Archive of Our Own

It's different now, no matter how much they're pretending it's not. Mostly out of self-preservation, because sometimes their sanity is hanging by a mere thread and it's so obvious that they simply have no choice but to fake it 'til they make it. They've done a lot of that through the years, practically crafted it into a fine art, but this is the best performance yet. 

Finally free, they'd agreed. 

Such bullshit. It's all nice and rosy in theory, but Dean's two weeks out from that statement, and he still goes to sleep with liquor on his lips. Sam's doing better, at least. But Eileen texts him back now because she's here to do that, and maybe there's some kind of freedom in how those three little dots appear and never fall away without a message behind it. Dean catches him watching it sometimes, tense and frozen, only to relax when Eileen replies. 

Anyway, Dean's fine. He's doing alright, all things considered. He can't complain. Well, his best friend is gone—once again, but what else is new—and his sort-of kid is...God now, so that's something. He wonders what would happen if he called Jack. Is there cell reception in Heaven? As many times Dean has been there, he never thought to check. 

He's handling it, is the point. 

"Dean," Sam says approximately five seconds after he's convinced himself of this, "you're not handling any of this well. I think—" 

"Don't," Dean cuts in, flapping a lazy hand. He gets a brief flash of a memory—that same hand reaching out just a bit, mindlessly, as black goo oozed out of the—and nope. "No thoughts. Not allowed. We are taking a break, Sammy, and that means we don't even have to think. So, like, why would you?" 

Seriously, why would he? It's kinda dumb of him, if you ask Dean. The opportunity to not think about anything for a couple of days straight? Yeah, you'd have to be an idiot to pass that up. Or, he doesn't know, maybe an overgrown younger brother with a tendency to talk about feelings, but whatever. 

"You can't get out of your own head forever," Sam murmurs, his eyebrows furrowing with that little wrinkle in between that spells out all the endless ways he's so worried about everything. 

Dean makes a thoughtful expression as he glances out the front windshield, lightly pressing Baby's brake without much forethought. "Oh, dude, look at that. Been a while since we stayed in a motel as shitty as that. What do you say? For old times sake? We could get dollar store burritos and play that game we used to where we picked out shapes from the mold on the ceiling. You know, like people do with clouds. How much d'you wanna bet that there's only two channels and one of 'em is static?" 

"No, Dean, gross," Sam replies instinctively, properly distracted by the idea that Dean might actually try and force him to take a trip down memory lane. He grimaces as he looks at the motel in question. "I'd rather sleep in Baby." 

"When did your standards get so high, huh?" Dean teases, shaking his head and pressing the gas pedal to put more distance between them and the motel, easing Sam's disgust. 

Sam shoots him a flat look. "When we no longer had to live off of hustled money. We can afford a step up now, have for years, all thanks to Charlie." 

"Kinda fucked that she's dead, huh?" Dean muses, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "I mean, we got a Charlie, but not our Charlie." 

"Dean," Sam says, sounding stricken, "you can't just keep saying shit like that, man." 

Why not? Dean thinks, but he presses his lips into a thin line and traps it on his tongue. So, yeah, whatever. He doesn't really have much of a filter anymore, but that's fine. He doesn't really see the point, is all. Everyone's always scared to say shit all the time, even the most painful things, and what good does that do for anyone? They just keep it in, keep it locked away until the last possible second, and then they're dying because the fucking goo is—nope, not a chance. No. 

"I'm not tired," says Dean, out of nowhere, and it is both a lie and not. He is tired, always, but sleep doesn't come without the sweat of liquor and tears on his cheeks, so he doesn't really give into the exhaustion anymore if he can help it. "I'll just drive us home. We won't even have to get a motel." 

"When's the last time you slept?" Sam asks, critical and far too fucking observant for his own good. 

Dean grips the wheel tight, but he gives a lazy shrug, or what passes for one anyway. "Eh," he grunts, and then turns up the radio so Sam can't argue with him. 

Sometimes, Dean wonders what Chuck is doing. It used to be an angry tirade of thoughts that stormed in his mind, but it has calmed slowly over time. Now he just wonders if Chuck is out there somewhere, living like the side characters in the world he wanted to destroy. Maybe he's homeless in his own fucking creation, and there's some kind of amusing irony to the thought. Dean pictures him sleeping under bridges and eating out of the trash like a common alleycat. The thought is fucking hilarous. 

He entertains himself with the mental depiction as Sam snoozes in the seat beside him. In fact, he creates a whole fucking story to go with it, inwardly adding dialogue and peppering in random injuries to get him through the long stretch of road leading him to home. That's funny, too, making up a story in his mind for the man—no longer God—who spun a story so shitty that the characters all unanimously decided that, no, they weren't doing that. Then they fucking beat him, just so they didn't have to. 

Sometimes, Dean is stupidly proud of himself and Sam and this weird, complex world they live in. 

Anyway, the story in his head actually has a little bit of plot—Chuck gets hit by a car—when Sam starts waking up. His phone is pinging, Eileen's name lighting up the screen. It has been for the last hour, and Dean's been ignoring it. If he doesn't look at it, then it doesn't exist. Messages keep coming, and Sam has earned them, but Dean can't really see them without wondering if the walls will ever open just once more and bleed black as—no, no, not this shit again. He taps the wheel abruptly at a forced rhythm, trying to get the beat right, focusing. 

"Oh, hey," Sam mutters around a yawn, "Eileen wants to know if we'd like to head out to her place for a few days." 

"A case?" Dean asks. 

"No," says Sam. 

Dean waits for elaboration, or even a reason, but there is none. Then he remembers that there's no need for that, because Sam and Eileen are a thing. A lovely, perfect thing that Dean gets soft about, no matter how much he pretends not to. It's exactly what Sam deserves. Just—just all the things and all the joy, and finally, a love that came back. 

"You should go," Dean tells him, because he should. He really fucking should, before it's—before the chance is gone. "I'll stay." 

Sam huffs. "She invited us both, Dean." 

"As a nice gesture," Dean says simply, his filter fully removed. "It's not me she's fucking, and I'd rather not hear what you two get up to while I'm asleep on the couch. Last time was bad enough. Not that I'm not proud of you or whatever, but dude, she's loud."

"She can't hear her own volume, Dean!" Sam defends, mortified and probably blushing. When Dean checks, he is. It's adorable. "Shut up. That's not even—she's worried about you." 

"Because you are." Dean reaches over and claps Sam on the shoulder. "Look at that, couple goals. Sharing burdens and stuff. You've got a good one, Sammy." 

"You're not a burden," Sam mumbles. 

Dean forces himself to repeat that sentence five times in his head, then nods. "Right, no, I'm not. I'm full of love and everyone is lucky to know me. Keep forgetting that part. Anyway, you're still going and I'm still staying. Just take, like, a day or four." 

"We were supposed to take a break together. We agreed," declares Sam, serious and unrelenting. 

"And we are. You're going to get laid by your pretty girlfriend, and I'm going to watch horror movies and eat so much popcorn that I'll be drowning in butter. You won't be there to judge me, so all's the better. Sounds great," Dean insists. 

"Why are you being stubborn about this?" 

"I'm not. If I don't go one time, it's not the end of the world. Heh, shouldn't jinx us. Our track record is shit. But you know what I mean." 

Sam sighs. "It will hurt her feelings." 

"Nice try, Samantha. You forget, I know Eileen. Nothing hurts her feelings," Dean says, waggling his finger at his brother. 

"Dean," Sam murmurs, and oh great, that's his serious voice. The voice that insinuates that they're about to talk about some heavy shit, and he's only doing it now because they're trapped in Baby and Dean can't actually run. 

Sam underestimates him these days. Dean will fling himself from the car, depending on the topic Sam is so hesitantly approaching. 

"What did I say?" Dean mutters. "No thoughts." 

"Dean," Sam repeats, taking a deep breath, "you've been really… Just, since Cas—" 

Dean reaches out and grabs the door handle, swinging the door open wide and sinking to the side. Sam yelps, surging over to straighten Baby out from where she was slowly starting to swerve towards the ditch and hauling Dean back into the car before he can simply toss himself out. 

"Dean, what the hell?!" 

"Do you see?" Dean slams the door back, taking the wheel again. His voice is cheerful as before. "You think I won't fling myself right outta Baby when we're going sixty-five, but you're wrong. So, how about we don't have the conversation that makes me want to do that? Sound good?" 

"No, it doesn't sound good, Dean!" Sam bursts out, and shit, Dean actually thought that would work. Instead, Sam seems to be gaining steam. "This is what I'm talking about! You say whatever is on your mind now, but not when it comes to Cas. You won't even talk about him! And if—if it makes you want to escape a moving car, then maybe you should talk about it! Have you considered that?" 

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Actually, I have not." 

"When I tried to talk about it after—after everything happened, you just...shut me down. Got wasted. That's fine, that's what you always do, but we get to this point where we have to talk about it, or else you get too—I don't know—in your own head about it, I guess," Sam tells him seriously. His voice is slowly softening, being gentle now. 

"What do you want me to say?" Dean asks, and the false cheer in his voice has dropped in quality. He's kept it up pretty well until now, and sometimes it wasn't even forced. Sometimes, he is cheerful. 

Because, well, there are certain things to be cheerful about. Like Chuck being defeated. Like Eileen being back and Sam smiling honestly for the first time in days. Like the warmth of the sun and the idea that Jack has made the rays beam right down on him. There are things, and people, and reasons, and a whole world to be cheerful about, because they spent so much time with no hope. 

It's just that Dean is always, always a mere breath from utter devastation. Just one misstep, one miscalculation, saying the wrong thing, and he'll be right back on the floor of the dungeon, heaving sobs and trying to fold into himself until he simply melts away. He can't stop; he doesn't have that luxury. 

He can't stop drinking, or he'll never get to sleep. He can't stop speaking the words in his mind, the blunt truths that he's never said before, because those are all safer than the one truth he has to live with from a dead best friend now. He can't stop shoving his thoughts off the track of where they always seem to lead, knowing if he lets his mind go there, it'll spiral and never come back out. 

So, he keeps going. He talks about things that he never would before, like Charlie's death, like missing Jack, like not really enjoying killing the same way he did before. He smiles wide and laughs with his little brother and sings along to the radio at top volume and starts trying to believe the best in himself because he probably should. 

They're free now, alright. Free to fucking live their lives and balance their own loose screws. Dean thinks, for all the screws he's had knocked loose and stolen, he's doing alright. 

"Maybe you should say whatever you've been avoiding saying," Sam suggests calmly. "Every time I try to get more out of you about what happened, you just...shut down and brush me off." 

"I already told you," Dean says defensively, because he has. "Cas made a deal with the Empty to save Jack a while back, and the stipulation was his life. The Empty was dramatic and decided it'd be a fun little thing to do if it waited until Cas was at his happiest to cash in on that deal. But Cas is—was fucking smart, ya know? He just saved that and waited until it could be beneficial or some shit, always tryna save some-fucking-body. Anyway, he summoned the Empty so it would take him and Billie, and then boom, end of story. That's it, Sam."

"Yeah, but you never tell me what—what Cas used to summon the Empty," says Sam. "I always ask, and you just—you never tell me. How did he do it? Jack didn't know, either, because I asked him before he...you know. All he said was that Cas once told him that he wasn't happy, which sucks when you think about it, but it also just makes me wonder how he suddenly got happy in the middle of all that shit! Cas was smart, but he couldn't just...fake feelings. How did he do it, if even Jack's return didn't qualify? You were there, so you know, but you won't tell me. You won't talk about it. I just—he was my best friend, too, Dean. Don't I deserve to know?" 

"No," Dean snaps before he can stop himself, white-knuckling the steering wheel so hard that it squeaks in his grip. "It had nothing to do with you, Sam. It—it wasn't about you, okay? So just drop it."

"Come on, man," Sam presses, edging towards frustration now. "Jack didn't ask, but you should have told him! That was Cas' kid, Dean. He deserved to know. I deserve to know. Cas was our family, too."

"Well, too fucking bad, alright? Just get used to not knowing because it's none of your fucking business. His happiness didn't have shit to do with you or Jack," Dean all but snarls. 

He knows he's being harsh, and selfish, and blunt. He wants to care a little more about that, but he can't. This one thing, it's all that Dean gets to keep. It's his, and he's not sharing it. He sure as shit isn't going to talk about it, because that will go as well as Chuck trying to be a good dad. 

All Dean has now is a wall that won't bleed black again, a jacket with a blood-stale handprint, and this one thing. He's hoarding it, all for himself like a dragon with glinting treasure, and he doesn't even care if it hurts Sam not to know. Sam has messages that come up on his phone and a girl who came back, so he has more than Dean as it is. In this, with this one thing, Dean lets himself be selfish. 

Besides, he's not even sure if Cas would want anyone else to know. He's pretty sure Cas didn't even want Dean to know, and probably wouldn't have told him if it wasn't going to save his life. Stupid fucking angels who apparently do feel things, but keep them hidden like fucking assholes, waiting to reveal them only at the last possible fucking—no. Nope. Just...no. 

Dean takes a deep breath. It's fine. He's handling it. 

"Look," Sam grits out, "I know you're hurting—" 

"I'm fine," Dean spits, cutting a sharp look over at him. "I'm so fucking fine, Sam. And also not talking about this. Another word, and I'm actually going to jump out of this car. Like, not as a joke." 

"You can't just—" 

"Sam!" 

The name roars into the tension, echoing raw and painful into the sudden silence of the front seat. Dean hates hearing himself sound like that. Like a wounded animal wailing to be let out of a cage. It's enough to make Sam shut the fuck up, though, so there's a bright side, at least. 

Sam spends the rest of the ride in tense silence. Dean spends it trying to get back to his cheerful facade, working to build himself back up to being able to breathe. They are not the same. 

Dean doesn't want to keep having to do this. It's like he's painstakingly layering brick piece-by-piece within himself, tedious and exhausting, trying so fucking hard to make it strong enough that he can exist without breaking down every five seconds. And, with one name and one reminder, that wall he put so much energy and effort into comes crumbling down. It's cruel and painful, and nothing pisses him off more. He's so goddamn tired all the time. If he wasn't already used to aching through the trauma of his life, he wouldn't even be functional right now. Guess there's a bright side to being so fucked up. 

Pulling into the Bunker is a relief. 

He knows what waits for him in there. His bed that remembers him. Beer and liquor that helps him escape. Food and movies and weapons to clean, all things that serve as easy distractions. 

There's also that jacket with the handprint, draped over the back of the chair in his room, on display. He wants to burn it. He wants to press his face into the fabric and cry. Mostly, though, he just ignores it. He can't quite bring himself to wash it, or get rid of it, or put it somewhere he doesn't have to walk past it every day. He hates that jacket. It's his favorite. 

They enter the Bunker in silence, duffels slung over their shoulders and mountains of unsaid things crumbling between them. That's fine, too. It should blow over by the time Sam gets back from Eileen's, a spark in his eye and skip to his step. 

It's in the silence that they hear it, a small scuffing noise like shoes against concrete. Dean shares a look with Sam, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. Their hands automatically go to their guns, a habitual response more than anything. It's not like they've never had uninvited visitors before, and besides, all high-level players have been taken off the playing field for good. They should be fine. 

There's a squeak and then a clang, all coming from the kitchen. Someone's in there, moving around and shit, possibly raiding the fridge. 

Sam matches Dean stride-for-stride as they make their way towards the noises without hesitation. Another clang, louder this time, somehow angry. They come to a screeching halt, however, when a voice sounds out—snarling and pissed off. 

"God?!" 

"Castiel, don't." 

Frozen out in the hall, Dean feels something in him break. Explode in slow motion. Crumble endlessly, cascading and evaporating. That's Cas. That's his voice, angry and trembling but still his. He almost doesn't trust it, remembering Lucifer's trick, and he wouldn't believe it if not for the fact that Jack is here as well, by the sounds of it. 

"Do not tell me what to do," Cas snarls, sounding all for the world like he's about to go off on a rampage. "I never wanted this for you, Jack." 

Jack sighs, a child and a cosmic being all wrapped into one, but still exasperated with his father. "It was my purpose, even from the beginning. I do not mind. Everything is okay now." 

"Not for you." Cas sounds genuinely upset, but Dean's stuck on the fact that he's around to sound like anything at all. "You'll just never come back, then? How will I know if you—I will come with you. Sam and Dean need not know." 

"They already know," Jack murmurs. "They're here, outside the kitchen. And you cannot come with me. You know why. It's okay, Castiel." 

There's a long pause, fraught with tension, then Cas says, "Fine. I do not care if they know. You can take me if you truly want." 

"I could. I would if that's what would make you happy, but it is not," Jack replies easily. "We will see each other again when it is time." 

"It doesn't matter if I'm truly happy!" Cas bursts out. "I won't be anyway. Take me with you." 

"No. Goodbye, Castiel, and good luck." 

"Jack—" 

There's the distinct sound of silence, only one person left behind to breathe. It sounds like Cas is breathing heavily. There's a clatter, followed by the sound of a thump, and then silence. 

Dean doesn't move for a while. He can feel all the color draining from his face, and Sam is looking at him with wide eyes. They're just standing there, about eight steps from the kitchen, and Dean has never wanted to cross such a short amount of space so badly in his life. He just can't get his feet to move, frozen in place, half-terrified that all of this is an illusion of some kind. What if he walks in the kitchen and there's no one? What, then? 

He'll never get his walls back up again. 

Nonetheless, you gotta do what you gotta do, and Dean's suddenly gotta get in that kitchen. Like, it's one of those urges that can't be ignored. His feet are carrying him closer and closer without his permission, and he can't stop. 

He's cautious about it, slower, more hesitant. It's the whole once bitten, twice shy thing. He's got some kind of fear surrounding the idea that he'll look in the kitchen and see nothing, that he won't find anyone there. Jack wouldn't do that to him, he doesn't think. If he has, then the kid is grounded for a milenia. 

His worry proves to be fruitless, however. He pokes his head around the doorway of the kitchen, Sam right on his heels, and he freezes like a startled deer at the sight of Cas standing at the counter. His palms are flat on the reflective surface, and his shoulders are hunched with his head ducked down, not looking up. But there he is, messy hair and that stupid fucking trenchcoat. 

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and whirls around, whipping back outside the doorway with his back pressed to the wall, staring wide-eyed at nothing. 

Sam looks at him like he's fucking insane. 

That's fair, Dean thinks vaguely, trying to take a deep breath. Okay, this is fine. He can handle this. He can. He might have...avoided dealing with certain aspects of Cas' death, which is coming back to bite him in the ass now, but it's not like it's a big deal. They've literally all dealt with the world ending multiple times, so how bad can this be, really? 

Dean suddenly remembers that Cas had cried. He'd cried happily right before he died. Cas never cried like that, or maybe not at all. Dean can't think of one time that Cas actually shed a tear; he's been anguished before, sure, and angry and upset and hurt and so many other things, but never human enough to actually cry. Or, maybe he was capable of it the whole time and simply...refused to. Seems like something Cas would do. But, right there at the end, Cas had cried freely, no holds barred. 

This is going to go really badly, Dean can already tell. There had been tears before, and there might be tears now, and he has no idea how he's going to react. He never got the chance to, then, but he will now. Just one thing…

He hasn't thought about any of this at all. He doesn't know how he wants to react, or how he should. 

Sam looks really confused already, which isn't surprising. Cas is back, right? So by all means, Dean should be ecstatic and rushing in that room to see him. He knows that's the logical conclusion Sam has come to, except Dean is cowering out in the hallway on the verge of freaking the fuck out. 

"What are you doing?" Sam finally hisses, shuffling close to whisper. 

Dean lets out a wheeze. "No idea. Gimme a minute. Lemme just—" He chances another quick glance around the doorway, checks to make sure Cas is still there, then whips back around. "Oh, fuck. Shit." 

"Are you being serious right now, Dean?" Sam has never looked so disgusted and appalled as he does in this moment. "Cas is back, and you want to play peek-a-boo?"

"Just—shut the fuck up, Sam," Dean snaps, and it comes out louder than he means it to. Loud enough to echo. There's another scrape of noise from the kitchen. "Oh, Jesus fucking Christ." 

Sam huffs. "Okay, you be ridiculous if you want." 

With that, Sam abandons him out in the hall, disappearing into the kitchen without hesitation. He can do that, because he doesn't have a fucking love confession hanging high and heavy in his memory. It's not like he has to be careful about any of this. He doesn't have to react to anything like that. 

Dean takes another minute. He needs it. Just that one extra moment to process everything. He didn't get it before when Cas was swallowed up by the Empty, and he hasn't really allowed it for himself since. He really wishes he had, in retrospect, because at least then he'd know what the fuck to do. If he'd actually faced this by now, then he'd have a reaction at the ready—no matter what it is. 

Right, so, love confession. How are we feeling on that? Dean asks himself, and there's just a white noise left behind in his mind as a response. So, either he's feeling nothing on that, or he's feeling too much. Either way, he's officially screwed if he thinks he's going to be able to work it out in time. 

He's had weeks to think about this shit, but true to form, he's done a spectacular job of not doing that. Thinking about Cas being gone was bad enough; he avoided the love confession part entirely. 

This was, perhaps, very stupid of him. 

From in the kitchen, Sam is laughing happily and saying, "It's so good you're back, man! How did—" 

"Jack," is Cas' gruff reply. "He claimed he wanted to be hand's off about everything, as...what he is now, with only me as an exception." 

"You sounded pretty upset about it. He's—" 

"I never wanted this for him." 

"Yeah," Sam mutters, "but he seems alright. He wanted to do it, wanted to stop Chuck and—and help with everything. It's hard, not having him around, but he claims we'll see him again." 

"He should have taken me with him," Cas snaps, sounding on edge, sounding furious. 

"Ah, don't be like that, Cas," says Sam, laughing gently. "I can tell you're grumpy, but dude, it's not so bad being here with us, is it? We're grateful you're back. It's just—it makes sense. All of us." 

Cas makes a small, frustrated sound. "I don't want to be back here." 

Dean is swinging himself into the doorway before he even really makes the decision to, blurting out an unnecessarily harsh, "And why the fuck not?" 

Cas glances at him, face blank, then he scowls and pointedly looks away without answering. He stares at the wall, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. Sam glances at him, then throws Dean a confused look, which isn't very ideal for this encounter, but fuck it. Dean has absolutely no idea what he feels about anything, not outside of the angry pulse in his chest at hearing Cas say he doesn't want to be here. 

Well, that's just fucking tough. Dean doesn't give a goddamn if Cas wants to throw a tantrum about being plucked from the Empty and deposited back on Earth by his juiced-up toddler son. That's just the way the ball rolls sometimes, so he's going to have to suck it up and never fucking leave again. 

"Cas?" Sam asks tentatively. 

"Yes, Sam?" 

"You alright, man? Like I said, I know it's kinda messed up about Jack, but things could be a lot worse, right? I mean, being left in the Empty would be, if I had to guess. It's better that you're out." 

"I don't know," Cas says sarcastically, pissy little angel that he is, "I think I'd rather that. Eternal rest in oblivion seems better by the moment." 

Sam looks stricken. "Cas, what the hell?" 

"Yeah, Cas, what the hell?" Dean agrees, staring at the side of his face, willing Cas to look at him, but he just won't. "Don't tell me you're throwing a fit because you want a goddamn nap. Also, no hi, no hello, no how are you? Nothing?" 

Cas continues to outright ignore him. 

"Okay, what the hell is going on?" Sam asks with finality, as if he's had enough. He looks between Dean and Cas with a clenched jaw. "There's obviously something wrong between you two." 

"Well, I've just been real fucking swell," Dean goes on to say, in that cheerful tone of his, glaring at Cas. Look at me, look at me, you fucking bastard asshole, just look at me, please. "Thanks for asking, by the way. I figured you'd be interested, considering the circumstances in which you made your very fucking swift exit from this world." 

Cas acts like he doesn't even exist, staring at the wall as if it's the thing that's currently pissing him off. He's clearly furious, especially the more Dean talks, but he's standing still as a statue. 

Sam's phone starts ringing—a specific little tune that plays when Eileen is facetiming him. He wavers for a second, then scrubs a hand over his forehead with a sigh. "Look, you two need to talk about whatever it is you're fighting about now. I've got to take this, but just—just figure your shit out, both of you. The world's saved, Chuck is handled, it's just us now, okay? Time to move on and let shit go. We're finally free, right? So just...stop being idiots." 

With that, he marches out of the room, apparently fed up with them both and Cas has only been back for approximately five minutes. He sounds cheerful enough as he walks away, always perking up whenever Eileen is involved. And he would, of course, because his love came back to him. 

Technically… 

Nope. Dean cuts that thought off at the quick, only to immediately regret it. No, he should let that shit come natural, shouldn't he? It's a reaction, at least. 

Right, so, Cas is back. Here he is, in the flesh, alive and apparently annoyed about it. Technically, Dean's love came back, too—or, well, the person in love with Dean, anyway. He once again tries to figure out how he feels about that, and there's just that high-pitched white noise that tells him absolutely fucking nothing. The only thing he's sure that he feels is a sudden rush of spiteful anger that burns in his chest, because how fucking dare Cas do some stupid shit like he did, and then have the audacity to come back in a bad mood? 

"You got anything to say to me?" Dean asks, his words sharp and accusatory. Cas doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't so much as twitch, stubborn fucker. It's infuriating. "So, you're just going to ignore me? Cas. Cas! Are you fucking—" 

Dean inhales sharply and marches forward with all intentions of grabbing Cas and forcing him to look at him, because at this point, it's starting to get under his skin that he's refusing to. He draws up short rather quickly, however, when Cas takes a firm step back. Avoiding him. Keeping distance. 

"Dude," Dean says incredulously, "are you seriously being unreasonable like this right now?" 

Apparently so, because Cas says not one word. He doesn't look at Dean. He stays firmly away from Dean. He is stiff as a brisk wind when wet, as unapproachable as he's ever been, discomfort and pure irritation practically oozing off him in waves. Every line of his body screams stay the fuck away from me! And it's utterly ridiculous. 

Dean stares at him, flummoxed. Cas quite literally poured his heart out to Dean, gave a truly sappy and distressingly romantic speech and everything, then proceeded to give his life so that Dean could live his. And he wants to act like he doesn't want to see Dean, be around him, touch him? 

Actually, Dean's ninety-nine percent sure that Cas probably wants to fuck him, and while he has no clue how he feels about that, he's pretty goddamn sure that means Cas doesn't get to act like this and make it authentic.  

It feels strangely real, though, as if Cas wants nothing more than to get as far away from him as possible. This is a blatant contradiction. Even someone as weird as Cas doesn't want to get away from the person they have the desire to fuck five ways to Sunday, that they're in love with. That's not how these things work, so Dean isn't buying it. 

"Okay, well fuck you," Dean says sharply, then lets out a harsh laugh. "Or, actually, fuck me, I guess. Isn't that something you want to do now, or—" 

Cas whips towards him so fast that Dean nearly swallows his tongue with the effort to shut the fuck up as quickly as possible. Cas looks absolutely murderous, eyes bright with so much fury that Dean is suddenly smacked with the reminder that Cas can, has, and will—and seems tempted to now—beat the everloving shit out of him. Which, not a great start to this whole reunion thing, but they've always done everything ass backwards anyway, so. 

And still, Cas says not one word to him. For a long moment, he just stands there and glares at Dean as if genuinely pissed off to see him—and, hey, what the fuck happened to you are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know, and all that shit? 

People don't just give epically romantic speeches like that, then follow it up by being furious at the target of said speech. Cas said he loved Dean, and not in, like, a brotherly way—he can take some cues, actually, thank you very much—so he doesn't get to look at Dean as if he despises him. Frankly, that's not very romantic at all. 

If Cas is trying to sweep him off his feet or some bullshit, he's doing a shit job of it. Dean is actually a little mad about it, only distantly aware that he's getting pissed because Cas isn't being sweet.  

And what does that say about him? He has no idea. Still just as clueless about how he feels in all this mess as he was when the confession happened. But, okay, baby steps right? 

He tries to imagine doing something mundane with Cas—domestic bullshit that couples do, like watch a movie together or something, but they've already done that. Cooking together? They've done it. Going to dinner (to diners, generally)? Regular occurrence. Spending any amount of time together in a non-sensual setting? Been there, done that, will do so again no matter how this goes, because that's what best friends do, so there. 

This hasn't been a very productive line of self discovery, but at least he's confident in the fact that he and Cas are gonna continue braiding each other's hair when all of this shit blows over. Besties for life, of whatever the fuck. That's what he gets for blowing into a barn with big, blue eyes and having the hand that fits the brand on Dean's skin. 

"Still nothing?" Dean asks, keeping his voice even, despite the swirling thoughts in his head. Cas just glares at him harder. "Okay, casanova, we're going to have to work on your wooing skills because this—" 

Cas starts marching forward almost instantly, and it's Dean's turn to step back. Well, actually, he almost trips over himself to start backing up because Cas is moving forward like he's about to smite someone, and it is—hm, it is something. Dean's struck with a sudden panic unlike he's ever had before, making his face hot and his heart thud in his ears, and he knows it doesn't have shit to do with the possibility that Cas might punch him. 

But, in silence, Cas just moves right past him like he's not even there, not even touching him, marching out of the kitchen like there's absolutely no reason for him to be inside it. 

Dean exhales shakily, blinking, staring after him with incredulity, fury, and a deep sense like he's just been shaken to his very core. 

So, in other news, Dean's probably out a best friend. 

Cas stays in his room.  

This, rather ridiculously, pisses Dean off like nothing else. It absolutely infuriates him that Cas is acting like being alive is an inconvenience for him, just because Dean is around to see it. The burden of being perceived, or whatever, but he should have thought of that before he spewed his heart and soul. 

Sam is heading out to Eileen's pretty quickly, and Dean has been jittery ever since Cas got back—he hasn't started shooting anything, so he's fine—and that means they're both in a safe state of mind to be around each other without arguing, probably. And that means Dean is currently pacing a hole in Sam's floor, fuming and hungry and unable to be still,  while Sam packs and watches him cautiously. 

"Dude," he says, eventually, when Dean has turned a tight circuit to the beat of Another One Bites The Dust at least thirty times. 

Dean taps the flat of his fists against his palm, still pacing back and forth. "I know what you're gonna say, Sammy, so just—just shut the fuck up." 

"Dude," Sam says more insistently, predictably not shutting the fuck up, "I really don't know what the problem is here. You two were fine before he—or, well, you were comfortable enough with each other. How are you two already at each other's throats when he's only just gotten back? Are you pissed that he, ah, died to begin with?" 

"Isn't that enough reason?" Dean grunts and comes to a sudden halt, staring at Sam with a fixed expression. "Hey, you were in college once." 

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Was I? Shit, you're right. I can't believe you've discovered my big secret." 

"No, listen, I just—" Dean grimaces and flips him off, unwilling to let the sarcasm go, even for the seriousness of this conversation. Well, he's mostly stalling on having this conversation, actually. He clears his throat. "Anyway, that's where, like, gay shit happens, right?" 

"Pretty sure gay shit isn't limited just to college, Dean," Sam mutters, rolling his eyes, "but I think I get what you mean. Yeah, people experiment, or whatever, I guess. Why?" 

Dean purses his lips. "Did you?" 

"Did I?" Sam blinks at him, then looks very, very uncomfortable for a second. He shifts and fiddles with his zipper on his bag. "Ah, no offense, but that's not...really your business, man." 

"Okay, so you have." 

"That's not what I said. Don't make assumptions." 

"God, I wish Charlie was still here. Our Charlie." Dean heaves a sigh and reaches up to scrub his hands over his face, then blows out a deep breath. He drops his arms, shifts restlessly, then crosses them. Fucking shit, this is the worst day. Best to just bite the bullet. "Okay, so say that—that Cas might have hypothetically, um...gave a sort of sappy spiel before he died. Like, really sappy. Really." 

Sam stares at him, unimpressed. "Yeah, so? Haven't we all gave some sappy speech at some point, especially when we're about to die and shit? Don't think you get to judge, Mr. I'm Proud Of Us." 

"First of all, fuck you, I was proud of us," Dean snaps, scowling at him. Just as quickly, though, he feels his face fall slack with distress. "Second, could you use that brain you hide under all that hair and just get what I'm tryna say, so I don't have to actually, you know, say it?" 

"Dean, I literally have no idea what you're trying to tell me right now." 

"Cas—ah, he...you know. He—he loves me, Sam." 

"Wow, good to know you have observational skills that work." Sam still looks unimpressed, and now he's rolling his eyes, too. He puts on a light, patronizing tone. "Yes, Dean, he loves you, because family sometimes does that. It's not a concept we're always familiar with, but I assure you that it's perfectly fine. Nothing to worry about." 

"Jesus Christ, you're such a fucking bitch. You're not listening to me. This isn't a you, me, and him thing I'm talking about; this isn't Team Free Will forging a bond in the horrors of war, or whatever the fuck. Cas is—I mean, I'm pretty damn sure he'd like to bend me over a flat surface and—" Dean makes a weird motion with his hand, like a fish swimming up a current, "—fuck my brains out." 

Sam blinks at him, then slowly sits down on the bed, staring. After a beat, he says, very evenly, "And how did you come to this conclusion?" 

"Well, he told me." Dean huffs when Sam's eyebrows go up in doubt. "Okay, he didn't explicitly say it like that, I'm paraphrasing, whatever. The point is, he gave a really sappy speech before he summoned Billie—which he did, by the way, in confessing his feelings." Dean scowls when Sam's eyebrows rise up even more. "Fuck off, that's actually true. He sort of—I mean, he said...things. Uh, things that I will not be repeating, but let's just say that only a dumbass would take them for anything other than...what they were." 

"And what were they?" 

"Sappy as fuck." 

"A love confession, you mean," Sam clarifies. 

Dean's face burns. "Yeah, that." 

"Oh." Sam's gaze goes distant for a while, deep in thought, then he hums. "Wow, this explains so much. So, he's—what, gay?" 

"Dude, fuck if I know," Dean mutters, shrugging a little helplessly. "Can angels be gay?" 

Sam stares at him. "Holy shit. Holy—this is the Bee Movie. He's Vanessa, and you're Barry. He fell in love with a bee." 

"Sam, what the fuck?" 

"No, listen, hear me out. Right, so it's interspecies, for one, which...wow. Wow. But the whole plot is about Barry—the bee—sort of...fighting for his rights and all the other bees' rights to just kind of live their lives. That's you, obviously. And Vanessa is this human woman in a relationship with this idiot guy—that's Cas with Heaven, in this metaphor—and she didn't even give a second thought to bees because she never considered them worth caring about, not until she met Barry and, well, fell in love with him. Then she's suddenly fighting for bee rights as well, because she suddenly cares and she's in love with a literal fucking bee, which is ridiculous because she's human and that just doesn't...happen. Anyway, they save the bees and honey situation in the end, so—" 

"Sam," Dean cuts in, utterly horrified, "I've never been so damn ashamed to call you my brother. Why the fuck do you know so much about this movie to begin with, and can you stop comparing Cas' desire to rail me into next week to it? Jesus Christ." 

"It's Eileen's favorite movie," Sam mumbles, a little defensively. "Shut up. Also, are you even sure Cas wants to, ah, do that? He could just be, you know, feeling what he feels and not interested in the sex part. Maybe angels don't—well." 

Dean frowns at him. "He literally fucked a reaper, once. And he had that stupid bullshit thing with Meg. I may be a basket case, but I'm well aware of what the fuck I look like. People want to have sex with me, Sam, that's just the way of the world." 

"You're ego, man," Sam says, grimacing. He reaches up and rubs his eyebrow. "Okay, so, is this why you two are fighting? Dean, are you being a dick about this? I should stay. Shit, I should—" He heaves a sigh and fumbles around for his phone, eyebrows crumbling together. "It's short notice, but Eileen will understand. This is just—" 

"Woah, woah, woah," Dean blurts out quickly, surging forward to snatch the phone out of Sam's hand. "You don't need to stay. I'm not—I mean, why do you think I'm being a dick about it? I'm not. Cas is the one being fucking—I don't even know, but he's the dick, not me. Think he's repressed?" 

Sam sends him a flat look. "Yeah, you're not being a dick about it at all. Right." 

"I'm not!" Dean insists. "He won't even talk to me." 

"You said he, um, confessed before dying, right?" San blows out an explosive breath when Dean nods at him. "Well, he clearly didn't plan to face the consequences of his actions." 

"What consequences? There are literally no consequences," Dean says. "He said what the fuck he had to say, and that's all there is to it." 

"Dean," Sam says softly, "you know that's not how love works, man. It's not just...cut and dry like that." 

Dean scowls. "Well, that's not my fault." 

"Right, but—" Sam pauses, his gaze abruptly sharpening on Dean's face, suddenly shrewd. "Wait, actually, how do you feel about it?" 

"About what?" 

"Dean." 

"I…" Dean presses his lips into a thin line, that white noise entering his head again. He's starting to hate it with a burning passion. 

Sam raises his eyebrows again. "Right. You know, Barry was totally in love with Vanessa, too." 

"Shut the fuck up about that goddamn bee movie, Sam," Dean snaps, tossing his phone at him with vigor. Sam catches it against his chest, but he's still waiting. Dean huffs. "He's my best friend." 

"Is he, though?" 

"Fuck off, yes, he is. He's always been that." 

"I dunno, Dean," Sam says slowly, carefully. "I mean, I'm sure that's...part of it, but I don't know if that's all of it. I consider Cas a best friend, you know, and I've never done half the shit for him that you have. Remember when you wanted to kill Jack, a literal child? That was a thing. Also, when he's dead, you're just—I mean, it screws you up bad. Not that I don't hate it, or it doesn't hurt, but...it's different. And then there's how you—" 

"Stop, stop, please for the love of God—Jack, or whatever—just stop," Dean cuts in hastily, going back to pacing. "That's not—I'm not talking to you about my fucking feelings. I'm talking to you because I don't know what the fuck to do when Cas is throwing a tantrum like this one." 

Sam shrugs. "Well, why would I know what to do? Usually, when Cas is being weird, you handle it. You two are closer, always have been, which is another thing that you're conveniently not thinking about." 

"For the first time in my shitty, horrible life," Dean grits out, "I actually want to approach this situation without coming across as a complete asshole, which means I've become so desperate that I'm willing to listen to your peace-and-love bullshit advice, so you might want to take the goddamn opportunity while you still have the chance, because you probably won't ever again." 

"Ah." Sam mulls that over for a moment, then he nods jerkily. "Right, well, you should probably give him some time to cool off and make peace with everything. Oh, and some space, too. Leave him alone for a bit." 

Dean stares at him incredulously. "Dude wants my dick in his mouth, and you think he will benefit from being away from me?" 

Sam grimaces. "You're a little stuck on the sexual implications of this, did you know that?" 

"No, I'm not." 

"Uh huh. Okay, well, I actually do think he'd feel better not being bothered by you. Are you sure you don't want to come to Eileen's with me? Let Cas kind of...catch his breath?" 

"I don't bother him," Dean argues. "He's in love with me, so that's bullshit. Anyway, no, I'm staying here. But I could… I guess I could give him space." 

"Right," Sam says, eyeing him skeptically. He looks off to the side, then clears his throat. "Hey, uh, I moved the cleaning supplies out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, by the way." 

Dean's face scrunches. "Why the fuck would I need to know where you put the bleach, Sam?" 

"Just, you know, telling you," mumbles Sam, "in case you have to clean anything." 

"Can we stay on topic, please?" 

"I never actually left it, but okay. I'm going to go back to packing while you talk, but I'm serious about giving Cas his space, okay, Dean?" 

"Well, I'm going back to pacing, and I'm serious about doing that," Dean says. 

Sam hums. "Sure." 

Approximately twenty minutes after Sam is gone, Dean is banging on Cas' door. Loudly. He tried the space thing—for twenty minutes—and quickly came to the conclusion that it would not work for him. Sam gives shit advice, obviously. 

The thing is, Dean needs some kind of...closure, or acknowledgement, or something. Anything. Cas can't just pop back up into their lives, into Dean's life, and act like nothing ever happened. He doesn't get to be pissed about it. He should have known—he should have, because when does he ever really stay gone? He's Dean's hardest goodbye and most frequent hello—a vicious cycle not meant to be broken. 

So, Cas is back, and that's just how it is, so he's going to have to suck it up and handle his shit. 

It's probably just a little past ten in the morning, and Dean is standing outside Cas' door, fully dressed and bristling for a fight. He's not sure what he's expecting when the door abruptly wrenches open, but it's sure as hell not Cas standing there in what looks to be one of Sam's shirts—hanging a little loose and long off his frame, exposing his collarbones—and squinting out at Dean like he's only half-ass awake and pissed off about it. He takes one look at Dean, releases a quiet growl of frustration under his breath, then turns around and marches back over to his bed. 

Dean watches, his mouth hanging open, as Cas crawls back into his bed and disappears under the covers, turning into an unmoving lump. 

"What the fuck?" Dean invites himself inside, moving over to stand by the bed. He reaches out and grabs the cover, wrenching it away to reveal the back of Cas' head, face buried into his pillow. "Cas, are you sleeping, dude? Since when the fuck do you sleep? Are you—is this—" 

He can't find the answers in unfinished sentences, and Cas is still ignoring him, the little shit, so he's not provided with an explanation. 

Gripped with further annoyance that Cas is still not speaking to him, Dean reaches down and yanks the pillow right out from under Cas' face. When that gets no response, he smacks it down over Cas' head, which might not have been the smartest move because Cas is suddenly very awake, surging up and whipping around to prop on his elbow and glare at Dean like he's just committed an unforgivable crime. Dean clutches the pillow to his chest. 

"Well," he mutters defensively, "if you'd just talk to me, this wouldn't happen. I mean, I get that you'd rather use your mouth for other things when it comes to me, but—" 

Cas is out of the bed and heading right for the door so quickly that Dean feels like he blinks and misses it. He has to lunge forward—and nearly trip over the pillow he drops—to grasp Cas by the arm, jerking him to a halt and swinging him around. Cas recoils as if his touch burns. 

"Oh, fuck off, don't even act like that," Dean grumbles, frowning at him. "My touch probably makes you, like, warm on the inside, or something, so I don't know who you're trying to fool. Are you going to be a dick about this forever? So you're gay, or whatever. Cool, fine, great. Totally acceptable in the house of Winchesters. Sam accepts your love for bees—literally." Dean rolls his eyes at Cas' blank expression. "Don't ask, you don't want to know. Look, I get it, okay? You love me, I changed you, yada yada yada. I remember it, all of it, so I won't rehash it. But don't you think it's a little fucked that did all that, and now you're acting like this?" 

Cas glares at him for a long moment, then he very stiffly says, "I have no desire to speak with you." 

"Liar." Dean raises his eyebrows smugly, because he feels triumphant at breaking Cas' stubborn silence, and he knows just how stubborn Cas can be when he really tries at it. "You sure had a lot of shit to say before you fucked off and died." 

"Those were the last words I was ever meant to say to you," Cas tells him coldly. 

Dean snorts. "Says who? You? Yeah, buddy, life's not lucky enough to land like that. 'I love you. Goodbye, Dean' might have been what you wanted your last words to be, but now the first thing you've said to me since getting back is 'I have no desire to speak with you', and damn, talk about some character development. Didn't see that plot twist coming, I won't lie. Actually, there's some plot holes in it that just don't sit right. Not quite romantic enough." 

"Dean," Cas snaps, "I understand you're angry—" 

"Angry? Angry?" Dean gives a harsh laugh, blood pumping in his head, heart beating erratically in his chest. "No, Cas, I'm fucking livid. Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? You waited until the last possible fucking moment to tell me that, and then you just—you made me sit there and watch you die! Do you have any idea—" He cuts himself off, almost shocked by how truly furious he actually is. He releases a shaky breath and reaches out to jab Cas in the chest. "I fucking sobbed when the Empty swallowed you up, you know that? I—I ignored Sam and Jack, gave no fucks about Chuck, and I got blackout drunk. Then Lucifer showed the fuck back up and pretended to be you, and I—Cas, I was… Yes, I'm fucking angry. What did you expect?" 

Cas' eyes widen, just a little. "Lucifer? What did he do? Dean, what did he do?"

"Yeah, your daddy called him back onto the playing field but couldn't be fucked to—to do you the favor," Dean spits viciously. "He just—he called me, using your voice, because he knew I'd let him into the Bunker. And I did. Didn't even ask questions, just ran to the door and let him right the fuck in because I thought—because I hoped it was you." 

"That was...cruel," Cas murmurs. 

"Ya think?" Dean exhales heavily through his nose like a bull, a little huffy. He surveys Cas in the silence, still so fucking angry that it burn in his chest and sours on his tongue. "You know what pisses me off the most? You're actually back now, and you're acting like—you're being like this." 

"As opposed to what?" Cas asks sharply, gaze brightening with some anger of his own. "How do you expect me to act, Dean?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe a little more in love for a guy who literally confessed his love!" Dean snarls. 

"Sorry to disappoint," Cas says, tone flat. He sweeps up an eyebrow, bitchy to the last. "Forgive me, I'm not sure how I could act 'more in love'—" He even does the air quotes, the bastard, "—when my feelings are known, and you're aware of them." 

Dean glares at him. "Well, you haven't offered to suck my dick, not once, so chivalry is dead, apparently. The way I see it, you got one romantic bone in your goddamn body, and you broke it on your trip to the Empty." 

"Ah, of course." Cas narrows his eyes. "Consider this my official offer to suck your dick, Dean. Now, will you leave me alone?" 

There's a long beat of uncomfortable silence between them, and Dean realizes he sort of shot himself in the foot with that one. Right, okay, he literally asked for it. He just didn't think… 

Well, it's unexpected, is all. Dean is suddenly struck with the most absurd desire to claw his own skin off, but he doubts he'll be able to because, inexplicably, he's abruptly sweating. Unprompted, there's that white noise in his brain—it's going to haunt his nightmares, he just knows it—and he's sort of frozen in place. Dick sucking. Who doesn't love a blowjob? From the best friend in love with you, though, who you have over a decade of memories with? Bad idea. Worst idea. He doesn't even know how the fuck he feels about it. 

"That's what I thought," Cas says, arching his eyebrow again, then he turns around and sweeps away without another word. 

Dean feels pretty fucking stupid, watching him go. 

So starts the cycle of what Dean is refusing to call Gay Chicken, even though that's what it is. He always starts it because he's an asshole, but Cas isn't scared to finish it because he, too, is an asshole. 

First, there's the whole Breakfast Debacle. After Dean takes a very confusing shower—he tries to get off, but then literally can't, which only ends up frustrating him more—he bangs around in the kitchen to make omelets really angrily to blow off steam. He makes too many, and they all come out sort of deflated and sad, but fuck it. 

Eventually, Cas comes wandering in like they don't have this huge, serious thing between them. He grabs a plate without a word and takes an omelet for himself, not even looking at Dean. But Dean is most definitely looking at him. 

"Is that my shirt?" Dean asks incredulously. 

"Yes," Cas answers, then proceeds to ignore him as he makes himself some coffee and sits down to start eating, despite the fact that he never has before. 

Dean stares at him. "Why is that my shirt?" 

"Because you once purchased it, I presume." 

"Okay, yes, you asshat. I meant, why are you wearing my shirt?" 

"Because it's comfortable and smells like you," Cas replies bluntly. He arches an eyebrow. "Why do you still have the jacket with my bloody handprint draped over a chair in your room, Dean?" 

"Did you go into my room and steal my shirt?" Dean asks, gaping at him. 

"Yes. Answer my question." 

"Hey, fuck you, don't go stealing my shit." 

"You're not answering my question," Cas says. 

Dean lets the plate clatter to the table as he lands in his seat with a grunt. "Just haven't gotten around to washing it yet, that's all." 

"You haven't done laundry since I died?" Cas asks, staring at him blankly, openly and shamelessly doubtful. "I find that hard to believe, Dean." 

"Mmphurgh," Dean mumbles as he stuffs a bite into his mouth, eyes on his sad, lifeless omelet. When he swallows and glances back up, Cas is still just watching him. "The fuck does it matter? Shut up. Can we focus on the fact that you're stealing my shirts? Are you just going to do that now?" 

"Yes," Cas tells him, unrepentant. He pauses, then leans back in his chair, reaching down to grab the bottom of his—of Dean's—shirt. "Unless, would you like it back, Dean?" 

Dean throws up a hand quickly, nearly choking as he inhales a bite too fast. He shakes his head rapidly, wheezing. "No, it's fine. Keep it. Whatever." 

"Thank you," Cas says primly. He goes back to eating his breakfast without further comment. 

"You got a shower," Dean notes, flicking his gaze over the damp curls behind Cas' ears. He frowns a little. "And you're eating. Sleeping, too? Are you—"

"Human?" Cas raises his eyebrows. "Yes. There were certain measures Jack had to take to ensure that my leaving the Empty wouldn't pose a future problem. I wasn't in a position to argue." 

"Right." Dean fiddles with his fork, pondering that for a few moments. He shoots Cas a wary glance out of the corner of his eye. "You mind?" 

Cas hums, swallowing some coffee. "Being human? No, not at all. My grace was fleeting at the end, and...there are some benefits to it." 

Dean doesn't say anything to that, but he idly wonders if Vanessa would have been happy to become a bee for Barry. 

Sam and his goddamn metaphors. 

Later, Cas is back to not paying attention to him, which makes Dean's skin feel itchy. It's annoying. For a guy in love, he sure doesn't seem to give a shit about the person he apparently wants to be with. This Cas, this one, is the only Cas that rebelled in all the worlds Chuck actually created, and—as he once said—he did it, all of it, for Dean. Well, he's sure as hell not acting like it. 

Dean can't help but simply be aware of Cas, like his mere presence is a tangible thing. The back of his neck prickles when Cas wanders to the shelves of books on the other side of the room, not looking at him at all. He's not even watching, but he can feel Cas moving back and forth to read the titles, almost like a shifting breeze that skates down his spine. It makes goosebumps break out on his skin. 

Eventually, it gets so bad that Dean can't even focus on the laptop in front of him. He half-turns in his chair, craning his head to get Cas in his line of sight. He feels sort of—well, a little ridiculously like prey, like if he doesn't keep an eye on Cas, he'll never see the attack coming. What attack? No fucking clue. 

Cas doesn't seem aware of him at all. 

And that's—it's irritating, is what it is. Dean is both furious that Cas isn't looking at him and furious that he wants Cas to look at him. This would be solved if Cas would just look at him, and then Dean wouldn't have to want him to. 

Really, it all boils down to Dean's disdain for how Cas approaches this whole love thing. If it was Dean who pulled the shit Cas did before dying, he would have come back and acted—well, he can't say how that would have gone, but he knows for damn sure that he wouldn't have done this. 

Listen, Dean isn't a sappy, silly romantic, okay? He likes horror movies and avoids chick flicks and the mere idea of, like, flowers and hearts and participating in Valentine's Day in any other way than using it to get laid makes his skin crawl. The most indulgent he allows himself of anything that can be considered sappy romance is his mild and well-hidden appreciation for Taylor Swift, but a lot of her shit is whimsical and sad, so whatever. 

Tragic romance is a whole different story. Pride and Prejudice? No thanks. Romeo and Juliet? Fuck him up with that, yes, please. Or, in that vein, at least. Pride and Prejudice was actually nice—the movie, and the zombie adaption was pretty cool, not that he'd ever admit it. That's besides the point. 

The point is, Dean is more acquainted with tragic romance in his life—his mom and dad, Bobby and his wife, Sam and literally everyone before Eileen, even himself and Lisa. It's practically all he knows, so he's sort of numb to it. He can relate on some level. For him, love doesn't come with happy endings, and Cas' sacrifice was only further proof of that. But Cas is back now, again, so it's not the end.

That means Cas immediately clings to the tragic romance as well, and for some reason, that pisses Dean off. No, he doesn't care for stories where love conquers all and everyone lives happily ever after, especially because that's just not realistic for him. That doesn't mean he wants Cas to feel the same. 

Does he know how he feels for Cas? Fuck no. Does he want Cas to be happy? Yeah. Yeah, he does. 

"Hey, Cas," Dean says, "you gonna go on hunts with us when we go?" 

"Mhm," Cas confirms distractedly, flipping through a book with a furrow in his brow. 

"So you want to be a Hunter?" 

"Mn."

"Things have slowed down a lot since Chuck." 

"Hm." 

"Probably Jack's doing." 

Cas doesn't even bother replying that time, and Dean snaps his laptop shut with enough force that he instinctively freezes, waiting for Sam's harsh reprimand. But no, Sam isn't here; he's at Eileen's, enjoying his happy ending, as he should. 

Dean recovers quickly, patting the laptop in apology on Sam's behalf, since he isn't here to do it, and then he hops up from his chair. He approaches Cas quietly, hovering closer and closer, and Cas seems completely absorbed in the text. It's like he's less interested in Dean since confessing his love to him, and the thought is—it's not a good one. 

Without much forethought, Dean reaches out and plucks the book right out of Cas' hands, snorting at the title—Angel Anatomy. As if he needs to read about that. "A little redundant, don't you think? It's not like you don't already know." 

"It's interesting to examine how humans approached it with what information they had," Cas says, narrowing his eyes. "Give it back." 

"Nah," replies Dean, "I don't think I will. Been a while since you and I had any downtime, Cas. Why don't we watch a movie?" 

"I'd rather read." 

"Okay, nerd. But, also, you sure about that? Movies usually come with low lighting and close proximity. Hey, you could finally make your move." 

Cas steps up to him without trepidation or warning, arching an eyebrow, so close that Dean can feel the heat of him. Dean jerks back and slams into the bookshelf, hitting hard from the sudden speed in which he moves, spurred on by the strong force of his panic. His heart is having a goddamn riot in his chest, and Cas doesn't look affected at all. He's the one in love, for fuck's sake! 

"Dean," Cas says shortly, "there are no moves to make. If I planned to do anything, I would do it with or without low lighting and close proximity. Rest assured, I've made no such plans." 

With that, Cas reaches out and snatches his book back, turning away and going to his room. He slams the door for good measure. 

Okay, yeah, that's fair. Dean stands there for a while, pressed up against the shelves, not a thought in his mind. That white noise again. And then, eventually, it passes and he's angry all over again. 

I've made no such plans. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, but why the fuck not? Dean isn't asking to be assaulted here, but goddamn, he knows he's desirable. People have been making moves on him for years, even when they know they'll be shot down, and Cas just thinks he's above that or some shit? 

Cas doesn't come out of his room until dinner. Dean has been banging around in the kitchen again, this time with better results—hey, you can never go wrong with Lasagna. Cas seems to like it anyway, though he doesn't look at Dean or speak to him while eating. Dean glares at him through the meal. 

"And where the fuck do you think you're going?" Dean asks when Cas gets up to leave. "You can help wash dishes like the rest of us worker bees, now that you are one. You wash, I'll rinse." 

Cas rolls his eyes, but he does join Dean at the sink. There's silence for a while, until Cas says, "Worker bees are very important." 

"Says the Queen," Dean mutters. 

"Not anymore," Cas reminds him. 

Dean grunts. "You sure you're alright with that? Last time you were human…" 

"Oh, do finish that thought," says Cas. 

"Fuck you." 

"Are you planning to make me leave again? 

"No, of course not," Dean says quietly, rinsing the plate Cas passes to him. An old guilt rises in his chest. It's been years, but that's a mistake he's learned from very well. "Actually, I'll drag your ass kicking and screaming right back here if you do try and leave, so keep that in mind." 

Cas hums. "You needn't worry. I didn't ask to be brought back. Jack left me here, so you'd have no luck in trying to get me to leave. I've decided my existence is no longer my problem." 

"Have you? That's one way to look at it, Cas. Good for you, man." Dean snorts, his lips curling up into a grin. "So you're my problem now?" 

"Sam's, preferably," Cas tells him without an ounce of irony. "He's better equipped." 

Dean elbows Cas in the arm, huffing. "Why does he get all the credit for it? I raised the kid. I must have done something right for him to turn out so good." 

"His personality is his own."

"And what? You like his better, or something?" 

"Generally, yeah," Cas admits, lips twitching. 

"Why didn't you fall in love with him, then?" Dean asks, glancing at him, waiting for some kind of reaction—there isn't one. 

Cas just gives a little shrug and calmly says, "I suppose he's not my type. It might be the hair." 

"Oh my god." Dean has to brace his hands on the side of the sink as he cracks up, dissolving into laughter and not thinking about how this is the first time he's smiled so genuinely and laughed so freely since before Cas died. He just relaxes into it, a phantom pressure lifting off his chest. When he gathers himself a few moments later, Cas is watching him like he's—oh. Right. Like he's in love, and so very fond. Dean clears his throat. "Yeah, I guess the hair could be a deal-breaker. Or, it could be just because you met me first." 

"I'm quite sure that isn't the reason. No matter the circumstances, you are you, Sam is Sam, and I am me," Cas murmurs, averting his eyes. He scrubs a plate that's already clean, not even seeming to notice. "It was always going to be you." 

Okay, so that's pretty damn romantic, actually. Be careful what you wish for, and all that. Dean refuses to blush—he just won't do it, no, absolutely not, but fuck, his face is growing hot. He wants to scream about it, because that's just some bullshit. He's had women whisper in his ear all the dirty things they wanted to do with him, and that only ever made him smirk. Women can be downright filthy when they want to be, so he's heard some things worth blushing over in his time, except he never did. 

But here Cas is, saying shit like it was always going to be you, and Dean's suddenly so flustered that he drops the plate he's rinsing three times. 

He's a glutton for punishment, though, because he blurts out, "But, like, when? I mean, since we met? Was it a 'love at first sight' kind of thing?" 

"That is one way to interpret it. Perhaps it began there. It was gradual," Cas tells him, sounding amused. He's definitely looking at Dean's face and the steadily darkening blush on it. "I always knew, I think, even though I somehow also didn't. We've been through much together, so there were times it became so apparent that I couldn't ignore it." 

"You must have been confused as fuck," Dean mumbles. "Being an angel and all, I mean." 

"No, not really," Cas says. "You met Lily Sunder. It is not the first time an angel felt this way for a human. It was, however, the first time an angel was so brazen as to feel this way for a human known to be entwined in Heaven's plans." 

Dean huffs a weak laugh. "Right. You're a regular rebel, I know that. Actually, that's probably why you fell in love with me to begin with. It would get you in the most trouble, and you're all about that." 

"It has been the least troubling part of my existence. It came to me naturally," Cas declares simply, like that's a thing to say to someone, as if it's not going to make Dean break out in hives and just die on the spot from spontaneous combustion. 

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" Dean breathes out, staring at him, unable to make sense of it. 

Cas looks away, cleaning the last dish. "Do you often speak of a father who did better? Do you ever mention a life without pain, or one without ever having gone to hell?" 

"I mean, no, but what would be the point?" 

"Precisely." 

Dean watches in silence as Cas draws his hands from the water, flicking the suds off his fingers, then leaves without saying anything else. 

He is no longer blushing. 

Sighing, he reaches into the water to drain it, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. Now he just feels guilty. Fuck. Well, it's not his fault. He's just him, and Cas has got to be the stupidest son of a bitch to ever love him. But he does, and he's not even acting like it, not really. There's restraint there, as if the effort would be wasted if used. 

It fucking sucks that Dean is who he's in love with. Why couldn't it have been any normal Tom, Dick, or Harry? Someone not so messed up. Someone that Cas wouldn't hesitate to try with. 

Cas shouldn't have to hesitate. He shouldn't have to be unhappy, or feel hopeless, or be so sure that he'd never get what he wants that he doesn't even make plans to go after it. Unrequited love is a bitch, and Dean simply does not want to be a part of it. He doesn't want to be loved at all, not like this. 

Maybe… Maybe there is a Tom, Dick, or Harry out there for Cas. That could happen. That would be—

More white noise. So, he doesn't know what that would be. Great. Fantastic. He's so glad that he's stitched together with the thread of his issues, just to make this even more difficult. He just loves when his life is difficult, truly—note the sarcasm. 

His frustration rises over the next few hours, and then he's back to being frustrated because Cas isn't paying attention to him again. Granted, considering everything, Dean can't really blame him. It's still annoying as all hell, though. 

It's like seeing someone who has never, not once, given up...just give up. It might be the most frustrating and infuriating thing that Dean has to bear witness to. Cas is a fighter. When he gets knocked down, he always gets up again. When he has blood on his teeth, he spits it out. When he happens to die, he simply comes the fuck back. He's a resilient, hardy bastard, and Dean has always respected that about him. 

When the angels told Cas he couldn't, he just did. He once swallowed fucking leviathans like it was a regular Monday. He survived Purgatory with a target on his back, all while keeping Dean as safe as possible. When everyone wanted to kill Jack, Cas was the one to step in and protect him and Kelly. Over and over, in so many ways, the world—and literal God—has told Cas no, and he just went and did what he wanted to anyway. 

So, for Dean to be the one thing, the one person, with the power to leave Cas feeling defeated… 

Yeah, no, he's not okay with that. 

Also, it's incredibly irksome that Cas seems perfectly okay with it. He's just...fine with not looking at Dean, or talking to him, or touching him. Ignoring him is easy, apparently, which is just… Oh, it pisses Dean off more than words can say. 

Dean can't stop poking the bear, so to speak. He steals the books that Cas gets too invested in. He pesters him to come watch a movie, growing more and more frustrated when Cas refuses each time. He drags Cas into conversation every chance he gets, fighting tooth and nail for every response, most feeling like pulling teeth. He never outright says it, never just opens his mouth and demands, "Hey, Cas, pay attention to me," but it's as obvious as a brick to the face, even to Dean, who is doing his level best to pretend like it's anything else. 

He feels like he's doing Cas' work for him, but hell, someone around here has to. It's like working on a group project, except he's doing every single role and has idea what the project even is. 

Sometimes, though… Sometimes, Cas gets involved. Like with the shirts. Like saying surprisingly sweet things, blunt as they may be. Like pushing back when Dean pushes him—and, in this game of Gay Chicken, Cas is most definitely winning. 

When they both head off to bed, Dean literally cannot stop himself from saying, "Isn't this where you're supposed to toss me over your shoulder and take me to your bed?" 

"Why would I ever do that?" Cas asks, squinting at him like he's a little stupid, which...rude. 

"It's like you keep forgetting that you're in love with me," Dean mutters, tossing up a hand. 

Cas glares at him. "I couldn't. You seem to feel the need to remind me every five minutes." 

"Hey, it's not easy work, but someone has to do it. So you're not going to toss me over your shoulder and take me to your bed?" Dean waggles his eyebrows, grinning because he's an asshole. "You're strong enough for it, aren't you?" 

"Yes," Cas answers, "and no, I will not be doing that. I don't know why you're under the assumption that I would. What gave you that impression?" 

Dean puffs up his cheeks to muffle a rising chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, I kinda figured you'd want to get me into your bed." 

"I'm not opposed," Cas tells him, blinking at him, so blunt and unabashed. He arches an eyebrow. "You're more than welcome to join me." 

"Ah, I—um…" Dean goes from swallowing laughter to choking on it seconds, backing up reflexively as Cas watches with his stupid fucking eyes and that stupid fucking arched eyebrow. His next words fall out of him in a rush as he steadily edges closer and closer to his bedroom door. "Actually, you know, kinda tired. Uh, goodnight." 

He turns around quickly and runs face-first into his door. He fumbles with the doorknob, cursing under his breath, feeling like a grade A idiot.  

Amused, Cas calls, "Goodnight, Dean," and makes it in his room before Dean ever gets the chance to figure out doorknobs and get into his own. 

The following morning, Dean wakes up feeling like his head has been tossed around between two different bats. In fairness, it is the first night he's actually slept without a) crying profusely, and b) drinking himself into oblivion. 

He drags himself out of bed, fumbling for his robe—the Dead Guy one—as he rubs sleep out of his throbbing eyes. He's arrested by the sight of the jacket, the bloodied handprint a dark stain against the arm. He sits back down on the bed, reaching out slowly to gather the jacket up, staring down at it. 

His eyes sting. 

Slowly, carefully, Dean ducks his head and brings a clean portion of the jacket up to cover his face, his shoulders jerking up as his breath hitches. And, very quietly, very heavily, he cries. 

The wall didn't bleed black again, no, but Cas is still here, and that's—fuck, that's so many different things that Dean can't even figure them all out. Fuck the love confession and the uncertainty between them, because Cas being back—no matter what else is going on—is always a goddamn win. This might be the biggest, the best, win yet in that way, because Cas was never meant to come back at all. He didn't try, he never wanted to, and Dean isn't really handling that well, but it's fine. It's better, because Cas is home, and that makes up for everything.  

So, Dean cries a little, what the fuck ever. It's just relief. That's all it is. It's not like the gut-wrenching sobs that tore out of him after Cas was swallowed up. It's not even like the messy, stupid crying that comes when he's getting drunk every night. It's just quiet, harsh weeping that goes muffled and unseen, like his aching heart has to make itself known in this way or he'll explode. 

Anyway, he's fine. It helps plenty. When he eventually gets his shit together and stops spiralling a little, he shoves the jacket in his laundry basket, even though he never has before, and he takes it to be washed. Before dropping it in the washing machine, he stares at the handprint for a long moment, his throat bobbing around a reflexive swallow. It's not all he has anymore. Cas is back. 

Dean throws it in and closes the lid. 

After, he makes it back to his room, which is where he spots Cas coming out of it. He has a shirt in his hands, the fucking thief. Dean narrows his eyes. So, he's really going to keep stealing Dean's shirts? 

"You know, we could just buy you your own wardrobe, Cas," Dean says with a pointed nod to the shirt, his shirt. 

Cas frowns slightly. "I do not mind." 

"Oh, wow, glad we cleared that up," Dean mutters, snorting. Trust that to go right over Cas' head. Nevermind the fact that it's Dean's shirt, and he might be the one who minds. Though...he doesn't, not really. Not at all. "Whatever. Look, I'm about to make breakfast. What do you want?" 

"I don't have any particular request." 

"You sure?" 

"Yes, Dean," says Cas, "I'm sure." 

Dean nods, jerking his chin to his shirt. "You're going to get a shower, then?" 

"Yes," Cas confirms. 

"Uh huh." Dean crosses his arms, leaning against the wall, considering Cas with amusement as he stands there in Dean's doorway. "I bet you'd like to get me in there with you, wouldn't you? Save some water, and all that." 

Cas is glaring at him in a heartbeat, but all he grits out is, "Water conservation is important." 

"Is it?" Dean asks, grinning. "How is it important, Cas? Tell me more about that." 

"Fresh, clean water is a resource—not an infinite one, and certainly very expensive," Cas says. 

Dean chuckles. "Right, and it has absolutely nothing to do with you wanting to get me naked, does it?" 

"Well." Cas arches an eyebrow at him. "That, too." 

And suddenly, nothing about this is funny, because Cas apparently wants to get him naked, which Dean has sort of known already. But it's one thing for him to think it and another to have Cas confirm it. His smile slips right off his face, and his heart does that stupid tripping thing in his chest again, and holy shit, he didn't even know his hands could sweat like this. He shakes out his palms, releasing a shaky laugh—a nervous one—as he pushes off the wall and starts towards the kitchen. 

"Breakfast," Dean blurts out, like an idiot, and then he's fleeing without another word. 

By the time Cas is coming into the kitchen, freshly showered, breakfast is indeed finished. Dean has made pancakes with bacon, because he deserves bacon on a day like today. It's dripping in grease, just how he likes it, and it's even better because Sam isn't here to bitch about it. 

Cas is back to ignoring him. Dean is back to thinking he's not allowed. The dude wants to get Dean naked; he shouldn't be so good at acting like he doesn't. It's fucking annoying. 

And so, Gay Chicken continues. 

The thing is, Dean's not really sure why he wants Cas to act like he wants him. He knows that Cas does, so pestering him about it really doesn't make sense. It's like a sore tooth—no matter how much it aches, he just has to keep prodding it over and over. 

Dean's usually not one to back down from anything, and being defeated isn't something he gives into naturally. His instinct is to go down swinging, if he's going down at all. With this, however, he picks these fights knowing he's not going to win them, but he can't figure out how to stop. 

And he does lose, because Cas fights back, because of course he does. It's like it's his only defense, like that's the ace up his sleeve, the thing that can shut Dean up the fastest—and it does. Cas is clearly annoyed every time Dean gets too close to him, so he moves even closer until Dean is stumbling over himself to put space between them. It obviously pisses him off every time Dean draws attention to the fact that Cas wants to be with him sexually, so he just confirms it without any shame, knowing that Dean will freak out a little and flee for a while. 

It's like Dean is some kinda validation-whore or something, because he just wants to know. He wants Cas to talk about it, to fucking act like he feels. He brings it up over and over, prodding that sore tooth, and Cas grows more visibly pissed off about it throughout the day. Dean knows—oh, how he knows—that he should stop, but he can't. 

On one such occasion, they're eating the sandwiches Dean made them for lunch, and he asks through a mouthful, "So, like, did you know you had the hots for me before Jack was even thought about?" 

"Yes, Dean," Cas says, resigned, and he slides the tomatoes off his BLT—more bacon, because Dean is having a day. 

"Huh." Dean swallows and raises his eyebrows, helplessly curious. "Before Amara, then?" 

"Yes." 

"Before I was a demon?" 

"Yes." 

"While I was a demon?" 

Cas fixes him with a glare, but he says, "Yes."

"You would have fucked me while I was demon?" Dean asks, just to clarify, only distantly aware that his voice has gone a little pitchy. 

"Given the chance," Cas mutters, sitting the sandwich down with a scowl, "probably." 

"Kinky," Dean wheezes. He coughs, staring at his sandwich with wide eyes. There's white noise in his head again. Oh, he fucking hates the white noise. It's not in any way productive. "Right, so...when you were human, too? Before that? Purgatory?" 

Cas exhales heavily through his nose and tilts his head back, speaking to the ceiling. "Yes, Dean. Just assume that at any point in all the time I've known you, I would have gladly had sex with you. A decade ago, yesterday, tomorrow, and a decade from now." 

"Cas," Dean sputters, gaping at the sharp line of his jaw, eyes bulging, "what the fuck, dude?" 

"Do not ask questions you don't want the answer to, Dean," Cas warns, dropping his head and glaring at him, his stupid eyebrow ticking up. He spreads his hands as if presenting himself, his voice taking on a mocking tone when he speaks next. "I am at your disposal. Use me as you see fit." 

Dean can feel the heat in his face. It floods from his cheeks right down his neck, and no, no, he's not fucking doing this right now. Again with the goddamn blushing. Cas didn't even really say anything, so it's just uncalled for. It's bullshit to the highest degree. There's literally no reason for this. 

Flustered and hating himself for it, Dean promptly shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, choking on it, and he hastily hops up from his chair. Cas is still just watching him with an arched eyebrow, his gaze feeling unnecessarily heavy and forget-me-not blue, which is unfair because Dean can't forget and won't anytime soon. With Cas tracking him with his stupid eyes, Dean beats a hasty retreat, feeling like a goddamn fool. 

Four hours later, Dean is staring at the back of Cas' head and contemplating the merits of walking over with the sole intention of tugging on his hair, just to get a reaction out of him. 

Soup is slow-cooking for dinner, and Dean is back on his laptop—idly looking for a case, to absolutely no avail—while Cas is sitting across the room, completely absorbed in another book again. For every minute that passes where Cas isn't looking at him instead, Dean grows more and more agitated. 

For someone who apparently wants to fuck Dean, or whatever, he sure isn't acting like it. Where's the desire? Where's the tension? He's felt more sexual frustration from a wet blanket. This is excruciating, like watching paint dry. Cas has had perpetual blue balls for years apparently, so why is he acting like a fucking nun who doesn't know what arousal even is? 

Dean once again preoccupies himself on examining his feelings for Cas, only to come up empty yet again—just that white noise, as usual. Frustrated, he checks in with Sam, making sure he's alive and Eileen hasn't accidentally suffocated him with her thighs, or whatever. Sam sends him the middle finger emoji, so Eileen apparently has not. 

"Hey, Cas," Dean calls out. 

"Hm?" 

"Whatcha reading?" 

"A thrilling analysis on how Egyptians were far superior and ahead of their time in every way," Cas replies, sounding serious about it, not sarcastic in the least. "Why?" 

Dean scratches his scruff, frowning. "Just asking. You, uh, seem pretty...you know, focused." 

"Mhm." 

"On the book." 

"Yes," Cas agrees distractedly, the bastard. 

And not on me, Dean doesn't say, because he's not a thirteen-year-old girl. "You don't have to sit all the way across the room, Cas. You do know that, right? You can sit next to me. I won't bite." 

"I'm fine here," Cas murmurs. 

"You'd probably like it if I did bite," Dean muses, a grin playing at the corner of his lips when he sees Cas' shoulders stiffen. "Or maybe you'd like to bite me. Anywhere in particular?" 

Cas snaps his book shut, slowly turning in his chair to glare at him, and yes, victory. Well, Cas is furious again, but Dean's okay with that. 

His voice sharp as a knife, Cas says, "Dean, shut up." 

"Okay, so the biting is a thing. Very naughty of you, Cas," Dean teases. "No, but seriously, where?" 

"At the moment?" Cas asks, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Dean freezes like a startled deer. "Wait, like right now? You'd—you want to—" 

"Yes, Dean. Desire and attraction are continuous, constant things for me, in regards to you," Cas informs him flatly, dropping his hand. "You'll have to be more specific when referencing my never dormant desires." 

"Never dormant?" Dean echoes, his voice going high again, his heart reviving wildly in his chest from where it had suddenly stopped mere seconds before. He nearly knocks over his chair in his haste to stand up. "The soup. I have—I should check on the soup." 

Cas opens his book again while Dean flees. 

Vaguely, Dean wonders if this is what the rest of his life is going to be like. Just constantly kicked in the goddamn teeth over and over by Cas saying shit like that. He can be so unflinchingly honest sometimes, and Dean is one hundred percent positive that certain matters deserve some fucking discretion. 

That being said, he literally brings it on himself. He pushes and pushes, and he can't really expect Cas not to push back, can he? He should most definitely stop. He knows he should. 

And yet, when they're sitting at the table, eating soup, Dean asks, "What about marriage?" 

"What about it?" Cas replies. 

"Did you ever, you know, think about it with me?" Dean prompts, needing to know, even though Cas is probably going to say something ridiculous that's going to make him want to hide under the table. He's a masochist, clearly. 

But, shockingly, that's not what happens at all. Cas just shakes his head and says, "No." 

"No?" Dean blurts out, sitting ramrod straight in his chair. Okay, now he's offended. "What do you mean no? You don't want to marry me?" 

"No," says Cas. 

Dean drops his spoon into his bowl, staring at Cas, affronted. "Well, why the fuck not? You wanna fuck me five ways to Sunday, but I'm not good enough for marriage? Fuck you, I'm husband material. I'd make a great goddamn husband." 

"Dean, in what world would you have ever agreed if I did happen to consider it and want it?" Cas asks pointedly, raising his eyebrows. When Dean snaps his mouth shut, he nods. "Exactly." 

"No, fuck off," Dean mumbles. "We both know there are a lot of universes out there and shit. Who knows? I mean, we can't know. So...shut up." 

"You're suggesting there is a world in which you might have agreed?" 

"I mean, yeah, sure. Why the fuck not? There were squirrel versions of ourselves, Cas. It can't be that farfetched that there's a Dean out there somewhere who would have said yes if you asked." 

"I see," Cas murmurs. 

Dean fiddles with his spoon, frowning. "Would you—I mean, if you could, would you go get your happily ever after with that Dean?" 

Cas looks up from his soup, staring at him, his lips parted as he releases a quiet sigh. "No, Dean," he says softly, "I only want you." 

"He would be me, just a different version." 

"Then he would not be you." 

"Yeah, but it would be easier for you, right? Existing with that version instead of—" Dean cuts himself off, staring down at his soup in silence. 

"I understand existing better when doing it with you," Cas tells him, "but this you. It can only be you." 

Dean's breath punches out of his lungs, and he reaches up with a groan to cover his face—now exploding with heat—with his hands. Jesus fucking Christ. Who just says things like that? Who the fuck made him think that it was okay? There's so much white noise in his head that he can't even make out his frantic heartbeat for a few moments. 

Dean draws his hands into fists and knuckles his eyes, taking a few seconds just to...breathe. Yeah, breathing is good. He needs to recalibrate. At the moment, it seems like he's about to meet his end. Cas saying shit like that is clearly an attempt to slowly murder him, acting like a poison despite the sweet words, leading straight to heart failure. 

He'll never survive it. 

"Right," Dean croaks, finally. "Eat your fucking soup." 

Cas does, not saying another word, and Dean slowly but surely recovers. It's fine. This is perfectly fine. His best friend is in love with him, and Dean apparently has a mild obsession with that fact, but whatever. He's fine. Just...more white noise. 

After dinner, Dean takes a shower and is once again frustrated when he tries to fuck his fist and blow off some steam, to no results. Oh, he's aroused. He's totally capable of getting it up and reaching that peak, hanging precariously on the edge, but no matter how hard he tries, he literally can't find release. This is so beyond frustrating and also inconvenient as fuck, because he has to finish off his shower in cold water to get his boner to go away. And it only does by half, like he's suddenly a teenager again with no control over himself. 

So, his skin is itching, he's suffering terribly, and he's on his way to his room with all intentions of shoving his headphones over his ears to listen to Led Zeppelin—maybe some Taylor Swift, but that's no one's business but his own—and it's all in the name of finding his fucking chill. Because right now? He has none. His zen has left the building. 

On this trip to his room, he meets Cas on the way to his own. For a moment, they just stand across from each other, sizing the other up, narrowing their eyes. Dean's already pissed off as it is, and he's still firmly in the state of mind where he's annoyed that Cas isn't acting like he's head over heels. Cas can clearly sense his agitation, and so he's going on the defensive immediately, shoulders tense. 

This is, of course, a recipe for disaster. 

"Going to bed?" Dean asks. 

Cas pauses, then nods sharply. "Not to sleep, as I'm not tired, but yes." 

"Right, because you have a lot of things you'd rather be doing than sleeping," Dean says with a cheeky grin, because he is, in fact, an asshole. He gestures to his own body, waggling his eyebrows. "Namely me, obviously." 

"Obviously," Cas parrots dryly. He rolls his eyes so hard that his head tips a little bit. "If you'll excuse me, you're in front of my door." 

"Am I? Wow, that must be very tempting for you, Cas," Dean declares mockingly. He crosses his arms and plants his feet. "You've never asked me to move before. What, you scared to touch me now?" 

"I'm not sure what you're implying."

"Oh, I think you are. You've been back for two days and haven't touched me once. What's that about?" 

"Dean," Cas snaps, his jaw clenching, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He's probably grinding his teeth. Dean should warn him not to do that, especially as a human, but he doesn't. 

"So you are scared to touch me?" Dean challenges, lips curling up. "Hey, man, you gotta face your fears some time. Trust me, I would know." 

"I have no desire to touch you, Dean." 

"Yeah, no dice, buddy. We both know that's complete bullshit. A for effort, though." 

Cas glares, glares, and glares at him, looking so furious that it would make weaker men piss themselves—Dean's not a very weak man, though. After a long, tense moment, Cas grinds out, "Move out of the way, please." 

"Oh, how polite," Dean teases, feeling a vindictive surge of delight when noticing how truly wound up Cas is at the moment. Because he's horrible, he keeps right on pushing. "What are you going to do if I don't? Stand out here all night?" 

Cas is the sort of stubborn bastard that would, actually, but he clearly has no plans to. His nostrils flare, lips tightening with fury, and then he's abruptly marching forward without any warning whatsoever. The warning would have been nice. 

Dean doesn't even get time to scramble out of the way, though that's his first instinct. Before he can even attempt to, Cas has him by the lapels of his flannel, fisting it, and proceeds to shove him away from the door and against the wall right next to it. He's still pissed, clearly, because he's not holding any of his force back and he's practically pinning him to the wall, all while still glaring. 

This is—hm, this is the loudest the white noise has ever been. There are no thoughts in his head. He has no idea what his face is doing, or what his automatic response to this is. He knows he isn't scared, not really, but there's a sense of panic that flutters fast and hot at the base of his throat. The thud of his back hitting the wall echoes in his mind, and the slight ache between his shoulders from where he connected feels strangely warm. 

"I said move," Cas snarls at him, then lets him go and wheels around to march into his room, slamming the door behind himself so hard that it actually rattles in its frame for a moment. 

Dean stands there, blinking rapidly, a little mortified to find his hands shaking. Gingerly, he peels himself away from the wall, reaching up to palm his mouth, shooting furtive looks at Cas' closed door. He lingers, trying to work out what the fuck just happened. Well, Cas obviously had enough, which is fair, but Dean's more concerned with the fact that Cas just touched him—more like slung him around a bit—and didn't even seem tempted for more. 

Clearing his throat, Dean goes back to his room. Once more, just for experimental purposes, he tries masturbating again. He gets so, so close over and over, his skin hot and these pathetic whimpers escaping through clenched teeth, but nothing. He teeters on that edge, stuck there, suffering. 

He goes to sleep still sporting a boner. 

"I'm telling you, Sam, we're perfectly fine. Giving him space was such a shit idea. Of course I wasn't gonna listen to you." 

Sam's sigh crackles through the phone. "You're being a complete dick about all of this, aren't you? Hold on." His voice turns muffled, like he's moved his head away. "Yeah, he didn't give him any space. I know, but one can dream. Right, right. I don't know. I'm just hoping it doesn't happen in the kitchen." A beat later, Sam's voice returns to normal. "I just know you're being a dick about this, Dean. I can feel it. Should I come home? I should come home." 

"Do not come home," Dean grumbles. "Also, you fucking told Eileen? Sam!" 

"Of course I told Eileen," replies Sam. "Anyway, don't worry about it. She wasn't even surprised, said it was obvious, actually." 

Dean grunts. "Score one for Eileen for being the most observant, whoopty-fucking-do." 

"She agrees with me about the Bee Movie theory." 

"Jesus Christ." 

Sam laughs, sounding light and carefree. "It only makes sense. Now, tell me how you're not being a dick about this, or we're getting in a car and heading that way in the next thirty minutes." 

"No, no, you're not. You're spending at least another day with her. I don't need a fucking babysitter. I know you think I'm incapable of handling my shit, but I'll have you know I'm being very mature about all of this. Cas, on the other hand, is mostly still ignoring me, the asshole," Dean says. 

"Look, this has to be really difficult for him, okay? He needs to get used to having to live with his feelings being known. It's going to be an adjustment for him, that's all. The best thing for you to do is leave it and him alone, Dean." 

"Yeah, I don't think so. Leaving him alone is the last thing that's going to help. He'll just recede into his shell like a fucking turtle and go back to pretending he's not in love with me." 

"Dean," Sam says slowly, "shouldn't you want him to pretend like he's not in love with you? I think it'd be kinda awkward otherwise, man." 

"I'm acknowledging it so it won't be awkward. What are we supposed to do? Just go on and act like he doesn't wanna shove me against a wall and have his way with me?" Dean protests. 

Sam heaves a sigh again. "Weirdly specific, but okay. Still stuck on the sex part, I see. And I sort of thought that's what you'd prefer, yeah. It's like your thing to shove feelings away and pretend like nothing is going on. You either ignore it, or drink about it, or both—none of which are healthy, by the way." There's a pause, then Sam snorts. "Eileen's advice is for you to watch the Bee Movie." 

"Tell Eileen that we're no longer friends." 

"I don't lie to my girlfriend, Dean." 

"Right, of course." Dean scoffs in mock-disgust and shoves his feet into his boots. "Look, whatever, I gotta go, alright? I'm making Cas come with me to that diner on the corner of Walnut Street, you know the one. I wanna get there before they take the soup off the menu for dinner." 

"Don't you hate that soup?" 

"Yeah, but Cas will like it." 

"Ah," Sam says, coughing. "So instead of letting him have his space, you're dragging him out on a date?" 

Dean pulls the phone away to stare at it incredulously, then puts it right back with a scowl when he hears Eileen's muffled laughter. "Okay, fuck you both. You know goddamn well that this isn't a fucking date, and so will he. As many times as I've taken him to stop by and grab a bite… What, you wanna imply all those were dates, too?" 

"I mean, sure, if you wanted them to be," Sam declares lightly. "I support you entirely. Wait, hold on." Another pause. Sam makes a choking sound, a laugh, and then he clears his throat. "Right. Ah, Eileen says, and I quote, go get your man." 

Dean hangs up. 

Great, so now he's being laughed at for something that is literally not even his fault. Sam is one thing. That's the little brother in him, unable to resist the chance to get a dig in. Eileen, however? Well, to be fair, she has a mischievous streak a mile wide, so he's not really that surprised. 

Fine, whatever, he'll just put up with being teased about this for the rest of his life. It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to him, and at least someone gets to laugh about it. 

Heaving a sigh of his own, Dean goes into his closet to grab Cas a jacket. No way in hell he's wearing that trenchcoat over one of Dean's shirts. When he leaves his room to go to Cas', he stomps the whole way. When he knocks, he bangs with his whole fist, loudly. He's still in a piss-poor mood from a night of complicated frustration, and the fact that Cas has kept himself scarce today only makes it worse. 

When Cas opens the door, he's already glaring. His lips are pressed into a thin line. He doesn't say anything, just arches an eyebrow and waits. 

"Here." Dean shoves his coat at Cas. "Put that on. We're eating out today. Don't feel like cooking." 

"I could—" 

"And burn my kitchen down? I don't think so. Get dressed. Meet you at Baby in five." 

Dean doesn't wait. He turns around and stomps away, so very irritated. Sliding in Baby only tempers his mood a bit, and he strokes her wheel lovingly. Are there any movies about humans falling in love with cars? That would be a great metaphor for his life. Baby has never let him down. 

Six minutes later—because Cas is a rebel—the passenger door opens, Cas sliding into the seat with his blank expression firmly in place. Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but holds his tongue this time—quite literally biting it to do so, but hey, he has some restraint at least. Keeping his comments to himself, which is a very hard thing to do, Dean cranks Baby and pulls away. 

They take the entire ride to the diner in stilted silence. Dean refuses to break it this time, and Cas doesn't seem inclined to either. A couple of times, Dean finds himself accidentally glancing over at Cas, only to quickly look away. Cas just stares out the window like there's nothing else he wants to see besides the passing scenery, as if the love of his goddamn life isn't sitting right next to him. 

Dean is, of course, very annoyed by this—same fucking song, play it on a loop. 

When they do make it to the diner, however, Dean realizes this was a mistake almost instantly. He's been here a few times, usually with Sam, and he recognizes the waitress who comes by to take the order. Tabby—short for Tabitha—and she likes being called that because she likes cats. Dean knows this because he and Tabby flirt shamelessly every single time he comes in, which she smoothly slides right into doing once again. 

Now, it's not like this is anything new. One of Dean's favorite things to do is flirt with waitresses. When he was younger, he did it because he was a jerk after a possible fuck. Now that he's older, he does it because it generally cheers the waitresses up and makes the whole experience more fun—it's not even limited to young, pretty girls anymore; he'll flirt with older women as well, and they think it's hilarious. In short, it's fun and amusing, and it kinda feels like being a part of a community in a small way. 

Tabby, however, is half his age—probably in college or some shit—and she's a fun girl with bouncing curls and an infectious laugh. She calls Dean old, but she also winks and flirts and has a good time. Even Sam thinks it's funny, all because she's confessed that they're some of her favorite customers for how nice and relaxed they are. At this point, she's pretty comfortable with him—knows him by face and name, and falls easily into their flirty banter. 

Dean is almost immediately struck dumb by this because Cas is here. Cas, who just so happens to be in love with him. Obviously, it's something he's seen before, but it sort of feels like a dick move in retrospect. Cas doesn't bat an eye, of course, smiling at Tabby when she starts talking to him. 

It makes Dean wonder if Cas is jealous, or ever has been. He can't think of one instance when it ever seemed that way. So, now, not only is he feeling a little guilty, but he's also curious.  

When Tabby walks away after putting their drinks down, Dean leads forward on his elbows and blurts out, "Jealousy. Are you—did you ever get jealous?" 

"Over you?" Cas asks, watching him with a small frown of annoyance. 

"Who else?" 

"Yes." 

"Yes?" Dean jolts in his seat, staring at Cas, completely focused on him. "Of who? I mean, I've had my fair share of hookups over the years, and you were around for most of them. So…" 

Cas tilts his head, fiddling with the corner of the laminated menu in front of him. "Anna," he says quietly, his gaze downcast. 

"Who? Oh. Oh. Fuck. Your sister," Dean chokes out, leaning back in the booth while blowing out a deep breath. "Jesus Christ, I fucked your sister." 

"You did," Cas agrees mildly. 

Dean groans, feeling a little humiliated and not even understanding why. "Dude, that's really—fuck, I'm so sorry. I'm—" 

"Why?" Cas asks, glancing at him in confusion, his head tilting just a little. "You have nothing to apologize for, Dean. You didn't do anything wrong." 

"Yeah, I know, but like...your sister, man," Dean mumbles, grimacing. "That's—you know what? That's completely fair. Uh, anyone else?" 

Cas seems to ponder this for a moment, then he hums. "The vampire." 

"Which one?" 

"Benny." 

"Benny?!" Dean hisses, surging forward to stare at Cas incredulously. "Are you fucking with me? What the hell did you have to be jealous of him for? We never—he and I never—" 

"I know," Cas assures him, "but you two did share a bond. You cared for him very much. I...didn't like it."

Dean exhales a slightly stunned laugh. "You didn't like it. Wow, okay. So, the way you acted towards him in Purgatory was you pitching a fit, basically?" 

"He provoked me," Cas mutters, throwing him a metal-melting glare. 

"Wow. Wow. Okay, that's—that one is a little stupid, gotta admit," Dean says, shaking his head. "Alright, who else? Lisa?" 

Cas' face softens. "No. Never Lisa. I was...envious, perhaps, but never jealous. She made you happy and offered you a life you deserved. I could never hold any ill will towards her for that." 

"Oh," Dean murmurs. "That's really, uh, mature of you, I guess. Right. I mean, good, because Lisa was great. Anyone else?" 

"Sometimes, I could not tell if my dislike for Crowley existed out of jealousy, or simply because I never liked him, or both." Cas holds up a hand when Dean's mouth drops open. "Before you add your comments, I'm not insinuating anything between you and Crowley—though, I am aware that he likely took advantage of your time as a demon. That being said, Crowley had feelings for you and absolutely no shame in expressing them, complicated as they may have been. I'm not suggesting he was in love with you, but I wouldn't count it out. He wouldn't have turned away the offer to have sex with you, at least." 

Dean grimaces. "Dude, you have no idea… Actually, maybe it's best if you don't. Goddamn, I can't believe—no, actually, I kinda can. Who else?" 

"That's mostly it," Cas admits with an awkward shrug, looking down at his menu again. "Your—as you called them—hookups were a mere irritation, at best. Amara's infatuation with you did not make me jealous. It frightened me. I worried for you. Most of the time, if you recall, I was generally focused on other things. Usually the end of the world."

"Oh, so you just...didn't care that I was getting laid at my leisure?" Dean asks, back to being irritated. 

Cas hums, looking at him. "Why would I have the right to? I do not own you, Dean. You are not mine." 

"Right, but—come on, seriously?" Dean plants his elbow on the table and reaches up to rub his temple, where his vein is pulsing.  He's actually getting a headache because Cas isn't jealous enough for his tastes. Jesus. "You never even said anything… You let me just...do whatever. And Anna, dude. Anna!" 

"Your actions are your own." 

"Yeah, but—" 

"Here you are, boys," Tabby cuts in, plopping plates down in front of them with a broad smile. She pops up and looks between them. "Everything looks alright for you guys?" 

"Looks great, Tabby, thanks," Dean mumbles with a sigh, giving a slightly pained smile. 

"Alright, you enjoy it, sugar. And you," she says, swinging towards Cas with a broad smile, "I hope your food tastes as good as you look, darlin'. You let me know if you need anything at all, okay?" 

Cas smiles at her, a little awkward but sincere nonetheless. "Thank you. I will do that." 

"I'll be back to check on ya in a few minutes," Tabby tells them, bustling away quickly to one of her other tables, her smile losing a little warmth as she goes. 

"So," Dean drawls, watching Cas take a bite out of his soup, "does it taste as good as you look?" 

"I don't know, Dean," Cas replies dryly. "How good do I look, exactly?" 

"I mean, I don't—how the fuck would I know? You're—you've got the eyes, and the hair. Like, with the blue and the messy. Just—just—" Dean makes a sort of helpless gesture to Cas' face. "You know what? Why don't you ask Tabby, huh? She seems to like you well enough. I think she's joking when she flirts with me, but she looks like she'd actually give you a spin. Probably one of those types to call you Daddy while she's at it." 

That's not a particularly kind thing to say, and Dean has no idea why he's said it, but it's out there now. He actually likes Tabby, is the thing. If she likes calling people Daddy, well, good for her. Dean sure as hell isn't going to judge. 

Cas stares at him, then calmly says, "I think I won't be asking her that, actually." 

"Yeah, fair enough," Dean mumbles and goes back to eating, ducking his head. 

Most of the meal passes in silence. It grates on Dean's nerves. They usually talk, even if it's just about the approaching end of the world. There are other things as well. He remembers one time when they sat down and had a very long discussion on whether water is actually wet, not necessarily disagreeing with each other, but simply enjoying talking about it for no goddamn reason. 

It was easy, is the point. It's not always easy to talk to Cas, but it's not always hard either. It has never been hard like this. Not once has it ever gotten under Dean's skin in this way, making him shift and huff and get pissed off all over again. 

Before he knows what he's doing, he's kicking his foot forward to nudge Cas' leg. This earns him a sharp look before Cas is right back to eating his garlic bread, tearing it into pieces and looking firmly away from Dean as he does. And so, Dean nudges him again, and again, and again. 

"Dean," Cas snaps, "stop it." 

He almost blurts it out, almost opens his big fucking mouth and says pay attention to me, then, for fuck's sake, but catches the words in his throat and swallows them down. Instead, he mutters, "You know, you could be taking this opportunity to try and play footsie, Cas." 

"The only person here who seems interested in doing so is you, Dean," Cas tells him sharply. 

Dean snatches his foot back quickly and says not another word, stewing in silence and mounting frustration. Cas seems altogether fine. 

So, anyway, Dean's in a shitty mood all over again by the time they make it back to the Bunker. In his defense, his best friend has been back from the dead (again) for three days and has subsequently been ignoring and avoiding him. On top of that, Dean hasn't gotten off in weeks at least (his best friend was dead, of course he wasn't masturbating, because he does have some tact), and now that everything's a-okay again, he has the freedom to do that as much as he likes, except he suddenly just can't? And now, there's this perpetual white noise of fucking mystery in regards to Cas that just attacks him unprompted whenever he least fucking needs it to. 

All-in-all, he's aching for a fight, and no amount of imagining Chuck getting mugged seems to help. So, naturally, his next target is the source of most of his annoyance at the moment—Cas, obviously—and he knows exactly how to piss him off. 

"Hey, Cas," Dean says as he cuts Baby's engine. 

Cas immediately turns to him with narrowed eyes, likely because he can hear the shift of his tone. And, in fact, he can, because he says, "Whatever you're about to say, Dean, just don't." 

Dean does. "You know, Anna and I fucked in Baby. Like, right there in the backseat." 

"How was that information in any way important to me?" Cas asks, his tone cold, his lip curling. He doesn't wait for Dean to answer, just makes a sound of disgust and throws open his door to haul himself out of the car. 

"I think it was pretty damn important," Dean calls out as he hastily gets out of Baby as well, hovering towards the back tire as Cas comes swinging around to head inside. "You know what else she did?" 

"No, and I do not care to know," Cas snarls. 

"Gonna tell you anyway," Dean decides, sidestepping into Cas' path, making him wrench to a halt with a look of fury. "If I remember correctly, she put her hand on the mark you left on my arm. You think she could sense the grace in it?" 

Cas fixes him with a look so frigid that the garage seems to drop a few degrees in an instant. He's openly and blatantly furious, and still...somehow, he doesn't lash out. He manages to say, through incredibly stiff lips, "I'm sure that she did not. Move, I'm going in now." 

"Yeah, but like, wasn't that kinda fucked up for her to do?" Dean asks, cocking his head. "You all but tattooed your name on my ass, metaphorically speaking, and she went and—well, you know." 

"Is this fun for you?" Cas asks him, staring at him with something like disdain. "Tormenting me? 

Dean grins, cocksure and pissed off. "Yeah, actually, it kinda is. I'm enjoying myself anyway." 

"I am not. Now, move," Cas orders, taking a step forward like that's gonna be enough to make Dean flee this time. Well, it's not. 

Dean's irritated enough to be the biggest asshole in the room, and any attention is better than no attention—negative or not. If he and Cas need to fight this shit out, then fine, whatever. It wouldn't be the first time, and it probably won't be the last. 

Maybe not the best way to approach this situation, but what the fuck ever. He'd let Cas kick him around if they could get back on even footing again. The things you do for best friends, and all that. 

"Nah," Dean says simply. 

Predictably, this doesn't go over well, just like it didn't last time. Cas is a contradictory bastard. What he wants, he goes after—except Dean—and he'll do something just to spite someone in a heartbeat. He's apparently not above playing up his skills in Gay Chicken—which isn't fair, because he's actually gay, or something like it, so that's cheating. 

Anyway, he has clearly realized that Dean freezes when Cas pushes back after being pushed. He does it so smoothly this time, too, with just as much force as the last. He grabs Dean and whirls him around to throw him up against Baby, fully just shoving him at the frame with a strange amount of finesse and grace for a guy who's no longer an angel. He's still got it, is what Dean means. 

Dean hits the car with a thud, thinking vaguely that Cas might have a thing for tossing him around, and then the white noise drowns out that theory before he can figure out how he feels about it. He's frozen in place in a flash, heart having a fucking fit in his chest, hands scrambling for purchase against Baby's body as he leans back and away, because Cas isn't immediately letting go. 

No, Cas is leaning in with bright eyes and a scowl, gritting out through clenched teeth, "Do not test my patience, Dean. I assure you, I have very little." 

Which, yeah, awesome. Dean is going to melt away into nothingness here in a second, he's sure of it. Either that, or just go into sudden cardiac arrest. Again, he's not really scared, not exactly, but there is a sensation of utter panic that courses through his veins. His skin is hot all over. He's freaking the fuck out, but like, silently. It's all internal. 

His mind is just that noise that motel phones let out when they're off the hook. Just that, on a loop, and he can't get his tongue to come down from the roof of his mouth. It feels swollen, too big. He's— 

Jesus fucking Christ, he's a goddamn mess. 

Cas lets him go roughly with one last warning glare, and then he's stalking off to slam his way into the Bunker. Throwing a tantrum, because of course he is. Dean stares after him, then exhales heavily, only just now realizing he was holding his breath. 

Slowly, he leans over to put his hands on his knees, blinking rapidly and leaning against Baby for support. Without her, he's ninety-nine percent sure that he would be on his ass right now. God, he adores her so much. He pats her gratefully. 

After a few moments, he's got his wits about him again—not that he has that many if he keeps regularly provoking his gay ex-angel best friend with a tendency to fight dirty. But sure, fine, it's cool. This is fine. Dean has not learned his lesson, and he will, in fact, keep pushing until—until… 

He's not sure what the goal here is, actually, but he'll be damned if he doesn't meet it. He marches into the Bunker, fully prepared for round two, but Cas has shut himself in his room, so no luck. 

Alright, well, he can be patient. Cas might have very little, but Dean has an abundance of it. He's kinda used to waiting around for Cas, seeing as the asshole disappears and dies so often. If he gets even more irritated in the meantime, well, as is his nature. 

Dean takes a shower and tries yet again to get off, and he nearly punches a hole through the fucking tiles when he—yet again—cannot. The worst part is that he's trying so hard, and not in a funny way. It feels really fucking good getting to that point where orgasm is just out of reach, so close yet so far, but it's almost painful that he can't finish. It's not like the arousal just goes away either. His dick does not deflate. The damn thing stays hard enough to hammer nails, an angry red, likely just as pissed off about this as he is. There's just nothing he can do to fix it. No amount of stroking, none of his filthiest fantasies, nothing works. 

So, here he is, hanging by a mere thread, feeling like he's about to burst—both sexually and emotionally. 

He makes dinner very angrily that evening, banging around the kitchen with unnecessary force and volume. A vindictive part of him hopes Cas is trying to take a nap and can't manage it because Dean is being too loud. Petty? Yes. Does he care? No. 

One moment, Dean is slamming the oven closed, and then next, Jack is suddenly standing right next to him. He does not yelp. He releases a very manly shout of shock, which is fair, considering. 

"Jesus fuck, Jack, what the hell?" Dean barks, glaring at him as he presses his hand to his chest. 

"Hello," Jack says with a small smile, lifting his hand in his awkward little wave. 

Dean relaxes in increments. "Hey, kid. You scared the shit outta me." 

"I apologize," Jack tells him. He flicks his gaze towards the oven. "What are you cooking?" 

"Cornbread taco casserole," Dean mutters. "Trying it out. You wanna stay for dinner?" 

Jack smiles. "I would like that. Where is Castiel?" 

"In his room. Hold on." Dean moves over to the doorway to swing his head out. "CAS, PULL YOUR HEAD OUTTA YOUR ASS AND GET IN THE KITCHEN! JACK'S HERE!" 

"Is Castiel upset about something?" Jack asks, moving over to sit down at the table. 

"What, you don't know?" Dean glances at him warily as he moves to the fridge, grabbing two beers and a water—Jack may be God now or whatever, but he's still three fucking years old—and moving over to the table to sink into his seat. 

Jack tilts his head—so like Cas. "I told you, I'm hands off about everything. Castiel was my only exception, yes, but I do not interfere with his life."

 "Oh," Dean says, suddenly uncomfortable. How does one tell a kid that their father wants to fuck their other sort-of-father into whatever flat surface is the most available? Probably best not to do that. "Hey, it rained last week, you know. Your fault?" 

Jack laughs softly, almost a giggle, and Dean's lips curl up in response. There's a sharp exhale from the doorway, and they both look up to see Cas moving into the kitchen, shoulders relaxing as he looks at Jack, scanning him in concern. 

"Jack," Cas greets, seemingly happy for the first time since being brought back, "it is good to see you. Why are you here? Do you need—" 

"Dude, let the kid breathe," Dean mutters, rolling his eyes as he waves a hand to the open chair with a beer sitting in front of it. "He's staying for dinner, so you've got plenty of time to fuss over him." 

"You're staying?" Cas asks, ignoring Dean entirely, though he does move over to take his seat. 

"For dinner," Jack says. "I told you that you would see me again, Castiel. I am not technically interfering in anything by...visiting. I should not stay too long, though." 

Cas gives a little huff, grumpy about it, but he accepts that with a nod. "Yes, well...I'm glad you're here for now." 

"I know," Jack tells him, eyes bright with humor and simple happiness. 

And so it goes. It's nice having the kid back, despite all the ways it could be—or maybe even should be—awkward as all hell. Jack doesn't seem to think so. He sits right there at the table and acts like he always has, except maybe a little freer and with an odd omnipotent knowledge that gleams in his eye. It's like he just popped in to see his family for no other reason than because he wanted to, and yeah, Dean can get behind that. 

It makes Cas so very happy. Dean can't help but notice, can't stop himself from catching his smiles and quiet huffs of laughter when Jack tells a joke. He just looks more at ease, no tension in his face or body, talking freely like he has the perfect reason to now that Jack is here. Dean could be annoyed by that, but he isn't. Mostly, it's just kinda cute. Like, in an abstract way. Cas being a dad, that's all. 

The cornbread taco casserole goes over well, which pleases Dean quite a bit, actually. Even he's not as annoyed now that Jack is here. He makes jokes about Jack being God now, and he draws laughter out of them both, satisfied all the way down to his bones while they share a meal together. 

It's just… It's nice, is all. 

Jack doesn't stay for long enough to smooth over the tension between Dean and Cas, though. When dinner is done, he stands up to say his goodbyes. He hugs them both, simply saying they'll see him again without ever clarifying if it will be two weeks from now or twenty years. Guess they'll know when they see him. When he's gone, it's quiet. 

Cas sits at the table, staring listlessly at his half-finished beer, his face drawn into poorly hidden upset. Dean silently cleans up, giving this particular worker bee a night off since he's going through it at the moment. After, though, he plops down in his seat again and stares at Cas. 

"You're upset," Dean murmurs. 

Cas doesn't even look at him. "I never wanted this for him. He deserves—he should be able to stay." 

"Hey, all kids grow up and leave the nest at some time or another," Dean says softly. He leans forward, making Cas look at him. His heart sort of flinches in sympathy at the genuine sadness in Cas' eyes. "I know it sucks, okay? But you gotta admit, he seems pretty fucking happy, all things considered. He knows this is his home. He knows he's always welcome here. Clearly he does, because he just showed up outta the blue. So, I mean, he knows. He's fine, Cas. He'll be around." 

"I understand that, but I just—" Cas clenches his jaw and looks away, eyebrows crumbling together from real distress. 

Dean clears his throat and puts his hand palm-up on the table between them, waggling his fingers. "Here, give me your hand." 

"Why?" Cas asks, suspicious in an instant. 

"Just give me your fucking hand." 

Cas does, very hesitantly, watching Dean warily like he's planning something terrible, which is rude. He leaves his hand slack, cold palm resting over Dean's warm one. His hand is fucking freezing. 

"Jesus Christ, Cas, your hand is so cold, what the fuck," Dean blurts out, appalled. He clasps his other hand over Cas' and lifts it, sandwiching his hand between his own, rubbing it a little furiously. "I was just gonna let you hold my hand so you'd feel better, but this thing is like ice." 

Cas wrenches his hand back so fast that Dean frowns as a reflex. He stands up from his chair with a glare, the legs scraping across the floor, and he snarls, "I have poor circulation." 

And then, with that, he's stomping out of the room with more anger than he entered it. Dean leans back in his chair, throwing his hands up. That time, he wasn't actually looking for a fight. He was just trying to be nice. God forbid. Last time he makes that stupid fucking mistake. 

For a while, he sits there at the table and fucks around on his phone, his annoyance slowly rising again. He feels like he's been nothing but frustrated for three days straight, and the brief reprieve in the form of Jack's visit hasn't helped as much as he would have liked. 

Who the hell does Cas think he is? He acts like that, like the mere idea of touching Dean is repulsive, and it's such bullshit. Look, Dean doesn't think he's entitled to anything here, but...he sort of is, isn't he? Cas is the one in love, so he's pretty damn sure that he should be acting like it, except he's not. It puts Dean on edge so quickly that it's infuriating. 

He texts Sam for a while, letting him know that everything is fine (a lie), that Jack stopped by and sends his love (the truth), and that he most certainly will not be watching the goddamn Bee Movie (the truth again, if it's the last thing he ever does). 

After that, he downs another beer, fuming in the silence and stillness of the kitchen, ears perked. He can hear the creaking pipes from Cas using the shower, and so he waits. Nursing his beer, glaring at the wall opposite of him, he waits. 

As soon as the pipes shudder, signalling that the water has stopped running, Dean is shoving himself out of the room and down the hall as fast as his bowlegs will take him—not running, just at a full march to the tune Led Zeppelin's Black Dog, because his blood is already pumping and it's a sure fire way to fill him with more adrenaline. He takes a corner at the same time that Cas does, and they both bump right into each other. 

Cas sucks in a sharp breath and moves back quickly, blinking at him, startled, and then he's glaring again. His hair is damp and sort of a reckless mess all over his head, and he's in another one of Dean's shirts. He smells like Dean's Old Spice body wash and Sam's all-natural mint shampoo, fresh and sharp and flowing together unnecessarily well. 

"Hey, Cas," Dean starts, and he never gets to finish because Cas closes his eyes for a long, long time and releases a low, frustrated grunt. 

"What, Dean?" Cas snaps, eventually, his eyes flicking open. "What could you possibly want now?" 

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Okay, no need to be a dick, Cas, damn." 

"Be a—me? Me?" Cas' hands slowly curl into fists. He presses his lips into a thin line. 

"Getting tired of me already?" Dean asks, watching him intently, wondering what it would take to make Cas actually be done with his shit. Usually doesn't take much. Dean is really good at fucking things up. 

Cas slowly breathes out, then says, "I never tire of you. Now, I'm going to bed." 

"Not gonna try to get me to come with you?" Dean asks, grinning as Cas sidesteps him and starts moving for his room. 

"No," Cas replies stiffly, staring straight ahead, not turning towards him as he falls into step with him. 

"Why not? It's kinda late. Been a long day. Perfect time for some late-night fumbling in the dark." 

"As enticing as that sounds, I think I'll pass." 

Dean purses his lips, displeased with this response. "I don't believe you for a second." 

"Can you just—" Cas comes to a screeching halt in front of his door, whirling around to pin Dean with a serious look. "Dean, will you please stop? I'm sure you think this is funny, but it is not a joke for me." 

"Well, maybe if you weren't so set on being an asshole about it, I wouldn't be one back," Dean snaps. Cas almost immediately turns and goes into his room, trying to slam the door, but Dean reaches out to catch it. "Oh, no you don't." 

Cas lets the door fall open and just sighs as he moves towards his bed. "I don't understand why you believe I'm being an asshole." 

"Because you are." Dean shuts the door behind him, crossing his arms and nodding in satisfaction when Cas pauses halfway across the room to turn and look at him. It's with incredulity, but whatever. A win is a win is a win. "First, you know how much it fucking sucks for me to have to watch you die. I hate that shit. It fucks me up. But, on top of that, you decided to add insult to injury by confessing your love before sacrificing your life for mine." 

"Dean," Cas murmurs, averting his eyes. 

Dean scoffs. "No, shut the fuck up. You don't get to come back here and act like—like what you said doesn't mean something. Why the fuck would you say it if you weren't going to—if you didn't—" 

"I only said it because I was under the impression that it would have to be the last thing I ever had to say to you," Cas says, staring down at the floor. "I carried that around with me for years, and just confessing it made me happy enough to die. To die, and nothing else. Because saying it, accepting it, being it...that was supposed to be the end." 

"Right, yeah," Dean mutters bitterly, giving a harsh laugh. "Well, boo-fucking-hoo for you. That's just tough. Here's the after part, Cas. Not so fun, is it? Having to deal with it after. Because that's what I had to do, and you have no idea what that did to me." 

Cas flicks his gaze towards him, eyes a little wide and whole lot sad, and that's just not fair. "I understand that you hate it, Dean. I know it is a burden on your life. I—" 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean bursts out, gripped with a fury so unrelenting that he thinks he might actually haul off and clock Cas right in his stupidly sharp jaw. "It's not a goddamn burden on my life, Cas! I don't hate it! Don't you—that confession is my one redeeming quality. To think that you could actually—that you really do love me. And how fucking stupid are you, going off and doing that? I'm the dumbest choice you've ever made, and you've made some real dumb choices in the past." 

"Don't talk about yourself like that," Cas says rather sternly, frowning at him now. "How I feel is the only thing that has never, never come with regrets. It's the best thing I've ever done or will ever do." 

Dean's jaw works as he looks away. He runs his tongue under his top lip, doing his best not to blush or run away—now is not the time for it. "Okay, great, glad we cleared that up. So, so, why are you—why do you keep acting like this?" 

"Like what, Dean?" 

"Like you'd rather be dead than have to face your own goddamn feelings!" 

"Because I was supposed to be!" 

"Well, that's just too damn bad, Cas. Fucking newsflash, that's just how life works sometimes! Shit happens, and then you've gotta deal with it!" 

"I am doing my best," Cas grits out. "You make it very difficult, do you understand that? You won't go away. You won't leave me alone. You won't give me space. You won't stop bringing it up." 

"Well, yeah," Dean retorts furiously. "What else am I supposed to do? You don't want to look at me, or talk to me, or—goddammit—pay attention to me. I know you want me, but it's like you've forgotten!" 

Cas reaches up to scrub at his eyebrow, a surprisingly human gesture, frustration practically oozing off of him. "I assure you, I have not forgotten, nor will I ever forget. If I tried, I'm somehow very certain that you would just remind me." 

"Oh, fuck off." 

"You're in my room." 

"Don't be a dick," Dean hisses. He points at Cas, glaring at him. "So what if you're gay and in love with me, or whatever? Fine, okay, awesome! That doesn't mean you can just—just do a whole one-eighty to try and make it go away! It's out there now, Cas, and that's all there is to it." 

"I'm aware of that, Dean," Cas replies sharply. "I just want to make peace with it and return to how things were, that is all. You're making it very hard." 

"You want to make peace with it. Return to how things were," Dean echoes flatly. "Really? Why is that, Cas? Why the fuck do you feel the need to do that? Why should you have to do that?" 

Cas squints at him. "What other option is there? My restraint is a key piece in the continuation of our friendship, Dean, and you seem very fixated on testing that restraint." 

"Well, maybe I don't want you to be restrained," Dean tells him harshly, his words overrunning his mouth, undoubtedly about him to get him in trouble. He can tell by the way Cas' eyebrow immediately arches up. "I just—I meant—" He stumbles over his words for a second, trying to find the right way to explain this. "I don't know, okay? I have no clue, but it's pissing me off. So just—just stop acting like you're not into me, because it's complete bullshit, and we both know it." 

"I'm not acting like that. The only thing I do is ignore any urges that have to do with you, any that could potentially make you uncomfortable, and you continuously push, and push, and push." 

"I know." 

"And when I push back," Cas snaps, "you can't handle it. So why push at all?" 

Dean swallows. "I don't, uh, actually know? Okay, so maybe I'm being an asshole, too. Fine, whatever. I just want—I just think you should do something." 

"You'll have to be more specific," Cas tells him, his eyebrow arching all over again. "If you want anything from me, Dean, you need only ask."

"I don't know what I want you to do, but I'm pretty sure you should do it," Dean tells him, pretty firm on this point, if nothing else. He purses his lips, narrowing his eyes a bit. "Also, I'm still pretty fucking pissed at you for dying, man." 

"I apologize. I will endeavor not to do so again." 

"Great, thanks. If you do, I'll just fucking go with you that time. Should be motivation enough for you to avoid it, right? Don't want the guy you're in love with to kick it." 

Cas frowns at him. "Don't joke about that." 

Dean holds his gaze. "I wasn't." 

"Dean," Cas says, sharp and intent, his eyes flashing with a certain kind of panic that Dean's never really associated with his love before, though he has seen it many times through the years. That mixture of anger and hurt when Dean is in harm's way, or about to die, or anything close to it. Kinda obvious, now that Dean's looking for it.

"Yeah, how's that feel? You're not the only one who's willing to die for the other," Dean declares with a humorless smile. 

"I'm willing to do that, and anything, because I love you, Dean," Cas tells him, so fucking earnest about it, and his voice comes out low and shaky, like merely saying it that way invokes so much emotion. 

Dean's skin prickles from his scalp to the flat of his feet, and that white noise buzzes loudly in his head. It's the second time Cas has ever said those words. I love you, Dean. Said them like that, in a way they can't ever be misunderstood. 

The first time, Dean couldn't respond. He never got the chance. He was shoved aside, frozen in place, tears blurring his vision because he knew what was coming. And he watched helplessly as Cas died. Watched and did nothing, said nothing. 

He's been bitter and furious ever since. Free? Yeah, Dean hasn't been free from the moment Cas first said those words to him like that, until the second. 

He gets to process them this time. He gets to take them in, gets to fold them close and warm in his chest, gets to figure out what the fuck they mean. It's one thing to know Cas loves him; it's another thing entirely to have it said to him, especially when he thought he'd never get to hear it again. 

He needs that moment, that stretch of time to adjust, to be allowed to fucking react. He didn't get it before, but he has it now, and the white noise recedes like the shifting wind. A storm passing, blowing over and opening up the skies, birds chirping and the sun shining and all that nonsense. 

Right, so, love confession, two-point-oh. How are we feeling on that? Dean asks himself for the second time, and this time, this time, he has his answer. 

"You're in love with a fucking idiot," Dean tells Cas, his voice cracking, and he's blinking hard because he will not cry. He fucking refuses. 

Cas is frowning at him again, displeased. "Dean, you are not a—" 

"No, I am," Dean cuts him off. "Because I've spent the last three days going fucking crazy, all because I wanted you to just solve the problem for me. I kept pushing, and pushing, and pushing because I like it. I like that you love me. It's, like, the best thing that's ever happened to me, man." 

"It is nice to be loved," Cas says sagely, his tone understanding, completely missing the point. 

"Okay, bigger words, got it." Dean clears his throat and takes a deep breath. "I love that you love me, how about that?" 

"It's...very nice to be loved?" Cas amends, but now he sounds a little confused, the words a question.

Dean exhales a gusty breath, laughing a little bit, shaking his head. "Okay, great, so I'm in love with an idiot, too. Wonderful." 

"What?" Cas' voice is flat. He blinks. 

"This isn't really my area, man. I mean, I'm not the best with words. I've never—I don't know the first thing about making epic, sappy speeches. Just. I don't know, I didn't have time before. You said your piece, and I never got to—" Dean shakes his head, frustrated. "What was the point in figuring out what I felt about it if you were dead? So, I just didn't. And then, you were back and not—not confessing your love again, which was very fucking frustrating for me, okay? But, I mean, yeah. Yeah, Cas. Me, too." 

Cas stares at him, then narrows his eyes. "Dean, if you're just indulging me, I will—" 

"Would I fucking do that?" Dean huffs, glaring at him. "Get a fucking clue, man. I think I'm kinda obsessed with the idea of us having sex. It's literally all I've been talking about for the last three days." 

"You're not interested in men," Cas points out. 

Dean holds up a finger, grimacing. "Get back to me on that after I've had at least a week to freak the fuck out about it. At the moment, it's tucked away in a nice, neat little box in the corner of my mind that I will eventually get around to unwrapping later. Lots of childhood trauma in there, you understand. Is it good enough for you now that I'm interested in you, and I know that for damn sure?" 

"You're...serious." Cas blinks at him again. "You're actually being serious." 

"Well, I wouldn't joke about it. Jesus Christ, I'm not that much of an asshole," Dean mutters. 

"Oh," Cas says very, very softly. 

"Yeah," Dean agrees, "oh." 

Cas stares at him for a long time in complete silence and doesn't even twitch. He looks like the one who's frozen, unable to move or react. Dean wonders what would happen if they played Gay Chicken right now. He wonders if Cas is hearing white noise, too. 

Dean shifts a little restlessly, clearing his throat. He looks up at the ceiling, glances down at his fingers, purses his lips and moves them from side-to-side. He scratches his nose, eyeing Cas curiously, waiting and waiting and waiting. He's patient because he figures he ought to be, especially since Cas has been so patient with him. It's excruciating, but he does it. 

The things you do for love, and all that shit. 

And fuck, this is love. Like, really serious love. The kind of love that flips God off—the retired one, not Jack, obviously—and rebels instinctively. The kind of love that grows and grows over so many years, so entangled with friendship and family and cascading memories between them. The kind of love that's soul-deep and fucking stupid. 

It's just so stupid because Dean's not sure how to go about his day with this big, huge thing between them. It can't be a muted thing, because they've been through too much. They've hurt each other, lost each other, sacrificed for each other. There's too many grand moments in their love for it not to be something massive and heavy and all-consuming. 

How the fuck did he ignore it for so long? How the fuck did Cas—a notably smart person—miss it and think his own love would exist alone? Of course Dean matches him boot-to-oxford, gun-to-blade, flannel-to-trencoat, love-to-love. Hell, he practically didn't get a choice in the matter. Cas is Cas, and Dean is...well, he's in love, apparently. 

"Hey, Cas," Dean says carefully, "not that I don't want to give you your time, but uh—" 

This seems to be enough to snap Cas out of his thoughts. He blinks, then takes a step forward, which makes Dean go tense all over without even meaning to. He's not sure why, exactly. He's had his little moment—it's love, yada yada yada. Cas getting closer should be the exact opposite of frightening. 

Cas narrows his eyes, looking vaguely suspicious, and he takes another measured step forward. Dean forces himself to hold his ground. He will not be a bitch about this. If he's in love with the dude, he's going to have to get used to closeness with him at some point. He'll be damned if he goes without having sex with anyone else ever again, and his heart has apparently settled on Cas—the choosy fucker that it is—so his dick is just going to have to get with the program. 

"You're not breathing," Cas tells him, moving closer, his eyes still narrowed. 

Dean releases his held breath, unaware that he'd been doing that subconsciously. "What? Yes, I am. Fuck you, I'm fine." 

Cas makes a doubtful sound, stepping closer, close enough that Dean can smell him again. Dean reflexively takes a step back, then internally curses himself for being a fucking idiot. Why is he sabotaging himself? He's being a complete bitch about this. Fuck. His heart is thudding so hard. 

There's that goddamn eyebrow, sweeping up as Cas looks at him. He steps forward again, almost pointedly, and Dean physically cannot stop himself from stepping back in tandem. 

"Why are you running?" Cas asks. 

"I'm definitely not doing that," Dean says. 

Cas steps forward again, giving him a look when Dean backs up yet again. "No, not at all." 

"I'm really—" Dean nearly bites his tongue in half when he scrambles back another step and collides into something behind him, drawing him into a sudden halt. "Ah, that would be the door." 

"You're welcome to leave through it," Cas offers. 

Dean crosses his arms, then immediately lets them fall—no defensive gestures. This is fine. This is so fine. "I'm not going anywhere." 

"So you'll stay?" 

"Yup." 

"No matter what I do?" 

"Yessiree." 

"Do you realize that you're shaking?" Cas asks, lips twitching a little bit, the asshole. 

"No, I'm not," Dean denies instantly, only to realize seconds later that he is, in fact, shaking. "Okay, whatever. Jittery. I'm fine. Ignore it." 

Cas rolls his eyes, taking a step forward, hovering only a step away. "I will not. Come here." 

Dean does not come there, because Dean can't actually figure out how to peel himself away from the door. It feels very safe being pressed up against it, actually. Cas doesn't seem to care about his sense of security, because he sighs like this is all a very big inconvenience for him, then reaches out to curl cold fingers over Dean's wrists and tug him forward. 

And it's just a hug. 

That's all. A fucking hug. 

Cas just hugs him, which they've done plenty of through the years. It comes naturally, arms wrapping around each other, chins hooked on shoulders. Dean even rolls his eyes a little, because this has got to be the most ridiculous thing. 

Don't get him wrong, it's nice. It's really nice. Cas' hands may be cold, but his body is warm. He smells like Dean because of the body wash, and he's wearing Dean's shirt, so it's even better than usual. They're two fully grown men, hugging inches from Cas' door, and that's just...fine, really. 

It's just sort of anticlimactic, is all. What the fuck was Dean panicking for if all that was going to happen was a hug? Three days of being at each other's throats—not in the fun, sexy way either—and all he gets is a hug. That's it? Obviously, it's great because Cas is touching him, and they always hug when the other isn't dead anymore, but still. A hug? 

Okay, so Dean's annoyed all over again. Cas doesn't have to treat him like glass. He won't break. He's not gonna tuck tail and take off at the first sign of anything gay. He might be a little fucking stupid, but he's not going to lash out like an asshole. 

"Not that I'm complaining," Dean starts, "but—" 

He doesn't get much farther than that, because Cas makes a low sound of amusement and pulls back just enough to turn his head and press his lips to Dean's like it's the simplest thing in the world. Boom, just like that, Dean is being kissed by a dude. Or, well, his dude-shaped ex-angel best friend that he's sort of helplessly in love with. 

It lasts only for a second before Dean is jerking back instinctively, wrenching away in shock and panic. Cas arches an eyebrow at him again. 

"Breathe," Cas reminds him. 

"I am, I'm just—" Dean exhales shakily, and stupidly, he says the first thing that pops into his hysterical brain. "My dad is going to kill me." 

Cas blinks at him. "Dean, your father is dead." 

"Oh, right." Dean clears his throat, relaxing minutely. He's gripping Cas' shoulders very hard from where he pushed him back, and now he gives a little tug. "Okay, do it again." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Shut up and just—yeah. Just do it again." 

So, Cas does. He leans and kisses him once more, a very tame kiss. Close-mouthed. Innocent. There's no movement. It's just two warm mouths pressed together, lingering there. Dean's approaching heart failure anyway, and he pushes Cas back again. 

"Dean," Cas says, "you're not required to—" 

"Shut up," Dean cuts in. "Stop holding the fuck back, man. It's—I can still think, and I do not need to be thinking. It's a mess up there, so just—just kiss me like you mean it. Like you want to." 

"I do want to." 

"Awesome, but I mean...kiss me like you really, really want to, very badly, and you don't give a fuck if I protest or not." 

Cas stares at him, considering. Slowly, softly, he says, "I do not want to kiss you if you don't want me to, Dean." 

"No, that's—" Dean huffs and shakes Cas by his shoulders a little. "Yes, great, you're a wonderful person who has a grasp on consent. Awesome. Thing is, I do want you to, but I'm just gonna keep pulling away if you give me the chance to, and I don't want to do that, so...don't give me the chance to. Like I said, I'm a mess. If you just do it, and keep doing it, I'm going to eventually give in, and that's exactly where I wanna be right now." 

"If you're sure," Cas says, holding his gaze. 

Dean's heart is about to leap right outta his goddamn throat. "Hundred percent positive." 

Cas flicks his gaze over Dean's face, searching for something, then he gives a tiny nod. He doesn't immediately kiss him, which is making Dean's thoughts swirl around in his head in an unintelligible clump that he would like to just shut the fuck up already. Instead of that, Cas slides his hands down Dean's arms, cold fingers encircling his wrists, and then he pulls them up and pushes.  

Dean is very promptly slammed back against the door, Cas' body covering his, and then he's being kissed before he can even suck in a sharp breath. 

No, no, you don't understand. He's being kissed. Like, forcefully. With tongue and teeth and so much goddamn passion that Dean's mind goes silent almost instantly. There's Cas' tongue in his mouth, there's Cas' fingers pinning his wrists above their heads, there's Cas' thigh being shoved roughly between his legs. Cas kisses with his whole body, and he does it very, very well. 

And Dean is moaning. Kinda loud about it, actually. He can't be blamed. Anyone would be if they were shoved against a door and kissed like this. 

It didn't take very much for Dean's mind to shut down and call it a night, so he's fully on board with this. His dick, thankfully, is in agreement. He twists his wrists, making a muffled sound against Cas' mouth, tugging until Cas seems to realize what he wants. Cas drops his hands, pressing his own to Dean's sides, cool fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt. Great, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. As for Dean, he shoves his hands into Cas' hair. It's still mildly damp from his shower earlier, but it's so, so soft. He makes a point to fist a hand and keep Cas in place, unwilling to let him pull away. He's fine now. Mind: blissfully silent. 

Things go from good to better when he first makes the unconscious decision to rock his hips and rut against Cas' thigh. He makes a choking sound into Cas' mouth, shuddering at the first spark of pleasure that slams through him. Cas kisses him harder, deeper, being very encouraging, which is really quite sweet of him, admittedly. 

Dean has been so sexually frustrated for the last three days that he's convinced nothing else could ever be better than the rough drag of his jeans over his stiff cock. And it's not comfortable. There's not nearly enough friction. He's making a mess of his briefs already, a wet spot forming from just how much he's leaking, because he's pretty sure he's never been so turned on in his life. 

He's sort of mindless about it, sucked into the push and pull against Cas' thigh. He rolls his hips, jerking in place like a goddamn teenager with no control over his own body, and Cas is still just kissing him so deeply, so endlessly, as if he could do it forever with no complaints from him. The wet glide of their tongues. The borderline painful bite of his teeth on Dean's bottom lip. He tugs on it, and Dean groans, curling into it helplessly. 

It takes an embarrassingly short time for Dean to reach that peak again—in his defence, he's been practically perched on it for three days. He's old, sure, but he's also human and in the prime of his life, technically, which he has never felt so starkly before this exact moment. He wrenches away from Cas to suck in a deep breath of air like a drowning man, sliding his hands down and around Cas' head to fist his shirt and hold on for dear life. He's so fucking close, and he really, really needs it. 

Bad enough that he's begging for it. He can hear himself from what feels like very far away, chanting and gasping, "Please, please, please," like a man possessed, because seriously, fucking please.  

Cas seems to realize that Dean is having A Moment, because he leaves him to it and instead focuses on kissing Dean's neck—or, well, sucking and nipping at it, which might succeed in driving Dean fully insane when nothing else has. Eventually, he apparently gives into one of his never dormant desires and fully just bites him. That's so hot that Dean doesn't even know what to do with it. 

"Dean," Cas says—rasps, growls—when he pulls away, and hold the fucking phone. Who the fuck told him that he could sound like that? That's absolutely illegal. Dean's sure of it. 

"What, what? Cas, I'm—fucking fuck," Dean gasps out, eyes squeezed shut, hips jerking almost frantically now. He's so hot all over, like he's boiling from the inside out, and he needs—he needs— 

"You're the one holding back," Cas informs him, as if Dean's going to be able to follow the thread of this conversation in the middle of all this. What he says next, though, really penetrates the fog in Dean's brain. "Stop restraining yourself and just do it." 

And, what do you know, Dean fucking does. His whole body locks up as he fully just comes in his pants like he's not a grown man, but he doesn't even care because it might just be the absolute best orgasm of his goddamn life. So far, anyway. He's got the distant suspicion that Cas will ensure he has better ones in the future. 

For now, he experiences that white noise again, but in the best way this time. He's aware that he's releasing a relieved moan and twitching all over, so he probably looks like a fucking idiot, but he really doesn't give a shit. He rides it the whole way through, gasping and shuddering and, eventually, slumping back against the door like all of his strings have been cut at once. 

"Okay," Dean wheezes, blinking his eyes open and letting his head roll forward. Cas is watching him intently, pupils blown, mouth spit-slick and swollen. He looks—well, he looks really fucking good. "Yeah, this is going to work." 

Cas' lips twitch. "I would say so." 

"Awesome. Yeah, I'm—I'm good now. I mean, I'm sticky, and that's not great, but otherwise. Yeah." 

"You've showered today." 

"So have you," Dean points out. 

"Well," Cas murmurs, "we'll need to again." 

"Did you—" 

"Not yet." 

Dean snorts. "Kinda presumptuous of you, Cas, but I can't say you're wrong. Okay, showers. Oh, but think about the reckless use of water, man. It's not an infinite resource, you know. Ain't cheap either." 

"I'm aware." Cas hums, lips twitching up into a smile all over again. "Water conservation is very important, Dean." 

"Yeah," Dean agrees, "I think we gotta share at this point. Like, for the planet and shit." 

"It's the right thing to do," Cas tells him solemnly, but his eyes are bright with humor and delight. He looks so happy. Fuck. 

"Come on," Dean mumbles, fumbling for the doorknob as his heart does some stupid bullshit fluttering thing in his chest. 

Cas follows him. 

Shower sex is complicated, but not when it's two guys standing under the hot spray of water and getting handsy while spreading soap all over each other. Seeing Cas naked is pretty interesting because Dean has never been particularly infatuated with any part of another man before, but Cas' ass is something else. He has absolutely no problem getting it up a second time, which is a fun little discovery that doesn't make him panic at all. 

So, basically, he has adjusted rather quickly. It's either because of Cas being exactly like he would expect (and nothing at all like he would expect), or because people don't come by and blow Dean's mind like that every day. Then again, Cas has done that from the very first meeting, walking into a barn in a shower of sparks and the shadow imprint of wings. 

Cas has been blowing his mind for years, and on a Tuesday night in a shower, he does it yet again, as if he's meant for it. And maybe, maybe, it's just because Dean's so stupid for Cas that everything he does seems like a goddamn miracle. Angel or human, dead or alive, MIA or at home, the one thing that doesn't change is just how much Dean cares about him. He does, he does, and he doesn't know how to stop, or even want to. 

Love, he suspects, is much the same. 

Getting used to being comfortable with Cas, as well as being openly in love with him, has been something of a journey. In part, Dean has completely accepted it. If anyone were to dare suggest he didn't love Cas, or insinuate they shouldn't be together, Dean's pretty sure he'd beat the ever-loving shit out of them.  

Still, that doesn't mean Dean doesn't get flustered sometimes. He doesn't forget, exactly—he will never forget that they're together, finally, after all the shit it took to get here—but there are times when he's reminded all at once, and he has a ridiculously visceral reaction to it. 

Cas will slide his hand down Dean's back in an intimate gesture, and Dean will freeze in shock before melting entirely. Or Cas will go in for a kiss, and Dean's breath will hitch because it's still something of a revelation to think they can do this and have this now, but then they'll be kissing and he'll be dying a little and it's just fine. It's small things that Cas does because he likes to do them, or wants to and can, and Dean just sort of gives into it because of the same reasons. 

He's not an entirely innocent party either, honestly. If he doesn't get his hands on Cas in an inappropriate manner at least twice in one day, then he's in a funk about it until he can rectify it. Anyway, it's working out pretty well. 

That's why, when he feels a warm body settle against him from behind, arms wrapping around him and slightly chapped lips kissing the spot just below his ear, Dean goes stiff and nearly bursts into flame as all the heat in his body rushes to his face. His heart immediately starts thumping unevenly in his chest, stupidly fast, and he has to scold it because ah, yes, they do this literally every day. 

Dean ducks his head to hide his smile and mumbles, "Dude, stop it. I've gotta make Sam his stupid, little fruity drink. Grab me one of those pink umbrellas."

Cas does, in fact, pull away to grab one of those tiny, pink umbrellas. He glances at the drink Dean's in the midst of making. "You know that's a Malibu Sunset, Dean. Your aversion to it is, quite frankly, ridiculous. I know you've tried it and enjoyed it." 

"You shut your mouth," Dean says, pointing at him seriously. "If you so much as breathe with intentions to tell Sam that, I'll kick your ass, Cas." 

Cas arches an eyebrow. "Will you?" 

"Oh, I see how it is," Dean murmurs, abandoning the drink in a heartbeat to crowd Cas up against the counter, pressing his hands to Cas' hips. One of the best things that has come out of all this is the fact that Cas wears flannel now and jeans and black shirts that hug his shoulders and—anyway, Dean likes his casual attire…a lot. "You're always trying to start some shit you know I'll finish." 

"I'm not doing anything," Cas says blandly, but he's a lying liar who lies because his hands have stealthily slipped under Dean's outer flannel with steadily increasing determination to pull the next layer up and get to skin. "You're the one who—" 

"Hey, what's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?" Sam calls from down the hall, and there's the distant sound of Eileen cackling. "Can you two stop doing whatever you're doing for five seconds and bring me my Malibu Sunset?" 

Dean sighs and squeezes Cas' hips. "Listen at him. He's even proud of the drink. Where the fuck did I go wrong with that kid?" 

"I think you did well," Cas says, which is probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said about Dean's influence on Sam. "Take him his drink." 

"Yeah, yeah," Dean mumbles, pulling back to grab Sam's drink and take it to him. If he takes a small sip on the way there, no he did not because he doesn't drink these fruity drinks, obviously. 

Cas follows behind him, their hands clasped for no other reason than because Cas likes sappy shit like that and Dean...doesn't hate it. Whatever, it's sort of great. He'll die before admitting it, though. 

"About time," Sam mutters, reaching out a hand over the back of the recliner he and Eileen are squeezed into—she's halfway in his lap and seems particularly happy to be there. "Can't trust you two alone for five minutes." 

"We're in love," Dean says smugly, because that's his go-to response whenever Sam tries to tease him. It's the ace up his sleeve because Sam's face does this weird, happy-disgusted twitching thing, and he has to be quiet while trying to hide his smile. Also, it always makes Cas happy, so there's that, too. 

And it's true. He kinda can't shut up about it. 

When Sam and Eileen showed up at the Bunker about a week ago—five days after Cas came back—it was to all the cleaning supplies being empty and the unspoken knowledge that Dean did a lot of sanitizing surfaces that really, severely needed it after he and Cas got through with them. It also just so happened that they arrived while Dean was in the middle of getting fucked pretty wonderfully, actually, and not exactly being quiet about it. 

Thankfully, this all took place in Dean's room, so no one saw anything. Sam and Eileen had apparently heard enough, though, because when Cas and Dean eventually made their way out to discover them at the table on their laptops, both of them were wearing headphones. Sam couldn't meet Dean's eyes for two days. Eileen gave him a high-five. 

Eventually, Sam stopped being mortified about the fact that his brother now gets thoroughly railed by his best friend on the regular, and then he moved on to teasing Dean mercilessly. This came with mixed results—sometimes Dean would laugh, sometimes Dean would snap at him about it. He was having some internal issues, as Cas delicately put it, and Sam wasn't always helping. Well, he wasn't until they had A Talk about it that ended in tears—Sam cried because he's ridiculous—and it had been fine. 

Ever since the talk—where Sam expressed his apparent joy at Dean being happy and Accepting His Feelings—they've been fine. But Dean has discovered that he can usually render Sam into giddy silence if he just blurts out that he and Cas are happy and in love all willy-nilly. Yes, Dean abuses this. It's his right as a big brother to do so.

Following The Talk with Sam, Dean had to take approximately two days to do some soul-searching and freaking the fuck out about What It All Means.

And so, Dean came to the not-so-groundbreaking conclusion that he's a Certified Bisexual, who has been head over heels for his once-angel-now-human best friend for a number of years now. Which is fine, mostly. The sex is really good, and he likes being happy almost as much as he likes Cas being happy. 

"Your beer, Eileen," Cas says, holding out the beer in question with his free hand, small smile flickering at the corner of his lips. He's so pleased. 

Eileen grins at him. "Thank you," she says, signing as she does, then slumping back against Sam with a small sigh. "Start the movie." 

"What are we watching?" 

Multiple people release sharp curses, though Eileen doesn't. She just swings her head around, looking for whatever startled everyone else. The source is Jack, standing right next to Cas rather suddenly. He's staring at the TV with interest. 

"Jack," Cas breathes out, blinking, "perhaps some warning next time." 

Jack winces in apology. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting. I'll try to remember next—oh." He stops, gaze locked onto Cas and Dean's joined hands. He tilts his head, then smiles. "Ah, that's nice. I'm very happy for you, Castiel." 

"Thank you," Cas murmurs, the tip of his nose turning a little red. Dean wants to bite it. 

"No congrats for me?" Dean asks, raising his eyebrows. "Cas is the catch here, not me." 

Jack smiles at him, almost indulgently, mostly just pleased. "Of course I'm very happy for you as well, Dean. Now, what are we watching?" 

"You'll see," Sam tells him, winking at him. "It's a surprise. I think you'll enjoy it." 

"Come on, you can hang out on the couch with me and Cas," Dean tells him, jerking his head. He pulls Cas down beside him, leaning into him immediately, keeping their fingers threaded together. Whatever, he's in love, sue him. 

"Should I get the lights?" Jack asks before sitting down, glancing at Sam. 

Sam nods. "That'd be great. Thanks, Jack." 

Instead of walking over to the lamps, he just waves his hand and the room dims instantly. He moves to sit down next to Cas, seemingly very eager to watch a movie with his family, not batting an eye at Cas and Dean practically cuddling right next to him. 

A beat later, the movie starts, and the opening lines fill the otherwise silent room.

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground.

The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. 

And Dean thinks, very stupidly: 

According to all known laws of life, there is no way Dean should get his happy ending. He's too fucked up for Cas to love him, and he's so good at ruining things, and he's never allowed himself to want it. 

Dean, of course, gets his happy ending anyway because fuck Heaven, fuck Chuck, and fuck not going after the things you want. 

After, when the movie is over, Sam says, "So," in a voice full of trembling laughter. 

"The metaphor works," Cas replies evenly, because he has heard this metaphor and seemed rather doubtful of it until this moment, the traitor. As the lights come up again, he turns towards Dean with happiness glinting in his laughing blue eyes. "I fell in love with a bee." 

"You are so fucking lucky I love you, Cas," Dean bemoans, dropping his head on Cas' shoulder. 

"Well," Cas says, "yes, I am." 

Dean lifts his head, squeezing Cas' hand and shamelessly asking, as he often does, "Say it back."

"I love you, Dean," Cas tells him instantly, like saying it is the easiest thing, like the words can exist out in the world while he's alive and whole.

"Yeah," Dean says softly, "I know."