No one doubts that Dean Winchester is a stubborn son of a bitch. It's something about himself that he is often proud of, sometimes gets mad at himself for, but has never really made any attempt to change.
And yet, despite being sure that he was never going to be able to take a shit again with how clenched this whole situation with Cas made him, he finds himself relaxing without his permission after an hour of nothing catastrophic happening. Sure, the questions have been uncomfortable—
"What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?"
"Bobby," Dean stated, green eyes stony. "Charlie, Kevin, anyone who's dead and stayed dead."
Cas responded with a quiet, "Balthazar and Samandriel."
And to dig the knife in a little deeper, this was followed not two minutes later by, "Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?"
"Sammy," Dean responded immediately. And not just because the rest of them already bit it. He spent 40 years in Hell for his pain-in-the-ass little brother—more time than he's spent topside. But the three days he lingered on after Sam got stabbed before making a deal had somehow gone on longer.
Cas was more thoughtful. "I regret the loss of every angel—especially since our limited numbers mean Heaven is always at risk of failing. However, I wouldn't feel any of their deaths the same way I would if something happened to you or Sam."
Dean internally winced, wondering if he should…? "I haven't been…you know, my best…when you've kicked the bucket either," he said, awkwardly.
"I'm…sorry?" Cas offered, clearly guessing at the correct response.
"I just don't want you to think…. Sam's always gonna be my #1, but that doesn't mean-"
"Oh," Cas murmured. "Dean, that's not—that's never been an issue for me. You wouldn't be you without how much you love Sam."
Dean could tell just from Cas's expression that he meant it—and if he didn't already know that Cas deserved to be on a Christmas tree more than any of those douchebags who called themselves angels, this would have pretty much sealed the deal.
Dean doesn't think about it much, but he knows it's not exactly a coincidence that his only kinda serious relationships have happened when Sam hasn't been around. There's an expectation there that the person you're dating is supposed to be the most important person in your life—or at least that, if things go well, they will someday be. But Dean isn't built like that; he wasn't raised like that—to be both brother and boyfriend, because when push comes to shove, he's always gonna choose the first one.
But Cas has never tried to take up room in Dean's life that belongs to Sam. If anything, he's built an extension for himself—or, more accurately, Dean built it for him and then packed Cas's bags and moved him in—all without ever realizing it was happening. To be honest, Cas has never tried to get him to change anything—even the fact that he eats with his mouth full.
And for some reason, that thought is what puts his big gay freak out to rest. At least for now. Cas really would let him go on just as he always has if that's what he decided to do. So, all this pressure he's been feeling? He's putting it on himself.
"Lose the coat, man. If you wanna," Dean tells Cas, gesturing with the hand he's got resting on the one leg he's got pulled up towards his chest. The other is laying out on the bed in front of him.
"I thought that wearing it was protecting you from inappropriate thoughts," Cas responds dryly. "Or was it that you thought it would stop me from doing something untoward?"
Dean ducks his head, "Yeah, well, as Sam would point out, half of what I think and about a third of what I say is inappropriate. I've never let it bother me before."
"You do have quite a tendency for insulting handicapped people in parking lots."
"That just means I'm not ableist or whatever. Someone gets too close to Baby—I don't care who you are—you're getting some cuss words and the finger."
Cas shakes his head, fondly—which is probably not what someone with the last name "of the Lord" should do given the conversation topic—but it inspires a sappy smile of Dean's own.
Using his arms to push off Dean's bed, Cas removes the trench, suit jacket, and loosens his tie slightly; Dean has a sudden desire to take it off and put it on backward—you know, just for old time's sake.
"What's next?" Cas asks once he's seated again, and even though the angel really shouldn't be able to feel any difference from being dressed down, Dean thinks his shoulders look more relaxed.
"Is there something that you've dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven't you done it?" Dean reads off the screen and then immediately shrugs. "Sure. I got lots of dreams. Getting to shoot a Gatling gun. Winning a Guinness World Record for eating the most pie. Chopping Sammy's hair off in his sleep." His breath rushes out on a sigh, "Sometimes I even think of retiring someday. Opening up a bar like The Roadhouse or fixing up cars like Dad used to.
"Now why don't I? Because one night Planet Earth got a little too tipsy and decided to get a 'Property of the Winchesters' tramp stamp, which makes everything that happens to it our responsibility."
"How about you?" Dean asks.
"Well, I did once propose getting a cat…." Cas mentions, voice tipping towards a question.
"Hell no," Dean shakes his head.
"Then, I suppose you're to blame for me not realizing my dreams," Cas says, spreading his hands, solemnly.
"If I asked for your help cutting Sam's hair, would you?" Dean demands with his eyebrow raised.
"No."
"Then you're getting in the way of my thing just as much as I'm getting in the way of yours."
The two of them get into a stare-off. But unlike their usual intense soul-gazing that always makes Dean feel like he's gone through a wormhole and come out on the other side after several hours or days or centuries have passed—this look only skims the surface, like sunlight reflecting off a lake. It is filled with amusement, almost like they are sharing a laugh though neither of them is making any noise. And Dean remembers something he tends to forget a lot—that it's easy to be with Cas when they don't make it so hard—when it's just them without having to worry about it being them against the world.
"You seem better," Cas observes, because of course, he noticed and, of course, he had to say it out loud. And yet, for the angel, it isn't just about stating the obvious when he points out the color of the sky or that someone made coffee—it's his way of expressing pleasure for the little things that most people scarcely notice.
"I feel…a little less like I'm going to be sick now, yeah."
Cas huffs, "I know I said I didn't care about word choice, but I might have to remind you of that particular sentence in the future." His voice isn't upset, though, meaning he's teasing. Cas is teasing.
"Eh, I'll make it up to you," Dean says, breaking eye contact, but smirking down at his phone all the same.
