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During the daytime Dean’s ace at distracting himself. The bunker is labyrinthine enough that there’s always another room to clean, another corner to dust, another artefact to catalogue. He blasts music through his headphones and sings to himself to drown everything out, and Sam can’t even tell him to shut the fuck up because he knows Dean’s fighting to tread water in an ocean of grief.
It’s only at odd quiet moments, like when he’s brushing his teeth, that it all comes back to him in IMAX surround sound.
Happiness is in just being, it’s in just saying it.
Ever since we met, ever since I pulled you out of hell, I’ve been wanting to tell you.
The fucking tape is playing in his head again and he can’t stop it. Cas chose him of all people, his supposed best friend to confide in and Dean screwed it up royally. Cas laid his soul bare and Dean just fucking stood there like a tool.
I know how you see me, Dean, the way everyone sees me… I’m forceful, I’m destructive, I’m Heaven’s righteous instrument… You think that’s who I am. But it’s not… And I want everyone who knows me to see it.
Because you cared, I feel I can share. I can open up to this whole world, because of you. You are the most understanding, the most open-minded being I will ever know. You helped me accept myself, Dean.
Why's this sound like a coming-out speech?
Because it is.
No, no, he can’t do it, he can’t listen to this again, his own stupid knee-jerk reaction…
I like men.
Don’t tell me this, Cas.
Dean digs his fingernails hard into the enamel of the basin. Why couldn’t he say it? Why couldn’t he just fucking say, “I support you, Cas”? Now Cas is dead and he’ll never get to hear, never get to know that Dean–
“Hey, asshole, where’d you hide the garbage bags?” Sam calls to him from the other side of the door, and when Dean releases his hands from the edge of the sink his knuckles ache from the ferocious grip.
*
He wonders why he clammed up in that moment. Angels can change their vessels, could be male or female, and as far as Dean understands, that doesn’t result in an identity crisis. Just cause he’s got so used to Cas being a dude, doesn’t mean he is a dude. On some level he’s known all this for a while, had it percolating in the back of his mind. So, sure, he wasn’t exactly expecting Cas’ declaration, but it makes intuitive sense.
The worst thing is – while he has been less of a dick about that stuff in recent years – he knows at times he’s acted in a way that might make Cas think he’d react badly, and still Cas was blabbering on about how Dean is the most understanding person he knows.
Because Cas could never see him objectively. Cas believed in him. Cas was fucking delusional, and it got him dead. Too distracted in speaking his truth to wrestle himself away from the black goo, to–
But he can’t blame this on Cas. Cas couldn’t have known when he summoned the Empty that it would swallow him up together with Billie. It was a shitty outcome, but he’s sure Cas didn’t mean for it to happen that way.
Sooner or later, Dean will have to accept responsibility.
*
He can’t bring himself to watch Dr Sexy lately, despite always thinking of it as his comfort show. Must be cause the last few seasons sucked ass. Or cause Dr Sexy shaved and got a janky-ass haircut and it just wasn’t the same.
His eyes fall to the empty seat beside him in the Dean Cave. He wonders if Dr Sexy’s toned biceps or rugged cheekbones or firm ass could be the reason why Cas was perfectly fine with Dean forcing him to binge-watch the first two seasons together. He wonders if Cas ever pictured Dr Sexy pushing him up against the wall or bending him over the operating table or gently fondling his balls as part of an “examination”.
Who knows what bona-fide true-blue gays fantasise about.
Dean’s eyes are beginning to water.
“I support you, dude,” he croaks out to no one in particular.
*
Don’t tell me this, Cas.
The words resound in his brain again as he’s lying in bed. He’s probably got less than a dozen hours of shut-eye in the past week, not counting that once he knocked himself out with whisky. Surprisingly hard to do, given his tolerance.
Don’t tell me this.
Maybe, just maybe, it was obvious enough to Cas what he meant: not that he was objecting to his sexuality, but just that there’s a time and a place, and two minutes to midnight ain’t it.
(The problem isn’t really what Dean said, though, is it? It’s the way Cas was clutching onto him and Dean tried his best to pull him back from the swirling black ooze but he lost his grip and Cas slipped, slipped through his fingers…)
Dean throws his fist up into the headboard, but too listlessly, not even leaving a dent. The pain would barely be enough to distract from a papercut, let alone the carnage in his head. He looks at his palm expecting to see blood and all he can see is a handprint on a jacket he burned in the absence of a body, in a desperate attempt to say goodbye.
Closure. That’s all he’s after. Ain’t it?
He shuts his eyes.
“Cas,” he prays, genuinely prays, twisting the knife in order to convince himself of his friend’s absence, to feed that dying ember in his chest that refuses to even flare to anger any more. “Cas, gonna be real with you, man, it’s taking all I got just to exist right now. Wish you were here. Don’t give a damn who or what gets your motor going. You’re the only thing that– Just need you here with me. Please.”
Stillness.
Nothing.
Not even rage. Nothing.
*
When a weakened Cas shows up on the security cam by the bunker door, Dean recognises it must be a hallucination, or more likely an impostor. A shifter, a siren, the devil reincarnate, whatever supernatural nasty is trying to con their way into the Winchesters’ safehouse.
The issue is, at this point, Dean is beyond caring. His senses are starving for that face, that Constantine get-up, that desperate growly “Dean” of recognition, and he barrels out to embrace this mirage of Cas like a desert missing the fucking rain.
With a drowsy smile, Cas falls onto him, they stumble back inside the bunker, and from then on everything is more or less a blur as he yells for Sam to help him heave a semi-conscious angel down the stairs to the infirmary, because by now Dean knows, he doesn’t know how but he knows, this is not a fucking drill. This is him, his pal, his dorky little rainbow huckleberry.
They lay Cas down on the nearest cot, coat and all – Sam removes his muddy dress shoes, and Dean piles a couple of blankets on top of him because he doesn’t know what else to do.
Finally, Cas cracks his eyes open.
“Cas?” Dean doesn’t bother trying to control his splintering voice. “Fuck, man, what happened to you?”
“Dean,” he murmurs back with difficulty, his words nonetheless tinged with affection. “Don’t be troubled. My power’s drained. Just need rest. Sleep it off.”
On which note, he does just that.
*
For the next couple of days Dean takes up residence one cot over. He still doesn’t manage to sleep much, not with the maelstrom of worry and excitement churning inside him. He reads out loud to Cas: mostly simple stuff, car or gun magazines, because by this point his brain is only so much mush.
To reassure himself his friend’s alive, he lets himself touch Cas’ chest or shoulder now and then, and once even his hair. How silky it is. Cas looks so peaceful, the ghost of a smile on his wide, soft lips. Dean strokes his fingers down over his temple.
Happiness is in just being, it’s in just saying it.
An image flashes through Dean’s mind, one of his dad’s hunter friends calling a suspect “queer” and spitting on the ground. He snatches back his hand.
Don’t tell me this, Cas.
Just one more way Dean’s failed Cas, because he himself doesn’t know how the fuck to shed all that crap from his formative years, all those reflexes honed over time. God knows he still flinches when some small-town Midwestern kid says that word trying to be woke or fancy or some shit, and it might be his imagination but he swears he sees posh-law-school-progressive Sam twitch too. Some shit runs deep.
His hand is trembling, maybe from withdrawal. He necks two capfuls of Jack to take the edge off.
Then he reaches out to stroke Cas’ hair again, because fuck, he doesn’t want Cas to have to flinch, to feel the threat of violence even when it’s not intended. He wants to protect him and god knows he’s never been able to manage that, but at least now he’ll have the chance to tell him he wants to support him, to hold his hand through whatever journey he’s embarking on. God help him, he’ll escort Cas to the rainbow side of Pornhub if that’s what it takes for his friend not to have to feel all that soul-wrecking shame. (Dean’s peeked in once or twice out of curiosity. It’s honestly not that bad.)
Somehow that batshit resolution helps him calm down enough to drift off and when, hours later, he comes to, Cas is out of the woods and trying, against Sam’s vocal and physical resistance, to get out of bed.
*
“You haven’t been taking care of yourself,” is one of the first things out of Cas’ mouth once he’s on his feet that evening. At least, Dean is pretty sure it’s evening. When was the last time he saw sunlight?
“No shit,” he gruffs back. “Been watching over your ass.”
He watches Cas’ full lips purse slightly and burns with the knowledge that he still hasn’t really hugged him, only propped him up when Cas collapsed on him by the door.
“’Fore then, I guess. Guess you’re right. S’been rough without you, Cas,” he admits.
Cas’ look of sad sympathy fully melts Dean’s reservation and fuck it, he’s gunning for a hug.
Cas sees him coming and envelops him gently. The relief is immeasurable. Dean feels like he’s leeching warmth from Cas’ touch, feels it oozing soothingly throughout his body, loosening muscles he had no idea were tensed.
A few seconds later, Cas gently prises himself from the vice of Dean’s arms. Dean’s hands are still clutching at his shoulders, because fuck if he’s letting go of that life-giving warmth now it’s right in front of him.
Cas looks to him hesitantly. Dean knows this is his cue, before the awkwardness has a chance to set in.
“About what you said to me.”
A wistful shadow passes over Cas’ face, but he tells him calmly, “It’s alright, Dean. You don’t have to–”
“No, but I need you to know. Know that I accept you.”
At that reassurance Cas perks up a bit and asks cautiously, “You accept…?”
Dean squeezes at his shoulders. “Yeah, like, I accept you. For who you are.”
Cas’ hopeful face morphs into a frown of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying it ain’t no thing. I’m saying it don’t bother me none.”
“Oh,” responds Cas quietly.
“You’re family to me, Cas. You always will be.”
Cas is looking real sulky now for some reason, so Dean emphasises, “No matter what.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand that, Dean.” Cas twists his body, finally dislodging Dean’s hands from him, and retreats a few steps.
Dean really doesn’t get what crawled up Cas’ ass. Wasn’t the whole point of his deathbed confession to be accepted as he is? He looked pretty damn delirious to get it off his chest at the time.
Just in case, Dean adds, “I’m sure Sam would feel about the same as I do.”
At that, Cas looks at him with actual, unmistakable pain in his eyes, and okay, maybe Dean should just ixnay on the touchy-feely shit, if Cas isn’t ready to delve any deeper right this minute.
“Anyway, I just– Glad you’re back, man.”
Cas nods and straightens his spine, reverting to his usual, slightly pompous self. “I’m glad too, Dean. Just to be by your side.” If Dean didn’t know his friend so intimately, he probably wouldn’t notice the little waver in his voice.
*
Turns out the Empty spat Cas out in the middle of nowhere, who the fuck knows why this time, and he made his way back to the bunker on his own very limited steam.
“I did kind of wonder,” says Sam. “Like, I didn’t want to pry at the time. But you said Cas made a deal with the Empty? I still don’t really understand…”
“Deal? Nah, it wasn’t like that. So, like, Cas realised he should summon the Empty, cause that’s all that Billie was afraid of, right?”
Dean realises he’s struggling to recall – he spent so many weeks trying not to think about it – but he puts the pieces together as best he can.
“But the Empty was after his ass cause of Jack, and… And when he realised he might bite it, actually, he told me something kinda important, but– But you know, I think he should be the one to tell you. It’s not really for me to tell.”
Sam frowns at him. “I don’t understand. How did he summon the Empty? And why–”
“Dude, come on, we got Cas back, no strings attached. Who gives a crap about the details?”
Obviously that doesn’t satisfy the nerd. There are always strings, his look says.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Look, interrogate him ‘bout it later if you want, but for now maybe give him some breathing room. He’s been kinda touchy ever since he got back.”
“Touchy?”
“Not just grouchy like usual, but like. Emo. Maybe cause of… but like I said. It ain’t my tale to tattle.”
Of course, confidentiality is a convenient excuse not to open that can of worms with Sam. But also, Cas is being weird and moody. It used to be whenever they had free time in the bunker they’d gravitate towards each other, Cas lurking in the kitchen while Dean cooked or Dean coming to butt his nose in while Cas was balls-deep in some snoozeworthy gardening manual. They’d kick back, they’d shoot the shit. They’d loiter needlessly in each other’s presence. But since Cas got back this time, things have been off. It’s not like Cas is avoiding him, exactly, but he certainly doesn’t seek Dean out, and when they do hang out it’s like the spark Cas used to have around him has dimmed. It can’t be down to his dwindled grace, which according to Cas is recovering quickly in tandem with Heaven finally getting a facelift.
You’d think Cas would feel more free to be himself now he’s out of the closet. Does he really think Dean is so judgmental and behind the times? Folks can get married now and everything. Cas could marry a dude, if he wanted. Admittedly Dean doesn’t like that idea at all, because he’s selfish and he wants Cas living with him, not off playing house with some randomer Dean doesn’t know from Adam. But, you know. Theoretically.
Then again, he supposes Cas isn’t “out” in a general sense yet. Dean can only conclude his awkwardness is because not all of the bunker’s residents are clued in.
The next day, with some reluctance, he decides to breach the topic. They’re in the library, Cas struggling to set up the new phone they got him. Dean clears his throat, and Cas looks up blithely.
“You know, Cas, hate to bring this up, but, uh. I have been trying real hard not to treat you any different. But I’m feeling like since you’re back, there’s, I don’t know, this disconnect between us.”
Cas lowers the phone and pulls a guilty face. “Maybe you’re right, Dean. I suppose I never thought I’d have to face the aftermath of it all.”
“It all.” Dean echoes the euphemism with amusement, but he sees Cas shift uncomfortably. “Well, so this is just a suggestion, buddy, but I’m wondering if you shouldn’t tell Sam what you told me.”
“What?”
“Just get it out there. Same as you told me.”
Cas’ eyes swivel back and forth in confusion. “You want me to tell Sam…”
“You could probably spare him the long-ass speech.” Dean laughs nervously, and gestures with a finger gun. “Just straight shoot it, say it to him too, and everything’ll feel more, you know. Like we’re all on the same page.”
Cas is looking at him as if they’ve never been further from the same page. He sets the phone down on the table, visibly deliberating. “I really didn’t intend to revisit this topic, Dean. I don't wish to make you uncomfortable. But you are aware that I meant what I said to you in…” He seems to grapple for the right word. “…in terms of physical desire?”
Dean tries very hard to rein in his expression. “Sure,” he squeaks. “Sure,” he repeats, minus the falsetto. “Physical. Of course.”
“As well as romantic, obviously,” mumbles Cas, eyelashes fluttering, and Jesus, is he blushing?
“Only natural. Nothing to be ashamed of,” says Dean on autopilot, definitely not wondering what type of guy Cas has thought about getting physical with or in what position. He seems like he’d be a take-charge kinda guy in the sack, like maybe he wouldn’t mind having a partner who’s into being manhandled a little with those big hands and a dose of super-strength…
Dean realises he hasn’t said anything for several seconds, and adds, “Whatever tickles your pickle.”
Not only was Cas definitely blushing, he now looks as if he’s about to puke with embarrassment, and Dean is thoroughly regretting that last remark. He wishes he could pet Cas’ hair again.
“Look, I didn’t mean… just maybe you’d feel better if everything was like, out in the open. Cause maybe Sam’s said some shit to you or something, I dunno.”
To Dean’s relief, Cas starts nodding as though maybe he’s finally picking up on what Dean is laying down. “Sam’s made no comments to disconcert me.”
“Oh.”
“Have you…?”
“What? Oh, no. Course not, wouldn’t snitch on you like that, man. Your secret’s safe with me.” Dean thumps a fist at his own chest.
“Thank you,” says Cas. “I appreciate that.”
Abruptly, as if he can’t wait for the conversation to be over, he shoves the phone in his pocket and stands up.
“Hey,” says Dean. “How ‘bout we watch a movie tonight? Chillax a bit? I know you only just got your sea legs back–”
“I appreciate that,” Cas repeats. “But I have a few things to attend to. Maybe another time.”
*
Dean supposes he should feel glad that Cas trusts him as confidant more than anyone, certainly more than Sam by the sounds of it. But the interaction leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He was even gonna let Cas choose the movie. Even something gay, if he wanted. Dean’s seen Brokeback Mountain, and he’s not too proud to admit it made him tear up a little, or that Jake Gyllenhaal’s baby blues are damn photogenic (nothing on Cas, of course, but Jake’s only human).
In his bedroom Dean rummages through drawers, locates a polaroid of Cas in a giant sombrero they plucked off the wall of a restaurant in Arizona, and tucks it into his wallet. Later, loafing in an armchair, pretending to research – Sam’s really gagging to know what made the Empty spit Cas out – Dean finds himself taking out the photo, brushing off the flecks of dust, smiling at Cas’ deadpan expression.
He’s got one somewhere of Cas in a tricorn, too. He doesn’t know what happened to the cowboy photo, they’ll have to revisit that sometime. If all Dean’s life consisted of was dragging Cas around the country, watching him put up with being posed in a succession of silly hats, he thinks perhaps he could be happy.
Somehow, even with Cas back in the bunker, it feels like there’s something he’s still grieving.
But no. These past few weeks he couldn’t bear to look at anything that reminded him of good times with Cas. This is all progress.
The air in the library is soporific, and that goes double for the dusty tome he’s trying to concentrate on. As his mind begins to wander round the edges of elusive sleep, Dean senses something in the corner of his consciousness, an answer as to why Cas thought it was imperative to come out to him in the heat of battle. It remains, frustratingly, just out of reach.
He can’t think of any guy Cas is particularly close with. Girls, well, he kinda had that thing with Meg, maybe technically he’s bi or flexible or whatever the kids call it these days. Dean wonders whether he’d be any more comfortable if Cas hooked up with a man, but it’s apples and oranges, Meg was Hell scum and April was a reaper, Cas sure knew how to pick ‘em… but he’d never have left the gang for a demon, Dean’s pretty certain…
…he remembers Cas pushing Meg up against the wall, kissing her hard and filthy… definitely a take-charge kinda guy…
…I gave everything for you…
…lightning running down the walls into Dean’s blood…
…he remembers Cas’ wings, a skein of shadows, feels his pulse calm as the electricity lifts from his veins to form a shield of protection all around him…
…Dean, I wish… I wish…
Dean wakes up with a wicked crick in his neck, the photo caught at its edge between his fingers, and a beige coat draped neatly over his legs and torso.
*
As he blinks himself fully awake, Dean instinctively lifts the coat to his nose. As it happens, it doesn’t smell particularly evocative – Cas doesn’t sweat, after all – but he thinks he wouldn’t mind keeping it for future use as a blanket all the same. The only reason he doesn’t, that he wastes no time in seeking Cas out, is that he’s afraid Cas leaving his coat means he’s leaving the bunker. It feels like a parting gesture, like maybe Cas is trying to shed his skin and move on.
Thankfully, after a quick search, it appears to be a false alarm. Cas is in the kitchen, pouring a few pounds of sugar into a cup of joe. He looks calm, untroubled. He looks pretty goddamn suave in just the suit.
“Hello, Dean.” He holds up the jug. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Thanks.” Dean lets Cas pour him out a cup, and takes a hearty gulp.
Cas’ gaze flicks to the coat still folded up under his arm. Dean hurriedly shoves it at him in an outstretched hand.
“Here. You look naked without this.”
Then Dean feels his face getting hot, because shit, he can actually see the lines of Cas’ pecs through that thin white shirt, and maybe Cas is thinking Dean is thinking about Cas thinking about Dean thinking about him naked, and now Cas is gay – or flexible or whatever – he might think he’s making Dean uncomfortable, and–
“Thank you, Dean.” Cas receives the proffered coat from him. “I thought you might be cold,” he explains gently, watching Dean as if to check his gesture wasn’t unwelcome. “But I was glad to see you sleeping so soundly.”
“Yeah?” There’s a joke on his tongue about Cas getting his rocks off on it, but he’s not gonna go there. Not now. “Thoughtful of you.”
Cas smiles pleasantly at him. Shit. Maybe Dean’s been the problem after all.
As Cas gawkily slips the coat back on over his suit jacket, Dean feels a wave of such intense fondness and sorrow he can’t help but set his coffee on the counter and reach out to nudge Cas into a hug. Cas goes with it, like always.
“M’sorry, Cas,” Dean mumbles over his shoulder. “Sorry things been kinda weird.”
“It’s alright, Dean,” Cas reassures him. Dean can feel the deep vibration of his voice where their chests meet, and closes his eyes to focus on it. “I’ve begun to recognise my confession was a lot to put on you at once.”
Reluctantly, Dean lets go to shake his head at him. “Nah, come on. You oughta be able to come out to your closest friend without him making it some big thing.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know, it’s the 21st century. And you’re not really a man, I mean, if you were that’d be cool too, it’s not like being into demons or monsters or, or flying purple people-eaters or whatever, like… Dr Sexy, Jake Gyllenhaal, I totally get it…” Get to the fucking point, Dean. “It don’t give me no grief if you like dudes, it just threw me you brought it up right then, you know? And I hope you don’t think that’s why… why I couldn’t… I tried to hold onto you, Cas,” he pleads. “You gotta believe me.”
Cas doesn’t respond. Only his eyebrows wriggle in concern and bewilderment.
“What?” asks Dean.
Gravely, Cas replies, “I fear you may be misremembering some details.”
“Well it was kind of a high-stress situation, Cas, I didn’t stop to smell the roses.”
“How exactly do you think I summoned the Empty?” Cas persists.
“I dunno, an incantation or some shit? Angel hoodoo with your blood? Look, I been kinda preoccupied with the other part, you know, where you got sucked up right in front of me and I couldn’t do shit to…”
He trails off as he feels Cas scanning him, assessing, concluding something. Cas nods to himself slowly and sighs before reaching out to touch his face.
A jumble of memories slam their way through Dean’s skull.
You’re the most caring– What my true happiness could even look like– I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack– I love you–
Dean blinks, and blinks some more. Cas is staring at him anxiously, and Dean realises he’s gripping onto Cas’ wrist, that he instinctively grabbed onto it to hold himself steady, and that consequently Cas’ fingers are still wrapped around his cheek.
He drops his hand, and with that Cas drops his own and takes a considerate step back. Dean stammers at him like an idiot.
“So– so you… you…”
“Yes, Dean.”
“So you’re not gay?”
Cas brows somehow realign into yet another configuration of deep concern and confusion.
“You were just telling me you love me. Like, I know that? You’re my best friend…”
Cas’ face finally resolves from pained concern to weary understanding, the look he used to get when Jack earnestly explained why he was trying to go to the Dollar Store to get cash or make shells for ‘homeless snails’. “I think you ought to sit down.”
For once, Dean does as he’s told, letting Cas take his arm and guide him to a stool, because yeah his legs are getting wobbly, his mind giddy with all the memories that are still jostling to the surface.
You are the most selfless, the most loving human being I will ever know. Jesus, Cas, tone it down a notch, it almost sounds like… like…
You changed me, Dean.
Oh god, here it comes again, wrapped up in a big ol’ wave of nausea, and Dean is bracing himself like he’s at the peak of a rollercoaster–
I love you.
Don’t do this, Cas.
He remembers the impact in his bones, feels Cas pushing him away to the ground as he looked on helplessly.
Fuck. Cas pushed him away, the bastard.
But it doesn’t make sense, why would Dean feel so guilty for–
And I never found an answer, because…
Dean’s whole body seizes up.
…the one thing I want…
Cas places a glass of water in front of him.
…is something I know I can’t have.
For long minutes Dean stares catatonic into space, more than faintly aware of the blurry block of beige hovering in his periphery, without even the wherewithal to lift his hands and sink his face into them.
Cas wants him.
Cas wants him.
Cas is… not just gay. But gay for him.
And that’s what fucking killed him.
“Dean?” inquires Cas softly. Too softly. Tenderly, even. Oh god oh god oh god.
“You…” Dean manages, somehow, to look up. “You sacrificed yourself for me?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Dumbass,” scoffs Dean automatically, then, “The Empty came because you were happy? Because… because…”
“Because I thought you accepted my feelings for you,” completes Cas for him. He frowns in dismay, and Dean hates himself for making Cas frown like that.
“No, I accept you! I accept… that,” says Dean, although he knows his face is pretty shell-shocked and unconvincing.
And Cas’ mournful, pitying look says it all: You rewrote the whole incident in your mind because you couldn’t accept it, Dean.
“It’s not that part, it’s– Look, I’m gonna need a hot minute, Cas, this is a lot. But would you just, like, don’t buzz off in the meantime, alright? Just… fuck.”
He runs a hand through his hair. He can feel Cas’ eyes on him. He can feel them under his fucking skin.
Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love. That is who you are.
“I mean, you can like, leave the room, dude. Just don’t fuck off permanently, okay?”
Cas’ eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. “I had no plans to do so,” he says, and turns on his heel to make his way out.
*
Alone in the kitchen, Dean drags in a ragged breath.
Don’t do this. Now that’s a shitty response to “I love you”. Almost as bad as “Thank you” or “I know”. But weirdly, that’s not what Dean finds himself dwelling on.
He downs the glass of water. He fishes the sombrero photo out of his wallet, and strokes his thumb over Cas’ serious, serious little face in the hat Dean subjected him to.
At some point, sure, they need to hold an intervention for Cas’ kamikaze tendencies. Dean’s not one to talk, but it is like the fourth time Cas has fallen on his sword for him. It’s getting old. There is a certain amount of anguish and resentment stirring in his gut at how Cas pushed him away, all swirling around with a buttload of other unpleasant emotions he’d be hard-pressed to identify. Maybe it is better he didn’t know, didn’t let himself know, or he might not have survived those months of mourning.
However. He can’t deny, knowing the truth of how it went down has ignited that pathetic dying ember of outrage inside of him. God knows Dean’s been trying to fight his way out of his funk, first to shed his grief and then to show Cas how down with the gays he is, but until now it’s all felt like half-assed pissing into the wind. At last he feels like he has some goddamn agency. He’s alive, he’s mad as hell, he’s got free will and by God he’s going to use it.
*
Cas didn’t go far – he’s skulking around the map room table, rapping his fingers on it with such a casual, unbothered air it makes Dean falter for a second in the doorway.
“You know,” begins Dean, and Cas whips round, eyes luminous and attentive and yeah, Jake can suck it. “I am kinda pissed at you, for throwing your life away like that. For leaving me to pick up the pieces. Not to mention hiding that whole deal from me. And yeah, I could stand here right now and ream your ass about it” – maybe not the best choice of words, Dean – “but you know… we’ll get past that shit. We always do.” He shrugs and heaves a theatrical sigh. “There is one thing that’s damn hard for me to accept, though.”
Cas is looking at him warily, his lips in that little pout he does when he knows he’s pulled some dumbass move and is defensively annoyed at Dean being annoyed at him.
“Something that really gets to me. You ain’t had one single moment of happiness? In all that time?”
At last the lines in Cas’ forehead smooth out a little. “Of course I’d had some glimmers of happiness since I made that deal, Dean. But they were always marred by worries, always overshadowed by some apocalyptic situation–”
“Well, that blows,” interrupts Dean, afraid of losing his momentum. He swallows hard. “First things first, I reckon we gotta do a lil something ‘bout that issue.”
Right on cue, Cas hits him with the classic head tilt.
Before he can overthink it, Dean bounds around the table and lays one on him. Right on the mouth.
He’s going for a simple kiss, all statement, no seduction. But as statements go, it feels pretty fucking magnificent. Although Dean’s heart has been hammering brutally throughout the whole exchange, it fades into the background once his brain is flooded with the sensation of Cas’ mouth against his, the warmth he felt at a hug redoubled tenfold through his veins.
The smack of lips seems to echo round the room. His hands are still cupping Cas’ face, fingers caressing instinctively at his stubble, while – fuck – Cas is just gawping at him. Not unhappily as such, but with such wide, startled eyes that Dean begins to wonder if he’s got the wrong end of the stick again.
He can’t help glancing at Cas’ lips, and licks his own nervously. His hands are trembling.
“That was what… what you meant, right?”
It takes a second or two, but Cas’ gaze drops to Dean’s thumb quivering on his chin then back again, fishing for something in Dean’s eyes, and when he finds it his lips tick up into a tiny, precious smile.
The ember in Dean’s chest is hot, and bright, and blazing.
And maybe, just maybe, Cas is right about him, and it’s not anger after all.
The End