Of course, Cas did have to go back to Heaven eventually to talk to a bunch of other angels about getting Lucifer a vasectomy. But, for once, Dean is kinda glad. He needs to sort himself out and it isn't always easy to think straight with the angel around.
Straight. Heh.
Well, at least he's joking about it now.
Sam probably thought they'd gotten in a fight before Cas left because Dean has been holing himself up in his room for almost a week now. But he doesn't want to talk this through with Sammy either.
Instead, he hauled the box of books out from under his bed, almost choking on a dust bunny in the process. If he then spent the next hour cleaning his already tidy room before actually cracking one open, no one had to know that but him.
It's weird reading what he thought back then. For example, his feelings for Lisa were both more and less than what he remembers them being. The book will describe her playing catcher for Ben while Dean tossed baseballs or stroking Dean's hair while they watched a movie together and he realizes he was damn lucky that someone like her gave him a chance at all—let alone a second and a third.
But he also sees that he held himself back a lot during that year—that after being emotionally wrung-out by the Apocalypse, he didn't have it in him to love her the way she deserved. As hard as leaving her and the apple pie life was, it still wasn't as hard as it should have been.
As the days pass, Dean flips back and forth between books, not caring much about chronology. When he gets sick of reading about the time that he thought Cas was dead during the stint with the Leviathans, he switches to one where Team Free Will was all together, working a case. Still, it's hard not to pick up on some…uncomfortable…patterns.
His book-self paid attention to what Cas looked like a lot. Which was stupid because he looks the same all the damn time. Also, there was no way that many people really insinuated they were a couple, right? Sure, Dean could remember Meg saying something or other—and Balthazar that one time—but Hester? Metatron? Crowley? Charlie? Rowena? He would've picked up on that.
What hits him the most is Sam, who had quietly Post-It noted passages like:
Dean was used to guilt being a physical presence in his life. But not like this—never like this. He saw Cas everywhere—walking lonely highways besides the Impala, staring at him through motel room windows—looking as he had in Purgatory.
He wondered if he was going crazy. After everything he'd been through, that would hardly be surprising, and he should probably tell Sam before it put them both in danger. But his mind instantly rebelled against that idea. Because then Sam would try to fix him—and a part of Dean didn't want that. Was fine with going batshit insane so long as he got to see Cas again….
In blue pen, Sam had scrawled, I get it. I used to see Jessica all the time, too.
Sam had also marked this gem:
Dean didn't even think the waitress was all that cute, but Sam had noticed he hadn't been going out lately and he had a reputation to protect.
His brother had just written, Seriously, Dean?
Admittedly, that hadn't been his finest hour.
Dean sighs; he's just about to pick up another book when he hears a shuffle over by his desk and he quickly gets to his feet.
Before Cas did his whole Beam Me Up, Scotty routine, they'd managed to find this Japanese rock garden in one of the storage rooms. Basically, it was a wooden box, lined with magic symbols, and filled with purple-colored sand. When Cas is up in Heaven, where his grace is strongest, he's able to manipulate the sand from a distance to spell out messages. In this case, it just says, Hello, Dean.
Heya, Cas, Dean prays back, not bothering to hide his smile since Cas can't see it anyway. To be honest, having proof that the angel isn't just gonna run off without a word anymore had really helped ease some of his worries about…everything. Got an ETA for when you'll be back home yet?
Likely tomorrow, the sand reads before getting wiped clean again. If that's acceptable to you.
How come you text like a 14 year old girl with every abbreviation and emoji under the sun, but when you're using magic to move sand, which has to be ten times harder, you sound like an 80-year old librarian? Dean demands. And yes, it's 'acceptable'.
The sand shakes itself. A message starts to form, then gets erased, until eventually, Dean is left with a crude picture of a cat. Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Cas draw anything before except for warding symbols (usually with his own blood). Without thinking, he gets his phone out and takes a picture of it.
Just in time, too. Cas wipes the image before writing, I must go. Some of my brothers wish to confer.
Give them the middle finger for me.
Feel free to pray it to them yourself.
And with that, Dean can almost feel Cas's presence leave his side.
So, tomorrow… he thinks, starting to pace the length of his room.
He wasn't lying when he said he'd be happy to see Cas—he's just terrified too.
/
When Cas said 'tomorrow', Dean didn't exactly expect to wake up with the angel perched on the chair next to his bed, looking at him across the darkness of the room. He startles a tiny bit at the sight, but then makes himself chill out. He'd told Cas he could watch over him, and it seems like such a human thing—for Cas to be impatient, maybe even a little anxious to find out what he has to say. So instead of going with any of the numerous one-liners that automatically spring to his head, he just croaks, "What time is it?"
"3:17," Cas admits, guiltily.
"And how long have you been there?"
"Since a little after 2."
"Did I say anything interesting in my sleep?"
Cas tugs on his tie and flashes a smile, "I believe 'giant ants' came up once or twice for some reason."
"They were trying to eat the giant pie."
"Ah."
And while a part of him thinks it's dangerous to have any sort of serious conversation when he's sleep-deprived, the floaty feeling in his head is kinda nice. Things don't seem as overwhelming at the moment.
"You know, Sam is always trying to teach me stuff. Useless crap that I don't really need taking up room in my brain," Dean yawns. "It's a wonder he hasn't made me fall asleep behind the wheel with how boring his lectures are….
"Some of it sticks though. Not by choice. It just…does. Like this time he was telling me about how infinity works in math."
Cas is clearly struggling to follow. Not the math part. He assumes the angel could out-Calculus his brother if there was ever any reason to. No, what he doesn't understand is where Dean's going with this. "I have a point, I promise," Dean murmurs, left side of his head still buried in his pillow. "Actually, could you come over here? Some of us don't have night vision."
Cas shuffles the chair closer, the sound of him moving abnormally loud in the silence, but at last, he's about two feet away from Dean, leaning forward with his hands between his knees.
He looks good, Dean allows himself to think. Tired, but good.
"Anyway," Dean clears his throat against his fist. "Since you've been gone, I read Chuck's book about—about me kicking you out of the bunker…" (Incidentally, the same book that covered Cas popping his cherry, but Dean had skipped past that part for all kinds of reasons). "And the way I saw things back then, it was about making a choice—between you or Sam. And I would do anything for my brother, so…that's why I did what I did.
"But…" Dean lets the quiet of the room soak into his voice. "I don't think I could make that choice again.
"I mean, I love my brother. Times infinity," Dean rushes to explain. "But you mean a lot to me too. Infinity minus one, maybe, compared to Sam. Only, the funny thing is, according to that math lesson he taught me all those years ago, infinity minus one is still just…infinity. I need both of you to be OK if I'm ever going to be…"
Dean's been watching Cas this whole time—the angel's body becoming more and more statue-like as he talked. Now, he's so rigid Dean is half-tempted to push him over to see if he'll break—that is if he's not already broken. Why on earth did he think spilling his guts like that was a good idea?
Panic sets into his blood, waking him up faster than five cups of coffee, and he's wondering how he can beat a retreat from his own frickin' room when—
A hand clasps his shoulder.
"Dean…Dean, if you can stop whatever dangerous train your thoughts are on right now, I would tell you that hearing you say all that…" Cas shakes his head, smiling shyly. "Makes me indescribably happy."
Dean checks Cas's eyes, which look suspiciously bright. "Yeah?" he double-checks.
"Yes," Cas says with conviction.
"OK, that's…good," Dean murmurs, the words slightly shaky as he exhales.
"I hope you know that I'd do anything for you, too," Cas promises next, his voice soothing the hunter a little further.
"I know," Dean whispers. "You have."
And with that, he finds just a little more bravery. Enough courage to roll onto his back, holding Cas's arm in place on his shoulder so that the angel is forced to get up out of his chair to follow his movement. Enough courage to look up at Cas—half-standing, half-crouching over his bed—and, when he is sure Cas won't move away, to lift the hand that had been trapping the angel and raise it to Cas's own shoulder, so that their positions mirror each other.
Cas holds his breath. And Dean finds enough courage in that to drag his fingers from Cas's shoulder—to brush where the angel's collarbone would be if there wasn't so much fabric in the way—before letting them twine in the hair at the base of Cas's neck. It's soft compared to the stubble Dean can feel against his wrist.
Damn. Dean's heart is beating so fast he can hear it. And as he presses Cas's head down towards his own, it only pumps faster—each beat bleeding into the next until he wonders, vaguely, if he's old enough to have a heart attack.
He'd been planning to take this as slow as the rest of it—to move them closer inch by inch, giving them both a chance to back out if necessary. But apparently, Cas didn't get the memo because a second later, warm lips crash against his, already nipping, prodding—and Dean must not have gotten enough air, because his head's already spinning.
With a gasp, Dean tries to pull back as a spark (of grace? Or just Cas?) jumps through him, but the angel just chases his mouth and Dean's pulled in without thinking. His fingers tug at Cas's hair, causing the angel to growl from deep in his throat. Now, Dean's turned on a lot of girls and they've made all sorts of delicious noises—but never have they sounded like the Impala revving, which is apparently a kink for him because now he's tilting Cas's head for a better angle, it's his tongue demanding entrance—and God, Cas smells like—Cas tastes like—Dean moans.
When he breaks away this time, he thinks that even Cas looks a little winded—and Dean can't help but feel proud. And turned on. And sorta embarrassed about both those things, but it's not like he could expect himself to change overnight.
"Let me guess…. You learned that from the pizza man?" he asks to break the tension.
Cas looks at him, his eyes dazed, and that helps the pride a little bit. "I'd be willing to accept a new teacher," the angel murmurs, before the haziness suddenly clears. "That is if you…um…Did you…?"
"Are you really planning on asking me if something's 'acceptable' again?" Dean rolls his eyes to make up for the blush he still hasn't managed to shake off.
"Yes…?"
Dean sighs, rolling over so that his back is to the angel, feeling Cas tense behind him. He scoots a few paces forward to make room. "Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to join me like a normal person?"
"You…want…me…?"
"No, I want the other person I was just making out with to crawl into my bed…. Just…get in here," he says, holding up the covers.
A few seconds later, he hears two thumps, which he assumes are Cas taking off his shoes. Then, the mattress dips—first near the middle, then along its whole length as Cas lays down. "I…don't know what we're doing," the angel admits, breathing the words into Dean's neck as he drops the blanket down again.
"Yes, well, me neither." After all, his experience doesn't mean all that much when it comes to man-shaped vessels. "But we'll figure it out later, OK?"
"Anything you want, Dean."
You. Dean confesses, but only to himself. Out loud, he says, "It was a good kiss, Cas." And, with that, the exhaustion of this morning pulls his eyelids down.
/
Sam comes into the kitchen the next morning, lifting his hands over his head in a yawn. He blinks when he sees his brother.
"Morning!" Dean greets him, deftly sliding pancakes onto a plate that already has half a dozen sausage links on it. "Your breakfast is over there," he says, pointing to a spinach omelet that he has made slightly less gross by completing covering it in cheese.
Sam walks over to the counter. "So, does this mean we're having breakfast together?" he asks, a tinge of reproach in his voice, and OK, Dean has some things to make up to his brother. But—
"Can't Sammy. Got plans for today," he says, picking up the plate, the syrup, and two forks.
Sam doesn't seem to notice the last part. "You know Netflix will still be there after breakfast," he says, arching his eyebrow, already picking at his own food.
"That's not all I do, Bitch," Dean insists, balancing everything against his chest as he starts making his way across the room.
"Yeah? And what else have you been up to lately?"
"Reading!" Dean yells back as he reaches the door. "Speaking of, I left something on the table for you." And with that, the door swings closed between them.
Sam sighs, wondering for the millionth time why he even bothers trying to talk to Dean when he catches sight of the book that his brother was talking about. It's one of Chuck's. One of the ones that Sam marked—and that sets off all kinds of alarm bells.
He reaches for it, cautiously, halfway wondering if Dean put a spell on it or something. Maybe, it's going to make all his hair fall off or make him speak backward for the rest of the week. But when he touches it, it still just seems like a book.
He opens it to the indicated page.
Sam was in middle school the first time he ever heard the term Schrodinger's cat. It was a way of describing a paradox in quantum physics through a metaphor—one that involved a cat being sealed inside a box that may or may not contain enough radiation to kill it. The idea was that, since you couldn't see what was happening to the cat, it was considered both alive and dead simultaneously. Kinda made Sam wonder if Schrodinger had any associations with the occult—because weirdly specific metaphor, right?
And yet, the times that someone—like Claire—had pulled him aside to ask, "What's up with Dean and Cas? Are they together or…?"—Schrodinger's cat (now nicknamed 'Destiel' by Sam) always came to his mind. Because the answer was somehow—impossibly—"yes" AND "no" AND "both" AND "neither."
And they'd been like that FOR YEARS. Sam tried a dozen times to get them to acknowledge it. But no matter how many hints he dropped or how many trips he arranged so that the two of them had to work in forced proximity, it seemed to make no difference to whatever they were. Or weren't.
Sam stares at the text. Stares at what his brother crossed out of the text. Stares at the door his brother just walked out of. And then back at the book again. Did this mean…? Were they really…?
"Finally!" he yells to the empty kitchen, the echo of that one word traveling all the way through the bunker.
/
"I think your brother is happy for us," Cas remarks with a tilt of his head, giving Dean the perfect opportunity to kiss his neck.