Dean cast the last glance at the Thunderbird's engine. It shines like it's from under the needle, but that's as far as the good news goes. He's already fixed all he was capable of fixing, the rest will require parts he can't afford to buy right now.

He wipes his hands into the cloth and shuts the hood with a loud thump that thunders even over Thunderstruck roaring in his earphones. He takes a chug of beer from the bottle, turning to put the cloth down. He nearly spills its entire contents all over himself as a tall figure appears in front of him.

"For fuck's sake, Sam!" he yells over the music, wiping his mouth and chin, before he pulls the earphones out. "You don't sneak like that behind an ex-hunter, I could have killed you!"

"More like get a heart attack," Sam jeers. "Didn't see the earphones. You're planning on selling the cars, huh?"

Dean scoffs at him. "Wow, you and Cas are so alike, you should get married, guys," he blurts and turns to wipe a smudge off the car's hood with his thumb. "He wanted to sell 'em too, when money was kinda tight in the winter."

"Money?" Sam questions. "You've free living with the whole package."

"Oh sure. Shame the package doesn't include an address. Good luck finding a job when you're not even in Google Maps," Dean explains. "Dude, not even the Streetview. And minus the plastic–"

"Right, I get it. I'm guessing that's why you wanna move out?"

Dean just nods. There's no point in bringing the entire for and against list into this, especially when some of it he won't even confess to Cas.

"So, for Cas, then?" Sam says and, seeing Dean's confusion, cocks his head at the car.

"Yeah, kinda," Dean confirms. That was the idea, at least, when he still hoped Cas would yield and they'd move out eventually. It's not like Cas needs his own car now, when they never go solo anywhere outside Lebanon. "Unless he cheats on me, then I'm giving it to Claire."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Cheats on you? Where'd you get that from?"

Dean's voice must have failed on the joking front.

"Forget it." Dean waves a hand, before Sam starts digging. This one might be silly but the other stupid stuff that sometimes gets into his head is not worth discussing either. "Did you talk to him?"

"I did, just now," Sam begins and Dean gestures to the low, handmade bench by the wall.

He waits until they're sat before taking a deep breath. "Shoot."

"There's nothing to shoot, Dean. He only told me what he already told you yesterday."

"Mhm," Dean grunts, resting elbows on knees. He runs his palms across his face. "Just the whole shebang with protecting me, huh? Then why the big secret?"

Sam shrugs. "Maybe he prepares it so you can move out, after all, and wants to surprise you? Didn't tell me so I don't spill?" he adds, before Dean can ask.

But that still doesn't sound right. He did give it a fleeting thought before, but the idea was all too easy to push away then. After last night it barely makes sense at all.

"That ain't it," he decides. "He's been too damn stubborn about it and I promised him I'd end the topic. Even if he'll, eventually, change his mind after yesterday, he'd been planning this– this whatever for longer than that."

Sam nods his head and, luckily, doesn't try to give Dean the same argument, only paraphrased. He doesn't say anything and Dean doesn't, either. He sips his beer and remembers to offer a bottle to Sam, but the guy shakes his head.

"Besides," Dean begins and trails off.

He rolls the bottle between his hands, starting to regret he spoke up as Sam's stare burns the side of his head. Maybe he should have said it right away, so they'd never get to this weird intermission where Dean's still hanging with another dozens of scenarios in his head while Sam convinces him all is fine.

"There's something I haven't mentioned," he says, finally. "Before you came, Cas lied to me about some weird phone call."

Sam leans in and doesn't say a word while Dean rehashes the whole short story.

"I don't suppose that was you?" Dean finishes with a scoff.

"Thursday? No," Sam answers the rhetorical question. "But that could have been anyone, Dean."

Dean sets the empty bottle down. He doesn't have a strength for it right now. He's not gonna throw around the questions he's already mulled over in his head until they stopped sounding like questions, or like anything.

"Alright, enough about me," he declared. "Don't think I've been so absorbed by the shiftiness of my bee-eff that I didn't noticed you're being shifty yourself."

"What–?" Sam begins, faking confusion, but under Dean's intent stare, he drops the act.

"Girlfriend troubles?"

"Well," Sam pushes himself backwards, head presses against the wall. "We broke up."

"Shit."

"Yeah," he sighs, but then he lifts his shoulders. "It simply didn't work out. Happens."

"Still sucks."

"I does," Sam adds and lets the silence fall. But before it weighs too heavy on them, he lifts his hand to push it through his hair. "You know, it's like, it just doesn't feel right being with someone who doesn't know. I can keep lying, making stories about war or whatever, giving all the weirdest reasons for why I am the way I am, why I keep holy water on me, why I'm worried when she's out alone at night, but at the end of the day I'm still all alone with it," He takes in a long, heavy breath. "With all that between you and them, there's just no place for honesty."

That Dean knows something about.

"Yeah, I get that," he offers. "I remember how it was with Cassie before I told her. And that was way before, well, everything. And even with Lisa, though she knew a lot, a lot was never enough. Hearing about it and being through it isn't the same," he throws, like a some reveal of a huge life mystery. "But don't worry brother–" he slaps his palm on Sam's shoulder–"there must be some lucky girl-in-the-know out there for Sam Winchester. Maybe you gotta find yourself an ex-huntress. Or hunter," Dean adds with a wink.

Sam huffs a laugh. "I assure you, you're the brother with the monopoly on a life-long closet. Really, though, I'd take a shifty Cas who gets it anytime," he mutters with a shadow of a smile. At once, his voice gets serious as he lowers it. "Don't let him slip away."

Dean nods. "I'm not planning to," he decides.

He doesn't give a fuck about the other part, about there being no one out there who's in-the-know enough for him, someone who'll understand all his burdens, who's been through them, with him. He wouldn't fear being an eternal single, that he can deal with. The only thing he fears is losing Cas.

"Holy shit," he says, clasping his hands, the sound thunders through the garage, "that was the longest chick-flick moment of my entire existence." He can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes. He gets off the bench. "Excuse me, brother, but I feel like I'm gonna need a shower now."

Dean throws the clean laundry into the basket and loads the red batch. He drops Sam's socks and shirts on his bed and turns to the bedroom. He stops in the doorway, surpris to find Cas sitting on the mattress, his legs crossed under the bedsheets and the laptop open on top of them. The book that was probably taking all his attention a minute ago, now barely matters, resting back side up next to his thigh. Now it's the dimmed screen that turns Dean invisible to his boyfriend, the text that Cas's eyes follow in quick passes and which brings a satisfied smile to his face.

Without hesitation, the answer spills out merrily from under Cas's fingers, as they type to the steady, unfaltering rhythm that Cas has mastered under Sam's nerdy eye. He keeps typing for a few seconds with muscles in his cheeks still strained by the beam before he stops, awaiting a reply.

It's a moment as good as any, Dean decides, finally forcing his mouth to move.

"She hot?" he throws the same joke again.

Like a civilian booed at by a ghost, Cas jumps with one hand spurring up to his chest, the other one to the screen. He shuts the laptop as rapidly as a kid caught jacking off to porn, with a thump so loud that it would make Dean worry about the device if he cared.

"Dean!" Cas blurts, slowly relaxing. "You should knock," he adds, wrapping his fingers around the edge of the laptop.

Dean's well past the eyerolls or pulling faces at Cas's rude demand.

"Dude, it's my room, too" he snaps.

"Uh, right, sorry," Cas mumbles, casting his eyes down.

Dean steps inside, sets the basket on the chest of drawers and lingers there for a while sliding fingers along its edge. "So? Is she? Hot, I mean?" Dean asks again, forcing the lightness back into his voice. The whitening tips of Cas's fingers don't make it easy. "Or he?" he adds.

It's supposed to be a joke. There is a reason why he started from the very bottom of the list of dark scenarios. But when a tiny sting of jealousy nags in his stomach, he's not sure he'll manage to get through the whole thing.

He comes over to the bed, climbs on top of it right next to Cas's calves, so that he's face to face with the man. He hunches his shoulders, brings his knees up to his chin to serve as a shield.

"Who?" Cas squints and the innocence of it lets Dean loosen the grip around his legs the slightest bit.

He tips his head towards the laptop, to Cas's hold on it still as tight as if he was holding onto the Holy Grail. The device is still on, humming quietly between them. It carries all the incriminating evidence, the browser history, the inbox open with the flashing reply probably already awaiting in it.

"Who you were chatting with," he explains, struggling to take his eyes off the black lid and back to Cas's face.

There's a change in it, in the creases on his forehead, now gone, in the tension in his jaw he's trying to hide. He doesn't even look at Dean anymore. His mouth lets out a tiny sound and Dean waits at the end of his patience for it to reshape back in a repetition of the "Who?" that doesn't come.

"I don't see how that would matter," Cas says instead, unceremoniously pulling out the laptop's plug. The device goes dead quiet at once. "Besides," he adds, putting it off on the nightstand, "I wasn't chatting with anyone."

"Sure you weren't."

Cas might have been oblivious at first, but he's not dumb. His eyes pop wide open as they snap back to Dean's.

"Dean, I'm not– You can't be possibly thinking I'm cheating on you."

He says it like it's ridiculous. Like the very concept of cheating on Dean is too absurd to take into an account. But the dark shape of the laptop still sits there on the nightstand as a reminder that if it's not it, then it might something much, much worse than cheating and Dean is not sure which he prefers.

"Then why'd you lie, just now?" he asks, no longer defensive.

There's a slow, long exhale, before Cas speaks without looking at him.

"Technically, I wasn't chatting." His tone is filled with something more akin to shame than smartassery and that's the only reason Dean only clenches his jaw and stays quiet. "I'd never cheat on you," Cas swears.

The man leans forward, lays a hand on Dean's cheek. Dean leans to the touch that he did not deserve. He feels like an asshole for even implying that Cas would. That one option he should have crossed off his list before he even put it there.

"There is no one who would be worth losing you over, Dean," Cas continues softly, for once never taking his eyes off Dean's. The sincerity in them feels like a cooling balm coating his burns. "No one could ever compare to you. Not in body, not in mind." Cas lays the words on him, slow and heavy, like desperate kisses. "Definitely not in heart. Why would I even want to consider it?"

Now it's Dean who needs a couple of breaths. Cas has got a way with all this profound shit and Dean is just too easy to bribe with it.

"Alright, Sinead," he mutters, safely hiding behind humor. He lifts his free hand to pull Cas's away, but he doesn't let go of it. "What is it then?" He doesn't give up. "Because trust me, I can keep guessing, I'll hit the mark eventually."

Cas knits his eyebrows. "I already told you."

"Yeah, you did," Dean mutters, eyes dropped to the sole book on the bedsheet. "I'm starting to feel like you were just trying to get off the hook."

As he reaches for the book, Cas's hand shoots to it as well, half-consciously, perhaps. He mitigates himself the moment his fingers graze the cover. He promptly snap them away, shame on his face.

Dean bites his lip and takes the book away. It's thick and heavy and old as fuck. Most of the letters on the cover lost their gold marking and are now just shallow imprints in the leather. The Testament of Design. The title doesn't tell Dean anything. He drops it back.

"Dean, I–"

"I'm not talking your little Project Protection for Dean," Dean starts before he tries to explain himself. "I'm talking the lies."

"Lies?" Cas echoes, playing an innocent.

"When you went–" he raises his fingers to make airquotes–"straightening your legs."

Still the confusion, still the act. Maybe he genuinely doesn't know what Dean's talking about, but that's only 'cause he doesn't know Dean knows.

"The phone call, Cas!" Dean growls.

Cas looks fucking spooked, paled and wide-eyed. "How much did you hear?"

"Everything," Dean bluffs, but Cas's face tells him the guy doesn't buy it. "Enough of it," he bluffs again.

Cas fucking smiles, just a shadow of a smile, but it's there, Dean knows it too well not to notice.

"You didn't hear anything, did you?" Cas leans back, against the wall, relaxed. "Dean, if you heard enough of it, you wouldn't be here now asking me questions. But since you didn't, then I'd rather keep that private for now."

"Priv–" Dean echoes under his breath. "You know, if you've got an STD, that pretty much concerns me too," he attempts to joke again, but it comes out weak. Even weaker gets his voice when the new thought appears in his head. "You're– you're not sick or something, are you?"

"I'm not sick," Cas assures him, cocking head to the side. "I'm not– Dean, don't do this."

"Don't do what? Don't worry that something might be going on with you? Don't be scared that I might lose you? What, Cas?"

Dean spills his heart out. Cas turns his eyes heavenward.

"Stop guessing," he says, pushing himself off the wall, climbing to his knees. "You're not gonna lose me."

His whole body shifts towards Dean, his hands find his body, eyes pierce through him. But it doesn't feel like it could be enough now.

"Why can't you just tell me?"

"Why can't you just trust me?"

They're in an impasse. Neither of them is willing to budge. Even though Cas's question cuts him to the bone. Trust. Shouldn't it be easier? If Dean doubts Cas at the very first hurdle in the new road, how long until the road cracks open and devours them?

"Just give me a ballpark," Den begs. "Give me anything so I can shut those voices in my head."

Cas licks his lip as he searches for the right words.

"It's not dangerous," he offers. "It's nothing that will, uh, fuck us over."

Dean can't hold back a humorless chuckle.

"It's a good thing, actually," Cas continues. A smile, first shy, breaks out on Cas's face, lits up his eyes with joy hardly tainted by the shredded atmosphere. "I think it's pretty great. Can you try and trust me this one time?"

Dean hangs his head low in a sign of capitulation. He won't get anything more out of Cas, not without turning this into a fight that'll just prove he has not an ounce of trust in Cas. He's got no choice but to wait and hope it won't be too late by then.

How can it not be a bad thing if Cas can't confide it into Dean?

"Okay," Dean decides, anyway. If wait and see and try to fix later is what Cas wants, so be it.

A wide grin spreads on Cas's face, presenting how boundless is his excitement about the mysterious thing. It's so bright it's contagious and Dean can't hold back a tiny smile of his own.

"Alright, I trust you," he adds.

Apparently his tone is not convincing enough because Cas pulls in closer to nuzzle his ear with his soft beard.

"You'll know everything very soon, okay?" Cas whispers, before placing a trail of kisses along his jaw.

Dean considers playing stubborn for a little while longer if that's what can get him the caress of the man's lips across his skin, the palms slipping under the thin cotton of his shirt, but by the time the hot tongue reaches his clevis, he's quite certain complacency can get him much more than that.

"Said I believe you," he murmurs into Cas's hair. "You better make it worth the wait."

A low laugh escapes Cas's lips as he's fighting with the fabric for the access to Dean's chest.

"I sure hope it'll be," he says, throwing the shirt to the floor. "But in the meantime–" with one swift yank he throws Dean on his back–"I can ensure the wait worth your while."

Dean bites his lip when Cas gets to his pants. He tugs them by the elastic, pulls them down. He begins at his knees, lips climbing up the soft skin of Dean's inner thighs until they reach the hem of the boxers. His teeth bite at the fabric and Dean lifts his butt in cooperation. But Cas is just being a tease, he keeps going up and up, licking wet trails across Dean's stomach, chest, rolling up his cotton t-shirt and pulling it over his head.

Dean's lips catch his mouth, before it slips back down. With one finger under his chin Dean leads him where he wants him, warm tongue sliding along his jaw, lips leaving hickeys on his neck, teeth nipping at his collarbone.

"Look at me," Dean purrs, as he helps Cas free himself of his sweatpants and boxers and gets the favor in return.

Cas obeys, fixing his wide eyes on Dean's face, the two, deep oceans half-obscured in the shadow, the cold, orange light dances on the deep laugh lines around them. He slips his hand under Dean's head to bring his face closer, the tips of their noses miss each other by a hairbreadth as Cas assumes a slow rhythm.

They sway back and forth, their collisions draw deep, sharp moans from their throats and they drown them in each other's mouths. Dean's hand sunk in Cas's hair steadies him. As their motions picks up the pace, their eyes never break apart, and Dean soaks in the endless adoration that fills up the vacant spaces that's grown inside him.

In this embrace, in the midst of the white currents crashing through him, every suspicion that he dared to foster wanes, leaving behind only a shameful aftertaste. There's just him and Cas, whose name slips out of his lungs as easy as exhales. Whose mouth forgets the shape of any other word but 'Dean.'

Cas's delightful grunts grow louder, this loving touches grow hastier. And when their spines become lightning rods, nearly simultaneously they arch in the pleasure, before slipping back into the other's arms. Cas's breath ragged and shallow nests itself in the hollow of Dean's neck when they've sunk together into the mattress, Cas's edges matching the crooks of Dean's body.

"You're so fucking good," Dean croaks, as his heart begins to slow down. "So fucking good, Cas."

Cas huffs a quivering laugh, his hand finds Dean's hand.

"I love you," he whispers in return and Dean laughs this time.

"Yeah. Love you too."

It might just be those well-known words, or the warmth of Cas's body pressed along Dean's, or the fading scent of sex hanging in the air. It might be that solemn smile when Cas swore his secret won't leave doom in its wake, but when Dean's eyes, half-closed in the post-coital haze, stray to the edge of the laptop peaking out over his head, he can hardly remember how he let that anxiety to overcome him for so long.

"Sam asked if we're up for a few rounds of poker," Dean remembers.

Cas makes a soft sound, playing with Dean's fingers. "When?"

"Like an hour ago," Dean replies.

"When does he want to play?" Cas clarifies.

"Like an hour ago," Dean repeats with a chuckle and Cas joins him in it.

"We're terrible hosts."

He lets go of Dean's palm and raises to leave the bed.

"Nu-uuuuh," Dean whines, but Cas is already sitting on the edge of the bed, back to him.

Cas leans down and returns to Dean in a moment, just to clean off his chest.

"Sam mentioned you're leaving 'round ten," he makes sure, leaning over him. His moves are slow and thorough, the wipe gives off a delicate, powdery smell.

"Yeah, Sam wanna be early for the gig," Dean replies with the tinies note of regret in his voice. He'd prefer Cas to be there when they're taking off, instead of tutoring on the other side of town, but it's not like an hour or two makes much difference. "But I could still persuade him to put it off an hour, 'til you're back"

Cas shakes his head. "I'll take the key."

"Wouldn't want to lock you out of the Bunker for five days," Dean says, amused.

Cas agrees and scrambles out of Dean's space for good. He gathers their clothes from the floor, throws Dean's his and starts dressing up.

"I'll go find and entertain our house guest," Cas announces, moving for the door.

"I'll join you in a few," Dean calls behind him, throwing his head back into the pillow.

He doesn't take long before he puts his pants on, pulls the t-shirt over his head. He throws a resentful glance at the laundry basket. He knows how poker nights usually end with the three of them, he'd better start packing today if he doesn't want to hear Sam whining that they won't make it in time all the way to Des Moines.

He puts the bed in order, smoothens the top cover that'll make for the make-shift table. He pulls out each item separately from the basket, inspecting it to determine which he's gonna take or which even is his and not Cas's. At this point, neither of them cares when it comes to t-shirts or socks. He ends up throwing half the things on the bed to pack, the rest he'll just drop into the drawers at random.

He slides out the top drawer and when it can barely hold a single pair of boxers more, he shuts it before opening the other one, Cas's. He should have started with this one, he decides. It's almost empty but for a bunch of clothes, a pile of printouts covered by sockrolls and a few of Cas souvenirs that he's gathered throughout the years – some movie tickets, the anti-possession amulet he tossed after getting it tattooed on, a nail that he drove through the skin of his palm last summer and decided to keep for some fucking reason, and other sentimental crap.

"Sap," Dean mutters to himself, as he starts throwing the clothes in.

He stops in mid movement, a ball of socks in his fist. There's something missing from the pile of treasures pushed into the corner. He knows it was there, he saw Cas move it in here with the rest of the oddments. Last laundry duty, it was still here.

He drops the socks back into the basket and puts both hands into the drawer. The thing is small and cylindrical, so it could have rolled under the clothes. He's careful when he takes the clothes out and drops them on top of the fresh laundry – he wouldn't want to miss it, he could accidently drop it or smash it. He's not really sure if the glass those vials are made of is a regular or a special, super strong kind only produced in Heaven. He's guessing it's the latter, if it survived two months hanging off Cas's neck, while Cas himself got beaten and bruised.

Cas never said why he held onto it, he just did. Sure, at first, Cas must have clung to the hope he'll get his grace back, eventually. That night, after they sent the angels back, Cas curled his fist around the glass and pulled the silver chain over his head. He didn't throw it away, though. Instead, he pushed the vial into the pocket of his hoodie.

Dean didn't ask.

They arrived back at the Bunker two days later, tired from the road but ready to celebrate the big win. Sammy popped a freakin' champagne and they drank until they emptied the bottle before switching to Jack.

It wasn't until the morning, or rather noon, after, that Cas gathered his hoodie from the chair in Dean's bedroom. He walked the short distance to his room, followed by Dean's stare, but he didn't close the door. He fished the glass vial from the pocket and kept between two fingers for a while, gazing at it, or into it, as if he was trying to find a single drop of swirling light clung to the bottom.

Dean wanted to ask, then, but he didn't. He'd had been a witness of the very first memoir being dropped into the small drawer of the nightstand by Cas's bed – a movie ticket from their first official date. So when Cas pulled out the drawer and gently put the vial at its bottom, he assumed it was just that, another treasure to remember the past by.

After all, Cas had confessed he didn't want his power, his essence back.

Standing in front of a now emptied drawer, Dean's not really sure Cas ever said exactly that. Or if he didn't change his mind. With all the talk of protecting him, how could Dean be so blind. As an angel Cas could always bring him back to life. He'd never have to fear he'll lose him.

"Fuck!"

Dean kicks the commode and the hit sends the jolt of pain through his foot. He barely even feels it, though. Physical ache is nothing compared to the cold grasp tightening around Dean's throat. He presses his hands to the wooden edge for support, his head hangs low between his shoulders. Second kick and another and another. They hardly seem to expel his frustration and anger.

He stops. Ruining his foot won't get him anywhere. And maybe, maybe he got it all wrong? Maybe Cas only displaced it? Maybe during an income of an especially sentimental mood, he took it out to reminisce, and just never put it back? Maybe it fell out of the drawer or out of Cas's fist and shattered into pieces?

That's a whole fucking ton of maybes and Dean's really getting tired of those. But he doesn't have a proof for a single one of them. If there was a way–

His eyes snap to the corridor, to the wooden door closed on its opposite side. No, he can't, that's not the way to go. He forces himself to look away, takes a deep breath. He starts putting Cas's things back to the drawer, doing his best to set them exactly as they were.

"Dean?" comes Cas's voice and Dean jumps like burned, but the man is not by the door yet. "Are you coming?"

"Just a second!" he shouts to make sure Cas hears him. He thrusts the drawer shut close and crouches to the lowest one. There's all of the stuff they don't really use anymore, because they don't need to. He spots the black etui right away. "You can start shuffling the deck!"

Dean never lets his eyes off Cas's face, searching for the littlest twitch, a shift of his eyes, a nervous gesture that would give him away. Despite years of practice in reading people and reading Cas, Dean's got nada. As far as poker faces go, Cas is a master. At least in the situations when it doesn't matter. Like during a poker game.

"I'm in," Cas announces, pushing three silver towers of nuts into the pile in the middle of the table.

It could be either way, really, though with four tens Dean's feeling fairly confident. Sam's already folded, so it's all just between him and Cas.

"I call it," Dean announces.

Cas's poker face finally cracks. He lays down his hand — full house. Man, that was close.

"Yeah! I win!" Dean slams his cards on the table. With both arms he drags the pool to his already impressive pile of screws and nuts that substitute for tokens. Or money, for that matter. He's not gonna scam off the poor college kid and even poorer private tutor slash couch potato. "Man, i'm rich," he says, pushing the nuts down his fingers like signets. "Bow down, losers."

"More like drunk," Sam offers with a chuckle, collecting the cards for another round.

"I'm not drunk," Dean answers, reaching for the bottle. His fancy rings clink against the glass. He throws his head back to drain the last drop of beer, but not even so much drips on his tongue. "Dammit! Gotta make an alco run, you guys want some?" he offers, standing up.

There are hopefully still a few more bottles in the fridge, but Cas and Sam both shake their heads.

"No thanks, I'm gonna have to drive tomorrow morning, right?" Sam explains.

That does make sense, so Dean lets him slide. He turns to Cas. "What's your excuse, pokerface?"

"Someone has to take care of my drunk boyfriend," Cas supplies evenly.

Dean rolls his eyes and leaves the room. Screw them, they don't wanna drink, they don't have to. That's more for Dean. As he opens the fridge, it turns out he wouldn't bring them more even if they wanted – it's their very last bottle sitting sadly on the door shelf.

Dean fails an attempt to open the beer with one of the nuts still stuck on his fingers, so he helps himself with the opener. He swings the door under the sink to throw out the cap, but he doesn't get the three points, as the cap falls to the floor. The failed throw turns out to be a bullseye when he stoops to collect the cap and spots a gleam of glass hidden behind the pipe.

"Sweet!" he exclaims, pulling out the untouched bottle of Jack. God knows how long that has been there, he doesn't even remember buying it.

He grabs both bottles and three glasses and balances the risky carriage back to the room.

"Look what I've found. Now that's what I call lucky."

Cas jumps off the chair and meets him half-way to help him, he pulls the Whisky from under his elbow.

"Dean, my dearest," Cas chirps. "I don't think you should be starting this one now."

Dean's lips purse at the blatant betrayal coming from his boyfriend.

"Oh, come on Cas," he pleads, but Cas doesn't yield.

"I'll take this back and go to the bathroom while I'm at it. You can start playing without me," he says, coming back to the table for the phone he left there and disappears.

"Alright, Sammy, here's the thing," Dean starts as soon as he's sure Cas is out of the earshot, as he takes off the rings one by one. "You're gonna get Cas busy when he's back. I've gotta check something."

"What are you talking about Dean?" Sam narrows his eyes at him. "You're still on about it?"

"There's been a new development," he confesses, but doesn't specify. "I have to find out what he's scheming in there."

"What development?"

For a moment Sam looks like he's ready to listen out, he even shifts his chair closer to Dean's and shoots a glance to the door where Cas disappeared. His expression changes at once, when Dean reaches behind his back and pulls out the set of lockpicks in the etui.

"Dude, what the hell?" Sam shouts, then lowers his voice just a speck when he adds, "You wanna break into his room?"

"Shush," Dean quiets him. The last thing he wants is for Cas to find out. He doesn't want to hear even more bullshit explanations. "There's something in there that I need to see. And the books too. I've gotta know how much he knows."

"How much he knows about what?" Sam's voice is still too loud, like he's doing it deliberately.

Does he fucking want Cas to find out? Does he want it all to fall apart even if Dean's wrong about the grace?

"I'll tell you when I know this is what I'm afraid it is." He stands up, then corrects, "if this is what I'm afraid it is."

Sam's hand shoots up to grab his wrist before he makes a big fucking mistake.

"I don't know what spooked you so badly, Dean, but I'm telling you, this is not the right solution," Sam explains, the grip tightens. "You don't wanna do this. And if you were sober right now, you would never do that to him."

Oh yes, because Dean was after five hash-brownies when he stuffed that etui into his pants.

One, sharp yank frees him of Sam's hold and Dean stumbles a few steps backward.

"Well, tough, that's the only solution I have." He doesn't leave any space for discussion as he starts towards the corridor. A few steps away, he turns. "Are you gonna do what I asked or not?"

A muscle in Sam's jaw twitches. "No, Dean, I won't be responsible for you losing the best thing you've ever had."

"You're gonna be if you don't do this," Dean answers and leaves it at that.

He's not really sure what Sam will do, but he has to believe he won't want him to get caught redhanded at breaking into Cas's room. He sprints through the corridor on his tip-toes and stops right before the door. He leans back to peek into their bedroom, then quietly knocks on Cas's door, just to be sure.

When there's no answer from inside, he unzips the etui, revealing his favorite set of lockpicks. He plucks out the right pieces and hides the rest back behind his belt. Biting his lip, he bents over and slips the tension wrench into the keyhole.

It's wrong, he knows that, he doesn't need a conscience in the form of a younger brother to feel the burden of his action. He keeps telling himself he has no other choice, but it doesn't make him hate himself any less. It was supposed to be Cas's space, Cas's only. The place to go to when he needs to take a breather, to hide after they fight, if they ever did, to lock himself in when he's fed up with his pain in the ass of a boyfriend.

And he was never supposed to intrude uninvited. That rule was never spoken out loud only because it went without saying.

"It's your room," Dean had said the first time Cas had set his foot in it.

The same words he spoke as Cas carried his belongings in Dean's – their – bedroom.

The shift had been slow at first. Cas would spend a night every once in a while after they had made love. Later his things started appearing with him; his dirty socks piling under the bed, his pink mug with a dark ring from green tea marking the inside, the most current novel he read before sleep. That last addition made Dean drag a nightstand from an adjacent room and setting it on Cas's side of bed just so Cas would stop taking up place on his.

And yes, Cas's side of bed — that happened too.

"Do you need my room for something or someone else?" Cas asked, when Dean showed him an empty drawer in the commode to fill with his stuff.

"No, of course not, it's yours."

"Then why do I need this drawer for? I won't fit all my things in it anyway."

"Yeah, I know, just— Uh, it's symbolic. I want you to have some stuff in this room so it's ours. Mine and yours. And you can keep the rest in that room, or we could find more place for you here, that won't be a problem. I'm sure there's a nice, termiteless wardrobe in here somewhere."

"But then I'd have two rooms and you would only have this one shared with me."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "I want us to share the room. But that room could be your private space, if you want it."

Cas nodded, putting his hand on the drawer. "I like it. And you don't need private space?"

"There's a whole bunker of private space. If I need it, I'll find it," he answered then, but as it turns out there is just no such thing as private space. Not with Dean around.

But that's just what Dean is good at, breaking and escaping. Both pieces of the pickset tremble in his palms and it's got nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he consumed, but with the trust that he's now shattering beyond repair. After all, that thing can only go both ways.

Sam is right; what the hell is he doing? Is he so afraid of Cas fucking shit up, he'd rather go and fuck it up himself? He takes a breath as his hand begins to slip the pick out of the hole.

No, it's no longer as simple as Cas maybe-leaving and Dean pushing him away. There more at stake here, much more. He feels for the last pin and props it up. The lock clicks open. It's done.

With a press of the knob, Dean enters the room. It hasn't changed much since he last saw it on Friday, except there are at least twice as many books laid down in piles on all flat surfaces. He doesn't have much time to waste, so he starts scouring the place right away. He shoots to the nightstand first, pulls out the drawer. It takes him a few seconds to localize an object so small and see-through and for a heartbeats he hopes it's not there.

And then he sees it. The thin silver chain, first. It leads his eyes to the vial that imprisoned Cas's grace after Metatron stole it. They found it empty and discarded in the dick angel's office after the siege. To Dean it could have been just a random vial, one of however the fuck many there were produced. But Cas knew. He knew before he so much as touched it.

And now Dean knows too. His fist wraps around the thing so tight it almost cracks, almost slices through the skin of his palm and gets stuck in it. He uncurls his fingers and puts the evidence back to its new place.

No, not the evidence, not yet, Dean reminds himself. He needs more. He moves to the nearest pile of books, in the corner behind the nightstand. But by the cover of dust Dean can tell those haven't been moved in a while. And the one on top is fucking Moby Dick. Dean grunts and picks another pile.

He goes for those with black marking of dust smeared over their covers. The real culprits. He flips through the books, mouthing the titles. He recognizes some of them, ancient magic; druidic, aztecian, slavic. Pretty much everything he could think of and more, none he can understand. He stops for a moment by a few latin and enochian books, piled away in another corner. Looks like they were the first ones to migrate here from the library.

He pauses, trying to figure out the plan. Frantic skimming through all titles won't give him much. A map, would be a much more helpful sign. A map of the States, a map of the world or a map of the entire fucking galaxy. But there's nothing like that.

Plan C involves keeping his eye out for the word "angel." That plan, unfortunately, brings him better results. It's not really a book that Dean's holding. More of a folder of files with a big, red 'classified' stamped on the first page. "On The Inner Workings Of Angels" the title says and Dean reads it twice, just in case the letters switched places in front of his drunk eyes. But no, Cas is not learning about the mysteries of geometry.

"The hell is this?" Dean mutters to himself, slumping on the mattress.

He flicks through pages and pages of notes about angels. Detailed descriptions and diagrams, references to the Bible, to Milton and to the actual fluffy-winged dicks from the above. From what he can say a lot of it is old news. But there's stuff that is new to him as well: the anatomy of wings, the physical properties of graces, a section about what must be angel medicine, with scalpels, saws and huge, fucking syringe. On the second thought it might double for the torture section, as well.

He shuts the file and holds it to his chest, anyway. There might be more of this in here, but he's already got enough to incriminate Cas. He's done with sitting in this room smelling of dust and guilt and betrayal.

"I told him you passed out in bed," Sam informs Dean, when he finds them in the TV room, his voice hushed.

Dean's eyes turn to Cas, curled on the couch, his chest slowly rising and falling to an even rhythm. "Is he sleeping?"

Sam nods. "You're lucky I managed to keep him here."

Dean has to force his eyes to turn away from the man he loves, the fucking liar. He gestures to Sam to follow him to the kitchen. He doesn't want to risk Cas stirring awake and overhearing them.

"Thanks, Sammy, for hiding my ass," Dean begins, slumping into a chair.

Sam doesn't say 'no problem' or any other pleasantry. He sits next to Dean and cuts to the chase. "What did you find out?"

A bitter chuckle resounds deep in Dean's throat.

"Exactly what I expected," he says. It sounds safer than 'exactly what I feared.'

Sam awaits, impatiently, but Dean just shakes his head. "I'd rather talk to him first, if that's okay."

The man agrees. "If you need me, I'm here," he offers.

"Yeah. Thanks for that too."

They go quiet and Dean nearly forgets why he called him here. Sam knows, though, he doesn't even need to be told.

"I'm assuming we're calling tomorrow off?"

Dean nods. "Mhm," he grunts for a good measure. "I'm sorry about that, but I can't leave now. This whole trip was his idea, so I can't help thinking, he had to be planning something for when we're away, right?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Sam confirms his suspicion. "Don't worry about the trip, Dean. We can go in the summer."

"Yeah, we can," Dean mutters, really hoping it's true. Praying that in the summer the world – their world – will still be the same.

"You gonna talk to him now?" Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. He gets off the chair and gets to the cupboards. He starts with the one under the sink, but the bottle isn't there, so he keeps checking every possible hiding place until he finds Jack behind the sanitizers. He doesn't even have the power to comment on Cas treating him like an alcoholic, when Cas, apparently, treats him like a child in need of a constant, angelic protection.

He pours the whisky to the glass, three, four, five fingers, he doesn't care. Sam still refuses, even though he's lost his excuse. His new excuse is going to bed soon. Well, Dean'll just have to drink the bottle alone.

"Are you guys gonna be okay?" Sam asks, putting his palm on Dean's shoulder.

Dean takes a long sip of his drink. "Doubt that," he mutters, truthfully.

Sympathy twists Sam's face.

"Go to bed, kid," Dean says. "It's gonna get tough soon."

Reluctantly, Sam leaves Dean alone in the kitchen. But Dean doesn't stay there for long. He grabs his glass and the bottle and gets back to the TV room, where Cas still snores on the couch. Though his head's a little spinning, Dean does his best to remain quiet and gentle, as he lifts Cas's head off the pillow and slips underneath it.

There's some game going on TV, but for Dean's it's just white noise. His eyes flicker up to it when the commentator's voice grow excitement, but then they fall back to the sleeping man, his fingers never stop running through the wavy locks of his overgrown hair, playing with the curls swirling at his nape.

For a little bit longer, all is as it's supposed to be. There's no fucking grace hunt, no vessel blowing up in clouds of liquid light. There's just Cas, sleeping softly and soundly on Dean's lap, just where he belongs. Where they both belong.

Tomorrow, Dean's gonna confront Cas and he won't stop this time until Cas confesses every last thing. He won't let it go just because it's easier to believe Cas's lies and pretend it's gonna be alright. He'll try to persuade him, first, not to do it. He'll puke his lungs out, crying and begging, if he has to.

And if that doesn't help, Dean's gonna join him.

What other choices does he even have?

But that's tomorrow. Tonight, if only for tonight, Dean's gonna keep pretending. He reaches for the remote and shuts the yell of the commentator down. There it is, right on top of Cas's queue, that fucking movie they never got around to watching, after all. He lowers the volume and presses play.

"You sure you wanna miss this?" he blurts to sleeping Cas. He doesn't even twitch as Dean sets his glass and shifts a little to more comfortable position. "It's got Chris Evans butt-naked," he purrs, brushing the curls behind Cas's ear. A small sound escapes Cas's mouth, but he doesn't stir. Dean smiles. "He's got nothing on you, though."