The tape cuts off after eight songs. Dean plays it over from the beginning. Again, and then again. Nothing exists outside of the lyrics. Sometimes, when the music gets quiet and he can hear himself think again, brief anger overwhelms him, but, luckily, it's soon drowned out by guitar riffs.
He reaches song #8 for the fifth time and realizes he can't make himself rewind anymore.
Why? Why are you doing this? he accuses Cas in his mind, careful not to let the thought leave the room. We were fixing all this stuff between us—and now we're going to go back to avoiding each other. For what? I told you that you don't have feelings for me.
He breathes heavily around his next gulp of whiskey.
He wonders what Sam's gonna think when he sees the unfinished breakfast in the kitchen—his mind already yelling that he better not fuckin' try to come in here. But, lucky for the oldest Winchester, he's left alone. Just him and all the thoughts he doesn't want to be thinking.
It'll be OK, he thinks 20 minutes later, once he's calmed down some. I'll just explain to him why that isn't—why he shouldn't—why I can't—
He never actually finishes the sentence.
Our friendship has survived so much crap. There's no way we're gonna let it self-destruct over something like this, he insists instead.
He actually falls asleep at one point, clutching his bottle of Jack like it's a baby. When he wakes up an hour later, he's certainly not hungover, but his thoughts do have a slight protective wool coating over them.
He knows he needs to call Cas back, to tell him that he doesn't want to lose him, but he loves him like a brother and that's all. And yet…What had Sam said? To talk to himself out loud? He can do that. He can practice what he is going to say to Cas. I'm sorry, Buddy, but I don't think of you that way.
"I-" he tries, already choking on that one word.
Dammit. He closes his mouth—sets the whiskey on his nightstand, shakily.
Come on, Dean, you can do this. You've faced Death with a capital D. You stuffed yourself full of souls so you could blow yourself up. You taught Sammy how to drive. You've done scarier shit than this.
He lets himself picture Cas. Dark hair, tan skin, blue eyes. Stubble, long neck, the hint of collar bones he feels under his hands when he goes to adjust the angel's tie.
He swallows.
He forces himself to picture what it would be like to step closer…to watch that blue he lo—likes—so much get edged out by dilating pupils. To hear a tiny hitch in Cas's breath—a sign he is caught up in the moment since he doesn't actually need to breathe.
So far, the mental image is OK, he realizes. And then he imagines himself pushing closer—just brushing those slightly-chapped lips with his and tasting….
Nope, nope, nope, Dean wrenches himself away from that thought, his heart elevated in panic, purposefully ignoring the way he's gone slightly hard. He feels like he might throw up.
A few minutes later, when his stomach settles, he tries again—remembering what it was like to have Cas press him against the wall of that alley all those years ago. The sheer intensity of that glare, the way his hard muscles felt against him, the barely restrained power. What if, instead of punching him, Cas had leaned in to kiss him with bruising force? What if one of the hands he'd used to haul Dean up by his jacket lapels instead moved to Dean's hip, keeping him still while his lips traveled from his mouth to his jaw…to his neck…? Just the barest graze of teeth….
His thoughts come to an abrupt stop when he hears himself make a noise he should absolutely not be making.
"I like girls, dammit," he insists to the empty room as if expecting the silence to argue with him. It kinda does.
He recalls his own revelation from yesterday—that Cas isn't a man really—he's a goddamn wave of celestial intent—but his eyes think he is a dude and his brain thinks he is a dude, so what the fuck is wrong with his dick?
Say it out loud, Sam had said.
"I might have-" But, no, he can't bring himself to admit that either.
He closes his eyes and starts praying. Cas? You mind stopping by? he asks as gently as possible.
He waits for twenty minutes. And it's like waiting for a hellhound to come get him all over again. At last, he hears footsteps outside his door. A pause. He imagines Cas is deciding whether to knock or not. Eventually, the door just opens.
They look at each other. Dean thought he knew what it was like to have Cas stare at him—to stare into him—but this time, he takes it to an entirely new level and Dean finally gets how much the angel has been holding back. Dean's soul feels like it's vibrating under his skin—possibly trying to escape his body—but he's not ready for a look like this.
"I'm not expecting you to reciprocate, Dean," Cas murmurs at last, finally stepping out of the light of the hallway into the room. "I just realized how tired I was of pretending."
Dean closes his eyes, hating the sound of resignation in Cas's voice. "Five things I like about you," he thinks quickly. "You can be damn terrifying when you want to be and sometimes, I want to stop in the middle of a fight just to watch you do your thing. But, at the same time, you literally wouldn't hurt a fly. We get a spider in the bunker and you move it outside rather than let me or Sam squash it."
"I like when you get all sarcastic on me—that you're the only one besides Sam that can really get to me when I'm in a funk. I—you told me once that I have no faith—but I have faith in you…"
"And, you're way better looking than Jimmy Novak."
Cas squints in his direction. "That makes no-"
"Trust me, it's true."
Dean wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. "You say you have-" he makes a vague gesture in the air between them.
"Feelings, Dean. You're not actually allergic to the word, you know," Cas says. At any other time, it might have been accompanied by an eye roll.
"And you really mean…?"
Cas frowns. "I want to get into your pants," he responds, flatly, raising an eyebrow that dares Dean to argue with him.
Dean's stomach swoops—even more so when he licks his lips and notices Cas following the motion. Has he always done that?
"I-" Get it together, Winchester! "I've been working on this mixtape for a while," he finally sputters, indicating his cassette player. "For you. But I'm—it's not ready yet. Still got to add a few more songs before—before I can give it to you. And, considering the kind of person I am, it might—it might take a long ass time. Or it might never be quite…ready. But I thought you'd want to know that I'm…" he clears his throat. "Working on it."
"You're…working on it?" Cas repeats, with a disbelieving tilt of his head.
"Yes…?" His voice squeaks, slightly.
And if there is anything that is possibly worth the way his nerves have been on edge all morning, it's the smile that grows like a slow-moving sunrise over Cas's face.
