Prologue
"I did not leave you there." The words fell out of Dean's mouth, so much softer than he had intended them to be. That was it. That was the moment it all came crashing down around his ears. His first thought, laced with romantic and tragic undertones, was Fuck. It was shortly followed by, Oh fuck and Fuck, what have I done? and finally, Holy fuck. Literally.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his worn leather jacket, staring at the concrete for a few seconds. He needed to have himself under control. That meant he couldn't keep thinking about how stupidly gorgeous Cas looked in the moonlight or the way his eyes shone or the agony inside Dean's chest when Castiel looked into his soul and said, "You think this is your fault?"
Fuck. Contrary to popular belief, Dean Winchester had not always been in love with Castiel. By popular belief, one refers of course to the plethora of demons and angels who consistently call Castiel Dean's boyfriend or something of the like. In a way, that was how the idea had come to him. If day in and day out the monster you were about to gank used its last breath to whisper something naughty about you and your best friend, well, you wonder what gives off that impression. Of course it was true that the same thing had happened with his brother multiple times, but those comments were rattled off by civilians. On the whole, Dean found demons to be a whole lot more perceptive than regular humans. He paused at the end of almost every day and considered the possibility, often while washing blood off his face from the hunt and staring at himself in the mirror. I don't love him. Right? Right. Good. Great. He'd nod at himself and then the matter was summarily dismissed. Dean shouldn't really have needed to perform this daily check. He wasn't gay, and of that he was very sure. Therefore, he couldn't possibly be attracted to the laconic angel. Right? Right.
Yet he had to ask himself anyway. If Sam had been there, he would have seen a strangely vulnerable expression cross the older brother's face. Sam would have paused for a moment, swung his legs over the hotel bed and walked over. He would've handed Dean a beer, taken the whiskey out of his hand and offered that silent smile which said, 'We can talk if you want to.'
No one, though, was ever there when Dean asked himself The Question. There were some days that The Question took longer to answer than it should have. Some days he had to ask it multiple times, just to reassure himself. Whenever he answered himself No, it was like a warm pat on the back saying, 'You're not in love with Cas. It's gonna be alright.' It had never occurred to him that there would be a day when he asked The Question and only angry silence would follow, never occurred to him that someday the answer would change. Fuck.
The case was over and Cas was gone. Again. Dean didn't know if he should lie back and relax (watch some straight porn) or hit the wall. Maybe both. His head hurt from all the thinking he'd done on the way to the motel. Cas hadn't wanted to come with Sam and him - he instead had stayed with Mr. Jones listening to Ode to Joy play in his head. Dean wasn't sure what it meant that the angel preferred a psychic with dementia listening to hymns to riding shotgun in the impala. Dean groaned. His fingernails dug crescent moons in his palms. He had no right to be angry with Mr. Jones of all people - he'd been a great guy. While he had more than half a brain.
The real kicker, though, was how goddamn contented Cas had looked as they walked out of the room. Like there was no place he'd rather be. Dean stood and threw his beer bottle across the room. It smashed on the wall and the glistening fragments slid down to the carpet where he glared miserably at them. He didn't even remember finishing the beer. Dean stood still before crumpling to the floor, not very gracefully. His leather clad back was braced against the end of the bed. He put his head in his hands and thought once again, Oh fuck.
This was how Sam found him some hours later. Dean hastily insisted he had a bad hangover, which Sam thought was ambitious given that it was six o'clock and they'd been on a case the day before. His brows furrowed in thought. What was wrong? What could possibly be... A passing shadow of a suggestion came through Sam's mind, but he dismissed it. For now. Sam was confident that soon enough, the truth would come out. Dean rolled over, unable to get to sleep, the mattress taunting him. Not for the first time today, he wondered, how the fuck did you get yourself into this, Winchester?