Dean wakes up the next morning to an empty bed. He's not concerned about it, because he knows that he and Castiel are different when it comes to sleeping in; he could sleep in until three in the afternoon, although Castiel wouldn't dare sleep past nine. Dean lazily drags himself out of bed and scuffs his feet to the bathroom, happy to notice that the feeling of walking normally has become easier.

Dean stands in front of the bathroom mirror, placing tired hands on the edges of the white granite counter.

He feels giddy.

Or maybe he's not giddy, maybe it's...euphoria?

He feels like he's got butterflies that are hatching babies in his stomach all the time, and he can't seem to make them go away. He feels disorganized with himself, because all of his euphoria is making him feel anxious, like his sense of well-being is endangered. And he's...exhausted. Why is he exhausted? He feels emotional and receptive. One minute he's this, one minute he's that — is he bipolar?

Are his testosterone levels dropping? Why doesn't he feel...manly?

He's confused. He's so confused. He's unsure of what's actually happening, or what's actually real. What is he feeling? He's going into emotional overdrive.

Jesus Christ.

Dean's gripped the edges of the countertop so hard that his fingers hurt, and they crack when Dean clenches his fists. He's so disoriented, he can't come to terms with himself—he feels like he's been taking a goddamn pre-calculus test all week long and he can't figure out whether the last question is a,b, or c. He feels a sense of panic.

But, he knows that he also feels so incredibly calm at the same time. He's serene. Not the calm before the storm, but the calm and the storm. All together, all at once.

What is this?

Dean clears his throat, and suddenly feels as if he can't swallow. His throat hurts suddenly, as if he had been snacking on rusty nails.

It can't be...I'm not...am I?

"No," Dean cracks his neck, "That's ridiculous."

He never felt this way with Lisa, not even when he actually liked her. With her, it was the constant reminder of all of his mistakes, all of his worst decisions were looking him right in the eye. Every lie, every deceit, every trick — it had slapped him straight across the face every day. Every damn day. Dean thought he could never forget that. He thought he could never forget the pain.

But he does. Castiel made him forget.

But—

But how?

Dean doesn't even realize he's sitting on the tiled floor until his phone starts ringing, letting his mind ease back into reality. He scrambles to the bedside drawer and flips it open. The metal presses cold and awakening to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey Dean, you busy?"

"Oh—" Dean takes a breath, "Hey Sam, uh, no I'm not."

"Just wanted to make sure I wasn't interrupting anything," Sam begins. Dean pauses and waits for Sam to get on with it. "Look, I just wanted to tell you that I think Lisa went back home. She left yesterday. Haven't seen any signs of her."

The wave of relief that washes over Dean is indescribable. "Hallelujah." He says calmly.

"Thought you might like that," Sam chuckles, "How's Cas?"

Dean sits down on the bed. "Downstairs. Man, the guy gets up at the crack o' dawn, and I don't know how he does it."

Sam laughs, but doesn't seem too interested. Dean can hear the slight intake of air that Sam breathes, like he's about to say something important.

"And how are you, Dean?"

Dean shrugs to himself. "You say that like I'm supposed to say something other than 'fine'."

"I've been hoping you'd say something other than 'fine' for a while now." Sam replies almost instantly, "I just want to know how you feel."

Dean becomes tense. Very tense. A sudden ache in his neck begins to bother him. What does Sam even mean?

"Well," Dean begins, "I'm pretty tired. Exhausted."

"You know that's not what I mean." Sam strains in annoyance. The other line is instantly quiet with the harsh tone of static. Dean pauses, swallowing roughly before taking a seat on the floor, his back pressing against the wooden cabinet and his head laying tilted to the side of the bed.

"I feel like I've been on a train ride," Dean starts, not even knowing where he's going or who's comprising the words coming out of his mouth, "A crowded train ride that's been going on for hours. Endless hours. My legs have been aching from standing too long, I've got some guy's sweaty armpit in my face and some lady's baby is crying behind me, and I've got some guy on a business call that won't stop yelling in my face,"

Dean inhales a sharp intake of air, gutting it down like it's a handful of nails. He raises a flat palm out in front of him and waves it in one slow arched movement.

"And all of a sudden," Dean blinks slowly, "A seat opens up. A plain, empty seat. One that's away from everyone, and I can just sit there by myself and not have to worry about a thing. Not have to worry about a sweaty armpit, or a crying baby, or a yelling asshole. Not a damn thing,"

Dean exhales as if he had been holding in his breath too long. Sam is silent again, and the familiar harsh static returns. Dean listens to the static for a while, trying to process what he said. He eventually hears Sam huff a small laugh.

"Alright, Dean," Sam takes a breath, "I get it."

"You do?" Dean asks, because he doesn't even know what he meant. He doesn't even understand himself.

"Yeah, I do. And it sounds like you've got a lot to think about," Sam laughs again. It somehow calms Dean down, "So I'm gonna' let you go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay." Dean says blankly, monotone and empty, "Bye, Sammy." He says, shutting the phone and staring faceless at the floor. And he rises to his feet slowly, without a single emotion emanating off him; he changes into fresh clothes, brushes his teeth, takes care of his hair and then plops back down onto the bed and stares at the ceiling as if he were counting stars.

He doesn't even think about anything. He just looks around. At the door, the hazelnut wood that matches perfectly with the oatmeal colored walls. He notices a painting of a pink and orange sunset that he never noticed before. He notices the shape of the light that the corner lamp illuminates on the wall, and how wierd of a shape it really is. He notices the way the sheets on the bed are sloppy, creases and folds everywhere. He notices Castiel's pillow, and the inverted ridge of where Castiel's head had been.

He notices how close he is to that pillow.

"Dean?! Are you awake?" Castiel shouts suddenly from downstairs.

"Uh, yeah—" Dean yells back, voice contorted and confused.

"Would you mind coming down for a second?"

Dean drags himself off the bed and to the stairs, slightly dizzy from the sudden change of elevation. He sees Castiel sitting at the island with his hands folded on his lap. Castiel has the dumbest smile on his face — which instantly transfers to Dean — and he motions for Dean to come sit down in the stool next to him.

Dean also notices a little black box in front of him, to which Castiel then slides it over in front of Dean when he sits down in the stool.

"What is this?" Dean asks. Castiel's smile only deepens. His cheeks are darkening.

"Open it." Castiel urges.

Dean picks up the small black box that's not even bigger than his hand. Dean shakes it a little, "Well, it's not heavy."

"Just open it!" Castiel unfolds his hands, crossing one around his chest and using it as a stand to support his other arm, which covers half his face. Cas is anxious.

Dean shakes his head, beginning to loosen the top of the box, "It better not be a watch or some shit like that Cas, I'll make you return—" Dean suddenly stops what he's saying, the words were instantly sucked right out of him.

It's not a watch.

He stares at it for a second and then looks to the man in the stool in front of him.

Dean hesitates, "H-How...Cas...how?"

Castiel shrugs, "I called the Airway company and asked them what to do in case of a missing object lost on one of their planes. They reconnected me to one of the flight attendants that was on the plane. After a few hours I had been connected, and according to them, they hold lost-and-found objects for 2 months before donating them to charity." Castiel nods, "I seemed to have forgotten her name but, I think it may have been, Bela? Yes, I think so — she said she had found it in the bathroom and that she would mail it to me overnight."

Dean picks up the silver ring, placing it in the palm of his hand and closing tightly. He seems to have forgotten to breathe, and all he can feel in the tight condensing of his throat.

Sam's ring.

He's holding Sam's ring.

"Cas I— Thank you," Dean grabs the man by his shoulders and hugs him so tightly he thinks he may break a few ribs, "I can't thank you enough for this. This is—"

"My pleasure," Castiel breathes warmly against his neck, "It's my pleasure."

Dean doesn't want to let him go. He's never felt this happy, about anyone, or anything in his life. He can't even remember the last time he was even close to this euphoria. And it's not just the ring that is making him happy — it's that Castiel is happy. He's happy that Castiel is happy about him being happy.

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you're trying to suffocate me," Castiel breathes with congestion.

"Cas, I just—I just wanted to say that I—" Dean chokes down whatever was about to come out of his mouth when a sudden tight knot twists hard in his throat. He can feel Castiel's chest intake a large breath of air, "—Thank you." Dean finishes. Castiel exhales, and then releases his tight grip on Dean's body.

"As I said, Dean, it's my pleasure." Castiel smiles warmly. Dean notices how Castiel's eyes wilt slightly; behind the wall of joy, Dean can see that Castiel had expected something more out of this moment. Castiel thought he was going to say it.

Dean feels his cheeks redden. He wants to take his eyes away from Castiel, to apologize, but Castiel looks so innocent, so indulged in bliss, and Dean feels like he's screwed it up. Why did he have to ruin this moment—this moment—the moment that may just be the best of his life and there he goes, talking without thinking — ruining.

He's such an idiot.

I'm such an idiot.

"Dean," Castiel stands from the stool and picks up his jacket from the couch, "I have to go to the store. We're running low on groceries, and it's already quite late in the afternoon, I don't want to get caught in rush-hour. Is there anything specific you want?"

"Just don't get me anything green—or organic."

Castiel smirks, "Wasn't going to," He says, snatching his keys and striding to the front door, "See you soon." He says, shutting the door behind him. Dean smiles to himself.

And although he may have thought that he ruined a beautiful moment — the moment itself had still been beautiful. Castiel went through all that trouble, all that trouble to worry about Dean's feelings enough to call and wait, only to please Dean. Such a simple task that Dean himself could have done; why didn't he think of that? He feels like an idiot, even more so than he did a few minutes ago.

What would he do without Castiel? Castiel is like the other half of his brain, he wouldn't be able to comprehend things without it. Dean twists the ring back on his finger. The ring isn't just reminding him of Sam anymore, a little part of it also belongs to Castiel. And he knows that it shouldn't, because the ring rightfully belongs to Sam, but how can it not remind him of Cas?

He's ten minutes into thinking until notices how bad his cheeks hurt, and then he realizes he hasn't stopped smiling since Castiel walked out of the door.

He needs to repay him.

I need to repay him.

"But how do I do that?" Dean scratches the back of his head before an idea develops, "Yeah, I'll make him a pie. I'll make him a fucking pie."

Dean skips out of his stool, pivoting on his feet and swaying to the fridge. He's so giddy, and he can't seem to stop. Never ever in Dean's life has he felt like he wanted to rock out to classic rock in his underwear, but here he is, with only the jeans on his legs preventing that from happening.

He bobbing his head a little to Led Zeppelin as he sides the metal bowl from the lower cabinet and onto the counter, drumming with the wooden spoon as he closes the cabinet with his butt. It's getting darker out, and Dean figures that he and Castiel will sit down later, enjoy Star Trek, eat pie, and just make the fuck out with him.

Star Trek. Food. Make-out with Cas.

Yeah, that sounds like a pretty solid plan.

Dean's starts humming, which then grows into singing, which then grows into screaming Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta' Love". And then he's forced to stop screaming when he accidentally breaks a wooden spoon from drumming it on the counter too hard.

Dean opens the fridge to look for eggs, but the sudden knock of wood makes him jump.

Castiel's home early.

"He must need help with the bags," Dean says to himself, quickly disposing of the broken wooden spoon. He strides to the door with a smile, grabs the knob and swings open the door.

His smile drops. His skin freezes. All the breath in his lungs have evaporated.

It's not Castiel.

It's Lisa.

And she does not look happy.