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After dropping Sam off at the motel, Dean makes another round back through the rows and twisting lanes of suburban houses, brings himself to a quiet little apartment building, wanders up three flights of stairs and down the hall to number four-oh-seven, the one indicated by the slip of paper that she gave him earlier. The place she gave him along with her phone number, just in case he and Sam ever need her help again.
Dean guesses that he doesn't really need her help right now—at least, he doesn't need her help in a way that involves hunting anything, taking down some beast that wants to destroy the world, or any of the bigger picture options that he might usually call on her for help with. But he does need help with something—doesn't he? No way, that's ridiculous. He doesn't need help with anything—it's all just a matter of wanting to make sure that the Queen of Moons is safe in her keep. It's all about Charlie and making sure that she's okay—that's the only reason he's here.
Except for how Dean only wishes things were that simple, as though, "why are things always so complicated" isn't the story of his fucking life.
He knocks on the door and preemptively ducks his chin, and can't even begin to fathom why he's so sheepish about the whole, "checking in on someone who just went through yet another round of unwanted, unasked for, seriously intrusive supernatural crap and lived to tell the tale" process—because really, doing this in his jeans and flannel instead of in his breeches and chain-mail isn't so bad. Could be a lot worse. Dean can think of plenty of things that he'd rather do than this, but even so… it's not that bad. Sure, it's not something that Dean usually does—mostly because survivors are so rare in this business—but there's nothing to be scared of—not least because Charlie smiles at him when she opens up.
Well, smiles might be going too far—she more gives him a playful, off-kilter smirk and asks if he's lost. "And if you are, then I can't really help you because directions are so not my forte, but… yeah. I guess. Hey, stranger, what's up with you and can I offer you a slice of pizza?"
"Nah, I didn't come here to…" Dean says, and feels the words catch in his throat before he can get them out to his satisfaction. "I'm not here to, like… I'd say this isn't a social call, but it pretty much is, so… This isn't the sort of social visit where I'm gonna come in and eat you out of house and home or something like that…"
"Dude, it's okay, I'm offering you my pizza—it's just gonna get turned into leftovers anyway…" Her smirk softens into a real, proper smile and she reaches over to wrap her hand around his wrist. "Besides, you deserve an epic treat for what you pulled out there on the battlefield today. I don't know what kind of special, high-protein diet you epic-level monster-hunters are usually on, but you can cut back for a night, okay? It's cool."
And to his own surprise, Dean doesn't protest as she drags him in out of the corridor. Not even to say that his usual diet is why the pizza might not be the best idea for him in the first place—but she's got what looks like a meat lover's order sitting on the table in her tiny kitchen, right next to a stack of hard-back Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks and a collection of brightly colored dice. So, Dean takes her up on that offer, gets a plate with two slices, and for a while, it's just quiet between them—he eats dinner and she tells him about the new campaign she's looking to run with a few of the gals from Moondoor, something or other about Lovecraftian horrors running wild in the world of the game—which doesn't usually happen, apparently. At least, not with everybody's games.
"I mean, it can happen," she says, stirring a plastic straw around her can of Coke. "There are rules for them in the books, but I'm toggling a few things around some, getting into some home-brew stuff, taking out the rules about them being always evil…" She pauses. Sighs. Gives Dean a long look that, frankly, makes him want to bury himself in the pile of blankets on her sofa, or under the floorboards like a telltale heart, or in the back of a very literal closet. "But… I am pretty sure you didn't come all the way over here just to hear me babbling about Dungeon Master stuff."
"Well, I kinda did, actually," Dean says with a shrug, leans toward her and rests his elbows on the table. He picks up a twelve-sided die and rolls a ten, just for the sake of having something to do with his hands. "It's pretty much a social call to, y'know, make sure you're okay. And talking about your Dungeons and Dragons stuff says you're pretty okay to me, which is good to know, so… there's that?"
"There's something else going on, though," she says and scoots her chair closer to the table, still staring at Dean like she can read his mind, or like she's trying to do that anyway—it's not entirely unlike that soul-scraping, you don't think you deserve to be saved expression that Cas pulls out sometimes.
Not that Dean is thinking about Cas—not right now. He can't think about Cas right now, because he can't do anything about Cas right now, because there aren't any angel-proofing seals on Charlie's apartment and sure, the Enochian chicken-scratch on Dean's ribs might generally keep him off of Heaven's radar—but there's no guaranteeing it'll stay that way if he gets to anything that they might misconstrue as praying. And thinking about Cas right now? Might go too far into the realm of things that Heaven, in all its infinitely corrupt douchebaggery, might possibly misconstrue as praying. Even just wishing for Cas to be okay—as okay as circumstances will allow, anyway—wherever he is right now.
"Seriously, Dean," Charlie says and pulls him back down to earth. "I mean, I might not have the best skill checks for reading people, but I'm not oblivious over here, either? I can tell when someone's got something else on their mind—and bee tee dubs, you're not exactly Mister Subtlety over here with your whole… brooding Batman shoulders and looking like someone just hit a puppy with a semi-truck."
Dean pulls a face. Doesn't even try to keep himself from wrinkling his nose or grimacing. "I'm more of a cat person, really."
"Fine, then, you look like someone just hit a kitten with a Hyundai—whatever you want to call it, you look… really, really upset and kinda lost in your own head, and maybe it's just me, but neither of those things really screams things like, 'I'm okay' or, 'I just want to make sure that you're all right.'" Her soul-opening stare shifts into something… not exactly softer, but not exactly harder, either. Sort of twisted up like she can't decide between don't you dare lie to me, Dean and no really, are you sure that you're okay. "Don't make me pull a game of Truth or Dare out on your ass, Mister."
"That might not be so bad, really." Dean rolls his eyes, but at least he makes an attempt at not chuckling—with the look she's giving him, he really doesn't want to piss Charlie off—but… mostly, all he accomplishes is making a noise like an offended cat. "Like, I see the issue with saying, 'truth,' but what're you gonna do if I say, 'dare,' huh?"
Charlie pretends to think about that for a moment, gives Dean another playful smirk. "Oh, I don't know—I'd probably just dare you to tell me why you're really here."
"It's not like… I can't just talk about it, I mean… It's really not as simple as you're trying to make it seem, okay? It's just really, really complicated."
"Dude, you hunt monsters for a living. You talk about gory things and killing people, and breaking into Roman Enterprises to get a bunch of files on some huge conspiracy, and all kinds of other complicated stuff. What could possibly be so bad that you can't talk about it when you so clearly want to?"
She sighs again and moves into another chair, one right next to Dean. She lays her hand over his wrist, gives him a gentle squeeze. "I triple-dog dare you to tell me why you're really here," she says, softly, much softer than what she's saying. "And that is some serious business, I mean… if you chicken out on that, I'll pretty much be able to make fun of you for the rest of our lives. And after they're over, I will find a way to make fun of you in Heaven."
Dean doesn't have the heart to tell her that Heaven doesn't work the way she seems to think it does—but, then again, if she ever managed to hook up with Ash, there's no telling whether or not she couldn't somehow make Dean's afterlife a whole metric ton of irritating. All he has it in him to do is tongue at his lips, stare at her hand on his wrist, and wonder if he really has it in him to do this. He's never said it aloud before. Not really—not that he's ever had occasion to do so. Well, maybe he has, but it's more complicated than just taking the chance to tell someone or not.
With Sam—well, Dean just assumes that Sam knows, but can never bring himself to say anything; he's probably waiting for Dean to bring it up and he'll probably be waiting for a long, long time. Because it's easier not to say anything.
With Cassie and Lisa, it was an unspoken thing, something he was sure they knew about him but never discussed, not least because Dean was sure that they might ditch him. Not because they ever did anything to make him think that, but just because of Dad, because of what he used to say about those kinds of guys.
With Benny, it just never mattered because they could talk about women anyway, when they got to talking about anything that wasn't somehow related to Purgatory, getting out of it, or Benny's past and his struggle to stay clean.
And then with Cas, it's also never really been an issue because… well, neither of them tends to talk about anything very well, and there's almost always a bigger fish that needs frying, something more important than either one of them and whatever's going on between them.
Dean shakes his head and rubs his lips together. He can't look up at her, but he manages to say, "I'm. I'm not. I've been with women before, but not… exclusively? And I'm not into women exclusively, like, I'm… not straight? I try to act like I am, but I'm not, and pretending like I am is just…"
For a long moment, Charlie blinks at him, and Dean's pretty sure that he's completely blown it—one person who's not supposed to judge him and he's just blown his chance for honesty out the freaking window. Except she squeezes his wrist again and says, "It's exhausting, isn't it? Always hiding that part of yourself because you don't know what'll happen if you come out with it? Having to pretend that it's not there because maybe it'll go away if you ignore it—but then it doesn't, and that really, really doesn't help you any…"
"Pretty much. Yeah, that's… that's pretty much it exactly." Dean licks at his lips again, because Michigan's chapping them worse than usual, and he knows not to lick them, but it still makes them feel better temporarily. "Especially with hunters, it's like… Some of them are open-minded about it, and others are… well. Others are like my dad about it. Which is a shorthand way of saying completely freaking awful."
"Thanks for telling me, Dean," she says, and he believes her—believes that she means it, anyway. Believes that she's not just blowing smoke out her ass or trying to be nice about everything. "I mean, I sort of thought you might be—but then I thought maybe you were just checking out those elf guys because you were admiring their costumes, and maybe flirting with that security guard was just you being a good actor…"
"Well, he wasn't exactly my type, so it kinda was… But the elf guys were all on me. Just… what can I say? They were pretty hot." Especially the one with the mussed up dark hair who was blatantly wearing the prosthetic ears from a Spock costume, rather than the prosthetic ears from an elf costume.
"I mean it, though, Dean. Really. Thanks for telling me—it just… it means a lot for you to trust me with that."
Dean's not sure what he expects to happen next—but it's definitely not for Charlie to wrap her arms around his shoulders. It's definitely not to find himself hugging her back, burying his face in the curve of her neck, taking a deep breath of her fruity-scented soap and whatever detergent she used to wash her My Little Pony t-shirt. But they stay there for a while—just keeping quiet, holding each other—and Dean could swear that he's breathing a little easier, now. Like this really did make some kind of difference.