Castiel Novak had always been partial to animals. It didn't really matter which animals - cats, dogs, horses, cows, bearded dragons, sloths, capybaras - because he loved them all. That was all Gabriel's fault, from the very beginning - Cas had been but a toddler when his brother saved a fish flopping on the beach from Cas almost stepping on it - all the way through to the very end (and no, nobody was to speak of the platypus incident. That was also all Gabriel's fault.)

Dean's appreciation for animals - at least as far as Cas knew - was very limited; in short, it was constrained to the Impala he drove everywhere and his moose of a brother. They were family, though, it couldn't be denied. Cas hadn't known the Winchesters without it being those three: Dean, Sam, and Baby, the family unit. (John was there too... sometimes. It wasn't often, though, and Cas sometimes kinda... forgot he existed. He didn't like animals, after all.) Dean didn't dislike real animals - though he did have a bit of a love-hate relationship with dogs, since Cas would swear that he flinched lightly every time he saw a Yorkie - but saving the occasional worm wasn't the same as the near-devotion he extended to his car.

Which was why, as Cas sat in the car with Sam in the driver's seat, everything felt so wrong.

He'd almost never seen the younger Winchester drive her, for one thing. It was an unspoken Winchester family rule; Dean drove and Sam took shotgun. The one and only time Sam had driven was when Dean had come down with appendicitis and had to - despite his very best efforts - go to the hospital. (Even then, Dean had insisted on driving to the hospital, even through gritted teeth and white-clenched knuckles; he'd only given up the wheel when they forced him - literally - to take his post-op medication, resulting in him being under the influence enough that he'd run the risk of crashing if he drove. They'd paid the price for that one, though; he'd been insufferable as all get out as he recuperated and was back out driving again before he really should have been.)

Even more wrong, though, was the actual condition of the car. It wasn't obvious - not unless he looked really closely - but the details were there. The dust lying in a thin layer across the dashboard, undisturbed in a way Cas had never seen it to be. The tapes in the foot room of the passenger seat, no longer tidily packed into their usual shoebox and, instead, scattered across the floor. Dean's bag for school, unzipped and spilling papers and pens out across the back seats. A hair, trapped in the well of the driver's side window and so similar to Samantha's that it hurt. That damn pink nail polish, the bottle rolling gently against the side of a door pocket with each bump of the road (an equally painful reminder).

Admittedly, getting to wherever they were going - much as it took too long - was way too short a journey for Cas' taste. It wasn't long before they were pulling up to somewhere (it might as well have been the middle of nowhere with how little Cas knew of where they were) and parking, the familiar purr of the Impala dying with a flick of Sam's wrist. "We're here."

Only then did the sign - Singer Auto Salvage - have the decency to make itself visible. (Okay, yes, maybe it had been standing there quite visibly for a good long while… and yes, maybe it was bright red and very, very obvious… but it was the sign's fault anyway.)

Once the (stupid, rude, unfriendly) sign finally made itself known, he actually took a closer look around the place. It was nice enough - plenty of green grass, blue skies, and the occasional dandelion - even if the more natural aspects of the place were buried beneath car corpses and the unfortunate fact that it was a little too much like the kind of place Cas would have wanted for Samantha.

Moving on.

Unfortunately, it was at that precise moment that they actually did move on, strolling forward enough to be a reminder of why, exactly, they were visiting Bobby's farm in the first place. Cas was so far past looking forward to it and a little far into the dreading-it-to-an-unreasonable-amount-until-it-made-him-nauseous territory, but he'd promised so he might as well oblige. (Maybe the universe would be kind enough to resolve things for him. Maybe Dean wouldn't be there. Maybe Cas could suddenly develop teleportation and beam himself elsewhere. Maybe.)

Apparently, the universe hated him.

Dean did not suddenly disappear off the farm. Cas did not suddenly develop celestial powers. (All in all, the universe was basically useless and should just stop.)

Indeed, exactly the opposite happened. Not only was that the precise moment that Dean appeared in front of them - standing rather precariously on the top rung of a ladder that barely reached to the light fixture he was working on - but Cas also developed the exact opposite of celestial powers and found himself tripping over his own feet. (No, those two facts were not connected. At all. Obviously.)

Of course, he found himself once again possessed by the desire to leave, too - since the universe had chosen the precise balance of being difficult that neither let him get in and get out without any difficulty, nor let him be suddenly affected by a rare health condition, nor even let him be smited by God before the opportunity arose - but he kept walking anyway. (He definitely didn't trip again on the way over; he was obviously the picture of grace.) Maybe (maybe) Dean just… wouldn't notice them.

That was ruined too, but at least it wasn't the fault of the universe that time. Instead, it was the fact that Sam - freaking Sam, the annoying, interrupting moose whose very existence could be summed up by "insert moose sounds here" and freakishly sized shoes - decided to whistle loudly and shout, "Hey, Dean! Look who I found!"

Cas' annoyance at Sam's comment faded under a suddenly-mounting level of concern as Dean neither responded nor actually seemed to react. Or hear it. (Not that Cas was actually worried, of course. That would make no sense. He was just… astonished, since half of the planet had heard Sam's latest set of moose-ish intervention. That's it. No concern. Whatsoever.)

That concern - which, of course, didn't exist - absolutely didn't increase when it took until they were a few feet away for Dean to even register their approach. It definitely didn't continue increasing when he didn't look around, simply kept working with a muttered, "Yeah?"

Cas might have spoken, if he felt like it, but he didn't - there was no connection between his silence and not having words to say, obviously - so he let Sam handle it. "Hey, jerk. Bobby got you fixing the lights now?"

He still didn't look down, hands still tangled in a clump of wires. "What do you want, Sam?"

Cas wasn't worried. (That would be ridiculous. And foolish.) But it also didn't escape his notice that something was very much wrong with Dean.

Whether he liked it or not - he obviously didn't, because why would he? - Cas knew Dean. It was just natural, after all, since they'd been roommates for… well. A long time. Years, at least. Which was why he knew to be worried - er, not worried. Never worried. But… concerned - about Dean's relative lack of alertness (any normal Dean Winchester would have jumped the second they took a step a good twenty feet away, much less three). Or the way he didn't respond to the brotherly-teasing, call-and-response refrain of bitch-jerk. Or the way he just sounded tired, like even those five or six words were too much to bear. Or the way his hair was actually flat (as opposed to his usual spiky, wouldn't-move-if-you-threw-a-brick-at-it, hedgehog hair… that Cas had obviously not spent any time observing, of course).

Moving on.

Sam frowned, forehead dissolving into the familiarly moose-like worry lines as he shot a Look at Cas. "We've got a visitor."

Dean nodded, though it was only visible through the bob of the back of his head. "Then go talk to 'em. I'm busy." It was a familiar tone, the one he used when he was avoiding something he probably should face.

Sam blinked. "Guess I should've said you've got a visitor. And I think you had a question to ask him, too." A moment's pause, followed by the snick of Dean's pocket knife stripping off rubber casing. "C'mon, Dean, you've gotta take a break sometime."

"I'll be in when I'm done, Sam. Can't it wait?"

Sam's frown shifted, and Cas finally figured out what Dean meant when he said that Sam gave a helluva bitchface. "No, Dean. And don't think I don't already know that you spent the last hour working on it, too."

"Yeah, Sam, an hour, so it's almost done." The pocket knife flashed again, harsher this time, snapping the wire along with the casing. Dean swore under his breath, then shifted a centimeter down and started again. Eventually, he let out a sigh, stopping work and resting his head against the side of the building in vaguely-frustrated defeat. "Why the hell is this so important, Sam? Who is it?"

Sam looked over at Cas for a second, then glanced away again. "Someone you're gonna want to talk to."

The next few movements were heavy, less climbing down the ladder than frustration-filled-stumbling down. "Damn it, Sam, just freaking tell-" He broke off at precisely the same moment he turned, finally noticing that it hadn't just been Sam standing there. "Cas." It was more breathed out than it was spoken, the word constrained in a sigh more than anything.

Cas stepped forward once, despite every instinct telling him not to. "Hello, Dean."

If the car ride over hadn't been bad enough, the awkward staring match - an odd distortion of their usual extended eye contact - felt even worse. Part of it was the distance between them, both in terms of physical space (though them standing three or more feet apart wasn't that rare or anything) and in terms of emotion (the fact that it felt like Samantha were hovering between them, a reproach and a reminder all in one).

And then there was the fact that… well. He looked terrible. (It was true, even if he could hear Dean complaining that it wouldn't kill you to lie every now and again.) Even leaving aside his out-of-character hair (not just flat, but also dirty and, if Cas was seeing it right, paint-speckled), there were outright bags under his eyes and something caked on his skin and clothes. (Cas couldn't quite tell if it was paint or oil… and then he promptly realized that it was paint and oil with a touch of sawdust mixed in for good measure, all scattered speckles and smears.)

When he stepped forward - the same reluctant shuffle as Cas had done a few moments before - it was obvious that he was limping, a roughly-applied ankle bandage just visible beneath the cuffs of his jeans. (Cas didn't get at all worried that said injury was obvious, even though Dean usually hid that kinda thing as deep as he could get it. Not at all.) It was a gateway observation, though, and (not that Cas was concerned whatsoever) he couldn't help starting a full catalogue. There was his left thumb, the nail bed bruised a deep, angry purple. The blister, perched between left thumb and index finger, matching perfectly the blood blister on the other hand. The… well, the something trapped beneath a dirty (and alarmingly bloody) rag wrapped around his right palm. (Cas wasn't at all worried.)

The ghost of Samantha still seemed to lurk between them, neither speaking. (Hell, Dean wouldn't even meet Cas' eyes, and that had no right to make him feel as bad as it did, which he pointedly didn't let himself address.) Cas could almost see her bend down and chew on a piece of grass, and the motion is enough to almost (only almost, of course, it definitely didn't happen) bring tears to his eyes.

In the end, it was Dean who broke the silence, even if Cas could barely hear it. "So."

Cas nodded. "So."

"So." He blinked, the motion a touch too slow. "Sorry for…" He gestured, waving vaguely towards Sam's retreating back. "Y'know. He really shoulda just left you alone." (Cas pretended not to notice that his hand was shaking.)

"It's fine." Yes, Cas would much rather be back home, his nature documentaries on the television (totally not a way of avoiding the fact that Samantha is gone or anything; they were just… interesting), a cup of hot cocoa in front of him, and a complete absence (or so he could tell himself) of Samantha-ghost-hallucinations lingering in front of him… but he'd made the decision to come, so he couldn't exactly blame Sam. (At least, not completely.)

The moment drew out in silence, neither talking and, for the most part, neither moving. (Cas spent most of his time indulging in the memory of Samantha, still munching on grass with the occasional quiet moo. She - well, it, since it was obviously a hallucination - was so lifelike that it left Cas half-wondering whether it actually, inconceivably were Samantha… but Dean didn't seem to notice her, so it must have just been a cruel trick of the brain.)

"So." Dean rocked back on his heels for a second. (Cas couldn't tell if it were intentional or if he were about to fall backwards and only just managed to catch himself.) "What are you... doing here?"

"Sam. He asked me to visit. Said we should talk." (It was the easiest thing in the world to keep his voice level, calm, and cold, of course, because Cas was not at all worried.)

Dean blinked. "I'll be kicking his ass for that later." Another moment's pause passed, and then he added a vaguely bemused, "But... that was enough for you to come all the way out here? Here?"

Cas shrugged. (It wasn't because he was worried. That wouldn't make any sense.) "It seemed advisable."

The next few minutes passed in equally-tense, equally unbroken silence.

When it was broken, it was Cas who broke it. "Why?"

"W-what do you mean? Why what?"

Cas had to fight to keep from indicating his own mental hallucination. (Was she wearing a tool belt? Damn, but Cas' imagination was getting... imaginative.) "All of it. Samantha. Your father. All of it. Why?"

"I don't- Cas, no, I didn't- C'mon, buddy, you've gotta listen, seriously, I didn't mean for anything to hap-"

"I am not an idiot, Dean. Your father told me what happened."

Dean looked like he was a few seconds and a modicum of restraint away from actually bolting forward, even as he shook his head with enough vigor to actually give his hair a bit of its normal lift. "No, you don't kno- He didn't say everything. And he changed shit. Seriously, Cas, just list-"

"Oh, come on, Dean. She was sent back to the farm. Everyone knows what that means." Which is precisely why it was impossible for Samantha to be standing in front of him biting at a hammer from a nonexistent tool belt. Cas wasn't crazy; he could tell reality from fiction.

"She wasn't."

It was quiet, little more than a mumbled, inaudible murmur. (Cas didn't feel at all bad for the barely-disguised, desperation-edged defeat hidden there.) "What?"

At least that actually got Dean to look up. (Cas obviously didn't immediately notice that the familiar green was a little too faded, a little too tempered by shadow. He also wasn't fixated on the slight - emphasis on slight - flash of something almost like hope visible there.) "Sent back to the farm. She wasn't."

"Of course she was, Dean. Don't be foolish." Did he really think Cas so idiotic? So gullible? Again: he knew reality from fiction. Fiction: Samantha was flopped in the middle of the grass between them, tail waving lazily. Reality: She was long gone.

"No, seriously, Cas, just freaking listen, alright?"

And... Maybe Cas was soft or stupid or gullible, but he didn't have the energy to keep fighting back. "Alright, Dean." It was more of a sigh than anything, but it was all he had the will to give. "Go on."

Dean blinked. "Uh." (Cas pretended not to notice the rather out-of-character filler word.) "Why?"

Cas blinked back. "You asked?"

"Yeah, but..." Dean looked down for a second, then gave a probably-refocusing shake of the head. "Okay. Uh, anyway... She's not at the farm."

"So you've said. What's your point?"

"Yeah, I- I know, just, gimme a second, okay?" Dean waited a second, expression oddly intense as he waited for Cas' expression… and, subsequently, his nod. "I didn't tell my dad about the cow."

"Then wh-" Cas cut himself off, hands lifted from his sides. "My apologies."

Dean shrugged, a quiet, "It's only fair," followed by a short period of readjustment as he regained whatever train of thought had been derailed. "So. Basically." A pause, a chuckle. (There was an edge of bitterness to it that Cas pretended he didn't notice.) "Basically I suck with words. Fun fact." He shifted, hand flexing around the rag wrapped across it. "I didn't tell John anything. A-and no one told him about her on purpose, alright? It was just a damn accident."

"How does someone find out about a secret cow by accident, Dean?" It was a question, technically, even if the end trailed a little more towards the flat-and-monotone side of things. "It's not something he would just notice. We took precautions."

"Yeah, uh… Someone screwed up." Another chuckle, with the same degree of acerbity. "Not me, for once."

"Then who?"

"Do I really have t-"

"Who, Dean?"

Dean let his head fall back. (Cas wasn't sure if it was "let" so much as "dropped by default because of a lack of energy," but it came to the same point.) "Alright, fine, it, uh… It was Sam."

Cas couldn't help frowning. "Sam?"

As with all things involving the younger Winchester, Dean swiftly jumped into justification. "Yeah, but it was a miscommunication, you know? He didn't get she was a secret, got pissed at Dad. I mean, I know, when isn't he pissed at Dad, but more so than usual. It was just a slip-up."

"Sam told him."

Dean shrugged, nodded. "Yeah."

Cas tilted his head, watching as Dean tracked the gesture with a flick of his eyes. "Continue."

"Oh. Right, yeah… Uh…" Dean paused, rubbing one hand over his face, his left eye. "So, anyway, I get home and he's freaking out, practically tearin' his hair out over a damn mistake. You were out doing…" He shrugged, the motion too tight, too stiff. "-I dunno, something with Charlie, and we didn't have time, so-"

"So you sent her to the farm, I know-"

"No, we didn't."

"Your father-"

"We lied, okay?"

Cas blinked. Dean Winchester, lying to his father of his own accord. (Yeah, it had technically happened with Samantha in the first place… but that had principally been because of Cas' metaphorical - and very subtle, obviously - begging and pleading, not because Dean wanted to.) "You what?" It wasn't as much of a question as it sounded like it should be.

"We lied. We got her out of the house and cleaned up the room… mostly." He paused, looking over at Cas. "You find the painting?'

He nodded. "Yeah." (He didn't mention the thoughts that had gone through his head upon finding it, not yet. That'd come up later, if it had to.)

"Good." Dean's smile was, at least, a little more genuine that time, small though it was. "Anyway… Sam and I called the owner, worked a little magic-"

Cas frowned. "There's no such thing as magic, Dean."

"No, yeah, but…" Dean rolled his eyes, a little more levity in the motion than there had been for the past… Well. Who knew how long? (Cas hadn't been there to see… which wasn't making him feel guilty. Of course not.) "We settled things. Farmer Brown told Dad that Samantha was back, we kept things quiet."

"Kept things… quiet…" Cas blinked. Frowned. Took a minor step forward. (Didn't feel at all guilty when Dean took a stumbling step back in response.) "Am I misunderstanding that you kept silent about someone breaking the law where animals were concerned?"

"I mean, no, but-"

Another step, though Dean mostly stayed still that time. "You and Sam left the animals in danger?"

"N-no, I checked." Cas must not have looked convinced enough, because Dean then reclaimed that step and took another. "Seriously, I asked Sam; it's just some… I dunno, some ordinance thing. The animals are fine, I promise."

Cas nodded. 'Okay." The silence stretched on for a moment, then: "Where's Samantha?"

Dean blinked, the expression slow and oddly bleary, like he didn't want to open them again. "Um." And then he actually looked around, staring at the grass like it held the answers to all the mysteries of the world. "She was just here, I swe-" A pause, staring at something. "Um. Cas?"

"Yes, Dean?" It was odd, saying his name again, like the days had made those particular muscles rusty.

"She's… You know she's sitting right in front of you, right?"

A pause, and Cas found his eyes drawn to the hallucination (or… maybe… not a hallucination?) sitting on the grass in front of him. "Oh."

Dean actually had the gall to look worried about Cas, eyebrows drawn together as he took another step. He stopped then, though, outstretched hand dropping like he wasn't sure he should have had it out in the first place. "You okay?"

"Yes, Dean, of course."

"I mean, Sam's been looking at me like I'm crazy, but…" He shrugged, eyes still concerned, still locked on Cas' face. "She's two steps in front of you, man. Tell me you can see her?"

Cas nodded. "I can."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Another nod. "Yes, Dean. It just seemed… impossible." A pause. "If she's real-"

This time, it was Dean's turn to bob his head. " She is."

"Then why is she wearing a tool belt?"

"Oh. Right. That." Dean laughed, the sound almost light in a way that was still too-unusual. "I was headin' out here and needed some tools, but… I dunno, Sammy musta shown her where the belt was or something, 'cause she took it and wouldn't give it back. Wouldn't let me out the door unless she had it, neither."

Cas grinned, crouching down. The grass bent beneath his foot, shoes shining amongst the strands as he passed his hand through fur he still hadn't quite accepted was real. "Hello, Samantha, dear. Have you been giving your cow father trouble, then?"

Dean snorted. "Has she ever."

For a moment, Cas simply sat there, reveling in the sensation of her oddly-long, light brown fur tangling and untangling round his fingers. When he stood, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

Dean laughed, short, sharp, and bitter. "When?"

"What?"

"Seriously, Cas, I'm not being sarcastic. I'm asking you, man, when? What could I have done to fix this?" A moment's pause, charged with something that made Cas nervous even though he couldn't identify what it was. Dean's eyes were desperate in a way Cas had never wanted to see, never thought he would see, wide and genuine and oddly open. (Cas wondered if Dean knew how open they were, and promptly decided not to ask.) "I tried, man, but, I mean… Dad was there and you wouldn't take my calls and… I just…" He broke off, shrugging. "I dunno."

Cas blinked, looking down. (Maybe, just maybe, he felt a little guilty. But not a lot, of course. Why would he? That would make no sense. At all. It was just a misunderstanding. On both sides. Of course.) "Fair. My apologies."

"It's fine, Cas."

"No, Dean, it isn't. I should have listened." Dean went to look away again, but Cas didn't let him, still staring at him. "My apologies, Dean."

He shrugged. "Just a mistake." When he shifted, it was awkward, stiff, unsure.

Cas obliged the implied request for a conversation shift. Nothing too drastic - there was still stuff he needed to know, after all - but at least it was something. "So. This is Bobby's place?"

Dean nodded. "Yup. And it's farm enough that… I dunno, Samantha seems happy."

"It is lovely."

"Yeah, not too shabby."

Cas knew the answer to his next question - Sam had told him as much - but he had to ask it anyway. "Where have you been staying, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, tone filled with joviality, but not the genuine kind. "Oh, you know…" He trailed off, obviously not planning on actually divulging what Cas allegedly knew. Whatever the look on Cas' face, it was at least enough to keep him talking. "I'm fine, Cas."

"Dean."

"Cas, I told you, I'm good, alright?"

"Dean."

As Cas knew (hoped) would happen, Dean caved. "Bobby's got a couch."

"How long?"

"Huh?"

Cas glared, hoping it conveyed nothing more than affectionate insistence. "How long, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "I mean, just since I left our place. Er, your place. Not long."

"Dean."

"Dude, it's alright, alright? Surprisingly comfortable, actually." Dean was, at least, still looking at Cas, but any benefits of that were wiped out by his still-open expression conveying just how little sleep he'd been getting. (Jury was still out on whether or not that was because of the couch or just because of how little he'd been letting himself sleep.)

Cas blinked. "Surely you had another option, Dean."

"What?"

"Somewhere else to sleep, Dean. A motel, perhaps?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but at least he was still looking at Cas. "Yes, because a motel is the place to keep a cow."

"Someone else you know would be happy to lend their lodgings, I'm sure. Cassie, perhaps." He pretended the name didn't sting. (Why would it?)

"We broke up a long time ago, Cas." The eye contact dropped, replaced by still more staring at the grass. "I certainly wasn't going to go beg at her door for lodging for me. And my- er, a cow."

"Lisa?" It wasn't that Cas wanted to encourage Dean to go after his ex-girlfriend (they'd already drifted apart on their own, after all. Not that it mattered to Cas. Why would it?) but it had to be better than sleeping on Bobby's couch.

Dean shook his head, still not looking up. "No, Cas, it's not like that."

"You liked her, though." (There was no sting of bitterness there. Of course not. That wouldn't be practical. Or make sense."

"C'mon, Cas, this doesn't matter. Can we move on?" Still no eye contact. Still nothing but tension as he stood there, knuckles white around the closed pocket knife he'd been using for the light.

Cas blinked, didn't let up. "It has to be better, Dean, than sleeping on a couch."

"It's fine, Cas. Seriously, buddy, let it go."

"She cared about you." (Cas wasn't quite sure where he was going with that, why that line of conversation was so important.)

"She's dating a doctor, Cas, now let it go."

"Dean. Why did you do… all of this?" He gestured - at the farm, at Samantha, at (he hoped) the couch - and prayed that the meaning would carry over. Self-preservation meant not dwelling on the emotion fluttering vaguely in his stomach. (It wasn't anything like hope because that would be nonsense.)

"C'mon, Cas, just…" Dean shrugged, chuckled, turned back to the light and climbed back up the unfortunately unsteady ladder. "Let it go, man. I wasn't gonna let her go back to the farm; that's it, capische?"

"Dean."

He let his head fall forward, resting it against the unpainted wood near the socket. "What, Cas?"

"Why?"

"I told you."

Cas shook his head. "No, you didn't." A pause, in which Dean stubbornly didn't answer. "Why pick an uncomfortable - no, don't deny it, Sam said so - couch and little to no hours of sleep a night over any number of alternatives? Don't say they weren't possible; we both know you could've made anything work."

"Because."

"What does that mean?"

"Because it was a good place for Samantha."

Cas frowned. "Perhaps. But she lived in a single room of a small house for long enough that you could've arranged something and we both know it."

"Maybe. At best." He still wasn't looking at Cas, hands back to the wiring.

"Why?"

"Because."

"You said that."

"I know. It's true."

"Because…?"

"Because… because." There was that cocky grin, more of a smirk than anything else, real and yet fake in an oddly enigmatic mixture.

"Come on, Dean, just tell me. There's been enough miscommunication here recently for both of us to be sure that vaguaries are… inadvisable."

"I'm not being vague, Cas!" It would've almost been believable if it weren't for how surprisingly high-pitched his voice went. And the fact that he still wouldn't meet Cas' eyes. And the fact that… Well, the fact that it was just patently false.

"No, you're just not telling the whole truth."

"Oh, c'mon, Cas, it's not like that. Just, look… she needed somewhere to stay that wasn't a motel or a tiny-ass backyard behind someone's house."

"She lived in a room, Dean. One room. No grass, no sun. One. Room."

"Yeah, but we both know that you'd have wanted her here instead of… there." He paused, frowned, tilted his head, and overwhelmingly seemed to regret what he just said. "Er, somewhere else. You get the point."

"You're not wrong."

Dean grinned, that smirk back again, slightly less false though still hiding something. "I know. Never am. Should know that by now."

Cas couldn't help raising an eyebrow at that. "I will remind you of your fluff marshmallow macaroni and cheese, which was an absolutely atrocious idea on your part."

The gasp that followed, for all the faux-offense it contained, was enough to make Cas smile. (For real.) "You wound me, Cas. I'll have you know that Sammy absolutely loved that shit when he was a kid."

"You still think he's a kid."

"Besides the point. It was a brilliant idea, and I will not be taking criticism." He paused, shrugged. "On that, at least."

"Why did you leave the painting?"

"She wanted me to."

"What?"

Dean laughed again, progressively more genuine. "Yeah, I tried to leave with it and… I think she was snarling?"

Cas blinked. "She's a cow."

Dean nodded. "You're not wrong. There's a reason I listened; some things are not meant to defy nature." He shrugged, the gesture vaguely floppy. "She wanted you to have it."

"She did, huh?" Cas wasn't sure if it came out as genuine or sarcastic; he couldn't say that either would be wrong.

Dean hummed. "Yup."

"Makes you wonder what else she's been doing."

"Mostly throwing water bottles at me." A scoff, which didn't come across as scornful as Cas would wager it was intended to be. "Food, occasionally. I think a screwdriver once, but that was an acciden- Don't ask."

The screwdriver thing was worrying, but Cas was a little more concerned by the throwing-water-bottles part. "And why was she attacking you with water?"

Dean swallowed, and Cas would almost call his expression sheepish if that weren't racist. "Uh. I was busy."

"Busy?"

"It wasn't that hot outside, alright? And there was shade. I was fine."

"Busy?"

"I- Dude, c'mon, it was fine."

"Dean."

"Okay, so I've been working a lot. But it's not that big a deal."

Cas raised an eyebrow. "Your cow daughter was throwing water at you. I think it was a pretty big deal."

"It wasn't?"

It was Cas' turn to sigh, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "And what, precisely, did this obsessive working gain you?"

"Uh. I was helping Bobby."

"Yes, but helping Bobby is not mutually exclusive with eating. Or sleeping. Or drinking."

"I was drinking!"

The combination of the indignation in Dean's tone and the look on his face made it pretty clear that Cas didn't want to know the number of alcohol bottles that had met a grisly end recently. "Drinking water, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "I mean, I needed to sleep sometime."

"And why weren't you sleeping?"

He blinked. Shrugged again. Definitely didn't maintain eye contact. "Uh. Well, you see… Reasons."

"Reasons?"

"Reasons." The grin was back to being false again, complete with an edge of… was that anxiety?

Cas couldn't help the brief flare of anger that returned at that, the frustration of running around and around in nonsensical circles that never had an exit. "What, is it that hard to be honest?"

"No, but-"

"Seriously?"

"C'mon, Cas, it's not- Work is easy, that's all. It was a break and I didn't have anything else to do. That's it. Period."

"I'm not an idiot, Dean. I know there's something more you're not telling me."

If there was one good thing to say about the return of unpleasantness, it was that Dean had finally descended from his rickety ladder to look at Cas again. Of course, that was paired with the unpleasant expression on his face, somewhere between desperation and resignation. "It's- I'm really not. I needed work; Bobby had work."

"Are you staying here, then? Once all this works out? It's not like he's going to stop having work." (Cas ignored the part of him that couldn't help desperately praying it wouldn't shake out that way, draping it in the all-too familiar flag of self-preservation before burying it six feet under.)

"I-" A pause, green eyes scanning his. "If you want."

"And if I don't?"

The entire conversation seemed to be a study in contradictions, in pluses and minuses that both failed to balance out to zero and yet never really made clear which way the scale was leaning. On the plus side, Dean's bitter laughs were gone; on the other, they'd been replaced with enough self-deprecation that Cas was promptly wincing. "Dunno why that'd be the case, but… Then, nah. I stayed here 'cause it was best, 'cause I had to. Everything changes if that's… not the case." A pause, then a cautious, "Is it? The case?"

"Depends. Are you going to tell me the truth?"

Dean's resultant chuckle held too much deflection to be fully honest. "I, uh… I did?"

Time to switch tactics… again. "Sam said you had a question to ask me?'

Dean blinked. Thought for a second. Darted a couple glances at the house. Frowned. 'I'm sorry?"

"He said you had a question to ask."

"I didn't." It was spoken a little too quickly, a little too close to clipping the end of Cas' sentence.

He still wasn't restraining his skepticism, and it shone through, loud and clear. "Dean."

"Look, yeah, I was gonna ask you something that day we swung by the house, but it was Charlie's idea and it's irrelevant now."

"What was it?"

"Irrelevant."

"Dean."

He did sigh, that time, eyes slipping closed for a moment. "Fine, I was… It's stupid, but I was gonna ask if we could talk. You know, over dinner or something."

Cas blinked. "We eat together all the time."

"N-yeah, but…" He stiffened, back straightening abruptly. "Anyway, like I said, it was stupid. And it doesn't matter now 'cause Sam went out and bothered you all on his own. I'm still kicking his ass for that later."

"No, you won't."

"No, I won't, you're right. But still." He turned back, making to climb up the ladder again. "Anyway, question is unimportant."

"But Sam said you still had a question to ask."

A shrug. "He was wrong."

"Dean."

"What? He was!"

"Dean."

"What?"

"Ask the question."

Dean shook his head. "No."

"Why did you want to ask it in the first place?"

"I, uh, I didn't. It was just to talk about, you know…" He gestured at Samantha. "Stuff."

"Dean." A pause, filled with their usual eye contact (finally back to its normal… not that, as self-preservation was eager to point out, that mattered to Cas at all) and Dean's trademark insouciance. "I asked you a question."

"I answered it."

"No you didn't." No answer. "I will walk away from this conversation." Why the hell he thought that would be a good threat… it's not like that would matter at al-

"Whoa, let's not be hasty here…" A nervous chuckle, unfamiliar and uncharacteristic. "I told you, it just doesn't matter."

"Then tell me why, Dean."

"Because I wanted to."

"Why?" (There was that stupid sensation of almost-hope again; his self-preservation instinct clearly needed tuning up.)

"It doesn't matter, man, seriously. It was stupid, and it's not like you'd say yes anyway. Sam shouldn'ta brought it up."

"But he did."

"And I told you, I'm gonna kick his ass for that."

"We eat dinner all the time, Dean. Why the ceremony?"

Another shrug. "You weren't talking to me; it seemed the best way to change that. Which is why… it's unimportant now."

"This is different and we both know it. Why?"

"It's really not."

"Don't try me, Dean. Why was it different? Why did Charlie suggest it? Why did Sam bring it up?"

"I dunno, ask them."

"I'm asking you. Now answer."

Maybe it was his tone of voice: not cold, per se, but insistent. Maybe it was whatever expression was on his face, or the way he'd involuntarily closed the distance between them to less even than their usual. Maybe it was something else entirely, or the back-and-forth argument-that-wasn't-an-argument finally reaching a breaking point.

Whatever it was, it finally got through to Dean enough that he near-shouted the answer, a desperation-tinged, oddly-fervent, definitely-embarrassed, and a-little-defensive outburst of, "I was gonna ask you on a damn date, okay? That's it. It's stupid, and just… Just let it go." And then he promptly turned around, one hand buried in his hair, head dropped vaguely to his chest and shoulders oddly hunched.

Silence fell. Self-preservation shut itself up. "What."

And then Dean promptly collapsed.