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Castiel has always found it strange the way humans insist on their superiority over all other forms of life on Earth.
In the ways that matter, humans and animals are not so different. They both possess the same fundamental drives, such as hunger, survival, and the need to reproduce. Both are capable of experiencing a range of emotions, including fear, joy, anger, and excitement. Humans argue that their use of grammar, of abstract language, elevates them above the rest. That by naming these feelings rather than simply experiencing them, they are superior to others. But in practice, all that language rarely makes them clearer.
Animals communicate with an honesty that Castiel finds admirable. Their intentions are clear. A cat will arch its back and hiss when it feels threatened; it does not pretend otherwise. A dog bares its teeth as a warning, and if that warning is ignored, it attacks. They don’t negotiate with the threat.
An animal does not say one thing while planning another.
Humans, by contrast, rarely say what they mean.
One of the more puzzling examples of this is their reliance on unspoken rules. They possess language, yet often use it to obscure rather than to clarify. Instead, they depend on unwritten rules, systems of behavior that are enforced but never explained. They are the only species capable of documenting these expectations, yet they choose not to.
A human spends nine months developing in the womb and is then released into the world with the expectation that it will somehow intuit these invisible laws the moment it begins interacting with others.
Castiel has learned many of them through observation and, on occasion, trial and error.
Do not mention a sex worker’s deceased father immediately before copulation. Do not strip naked in a laundromat, even if your clothes genuinely need washing. You may technically wear socks with sandals, but doing so will result in social crucifixion.
Some rules are universal, others are more specific.
The Winchesters, for example, operate under their own unique code. Conversations that matter (or Chick Flick Moments, as Dean calls them) only happen inside the Impala, or not at all. Sam’s research notes are never to be reorganized, no matter how chaotic they appear to the casual observer. And when Dean drinks too much and becomes openly affectionate with people of the same sex, the behavior is never acknowledged the following morning.
This last rule, in particular, is observed with remarkable discipline.
But that’s getting ahead of things; it is worth pausing to set the scene properly.
What is supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn has, as usual, turned into something more complex. Three witch-killing bullets later, and one shallow stab wound to Sam’s lower leg, they end up at a crowded bar off a Nebraska highway. Dean notices the neon pink sign miles back, and Castiel registers his visible relief long before they pull into the parking lot.
Inside, the space is dim and crowded. Castiel takes the seat at the edge of their table, positioned with his back to an unused dartboard. His hands rest loosely around a glass he has yet to finish. Unlike most of the patrons, he does not require alcohol to quiet his thoughts or dull his senses, but Dean insists. And Cas has learned that refusing Dean, especially after a hunt, tends to result in concern, hovering, and irritability.
So he drinks. Slowly.
Eileen returns from the bar, balancing another round of beers and a bowl of chips, setting the latter in front of Sam. He’s twisted sideways in his chair, injured leg stretched out and propped across the seat opposite him, boot hooked lazily over the edge.
“Please tell me that was the last witch in Nebraska,” Eileen says while she signs, picking up the conversation where they’d left off. She sighs dramatically as she sits back down and takes a sip of her drink the moment she’s finished.
“I hope so,” Dean answers. Then, as if fate might be listening, he adds, “Don’t jinx us.” He grins at her when he says it, innocently. “You do realize,” Dean continues, leaning back in his chair, “that showing up and saving our asses like that is gonna get you a reputation.”
Eileen arches a brow. “A good one?”
“The best,” Dean replies, punctuating it with a wink. Sam makes a noise at that, something halfway between a cough and a laugh. Castiel watches Eileen chuckle, shaking her head as she nudges Dean’s arm with her elbow.
Careful, she signs, and then says, “You flirt like that with everyone?”
Dean lifts both hands in surrender. “Who said anything about flirting? I’m just a charming guy. What can I say?”
Castiel notes the exchange with interest. Dean’s tone is playful and exaggerated. He finds himself inclined to agree with Dean’s assessment. Dean is charming. Effortlessly so. He seems capable of wrapping nearly anyone around his finger at a moment’s notice, and Castiel knows he’s not exempt from this.
By the time they’re due for another refill, Dean has loosened further. He stretches his legs out under the table, his boot brushing briefly against Castiel’s ankle before retreating just as quickly. Dean pushes to his feet, claps a hand down on Sam’s shoulder with more force than strictly necessary, and grins.
“I’ll get the next one.”
Then he turns and heads for the bar. At the bar, Dean strikes up a conversation with the bartender, a shorter man with dark hair and dark brown eyes. Castiel watches as Dean leans in, forearms resting against the counter, his voice lowering into something meant for just the two of them. The bartender laughs at whatever Dean has just said, warm and spontaneous, and their hands brush when the drinks are passed over. Dean’s grin widens, satisfaction flickering briefly across his face.
As the night wears on, the pattern becomes unmistakable. Dean laughs with Sam. He jokes easily with Eileen, and he flirts with the bartender again every time he goes to fetch another round. And on occasion, he strikes up conversations with other patrons, men and women alike, effortlessly, with years of practice under his belt.
But he does not flirt with Castiel.
Not once.
There are no suggestive comments, no overly exaggerated charisma, no lingering touches. Even when Dean’s attention turns toward him, and it does, often, it never crosses into the territory Dean seems to occupy so naturally with everyone else. Castiel waits for the shift that never comes.
He glances at Sam, who is watching Dean with the same fondness he always does. Eileen catches Castiel’s look and tilts her head, thoughtful, but says nothing.
When Dean eventually drifts back toward the bar again, Castiel watches him settle onto one of the stools, leaning sideways toward a slightly taller man in a denim jacket. The man falls easily into conversation with him, and after a few minutes, Dean says something that Castiel can’t hear over the music, but whatever it is earns the man a laugh. Dean’s forearm brushes against the man’s, and their conversation folds inward, the space between them shrinking until it feels deliberate.
Castiel looks away for a moment when he feels a flush creeping up his cheeks. Perhaps he has had more to drink than he intended, having fallen victim to the very charm he has been observing in Dean all evening.
When he looks back, the man’s hand is resting on Dean’s wrist.
Sam notices eventually, and when he follows Castiel’s line of sight, he exhales through his nose and chuckles. He shifts in his chair, adjusting his injured leg so he can turn more fully toward Castiel.
“Looks like he’s having fun,” Sam says mildly.
Castiel hums, noncommittal.
Eileen glances toward the bar as well, her expression softening. She signs something to Sam—quickly, too quickly for Castiel to catch—and Sam nods once in response. Whatever she said, it is clearly not meant for Castiel.
Dean returns a few minutes later, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes bright. He stops behind Castiel’s chair, close enough that Castiel can feel the warmth of him at his back, the hairs of his neck standing up.
“I’m gonna head out,” Dean says casually.
“Are you okay to dri-”
“I’m good,” Dean cuts in before Sam can finish his line of questioning, squeezing his shoulder gently. He shifts his weight and leans down, lowering his voice. “Besides, Ms. Save-the-Day here can drive you guys home, right, Eileen?”
Eileen laughs, gives him a thumbs-up, and signs, have fun. Dean salutes her with two fingers.
“I’ll be back before you wake up. Probably.”
Sam snorts. “You’re the worst.”
Dean’s gaze lingers on Castiel last. For a moment, Castiel thinks Dean might say something, might do something, but instead Dean offers a soft, unreadable smile.
“See ya later, Cas.”
Then he’s gone, leather jacket in tow, swallowed by the crowd, the taller man from the bar close behind him.
Around him, the bar continues as it’s supposed to, the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and music filling the room. Sam reaches for the chips, and Eileen takes another sip of her drink.
Nothing has changed. And yet. Castiel replays the evening in his mind, cataloging the interactions in detail, especially the ease with which Dean had spoken to everyone around him.
Everyone except him.
He does not feel excluded so much as singled out, though he cannot yet determine the reason.
He wraps his fingers more firmly around his glass and takes another slow drink, his gaze lingering on the space Dean left behind, mentally revisiting the evening without arriving at a satisfactory conclusion.
The following morning, Castiel is already seated at the kitchen table when Dean walks through the door, moving with the careful precision of someone who is deeply hungover but determined not to acknowledge it. He decides not to dwell on the logistics of how Dean drove home safely.
“Mornin’,” Dean says, his voice rough.
He goes straight for the fridge, pulls out the carton of milk, and drinks directly from it. When Castiel first moved into the bunker, he had learned that one of their rules was: do not drink directly from the milk carton. Dean had later, when Sam had stepped out of the room, amended this rule to clarify that it did not apply if Sam was not present, and that Castiel was not to inform Sam of this addendum.
If Castiel did not possess above-human retention capabilities, he suspects he would need to start keeping written records of all these rules and their exceptions—a practical solution that, for reasons still unclear to him, would likely be deemed a faux pas.
“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says, watching as Dean sets the carton down and grabs a mug, making a beeline for the coffee maker.
Sam enters a moment later, still dressed in his pyjama pants, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Castiel is reminded that Sam is still injured from the previous day. Years ago, Castiel would’ve healed him without a question, his grace still strong and effective; nowadays, he opts to only use it when absolutely necessary. And if he healed Dean’s bruised elbow last week, but chooses not to heal Sam’s leg today, then that’s nobody’s business but his own. Sam doesn’t seem to mind, and if he does, he hasn’t said anything to Castiel yet.
The younger Winchester takes one look at his brother and winces.
“Wow,” Sam says. “You look like hell.” Cas disagrees with this statement; Dean did not look anything like this in hell.
Dean peers at him over the rim of his mug. “Eileen?”
“Decided to sleep in,” Sam answers. He reaches for the same carton of milk Dean left on the counter and pours himself a glass. Dean watches him, then flicks a glance at Castiel—checking, apparently, if the rule is still being observed—and grins quietly to himself.
“You kids had fun last night, huh?” Dean says, dropping into the chair across from Castiel. He rubs at his temple and gives Sam a wink.
Sam laughs, a blush creeping up on his cheeks. He looks like he’s about to say something else, or maybe make a strategic retreat toward the hallway, when Castiel clears his throat.
“Did you have fun last night, Dean?” Castiel asks.
Both Winchesters freeze.
The silence that follows is immediate and absolute. Sam’s eyes widen before he winces and closes them, as if bracing for impact. Dean lowers his mug slowly, his expression going carefully blank, a faint green tinge creeping into his complexion.
Once again, Castiel is reminded of how much humans resemble their animal counterparts, because, like a deer caught in headlights, Dean appears to be assessing whether the situation calls for flight.
Eventually, Dean shrugs. “Define fun.” He doesn't wait for an answer. “I remember loud music, cheap beer, and waking up with a headache, so. Yeah. Great night.”
Castiel tilts his head. “You also left the bar with someone. Was that part fun?”
Dean chokes on his coffee. “Jesus, Cas. Do you- are you seriously-”
“You mentioned waking up with a headache, but not the part between leaving the bar and getting home,” Castiel says, matter-of-fact. “It seems like a relevant omission.”
“Relevant to what?” Dean asks, incredulous. Sam covers his face with one hand.
“The question,” Castiel says.
Dean sighs, rubbing his forehead. “‘Kay,” Dean mutters finally, turning back to his coffee. “Fun. Sure. Let’s go with that.”
Castiel considers this. “Then I’m glad,” he says. “I’m glad you had a fun night, Dean.”
Dean glances up at him, like he’s trying to decide whether to be touched or alarmed.
Sam finally lowers his hand. “Well,” he mutters, voice tight with effort, “I’m gonna hit the shower before this conversation gets any weirder.”
Dean doesn’t look at Sam. “Don’t use all the hot water,” he mutters.
“I wasn't planning to,” Sam says, already escaping.
Dean stares into his coffee, resolutely ignoring Castiel’s glare. Castiel opens his mouth.
“Dean,” Castiel says.
Dean’s shoulders tense. It is subtle, but Castiel notices. He always does.
“Yes?” Dean replies, too quickly, eyes still fixed on the surface of his coffee.
Castiel hesitates. Dean’s jaw is tight, his posture is closed in on itself, elbows are braced against the table. Castiel recognises this now, that something he’d said or done was probably against one of the rules in the Winchesters' invisible rulebook.
He exhales softly and closes his mouth again.
Dean finally looks up, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”
Castiel has been taught, repeatedly, that humans sometimes lie not to deceive, but to preserve comfort. So that’s what he decides to do.
“I was going to ask if there was any coffee left,” Castiel says.
Dean blinks, then nods, relieved enough that it shows. “Yeah,” he says. “There should be some in the pot.” He finishes his coffee and stands, stretching. “I’m gonna grab a change of clothes and see if Sammy didn’t drown, okay?”
“Okay,” Castiel replies.
He remains seated at the table, with no intention to get up and refill his empty coffee cup.
It has been a few months since Castiel first began recognizing the pattern.
Dean’s eagerness to mingle, to charm, to lean in close and let his smile do all the work. It always begins after two to three drinks, and never stops at just flirting. Always men, and always someone new. Fellow hunters, bartenders, witnesses, and sometimes even the occasional victim’s older brother.
Anyone loosely tied to the case. Anyone, it seems, except him.
This night is no different.
They wrap up a hunt about a six-hour drive east of Lebanon. A group of crossroad demons is screwing people over, breaking terms, accelerating timelines, and dragging souls down early. As much as Castiel wants to avoid it, they need backup.
Unfortunately, backup comes in the form of a Very Annoying Demon. (Castiel is still reluctant to call him the King of anything. He’d rather not acknowledge Crowley at all.)
Crowley arrives halfway through the case, his usual theatrics and rolled eyes included, as though rescuing Dean Winchester and his “giant baboon’s ass of a brother” is a particularly tedious form of community service. But Castiel can tell, even beneath the sarcasm, that, given the circumstances, Crowley is in a good mood. Or rather: a Dean mood.
Castiel is not pleased.
He and Crowley exist at opposite ends of a spectrum. Quite literally. There is, in theory, no reason they should ever agree on anything.
And yet, they have one thing in common.
Dean Winchester.
If nothing else, that forces them into a sort of uneasy peace treaty. A mutual truce is signed in long, exasperated sighs and reluctant cooperation.
After Dean’s time as a demon, a phase Sam once jokingly referred to as Dean and Crowley’s summer of love, something between them has shifted. Castiel has never liked Crowley, nor pretended to, but he remains privately, begrudgingly grateful to him for helping bring Dean back.
Later that night, the four of them—Dean, Sam, Crowley, and Castiel—end up at a dive just off the highway. Sam ducks out early with a mild concussion and mutters to Castiel, “Don’t leave those two alone,” sparing a glance at Dean and Crowley, leaving them to their drinks.
Castiel sits at the end of a cracked vinyl booth, nursing a whiskey he doesn’t want, but judging by the pair in front of him, absolutely needs. Across from him, Dean and Crowley are three drinks deep and laughing. Dean leans forward, elbows on the table, the crinkles by his eyes deepening with every smirk. Crowley, predictably, has positioned himself far too close, one arm slung over the back of Dean’s seat.
It is a pattern Castiel has come to recognize. And despise.
“Come on, Romeo,” Crowley drawls, swirling his bourbon. “You’re looking well these days. Still moody and broody, of course, but there’s something looser in the shoulders. Gotten into tight shirts recently, have we?”
Dean chuckles. “You keep staring, and I’ll start charging.”
Crowley arches a brow. “Since when do I pay for anything?”
Dean bumps his shoulder into Crowley’s, grinning. “Gotta admit, you’re more fun when we’re not trying to kill each other.”
Castiel’s jaw tenses. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he can’t help it. The way Crowley’s gaze rests on Dean’s mouth just a second too long. The ease in Dean’s voice and the warmth in his eyes make Castiel wish it were him receiving Dean’s full attention.
“Fun?” Crowley echoes, amused. “Darling, please. Back when you were a demon, you didn’t need a drop of alcohol to flirt with me.”
The air shifts.
Dean’s smile falters, barely, but enough for Castiel to notice. The light behind his eyes dulls, just slightly. He swallows hard, then drains the rest of his drink with a grunt.
“That was different,” he mutters, his voice strained.
Crowley holds up his hands, nonchalant. “Struck a nerve, have I?”
Dean doesn’t answer. He slides off the seat, still holding a glass that hasn’t been refilled, and mumbles, mostly to himself, “Gonna grab ’nother. Maybe find someone who doesn’t talk so much.”
He disappears into the crowd without another word, already gravitating toward a tall man near the jukebox, with dark skin and a shaved head, wearing a leather vest. Dean leans in close, and the man laughs easily at whatever Dean says.
“I suppose that’s our cue to go, Feathers,” Crowley mutters, and Castiel turns to see a faint grimace flicker across his face. He doesn’t look disappointed, but something near it. The moment has slipped through his fingers. Dean hasn’t stayed. Castiel is all too familiar with this feeling.
He doesn’t answer Crowley. He just stares at his untouched drink and tries not to listen as the man by the jukebox laughs again at one of Dean’s one-liners.
Unlike Dean, Castiel makes his way back to the motel alone.
The next bar they visit after a case is quieter.
They’re in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and the place is filled with regulars. There’s a baseball game playing on the grainy television mounted above the bar, and a crowd of middle-aged men has gathered to heckle and bet on their favorite teams. Their voices carry easily over the speakers and the hum of the outdated country music.
They’re only here because the hunt wrapped early, and Dean insisted they grab food before heading back. Sam is laughing at one of Eileen’s stories, Eileen is nursing a cider, and Dean sits across from them with a loose grin and a basket of fries, sipping on what looks like his second, or possibly third, beer.
Castiel sits quietly beside Eileen, watching Dean.
He thinks about how, just a few weeks ago, they’d sat at a booth much like this one—Dean and Crowley shoulder to shoulder, trading flirtation until the conversation soured and Dean left with another man.
So when Dean leans back in the booth, stretching one arm casually across the seat behind Eileen’s shoulders, talking about ‘pulling banshee guts out of his hair’, Castiel makes a decision.
“You still look good,” he says evenly.
Dean’s head turns toward him slowly. “Huh?”
“I said,” Castiel repeats, “you still look good. Even with the banshee guts.”
Dean blinks.
Eileen pauses mid-sip, and Sam lowers his glass.
Castiel meets Dean’s gaze and continues, calmly. “That shirt is flattering. It fits you well, and the color brings out your eyes.” He’s heard people use that phrase before on one of the television shows Eileen has watched with him. It seems like a kind thing to say.
Dean makes a noise that might be a laugh. Or a wheeze. His expression twists, and his brow furrows slightly. His mouth opens, then closes again, as if he’s trying to figure out how to respond to Castiel.
“You feeling okay, Cas?” Dean asks.
Castiel quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not unwell.”
Dean watches him closely, trying to read Castiel’s expression. Then looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears are flushed. Castiel has learned that human skin tends to redden in response to embarrassment, heat, or alcohol. He does not know which one is responsible now.
Sam glances sideways at Eileen, who arches a brow and signs something. Sam signs back with one hand while still holding his drink.
Dean clears his throat. “Well- I, uh- I clean up okay, I guess,” he mutters, taking a long swig of his beer.
“You always do,” Castiel replies softly.
Dean chokes on the last sip and slams his glass down too hard on the table.
“I’m gonna, uh-” He gestures vaguely toward the bar. “Refill. You guys want anything?”
Eileen holds up her cider, still mostly full, and Sam shakes his head.
Dean nods, then stands and makes his way to the bar without another word. Eileen and Sam quietly continue to eat their fries.
After a few minutes, Dean returns with three drinks and a new conversation topic. He doesn’t say another word about the comment, and he doesn’t look at Castiel again for the rest of the night.
But he doesn’t flirt with anyone else, either.
They return to the bunker the following afternoon, and their usual choreography resumes.
Dean walks to the kitchen, presumably to get himself a drink. Sam immediately begins cataloging his notes, recording the case in the Men of Letters archives like nothing has happened, and Eileen has gone into town for some supplies.
Castiel sits in the quiet, feeling like he is failing to understand something.
So when Dean’s out of sight, and Sam is halfway through a turkey sandwich, one hand typing absently on his keyboard, Castiel finally moves.
The scrape of the chair startles Sam just slightly.
“Hey, Cas,” Sam says around a bite of sandwich. He glances up briefly, then back at the laptop screen. “I’m trying to confirm if Djinn are capable of surviving on animal blood, instead of human blood. And if so, if their hallucinations work in the same way for them as it does for humans.”
No simple matter, and certainly not one most hunters would be capable of figuring out while eating their lunch.
Castiel doesn’t respond, instead he folds his hands in front of him and opts to stare at them.
Then he lifts his gaze. “Can I ask you something?”
That gets Sam’s full attention. He pauses, then slowly closes his laptop, brushing crumbs off the top panel.
“Sure,” he says carefully. “What’s up?”
“Does Dean-” Castiel starts. Then stops. His brows furrow. “Does Dean see me as a brother?”
Sam chokes on the last bite of turkey halfway to his esophagus.
“Wait—what?” he laughs incredulously.
Castiel doesn’t blink; to him, this isn’t a laughing matter. “Is the bond that Dean and I share comparable to the bond you and he share as brothers?” There is a tightness to his voice that makes Sam’s smile falter.
“I understand why he doesn’t behave a certain way with you,” Castiel continues. “You are brothers. But I’ve seen him behave differently. With others. Even with Crowley.”
Sam blinks. “Wait—Crowley?”
“On three separate occasions,” Castiel says flatly.
Sam raises both eyebrows and leans back. “Okay. Back up. Cas, what are we talking about exactly?”
“Dean flirts with men when he’s inebriated,” Castiel says simply. “I’ve noticed he doesn’t do that with me,” his voice drops. “If I made him uncomfortable, I’d like to understand why.”
Sam exhales, and Castiel can hear him mumble something along the lines of Jesus Christ.
Sam puts down his sandwich and rubs his hands together, thinking.
“You’re not wrong,” he says finally. “But no, Cas. Dean doesn’t see you as a brother.”
Castiel’s brows draw together. “He doesn’t?”
“No. God, no.” Sam lets out a breathy laugh. “Cas, seriously, he holds you in way higher regard than anyone he flirts with. Especially Crowley.”
Castiel says nothing.
“And we don’t talk about it because, hell, Dean already has a hard enough time talking about his emotions in general. Add in the whole… being into men thing?” Sam shrugs. “It’s not something we were exactly raised to be open about. It’s not easy for him. He doesn’t know how to talk about it when he’s sober.”
Castiel tilts his head. “Would it not be beneficial for him to discuss it?”
“Of course it would,” Sam says, a little sheepish. “But I’m not gonna force him. That’s not how we do stuff.” He shrugs. “He acts as if nothing happened, and I don’t push. That’s just how it’s always been.”
He hesitates, then adds, “It’s different with you. And while I could probably explain why, I think you’d rather hear it from him.”
Castiel looks down, quiet.
“I shouldn’t be the one telling you all this,” Sam says gently. “If you want to talk to him, wait till it’s just the two of you.”
There’s a long pause.
Then Castiel nods once and stands.
“Thank you, Sam.”
Sam watches him go, taking another bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. “Any time,” he mutters.
The bunker is quiet that evening. Sam has invited Eileen out to a local diner, and Castiel heard Eileen’s car stop to pick up Sam about twenty-two minutes ago. She laughs at something Sam says as the bunker’s door closes behind them.
Dean is in the kitchen. Castiel finds him sitting hunched forward at the table, one hand cradling a bottle of beer, the other picking at the edge of the label. There’s a pot of greens trembling on the stove, the lid rattling slightly with every gust of escaping steam.
Castiel pauses in the doorway.
“Dean,” he says.
Dean doesn’t startle. His eyes lift to meet Castiel’s, and he gestures to the seat across from him with a flick of his bottle.
“What’s up, Cas?” Dean says, and Castiel walks into the room, sits in his designated spot, and folds his hands carefully in his lap.
“I’d like to talk.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “S’this where you trap me in the kitchen again with your questions?”
“You’re free to leave if you want to.”
Dean sighs but stays where he is. “Alright. Shoot.”
Castiel takes a breath. He can feel the outline of the rule he is about to break, that unspoken law about never naming what Dean does when he drinks.
“I’ve noticed that when you drink,” he begins, then hesitates, choosing his words with care. “You flirt with men. Fairly regularly.”
Dean blinks, and the beer bottle halts halfway to his lips. “O-Okay.”
Castiel’s fingers curl slightly against his knees. “But not with me.”
Dean’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He closes it again. Then laughs humorlessly.
“Jesus. Did Sam put you up to this?”
“Not directly. I mentioned something to him about the other night, and he told me to ask you about it.”
Dean leans back in his chair and tips his head toward the ceiling like he’s praying for divine interference. Castiel says nothing.
Dean groans and rubs a hand over his face. “Cas, what are you asking of me?”
“I want to know why,” Castiel says. His voice is level, but quiet. “Why do you flirt with other men when you’re drunk, but not with me?”
Dean doesn’t answer.
Castiel presses on, in the same gentle tone as before. “At first, I thought it was because I do not qualify as a man. Technically. But you seem to have no issue flirting with others who are non-human. Crowley. Benny. That hunter in El Paso who turned out to be a werewolf.” Castiel adds, “I just want to understand.”
Dean finally looks at him then, with a tired expression.
“I don’t flirt with you drunk because…” He trails off and swears under his breath. “Because if I do, I wouldn’t be able to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”
Castiel tilts his head. “When you flirt with men while you’re drunk, it doesn’t mean anything?”
Dean stares at the table, then: “It does. Sometimes. But it’s easy when I’m drunk. Easy with strangers. It’s low-stakes. You say a few things, smile, they laugh, you laugh. Then it’s over. Nobody expects anything other than a fun night.”
He peels the label clean off the beer bottle, not looking up.
“With you, it’s not low-stakes.”
Castiel waits.
Dean exhales. “You’re not a one-night stand, Cas. You’re not something I can laugh off the next day. You’re…” He trails off, clearly struggling to find the right words.
“You matter,” he finishes. “So yeah, maybe I flirt with half the damn bar—but I can’t do that with you. ‘Cause if I screw it up, I can’t afford to lose what I’ve already got with you.”
Castiel stares at him. His voice is calm when he says, “You think flirting with me would ruin our friendship?”
Dean lets out a breath. “I think being honest about how I feel would.”
Castiel stands slowly. The table separates them by less than a foot, but still, the air between them feels charged.
“I think a lot of things could’ve ruined us by now,” Castiel says. “But honesty isn’t one of them.”
Castiel’s voice lowers, more intimate than before. “I don’t need you to flirt with me when you’re inebriated, Dean. I just want to know what this is. What we are.” He holds his gaze. “Because I’ve spent years trying to understand it. And I’m starting to think you might be the only one who can tell me.”
Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
They don’t speak of it again, but something between them shifts. Castiel doesn’t press, and Dean doesn’t run. Days pass. Then, a week later, they find themselves at another bar.
Sam orders the first round. Dean doesn’t get up to help.
He stays where he is, planted firmly in the seat next to Castiel, one leg stretched out beneath the table, the other bouncing restlessly.
Castiel watches him out of the corner of his eye.
Dean doesn’t shift his focus to the bartender; he doesn’t wink at the woman seated on the far end of the bar, and doesn’t lean in to bump shoulders with the man passing behind him. He stays seated next to Castiel.
Sam returns with beers and a ginger ale, distributing them with one hand while rattling off something about a newly discovered piece of information on vengeful spirits. Eileen makes a quick joke that Castiel doesn’t catch, and the conversation at the table fades in and out.
As usual, Castiel doesn’t speak much. He listens to their stories and observes. But tonight feels different. Because tonight, Dean’s thigh is pressed against his, and every time Castiel shifts or straightens or leans forward to respond to a question, Dean doesn’t move away.
In fact, he leans in.
Their shoulders brush once. Then again. Castiel says nothing, afraid of breaking another one of Dean’s unwritten rules.
Eileen signs something about the last werewolf nest, and Sam starts explaining an obscure variation of silver poisoning. Dean chimes in now and then—amused, but quieter than usual.
Under the table, Dean’s hand finds Castiel’s. He reaches over and laces their fingers together.
Dean doesn’t look at him. Not right away. He just takes a deep breath and exhales, like something’s been loosened from inside him. Eventually, he does look over. A brief glance. Just long enough for Castiel to see the faintest curve of a smile.
Castiel looks down at their joined hands again and thinks of all the nights Dean left with someone else. They could have had this sooner. Years sooner. He knows that, and there’s a part of him that mourns the time they lost, the nights spent in silence, pretending not to see what was plainly there.
And yet.
Humans are not animals. They hide, and hesitate, and circle the truth for years before they speak it aloud. They follow rules that no one teaches them. They protect what they value most, even from themselves. They pretend not to want what they want, until it is safe to want it aloud.
And sometimes, when they’re very lucky, they break the right rule at the right time.
Tonight, Dean is not drunk. And his hand is in Castiel’s.
He understands now.
There is something to admire in that, too.