He skims over the rest of the mortuary scene; mostly it seems to be about the bodies, and when it isn't, it's about the way that he had been looking at Castiel.
He doesn't need a reminder; certainly not when it comes with the knowledge that apparently he had looked wistful and longing.
"Chuck, I don't care if you're already dead, I am going to kill you," he mutters under his breath, and skips ahead to the next scene.
The way he remembers it, that night had sucked. Castiel had spent the entire evening ignoring him, and then he'd been forced into a very uncomfortable bear hug by a very naked cherub.
Bracing himself for the worst, he lets out a breath and reads on.
MY BLOODY VALENTINE They could smell the roses before they'd even walked inside. The restaurant had gone all out; flowers on every flat surface, dollar-store decorations hanging from the ceiling and walls in a haze of pink and red. As Dean pulled open the door, holding it while Sam and Castiel walked through, the sound of soft jazz and chatter spilled out into the darkened parking lot. A few women, dressed to the nines, sat dejectedly at the bar, and they looked over as the door swung closed. Sam glanced at Dean with a smirk. "Sure you want to cancel Christmas?" Dean just rolled his eyes and pointed to an empty booth. Maybe it was just because he was getting older, but somehow the idea of going home with someone he'd never see again just wasn't sitting well in his gut any more. At some point, he'd started to wonder what it would be like to have somebody, permanently. He didn't want a white picket fence, two-point-five kids and a Golden Retriever; nothing so cliché. Just a person to come home to. Even without a home, he thought having someone like that would make him feel like he did. He told himself it was a pipe dream, of course—there was no feasible way to be a hunter and have a normal life, after all—but it was still something he fantasized about from time to time. The fantasy wasn't always the same. Sometimes it was of lazy afternoons in a bright, airy house by a lake in Michigan, Lisa Braeden smiling at him with her arms around his waist. Sometimes it was of laughing, loud and easy in an apartment in Missouri with Cassie Robinson, her teasing him relentlessly. More often, though, it wasn't anyone or anywhere in particular—just an idea, a feeling of warmth, of home and light and love. Apropos of nothing, his mind supplied him with the image of a roadside in the middle of the night, wet asphalt reflecting bright under the street lamps. As they wove through the tables, Sam and Castiel in the lead, he remembered the feeling of home that had run through him on that road, and it wasn't until his eyes settled on the back of Castiel's head in front of him that he remembered when he had been on that road. It was four months ago; the night he had come back from 2014, and Castiel had flown him to safety after Zachariah threatened to send him back. A waitress hurried across his path, then, her arms loaded down with plates, and Dean was so distracted by his thoughts that he nearly walked into her. He paused to let her pass, and by the time he reached the booth, the train of thought had been cut off, and Sam and Castiel were both sitting. On the same side. A flicker of something a little too close to jealousy flared up within him, and as he sank into the chair on the opposite side, he tried to catch Castiel's eye. For once, the angel wasn't looking at him. In fact, he appeared to be purposefully looking everywhere but Dean, and for reasons that he had still not quite grasped, it bothered him deeply. As Dean cleared his throat, trying to snap out of whatever brand of weirdness had taken hold of him, Castiel fidgeted a little in his seat, staring up at the heart-shaped balloon by the window. Since landing in the mortuary basement a little under an hour ago, he'd begun to feel like even this wasn't close enough. Some part of his grace was thrumming, humming with static energy, and the need to reach out and touch was almost overwhelming. It was taking all of his self control to stop from lunging across the table. He wasn't even sure what it was that he wanted to do; only that he wanted to be nearer, closer. He felt that it would be marginally easier if he didn't look, didn't listen. So, with his eyes fixed on the gently swaying balloon, he tried to let Jimmy's subconscious cloud over his own. While Sam and Dean placed their orders with a tired-looking waitress, Castiel remained silent, ignoring their voices and listening instead to the needs of his vessel. The more he let Jimmy feel, the more he seemed to crave red meat. Staring at a steak on a neighboring table, he wondered if it was too late to order something for himself. He was about to ask when the waitress returned, delivering a chicken salad to Sam, and a bacon cheeseburger to Dean. His mouth began to water immediately. "So, what," Dean said to him, flipping his burger open, "you just happen to know he likes the cosmo's at this place?" Unable to ignore him any longer, Castiel responded, though he still tried not to look. He felt ridiculous doing it, but he didn't trust himself. "This place is a nexus of human reproduction. It's exactly the kind of—" He paused, staring at Dean's plate as Dean squeezed ketchup all over the patty. For a second, he lost his train of thought. "—of garden that cupid will come to—" Briefly, he allowed his eyes to flick back up to Dean, and immediately regretted it. He felt another hunger within him bloom. "—to pollinate." Glancing away again, Castiel heard his own words echoing in his head. The restaurant was full to the brim of couples in love, many of them unable to keep their hands off of one another, and as he gazed at them, quite suddenly, he understood fully what it was that he wanted. He wanted to be near Dean, but more than that he wanted Dean to want him near, too. He wanted to touch him, to be touched by him, to feel his breath and his pulse and his fingertips. He wanted to be one with him. To lay with him. To be loved by him, as he loved Dean. He wanted nothing more than to stay by his side always, Heaven be damned, and the realization that he had been so swayed from his home all for this man who he felt certain could never return such sentimentmade Castiel's borrowed heart ache with fear and sorrow. It was too much, much too much, and for the rest of the evening, he let Jimmy's subconscious take full rein.
By the time Dean stops reading, he's so caught up in the words, so immeasurably hopeful, that he forgets the way things are now.
When he realizes, his throat seizes up.
Because Castiel is gone. He left.
Even if he still feels this way, he is out of reach.
Dean stares at the screen in front of him, his eyes unfocused, and wishes he could have known this before. Wishes he had grown a pair at some point over the last few years and told Castiel, let him know somehow.
Maybe he could have stopped him from leaving in the first place if he'd known.
Numb, Dean closes out of the web browser and logs off. There's over an hour before he has to meet Charlie, but he can't read any more. He doesn't have to. It's pointless.
The bell over the door tinkles as he leaves.