Dean got off the phone, slumping in a chair, dejectedly. "Well," he said, "Crowley says he has no idea who killed the family, and he claims that it wasn't hell or demons."
Dean watched Sam rub at the back of his neck, blinking. "Do we have any reason to listen to him?" he asked.
Dean looked at the table and stuffed his hands in his pockets, sighing. "Nope," he said, his voice sounding tired. "But none of this is really making any sense. I mean, not that I believe him, but it's just. . . why?" He sighed. "Why would he need to send a pack of Demon's to spy on us? It's not like he's never been to the bunker before. . . the whole thing stinks to high hell."
Cas's mouth turned up into a small smile. Dean sat up, Don't do that, Cas, he thought, looking away. He scooted his chair out loudly scraping it on the floor. "Look," he said, directing his comments to Sam now, "it's crazy late, and I'm gonna need at least a few hours of shut eye, so I say we call it a night and pick it up tomorrow."
Sam and Cas nodded in response, and with that, Dean made his way back to his room in the bunker, falling onto his bed heavily. He laid there for a moment, fully dressed, noting the slackening in his muscles as his eyelids started to fall shut.
I really am tired, he thought, maybe tonight I'll actually be able to sleep without. . .
No.
And there it was in his head, the reason he couldn't sleep, like a shadow that stalked him only when he was alone. And the familiar image appeared, producing chills on his skin and a cold, metallic taste in his mouth as he stared into the face of Cas, soaking wet and exhausted. It was an image of the night the angel had showed up on the doorstep of the bunker after losing his grace. Dean had looked for the angel for weeks, but he couldn't devote his whole resources to him. Sam was dying, and he had barely made it through with the help of Ezekial who, as Dean later figured out had actually been Gadreel. He sighed, remembering the tough decision to trap Gadreel in holy fire while he let Crowley posses his brother's body to expel him. The whole thing had nearly torn Dean in two. But somehow Sam survived. And Cas did too. Despite the fact that Dean had neglected him and left him to fend for himself.
And, in guilt, Dean closed his eyes and let the scene of Cas's return to the bunker replay itself behind his eyelids yet again. Cas smiled weakly at the sight of Dean as the door opened. The ex-angel's hair matted to his head, his body sagging as he rested one hand on the door frame. Dean remembered quickly noticing the blood on Cas's jacket where he'd been cut fighting. Cas's shoes were worn almost to shreds, plastered with mud from the miles he'd clearly walked to get here, and the angel's face looked up at him sallow and malnourished.
"Cas," Dean had muttered breathlessly as Cas took a step forward then collapsed as if he'd been walking on borrowed life, barely extinguishing his last resources to make it here. To make it home. And Dean caught him, watching Cas's eyes roll back into his head as the hunter picked him up, noting how light and fragile he seemed, unconscious in his arms.
And, as the memory played in his head, the familiar feeling of guilt and fear resurfaced. The feeling that at any moment, he was about to lose something that was more precious to him than he had ever realized. So, he carried Cas inside, clutching him to himself, soaking both their clothes as he prayed to an absentee God to save the man he loved.
Suddenly, a knock came at the door, gratefully pulling Dean from his memories. He sat up, walking tiredly to open it. Cas stood in the frame, reminding Dean of the memory, making him shudder.
"Dean," said Cas reluctantly, "do you mind if I come in?"
Dean furrowed his brows curiously, but moved aside, letting the angel into the room. He shut the door behind Cas, and watched as Cas walked straight to the bed, sitting down, and quickly Dean wished he had left the door open. Because this was too much. Too intimate.
"What's up, buddy?" Dean asked, consciously standing away from the bed.
Cas looked up at Dean, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, his face hesitant. "Dean, I need to talk to you about something. . . personal," he said. Dean noticed the tension in Cas's body, and the uncharacteristic uncertainty the angel was displaying. Dean felt his heart beat faster. He knows, he thought, lacing his fingers behind his neck nervously. Oh god, he knows. . .
Dean took in Cas's stare as the angel looked up at the hunter in earnest, and Dean wondered how such an innocent face could produce a feeling of dread for him. He peered at Cas, his hands starting to sweat. And Dean wished the only place to sit down wasn't right next to the angel. Dean rocked back onto his heels waiting. Waiting for Cas to tell him he knew how Dean felt, and that he didn't feel it too. Trying to prepare for a way he could get out of it. Could he hide how he really felt if Cas confronted him dead on?
The angel's pause was too long, and Dean felt trapped. Just say it, Dean thought, desperately. And as if Cas heard him, he finally spoke. Here it goes, Dean thought, his face turning red. But when Cas had finished, Dean processed what he said with surprise, replaying the angel's words: "Dean," Cas had said, "why are you so unhappy?"