Dean's arms still remembered the form of his brother from when he'd embraced him for the last time before the check-in. It wasn't gonna be forever, of course, but he was still leaving. Leaving the life, leaving Dean. He'd waved them goodbye with a huge grin on his face. He was going off to start a new life, better life, without his older brother's constant presence in it.

Dean and Cas were all they both got left. They sat on the Impala's hood on the airport's parking lot, fingers entangled, they watched the colossal machines take off, raise up and fly away until they were nothing but moving lights in the sky, then nothing at all.

"I think that's his," Cas said, poking Dean with his elbow and pointing to the ascending airplane.

It was the right airline and the right time. Dean couldn't read the number off the site, but he still noded.

"Yeah, that's his," he muttered. "My little brother, flying off to the big world."

He allowed himself for a dreamily tone, even if those weren't his dreams that were coming true. He couldn't hold up a smile on his face when the next words spilled out of his mouth.

"Can you believe Sammy's leaving us behind, just like that?"

Cas's thumb began to rub soothing circles into his palm.

"He's leaving you behind," he corrected, trailing the machine in its flight across the sky.

Dean's eyes darted to the man. "What did you say?"

"I said," Cas began, slower, "that he's leaving you, not us."

There was a soft smile dancing on his lips. His blue eyes never let go of Sam's plane, until it disappeared behind a cloud. And once the plane was gone, Cas turned his head to Dean, his stare pierced through him, eyebrows slanted upwards in sympathy.

"He's leaving you, just like everybody leaves you," he reminded him, cocking his head to the side. "You know that, Dean."

Dean drew a sharp breath.

"Yeah," he huffed, mustering a smile until every single muscle in his face ached from the strain. "But not you, Cas, right?" he asked with his cracking voice. He had to make sure. "You're staying with me, right?"

Cas's chest rose up beneath the beige fabric, his back straightened up. Dean yanked back, his palm slipped out of Cas's hold.

"Oh Dean," his lover began as his dress shoes hit the ground, grief and joy mixing in his voice. "Why would I stay?" he asked, now standing straight before Dean.

"Cas," Dean begged, reaching out his hand to Cas's face, but his face was now so foreign, even if it was still so familiar. "Please."

But instead of stepping forward, returning into Dean's space, Cas took a step back. He lifted his arms at his sides, his blue tie waved in the wind.

"Cas!" Dean called, trying to jump off the hood, to follow Cas, but he was frozen to the cold metal.

Two wide shadows spread behind Cas, reaching far to the both sides of the bright-lit building.

"Goodbye, Dean," Cas said and, before Dean could utter another syllable, he, too, flew away and out of Dean's life.

"Cas!" a screech rips out of Dean's throat as he jerks forward to catch him, grab him by his stupid trenchcoat and hold in place.

The only thing that ends up in his embrace are heaps of sheets, pressed to his pounding heart. The dry air slices his throat as his lungs pump it in and out like they're taking part in a marathon. And his head swirls too, his every move knocks the whole bed over and he spins and spins until the nightmare fades enough to let him go from its grasp.

It was just a nightmare, nothing more, but it lingers over Dean's skin and in the marrow of his spine. He needs to feel Cas, get back into his embrace that the terror ripped him out of. He turns around, despite the dull ache in his brain and nausea flooding his stomach. With his eyes still closed, he reaches out, but until its very edge, there is nothing but an empty mattress.

He opens his mouth, but his tongue is too heavy and dry, lying behind his teeth. When he finally manages to crack open the sandboxes of his eyes, it doesn't really give him shit. It's pitch dark in his dungeon of a bedroom and fuck knows what time it is. Her runs a hand over his face, struggling for recollection.

How did he even get to bed? All he remembers from the previous night is the stupid rom-com on TV, Cas's head resting on his lap, the whiskey, though of that his pounding head never let him forget.

He never went to bed, at least not on his own; not awake enough or sober enough to register the trek through the corridors. But he's in bed, so thank fuck – or thank Cas, probably – he doesn't have to deal with hurting back and stiffened neck on top of all the rest. He's never drinking again.

Why did he even drink so fucking much. Don't they have that trip planned for today? Or they don't. He might have lost track. Did they call it off? He lifts a hand to his jaw, scrapes at his prickly stubble. Whether they're going or not, he should get up and make some breakfast for Cas, before he leaves for–

Cas.

Fuck.

He sits up and regrets it right away, as his head sends him spinning down on a roller coaster. He takes a few seconds before turning to his nightstand. He pulls the chain and the orange light strikes his eyeballs with a dozen of needles. He blinks a few times, reaching for his phone, but his fingers encounter a tall glass. There's water waiting for him to drown his thirst and ease his sandpaper in his mouth. Next to it, stands a plastic bottle of Aspirin.

Dean shakes two pills on his palm and washes them down with the water. As he sets the glass down, he notices a sheet of paper folded in half. He squints and focuses on the squiggly writing.

I hope this will help a little. Enjoy your trip. Missing you already. Love, Cas.

"Thanks," Dean grunts, slapping the note back on the nightstand and downing the rest of water.

He checks the time, twice: it's not even eleven yet.

He gathers himself off the bed, still in his sweatpants and yesterday's shirt, and takes his time crossing the dark corridor. He finds Sam in the main room, sitting by the table and chewing on some rabbit food.

"Where's Cas?" Dean croaks in lieu of good morning.

Sam shoots him a sympathetic glance. He must look even worse than he feels. "Should be back from the lessons soon."

"You saw him leaving?"

"He did tell you he's tutoring today, right?" The man sets down the fork, pulls scoops a piece of paper off the table. "He left this in the bowl," he informs with a smirk. "I took the key. Have fun. Cas," he reads out. "This is adorable."

"Yeah, he's adorable," Dean grumbles, taking his place. "So you let him slip out?" he accuses.

It's not fair, he knows, it was not Sam's job to watch him. That was on Dean and he failed because he prefered to drink himself stupid, instead. And Sam might repeat that he went teaching French to one of the neighbors all he wants. Dean's got a bad feeling he can't shake off.

He keeps checking the clock on his phone every damn minute. Each time his movements lose a little more patience, his stomach knots a little tighter.

"Go take a shower, he'll be back before you're done," Sam advises when the screen lights up for the tenth time.

"I'll go when he's back."

He lights the screen again. Eleven strikes, then quarter past, then half past. Cas should be here by now. His finger hesitates over the dial button until the screen goes black.

"Maybe he dropped by a store?" Sam supplies, earning himself a scowl.

"You covering for him or what?" Dean slams an open palm against the table. "Did he drag you to his side? Wait–" he begins, the thought comes nagging at his brain. It's ridiculous, yet he spills it, "Did he tell you what he's planning?"

"What? No!" Sam protests. "Come on, Dean, you know he didn't tell me."

It doesn't really calm Dean down. Maybe if Sam knew Cas's scheme and approved of it, Dean could trust it. It couldn't be such a bad thing is the two of them agreed on it. But Sam insists he doesn't know, so Dean just grinds his teeth and checks the time again.

"I must look like the worst boyfriend ever," Dean says under his breath. Not that it matters what Sam thinks about that or any other detail of their relationship. But he still needs to hear it.

"Why? Because you're worried?"

Dean swallows hard, toying with the phone in his palm.

"Because I don't trust him," he confesses.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but then changes his mind. He shifts in his chair to face Dean, lips curved in compassion. Dean got himself into it and this time he won't swivel out.

"Please, don't get me wrong. I love Cas," he assures. "I love him so fucking much that I can't imagine–" he cuts off the words that won't pass his throat. "And that only makes it harder not to worry. But I– Well, I can't. I know I should trust him but I can't. Not now, not with this. There's just too much to lose here." He takes a deep breath, eyes cast to his palms. "Bee-eff of the fucking year."

He's not sure what he hopes to hear. That he's overreacting? That he did fuck up and doesn't deserve so much as a glance from Cas, let alone his love? But Sam doesn't say either of these things.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, instead.

"What?" Dean grunts, taken aback. "What does that–?"

"Do you?" Sam insists.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, I do. Now," he adds seriously.

"Did you always?"

What kind of fucking question is this, coming from a guy who betrayed him for a demon. Dean grinds his teeth. He hates himself for bringing that up, after all this time. Even if only in his thoughts.

"Enough, Sam," he hisses. "What are you trying to prove?"

"Well, exactly," he states simply, as if he's already proved whatever it is. He doesn't even look hurt. Seeing the lack of comprehension on Dean's face, he continues. "And I don't always trust you. After you let Gadreel inside my body I thought I would never be able to trust you again. Even as we kept working together, even when we sent the angels back. The truth is, if we didn't get out of the life, if I didn't move out–"

"So you're saying I should move out without Cas?" Dean questions. "Or should I be happy he's left? Which is it?"

"N– what? No, that's not what I said!" Slightly annoyed by his brother's, apparently stupid, questions, he pushes a hand through his messy hair and tries again, the Winchester history with annotations. "What I'm saying is that the three of us have been through a lot of shit and that at times we really hurt one another. Sure, we did all of it for what we believed were the right reasons, but that doesn't change the outcome. Maybe we're all just not that trustworthy."

Dean blinks at him, trying to figure out if this time he got it right, because he's not sure that the lesson Sam has just given him was the one the guy wanted to teach.

"Wow that was really fucking helpful," Dean snarls, the tension in his belly tugging even stronger at his insides. "Amazing pep talk."

What was that? Some bullshit absolution for his lack of trust? He doesn't need that. He needs fucking facts, and only Cas can give provide them.

"You should publish a book or something, Sammy," he adds, fetching the phone of the table and leaving the room.

"Pick the fucking phone," Dean growls into the phone as the dial tone beeps in the speaker.

He swears loud and ends the call before it sends him to the voicemail. As he's about to hit redial, the phone buzzes in his palm, Cas's grin appears on the screen above his name.

"Dean," the man's voice purrs into Dean's ear and Dean breathes out the air he's been holding. "How do you feel?"

The relief is, however, only momentary, it gives way to the anger that has pent up inside him.

"I'm fucking peachy."

He can practically hear Cas frown through the phone. "Did you take the Aspirin? I left it for you on the nightstand."

"I did, thanks," Dean spits. He enters the bedroom as he says it, turns the nightlight on. The handwritten note is lying where he left it. "Some caring boyfriend you are."

He doesn't want this phone call to be this way, he really doesn't. Not if it might as well be their last one. But he can't help it: the hurt, the betrayal, they're no longer his imagination. All the feelings that have built up to this point, finally get their time to shine.

"Is– is everything okay? How far are you?"

Cas still playing dumb doesn't really help Dean contol his voice.

"Oh, not far. You?"

"I–?" The question surprises Cas. This one he didn't foresee in his little plan, did he?

"What?" Dean chirps melodically, slumping on the bed. "You're not gonna tell me you're on your way home? Got lost somewhere for almost an hour?"

"Dean, I'm–" he still tries but then he must begin to realize that he's not gonna get out of this one. "You haven't left yet, have you?" he asks, resigned.

"Bingo," Dean mocks. "We haven't. And we're not leaving, at all. Sorry to ruin your grand scheme."

Cas doesn't have a risposte to that. As he goes quiet, other sounds get through to Dean. People talking, the sound of the engine, the cars passing by. He's on a bus, putting the distance, literal distance, between them. Dean chastises his stupid head for resending the alarm signal to every part of his body. What else did he expect?

"What, you lost your tongue? No more excuses prepared for me?"

Cas's breath hisses in the speaker and for a moment Dean's sure he's got another lie coming his way.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas says lowly. Dean lifts his eyebrows. "I need you to know I wasn't trying to deceive you."

Dean hides face in his palm. "Then what? Maybe you just, I don't know, didn't want to worry me?" He gives out a humorless chuckle. "Because, guess what, you fucking did."

"Yes, that," Cas admits like he didn't hear the other part. "And I also knew you wouldn't let me go otherwise."

"Let you–" He wheezes in a sharp breath. "Of course I wouldn't let you go!"

Though maybe I should, he wants to add, but the words get clogged in his throat. They spill like toxic waste down his airways and swell in his bronchi and lungs into rocks. But Dean couldn't care less about suffocating, that kind of death would have been gentler. He doesn't need every last cell in him yelling its come backs to know that if he spat all of his hurt out, he wouldn't be able to live with the consequences.

"Dean, if I can just expl–"

"I know what you're doing!" Dean bellows into the speaker, before the rest of Cas's words spill out.

It shuts Cas up and yet again Dean's faced with silence. Before Cas speaks again, careful, "What am I doing?"

He's testing him, feeling for how deep in trouble he is. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. He'd much rather hear it all from Cas so he can no longer treat him to some bullshit red herring. But Cas remains quiet, awaiting his answer.

"Where are you going?" Dean asks, instead. "I'll catch you there."

He sounds desperate but he doesn't care anymore. If this is his last chance to return Cas from his destructive path, he'll do whatever it takes.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Cas repeats the question, calmer, like he's assumed Dean's bluffing.

"You're tracking your grace."

There, he said it. And through the phone he has no damn chance of convincing Cas to change his mind. If he could be there, look him in the eyes, if he could touch him, kneel, beg, maybe Cas would understand that's not the right way. Or maybe he'd at least take pity on him and listen.

But now all Dean's got is words. Or not even that. Before he can get out one, Cas laughs softly. A relief, rather than a ridicule.

"I'm not," he says, simply.

"Don't lie."

"Dean, I'm not tracking my–" he pauses, then quieter, as if afraid of being overheard by other passengers, he repeats, "I'm not looking for it. Where'd you even get that idea?"

Dean doesn't answer. If this one time, somehow, Cas isn't lying – if he hasn't lied, really lied, before– If there's a chance for that, maybe Dean should leave them a leeway to lead them home instead of going all in.

Cas reads from his silence.

"Did you go to–?"

"The vial," Dean cuts in before the question forces him to be a liar too. "It was missing from your drawer. I noticed, sorting laundry."

"It's in my room."

"Yeah–" he pauses, nearly spilling out the 'I know.' "Okay."

Dean wishes he didn't drink the entire water from the glass. He could use some right now.

"Then what are you doing? Where are you going? Why now?" he starts sputtering out the questions. "Is it because I was nagging you about moving out? Or is it something else I did?"

"No," Cas starts from the end. "It's not about you, I mean, it is, but not about what you did. It's because of who you are to me."

Damsel in distress, Dean thinks bitterly, but he stays quiet and waits for Cas to go on.

"Remember when I told you it's a good thing? That it's not dangerous?" Cas is back to the same damn arguments from these past days.

Dean scratches his temple. "You and I might have different definitions of 'dangerous.'"

Cas chuckles. "Then what's the definition of 'nothing bad will happen to me?"

"That would be 'I'm coming back,'" he supplies, quietly, vulnerable.

He doesn't share the brief spur of Cas's good mood. Maybe if he knew, he'd have a reason to chuckles as well over their little quip.

"How about 'I'm coming back tomorrow night?'" Cas offers, his voice still light.

Dean blinks. "Really?"

He doesn't let down his guard yet.

"Yes," Cas answers quickly.

"Huh, do you want me to pick you up?"

"That'd be great. Reggie wouldn't have to drive alone in the middle of the night."

Oh, so he involved a teenage girl into his intrigues, but not a peep for Dean.

"You sound surprised," Cas comments. "What did you think?"

Frankly, Dean doesn't know what he thought. His darkest scenario that wrapped itself around his neck like a deadly scarf, has promised him the rest of forever without Cas. The more reasonable ideas that still counted two plus two as four, assumed a few days, at least. Until the end of the brotherly road trip.

"Nevermind," he mutters, finally feeling like the heavy mass inside his stomach begins to thaw.

"Can you trust me, Dean?" he pleads, voice lowered. "This one time, please."

He wants to, he really wants to trust. Believe that Cas knows what he's doing. That he's not needlessly reckless, that he doesn't put Dean's life and health over his own.

"Do I really have a choice?" he says into the speaker. A corner of his mouth lifts the tiniest bit. "Just be careful, please," he adds and just before they're about to say their goodbyes, he adds, "Oh, and fair warning: if you don't come back and your body turns up dead somewhere, I swear to God, I'll do something incredibly stupid to bring you back and kick your ass and you'll feel bad about making me do it."

Cas huffs out a laugh. "Noted," he confirms. "I love you."

"I love you too."

It doesn't get easier after that, but this time Dean is trying. He promised Cas that he would trust him, but he never realized trusting is such a hard work. And he's got too much time to kill without having all his old and new scenarios replaying in his head like a home cinema.

He begins with apologizing to Sam for his outburst, although that he probably took from the twelve steps program.

"Forget it, Dean," Sam says. "Honestly, I'm not sure myself what I was trying to accomplish."

"You wanted to help," Dean replies, handing Sam the gamepad. "Honestly, this weekend Cas shortened my lifespan like two years, at least," he jokes.

Their fingers start a frantic dance on the keys as they try to finish each other's players out.

"I worry about him too, you know," Sam confesses. "And about you. And about you and Cas," he adds with a smile. He follows with a chuckle. "And I'm gonna be a lawyer on top of all that, so you really don't want to start a bid here."

Dean joins him with a soundless laugh and elbows him to the side. Sam takes revenge as his bearguy suckerpunches Dean's enchantress.

"Oh dude, the game is on," Dean roars and ends up popping out a button in his gamepad in the eleventh round.

The next part of trusting is harder. He might generally suck at words, but he sucks at self-control even more. He takes that damned pickset first, then walks over to his bed. He lifts the mattress and pulls out the folder of files about angels he stole from Cas's room.

In the files there's everything they've ever found out about the angels and so much more that they will hopefully never need. But it's not the angels that Dean's interested in. It's whether it's this book that gave Cas his secret ideas, or whether he'd need to go through rune and every other squiggle collected in that room.

But he's not gonna look for that answer. He's already tried and it didn't really end all that well. He keeps the folder tightly shut under his arms as he picks Cas's lock again. This time most of the guilt is just the aftertaste. He puts the folder where he found it, or at least where he believes he did. He was quite drunk, after all.

He doesn't let his eyes stray off track and search for other damning titles. Maybe except for that briefest glance he sends to the nightstand drawer. He nearly runs out of the room, not to give in to temptation. He throws the etui on his bed, dusts off his hands and goes to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

But the hardest turns out to be the evening. Not that he didn't expect it to be. Normally at the foresight of any trouble with sleep, he'd reach for the bottle. He's pretty sure there's still some of that Jack left. But it kind of feels like going to bed sober is a part of the deal. Jumping back to a habit he managed to leave behind seems to be the opposite of trust.

He crawls on top of the mattress and rolls over to Cas's side. He drags his own pillow with him, he wouldn't be able to sleep on Cas's freaking pancake. Cas's side of bed smells of his favorite shower gel. And of Cas.

He nuzzles his nose to Cas's sheets and leaves the nightlight on. Still, as he closes his eyes, his mind can't help to wander to all the places Dean shouldn't let it. There's a particularly gruesome idea, involving Cas's body dumped in a dumpster, displaying in his head, when his phone vibrates on Cas's nightstand.

Dean's hand shoots to the device at the hope of Cas's voice on the other side, but it's just a text message.

I hope you had a nice day, Dean. Just to spare you further worrying, 'the thing' is done and all is good. You can now sleep well. Love, Cas.

He reads the text three times, before he tries to decide whether he should feel the relief or let the concern consume him whole. He'd much rather hear Cas's voice saying the same words, to know if it even is Cas and not someone pretending to be him.

There must be a reason Cas texted not called, so instead of hitting dial right away, Dean types: Can I call u? and presses send.

I'll call you tomorrow, he gets in an answer.

He bites his lower lip and puts the phone back on the nightstand. He falls asleep breathing in Cas's smell, but it doesn't bring him dreams any better than the night before.

The next day, Cas calls Dean way past noon, when Dean's on his way to the store. Knowing Cas, he didn't really think through the small details, like food, when he planned the trip, focusing on the more important stuff like tricking Dean into letting him slip out. Dean stops mid-step and yanks the phone out with the first buzz.

"Hi, Cas," he greets him and holds his breath for a beat, anxious that Cas's voice will be replaced by something unrecognizable.

"Dean," Cas replies and it's undeniably him, his voice a little lower, coarse as though he's had no one to talk to since yesterday.

It's so good to hear him Dean can't help a small smile creeping on his face.

"How do you feel after yesterday's, huh, what was it again you were doing?" he asks, knowing it won't work, but it can't hurt either.

"Nice try, Dean," Cas grunts, amused. "And I'm good. How have you been?"

Dean snorts. Sure, he's the one to be worried about here. He sighs and takes a seat on a bench in the shade of a pine.

"Okay, kinda boring without you moping around. Sam broke my gamepad so I'm calling dibs on yours," he jokes. "You'll be fine without the x, right?"

"You can't call dibs on it, it's already mine," Cas whines on the other end of the line. "You were the one who broke it, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Dean admits.

There's still something wrong with his voice, even as they keep chatting about unimportant things. His normal gravel timbre has gained a rusty nail and sandpaper quality to it. Some of the sounds that come out of his throat are grating even filtered through the phone speaker.

And it's not just the voice. It's the way pattern, too, the pauses between the words, the grunts as if he strained himself just moving around. Maybe he's just tired, a little ruffled up after whatever he did yesterday.

"Are you sick, Cas?" Dean asks, finally.

If Cas denies or refuses to give him the answer, or better yet, if he rasps out a 'don't worry,' Dean's gonna find a way to punch him through the microphone.

Luckily for him, Cas gives him a semi-straight answer for once. "You mean my throat? Yeah. It's been raining all day yesterday."

"I'll come get you," Dean offers. "You didn't mention your train's here at three in the morning."

"I'm pretty certain I used words 'middle of the night,'" he argues.

It takes a little more convincing until Cas agrees to be picked up at the motel in the evening. He still has something to do, he says, just when Dean thought the rough part was over.

"Out of the two of us, I think it's you who watches too much TV," Cas tells him, a propos of nothing.

"It's called vivid imagination," Dean replies. "And experience, too, unfortunately."

"This part doesn't even have anything to do with me, I swear."

Which only means the first did and Cas admits it, at last.

"Can I ask you something, Cas?"

"Of course."

Dean takes a deep breath, nearly backs out, but he needs to know. And now, before he stands with him face to face.

"Cas, are you–?" he trails off, leaves the rest for Cas to guess.

"Alive?" Cas asks, amused. "Yes, I am."

"Human," Dean whispers.

"Yes," Cas answers without hesitation. "Would I sound like crap if I wasn't?" he jokes, lightly, but more serious adds, "And when we meet this evening, I'll still be human."

Dean nods before he remembers Cas can't see him. "Good."

"I'd still stay," Cas says so softly even the rust disappears from his voice, "you know that, Dean, right? If I wasn't human, I'd still stay with you."

"I know, Cas. I know."

When Dean drives into the motel's parking lot, Cas is already waiting on the bench with the duffel bag sitting beside him. He's wrapped tight in a coat, head hung low, but as the headlights grace his form, he lifts a hand to wave at the man behind the windshield. Dean turns the car to the left and pulls it to a halt a few feet away from Cas.

He doesn't try to hold back a wide grin when he sees Cas safe and sound. He leans to the passenger door and opens them for him, yet still jumps out of the car before Cas scrambles himself off the bench. The guy's moves are a little sluggish, as if he stayed up all day and all night and just now started crashing.

"Hey, shifty," Dean greets him, resting his elbows on the roof of the car, as he waits for the guy to get in.

Cas grunts a hello with his changed voice, smiling softly at Dean above the car before slumping heavily on the front seat. Dean bends down to join him, he slips into his spot as Cas wraps the edges of his black coat around his body. The duffel finds its place on his lap like a treasure.

Dean turns the heating up and flips the light on to inspect Cas. The yellow glow paints the circles underneath his eyes darker than the moonlight did, but they're only that, marks of exhaustion on his ashen skin, not black and blue bruises, cuts and fractures from a fight. Good. Fighting doesn't really fall into the category of non-dangerous activities.

Dean's fingers itch to turn the light off, to let Cas's face sink again in the gentle blue. Instead, he reaches out to his cheek, thumbs the prickling stubble along his jaw. The corners of Cas's lips curl up in a tired smile.

"Not to be an asshole, but you look like crap," Dean informs him, in case he didn't realize.

Cas huffs out something akin to a laugh. "Thanks."

"How bad is it?" Dean questions, still examining his face, as if he could read off it anything more than tiredness.

Cas doesn't move under Dean's tender touch, doesn't shift away as his fingers climb up his cheekbone, brush off the locks of hair on his temple and reach his forehead. The palm remains there for a moment, checking the temperature.

"I think you have a slight fever," Dean decides, though he can't say for sure.

"It's not bad," Cas croaks, successfully undermining his own words as he says them. He lowers his voice. "Just tired. I need some rest, warm bed. You."

It already seems a little bit better than a few hours ago, unless it was the phone's speaker that turned Cas's sweet timbre so grating. He sounds now like Dean used to after every good concert. Some hot tea with honey and he'll be fine.

Dean laughs. "Oh yeah, c'mere, Dean Winchester's the best cure for anything," he announces.

He flips the light off and brings hands back to the steering wheel. As they sink in the momentary darkness, so does Dean's heart sink. There are only so many applicable situations that require enough screaming to render one half-mute, and no concert calls for this much secrecy.

"When you texted last night, was it because you couldn't speak?" he asks, as they begin to roll off the parking lot.

"Partially," Cas admits, but doesn't elaborate.

"And the other part?" Dean inquires. "You had company or what?"

Cas turns his face away, to the trees passing behind the window.

"I thought this is gonna be the end of it, Cas."

"Can we wait 'til we're home?" Cas proposes.

This, at least, begins to sound like a set deadline. Three and some hours away. Dean nods.

"Okay," he mutters with a little reluctance. "Then how about this: why Omaha?"

Cas sighs. "Are we going to do this all the way home?"

"Depends," Dean answers and takes the turn left. "So?"

"Omaha is halfway to Sioux Falls."

Dean's head snaps to the man. "Sioux Falls?"

"Claire," he answers plainly.

Dean's eyes widen for a second. "Claire?" he echoes. "What did you need Claire for?"

Cas takes his time unbuttoning his coat, as if the car warmed up to a hundred degree within a minute.

"She was my assistant and advisor," he says, at last, pushing hair out of his eyes. "The phone call that concerned you so much last week, it was Claire."

"Then why'd you delete it from the history?" Dean blurts, before he can think it through.

Oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Next time he combs through his boyfriend's phone, he probably shouldn't confess to it.

But Cas just shrugs. "If you knew it was her, you'd keep nagging her until she yielded."

Dean purses his lips. It's true, he totally would do that.

"It was hard enough for me to keep this from you," Cas admits, still without mentioning his crime. "That's why I hid Claire's involvement and didn't tell Sam either, though it would be much easier to coordinate it with him–"

"It's a brave assumption that Sam would support you in this," Dean chimes in.

"That's true. I don't know if he'd support me on every step," he agrees.

"But Claire did?"

"Yes."

"Huh."

They drive in silence for a while, Dean chews on the revelations. Claire's still a kid and reckless adventures might seem exciting, especially if Cas sold her all that romantic crap about protection. Her approval isn't end all to Dean's concerns.

He's still got questions: why was she here? What was her role as an assistant? But he refuses to hear half-assed explanations, in which Cas maneuvers around the main topic. Instead, Dean turns on the music. An upbeat sound of the poppy love song floods the car, flowing through the speakers straight from Cas's iPod. It's as good a thing as any to fill the strange air between them.

Dean takes eyes off the road ever so often to glance at Cas's profile, blueish in the light of the fool moon. The corner of his lips pulls up as the song goes into the chorus, but with his voice at the risk of disappearing for good, he can't allow them much more than a quiver, where the words are supposed to start flowing, where the high parts should hit the dangerously off-key notes.

Tonight, Dean will have to fill in for him. His mouth follows the words. His perfect knowledge of lyrics, obviously, does not come from the fondness for the song but the number of times he's heard it, of course. Everyone would learn the stupidly simple words eventually. And the ability to synchronize them with Cas has definitely been an extra point.

His hands bang against the wheel to the drumbeat. He's not the best singer, himself, but he's certainly an unabashed one. His lone struggle against the singer's high-pitched solos earns him a chuckle from Cas. The bridge, at last, has got him swaying lightly to the sides, his legs bouncing up and down to the rhythm.

Dean throws his palm up in the air for a truly horrible finale that hits closer to gnawing of a lonely werewolf than to an actual note of the song. But that doesn't matter for shit, when the car fills with Cas's laughter and the song on the iPod shuffles for a Mumford and Sons wannabe.

Cas's face glows, the beam drowns out the shadowy circles that marred his image. There's only the crow's feet surrounding his eyes, all the lovely laughing lines he's earned like trophies throughout his human years.

Dean reciprocates the smile Cas sends him, and pushes his free hand into Cas's hair, runs it through his messy locks, then slips it lower, his thumb caresses his hairy cheek in the best proxy of a kiss Dean's capable of while driving. His fingers tuck a dark strand behind his ear, fingertips graze the soft skin as they slide towards his neck.

Cas jerks away from his touch, as if Dean drove a pin through his skin. Not sure what happened, Dean pulls his hand back to the wheel, looks to Cas shily.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"No," Cas answers. "Sorry."

"S'okay," Dean murmurs, but he doesn't dare to reach out to him for now.

He fixes his eyes on the road ahead, until something else doesn't catch his attention, a dark smudge on his fingernail. He inspects it for a moment, a liquid, black in the moonlight. He knows it too well. He turns to Cas just to catch him trying to wipe the black trail with his palm. It streams down his neck from behind his ear and doesn't seem to stop.

The Impala swerves dangerously, as Dean's hand shoots to Cas's neck, his face no longer alight. He touches the wet trail, before Cas can shoo it away.

"What the fuck, Cas?"

The tips of his fingers come away wet. He inspects the liquid, rubbing at the fingers together until the shade starts to resemble red.

"It's nothing, I just nipped myself," Cas tries to explain. He pulls a rag out of his jacket and presses it to the skin behind his ear.

Dean points to his stubble. "Oh, you nipped yourself while not-shaving? Behind your ear?" He throws his stained hand up, the other hand steers the car to the roadside where he pulls to a stop. "Cas, what the fuck did you do?"

He turns his whole body to the man once they're safely parked. Cas still presses the rag to the source of blood, his body presses back to the door.

"It's just a minor cut, you ripped off the scab."

"Stop making an idiot out of me, Cas!" Dean no longer tries to lower his voice. He can't, not with his stomach revolting and his lungs forgetting how to pump the air in and out.

He knows what it is, he's seen it on an illustration only two days ago. Exact same spot, on the neck behind the ear, a long, silver needle piercing through the skin, sliding into the skull.

"You've got it here, don't you?"

He grabs the duffel and shifts it to his lap before Cas can react. He slides the zipper, pushes the clothes away. He doesn't have to search long, the leather feels distinct under his fingertips.

Cas's lips move a little, but no sound comes out. His eyes, wide, stare at Dean's hands as he pulls the wrapping out.

"Dean, don't," Cas begs, but it's too late.

The syringe rolls onto Dean's open palm, the mix of steel and glass, huge as far as syringes go, with even bigger needle. Dean's heart nearly stops. He liked it better when it was just a drawing.

"The grace sucker syringe, am I right?" he drawls the words through his clenched teeth. "What did you use it for? Seeing if you've still got some juice in you? If you're maybe not really just a hairless monkey?"

"Dean, please," Cas warns, instead of giving him an explanation.

"What are you gonna use it for? Tracking the rest of it?"

Cas shakes his head. "I already told you, I'm not looking for it," he gives out a guttural growl.

Before Dean can react, the door behind Cas opens with a click and the man jumps out of the car with little grace. He shuts the door behind him.

"Great, run away!" Dean yells after him, reaching for his own handle.

But Cas doesn't run away, not far, at least. A few feet away from the car he stands with his shoes in the wet grass. He's turned away from Dean, head thrown back, face to the sky, hands embracing his head, fingers twisted into his hair.

Dean doesn't grab him by his shoulder, even though he wants to. He doesn't turn him around, though his fingers itch to bite into his lapels and force him to look Dean in the eye and tell the whole, goddamned truth. Instead, Dean stands a foot behind him, trying to control the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders as his lungs catch up to their quota. His palms curl into fists, he forces his arms to stay at his sides.

"I would tell you at home. I said I would," Cas says, voice hushed. He lets his hands and his face down. Dark smears of blood still mark his neck. "Not like this."

"Tell me what?" Dean demands, his voice not as loud now, as the initial wave of shock and anger slowly wash away. He still shifts his weight back and forth, as he awaits Cas's answer. "Tell me what, Cas?" he repeats when he doesn't get any.

"Why couldn't you just trust me?"

"Cas–"

The man takes a deep breath. "You missed with all of your guesses," he starts. "I knew, I had known from the start that I've residue of my grace inside me. And–" Finally, he turns to Dean but Dean wishes he hadn't, not with that disappointed look in his eyes. "It's like you didn't even listen to me. Did you? How many times did I tell you I am not looking for my grace? I don't want it back."

"Then what, Cas? What is it?" Dean takes a step forward, throwing hands to the sides. "Give me something, because I'm drawing blanks here."

He's still holding the fucking thing that mocks him with its silver glint at the sharp end of the needle.

"What else is worth piercing your freaking brain?"

"You are!" Cas bellows, his voice cracking, his eyes drilling into Dean.

Dean's stomach revolts, squeezed tight. This is too much. His fist clenches around the glass cylinder and he hopes to God this is the celestial superglass, or else he's gonna end up with each muscle in his palm sliced into ribbons, he cannot loosen his grip.

"This is fucked up, Cas, and you know it!"

He wants to yank away when Cas comes close to him, wraps his palm around Dean's wrist. But he can't move.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Cas says, quietly, prying Dean's fingers open one by one and plucking the tool from his hand. "You weren't supposed to be this angry."

"How am I supposed to not be angry, Cas?" he pleads now, more than shouts. He can't do shit like that and tell him it's for him and then expect him to smile and be merry.

Cas holds the syringe between his fingers, eyes fixed on it. Dean suspects he's gonna drop it to the ground and try to smash it with the sole of his sneakers. Dean's help him, gladly. But instead, Cas rests the thing on the top of the Impala's trunk.

"It wasn't that dangerous. And it wasn't even the brain," he explains. "A minor procedure, really."

"You tore your throat raw, screaming."

"I caught a cold, Dean," he reminds him.

Dean rubs his face with his palms, unsure which version he's supposed to believe. Could it be that after all this, he's the one overreacting here?

"Can we, please, go home now?"

Dean crosses his arms on his chest, heels dig into the ground. "No, you're gonna tell me now. I've waited and worried about you long enough."

Cas gives out an annoyed growl, throwing his hands up and lifting his eyes up to the high heavens. Dean's both eyebrows ride up to his hairline at the reaction.

"Okay, I'll tell you now," he capitulates. "But it can't happen like this."

"Happen?" Dean echoes, confused.

"You have to do something for me, please, stop being pissed and worried, just, stop this." He flails his hand in Dean's direction. "I can't do it when you're pissed at me. I'm already angry at myself for all this. This is not at all how I planned it."

Dean stares at Cas like he's zipped down his skin to reveal an alien hiding inside.

"Cas, start talking with sense and maybe I'll worry a bit less, huh?"

"Alright." Cas takes a breath and puts both hands on Dean's shoulders. "Do you love me, Dean?"

Dean tips his head back, surprised. "Duh, f'course I do. I wouldn't be going out of my mind with worry if I d—"

Cas cuts his ramble off with a kiss and that's not concerning at all. The kiss is deep and sweet, his palm warm on the nape of Dean's neck.

"Oh God, you're dying, aren't you?"

"What? I'm not dying. Dean, get yourself together." Cas shakes his head, then finally begins his explanations. "It started really simply, you know. You might have been right about my romantic comedies," he takes his palms off Dean to sign the quotation marks in the air, "turning me into a girl. At least in the figurative manner you had in mind."

Dean furrows his brow. This has become one of the most confusing and emotionally demanding conversations he's ever had the doubtful pleasure of being involved in. At least, the whole weirdness of it thawed away his anger, leaving only confusion in its wake.

"Wait, you tried to pull a rom-com on me? Would explain the miscommunication, but it doesn't explain what's going on here."

"Let me finish." Cas steps away. "It had nothing to do with all this, at first. But then you kept going on and on about moving out and I knew I'd have no choice but to agree eventually. So I found a way to protect you, which required a little bit of the residual grace that settled inside me, but is completely useless."

"Oh, so it's my fault you had to stab yourself in the brain."

"I already told you it wasn't the brain, Dean. Don't be dramatic." Cas rolls his eyes.

"I am dramatic?" Dean throws his hands in the air, which might be undermining his words, but he couldn't care less about it at the moment. "You're the one sneaking out, dragging two teenaged girls into your schemes and coming back looking like death. And you call me dramatic?"

"Dean, will you listen to what I have to say to you?"

Dean presses his lips into a thin line and nods.

"That's better. And please, let me get to the end."

Cas takes another step back, runs fingers through his bangs to swipe it to the side.

"Frankly, I should be the one stressed here," he begins, pulling down at the hem of his jacket. "Just so you know, there were supposed to be candles," Cas says, reaching to the pocket. He unzips it and pulls a small object out of it, encloses it in his palm. "And your favorite kind of whiskey, the one you discovered and drank the other night," he keeps listing. "And rhubarb pie. And I was in the middle of composing a short speech too, but I'm going to have to improvise, so—"

He's back in Dean's personal space, so close Dean'd have to take a few steps back with anyone other than Cas. With Cas, he freezes, sunken in his eyes, their determination and the same curious admiration that's been there for as long as Dean can remember. Cas pushes his empty hand into his, thumb brushes along his fingers. His lips part, but no words come out. Cas tilts his head, his eyes slip from Dean's eyes to his mouth and back up. He tries again, but he looks like he's a moment away from choking on too many words he wants to say at once.

Dean lifts his free hand to Cas's dumbstruck face. His palm cups Cas's cheek, thumb rubs along his cheekbone.

"You've never sucked this bad at improvising," he mutters, softly and Cas smiles. "Just get to the point."

"You're just so much, Dean," he says, shifting back. "You're too much and it's so hard to believe you used to be nothing but another mission to me, and you were so fucking stubborn."

Dean beams at that, but as Cas continues the brief rehash of their biggest hits, his face begins to fall.

"No," he murmurs, to himself at first. "No, no."

"You dragged me down from Heaven," Cas continues, ignoring the slowly growing panic in Dean. "I couldn't be more thankful for it."

"Nope, Cas, come on, don't—"

And then Cas drops to his fucking knee right before Dean. In wet grass, he kneels and smiles, eyes fixed on Dean. And Dean can't fucking breathe.

"Dean Winchester," he begins and Dean wants to grab the lapels of his jacket and yank him up. But he stands there, frozen, staring at Cas and at the silver glint of the ring lying on his outstretched palm. And he knows the words that'll come next, before Cas says them. "Will you marry me?"

That is too much. Dean gasps for air, throwing his hand behind himself. He takes a few steps back, from where Cas kneels in the grass and dirt, to where the Impala offers its hood to lean on. His hand meets the cold metal and he swings his whole body against her, hoping he won't collapse. He holds on to her frame, fingers white from the pressure, as he stares, wide-eyed, at Cas's form, at his face that dares not move an inch.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean mutters for the lack of better words, runs his palm down his face. He's being an asshole with his tightened stomach and his light head put before Cas, with his jeans soaking through, gravel biting into his knee.

It cannot be longer than a few seconds, though it stretches like minutes. Cas's eyes, hopeful, sink to the ground, but his frame remains still. The ring has got a blue-ish glow to it, that might just be the moonlight. Or the nuclear power plant entrapped in a piece of silver; a part of Cas.

Both their hearts beat unsteady, nearly audible in the quiet of the night and they count down the time Dean's got left before it all goes to hell. Cas isn't gonna wait forever for his stupid ass to do something, anything; to say yes, or say no, laugh at Cas just to laugh it off. The choice is his and he has to make it now.

He pushes himself off the car, stands tall, even though his knees are made of cotton.

The truth is, he really does not have a choice.

"Come on, Cas." He waves his hand in an upward gesture for Cas to follow, as he fails to bite down the nervous giggle. He clears his throat in attempt at covering it. "Get up."

"Oh." Cas's raised hand falls, his shoulders slump.

"No, Cas, that's—" Dean rushes to correct. He reaches down to help Cas stand up. "I didn't mean— This is just ridiculous, alright?"

Cas's shoulders shake in a soundless chuckle devoid of humor.

"You're right," he breathes, "this is stupid, I don't know what I was thinking." Cas lifts his hand, the ring held between his thumb and index finger. "I still want you to have this. It'll hide you and protect you from pretty much everything supernatural."

All this for a protective engagement ring. He takes it from Cas and rolls it in his palm to take a good look at it. From the distance he couldn't see the engravings, covering both outer and inner sides of the silver ring. They're part enochian, part something Dean doesn't recognize. But he doesn't need to understand them to feel the power coming from the ring. It emanates from the cool metal, buzzes against Dean's skin.

Cas watches Dean's moves carefully, as he slides the band on his ring finger. The moment it settles at the base of his finger, it's like a lightning struck him and electrified his body. But he's still standing and it wears off as quick as it came, reduced to the gentlest tingling pulsation.

The shock must have shown on his face, though, because Cas's hands are on both sides on his face, eyes inspecting him.

"Uh, it sure is powered up," Dean mutters rubbing his thumb on the source of the foreign sensation.

"Let me know if you feel dizzy or get a burning sensation," Cas says and Dean's face pulls into a grimace. "I'm joking." Cas grins.

"And what about you? Tell me it's got like a wide coverage or something?"

"Something like that," Cas answers, dropping his palms and he passes Dean on his way towards the car.

"Cas, wait!" Dean grabs his sleeve. "I didn't actually give you an answer."

"I assumed you did."

"You assumed wrong," he says, feeling like an ass for his panic that led Cas to believe his answer was 'no.' He lifts his palm, the on with the ring, to Cas's cheek. "I don't remember saying I'd marry you."

Cas looks at him surprised, at first, then his entire face brightens up. "You will?"

"Yeah, if that's what you want." Dean holds back a shrug. He's not really big on wedding, or rather on the institution of marriage. Maybe because it never concerned him, he never thought it would. "I just didn't know we needed that. I mean, how would it change anything between us? Weddings aren't for people like us, what, you wanna stand in a city hall or a church and say vows and all?"

"Aren't we civilians?" Cas asks and Dean doesn't have a riposte to that. Isn't that what he's been nagging Cas about? White fence, barbecues and all that soccer mom jazz? "Unless you mean that we're both male, in which case it is currently legal for two men to marry in the United States."

"Cas, we are illegal. I've died like three times. You— you don't even have the last name."

"I believe, traditionally, the spouses share the last name."

Dean doesn't have a heart to remind him he needs to have the last name in the first place to be able to change it for the spouse's. Not now when he's just asked Dean to give him his last name. They'll figure something out. He'll be Cas Smith or Cas Novak or Cas Angel, it's not like it'll matter. It'll only be for a few minutes, before–

"Cas Winchester," he says, pursed lips, his arm around Cas. "It does have a nice ring to it."

Engagement. Fucking engagement. Over a week of weirding Dean out and his heart bracing itself for the ultimate suckerpunch. Cas is so getting that intervention. And yer, there Dean is, planning the details of the wedding already. This has gotta be some wacky dream. Though, if it is, he doesn't want to wake up from it.

"It does," Cas admits, pressing a kiss to Dean's jaw.

Before he tries to slip away, get back to the car, Dean wraps his fingers around the front of his coat and keeps him in place. He fingers find his jaw, steer his warm lips to his.

He doesn't let Cas take control. He pushes against him, until he's got him pinned between the car and his body. His fingers sink into Cas's hair, careful not to open the small wound this time, as he deepens the kiss. It's hungry and full of adoration and shows Cas everything he's failed to show him in the days leading to this moment.

"I love you, Cas" he purrs against his mouth, against his jaw, against his temples that burn with growing fever.

"Love you," Cas returns as the first drops of rain fall on his face and trail down to their joined lips.

They don't break the kiss, until single droplets don't turn into rush of water that threatens with a real outpour.

"Is this fuckng for real?" Dean mutters, pushing Cas into the car, not to let him get more sick than he already is. On Dean's face blooms a wide, bright smile.

"It's like our first kiss," Cas reminds him, finding his lips again as soon as Dean enters the car.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but when the vision of Cas leaving slips into his head, he pushes it away. "But this is better," he says. "This time you're not leaving."

"I'm not. I'm staying," Cas replies, his words, the right words, echo the old promise. "For as long as you'll have me."

Dean finds his palm, interlocks their fingers like they did back then, on the airport, with Sammy's plane disappearing behind the cloud.

"You sure? Because if so, then you're stuck with me for good."