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Snow was falling thick and fast outside the cramped motel room. Dean's back was turned to it, the TV set more interesting than the weather. As a boy he'd liked snow as much as any other child, and although he'd never built a snowman, he had plenty of memories of snowball fights with Sam, most of which he'd won—if winning meant carrying a crying, freezing little brother back to their motel-of-the-week, that was. But Dean had never liked the cold very much, and the novelty of snow had grown thin after too many Northern winters snowed into their motel room with Dad, who'd spend the whole time pacing and ranting. John Winchester had never been one to sit still, and certainly not when there were monsters out there who were less bothered by the snow than they were.
The door clicked open, and Dean turned just enough to see Sam, stooping to avoid bumping his head on the top of the frame. There was snow on his shoulders, but Dean was more interested in the scent of hot coffee and bagels he brought in with him.
"So it takes you an hour to go down the street for bagels now?" he asked, standing and reaching to grab the paper bag Sam held, but it was pulled away just before he could close his fingers around it. "Or did you go shoe shopping on the way back?"
"No. It takes Castiel an hour to go for bagels. It would have taken me ten minutes."
"What took—"
"He wanted to see the kitchen."
Dean groaned. It should have been awesome, having an ex-angel around who loved to cook, but Castiel couldn't cook, and he had no idea. He actually thought his honey, bacon and orange omelettes were good, for fuck's sake.
"Where is he, anyway?" Dean asked, taking the cardboard cup of coffee Sam handed him.
Sam jerked his head towards the window. Through the flurry of snow, Dean could just make out the tan of Castiel's coat, the black of his hair.
"Do you think we should bring him in?" Sam asked, which really meant he thought Dean should bring him in.
Dean shrugged. "Seems happy enough." Besides, there were warm bagels and coffee inside, and he just knew that by the time he was done with Castiel, they'd be cold.
"Yeah, but he's human now, Dean. I don't think he gets that, you know?" Meaning Sam wasn't sure Dean quite got it, either. "He'll probably stay out there all night if we let him."
Dean sighed, took another sip of his coffee and a bite of bagel, and shrugged on his jacket. Personally, he'd have left Castiel out there until he figured out what his numbing body was trying to tell him, but if he did that, he wouldn't be able to enjoy his breakfast without Sam shooting him the ever-concerned puppy eyes.
It was cold in the motel; the heating was crappy and there was a draught coming in from the window, but outside it was fucking freezing. Dean folded his arms across his chest, as if that would help, and scrunched his way through the thick layer of snow to Castiel's side.
Castiel didn't say anything as Dean joined him, just kept staring up at the sky, snowflakes melting on his cheeks and hanging from his eyelashes.
"Hey, Cas," Dean said, because he wasn't sure Castiel actually realised he was there.
Castiel gave a small twitch, his head barely moving towards him. It was a greeting, an acknowledgement of Dean's existence, which these days was the most Dean could hope for. Castiel had never been the talkative sort, but since falling he'd grown even less so. They always tried to find a motel room with a kitchenette, because the only time Castiel was ever really responsive was when he was cooking. Then, if Dean was lucky, and he used the right words, he could get whole sentences out of Castiel, although admittedly they were mostly things like 'Pass me the olive oil' and 'Get the fire blanket'.
"You know, it's pretty cold out here." But Castiel knew that, of course. It was probably why he was out here in the first place. Since falling, Castiel liked to test himself. If he cut himself in the kitchen, he'd stand there and watch it bleed, pull the wound apart with his fingers. If he got bruised, he wouldn't stop poking at it, and if something caught on fire, he'd always stand too close. Sometimes having Castiel around felt like looking after a small child.
"Think you wanna come inside soon?" he tried. "There's a repeat of MasterChef on ..."
Castiel gave a slight grunt, and turned, his eyes briefly catching Dean's before passing, and began to walk back towards their room. Dean paused for a second to congratulate himself before following. If he was lucky, his coffee would still be warm.
Castiel was already sitting in front of the set when Dean closed the door behind him, chin in his hands, elbows propped on his knees, eyes glued to the screen. Dean glanced at Sam, who looked, if anything, more worried than when Castiel had been out in the snow. Sitting down, Dean took up his coffee again. It was still warm. "At least he won't freeze to death," he said, and Sam gave him a tight little smile in response. He knew what Sam was thinking, though, and it wasn't something he wanted to dwell on, not now, at least. Sooner or later, they'd need to do something about Castiel. But what could they do? This wasn't a problem a professional head-shrinker could understand. No, the best thing they could was to wait it out, to let Castiel work through his problems in his own way, and in the meantime, they'd just have to suffer through his cooking, pretend it was good, and endure back-to-back episodes of MasterChef.
Once, Sam had told him that every falling snowflake was unique, special, and Dean had said that it didn't matter, that they still all melted anyway. He hoped Castiel was the kind of snow that settled.
Taking the remainder of his breakfast over to the couch, Dean settled in beside Castiel, holding the half-eaten bagel out to him. It took a while for him to notice, but when he did, he shifted, broke off a small piece and shoved it into his mouth. Dean smiled, pressing his shoulder to Castiel's, who for once, didn't flinch and move away. Perhaps, Dean thought, they wouldn't have too much longer to wait.