"So, what's next?" Dean asks once Cas no longer looks like he wants to smite him.
"You never answered the last question. You're supposed to-"
"Pick a personal problem, ask for your advice, yada, yada," Dean remembers.
Cas doesn't say anything, but the Well? is clearly implied just by the weight of his stare.
"I, uh…." His wracks his mind the same way he wracks his dresser drawer for his favorite pair of boxers but comes up empty. "Look, Man, I know my life is nothing but problems. We kill monsters, more come take their place. Even Lucifer is planning a frickin' baby shower. And Mom keeps leaving like she always threatened to when I wanted more time on the playground as a kid. Except this time, she's not trying to trick me into hurrying my ass up. She just doesn't want to be around.
"And all that sucks. But," he shrugs. "They feel like out there problems. Like Future Dean problems. Nothing's really pressing on me at the moment." In fact, right here, right now with Cas, knowing Sam's safe down the hall probably mooning over his not-girlfriend, he feels about as happy as he's ever been.
Unbidden, a picture comes to his mind of him and Cas versus Sam and Eileen playing Pictionary someday. He and Cas would lose because Cas "didn't understand that reference." Meanwhile, Sam would be trying to convince the room that kale chips were just as good as potato chips until Dean decided to throw one at his head and—
Woah, woah, woah.
He's Dean Winchester. And Dean Winchester does not think about this sort of crap.
God, it's like his brain got run through the blender and turned into something mushier than Sam's protein shakes.
"I accept your non-answer as an answer," Cas says, and Dean realizes that the angel has been studying him while he's been imagining his life as a '90s family sitcom. "Under the condition that you tell me if something of concern comes up."
"Scout's honor," Dean promises, barely stopping himself from doing the Vulcan salute because it reminds him of Charlie.
The angel looks at the phone again, "Complete this sentence: 'I wish I had someone with whom I could share…'"
Dean rolls his shoulders back. "I've already said it would be nice if some other hunters—ones I didn't know and don't really care about—wanted to share some of the responsibility for the next Apocalypse. But, other than that, I guess it seems like such a waste that Sam and I—and you—have this bunker and all this experience hunting monsters and no one to…pass it on to."
"You're talking about…wanting to be a parent?" Cas asks, curiously.
"What? No!" His voice should not be capable of getting that high. "Calm yourself down there, OK, Buddy?"
"I am calm," Cas says, confused. "I was just asking how to interpret your statement."
"I think that ship has sailed for me. Cool Uncle potential only. I just meant that Jody and the girls should come over here more often to hit this place up for some lore. I guess, other hunters could stop by too. You know, as long as they're trustworthy and won't drink all the beer."
"I'm sure some of Bobby's old network would appreciate an invitation."
"Have to run it by Sam first," Dean points out.
"Anyway, what about you?" he asks the air when Cas doesn't volunteer a follow-up. Surprisingly, he's only met with a longer moment of quiet as Cas frowns in the direction of his Vonnegut books. "Didn't think of anything?"
"No, I did," Cas admits.
"And…?"
"I wish I had someone I could complain about you to," the angel lets out in one determined breath.
Dean puts on a forced cocky smile. "That's how you're going to use your genie in the bottle? Really?"
"Please don't take it in a bad way-"
"Now why would I do that?"
"It's just that—I don't have people in my life who aren't connected to you. The few angels I called friends once upon a time are either passed or—"
"—are douchebags."
"They have a very low opinion of humans and think that you and Sam are…an obsessive pet project of mine. But that means when you're so angry you won't talk to me or I find myself…confused by a potential sign of interest on your part, I don't have anyone to turn to who will understand my feelings without diminishing them. I have to sort the intricacies of our relationship out myself which is, admittedly, not my strong suit."
Dean almost starts to say something dismissive—but then he remembers what it was like after Sam left for Stanford—when Dad was pretty much all he had at times.
And talking to John Winchester about anything besides how much whiskey was left and whether or not all the guns were clean was pretty much like swinging a punching bag and then letting it swing back and hit you in the face. Even he found it a little hard in those two years not to have someone around who he could have an (involuntary) heart-to-heart with.
Kinda desperately, he racks his brain for some sort of fix-it for this, his mind flashing through increasingly unlikely images of Cas talking to that Nora chick he used to work for, or going to confession, or joining a book club, Dean grimacing more with each mental picture.
Suddenly, he feels a light touch on his arm and startles slightly.
Cas just looks at him, waiting for him to relax, which he does after a second. After all, these moments aren't all that uncommon between them. If anything, Dean usually initiates them more—squeezing Cas's shoulder in passing, helping him tighten his tie even though the angel has surely figured it out by now...
"I appreciate your obvious concern—but I don't think you can solve my lack of mutual friends any more easily than I could find other hunters to take up our roles saving the world. It's just how it is—whether we like it or not.
"And perhaps when…if…you ever feel comfortable with me telling Sam about this morning, that might help. He's your brother, but he's more neutral than some of our other acquaintances and can usually give me the best insight into your point of view."
Dean goes still almost immediately.
He can't help it. It's like what he said earlier—the moment they are in is nice. Safe. Detached from everything going on in the world and what anybody else might think. But that doesn't mean he's forgotten that dicks and their prejudices exist.
Even the idea of telling Sam about him potentially…dating (except it wouldn't just be 'dating' with Cas, would it?)…a man (man-shaped vessel) is…
"Sam wouldn't be weird about…this, right?" Dean asks, almost desperate, thinking with irony that this probably counts as a personal problem. "I mean, when Dad was ranting about him going off to school, he managed to throw in a few insults about how liberal Stanford was, so it's not like Sam would…?" Besides, he tells himself, he hasn't even admitted to liking anything yet…. It's all been Cas.
The angel must see the direction of Dean's rapidly spiraling thoughts because he moves to lift his hand off him, but Dean uses one of his own to keep it where it is just above his own wrist.
Because, OK, yeah, he's having a tiny panic attack, but he also remembers Cas standing in his doorway a few hours ago saying, "I'm not expecting you to reciprocate, Dean…. I just realized how tired I was of pretending," and he's not gonna be that jerk who tells Cas to lock it all up again when the angel just admitted he needed someone to talk to.
"Just…give me some time," he whispers to the angel. "Not…not a lot of it. Enough to get my head on straight. And then I'll tell Sam, I promise."
"Dean," Cas's eyes are soft, understanding. "I know that's a lot to ask of you…"
"And I've asked you for a lot more in the past. I want to do this for you…probably a bit for me too, if I'm being honest. But not right now."
He squeezes Cas's hand when the angel nods.
"If it makes you feel better, I don't think Sam would have any problem with…. I'm pretty sure he's suspected my feelings for a while. And should you…" Cas trails off in a blush and Dean squeezes his fingers tighter.
"Let's just go on to the next question. OK?"
"Of course." Cas picks his phone up from where it has been abandoned on the bed, maneuvering it with his left hand since his right is still occupied.
"It's actually the last question," the angel says, sounding a little sad.
"If you were to die this evening, with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you regret not having told someone? Why haven't you told them yet?"
The two of them look at each other.
"Nothing," they both say, simultaneously, Dean's hand moving up Cas's arm, unconsciously.
"I think you already know anything I haven't said yet. And you'll tell me when you're ready to hear it," Cas explains, leaning slightly into his touch.
"And I'm not gonna tell you something I'm not sure I mean just because the clock running out. You deserve better than that," Dean offers in turn.
And despite the many times they've misunderstood each other in the past, right now, they're perfectly in-sync, the way they get in the middle of a fight against a whole nest of vampires or when they're having a silent conversation behind Sammy's back.
Cas smiles half a smile and Dean smiles the other half. And maybe, someday, he'll be brave enough to try and fit those smiles together. But this moment already feels big and important just as it is.
"What now?" Dean asks, surprised by how dry his voice is, like he just woke up.
"Well, according to the directions on the website, we're supposed to look into each other's eyes for four minutes." Cas's lips quirk. "But we just did that for seven minutes and twenty-three seconds."
"Seriously?" Dean blinks, but it's Cas, so, of course, he is. When another minute passes, he realizes they're halfway to another staring contest.
"You can still hang out though, right?" Dean asks, hopefully, trying to rack his mind for whatever movie will annoy Cas with inaccuracies the most.
"As long as you want me to, Dean."