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It’s stupid, really. Dean doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much. His back hurts, his feet ache, and the customer who had made an attempt at humor, saying perhaps she wouldn’t give Dean a tip, is chipping away at the last of his sanity.
It’s 7 hours into an 8-hour shift. Dean can do this. He sniffs harshly, turns to help the next customer, ignores the lump in his throat. It kinda hurts, if he’s honest.
Distantly, he realizes that he might be approaching a meltdown. He ignores that, too.
The next table he helps is loud, a family of five. He wants to pluck out his eyes and cut off his ears when the youngest of the three children shrieks in frustration at something their sibling is doing.
Instead, he smiles and takes their orders, throwing a couple of well-timed jokes into the mix. He kind of wants to throw up when he gets back to the kitchen. One of the cooks, Benny, shoots him a concerned look when he steps up to the counter to take a few plates of food. “Doin’ all right there, cher?” he calls over the hiss of meat being thrown into a skillet.
“Fine,” Dean grits out, managing to send a smile Benny’s way. From the look on the cook’s face, it must be more of a grimace than anything else. He rolls his shoulders, pushes back out into the dining room, and by the time the end of his shift rolls around, he can feel his resolve crumbling.
He counts up his tips for the day, clocks out, hangs his apron on the rack. The first breath of night air has his eyes watering, a knot unwinding in his chest. The moon is high in the sky, the stars visible from where he stands, and he shuffles slowly to his car, holding back tears.
He doesn’t know why he’s so upset, so on edge, just knows that if anything else doesn’t go his way tonight he’s going to start crying and there’s probably nothing that will stop it. He slides behind the Impala’s wheel, shuts the door behind him, and wilts a little.
He drapes his forearms over the top of the steering wheel, rests his forehead against them, and lets out a shaky breath. One hand snakes down with the keys and slots them into the ignition, wrist turning forward.
Except, the car doesn’t start. It makes a noise, sputters, and when he looks up, because are you fucking kidding, the fuel gauge says it’s empty. It’s fucking empty.
Hadn’t Dean just filled the tank yesterday? Yeah, before he left for work, he… no, that’s not right. Maybe the day before? Dean swears he fueled up when the gauge began to drop below half full. He swears .
And, oh god, here come the tears. A sob bursts out of him without much warning, and he throws his keys to the seat next to him, threading his hands through his hair and tugging.
It’s been a fucking awful day. All he wants to do is curl up with Cas, maybe fall asleep cuddled up close to him. Still crying, he reaches into the pockets of his jacket and fishes his phone out, pressing Call on Cas’ contact.
The phone rings for several seconds, and just when Dean thinks he won’t answer, Cas’ voice rumbles through the speaker.
“Hey, baby,” he says, and he sounds so affectionate that Dean can’t help the sound he makes in response. It’s something between a sob and a whine, and he’ll worry later about how embarrassing that is. Cas’ voice comes through again, noticeably more concerned. “Dean?”
Dean sniffles, shudders, wipes at his eyes. “Can you, uh, can you bring me the gas can from the garage? I’m stuck—” he hiccups— “I’m stuck at work.” He hears rustling over the receiver, the distinct jingle of keys, and the garage door opening a few seconds later.
“I’m on my way. You’re in the back parking lot?”
“Yeah,” the word comes out so watery that Dean wants to hide away, but he knows that once Cas gets there he won’t be able to. More tears spill down his cheeks.
“I’m gonna hang up, now, but I’ll be there soon, all right?”
“Okay, yeah. Okay.” He stutters over the words, breathing harshly, and then Cas hangs up, and he’s left alone again. The silence would be nice if Dean wasn’t actively trying to stop crying. He rubs a hand down his face, grabs his keys off the seat, sits there waiting. It’s miserable.
Not long after Dean manages to get a hold of himself, Cas’ Lincoln is pulling into the lot and parking near the Impala. Dean’s tears have mostly dried, but his face is all red now, and his eyes are swollen. He gets out of the car, and before he even shuts the door, Cas is hurrying towards him with the gas can, a worried frown on his face.
“Hey,” Dean says. “Thanks for, uh—” he clears his throat— “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
Cas sets the can down by one of the back wheels, then turns to Dean. “Did something happen?”
Dean shakes his head before the full sentence is out of Cas’ mouth and crowds into his space, tucking himself under Cas’ chin to try and make himself smaller. He feels more than hears Cas’ answering exhale, soft and concerned and trembling. “Shh, I’ve got you,” he soothes, rubbing down Dean’s back in long strokes. “I’ve got you, baby.”
He hums reassurances into Dean’s ear, sweet words and gentle praise, and after a few moments of breathing each other in, Dean reluctantly pulls away. Fighting back more tears, he reaches for the gas can. “It was a bad day, is all. Didn’t think I’d have a meltdown over it, though.” Another tear slips down Dean’s face, much to his dismay. He ignores it, opening the fuel cap behind the license plate and bringing the nozzle up to it. Cas watches him, still frowning.
“Do you need me to drive you home? I can come pick up my car in the morning.”
Dean physically feels himself soften. Of course, Cas would offer to leave his car here overnight. He knows how attached Dean is to his Impala. “No, that’s okay,” he says, and when he’s filled the tank enough, he hands the empty can back to Cas. “I’ll meet you at home.”
Cas hesitates, then nods in agreement. “All right. I’ll see you… at home.”
“I’m okay to drive, Cas. Promise.”
“I believe you.” He kisses Dean’s forehead, then steps toward his car. Dean gets back in the driver’s seat feeling a little less shaky than before.
—
The house smells amazing when they get back, and Dean realizes Cas has made them both dinner. It’s sitting on the counter covered in foil to keep warm. Cas comes through the front door shortly after Dean does, footsteps soft where they sound behind him, and Dean barely lets him cross the threshold before he hugs him again.
“Thank you,” is all he says, but Cas knows what he means. Thank you for taking care of me, for coming when I call, for being someone I can rely on. Cas tightens his arms around Dean, pressing chapped lips into soft hair. He doesn’t respond verbally, just holds Dean close, swaying gently from side to side.
By the time they pull apart, Dean is warm with affection. He leans back just to stare at Cas, fond, and Cas slides a hand up Dean’s arm, kissing him gently. “What’re you thinking about?”
Dean shakes his head, bringing Cas’ hand to his cheek so he can lean into it. He smiles softly, tired. “Nothin’.”
“Nothing?”
“Mm.” Dean, still holding onto Cas, turns and leads him into the kitchen. “Tombstone during dinner?” he asks, removing the foil on the stone pan to find lasagna inside. Steam rises slowly in the wake of the covering. It makes his mouth water, and now that Dean’s not crying his eyes out, he’s actually pretty hungry. Cas laughs as he sets two plates on the counter, and Dean knows he’ll get the movie up as soon as they’re sitting on the couch.
“You want your usual spot?”
“Please.” Dean cuts a piece for him and a piece for Cas, and then they’re settling in, TV remotes in hand. Dean is pressed into the corner of the couch, against the arm of it, and Cas is leaning on his other side. It’s exactly how he likes it.
Later, when they go to bed, and Dean lets his exhausted body sink into their mattress, Cas will kiss him goodnight. Later, when the lights are off, and the covers are pulled up high, Dean will wrap himself around the man beside him. And when the only thing to worry about is sleep, their legs tangled together beneath the blankets, they will dream of each other.