Chapter Text
Dean’s not ready.
His alarm wakes him and in that mid-moment between dream and consciousness, he forces himself to let go of his gun so that he can fumble with his phone.
Once the room is quiet again, he heaves a big, wet sigh into his pillow.
Christ.
They have to be on the road in thirty minutes. Which is hell. Dean understood what he was signing up for nine p.m. yesterday. He was the one who said they’d have to leave at four o’clock to get to Winsted by check-in time, but he’s regretting it now.
Dean’s been waking up earlier and earlier as the years go by for some reason – but not this damn early.
Dimly, he grumbles to himself about why they need to rush now, why he needs to rush. It was his idea after all.
The rumble of Cas’s voice greets Dean in the kitchen, warm and familiar. “Here,” he says, and presses a warm mug into Dean’s waiting grasp. “I made you coffee.”
Like lightning before thunder, the caffeine hits Dean’s nose and then the steam, cloying and inviting. This, and Cas’s indulgent smile, is paradise first thing in the morning.
“Coffee,” Dean agrees, squinting blearily at the cup. His tongue is thick in his mouth, and the coffee has cooled enough that it stops just short from scalding him with this first gulp.
“Thanks, Cas.”
Dean’s gonna need to down this now to minimize rest stops down the line. He brings the rest of the coffee to his lips, taking in a deep whiff of the bitter caffeine, the nutty sweetness of the oils. Cas insists on bringing the good stuff with them, and it’s always worth it.
“Of course,” Cas says, smiling. “I love you.”
Dean nearly bites through the ceramic.
Before Dean can say anything, Cas has already moved away down the kitchen to wash out his own mug in the sink.
“I’ll bring the bags down to the car,” he tells Dean, jangling the keys to the Impala for Dean to see, glinting like silver in the morning light.
“I?” Dean replies. His lips are tingling.
Cas nods. “Get dressed. I’ll get the engine warmed up.”
Dean nods too.
He watches Cas walk down the stairs, his eyes wide and vision sharp.
What?
Awake and aware, but still mentally sluggish, Dean finishes off his coffee in three gulps and rinses the mug in the sink. Did Cas really just say ...
In the bathroom, he brushes the grime off his teeth and goes over what had just happened.
Like an interview.
What did you see? What’s the last thing you remember? No, no, trust me – whatever you tell us, we’re not gonna believe you’re crazy.
Except he is. He squints with bloodshot eyes at his blurry reflection, flecked and stained in the motel mirror. There’s no way Cas said that.
Sure, Cas is a touchy-feely guy, relatively, as far as angels can get, but this? Right now? Again? ‘I love you’s’ are reserved for death’s door, for the aftermath of shootouts, for the worst days of Dean’s life. Not random Tuesday mornings. Did Cas put something in the coffee? Is Dean dying?
And he’s an angel. Dean’s never known one of them to ... be this casual about it. They’re not typically lovey-dovey and then here’s Cas handing Dean a cup of morning joe like he’s some doting 50s sitcom wife. For an angel, to a human, that move would be embarrassing, degrading. Dean changes into clothes Cas laid out for him on the second bed and feels a sympathetic flush light up his neck. Embarrassing.
By the time Dean gets down the stairs, teeth cleaned, hair combed, chutes dropped, he finds Cas sitting patiently in the passenger’s seat of the Impala.
The car has been warmed toasty and inviting, especially contrasted against the icy four a.m. air outside. Cas has got some Don MacLean gently mumbling through the speakers, barely louder than the buzz of the heater. When Dean gets in the front seat, he nearly closes the door on his jacket, too focused on rubbing his chilly hands together so that he doesn’t have to look at his best friend sitting by his side.
“Did you return the keys to the front desk?” Cas asks.
Dean glances over at him. The sun won’t rise for a few more hours, and Cas is lit sallow by the pale fluorescent lights propped up on the building. He looks a little tired, too, or maybe just older. Other than that, he’s the same old Cas.
“Yeah. We good to go?” Dean ventures, finding the key in the ignition.
Cas nods an affirmative, leaning back and getting comfortable again.
Dean puts a hand on the back of Cas’s seat as he reverses out of the motel’s parking lot. He deliberates that there’s no way Cas actually said anything; that Dean just needs to get more sleep.
*
But, Dean’s still kind of a mess about it hours later.
They finish the hunt quick enough. It was essentially an exorcism. There are rumblings in Hell, issues with management, so demons are spilling upwards in droves like it’s Walmart on Boxing Day. Dean’s kind of glad to be back, at least to lighten the load on other hunters, and that Cas is willing to help out certainly doesn’t hurt.
They dress up like Catholic priests, and Dean does his best to look half-way religious. “Padre,” he snickers when he sees Cas, who only rolls his eyes in response.
Their robes are Party City specials and, as much as Dean laughs, the truth is Cas wears devoutness as well as he wears a doctor’s coat, or a cowboy hat, and he’s the only reason the family trusts their story.
Dean approaches them with some trepidation; there’s always the chance that the families who think their kid is possessed are the problem, but then – families like that usually don’t reach out along the grapevine. And they look afraid, not self-pitying.
Dean lets Cas do most of the talking. He catches a few words here and there, Cas mumbling, voice low, in what sounds to Dean like perfect Spanish. “Gracias por,” something, something, “a su casa.” The family buys it, too.
The mother rambles tearfully, says something about their daughter, and points her arm towards the dimly lit staircase at the end of the hallway, fear and pain bright in her eyes.
Cas murmurs something else in Spanish, and it comes out half-concerned half-comforting. He nods to Dean, face tight with a grave expression, and starts making his way upstairs. Dean tosses a quick “Gracias,” behind them to mom and pop, standing together in the kitchen, hands wringing together with concern. It’s been a long time since Dean’s done something like this.
Upstairs, Cas holds the door open, and behind it is a college-aged girl tied to her bed with rope, and a demon inside her tied to the bedroom with the crosses that decorate just about every surface. Catholic households.
“Dean Winchester,” the demon speaks up the moment he steps into the room, leisurely tasting out every single world. “As I live and breathe. Fancy seeing you here.”
“Sorry, don’t do autographs.” His skin starts to itch and crawl.
Dean’s brains are still a bit scrambled from the morning and the long drive that followed, and that the demon knows him by name sets him on edge. Dean knows logically he is a big name, but it still unnerves him when he’s recognized, and there’s something especially disturbing about this demon.
“What? You don’t remember me?” the demon grins, smile unnaturally wide. She tilts her head to the side, dark hair pooling around one shoulder, and pouts with cracked lips. “You tortured me, Dean.”
The air drains from the room.
“You stuck me with so many knives I looked like a pincushion.” The girl laughs, throwing her head back. “Ever since I got topside, I wondered if I’d ever see you again, get to thank you for making me into the strong young woman I am today.” She raises an eyebrow, eyes coal tar black. “You here to finish the job?”
Dean must freeze, because Cas strides over to the bed and presses his hand to the little demon’s forehead, threatening.
“What are you doing here? Why are you bothering this family?” Cas barks.
The demon giggles, nudges her face into Cas’s hand as though she doesn’t know he’s an angel. “It’s not just me, Padre,” she sings, smirking. “Tons of us are having issues with the new management. Doesn’t matter what you do with me, you’ll be seeing us around. And plenty of us have a bone to pick with you, Dean. Probably literally.”
“Dean, shut your eyes,” Cas snaps. And in the next moment the room lights up with that unearthly white glow.
With his new and improved Grace, Cas smokes the demon out easily. Dean’s worried for half a moment that Cas smoked the girl out as well, but Cas has got the magic touch since he came back from Heaven, from the Empty.
“Oh my god,” the girl on the bed whimpers. “He’s gone.”
She’s crying heavily, tears streaming down from both brown eyes and framing her face like a dam just gave. She breathes loudly, jarringly – choked and relieved, like she just swam to the surface of some strangling depths.
Half-ozone, half-sulfur, the cramped bedroom smells strongly chemical and wrong, it leaves Dean light-headed and weak-kneed. Cas reaches out to undo the ropes around the victim’s wrists. Dean’s instincts are sluggish, hands cold, it’s taking him too long to nudge his mind past what the demon just said to him. He’s lucky that Cas is here to pick up his slack.
“I’m sorry,” the girl says as Cas frees her, instinctively guilty.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Cas promises, a small reassuring smile in his voice.
Suddenly, he’s got a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and gives Dean a secure squeeze. Like smelling salts, Dean jolts back into the situation that they’re in.
Dean nods at the girl. It’s hard to look her in the eye. “C’mon,” he manages to grind out, ignoring the look of quiet concern in Cas’s eyes. “Let’s give your parents the good news.”
All in all, it was a success.
The family cries, group-hugs it out, sings a quick kumbaya, and the best part is no one had to die. Dean didn’t even need to crack out any Latin. It’s almost too easy, and then he and Cas are on the road again, flying home.
Back in the car, Cas tries to talk to Dean. “What the demon said,” he starts.
“Whatever,” Dean interrupts, as quickly as he can manage. “Demons lie. That’s what they do.” Dean would know.
He shrugs and looks at Cas like he’s totally unaffected. Like he dares Cas to argue with him on that. Cas doesn’t.
Cas didn’t say he loves Dean, so Dean doesn’t have to think about that, and the demon was lying, so Dean doesn’t have to think about Hell. This is how this works, how Dean works.
He hasn’t told anyone, barely has admitted it to himself, that he had been half-certain he would go to Hell when he died, at least for things he had done while he was there. Bleeding out in that barn, he had actually made his peace with it. So, if he lets himself wonder, just for a moment, why he was let into Heaven in the first place – that’s his own business.
But it doesn’t matter. Dean’s not in Hell, or Heaven, he’s here. He doesn’t have to think about any of this. He wills Cas not to make him talk about it.
“We have to tell Sam about what the demon said about Rowena,” Cas eventually gives in. When he leans back, surrenders, it doesn’t feel like a triumph. Dean keeps driving.
*
And Cas doesn’t bring it up again. Any of it.
They evict the demon, save the day, and he says nothing. They spend hours side by side, almost a full day on the road, altogether. They waste a night at another motel, Cas seated at the table as Dean tries to not have nightmares in a lone Queen bed.
Nada.
Just Dean’s thoughts, knocking around in his head like pinballs, trying to remember what exactly Cas had said, if he’d really said it.
The upsetting alternative to all this, of course, is that it’s just Dean’s faulty brain making things up.
Which is kind of pathetic, but hey – pride’s for suckers. Plus, Dean had gotten maybe four hours of sleep the night prior, which means one thing to a twenty-something and another thing entirely to a man more than, Christ, twice that age. Dean being sleep-deprived and hallucinating love confessions almost makes sense. It’s at least more believable than the alternative – a possibility which Dean isn’t even comfortable considering.
But, while Cas never brings it up, Dean just wishes that that was enough reason to dismiss it – because he still can’t get it out of his head.
Cas has said those three words a few times since Dean’s known him. Cas dragging Dean and Sam down into a hug when all he could dream about was flowers and fruit. Cas bleeding black and whimpering out a confession like it dirtied them all for him to say it out loud.
The way Cas talks about Jack, about Claire, about humanity in the abstract and in the intimate. He’s said it with and without words time and time again, with – in Dean’s opinion – varying levels of sincerity.
Dean still hasn’t even touched the night that Cas summoned the Empty.
It was the worst day of his life, and Dean has had quite a few. He had nearly been chased out of his skull by the terror and confusion of the hours that followed. By the grief, almost gleefully taking up residence beneath Dean’s ribs, bigger than his body and threatening to split him apart. It’s a testament that Dean remembers as much of Cas’s speech as he does. Some things are hard to forget.
He’s had nightmares about it. Still does some nights. Little snippets where there’s a sinking feeling in his gut heavy as lead, terribly familiar. He held onto as much as he could, tried not to rewrite it in his mind, since he had honestly believed that that was all he would ever have of Cas for the rest of his miserable life. And, it wasn’t like he had been wrong about that, either – the rest of his life had been pretty damn short.
But, even remembering the words Cas said doesn’t mean Dean understands them. He still doesn’t know what Cas meant, when he said he wanted what he couldn’t have. Doesn’t know what Cas means, when he says love. What Cas wants. If he can want.
Cas hasn’t brought up that night and Dean’s content enough to let it rest. There’s a lot to unpack and Dean’s on the road too often to start.
Except Cas, or Dean’s stupid subconscious, wants to bring it up again. Something is nudging at that night the way a tongue finds a mouth sore. Either Cas wants to say it, or Dean wants him to. It feels like too much and like nothing at all.
But Dean’s good at packing up, moving on. He’s done it before. That’s all he ever does. He still hasn’t told Sam about why the Empty took Cas, and doesn’t plan to, doesn’t want to deal with Sam’s teary, soulful eyes over the tragedy that is Dean Winchester.
Sam’s so grossly happy with Eileen, and Dean’s pleased as punch for them, but it’s that kind of smugly self-satisfied pitying happiness of a perfect couple – looking at you to silently ask what part is so broken in you that you can’t have what they have. It’s a good question, but Dean’s sick of trying to answer it.
Dean’s few attempts at long-term have always gone down in flames. Dean doesn’t know if he’s built for something like that. And he hadn’t needed it, really, when there were enough family and friends around to keep him ... busy, fulfilled. And yeah, Cas has been part of that.
But, if Dean’s out here hallucinating, daydreaming, that Cas is casually dropping love confessions, Dean’s got to get out of this bunker and try the way Sam’s tried, and succeeded, with Eileen. He’s gotta do something.
Dean is putzing around in the kitchen, planning for dinner so that he can do something with his hands, but it’s a distracted preparation. For one, he’s midway through setting up the glass dish for the lasagna he’s planning to make before he realizes that they’re out of milk. Sam, oscillating between vegetarianism and veganism, never bothers to buy new jugs on the off-chance that Dean might turn over a new leaf. Fat chance.
All that to say, he needs to ride into town. As he passes by the war table, he sees Cas curled over a laptop deep in thought with his free hand tangled in Miracle’s blond fur. Dean’s instinct is to ask Cas along before he manages to change tack.
“Hey, I’m going to the store, you want anything?”
“No, I’m fine.” Cas hardly looks up from his computer.
Dude might drink coffee, but he’s still an angel and doesn’t necessarily need to – Dean just figures it’s nice to ask and Cas usually seems to appreciate when he does. Dean knocks idly on the stair rail and half-waves to Cas on his way.
Idly, Cas adds, “Drive safe. I love you.”
Dean is out the door before he can question it, but later on his drive when the light turns green someone has to honk for him to notice.