyes grew wide with astonishment, resembling a deer caught in the unforgiving glare of headlights. He stared, wide-eyed, at Sam, his expression a mixture of uncertainty and anticipation. The atmosphere in the room thickened with unspoken tension, and Cas felt a primal urge to hold his breath, as if the very air had become too heavy to inhale.
Dean's gaze was firmly locked onto Sam, whose look of bewilderment slowly transformed into sheer incredulity before he let out a dramatic sigh.
“Jesus, Dean! A little warning next time would’ve been nice. I mean, a sock on the door handle wouldn’t have killed you.”
“Beat it, Sammy!” Dean shot back, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.
Cas could tell that if Dean’s fingers weren’t tangled in his hair, he might have thrown something at his brother.
Sam chuckled, a grin lighting up his face.
“Alright, I’m out. But just so you know, I was totally right about—”
“GET OUT!” Dean barked, his tone sharp and commanding.
But Sam simply grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye, as he backed away, laughter spilling from him like a joyful echo.
Once the room fell silent, a curious thought flickered in Cas's mind.
“Why would we put a sock on the door handle?”
“I’ll explain later,” Dean replied, his voice low and impatient.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against Cas's in a lingering kiss that sent a rush of warmth coursing through him, igniting something deep within.
Castiel knew he might never completely grasp the complexities of human nature, with its tangled emotions and intricate social codes. The human feelings were a labyrinth he might never fully navigate. Yet, as he felt the gentle warmth of Dean's lips pressing softly against his, a surge of understanding washed over him. In that fleeting moment, clarity dawned: he didn’t need to decipher every nuance of the human experience; sometimes, he could just enjoy it.