The next day Castiel noticed that anything and everything sharp had mysteriously vanished. He supposed it was nice that Dean was looking out for him, but at the same time it irrationally pissed him off. Who was Dean to barge into his life and try to take control of it? But he didn't say anything when Dean came home, until he was trying to prepare dinner. Well, he didn't actually say anything; he just stood between the TV and Dean with his arms folded.
"Dude, d'you mind?"
"If you want to eat, I suggest you let me have a sharp knife. I simply cannot cut the vegetables with a butter knife," he complained, showing more if his irritation than he would have liked.
Dean looked slightly sheepish as he tried to explain. "Uh, yeah—"
"Dean," Castiel sighed, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Just don't."
Dean disappeared and returned with a knife. It wasn't the right one, but Castiel would make do. Dean hovered in the kitchen, totally not watching him, and Castiel briefly contemplated stabbing him with it. Instead he washed and dried it before handing it back to Dean without a word when he was finished with it.
"Sorry," Dean said, but took the knife back to wherever it was he was keeping it before returning to the living room.
Castiel sighed. He supposed he should be happy that someone cared enough about him to look out for him, but the last time someone had controlled his life under the illusion of 'looking out for him' he'd had his freedom stripped away, so it was hard to be grateful.
. * * * .
"Castiel, you are going to get married sooner or later – don't go thinking that by conveniently disliking every girl I bring here to meet you that you'll escape the fact."
"Father—"
"You are an embarrassment, Castiel! Why can't you see that I am trying to help you?"
And then Castiel's head snapped to the side as the back of his father's hand impacted with the side of his face. He blinked back tears as he turned back to his father.
"You should be grateful that I care enough to help you, boy!"
"You don't care about me, father – you care about your reputation in the community." The words were out of Castiel's mouth before he had even finished processing the thought.
His father's gaze darkened. "You are a disobedient, rebellious, ungrateful little child! Everything I have done for you, you throw back in my face. One day you will go too far and I shall turn my back on you, Castiel, and so will God. Mark my words, son."
"I'm sorry, Father," Castiel said. Not for his words, which surprised him, but for disappointing him.
His father slammed the bedroom door, and Castiel could hear the click of the key turning in the lock.
"You will sit in here and think about how you can better serve the good Lord."
Castiel could feel his eyes getting wet, but he didn't cry. He never cried, no matter how much he sometimes wanted to. He was just so wrong, in so many different ways.
. * * * .
An hour later he was stuffed full and watching Doctor Sexy, MD reruns with Dean in silence. It seemed like silence was his best friend lately.
"Cas?" Dean asked during a commercial break.
Castiel looked at him.
"Have you ever, you know, talked to someone about this?"
Castiel frowned.
"Like a shrink, you know? I usually think they're full of themselves, but..." He sighed. "I'm not really making it sound like the right thing here. I'm not saying you're crazy, or that there's something wrong with you – I just think that... If you haven't got your family to talk to, and you won't talk to me, you should have someone you can talk to about it. What about the priest at your church? Can you talk to him about it?"
Castiel had suspected this conversation would come sooner or later, but it was not one he wanted to have so he shook his head vehemently. "No."
"Cas—"
"I said no, Dean!" Castiel was very definite in his decision, and his voice was almost a growl. "Can you just drop it? Please?" he added, slightly softer this time.
Dean sighed again, but nodded reluctantly. "Okay, yeah. If that's what you want."
"Thank you," he said, and they fell back into an uneasy silence.
. * * * .
It didn't matter that he'd told Cas he'd drop it – he just couldn't let it go because he was worried about him, so a couple of days later he spoke to the only person he had to talk to.
"Bobby?"
"Yeah? What is it?" Bobby asked gruffly.
"Have you got a minute?"
"What do you want?"
Dean shifted from one foot to the other. "I need some advice."
"Damn it, boy, do I look like Dear Abby to you?"
"Sorry, Bobby," he said, turning to leave. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."
Bobby sighed. "Dean... Take a break."
"But—"
"You've earned it. Come here."
Dean followed Bobby through to his office where he was ushered into a seat and a steaming hot mug of coffee was thrust into his hand.
"Okay, so talk."
And Dean did. He talked for twenty minutes and told Bobby everything. He told him about finding Cas on the bridge, about Castiel leaving and Dean taking him back home again, he told him that Castiel's father had beaten him, and he that he'd found him with a blade in his hand when he'd finished work on Monday and how didn't know what to do or how to help him, all while Bobby just sat there and listened.
When Dean finally finished, Bobby drained the last of his coffee and looked at him.
"Well?" Dean asked. "What do I do?"
"Dean," Bobby started, "I gave you a job because I knew your situation and I went out on a limb – I trusted you. Most people wouldn't have."
"I know."
"So you see where I'm going with this?"
Dean shook his head.
Bobby sighed. "You can't hope to help him until you know whatever it is that's eating him."
"Yeah, but he doesn't want to tell me—"
"You don't want to ask!" Bobby all but yelled back. "Just because you don't like to talk about things doesn't mean other people don't! It's about him, not you, so pull your head out of your ass and talk to him!"
"I know it's not about me!" Dean said defensively.
"Do you? Because it seems to me that you've done piss-poor job of actually sitting him down and asking him what's wrong! Some people don't like to be a burden. Sometimes you need to take the time to be a friend!"
"I..." Dean was speechless.
"Sit there and think about what I just said. I'm going to go finish putting the new brake pads on that Mustang."
Dean stood up. "But Bobby, that's my—"
"Sit!"
Dean sat.
"Think."
. * * * .
When Dean got back home that night he grabbed a beer and sat down on the sofa next to Cas. "So," he said casually. "How are you?"
"Do you mean am I liable to try to kill myself today?" Castiel replied matter-of-factly.
Dean visibly winced at the bluntness of Castiel's tone. He hadn't meant to sound so obvious. "Well, uh, yeah."
Castiel absently picked at a loose thread hanging from the cushion. "I don't think so."
Dean let out the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "Good. 'Cause, you know, I'd try and stop you again."
"Yes, I do."
"Talk to me."
"I am talking to you."
"I mean tell me what you're thinking – whatever it is you're not saying out loud. You can tell me."
Castiel shook his head. "No."
Dean tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling, a part of him thinking that if it were Sam he'd probably threaten to beat it out of him but knowing that that would just cause Castiel to retreat further into himself.
"Fair enough," he said instead. "But if you do decide you want to talk—"
"Thank you, Dean. But I will not burden you further by telling you all my problems."
"Dude, I asked, okay? I offered you a place to stay; I asked you how you are – that makes you about as far away from a burden as you can be."
"You don't talk about what it is that bothers you," Castiel pointed out. "Whatever it is that you keep bottled up inside you, the thoughts that you try to drown out night after night with all that beer. So don't you lecture me about talking about it – about what's wrong, and how I feel. Not unless you feel like sharing yourself!" he snapped bitterly.
Dean walked out then, slamming the door behind him.
Castiel immediately felt guilty. He went to bed early but lay awake, unable to sleep. Dean had been nothing but good to him, and yet all Castiel seemed to do was keep him at a distance and push him away when he got too close. He reasoned with himself that it would hurt less when Dean found out the truth and told him to leave, but it didn't change the fact that he liked Dean; liked having him as a friend.
He heard Dean stagger in at some ungodly hour, colliding loudly with something – possibly the telephone table in the hallway – as he made his way to his room.
"Shit!" Dean exclaimed in a hushed tone, to no-one in particular.
Castiel pulled the covers around his head as he willed himself to sleep, but tomorrow was a long, long way away.