On The Inner Workings Of Non-Angels

by babybluecas

Dean can hardly believe what his life has become: he's a happy civilian, shacked up in the bunker with Cas. Sam is back in law school. A true happily ever after for all. The problem is that those, in Dean's experience, don't last forever. So when Cas starts acting suspicious, Dean has a full right to be worried. But Cas, of course, says everything's fine.

1. Chapter 1

Their first kiss was soaked in rainwater and desperate. Simple substitute for the words that just couldn't be enough on that grim, cruel night three short years ago. One touch of lips bearing an entire weight of their future – or so it still feels, more often than not. With each passing day it gets harder to imagine it starting any other way.

The storm had just passed over Lebanon, Kansas and the air was filled with ozone and static. The rain hadn't yet stopped pouring, but the heavy wall of it outside the doorstep couldn't stop Dean from rushing into the night. Shielding his eyes from the intrusive water, he cast his glance to the empty road on one side, then turned around. He breathed relieved; the dark figure was still visible, a moving shape near the end of the street.

The water soaked Dean to the bone within a heartbeat, as he sprinted through one, big puddle of a road. His clothes and his shoes weighed a ton, but he couldn't give much crap about it, nor about the slowly creeping threat of pneumonia. All that mattered was that man, with shoulders slumped under his jacket rendered dark blue by the rain.

"Cas!" Dean called out to him, but the man didn't even flinch. He kept wading through the gathered water that, like him, had nowhere to go. "Cas, come on, wait!"

Cas's step didn't waver, head hung low, fingers curled into fists.

"Cas!" Dean tried again, catching up to him. "What the hell are you doing, man?"

Cas didn't so much as turn his head to Dean. The only indicator that he'd even heard him was a single word, weak, but not quiet enough to be taken for a roll of a distant thunder. "Leaving."

"Leaving," Dean echoed, his lips pulled into a twist. Of course, he could have expected that; take eyes off Cas for a minute and he'd be gone. Even without the wings. "Oh, so you just took off as you were standing, without a word."

"I put on the jacket," Cas said evenly. He sped up as the road turned away from the town. "I thought we'd said all there was to say."

Dean had. He had said too much. And, apparently, not enough. But Cas had kept quiet and listened to the bullshit coming out of Dean's mouth, to the excuses he'd paraphrased from the asshole angel he'd let into their home instead of the one he wanted there. It's hard to blame Cas for sneaking out and never wanting to see Dean again, it was his right. Which didn't mean Dean had to be okay with it.

"Well, a goodbye would have been nice," he said, a little too demanding. But that wasn't right; there would have been nothing remotely nice about a goodbye.

Cas stopped so abruptly Dean passed him a few steps. Finally, the man turned his face to him, soaked hair plastered to his forehead, eyes narrowed, jaw tense.

"You threw me out," he accused, voice still calm, which frankly might have been the worst part of it all. "What else do you expect from me?"

Dean would have rather been yelled at, punched even, if that would make things better. Cas should have been pissed at his deception, the promise of safety and comfort and home, when Dean had brought him in, across two states, just to throw him out.

But there wasn't much anger in him, and what there was, he kept perfectly restrained. No, instead, what hit Dean much harder than Cas's fist ever could, there was disappointment in the hunch of his shoulders, hurt in the tight line of his mouth and in every crease on his face. In his eyes, near black in the moonlight, blinking against the flooding cascades, there was nothing but understanding.

"Cas–" Dean began, but his voice quivered. It had nothing to do with the cold. He took a deep breath and tried again, "Cas, I said you can't stay–" His chest tightened at the repeated phrase just like it had the first time around– "I didn't say you have to leave right away. It's the middle of the night. Torrential fucking downpour. And you don't even have any idea where you're going, do you?" He waved his hand at the vast space ahead. "There's nothing out there, for miles. You're not trying to die again, are you?"

The last words came with no ease. Angel sword sticking out from Cas's stomach, his face, lifeless but still warm in Dean's palms; mere hours later it was still all too real. To die for the second time in one day would be Cas's new personal record.

"No, I– I'd be fine," Cas muttered, but his eyes wandered to the dark night stretching over the Kansas plains. "I'll be fine," he corrected.

"Sure." Dean shook his head. His arms, crossed on his chest, didn't give him much protection from the cold wind. Cas's jacket didn't seem to do much for the man either, though he tried his best to hide it, his body wouldn't stop trembling. "And where's your baggage? Some clothes for change?"

"I don't have baggage," Cas drawled the words, slowly losing his patience. He picked up his pace, again, still walking towards the big, wide nothing.

"You're gonna need stuff, clothes, money, an ID," Dean said as he followed. He shot his hand forward to grasp Cas's arm. "Come on."

"No." Cas sprang away, pulling out of Dean's reach. His mind had been set on wandering into miles of flooded fields. "I was doing alright before."

Dean gave out a frustrated growl. "For the love of– Cas, don't be a stubborn idiot. Come back inside. We're both fucking drenched and I don't feel like getting sick, do you? You don't even know what a pain in the ass a cold is. You'll stay the night, we'll find you a hide-out. In the morning, I'll drive you to the station."

Dean spread his arms wide, even managed a small, encouraging smile, as he awaited the answer.

Cas took a step forward, but not to take up his offer. "Why should I endanger you and Sam another minute longer?" he spat Dean's words back at him before turning away ostensively. "I'll manage without you."

"But I won't!" Dean shouted over the thundering of rain, the words seemed to resound with their vulnerability. He wrapped his fingers around Cas's wrist tight, not to let him pull away this time. When he forced him to turn, Cas's eyes stared at him wide. "I can't let you leave like this, pissed off and unprepared, because I can't risk you not coming back."

As the clouds spilled the rain, so did Dean spill out his guts, his fucking heart to Cas. There was too much at stake to beat around the same bush over and over until nothing was left but misunderstandings and absences. Dean poured out the words that had been stuck in his throat for years, Cas still tipped his head, eyes narrowed.

"You want me to come back?" The disbelief in Cas's voice had nothing to do with a surprise. It reeked of skepticism.

Dean's arms dropped to his sides. Maybe it was his fault, in his words that were always too little and too late and too often taken back. Maybe his words would never have any worth again.

"Of course!" Dean still tried, stepping closer. "Of course," he repeated, this time softer, turning their personal bubbles into one, so the rain couldn't disturb them. "You've no idea how much I want you to stay." His fingers touched the cold, wet skin of Cas's palm and it didn't even try to escape him this time. "How much I need you to stay."

"But I can't," Cas finished for him and turned his head away.

With his free palm Dean cupped Cas's face, guided it back. He had to have Cas's eyes fixed on his for this. His thumb rubbed against the stubble on Cas's cheek. The first time he'd held his face like this had seemed like the last time. Now it was here again, cold and pale, but alive. How many more chances would Dean get?

"I swear to you," he said, the other palm rose to frame Cas's face, "as soon as Sam feels better–"

He didn't finish the sentence, not with words. He lowered his head, instead, to close the space between them. His lips found Cas's wet lips. They pressed gently, at first, afraid Cas would flutter his wings and disappear. But he couldn't. And he didn't run away either. His cold mouth responded to the kiss, accepting the promise that it sealed.

A promise of home Cas would have in him, with him. A promise of this being just the beginning, of many more kisses to come for how long Cas would want them. And more, so much more.

A promise that, somehow, Dean managed not to break; one he still keeps, to this day, almost three years later, when Cas's wet kiss tastes of mint toothpaste and his damp beard smells like soap.

"Mornin'," Dean mutters against his lips, twisting his free palm into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Bacon sizzles cheerily on the pan behind him, but he's just turned it over, he can give himself a minute for savoring the moment.

Cas's movements, slow and lazy, betray his late night shenanigans in front of a screen. His heavy arms climb up Dean's thighs to his waist and wrap around it, his eyelids remain shut when Dean pulls away. It's rare that Dean is up before the guy, but it's also rare that he wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asks, swiping the strand of wet hair away from Cas's eye. "When'd you come to bed?"

Cas lifts his hand to cover a long yawn. "Too late, apparently," he answers. Dark circles underneath his eyes speak of regret. He reaches for the empty mug on the countertop. "A cup of coffee and I'll be good."

Dean is first to grab the mug and he slides it out of Cas's reach before his fingers can even graze it. "I'll fix you a cup once it's ready. Sit down, sleepyhead," he orders and goes back to the breakfast that is frying on the stove.

"Thanks," Cas mutters and flashes him a smile on his way to the table. There's a scrape of the chair against the floor and a soft thump as Cas plops down on it. "We don't have any plans, right?"

"When do we ever have plans," Dean grumbles, stirring the eggs. He makes sure they're perfectly balanced on the line of still practically raw but without the risk of salmonella before scooping half of them and dumping on a plate. His will have to cook a bit longer to actually look like scrambled eggs. "You can still catch some zzzs after breakfast."

As Cas accepts the plate his head still cranes towards the brewing beverage on the counter. Its scent slowly fills the air, adding a strong, bitter note to the greasy smell of bacon.

"Maybe later," Cas agrees and stuffs his mouth with eggs. "I'd rather spend some time with you, first."

Dean raises his eyebrows.

"That's a new one," he mutters, pulling the jug out of the machine. He glances to Cas as he pours, but nothing in the guy indicates he heard him. "Does grocery run count as spending time?" Dean asks louder, reaching for the cream for Cas's coffee. The fridge presents to him its sad, empty space. "We've gotta stock up for tomorrow."

Cas groans. "Alright."

He snatches his cup as soon as Dean sets it down before him. At least he's got some common sense to blow at the scorching drink before taking a sip and spares Dean hours of listening to him whining about his burned tongue.

At the very taste of coffee, Cas's face brightens with pleasure, making him look a little bit more rested before the caffeine can even get his heart pumping.

"Are we picking Sam up in Hastings or is he coming by car after all?"

Dean nods, chewing down the piece of bacon. Not to pat his own back, but he should really consider becoming a professional cook.

"Yeah, we are," he says, finally. "It's much cheaper this way, I guess, since he's coming alone. I keep telling him to bring that girl of his over, but all I get is excuses. You think there's something wrong with her? What if she's a demon? Again?" He gives out a long, pained sigh.

Sure, in most cases it was not Sam's fault that the women he fell for turned out to be some of the things they'd hunt. What with the werewolf or the kitsune or what else. The poor kid just has had a lot of bad luck.

But then, with an ex-angel for a partner, who is Dean to judge. Of course, that is totally different. This is Cas, not a murderous beast.

"Maybe they simply decided it's too early on in their relationship to meet Sam's family?" Cas supplies. "It's a rather serious step."

Dean snorts. "Come on, it's just the li'l, old me. Wait, do you think it's about me? The kid's ashamed of his grumpy, older brother? Let's hope this time he mentioned to her he even has a brother," he adds after a moment. He thrusts a spoonful of eggs into his mouth but continues, "An awive, whah we a' it, hank you ve'y muh."

Cas shakes his head. "That's not what I meant," he assures Dean, resting chin on a curled fist. "It seems to be almost like a rite of passage for a couple. And very nerve-racking too."

"How d–?" Dean starts, but doesn't finish the question. He already knows the answer, doesn't he. "Dude, you can't base your views on the world and people on what you see in rom-coms," he reminds him. "I mean look at us, don't remember meeting the family milestone."

"Sam had known me, and my brethren had known you, long before we became lovers," Cas lectures him patiently, as if he's an actual expert in social interactions. "That's a perk of being friends first, then falling in love."

The corners of Cas's mouth curl up in a dumb, adorning smile of his, the soft stare fixes on Dean's face from beneath the heavy eyelids that droop sleepily despite the put up resistance.

"Good to know there is a pattern we fit," Dean sneers, scraping the remainder of the eggs off his plate. "You wanna compare my life, our lives, to a movie, try horror. Or a drama, dark comedy, something like that. Hell, even a slice of life romance, if you will."

Dean has no idea if the last one is even a thing. It would make for a fucking boring movie. It feels much better being lived than watched. He knows, he's lived it for over a year now, two if he adds light horror of the simple hunts before they dropped those too. It's the best fucking genre Dean could ever wish to be in. But he probably shouldn't have said it out loud, not now when it's already starting to feel like he'd jinxed it.

At the last thought, something turns in his stomach. No, he must be overthinking. Just this look on Cas's face, the warmth, the love painted in every crease, it should be enough to ensure him that everything's fine. It's only been, what? Two days?

"Rom-coms are too contrived, even for us. And ludicrous," he adds.

He waits for Cas's comment, for a sincere appreciation of Dean being a sap, or for a disapproval of his last sentiment paired with the defense of the fine artistry and entertainment value or whatever of the rom-coms.

But there's nothing. Cas remains still as a stone, his lips don't move, his blissful expression doesn't wash away to turn into an annoyed frown. The guy's no longer with him, except for the body. His palm's still wrapped around his mug, his mouth is still frozen in a smile that forgot to fall away as he zoned out. Only he doesn't gaze at him anymore, the focus of his stare shifted to somewhere far behind him.

"Go to bed, Sleeping Beauty," Dean says, sipping his coffee. "For the record this is how boring you sound when you talk movies," he adds, slightly offended.

Cas blinks, lazily, but doesn't move.

"Hey, you there?" Dean snaps his fingers right in front of Cas's eyes. "Earth to Cas, do you copy?"

"Huh?" Cas's eyelids flutter rapidly, head perks up. "I've heard every word," he says quickly, still battling for his focus to return.

"Yeah, sure." Dean shakes his head and Cas sends him an apologetic smile. "So what did you waste the whole night on? Please, tell me you didn't have a rom-com marathon 'til ungodly hours."

"I did not, don't worry," he replies like the very idea is unthinkable, though not for the reasons Dean'd consider, like Cas's health, for one. "I wouldn't want you to miss the next few movies I have planned."

Dean holds back a whine. That one would actually be the only good thing to come out of Cas's allnighter. But getting excluded from that party sure isn't in his cards. It would be the most comforting option too.

"How gracious of you," he grumbles instead.

Cas thumbs the ridge of his cup, ignoring Dean's disaffection. "I was thinking about watching What's Your Number? next."

For a moment Dean watches Cas clean a coffee smudge off the porcelain then stuck the thumb into his mouth to lick the taste off. He sighs, defeated. It's not like he's got much choice on the matter. A deal's a deal: on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays Netflix queue is all Cas's. That's the price he's still gotta pay for a chance to teach Cas what a real cinema is. At least the warm evenings spent holed up on a sofa aren't so bad, and he drifts off most of the time, head rested on Cas's lap, the man's fingers playing with his hair and lulling him into a half-dream.

"Alright," he says, "but, for the record, I only agree because it's got naked Chris Evans in it."

Cas narrows his eyes. "Naked Chris Evans?" he echoes.

"He's Captain Am–"

"I know who Chris Evans is," Cas cuts him off and he doesn't need to say it for Dean to know it's the other part of 'naked Chris Evans' Cas is concerned about.

"Aww, you're jealous, how adorable," Dean teases. "Don't worry, he's got nothing on you, babe." He flashes him a toothy smile, but drops it for a pout. "Though I might change my mind if you keep dodging my question."

And me, he thinks, but doesn't say it. He's not that clingy or desperate.

Cas shrugs. "I wanted to consult something with the internet and I got carried away. I didn't feel tired at all."

Dean leans in closer, over the table between them. His instincts haven't yet dissolved, they took too long in building to wither in a year and some.

"Research?"

It would make sense, investigating, building a case, gathering resources, spells, weapons. A time insensitive hunt, an abandoned mansion, maybe, one of the legendary ones, that'd be cool. That'd be the best case scenario, even though it's been good eighteen month since they decided to go out of business, and somehow it's not Dean who breaks the deal first.

"It's okay if it is," he adds, in case Cas gets it to his head to hide it.

Cas shakes his head. "Just something I got curious about. I had no idea it was so late."

Of course, that'd be too easy, wouldn't it. Dean holds back a disappointed sigh as he eases back in his chair.

"Yeah, that happens," he smirks, but he can't help a little tease, "Looking at jobs in Cali?"

Cas's shoulders slump, eye turned heavenward. There's a "no" dancing on his lips, but at last he decides the matter isn't even worth wasting words. He stands up, instead, gathers their plates and carries them to the sink.

Behind his back, Dean's knuckles tap against the tabletop, the corners of his lips fall

"So," Dean drawls the word to get Cas's attention back, "half the day yesterday you were also just surfing the net for no particular reason?"

Cas doesn't answer right away. He puts the dishes into the sink and opens the tap to wash them.

"Mostly, yes."

"Hm. And the day before that, too?"

"Yes," Cas repeats and turns to him sharply, dish soap foam dripping off his hands to the floor. "Dean, I don't have a case, if I did, I would have no reason to hide it from you."

He seems annoyed, rather than pissed at Dean's questions. And maybe a little weirded out at the sudden interrogation. And the tension in his shoulderblades, only there for a second, just before he turned, Dean must have imagined it.

"Okay," is all Dean says.

He doesn't mention the chilling worry creeping up his spine, a little higher, a little colder every day that they live their apple pie life, no monsters, no angels, no apocalypses. He doesn't mention the nagging voice in his head saying that nothing good lasts, not in his life, that it's been too long already. That this is not a happy ending, just an intermission. The calm before the storm. He's lived those, he knows how they go. He knows how much harder it hurts when everything good he's managed to scramble for himself falls apart.

And it's never been this long, so long he almost let himself believe it would be forever this time. Sam back in Law School, he and Cas both alive and happy. So fucking happy. No death, no betrayal, no fear. For two years.

It's never been this long and he's not sure he'll survive it this time when it all comes crashing down on him.

"Is that what you want?"

Dean's head jerks up back to Cas wiping his hands with a dishtowel. His expression completely neutral.

"What?"

"A hunt," Cas replies. "Is that what you want?"

Dean clenches his jaw and relaxes it right away. "Yeah, sure, I do nothing all night but clean my guns, just wait for those nasties to pop up," he snarks. He takes a breath and much softer he adds, "You know damn well that's the opposite of what I want."

Cas throws the cloth on the counter and walks over, towers behind Dean.

"I do." His voice softens. He leans in, his palms cupping his face, caressing his cheek. His skin, still damp, smells like chemical proxy of lemon. "I love you," he breathes into Dean's hair.

Dean closes his eyes, dares not move under the touch, so warm and safe and, for now, right here. He hopes Cas'll never let go. And then his hands draw away.

"So I can still use the laptop, right?"

Dean needs a second to understand his words, the change of topic, the change of the moment so sudden.

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay, great," Cas chirps and leaves his space entirely to grab his coffee before heading towards the door.

"What happened to spending ti–" Dean begins but cuts off short. Cas is already gone with the drum of rushed footsteps fading with distance into silence that Dean fills with a rhythmless tapping of his fingertips. "Love you too," he murmurs to no one then washes down the sweet taste of words with a bitter sip of coffee.

Pulling Baby out of the garage and driving her to the gas station is more work than it's worth it, they could tank her on their way tomorrow, but Dean'd rather know how much money he's got to spend on food. He only fills the tank enough for a trip to Hastings and back. It still eats up much more cash than he'd like. He never used to care much for fuel prices when he paid for it with plastic.

The next stop is the store. He only drops the essentials to the cart, adding up the prices in his head. The third pass through the same aisle has him wishing he had made a shopping list beforehand. Stuck for two minutes between Cheerios and Fruit Loops, he pulls out his phone and dials Cas. It would have been much easier if Cas didn't go M.I.A for most of the day. After five dial tones, the call goes to the voicemail. Dean throws a box of Fruit Loops into the cart. Cas isn't answering, he'll be eating what Dean buys him.

He moves to the checkout when the contents of the cart start to look decent but not yet, according to his calculation, above his budget. The last thing he needs is a humiliation of putting stuff back because he can't pay for it. Being forced into a half-assed role of a honest to God citizen has more downfalls than he anticipated. It's much harder than he thought to find a job without an address. He hasn't felt this freaking poor since he learned the workings of credit card fraud and pool. Of course, the latter requires putting some in before gaining some and the earlier they no longer do. Not here. Even Dean isn't stupid enough to burn this bridge like that.

But it'll only be for a few days more, Cas should cash in for his Spanish and French tutoring in a few days and Danny begged Dean to take a look at his Dodge's engine over the weekend. They'll manage, like they always do. If only Sam were coming the next week, instead. But then, Dean can't be picky, he should consider himself lucky the kid wants to spend the spring break with his older brother rather than party with his girlfriend and new buddies. It's been months since the New Year's already, and he's not sure he'd make it okay until summer.

As he lays the contents of his cart on the counter, the cashier, Vera, smiles at him from under her heavy bangs. She small-talks him as she always does, about the party he must be cooking and how perfectly her Vespa's been working thanks to him, but Dean's eyes keep slipping to the growing, red numbers.

Luckily, as it turns out, his math is nearly flawless.

"Add these, too," he says, grabbing a pack of sour jellies from the impulse area. "Cas loves them."

The change jingles in his back pocket as he carries the bags to the car. He parks outside the front door, there's no use in stuffing Baby back inside for one night.

"Cas, got you something!" Dean announces from the very entrance, but there's no answer coming from below.

He shakes off his boots and wiggles on slippers. A little too eager to see the grimace twisting Cas's face as he stuffs those little, candy-shaped nightmares into his mouth, he scoots downstairs just to be met with an empty room. He drops the key to the bowl and starts to the kitchen. He checks in the tv room, listens in for the sounds from the library on his way. He's probably in the other wing, bedroom, maybe. Though, going by the last few days, Dean's best, pessimistic bet is on Cas's room.

Dean dumps the bags on the counter, a little too loud, and makes it back to the fridge empty-handed. The sheet of paper pinned to the door with a magnet says Cas's got no tutoring today, just as Dean had thought. And Cas's sneakers were still standing by the door when Dean entered, too. It doesn't mean he didn't dig out his dress shoes from the closet, or shut the door behind him in just his fluffy slippers.

It sounds like a bit of a stretch, though, both the slippers and shutting the door from the outside, without the key in his hand. Cas frets a lot when it comes to the issue of the key. It's that kind of a risk an automatic lock carries; a little miscommunication, accidentally leaving the key inside when they're both out – game over. There's no locksmith or a lockpicker who could remedy that.

Dean should definitely mention the next time they touch the touchy subject. It wasn't that big of a problem in the past when, with Kevin, Charlie or Claire staying with them in various combinations, there was always someone inside. But now when it's only the two of them, they have to be careful. They coordinate their trips, keep the key always in the bowl by the stairs. Cas would probably call just to make sure if Dean has the key.

Well then, Cas's room it is, Dean decides, resigned, as he begins unpacking. He's spent more time in that room within this week alone than he's had since he first called Dean's bedroom theirs. Dean's not entirely sure if it only started on Tuesday or if it's been going on for a while now, to a lesser extent. Maybe he's been slipping into the room when Dean was busy and coming out before Dean would notice his absence. But then the absences became longer, he'd lock himself in the room for hours at a time and sneak out only for the meals and sleep sometimes.

Sure, it's only been a few days, and Dean might be overreacting, but in Dean's experience a few days is more than enough to majorly fuck everything up. After two years more perfect than anything in Dean's life could ever be, it sometimes feels like a second would be enough. One bad word, one bad choice. Good times never last this long.

And it's been gradual too. Dean knows not because he's counting the minutes ticking away when he has to keep himself busy with telenovelas and games cluttering his phone. He knows because of the growing, underlying silence of the Bunker, the quiet impenetrable by chiptune and the most dramatic of words cried out in Spanish. Each day, a little bit longer than before, a little bit heavier, it's been draping itself over his bones like mold.

If Cas just brought the laptop with him to the tv room, Dean would never even notice more and more hours going by when Cas's eyes are on the screen, his fingers typing away. As long as the clicking of the plastic keyboard reached Dean's ears. He wouldn't even have to talk; just breathe, just murmur under his breath, just patter his fingertips against the keys. Just be. Isn't that what old married couples do in the twenty-first century? Or, well, non-married couples, in their case, and not that old, either.

But no, not Cas. Cas must make whatever he's doing into a big secret, while still claiming he's just lurking around. Like that doesn't stink of a lie from a mile away. It takes all of Dean's willpower to keep every last silent alarm in his head from going off, as he's left alone in the empty rooms, empty corridors. In the quiet that he once grew to know too well, hoped he'd never be grazed by again.

It was only three days, but each hour of them seemed to stretch like they did in Hell. The absence of a single living soul but Dean's turned the Bunker vast and deathly silent. Its motionless air spread wide below the ground, smothered Dean, seeped into his head through his ears, crawled beneath his skin. It lain heavy on his lungs and choked out every last bit of the love Dean had had for this place.

His home. The first real home he'd had since he'd been four. One that couldn't carry him through the net of highways and backroads, but had waited for him when the drive put a strain on his back, his eyes and his head. It had been a balm on the wanderer's old, tired soul. Now, with each hour it was becoming more like a tomb. One of his own making.

Cas had departed, because the angel had said so and Dean had listened. Crowley, Dean had let go to regain the control over Hell and wage war against Abaddon. Kevin, forbidden the revenge for his mother, had left bitter on his own accord.

And now Sam. The angel Dean had let into his brother's body – Ezekiel, Gadreel, whatever else his name was really – showed his true face when Dean least expected it. That was Dean's mistake, ever thinking he could trust the creature the slightest bit. He would fight if he ever had a chance. A flick of a wrist was all it took for Dean to rise and fly like a puppet, across the room, through the wooden shelves of books. The last thing Dean heard were steady steps, fading with the distance and a ramble of the door shut behind the kidnapper.

It took him what felt like an hour to crawl out of the ruin. It took ages to find any information on how to track and eject Gadreel, before Dean could leave the fucking trap. And there was no one there to make a sound, to talk, to shuffle around, to breathe.

There was only Dean and Dean was not enough to fill the Bunker. Whatever vinyl he put on the gramophone, be it Fitzgerald or Zeppelin, the melodies that flowed through the empty space, echoed back to him eerie, raising hairs on his neck like in cheap, scary movies. And when he turned the music off, he had his own inhales and exhales drawing all of his attention, the automatic rhythm getting lost as he struggled to manually regain it.

As soon as his body stopped moving, he could count his own heartbeats. So he never stopped moving. Like a hurricane he rushed among the library's splintered shelves. His hands never idle, flickered through the pages seeking the way to get his brother back. At last, he found all the spells and all the sigils and he was free to jump into his car and follow the fucker. As he stepped his foot outside of the door, his every fiber whispered how much he never, ever wants to go back in there.

Of course, he went back. It took Dean a few weeks to hunt Gadreel down and get rid of. It wasn't easy: in the meantime Dean got beaten to a pulp a bunch of times. Baby got her share of beating too. But at last, Sam was freed from the angel and free to fill the bunker again with his own presence. Even with his silent treatment of Dean, the silence wasn't nearly as deafening as during those three days of complete helplessness and isolation in the abandoned building.

The resentment that had nested in Dean's bones back then, though squashed and tamed for a long time, never let Dean love the Bunker as much as he used to. Sure it's still home and it's still safety. But even when filled to the brim with music and laughter and people, it always carries a threat of incoming silence and solitude in the end.

At the finish of every song blasting on the gramophone and between every bye and hello, the black feeling deep inside still wags its tail just to make its presence known. At the dead of every night when Dean treads through the corridors to call Cas to bed, it scrapes at his marrow with its paw.

Dean sighs, trying hard to ignore the nagging feeling. He unpacks the bags and pockets the sweets. There are still a few rooms he should check before giving up. He's got nothing better to do, anyway, than to go on a grand quest to get those jellies to Cas and watch his nose crunch up as the sour crystals land on his tongue.

As he walks along the quiet corridor, he listens in. There's nothing coming from the rooms he passes by, no sound seeping from their bedroom through the door left ajar. He pushes the wing slowly and it swings on its oiled hinges. If Cas is asleep, it would be a dumb idea to wake him, unless he wants to deal with his grumpy ass the rest of the afternoon. But when the light from the corridor lands on the bed, it doesn't uncover any shapes beneath the tangled sheets.

He should have started across the corridor right away. He taps his fingertips against the wood.

"You there, Cas?" he knocks harder, swinging on his heels, as he awaits the answer, but there's none.

He goes for the knob, but when he pushes it, the door won't budge. He readjusts his grip and tries again, to no avail. Well, that's not suspicious at all. Sure, Cas has had the key to it all along, but never once did he use it, it's just sat in Cas's drawer since Cas moved to their bedroom for good.

Dean grumbles a cuss under his breath as he decides whether chasing Cas is worth it. In this maze of a building they might as well play hide-and-seek all day long. The jellies will have to wait. And if Cas doesn't reappear soon enough, Dean might just chow them down himself, out of pure spite.

He turns on his heel to leave the silent corridor and turn the tv on, volume up. Before he takes a step, a distant salve of laughter reaches his ears. Faded and distorted it resembles a ghastly echo, but the last time he checked, the Bunker didn't house any ghosts, so it has to be Cas's.

The sound doesn't repeat, but there's only one way to go and soon he catches a trail of hushed words, a fragmented conversation. A phone call. All the way back here is surely a long way to go just to pick up a phone.

Dean moves on his tiptoes, holding his breath not to give himself away. He gets to the room, but doesn't dare enter it and confront Cas. Instead, he leans back against the wall, listening for every sound coming through the crack in the door. For a while it's quiet and he begins to worry Cas somehow felt or heard his sneaking.

The voice comes back after a moment, but carried through the length of the room and filtered by the closed door, the words become an unintelligible mumble. Dean steps closer and closer until he reaches the door. Sure Cas is still at the farthest end, he puts his ear to the wood.

An empty glass would be useful right now, maybe with it he could understand the sentences slipping out of Cas's mouth, but like this he only gets ragged words. They're too muffled for him to be sure of a single one of them. There's his own name appearing from time to time, but it could be 'bean,' 'clean,' 'deem' or any-fucking-thing else. There might be a 'lying' or 'buying' or 'dying' and Dean's imagination is starting to secretly make bets on which is the right one.

Dean lifts his head, touches the cold metal of the door knob. He lets it sit there for a while, as he's fishing for any more words that would give him any picture of what the hell is going on. It's sure not sure about canceling the tutoring sessions, it sure ain't Claire or Sam or Charlie, or whoever else there is in Cas's contact list, because if it was, why would he hide here? Why would he walk all the way to the depths of the Bunker, locked himself in an empty room and from the sound of it, sit at its very opposite end?

It makes no sense and neither do the jumble of sounds that reach Dean's ear. Just one press of the knob, a teeny-tiny crack would open a whole new perspective. Or it could alarm Cas, going by how loud the vast majority of these ancient doors is.

His hand fall back to his side. If Cas hears him and catches him eavesdropping, Dean will have no choice but to confront him. And he's not ready for that. He couldn't stand to watch Cas fumble, to listen to his stutter as he's looking for the right words, an excuse to get him off the hook. Or maybe Cas has the explanation, the lies, ready and rehearsed, just in case? Maybe they'd slip off his tongue without a single hesitation like a nursery rhyme sang a thousand times.

Dean crouches and presses his his ear to the keyhole, hoping for a better result. He only gets silence. The air catches in his throat as he readies himself to spring away, but then the caller exhausts their turn and Cas's voice returns.

"No," comes distinct and Dean curses himself for not trying the keyhole right away. "D'never– Yeah, I know."

Silence again, followed by a distant creaking of the floor as Cas begins to pace, three-four-five towards him, then a turn and five back again. There's more and more nothing coming from Cas. Aware of every step, Dean's sitting on pins and needles. Come on, throw me a bone, here, he thinks, but all he gets is a soft, easy chuckle.

And then the sixths step thumps closer and seventh and Dean jumps away from the door like he got burned. There is no turn in the corridor and nowhere to hide before Cas gets to the door, his voice, close now carries a cheerful, "Alright, thank you."

The knob cackles, the hinges squeak. Dean only makes it a few feet away before turning around, but it's enough. He starts walking.

"Dean." Cas stops mid-step out the door, hand guiltily swaying back from the pocket of his sweatpants. He mitigates himself quickly, plasters a smile on his face. "What are you doing here?"

His voice carries no sign of conspiracy, there is no shame for his actions in his movements. Of course, that Cas is great at.

His own voice Dean cannot trust either, so he buys himself time, reaching to his pocket. He struggles a little with the bag of jellies, throws it at Cas, who catches it gracefully. His smile blooms into a full-on grin when he recognizes the package.

"Was looking for you to give you this," Dean answers, finally. A little firmer he adds, "You?"

"I was just–"

Now it's Cas who stalls. He takes his time opening the bag, the fingers slip of the slick plastic. For a second, Dean dares to hope he won't hear vain justifications. Cas could just come forward and explains himself, if Dean was lucky, it wouldn't even be something horrible. It must be something simple, reasonable and Dean's just being a total idiot.

Cas pries the package open, at last, under Dean's impatient stare. He pulls one jelly out.

"Straightening my legs."

Crinkling of his nose, twisting of his lips cover his blatant lie. Dean can't even stand to look at his face.

"Inside a closed room?" he questions.

Cas starts walking back towards the center. "Can you believe we've– I have lived here for over two years and there are still so many chambers I haven't seen?

"Oh, I'm sure an, um, empty space–?" he guesses, pointing back to the room they left behind, "must be fascinating."

"This entire place is fascinating," Cas answers diplomatically. "Covered in abundance with spells, protective magic."

He speaks with so much conviction and admiration that Dean almost believes him. Almost.

The phone call and the lies, the locked door and disappearing. Has Dean missed any signs? Something in Cas, some desires and needs he's been burying? Something in the world they've so thoroughly cut themselves off? Or has it started now and throws itself to hell all at once?

"Call me when the dinner's ready?" Cas asks, lingering two steps behind Dean, his hand reaching to his door.

Dean shakes his head, resigned. "Okay."

As he walks along the corridor, the last he hears of Cas is a click of closing door.