Something is going on between Cas and Dean. They don't say anything to him, and they don't really act any different, but Sam can tell. Something has changed, and he just wishes he could figure out what. Not that he doesn't have his suspicions, but he kind of hopes his suspicions are wrong, because…well, nothing makes life awkward like inter-office dating, right?
What worries him the most is the way Dean acts if he ever brings it up. Defensiveness, Sam would have understood. Anger, maybe. But Dean just grins and tells Sam he has no idea what he's talking about. In the rearview mirror, Cas's stoic mask breaks, mouth twitching up and to the left in a tiny smile.
And that's another thing: since when does Cas need to ride with them? He can fly wherever he wants to go in the blink of an eye, so why does he suddenly prefer to spend hours sitting in the car, listening to Dean's awful music? It makes no sense at first.
Then, in the midst of a particularly long stretch between hotel rooms, Sam kicks Cas out of the back seat so he can stretch out and try to get some shut eye. Of course, when you're six foot four and sleeping in the back seat of a car, "stretch out" is a relative term. It takes Sam forever to get comfortable, and even then he doesn't fall asleep easily. Finally, he gives up and just lies as still as possible with his eyes closed, hoping that going through the motions will eventually result in at least a couple hours' rest.
That's when Dean and Cas decide to start talking.
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
"Are we going to tell Sam and Bobby?" Sam holds his breath. When Dean speaks, he sounds sheepish, almost apologetic.
"I dunno, Cas. I'm not…I don't know how I'll even start that conversation."
"Why not just tell them—"
"Sure, Cas, I'll just tell them," Dean interrupts, sounding exasperated. "But…what then? What are they supposed to do with that? I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to do with it," he mutters.
Sam thinks about turning, coughing, doing something to make them think twice about having this conversation right now. He feels bad about eavesdropping. In the end, though, his curiosity wins out, and he stays quiet.
"You don't have to do anything, Dean. I have not asked—"
"I know you haven't," Dean says, and his voice is gentle. "You didn't have to ask, Cas."
"I do not want to be another angel making demands of you," Cas says a little bitterly.
"Hey," Dean says, and Sam can just imagine him taking his eyes off the road to stare at Cas until he looks back. It's a habit Dean has that is beyond unnerving.
"You are not like Michael. Don't ever think that, okay? You are not some obligatory destiny. I want you…here, with me. I just…I dunno. Can't I keep you to myself a little longer?"
There is quiet in the car for a very long minute.
"Of course," Castiel says finally, and Sam could swear he hears a smile in the angel's voice. Then, "I missed you, Dean."
"I know, man. Me too."
After that the car is silent again, leaving Sam alone in the back seat with at least one big question answered, but a million more—like how, and when, and how did I not see this coming?—bouncing around in his head, keeping him awake.
Castiel has gathered, mostly from comments made by Dean, that people find him unsettling. He's too still, too focused, too quiet, and it "creeps people out." He finds this funny, because if they only knew.
Castiel's mind is never quiet. If he seldom speaks, it's only because he's too absorbed in the endless stream of questions and observations running through his head, too busy trying to understand and parse and make some kind of order out of the chaos his senses take in from the people around him. Dean alone could keep Castiel occupied for millennia with his contradictions. If he wasn't always so busy trying to figure the man out, he'd have more time to make polite conversation.
For instance, Castiel has been puzzling constantly over one minor detail: he and Dean are close, but they rarely ever touch. Even when they do, it's only the kind of incidental contact that comes from close living quarters and constantly finding themselves standing side by side in combat. Castiel may have little first-hand experience with human interaction, but it's enough to know that theirs isn't the kind of contact normally shared between two people who feel the way he and Dean do about each other. He does not doubt Dean's emotions. They fairly knock him over sometimes with the sheer force and sincerity of them. Still, he finds this lack of touch puzzling. He had thought someone who expresses anger and sadness with such an overwhelming amount of physicality would show affection—by far the most tactile of human emotions—in much the same way. Then again, Dean has always surprised him.
Dean says things with his eyes. He has over a thousand distinct expressions just there. Castiel has devoted himself to learning every single one of them by heart, not to mention the language of the rest of his face as well.
The furrow between his brow can tell Castiel when he's worried, or angry. When he approves of something—like Cas's correct usage of a swear word, or the time he told Sam he would prefer a slice of cherry pie to frozen yogurt—he relates this with a grin that looks equal parts smug and proud. Sometimes he looks at Castiel with a softness in his eyes, a tilt to his mouth that isn't quite a smile but that Castiel prefers to one.
Even his voice has its own hidden meanings, quite apart from the words he uses. Sometimes when Dean talks to him there's something there that makes Castiel feel strangely important. Not in the way he was important in Heaven: a soldier of God, important because of his purpose. Rather, it's in and of himself, something essential to him that feels vital, irreplaceable, something to do with the fact that he is Castiel, not just that he's an angel. He practically glows with the knowledge that Dean Winchester cares for him this way, and in the end decides the fact that he doesn't show it in the traditional human manner does nothing to put a damper on that joy.
One night, Dean changes things.
They've been staying at Bobby's for a few days, taking a break between cases and researching the Apocalypse without much in the way of results. They've just had dinner and are all sitting around the room, absorbed in research and libations—just coffee for Castiel, but he suspects everyone else has something stronger—when Dean catches his eye. It starts out simple, a jerk of his head towards the door: Dean wants Castiel to walk with him out of the room. The tense set of his shoulders says that whatever Dean wants to talk about, it's serious…and not something he wishes to discuss in front of Sam or Bobby.
Once they're alone, though, everything changes. Dean stops without warning just around the corner of Bobby's house, out of view of the front door, and turns. His whole body relaxes into Castiel's space, and he is standing much too close, closer even than Castiel would usually dare. There is something in his eyes that Castiel recognizes, something trusting and warm. It makes him think of low walls and cold air seeping through cracks in his armor, of warm arms around him and whispered words, desperation and time running out, the coming unknown. He takes a breath, and is disturbed at how shaky it is.
Dean smiles and breaks their no-contact holding pattern with a simple gesture: a warm hand gripping Castiel's shoulder gently, keeping him there in Dean's personal space. His face is so near that Castiel could count the freckles across his cheekbones and the flecks of gold in his green eyes…not that he doesn't already know the exact number. Those eyes hover on Castiel's lips in a way that makes his heartbeat quicken and kick starts the questions in his mind, turning his insides into a squirming, whirling ball of confusion. Dean smiles, and Castiel doesn't have a translation for this particular look but he thinks it reminds him of nervousness, determination, and that look, his look, his favorite expression. Dean asks a question with a pointed stare from under his lashes and a quirk of his eyebrow.
Castiel isn't sure what it is that Dean wants, but he knows that if he has it, he will give it freely. Heart pounding in a way that is even more disturbing than his odd breathing—do vessels usually react this way to affectionate human contact?—he nods minutely.
When Dean's lips find his it's such a surprise that for a moment, Castiel just stands frozen. He doesn't understand why, all of a sudden, Dean feels the need to do this when he never has before. He also doesn't have a clue what his role in all of this should be.
When Dean starts to pull away, though, something clicks into place somewhere, and Castiel acts on instinct—maybe not even his, maybe some leftover impulse of this body—and reaches out to keep him there, tangling fingers in short hair and pressing back against lips that respond enthusiastically to his sudden participation, sliding between and around his and opening to make way for tongues and teeth and the sharing of warm breath between them. Castiel can taste Dean, and it's no surprise at all that Dean tastes hot and sweet, like whiskey and apples—because of course he had pie after dinner—and something Cas can't put a name to that is probably just Dean himself. The thought makes him feel strange all over in the most delicious way, and he presses himself harder into that kiss, senses in overdrive, heart hammering and blood rushing but his busy mind oddly quiet in this moment.
It's an incredible feeling; there seems to be a strange haze over Castiel's vision and his head is too warm, but it's wonderful. When they finally pull back and he opens his eyes, they're shining with discovery at what Dean has just shown him, and something about that makes Dean smile another smile that Castiel doesn't recall ever seeing before. It's a beautiful expression.
"What," Castiel manages to rasp out after a moment, "was that for?" Dean shrugs, and Cas latches onto that gesture because it's something familiar in all of this brand new territory he finds himself wanting to get utterly lost in exploring.
"I dunno, Cas," he says, voice soft. "Just seemed like the thing to do."
It's such a Dean way to say "because I wanted to" that Cas can't help but crack a smile.
Sam begins to notice more little changes in the way his brother acts towards their resident guardian angel. He lets Cas ride up front more often. He lets Cas pick the music sometimes (which makes little difference, because Cas always seems to pick something Dean likes). Once, when they think he's asleep again, he opens one eye to see Dean's arm thrown across the back of Cas's seat, his hand playing with the hairs at the nape of Cas's neck absentmindedly.
They never say anything about it, so Sam keeps his mouth shut with some difficulty. He's absolutely dying of curiosity, and he has totally legitimate misgivings about Cas's split loyalties and their own impossible situation. He keeps trying to find a good way to pull Dean aside and talk to him about it, but even on the rare occasion that he and Cas aren't connected at the hip, Sam just looks at his brother's face—looking younger and less careworn than it has in years—and can't bring himself to say anything.
It's a rare off night, relaxing in a motel room, patching up wounds and gearing up for another round…which in Dean's book means watching a Dr. Sexy marathon. Sam tries to tune the asinine show out to catch up on some strictly non-supernatural, non-Apocalyptic reading, but he doesn't have much success because dammit, the stupid show is addictive and he wants to know what's going on with Neurotic Surgeon Girl and the ghost of her dead lover.
A soft sound from the couch jars him out of his trance—ahem, attentive state—and he looks over to see that Dean has fallen asleep, head pillowed on Castiel's shoulder. As Sam watches, Castiel gently readjusts Dean as if he weighs no more than a rag doll, so that Dean's head is in his lap and the rest of him is stretched out along the length of the couch. Cas seems to go back to watching the show, but he keeps one hand resting protectively along the curve of Dean's jaw, cradling it, while the other runs long fingers absently through his short, sandy hair. When Dean mumbles something in his sleep and nuzzles his face into Cas's shirt, the angel looks down at him with an expression so devoted it makes Sam ache with the force behind it from all the way across the room.
He still doesn't know when or how it happened, doesn't have any idea about the extended visit in Hell or the dreams that brought Dean around full circle to the arms of his guardian angel, and he still has a million questions…but it doesn't matter. In that moment, Sam knows: bottom of the ninth, bases are loaded, and Castiel has to make a choice? He'll choose Dean. There won't even be a contest.
After that Sam stops worrying and just watches his brother be happy for a while.
Author's Note: This is the third and final part in the mini-series of one shots that started with "Once Upon A Dream." Thanks to everyone who favorited, followed, and reviewed those stories! I'm glad you enjoyed the first two and I hope you enjoyed this one as well. I myself am somewhat dissatisfied with it. I wrote the bare bones of it ages ago and just kept editing until I felt there was no more that could be done to it, but I still don't think I got it quite where it needed to be. I blame it on the fact that there was no angst in this one. Why is angsty!Destiel so much easier to write?! Ugh.
Anyway, thanks again and see you guys on the other side of the ocean of feels that will drown us all with the upcoming season!