Chapter Text
It’s the dawn of the third day and Cas is still passed out on the starched cot, skin weird and pale against the sheets. He’s grown a hint of a beard over the last few days he’s been out and Dean can’t stop looking at it, feeling helpless as it darkens his best friend's chin blue and dark like a bruise.
It’s the last day. At sunset, Cas will die.
Dean’s fingers twist in the sheets, the echoing empty of the sick room too wide open, too silent. Sam went to go get breakfast for everyone, silent and subtle but insistent that Jack needs his nutrients. Jack hasn’t laughed since Cas dropped to the floor and didn’t get back up. Dean wasn’t sure when that sound had become a regular fixture in the bunker, but not hearing it was… wrong. Sad.
Jack is camped out in the little vinyl green chair, cracked with age and deeply uncomfortable— cushion lifeless and frame cold metal. Dean had tried to wordlessly pass him a pillow to sit on, but Jack had just slipped it under Castiel’s head, brushing the hair out of his face as he pulled away from his dad again.
Dean rubbed his face, grimy and too warm. He hadn’t wanted to leave Jack alone to face this, aware of what losing a dad could feel like. Especially when they tried to trade their life for yours. Cas had stepped into the spray from the monster's maw, flinging himself as big and wide as he could to keep Jack from being touched by the poison. It had worked, but he’d dropped instantly. Dean had managed to get a headshot on the freak and rushed to Cas’ side— but he was too late. Jack was already there crumpled on his knees trying to shake Cas awake.
It hadn’t worked. Obviously. But now Dean had the visual of what he himself had looked like, desperate and begging beside Cas’ corpse. Only seeing Jack like that was so much worse.
Sam had done a load of research on what they were dealing with. It was some sort of fairytale spin-off monster— their venom knocking people into a deep sleep for three days, only for their body to start starving. Devouring the victim from the inside out. It left shriveled husks in its wake. The one cure…
Dean grits his teeth. ‘True love’s kiss’. So fucking stupid. And from the looks of it, a total lie. The lore had to be wrong sometimes. Dean had never seen a bond like the one between Cas and Jack, and the kid had been kissing his dad’s forehead every hour on the hour, to no effect. Sam had even thrown his hat in the ring, a chaste kiss on Castiel’s temple. Dean had tried too—fast and flighty to Cas’ knuckles. But the curse had some outdated concept of what love meant, familial and best friend-ial wasn’t enough for it. But even then—
Sam came stumbling back into the room, then; lack of sleep sitting heavy on his shoulders. He hands one of the little, easy to peel oranges to Jack and a bowl of healthy cereal, the kind with nut clusters. He puts down a couple slices of buttered toast wrapped in a napkin beside Dean on the bedside table without pausing too long on it. Dean makes no move toward the pile of bread.
Sam gives him a look that intended to be threatening, but Dean could see Sam hadn’t brought anything for himself to eat either.
The room is tomb quiet. Down the hall Dean can hear the generator running. He pushes his face into his hands, wanting to break the silence with something. Anything. But more than that, he wants Cas to be the one to do it.
Briefly, Dean entertains the notion of Cas sitting straight up, eyes bright and patient. Thoughtful. They would rest on them each in turn. One by one. He’d murmur a question, what the problem was— how he could help. How he could fix it.
For the seventh time since the sun rose, Dean lets his hand drift a little closer to Cas’ knuckles— where he had brushed the kiss hours ago. They had been rough against his lips, dry and cracked like the rest of Cas. His lips, his heart. Cracked clean through, to the meat of him. One time Dean had tried to feed Cas crab. He hadn’t liked it.
Dean lets his calloused finger brush up against the tugging skin, rough against rough, weathered against weathered. Skin against skin.
“ Please , wake up.”
He didn’t notice he had said it out loud until Sam cleared his throat. “Jack?”
Jack looked up, eyes dull and worried. Red rimmed. Dean hadn’t even noticed the kid had been crying. God. Without Cas what kind of a family would Jack have here? Sam was pretty good with him, loving and warm and focused— remembered his meals and when to check in with him emotionally. Knew how to talk to him and hear him and soothe his fears around being a monster.
Dean couldn’t do that for Jack. Hell, Dean couldn’t do that for Sammy, back in the day. He had tried, but the attention had always slipped away from him. He always got distracted by his own thing. Left Sam vulnerable and full of doubt and susceptible to things Dean hadn’t even dreamed of. Let Sam think he was a monster because his dad had told him to. Never fought it, never stood up for him like he should have but—
Cas always stood up for Jack.
Dean thought maybe Sam had done that. Showed Cas that being an ‘abomination’ had layers. That Sam had goodness and love and warmth in him. That he couldn’t labelled purely as evil and that it had helped shape Cas’ understanding of right and wrong. Of free will. Helped him see Jack clearly. Helped him become the father he could be for Jack, not letting his preconceptions get in the way and Dean—
Dean had pointed a gun at him.
He had yelled at Jack. He had been ready to kill Jack. Kill himself. Blow the whole world to pieces.
Without Cas here— his breath hitches. Without Cas here, this was going to be impossible. Without Cas there was no one there to balance out Dean’s ugly but Sam. Sam was good, and Sam was kind, but he wasn’t enough to even the scales alone. Not without Cas.
A hand lands on his shoulder and Dean rockets up to his feet, hope exploding out of his chest—
Sam looks back at him. He must have moved closer at some point. Dean slumps back into his chair. Jack is no longer in the room. Dean rubs at his face again, oily and rough.
“What, Sam?” God, his voice is ruined.
Sam squeezes his shoulder, once. Rough and solid. Dean tries so hard not to notice which shoulder it is. How Sam’s fingers fit against what used to be there, what had once branded him, pink and raised against his skin.
“Just… I’m. I’m wondering what we do, here.”
Dean looks up, hollow and sharp. He feels poison in him, ready to spill out. “About what , Sam? Our best fucking friend dying? Leaving Jack with us for the rest of his life? Alone against the whole world with only us idiots for his back up?”
Sam blinks, a sliver of offence breaking across his face before it was gone again— the tide of Sam’s kind disposition sweeping it out to sea.
“I’m thinking more along the lines of how we can still save him.”
“Right.” Dean laughs, that same hollowsharp. “Gunna use his Tinder account or whatever— swipe right till someone agrees to come kiss his corpse?”
Sam’s fingers flex and his hand finally falls off Dean's shoulder. “That wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“Good.” He feels the poison pushing out of him, “Because it wouldn’t have worked. A random guy wouldn’t get it. Wouldn’t love him right. Wouldn’t know why to. Wouldn’t see him clearly. Would have just seen his dorky little icon with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up laughing in the sun and— and— what a stupid thing to have in your bio— just emojis? What’s anyone going to get out of that anyway— no one would be able to fall in love with him over that—“
“What emoji—?” Sam stops talking, gears in his head making audible thunking noises against his thick skull. Dean feels panic rising in his throat. “Wait. How do you know—?”
“It doesn’t matter , Sam! It wouldn’t work! True love isn’t something you find on a dating app, okay!”
Sam sighs. It’s resigned. Dean needs to get out of here. Now. His eyes fall to Cas over Sam's shoulder, still motionless, face waxy and vacant. It hurts to look at.
Dean grits his teeth and listens to what Sam has to say.
“Dean you… you know I would never… want to make anyone uncomfortable. Or— or force someone into something they aren’t ready for, even if it’s just—“ Sam stops himself. “But it’s Cas. Dean, it’s Cas. Come on.”
“What are you talking about, dude?” Dean finally manages around the lump choking him. “What are you saying?”
“Dean. To save his life, man. You know what I’m talking about.”
Dean’s suffocating. He whirls, stomps around the room for a bit in order not to scream at Sam for making assumptions or being stupid or being fucking offensive or—
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck . Tears start coming. Dean can’t help it, feels them shove their way out into the air, cooling against his hot cheeks as they pour. Fuck.
“Just because he was gay doesn’t mean he was in love with me, Sam.” It scrapes his throat raw coming out. The words sting just as badly out loud as they did the first time Dean had thought them, about three seconds after Cas had come out to him and said nothing more on the subject. Too late he realizes he used past tense to refer to Cas and the panic crawls to an even higher pitch. “Is. Doesn’t mean he is in love with me.”
“No.” Sam’s voice is patient. Patronizing. “But… I think they might have been connected. It doesn't feel like an unsafe bet, Dean.”
“It really fucking does , Sam.”
Sam twists, frustration and disbelief turning his face to one full of wrinkles and contrariness. “He’s dying , Dean.”
His long arm swings wide, point to Cas laying in bed, prone and lonely and dying—
Dean’s breathing has gone shallow and bright and quick and painful. Sam notices.
“He’s dying. And if you don’t at least try everything in your power to save him… God , Dean— would you even be able to look Jack in the eye?”
Dean rubs the tears off his face, harsh and quick.
“Look. I’ll leave the room. Go sit with Jack for a bit. You have an hour, okay? Then I’m calling Rowena again. I know her price is high but…” Sam shrugs, his eyes lock back into Dean’s. “If there’s a chance.”
Dean nods and suddenly the room is empty. He’s been able to avoid this the last few days. Sleeping on his own uncomfortable chair through the hours the others went to sleep. But now it’s him and Cas and a big empty room and the idea hanging over Dean’s head that their first and only kiss will be a confirmation of everything he’s ever been scared of.
The weight of that crushes him for a while. How it would feel to finally lean in. Close that tumultuous and trembling distance between them. Only to have it cemented that Cas never loved him like that. That some random guy with his abs out and face cropped from the photo had more pull and attraction than Dean ever could.
Sometimes, before Cas had been magic spelled into a coma, Dean would lay there at night, phone open to the screenshot he had taken on a hunt they had all gone on to Saint Louis.
He had waited ‘till they were done the hunt, high on leftover adrenaline and the buzz of Cas’ healing miracle still cruising through his veins. He’d opened his Tinder account, meaning to blow off this steam in a way he had practised, a way he had down to an art. A way he knew. A way expected of him.
Sam had already left the room key for Dean on the table by the door, and who was Dean to disappoint?
So he’d opened the app and looked at the blue stinging screen and saw the harsh contrast of black text on the white of his bio. Saw the words ‘interested in: women’. He’d gone to the bathroom, locked himself in. Hit the ‘edit’ button on his profile, eyes glazed over and feeling electricity buzzing in his fingertips. Selected ‘men only’. Hit ‘accept changes’.
He’d sat on the toilet settling into a rhythm of swiping left, over and over and over. He didn’t know what he was looking for until a photo he himself had taken popped up on his screen.
A surprised curse had escaped his lips. He clapped a hand over his mouth and leaned over to turn on the shower. He made no move to strip down. Just sat on the toilet looking at Cas’ face in the honeyed sun, the white of his shirt a sharp contrast to his tanning skin. Cas had convinced him to take a walk out of the bunker, insisting the weather demanded it almost as much as Dean's bad knees needed a stretch. Dean had snapped a photo of Cas mid-laugh. Sent it to him with a sort of beaming pride. Cas didn’t laugh often, but here was photographic evidence that he could. That Dean could make him. And now Cas was using it to pick up other men.
Dean had shaken his head, flung the thought far away.
Dean remembered hearing about some photographer who demanded ‘get-to-know-you’ sessions before they ever took a portrait. They thought in order to take a good photo you had to be at least fifteen percent in love with your subject.
His bio had just said ‘Cas, age 39’. Then a string of indecipherable emojis, plants and animals and honey and the night sky full of stars.
Dean screenshotted the bio and deleted the app off his phone. Then he stripped and scrubbed and tried not to throw up.
He came out from his shower and Sam was sitting up in bed pouring over some old book. “You headed out?” He asked, blinking up at Dean, sleepy.
Dean had huffed and yanked his duffle open, pulled on his sleep shirt and jeans. “Nah. Too tired tonight.”
Sam had nodded, unquestioning. Dean curled up on his side, facing away from Sam, and opened up his photo app. He then promptly closed his photo app and put his phone away and went to bed, like the grown-ass man he was. A few days later his conviction flagged and he started the tradition of looking at the photo before bed.
Once or twice Dean thought about commiting.
About putting a faceless photo up, some shitty throw away pick up line in his bio. About swiping right on Cas and seeing if they matched. And what would happen afterward. What he’d say. What he’d do. The idea of sitting by the phone and waiting had dissuaded him.
It was the same feeling now. Only instead of not getting a notification, Cas would die. The stakes were a little higher and Dean thought perhaps maybe he’d drop dead right beside Cas.
Dean sits on the bed. He picks up Cas’ hand again, runs his thumb over the knuckles, leans his forehead against the flat of the first row and presses a kiss between the first and second fingers. Another kiss, slightly higher. A third on the back of his hand.
He hesitates here. Looks at Cas’ waxy, sweaty face.
“Look.” He says, rough. Ruined. He speaks more softly. “I don’t. I don’t want to take… advantage of you.”
Cas does not reply.
Dean sighs. Rolls his thumbs over the broad edges of the man's hand. Breathes out. A kiss to save Cas’ life. Maybe if Dean loved him enough for the both of them it would work. Dean clings to that and leans in, brushes their noses together.
Maybe if all it took was Dean knowing there would never be another person that makes him feel like this. This specific brand of devout and animalistic. Adoring and soft. Electric and reverberating. Hungry and full enough to burst. All of them at once. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe Dean has to have faith it would be enough.
Maybe he just needs to have faith in Cas.
He follows that straight jut of Cas’ nose with his own. Lets his thumb curl around the dull roll of Cas’ chin. Lets his own breath stutter out, warm and washing over Cas’ face. He leans down, the distance between their skin full of something unseen, but all-consuming. It ticks in his lungs and prickles in his skin. Dean’s breathing is shallow and god— he wishes Cas were here to feel this moment with him. Dean lets his lips push against Cas’, warm but dry. Cracked and sharp where tiny parts of the skin have begun to flake. Dean kisses him wet again.
He has to pull back. Will have to see the consequences. He keeps his eyes closed and moves to draw back, helpless to resist a last push with his lips against the side of Cas’ mouth. A final prayer. A final begging. A final ‘please’.
He lets himself hover an inch or two above Cas, breathing slowly. The lights are bright in here, strong enough his eyelids are shining red. Bright enough to see veins. He lets out a shaky exhale.
It’s matched from below him.
Dean’s eyes fly open. Cas is looking back at him, eyes huge.
Dean’s inhale is sharp and he reels back, unsteady on his feet. Cas sits up as if following him, pulled to him.
Cas sits up in bed, like Dean has been begging for the last two days. Dean has shoved himself up against the far wall. Cas’ mouth is still shiny.
“Cas. You're awake.” His shoulders drop to a more normal height.
“Dean.” His voice is even more fucked than usual, Dean can’t help but notice. “I am.”
The room is silent again, but he can hear Cas shifting in the bed, and it’s one of the best sounds he’s heard in a long time.
“You must be hungry.” Cas blinks at Dean’s assertion. “It’s— I mean— You’ve been out two whole days. Almost three. You must be thirsty, too.”
Cas isn’t used to hunger in a human body. He needs to—
“It took you three days to kiss me?”
Dean feels the bottom of his stomach fall out. Cas’ face moves from bewildered to furious.
“I was at death’s door for three days before you could get over yourself and your issues and push your lips to mine for a half second?”
Dean feels his rage awaken in response to Cas’ indignance.
“What reason did I have to believe it woulda worked,” he bites out— a question, but not one. He turns and heads out the door. “Come eat. Jack’s been worried sick.”
“You let Jack be terrified for three days ?” Cas looks like he could spit acid.
Dean walks out the door, unable to defend himself on that front.
Dean feels his mind screeching as he marches down the hallway, seething. He had kissed Cas and the man had woken up. Dean wipes the back of his hand against his mouth.
Clearly, Dean was going to have to do some research about what the qualifications of ‘true loves kiss’ were. Cas was pissed at him for saving his life. Pissed at him for not getting the kiss over with sooner, for not waking him. What the hell .
Did Cas also assume some kind of platonic connection would have woke him up?
Jack had insisted they all watch Frozen together a while ago. Maybe Cas came to the same conclusion they had.
Maybe all Dean would need to do was keep him in the dark about the other kisses not working. Then they wouldn't have to have an awkward conversation about who felt what for who and who… didn't.
Because if Cas loved him his response to their first kiss wouldn’t be rage or frustration— even if that had been a follow up. That wouldn’ have been Dean’s gut instinct if he had found out Cas had kissed him. Even if it was to save him from a magic coma. Maybe a few hours later when it all clicked, but— god, if Cas had kissed him...
Well. He pauses on that thought outside the kitchen door. Imagines running a sponge over the inside of his brain before stepping through.
Sam and Jack are there, washing out Jack's cereal bowl. Dean sits heavily at the table and Sam takes one look at him before dropping the sponge and walking over, grabbing him in a rough hug. Dean leans his forehead into Sam’s belly and takes a deep breath before shoving the freak off.
“Dean. Listen, we’ll figure out a way to get him back. We always do. That true love shit is a bunch of bull, anyway. Anyone with eyes can see how Cas—“
“Cas!” Jack crows as the man himself enters the room. He bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting for permission to get swept up into a hug. Cas gives it with a nod and a lopsided toothy grin. “You’re okay!”
Sam blinks at the two hugging and turns back to Dean, eyebrow arched skeptically. Dean shrugs.
“Like you said. A bunch of bull.”
“Can we go to Denny’s?”
Sam puts on his stern parent face and turns back to Cas and Jack, still tight in each other's space. “You just had cereal!”
“Yeah, but I threw most of it out when you weren’t looking. It doesn’t taste good.” Jack states, matter of fact, half of his face covered by the lapel of Cas’ trenchcoat.
Sam huffs a laugh, in spite of the stern expression on his face. Cas looks down at Jack, fondly.
“Yeah, kiddo. Let’s get you some pancakes.” Dean says, voice crunchy and tired.
“I’m driving,” Sam says, no room for argument in his tone and heading Dean off at the pass before he can even protest. “You haven't slept in days, Dean.” He gets up and starts heading for the front door. He pauses to smack Cas on the back, grin stretching across his face. “Good to have you back, Cas.”
Cas nods, a smile peaking through his expression. “Thank you for your efforts, Sam.”
Sam laughs and give’s Cas’ shoulder a second squeeze before heading out of the room. The three of them stand in the kitchen for a half second before Cas interrupts the silence.
“Days?” Cas repeats, unshifting.
“Oh, yeah!” Jack responds, still being held by his dad, but more casually— a loose arm swung around his shoulders, “Sam made me go to bed every night at bedtime but, Dean’s older than Sam so he can’t tell him what to do.”
“Damn right, kiddo.” Dean says, cuffing him on the back of the head, light as he can manage. Sometimes physical affection is hard to judge. Jack grins at him, so hopefully it hadn’t been too rough. Jack unsticks himself from Cas’ side to trot after Dean, still absolutely beaming.
Cas follows the two of them, an unreadable expression on his face. But whatever it is, it’s clouding his eyes something stormy.
****
Jack insists he and Cas sit in the back seat so he can hold his dad’s hand without twisting his arm around from the front. Cas looks touched and happy to comply with the request, so Dean slides into the passenger seat. He starts flipping through cassettes on muscle memory alone when Sam reaches over and grabs the box, and hands them to Jack, triumphant and shit-eating grin.
“Driver picks the music, Dean.” With an element of mocking sing-song that Dean is too tired to deal with right now. He grunts and Sam puts his music on speaker for the whole car to be subjected to, tinny sound quality and all. Dean glances at the rearview mirror and Cas looks away from him quickly.
Dean takes a breath through his nose. “Wake me up when we get to pancakes and bacon.”
He curls into the seat, back to the rest of the car. Pillows his head against his arm and the window, trying to find a position that doesn’t slam his skull into the cold glass.
“Could you hear us?” Comes from the back seat. “Sam said that sometimes coma patients report being able to hear their loved ones even when passed out! I told you stories and practised my out-loud reading.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t hear anything. Maybe you can show me your out-loud reading tonight?”
Jack makes a pleased hum. “Yes please, Dad.”
The car is quiet. Jack doesn’t throw around the ‘Dad’ word very much. It always feels big when he does. Dean ignores the twisting in his gut he doesn’t understand and burrows his face deeper into his jacket while Sam hums along to his music, unaware.
It’s a short drive to the Denny’s. They don’t go often, because of Sam’s distaste of the whole concept of grease and breakfast food if it isn't mandatory. Dean, obviously, does not have the same problem and Jack is right there with him.
It feels good to have Jack take after him in something, even if it’s unhealthy and will land him in an early grave. But, well. That’s Dean, isn’t it?
Look at what Dean got from John. Makes sense his kid would inherit some of his own worst qualities, too.
“Awe, look at him.” Sam says, voice overly and performatively fond, clearly not taken in by Dean's sleeping act and wanting to rub his nose in it. “Like an angel when he sleeps.”
“Not really.” Cas says, dry. Sammy laughs and Dean ignores the lump in his throat. It might not be a dig, Cas doesn’t like angels. They’d betrayed him and hurt him and manipulated him and lied to him—
He stops thinking about it. Maybe Sammy was right. He did have a few angelic qualities about him.
Sam reaches over and shakes him ‘awake’ fifteen minutes later, Dean pretends to be grumpy and newly conscious. Jack trots Cas into the restaurant, his father’s hand still clasped tightly in his fingers. It clicks then, walking across the rain wet tarmac, just how scared Jack had been for Cas. They haven’t had a chance to be a family yet, something always going wrong at the last minute.
Not anymore. Not again. Everyone would stay alive and together and Dean would die to keep that true. He’d give his life for Jack without being asked. But then again, John had done that same thing.
Dean can see through the window that Cas and Jack have landed themselves in a booth, red vinyl squeaky and cigarette burned. He moves to follow them when Sam grabs his arm. Oh, god. Here we go.
“Dean. What happened?” Sam has that pinched look around his eyes, sympathy weaponized.
“Cas woke up. End of story.”
“Very much not the end of the story?” Sam is getting frustrated after a single rebuff. That bodes not fucking well.
“I kissed him, he woke up, all he did was yell at me for not trying it earlier.” Dean keeps his voice inflection free, emotionless.
“Dean.” Sam doesn’t continue and Dean marches away. Sam lets him and he hears the door jingle after he enters and slides into the booth. He sits beside Cas on instinct, boxing him in against the window.
Jack is holding Cas’ hand on the top of the table. Dean grabs his cutlery package and savagely untwists it from the napkin, turning his coffee cup over in it’s saucer.
He hopes the waitress gets here quick.
She does not. In fact, she takes her sweet time. It’s enough to have Dean twisting his napkin to pieces in front of him as Sam settles himself in the seat beside Jack, gabbing away at him about something already. Now Dean can’t switch seats without being very obvious.
Cas feels like ice beside him, unresponsive and distant.
Dean and Cas sit there quietly, Jack unaware of the strangeness and Sam pointedly not mentioning it. Dean cannot hear them, the ringing in his ears dull and loud.
He kissed Cas. He had kissed him.
And all Cas gave him in reply was a panicked blink and a fight.
Dean shakes out the menu, just on the edge of too big. He rams his elbow into Cas. Dean jerks his elbow back too hard and punches himself in the face.
The table went silent and Dean hisses out through his teeth, rubbing at his jaw where his fist collided. Sam is muffing a laugh. Jack is blinking at him, grin sliding up his face. Dean doesn’t look at Cas.
“You good, Dean?” Sam says, laughter still curling in his voice, lurking like a camera shy sea monster.
“Shut up, Sam.” Dean snapped his menu closed. He knew what he wanted, anyway.
Eventually the waitress arrives, hair exploding from the damp air.
“How can I help you boys?” She asks, breathless. Her little hat is off kilter, but her smile looks genuine.
She has dimples and little smile lines around her eyes. She seems kind. Dean thinks she’s served them before, once or twice. Never the whole family, though. She glances at Dean’s closed menu— a sure sign he's ready to order. She blinks her brown eyes at him.
All Dean can think about is the electric tingle of where he had elbowed Cas, and how the man is breathing beside him.
The waitress— ‘Des’ her nametag reads— waits patiently for him. Well, she does for a full three seconds before turning to the more functional people at the table.
“Is he… good?”
“Oh yeah! He just punched himself in the face. He’s in shock.” Sam looks smug as hell.
Jack sits up straighter and leans over the table, worry creasing his brow, “Dean? Are you in shock? Do you need a blanket? It didn’t look like you got hit that hard… Maybe some water?”
“Shut it,” Dean bites out, before he can stop himself. The table goes still again. Jack sits back down in his seat, slow and no longer meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean can see Cas squeeze Jack's hand once, comforting.
Fuck.
“Sam was kidding,” Cas says to Jack, patient. Informative. Dean felt his mouth tighten, gut twisting. Jack nods, still looking at the table. The plastic top had cracked where Jack was sitting— water damage from condensation on decades of peoples’ cups. The plywood underneath was chipping away. Jack digs his fingernail into it.
“Right. Sorry.” Jack’s eyes dart up to meet Dean’s for a half second, and he realizes the apology is for him.
“Don’t worry about it.” Dean says, voice cracked down the middle, just like the table. He stands up. There’s a moment of awkward shuffling with Des, whose warm eyes have cooled off significantly. “Number three special, side of bacon. Please.”
She nods, notebook pushed against her chest. She pulls her pen out from behind her ear as he walks away. He can hear her ask for the rest of the orders before the bell above the door jingles and he's breathing in the cold damp air.
He rubs at his face. It’s still oily, he hadn’t even thought of showering before they came out in public. He must look horrifying. Their poor waitress must have been scared shitless.
Poor Jack must have been scared shitless. He breathes out harshly and leans against the rough brown brickwork of the Denny’s. Fuck .
He wasn’t cut out for this, and Jack deserves better. The thought settles in all of a sudden that he’s older than his dad was when their lives fell apart. And he’s here making the same mistakes. Dean gets a little more why his dad cut a demon deal and died. Hell was easier than this.
He pauses. Hell was not easier than this.
Hell was not easier than having breakfast with his fucking family. After a win as big as getting Cas back alive and well, even if he was angry as fuck about the whole thing. Which… Yeah. Dean could kind of understand. It wasn’t the romantic start of a beautiful new relationship he had dreamed of but—
He blinks. That’s… that was the easiest that had ever been. Dean opened his phone and went to his photo app.
Cas’ too wide grin. Pot of honey, stars in the sky, a little orange cat, a sunrise, a bee, clinking beers, a cactus and a potted plant. A little blue kite, a fish, the evil eye amulet, a burger. Big warm socks. The face of a bear. Dean laughs a little at the haloed yellow face, as he always does. A tan trench coat.
Dean closes his eyes. Let himself be for just a moment.
Sometimes, when he went from hearing a million things all at once to a quiet place, the last words he had heard echoed around in his head. Bounced back and forth, reverberating in his empty ears.
What do you want , Des had asked the table as he stormed off.
Dean had closed the menu. He knew what he wanted.
He knows .
He goes back into the Dennys.