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It's been several days since they've come to this town, hunting down the Knight of Hell who's been gathering up forces to free Lucifer — again. Two days, since they fucked up his plan, almost dying in the process, if it weren't for Cas' holy ass. The angel even managed to save one of the sacrifices — Abraham — which, in all honesty, Dean kind of wishes he hadn't. Not the most noble thought of his, but he's used to those by now.
His knuckles blanch from how hard he’s squeezing his beer. Dean takes another gulp, trying to wash down the sour taste sitting at the back of his tongue. Like something spoiled inside of him.
Castiel sits on a bench near the motel's parking lot, with that guy — Abraham — far too close to him for Dean’s comfort. They bonded instantly over their nice biblical names and, of course, the whole "Cas saving his life" thing. Son of a bitch just wouldn't leave since then. What's worse — Castiel doesn't seem to want him to, being far too comfortable in the proximity of that stranger. That guy.
Right now, Abraham is laughing softly at something Cas just said, and then he cradles Cas’ cheek, looking at him with those damn stupid heart eyes (like Castiel's the most precious thing in the world). And Cas…He leans into the touch for a moment, closing his eyes. His shoulders relax a tiny bit, but enough that Dean can see it. Even from where he’s standing on the motel's porch. It makes his stomach twist, a ping of nausea washing over him. God, he hates this. The heart-eyes. The hand-on-the-cheek bullshit. Can't they at least get a room?
Cas finally notices him. His eyes snap open and the tension's back immediately, as he shifts away from Abraham, breaking contact. Dean knows the look on the angel's face too well — guilt and shame. It’s been carved into his soft features for a while now, every time their eyes meet.
Dean doesn't want to touch that. Their relationship is complicated as it is — a mess of omissions and unspoken words. Thinking about it too hard — or at all — gives him a migraine and a dull ache somewhere in his ribcage. So, he forces a smile, so fake his jaw actually clicks, and a thumbs-up before he retreats back inside the motel, totally forgetting why he’d wanted to talk to Cas in the first place.
Abraham’s side-eyeing him and yeah, disdain seems somewhat mutual. Whatever. They just need to wrap this up, make sure there’s nothing left lingering in this shitty little town, and hit the road.
Behind the Impala's wheel, on a long stretch of a highway, leaving behind demons, godawful motel, and this whole Abraham dude... Yeah. That'll feel good.
So, Dean goes to find his brother.
Turns out they did a pretty neat job here. The town’s cleared of any demonic presence, the thinning of reality still sealed tight. So now they get to clean up the mess. They set fire to the barn — seriously, what is it with the barns and supernatural shit? — and it goes up fast, roaring and crackling, the beams crumbling inward.
The air turns thick with smoke, heat and stench. The bodies they couldn’t save, salted and laid inside, burn along with the structure. No matter how many times Dean goes through this — each time it reminds him of hell.
He subconsciously rubs his shoulder. The one, that used to bear the mark of an angel’s hand — it’s long gone, just smooth skin now. He drops his hand the next second — Cas is watching him. His eyes are rimmed red, probably from smoke, and there's emotion in them that Dean can't really handle. Questions he's not ready to hear, let alone to answer.
They carve protective sigils atop the place and Castiel uses his grace to charge them, making the whole place shine for a few seconds. That should be enough to make sure no one will try to exploit this particular thinning of reality again.
Dull ache in Dean’s body, ever present, makes himself known. Some bruises from the last fight still throb — he hadn't let Castiel heal him. Sam looks only a touch better, and Cas… Cas has to lean against a tree just to stay upright. As much as Dean wants to get the hell out of here, they need at least one more night of good rest before the road. On top, some hunter-priest should come by tomorrow to keep an eye on the place for a while. Just for good measure. So, the three of them agree on staying one more night. Some rest will serve them well.
Sam heads inside first, muttering something about a shower. Funny, how they got more sensitive to this stuff, as they got older. Dean gets it though — the guilt of loss, the ash stains, that fucking smell of burning flesh. He plans on doing the same. Just hangs back for a few deep breathes, trying to clear his lungs with the fresh evening air. Castiel is right beside him.
"Dean? I-" Cas starts, voice low and uncertain. He’s looking straight down.
"Not now, Cas." Dean snaps. He doesn’t mean to. He's just too tired. His head still overheated from standing near the pyre, throat dry, still with that sour taste from the morning. He can't do the whole talking thing. Not right now. "Tomorrow, alright?"
Castiel doesn't argue. He rarely does anymore. It makes Dean miss it — the shouting, the slamming into walls. Chaotic as it was, it felt honest. Raw. A kind of understanding. Or maybe Dean's just messed up like that.
He puts his hand on the motel's door, only for it to swing open from the inside. Next thing he knows, he nearly headbutts someone.
Abraham. Again? Dude’s like a damn pop-up ad.
Dean swallows a groan and shoulders past him, harder than necessary. He doesn’t have a good reason — just a stack of shitty ones that feel good enough. He throws a glare over his shoulder and nearly trips on the step.
Abraham doesn't seem to mind him. His hands are on Cas' shoulders, thumbs smoothing out the wrinkles in his trench coat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Dean's still close enough to hear an "Are you okay?" directed at Castiel. And it's not the words — it’s the tone. Soft. Concerned. Gentle in a way Dean’s never quite managed.
Castiel gives a faint smile. His eyes brighten ever so slightly and the perpetual frown between his brows softens.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dean scoffs and stomps up the stairs. The nausea is all back again, layering over the exhaustion.
The room isn’t welcoming him in any way. It's dark, cramped, smells of beer and smoke — and not in a good way. At least he's alone. But before he can even make it to the shower, to wash off the ashes and smoke, there's a knock on the door. Of course. Of course someone needs something. Don’t they always? It’s gotta be Sam though, because Cas would just fly right in (Dean’s pretty sure angel still watches him sleep, just got sneakier about it), so he goes to answer.
And regrets it immediately – angel’s groupie barges right in. Dean blinks. Is this guy for real? He’s too dumbfounded by the sheer audacity to even try throwing him out in time.
"Personal space’s just a suggestion to you, huh? No wonder you're all up in Cas' business since the first meet."
"Seriously, what's your problem?" Abraham snaps, standing ground, like he's ready to throw hands. Which is wild because what the hell? Who does this guy think he is?
"Well, that's rich coming from..." Dean's chewing on insults for a second, "you." Somehow that little word manages to convey the depth of his disdain to the dot. Abraham doesn't even flinch though. Like he's used to people talking to him like that. Jeez, Dean wonders why. "Anyway, you'll have to be more specific,” he shrugs, “I have those for every letter of the alphabet." His words are full of venom, and he's getting dangerously closer to the guy, and Abraham just stands still, clearly lacking basic survival instinct. It's precisely this kind of attitude that gets people turned into satanic sacrifices. Hasn’t he heard?
"How about we start with "C"?” The man says, staring Dean down. “What is your problem with Castiel?"
Well, that is one hell of a question. For some reason it catches Dean off guard. He didn't think the guy would come ready to fight on Cas' behalf. Somehow it makes everything even more sour. Some dude they met two days ago barging into his room to argue with Dean about Castiel, his... well... His Castiel.
But before Dean can form an answer, Abraham keeps going.
"He tries so hard to not make you uncomfortable, to not... Not trigger you. To do everything right by you. Even when he’s hurting. Even when he’s lonely. And you just... You're being a total dick. Aren’t you supposed to be his friend?" Abraham’s up in Dean’s face now, mint gum breath, angry brows. Next thing Dean knows — he's slamming the guy's back against the wall with a satisfying thud.
World knows Dean’s been trying real hard not to beat the shit out of him these days, but the man just keeps giving him reasons. Blood is thudding in Dean’s ears, loud and hot. His knuckles are white again, fists full of Abraham's t-shirt.
They're almost the same height, but Dean's bigger. More experienced. And sure as hell angrier.
Strangely, Abraham doesn't seem scared. If anything — he's challenging. Mocking.
"Gonna beat me up?" He spits, breathing hard, holding hunter’s wrists with death grip. "C'mon, tough guy. What got you so pressed? Can't handle two men standing too close to each other?"
It hits. Hard. But for all the wrong reasons.
"You don't know shit." Dean growls, lifting him higher against the wall.
"I know a hateful dick when I see one. Just don't get what Cas se-"
Dean doesn't let him finish. He drives a punch into the guy’s gut, knocking the air out of him.
"You don't get to call him that." Dean hisses, while Abraham's doubled over, chocking on his breath. But man's eyes go wide for a second. Like something just clicked. Like Dean gave something away — and it all makes sense now.
"You… gotta be kidding me." Abraham wheezes, still not quite able to breathe. "You're into him."
"Shut up!" That's what Dean barks out. He doesn't deny it. Because he can't.
"Wow. You're an even bigger asshole than I thought. Sky's the limit, Winchester?" Abraham’s tone is as bitter as it is shocked.
Dean really wants him to shut up. Wants to beat him black and blue, and bloody. Wreck the whole damn room and never speak of it again. But it's there. It’s out there now. Hangs in the air of the dirty motel room in big bright fucking letters. Neon if you wish. Dean's an asshole. And he's so into Cas it makes him sick.
"You don't get it," is what he mutters instead. His fists tighten, voice cracking — and he hates to sound like that. In anger there’s power. There’s control. At least from the outside. But this? This is just... Pathetic.
Abraham doesn't let up. Doesn’t care about someone’s self-loathing moment. He keeps pushing.
"Oh, I get it plenty." He scoffs, back now pressed against the wall. "Don't know how your folks messed you up but can't imagine it being much worse than a father who gives you a three-days-long exorcism, because you held a boy’s hand and makes you confess your ‘sins’ to him every night."
The man laughs bitterly and now it's Dean who feels sucker punched. So much so his vision blurs. He blinks against the shifting lines of the room, and — for the first time — really looks at this insufferable nuisance of a guy. Staring back at him are green eyes. Darker than his own, but still... He blinks again a few times to make sure his exhausted brain isn’t summoning hallucinations. No hallucinations. Abraham has short light hair, green eyes. And a bastard of a father. Dean’s fists loosen on the guy’s shirt. This feels like some kind of sick cosmic joke. Certainly wouldn’t be his first.
"So I get it.” Abraham continues, punctuating his words. “I've been where you are. But you gotta work that shit out, man. Because those closest to you? They deserve better. Castiel deserves better."
Works like a trigger. Angel’s name again, like a tug on that one last string holding Dean together.
"Don't you think I fucking know that?” Dean snaps. “You have no damn idea — not one — what's going on between me and Cas. Or in this godforsaken world. Or my life. You've dipped in this for what? Two days? Just because you’re rocking yourself some daddy issues doesn’t mean you know shit.”
Dean's lip twitches. His temples pound. His breathing is hard and heavy, sticking in his throat...
"Whatever it is, I'm telling him." Abraham juts out his chin, determined. Stubborn.
"Like hell you are." Dean snarls, once again all up in guy's face.
Abraham stays firm, doesn’t soften. He leans in closer, voice a whisper, low and seething. That smell of mint more distinct.
"He thinks you hate him. That you're disgusted by him. Because of what he's done, and what he feels for you, and who that makes him. He thinks you hate him. And if you think that is better than whatever catastrophic alternative you made up in your head, than you're a moron on top of being a dick. So either you tell him — or I will."
And Dean can't. He can't.
It's not like he didn't know. He can't even lie to himself about that. He just shoved it down, buried it deep inside, where it was safely hidden from his conscious mind. And now he has not one damn excuse for doing so. Not for doing this to Cas.
"And what if he likes me better? Who you’ll be clinging to then?" Dean spits, making it harsh and mocking. Because he's scared. Cas found himself a pair of nice green eyes and matching trauma — just the one who came out the other side better. Because damn groupie’s somehow everything Dean’s supposed to be to Cas. He’s kind. Gentle. And he’s got it together enough to show he cares in all the quiet ways that matter. He doesn’t flinch from being seen. And yeah, he’s clingy as hell, but Cas clearly doesn’t mind that.
And Dean? He’s none of those things. Not really. Not enough. So if Cas really had to choose… Well. Dean sure as hell ain’t the right choice. He’s never been.
Abraham let’s out a dry laugh, like Dean just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. Dean’s chest tightens.
"Not all of us are that dense, Winchester. You know… If you’d asked — if you’d actually talked to him and asked — I’m pretty sure Castiel would sacrifice me himself. There’s never been anything for me in it. He just needed someone to lean on. And I was glad to be there.”
Abraham’s voice softens when he talks about Castiel. Dean's stomach twists in the most unpleasant way. Because that’s how he's supposed to be. Instead of jealous. And possessive. And violent. Constantly failing the people who matter.
Dean’s hands fall away from Abraham’s shirt. He can’t even look at him now. Can’t hold onto the rage. For once, he agrees with the guy: Dean doesn’t get what Cas sees in him.
He swallows hard.
“So what? You just showed up like some fairy godmother? All pure-hearted and helpful? No ulterior motives?” Dean snorts. He doesn’t buy it. Nobody’s like that. By now he’s met actual saints, and even they had agendas.
Abraham pauses. Then sighs — like somehow he’s the one tired of Dean. Dean’s fists twitch again with the urge to clock him. But then the guy starts talking.
“I stopped believing in all that heaven-and-hell stuff pretty early on. Or maybe it’s more like- I hoped it wasn’t real. Because if God was okay with the things my dad did… then I’d rather there wasn’t a God at all. So I shut it out. Denied every bit of it. Tried to move on.
But that kind of thing… it never really leaves you, does it? No matter how much therapy you do, how far you run from it, how rational you try to be — there’s always that little voice. That damn voice, just waiting for the worst moment to whisper: ‘What if he was right?’”
Dean listens. Can’t stop himself.
“My dad used to tell me that I was cursed. That Satan would come for me. Drag me off. Do… unspeakable things. Just because of who I am. And then one day, there I was, strapped to a stone altar. Demons everywhere. About to be sacrificed to Lucifer. And in that moment, that voice? It won.
Except… it didn’t.
Because I was saved. By an Angel. By Castiel. And you know what? Turns out, an angel can feel the way I feel. And it’s not wrong. None of it is. No matter what that cruel bastard said… I deserve to be saved.”
Abraham’s voice trembles. Just slightly. He exhales and gives a slow shake of his head, then brightens his tone.
“But even if none of that mattered… he literally saved my life. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
And... Yeah, it probably should. In some un-fucked-up, way-less-complicated world, where it was still about saving people. Where everyone wasn’t just dying and coming back, making shitty deals and stupid choices. Seems like somewhere along the way, Dean lost sight of how much saving a life actually means — even though every life not saved still clings to him, just adding up the weight he’s been carrying for years.
It all floats there: unspoken, unrecognised, unacknowledged.
Abraham watches him, confused by the silence. By the absence of the kind of answer any other person would probably give without thinking.
But Dean lost count of how many times Cas saved them — both him and Sam. The truth is, neither they, nor the world they keep bleeding for, would’ve made it this far without him. But Cas saving Dean’s life? Not the precious gift one might think it is. Doesn’t feel like something worth being thankful for. And Dean doesn’t want to even begin thinking about what that cost Cas over the years. Because if he does — if he lets himself really go there — he’s not sure he’ll be able to get out of bed in the morning. And that’s just not an option. Not for him.
“Yeah… right,” he croaks finally, throat dry like sandpaper.
Abraham raises his brows and shakes his head slightly, disbelief written all over him. Dean feels a ping of irritation making a readily comeback. It feels like the past ten minutes put him through emotional meat grinder.
A fleeting thought crosses his mind: maybe the guy himself is something supernatural, sent just to torment him for whatever fresh celestial bullshit’s about to drop in his way. Wouldn’t be the first time either.
But then again… Cas wouldn’t let someone like that near him, would he?
“Just… get out.”
Pause. One of them draws a breath in — Dean’s not sure who. The tension quivers in the space between them, like there’s something more to be said. Dean’s heavy gaze locks on Abraham’s, and finally, finally, it’s enough of a hint to make him go. The door closes.
An empty beer bottle smashes against it a second later — Dean’s last weak spark of rage. Not even at Abraham anymore. That petty jealousy seems small now, stupid. Just at… everything.
Sam’s knocking on the door a moment later, clearly concerned by the loud crash. At least he has the decency not to barge in.
“Dean?! You okay?”
“Peachy!” Dean shouts back, drenched in sarcasm. He doesn’t want to see anyone. “Going to the shower.”
He knows, without needing to see, that Sam’s giving him an eye roll. And the sigh that probably follows. But to his credit, Sam doesn’t push.
“Alright. I’ll be in mine, if you need anything.”
Dean sighs. ‘Sure, let’s sit together and talk about feelings towards certain angels, and a bag of issues that fucked us both up. Why won’t we?’ He thinks bitterly. Instead, he drags himself to the motel’s surprisingly clean, miniature bathroom.
He stays under scalding water for as long as the local plumbing allows. Long enough that his skin turns red and raw, and his mind finally — blessedly — goes blank. Eyes closed, thoughts muted. Just hum of waterdrops on tile floor and the smell of cheap motel soap. For a moment, he actually feels clean. A bit lighter. The ever-present ache in his body fades to background.
He doesn’t move until the water runs out of warmth.
By the time he’s in clean clothes, it’s just past midnight. The motel is quiet, save for the wind outside. It’s getting chilly and Dean crosses the room to shut a narrow window all the way. That’s when he sees him — a lone figure in the parking lot. Standing still, while looking up at the motel windows. At his window.
Castiel.
Dean hesitates. Just a bit. ‘He thinks you hate him. He thinks you’re disgusted by him,’ his mind supplies readily. So he pulls on jeans, shrugs into a jacket, and heads for the door. Turns out, he should do the whole talking thing after all. Or… At least give it a shot.
When he steps out of the motel, Castiel’s still there – frozen in the same spot. Now looking directly at him.
They stand in silence for a few seconds. It’s dark, the night is colder than it looks, and the air bites through Dean’s jacket. His eyes adjust slowly. The moment stretches, heavy with whatever this is — the parking lot rings with it.
Dean jerks his head, directing Cas towards where Impala’s parked — one of the very few cars in the lot. They both lean on her hood: Dean — tired and heavy, Cas — stiff and uncertain. The conversation evades them, tension curling in-between.
Cas breaks first.
“I told Abraham to leave. I didn’t think he’d go to you, Dean. I apologize.” His voice is low and gravely. Void of emotion in that way Cas gets when he’s bracing for something. Determined to hold it in. And so fucking what if Dean watches him closely enough to know that?
“Don’t. That’s not on you.”
Cas nods, but it’s hesitant, unconvinced. There it is again — that guilty look in his eyes, and Dean hates it. It pushes at him. He wants to say something, but the words are all knotted in his throat. Every time he breathes in, nothing comes out.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” Cas tries again, aiming to break the silence. Or maybe just lift the weight of it. Dean shakes his head and meets angel’s eyes. He wishes — God, he wishes — Cas could just get it without him having to explain.
Thoughts begin to form on their own. A voice in Dean’s head, quiet and honest.
‘Cas, no. You didn’t do anything wrong. I- ‘
Dean starts to pray without realising it. It’s always been easier that way — when technically it stays in his head.
Cas straightens subtly, gaze sharpening, and Dean knows he’s being heard.
‘I don’t hate you. Or anything like that. I never did. I don’t think I ever could. I’m sorry. I screwed up. Not talking to you, acting the way I did... I get why you’d think that. But it’s not like that. I swear.’
Cas blinks, eyebrows furrowed further, head tilting to the side like he’s trying to parse a language he doesn’t quite understand. There’s disbelief, and confusion, and it’s like none of it makes sense to him.
Dean wants to punch something. Or maybe just crawl out of his own damn skin. The longer he stares — eyes flitting across Cas’ face, trying to will him into understanding — the more he’s unsure.
Does Cas even have to know? Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone if things just stayed the way they were?
But then Abraham’s voice echoes back in his mind: “If you think that’s better than whatever catastrophic alternative you made up in your head, then you’re a moron.” Dean curses under his breath.
“God, sometimes I wish you could just… get inside and see for yourself,” he mutters. It’s not about reading his thoughts — those are a mess. Getting all kinds of ugly. But underneath all of it — the bullshit, the anger, the hurt and loss — deep down, where whatever’s left of his soul lays bare… It reaches for Castiel. Yearns with its every fibre.
‘Cas, listen to me. I- fuck. I like you, okay? I like you. And I want… things. With you.’ Dean forces the thought forward, eyes shut, barely able to admit it even in his own head.
There’s silence. Deafening silence. He opens his eyes and Castiel is still there. Thank God. But he looks… stunned. Somewhere between shock and awe.
Dean’s throat is dry, his lips too. His breath comes fast and shallow.
“I thought he was lying,” Cas finally says.
Of course he told him. Of course, Abraham ran his damn mouth. Dean feels cheated of the moment. But in Cas’ voice, layered under the disbelief and confusion, is something Dean hasn’t heard in a long time. Not quite happiness yet. But joy. Quiet and careful.
Dean says nothing. Cas studies him longer, then speaks again.
“You said you want… things. With me. What does that mean?” There’s no suspicion in his voice, just curiosity. Like he’s trying to take inventory of Dean’s wants. Dean hesitates again. Cas waits for a heartbeat longer. Then fills the silence.
“I’m okay with anything you want, Dean.” And there’s no way to pretend he doesn't mean it completely. Without hesitation. The depth of it — the look in his eyes, the quiet surrender — it hurts a little. Dean doesn’t know how to carry something like that. Doesn’t trust himself with it. But Cas offers it anyway, even now, even after everything. It’s overwhelming in the way that usually makes Dean's walls rise high.
But he remembers what he was truly jealous of, watching Abraham earlier. Dean wants to have that and so he can’t back away now. Not this time. Not even when his heart is pounding louder than it did facing down Lucifer.
Funny, isn’t it? How you can be more at peace with dying than with letting yourself love.
“I want to hold you. And to comfort you. I want to be here for you, Cas. In more than one way.” The words feel foreign on his lips. Slightly awkward and so quiet they almost drown in the wind. Yet somehow, they feel right.
His hand reaches up, slow and careful. And turns out, it doesn't feel like some sappy soap opera nonsense, when it’s Dean cradling angel’s cheek.
Cas doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breath. Like Dean’s some cautious animal he doesn’t want to spook. Dean gets it. But he places his hand on Cas’ shoulder, then the nape of his neck, and pulls him in.
And whatever he saw between the angel and Abraham — was nothing.
Because Castiel melts into him, breath shuddering out in a deep, broken sigh. His body is warm and pliant against Dean’s, large hands resting against the hunter’s chest. It’s different from anything Dean’s experienced before, but it’s… good.
Dean strokes the back of Cas’ neck. His short, tangled curls are soft against Dean’s fingers, and his skin burns hot despite the cold around them. Dean catches himself glancing around the empty parking lot, wary, as if someone might appear to ruin this. Because it’s good. And good things don’t usually just happen to Dean Winchester.
But Cas’ breath is warm and steady against his neck, and maybe, just maybe, Dean could let this be real.
He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss into the mess of dark hair above Cas’ temple. The angel shivers.
He smells like petrichor and ionized air.
Dean breathes him in.
They stand together like that in the empty lot — cheap motel soap and summer thunderstorm. And yet somehow, it’s Cas surrendering, wholly, to a human — flawed, afraid, and unsure.
When they part, Dean feels like Cas has imprinted on his body — something lingering, unseen. Castiel holds his gaze, pupils so blown he looks a little high. It sends Dean’s mind racing back to that other version of Cas he once swore he’d never let appear. Just like that, the doubt creeps in again.
Cas breaks the silence, slow and contemplative, like he’s solving an equation out loud.
“So… If you like me, wouldn’t that mean that your reaction to Abraham was je- “
“Don’t.” Dean cuts him off flatly. Cas blinks, lips parting slightly in realization. A small “Oh” escapes him, and suddenly he’s looking to the side, avoiding Dean’s eyes, faint blush creeping up his cheeks. Dean sighs.
A bit passes before Castiel talks again.
“You’re… unique, Dean Winchester. There will never be another like you.” Dean should be ashamed of his selfishness, of how good it feels to hear it. Somewhere deep down he is.
“Yeah, whatever.” He mutters, waving it off. It’s nearly 1 a.m. now, if the cracked motel clock can be trusted. Dean shifts on his feet. They’re still close — less than an arm’s length apart.
“I should probably try and get some sleep,” he finally says. His eyes burn with exhaustion, his joints ache, and the emotional hangover is starting to hit. He glances at his window, then back at Cas.
“Will you..?” There’s hesitation in his voice. He’s unsure how to ask. Only this time Castiel finally understands. He looks at Dean like he hung the damn moon. That small, soft smile tugs at his mouth.
“I’ll watch over you, Dean.”
By noon the next day, they’re packed and ready to hit the road. The sun hangs high, the asphalt shimmers with heat, and while Sam gives the final rundown to the priest-hunter, Dean and Cas stand in the shade of motel.
“Looks like we’re all set,” Sam says, approaching them. “John will keep an eye on the place. Let’s get on the road?”
“Hell yeah. On our merry way,” Dean replies, chipper. But before heading to the car, he rests his palm on the back of Cas’ neck, thumb brushing gently behind his ear. It’s a small moment — one soft glance between them, one barely visible smile shared like a secret.
Sam notices.
As Cas climbs into the Impala first, Sam blocks Dean’s path with a look.
“Are we gonna talk about...?”
“Nope.” Dean shoots back, cool as ever. Sam’s eyebrows rise in surprise, but his face quickly slips into that trademark bitchy little brother grin.
“… Right. Just so you know — no judgement here.” Sam raises his palms in fake surrender.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. Good. Get in the car.”
Sam doesn’t push, even if he’s clearly dying to know what the hell happened last night.
And his confusion only deepens when, somewhere down the highway, Dean casually reaches between the front seats at a red light and caress Cas’ knee lightly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The air in the car seems lighter, for once not humming with unspoken tension. Cas looks out the window, lost in his thoughts, small smile on his lips. Dean blasts his favourite radio station singing along under his breath.
Whatever it is, Sam figures… It seems like a good thing.