Dean's heard some voices coming from the hall. So he knows it's Castiel behind whose back the door close softly. Besides, Sam wouldn't have ventured into his room, not anymore. He's not that… the correct word would probably be stupid. Well, Cas either is or he's got a plan. Dean's very disinclined to find out what that is. He's too busy wanting and shaking. Lacking the object of his quite blatant desire is taking its toll on him faster than it did last time around and really – Dean doesn't have the willpower to waste on wondering about things that don't take him closer to his goal.
But it's Cas. Cas, who knows where the damn things is. Has it, maybe (oh, shitful God, make him have it here so he won't be begging for nothing). Something about him feels different. Different enough Dean wants to turn around to see and understand what it is. He thinks he even did, as if on command, considering how he can now distinguish Cas's outlines in the dark, and just a second ago he only saw the white dullness of his pillow. But here is where his initiative ends. The lock in the door turns, has them trapped. So a plan it apparently is, then. Dean's hand senses the blade before his brain does. He grips the sheets till his knuckles go white. His nostrils flare, his pupils dilate. Now he really can't let Cas leave. He's gotta do something to keep him here (thank fuck the door's locked; thank fuck Cas can't fly). He wants to get up and swallow the key, just in case, but something's got him pinned to the bed, timid and waiting. Trembling with apprehension.
Why did he come here with it?
Did he decide it's better if Dean has it?
Or,
or did the blade decide it's better if Dean has it?
Too many questions that require too many words. Dean doesn't have the luxury of those. Can't ask without giving himself away. If there still is something Cas doesn't know. Considering how miserable Dean's state is, there probably isn't. Which only makes Dean's why grow stronger, more insistent.
"Hi," he croaks instead, a less dangerous syllable for now.
"You haven't answered my texts," Cas says calmly.
"Been busy," Dean answers, making it up as he goes. "Saw Sam. He had an orange," he explains.
"I've spoken to Sam. That was six days ago. The message I've sent you, it's been almost two weeks," Cas sighs.
"Can't exactly blame me for failing to conceptualize time," Dean groans, defeated. "I mean, look at me. You've got your answer."
"It's bad, isn't it," he muses knowingly. As if he understood.
There is a chance that he does and the meaning behind it terrifies Dean shitless.
"What made you come here?" he asks, thinking: did you do something irredeemably stupid?
"Sam," Cas tells him and the wavering in his voice informs Dean that it's not entirely true.
"That's bullshit."
"Dean," Cas goes with the authoritative tone at its finest, but it has no effect on Dean.
"Why are you here, Cas? Don't you have a rabid little stray to look after?"
"Not my only stray," he deadpans. Particularly not funny, Dean thinks. "I'm here to help you."
"Yeah? And how are you gonna do that?"
"You once asked me to throw you into the sun," he says and it makes no sense to Dean. "I will."
The air shifts. He feels something heavy, thick, all-enveloping come out from its hiding. He understands. It's the same burning, metallic tang of need that keeps tormenting him. It's on Cas. In his voice, its velvety, low notes. In Cas. Oh, God. He did do something stupid.
"What have you done?" he sighs. "Damn it, Cas. He feels like an echo. And also like a liar. His body is thrilled with the hell-sent turn of events.
"I did what I had to do," Cas answers solemnly.
It's always that, isn't it
.