Cas was supposed to be by in April, but a coworker had gotten the flu and he had to work through the weekend. So, Dean had gotten his cast removed by himself, tucking it away in a box when he got home.
Two weeks later, he still had an hour or two before Cas got there, so Dean took out his trash. It wasn't smelly, it wasn't overflowing. There were just a few too many whiskey bottles that he didn't want to explain to Cas. He didn't want to see the look of disappointment on his face that he always got when he knew Dean was drinking too much. It was easier to throw them away and have them both pretend that Dean wasn't a fuck up who couldn't handle his time alone.
Dean was sitting on the couch, not paying attention to the show on the TV, wondering where he'd put his cigarettes when he heard the key in the door. He turned off the TV and was about to stand when Cas entered. He looked sad or lost or something, but he never got a chance to ask about it. The other man toed his shoes off and then launched himself at Dean.
The greetings were still his favorite part. They were the only time Dean could convince himself that Cas was happy to see him. When their lips touched, Dean could remember why he was putting himself through hell for this man. When they had sex, he could get lost in physical sensation and fantasy lands where this was every day.
Afterwards, while Cas slept off a day of work, a four hour drive, and frantic sex, Dean pulled a pair of jeans on and started picking up. Cas's clothes were in a line from the door to the couch to the bedroom. He balanced a laundry basket on his hip as he bent to grab his dress pants. His wallet dropped from the pocket, making Dean roll his eyes. Trust Cas to have a rich wife and still carry around a leather wallet that was so old it was cracking.
When he grabbed the wallet, a glossy piece of white paper was sticking out a bit. When his finger brushed it, it was smooth and revealed a greyish square. He pulled it out, curious what Cas would have in his wallet besides money.
Dean had seen them before, of course, but he hadn't expected to find one in Cas's wallet.
He tucked it back in the wallet and set it on the table. Then, he continued gathering clothes and starting a load of laundry. Under the sink, there was a bottle of whiskey. He pulled it out, debating getting a glass before shrugging and drinking from the bottle. The burn went along nicely with the hurt and anger and betrayal in his stomach. He started on the dishes that had been piling up for a few days.
He continued drinking, getting pleasantly buzzed while he cleaned the house. The stove was sparkling, there were no more leftovers in the fridge, and there was no dust on the TV anymore. The vacuum hummed to life in his hand as he broke from buzzed to tipsy.
He was still vacuuming and drinking when the buzzer for the dryer went off. Cas's head popped out of the bedroom, but Dean didn't react. He looked groggy and his hair was messed up and the betrayal in Dean's stomach spiked into his throat. Dean tried to soothe it with another sip.
Cas's eyebrows snapped together in a scowl. "You should not be drinking, Dean."
Dean's response was to smile and take another swig, bigger this time because he knew how Cas hated that he could take shots without a chaser. When Cas looked ready to hit him, he turned off the vacuum. "You shouldn't be here, Cas." He said his name like a curse.
The scowl dropped from his face, replaced with confusion. Dean had to take another drink before he could continue. "When were you going to tell me you're gonna be a dad? When's Meg due?"
He watched as the color drained from Cas's face. There was satisfaction in Dean as he saw the knowledge that he knew about the baby come over him. He thought he must have been wrong when Cas came in. He hadn't been sad; he'd been lost in thought about his baby.
"When did you find out, Cas? How long have you known and not told me?" Dean hated the hurt tone slipping into the words. He wanted to be pissed off; he didn't want him to know that it was killing him.
Cas swallowed as he moved toward Dean. Dean held up his hand. He couldn't handle Cas close to him right now. He stopped, his eyes boring into Dean's. "When I got home after you broke your wrist. Dean, I was –"
"You've known for two fucking months and you couldn't let me know? Couldn't call me? Send a fucking text?" There it was, the rage that he wanted to wrap himself in to stop the broken look on Cas's face from affecting him.
"I –"
"I think it's better if you leave, Cas." He wrapped the cord up on the vacuum, not looking at the man who had his bleeding heart in his hands. "And don't come back anymore."
He could feel Cas's eyes on him before he went into the laundry room. He grabbed his clothes and must have changed in there, because he came out wearing his own clothes. He grabbed his wallet from the table, dropping it into his pocket as he fisted his keys. "I didn't know how to tell you."
Dean gave a bitter laugh. "Fucking trying would have helped."
He didn't feel like he had taken a breath between finding the ultrasound and the door softly shutting behind Cas. When he did, his chest ached and he was fighting off tears.
This was hard to write.
