Being a third wheel was always as dull as it looked. Years ago, Sam thought that he'd never have to compete for his brother's attention. If anything, Dean was always too focused on him. But as soon as Castiel had appeared, with his shaking windows and angel-superiority-complex, Dean was distracted.
And ever since the angel had fallen from heaven for him, Dean's eyes were always more on Castiel than the impending apocalypse. That was fine, of course. They all had different things to think about, and Sam could deal with his brother's new obsession.
But when they started staring at each other? When Dean looked at Castiel like he wanted to save and be saved, and when Castiel looked at Dean like he knew that it was worth rebelling against both God and his brothers for the human in front of him?
Well, Sam took that as a cue to give them some alone time.
His boots thudded against the pine flooring as he walked up to the counter that sold fourteen different flavors of ice cream. Most of them were the same flavors sold at every ice cream parlor in the country: cherry jubilee, vanilla, chocolate, double chocolate, and extreme chocolate. There were different flavors at the end, advertised as something seasonal, like apple pie and pumpkin spice.
"What can I get for you today, Sam?" the girl behind the counter asked. His eyes wandered up from the tubs of colorful ice cream and latched onto the girl in front of him. She couldn't have been out of middle school, with her blonde curls pulled up high into a ponytail and with a baseball cap sitting on top of her head. Her grin was warm and wide, and her nose was narrow and long.
She looked like his mother.
"I need a vanilla, an extreme chocolate, and an-" he started to say, forcing his eyes to stare at the ice cream and not the high schooler in front of him.
"Dean would like our pecan pie flavored ice cream," she drawled in a way that was strangely familiar, but it sounded weird coming out of this girl's mouth, "It's our flavor of the week."
"Apple pie is fine, thanks," Sam said. Dean might love pecan pie, but the ice cream flavor might be going too far, and-
He had never met this girl before in his life. How did she know his name?
His head snapped up and his shoulders hunched as he took a step back, "What are you?"
"Come on Sam," she sighed, her grin inching up the left side of her face, growing more and more unbalanced, "Is that any way you treat an old friend? I even chose this face just for you."
He looked at her, not at the body, but at her. He looked at the slinky way she held herself, like she was a stray dog. He looked at the smirk that sat on her face, a smirk that was familiar, and-
"Meg," he said her name, watching as subtle happiness spread through her features, "Hi."
She put three bowls on his side of the counter, "Word got passed down the grapevine that my unicorn is running out of steam."
Sam swallowed and nodded his head, "He'll be relieved to see you before his week is up. He likes you."
This was a day full of surprises, but at least this one was pleasant. Meg sacrificed her life –or so he'd thought- to protect them all, and he felt that earned her the right to speak to their angel.
"I think he's gotten over his little crush on me," Meg said softly, her eyes wandering across the room, "Or, at least, he's found someone better. I don't want to mess that up."
"You wouldn't mess it up," Sam said, looking back at them, "Meg, do you want to talk later? I don't want their ice cream to melt."
"Of course," Meg nodded, "That'll be seven fifty, by the way. And be sure to leave a nice tip."
He's not sure what all happens when he sits down with Castiel and Dean again. The banter and flirtation between the other two are lost on him; his mind was in a whirlwind of question. The little knot of tension between his eyebrows grew tenser and he sighed, making up some thin excuse as they both leave the ice cream parlor. They passed by the car without more than a second glance, so they can't be going far. He wished that he'd been paying attention.
Meg came over to wipe off the table. The body she is possessing has frail, skinny arms that make it look like she's never seen a day of work in her life. Meg didn't seem to feel the burn of overworking the body she resided in.
"You're alive," he stated, running a hand through his hair.
"Apparently," she nodded.
"How?" Sam asked. He laced his calloused hands in front of him and stared into her too-blue eyes. They weren't even blue in this light. They were bordering on gray, like slate, "And who are you possessing?"
"This girl was about to overdose," Meg shrugged, "I knew that you didn't like it when we borrowed bodies that were already taken, so I just saved this one. I'll return it as soon as she realizes that she wants it back."
"She's awake?" Sam asked.
"Sometimes," Meg shrugged, like it didn't really matter, "So, Castiel-"
"How are you alive?" Sam's voice was steadily rising. Something about this wasn't right. Nothing could be this easy, and he did not like to be tricked. Having Meg back was probably too good to be true (and this was assuming that having Meg back was a good thing).
"I don't know. Crowley did a pretty convincing job of killing me," she hissed, leaning forwards, "Now, Castiel. How is he doing?"
"I don't understand why you can't see for yourself," Sam said, his mouth twisting into its usual purse.
"What good would it do?" she asked. She didn't want to talk about this. Too bad.
"He likes you!" Sam raised his voice and ignored the looks that the patrons of the store shot him. He didn't know what they assumed about him and the girl in front of him, but to be frank, he didn't care.
Meg let out a harsh sigh, crossing her arms and leaning back. Her nose flared in agitation, "He'd be much happier if I didn't barge into his life, because he's already pretty happy, judging by his puppy eyes for your brother."
"You're jealous," Sam said slowly, finally connecting the dots. He straightened the worn material of his shirt (a plaid button down, of course) and sighed. The jingling bells that signalled the exit of customers and the faint vanilla smell that tainted the air around him did not fit the conversation they were having.
"No shit," she snorted. Her vessel's slightly misaligned teeth showed in the snarl Meg gave him just then.
"They haven't done anything yet. At least, I don't think so," Sam said. If Dean had made a move, there would have been signs. The puppy dog eyed stares didn't necessarily count as a sign. They've been doing that for years.
"We both know that doesn't mean anything. I don't have a chance in hell with that angel, not anymore," Meg said. She shook her head and tipped her chair so that it balanced on the back legs.
Sam sighed, leaning back again. He nodded slowly, "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. I don't need a pity party. As long as Clarence is happy, I'm…I'm good," she let her chair down again; the long legs hit the wooden floor with a loud thwack, again bringing attention to them.
"I'm not apologizing for that," Sam told her. He ran a hand through his flat hair, giving it volume again. He took her soft hand in her own, running his thumb over her skin in gentle circles.
"Then what for?" she asked, squeezing his hand back. The physical contact was...nice. She was warm and strong, and somehow, she was here.
"I'm apologizing for the fact that if you don't come visit Castiel, I'm going to tell him that you visited but refused to show your face. I'm going to tell the truth," he informed her. She went tense under his grip, but he refused to let her pull her hand away. She was trapped here with him for now, and she was not going to disappear again.
"Sam, I-" she shook her head, her eyes wide in what one might mistake as innocent fear. But Sam knew her. She was never innocent.
"No. No, we're not talking about you. We are talking about Castiel, and we are talking about what is best for him. You're going to visit," he told her with no uncertainty to be found in his voice. Either Meg got over herself, or Cas would spend his last hours feeling abandoned and lied to by one of his closest friends. Meg was self centered, but she wasn't that self centered.
"That's not for the best. You have to know that," she ripped her hand away from his own.
"All I know is that you're being selfish," Sam stood up and turned towards the door to the
coffee shop. They'd been in here for longer than he had thought. The yellowed sunlight that filtered in through the wide windows and glass door showed that it was already sunset, "I'll see you soon, Meg."
Dean and Castiel sat in one of the few benches placed out of the sun. The tall, swaying pine trees gave them both some much needed shade. Late afternoon sun flooded the park around the duo, giving them the perfect setting for any conversation that they wished to have.
Unfortunately, Dean didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to say at all.
"Why do you think Sam wanted to talk to the girl?" Castiel asked. His voice was still gravelly, still sounded like he had smoked five packs of cigarettes for ten plus years. Dean shrugged from his end of the bench.
He couldn't sit as close to Castiel as he normally did. Not in public. He didn't want people to make assumptions about the two of them. What fully grown men went out for icecream and then went to the park to hang out alone?
Gay couples did that, and he was not gay. He liked women. That was an obvious fact, and
Dean did not understand why he kept reminding himself of that.
The fact that he liked women, however, did not stop Dean from noticing the way Castiel's hands clutched at the sleeves of his trenchcoat, or the way he seemed to shrink in on himself. The used-to-be-a-crazy-god looked lonely on his side of the wooden bench.
"Dean?" Castiel asked, turning his head towards him. The hair Dean had been meaning to give a trim fell into Castiel's too-blue eyes. They both needed a haircut, Dean realized. But then he realized that haircuts probably weren't the most important thing right now, or for the next week.
"Why does your hair always do that?" Dean asked, and like he'd done a million times before to girls he barely knew, he reached forward and brushed the offending bangs out of the way, "You shouldn't cover up your eyes."
He froze there, his rough hand still tangled in the dark, tangled bird's nest that Castiel called hair. It was soft, softer than any girl's hair that he'd ever touched.
Dean pulled his hand away and leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head, "How else are you supposed to pick up girls? It's not like you qualify for the tall part of tall, dark, and handsome."
"That's not my main priority at the moment," Castiel said quietly, pointing out the obvious, "But I'm handsome by human standards?"
"I guess some chicks would go for you," Dean nodded, "Hell, if I were a chick, I'd totally jump you."
It didn't occur to him until the words were out of his mouth that maybe that wasn't the straightest thing he could ever say to a guy. But hell, he'd said worse things. Hey Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that...well, I got laid.
"Jump me? Dean, I think we both know that I could take you in a fight," Castiel said. Dean sighed, shaking his head. Castiel couldn't even tie his tie correctly. He couldn't expect the angel to understand every saying that has ever been said, and maybe it was good that Castiel remained in the dark on this one.
"It's just a saying, Cas," he said, "So what do you want to do for dinner? We could pick up Sam and then go to-"
"I'm tired," Castiel said. Before Dean could finish his sentence, before he could even process what Castiel had said, the angel's too-blue eyes closed shut, and his head tilted back into an ungraceful sleeping pose.
"Oh fuck," Dean cursed. No way. No one ever got to sleep like that. No one was ever just out like a light. Even earlier today, when Castiel had drifted to sleep on him, the angel had stayed awake for a good amount of time, awake but not conscious enough to have the good sense to fall asleep somewhere else.
As Dean was mentally freaking out (because what was he supposed to do with an unconscious angel? Those things were impossible to wake up most of the time, and what if someone came up to him: demon, angel, or otherwise? What was he supposed to do?), Castiel fell. Granted, Castiel had fallen greater distances, and Dean had survived having much heavier things fall on him, but he still winced when the angel's head collided against his shoulder. Castiel didn't seem to wake up upon impact.
It was almost an exact repeat of this morning, except this time, there was no movie to distract Dean from the being on top of him. He was heavy, which wasn't new information, but he did seem hot to the touch. Dean brought up a hand and placed it on Castiel's forehead, feeling the searing heat radiate off from the skin. That was new.
Dean let his tense muscles relax, because there was no way he was going to wake Castiel up. He needed the sleep. he probably also needed medicine for whatever symptoms that Castiel was keeping quiet about (fatigue and dizziness were all that Dean knew about, but he'd make Castiel tell him the whole truth soon), but he didn't think that hospitals knew how to treat illnesses caused by angel grace running out.
The children slowly left the park, the sun sunk down over the city's skyscrapers, and the swing sets were soon all abandoned, the metal chains groaning in the wind. Still, Castiel didn't wake up.
It was only when Dean saw the familiar mane that only his brother was ridiculous enough to wear that he nudged Castiel, "Hey asshole, wake up."
"I am not an asshole," Castiel mumbled almost immediately, though his voice was still muted with sleep, "And I wasn't asleep."
"You were so asleep," Dean said, not sure why the angel would ever claim otherwise. It was pretty obvious what had happened.
"No, I was listening," Castiel said, "To the park. And the wind. And you. Your heartbeat gets loud sometimes, Dean."
They didn't go out to dinner that night. Dean made them his special omelettes, which just meant that he added tomatoes and spinach to his scrambled eggs, but no one complained. They were one of the best things that Dean could make, and this time, he even had let Castiel whisk the eggs. After weeks of Dean shutting them out of the kitchen whenever he attempted to actually cook, it was a welcome change to do even the simplest of tasks.
While they were eating their omelettes at the living room table, with the two brightest lamps turned on and illuminating the dark room, the Winchester brothers told Castiel stories about their childhood. The good stories. They told him about pranks they'd played, about mishaps they'd had at playgrounds, at how they'd survived highschool. Sam told a few stories from his days in college, stories that Dean was finally ready to hear, and Dean told a few stories about hunting trips he'd shared with just John.
Castiel made a joke that was funnier in Enochian, but the Winchesters laughed at it anyway.
Sam got a call once their omelettes were all done, and he excused himself from the table with something that looked kind of like a smile. He informed them that they'd have a guest tomorrow, someone that they could probably trust. Castiel took his word for it. Sam clutched the cell phone to his chest until Dean said that yes, he could go, and he left. They could hear him talking with whoever was on the other end of the line, but from the bitchy tone of his voice, they had no idea who it could be.
That night, Castiel retired to his own bed and flopped down on top of the covers, too tired to pull the blankets around him. That night, he had forgotten to even take off his tie. That night, he was too exhausted to do anything. The process of his dying had truly begun, and the process begun with overbearing tiredness.
When he woke up, his nose was deep into a tan comforter that -he took a deep breath- smelled familiar, like gun smoke and cheap soap. His jacket was hung over the side of the chair across the room, and his tie was strewn over his jacket. But his mind was fogged with sleep, and, like the human he was, he turned back over into the protection of his blanket, and fell back asleep.