It's only eleven when he steps out into the mild April sun; still an hour until he has to make his way over to the diner to meet Charlie.
A part of him wants to bail, regrets ever asking her what she meant.
It's worse, now. Harder than before, because now he knows how close he was, knows that Castiel, somehow, against all odds, loves him.
He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. His throat is seizing up as his body tries to do both, simultaneously, and he feels strangers staring as he walks down the pavement. He pays them no attention; just walks, on and on, until he reaches a park.
It's pretty crappy, as parks go; all dried up grass and spindly trees, one rusted swing set that no decent parent would let their kid go near, and a tiny, reed-edged pond.
He sits down on the patchy grass by the water, feels stones dig in to his hands, and tilts his head upward.
"Cas," he starts, then huffs out a weak laugh when he realizes he doesn't have a clue what to say.
He raises his hand to scrub at his jaw as he gathers his thoughts. They scramble, skitter around his head, an infinite number of contradictory thoughts overlapping and drowning each other out, of just say it, and don't tell him, and this is pointless, and he's fine, and he might be dead.
Soon enough, it's just two;
He's fine.
He's dead.
He's fine.
He's dead.
It's endless, a loop, and he can't get out of it, can only try to find out one way or the other. He exhales.
"Cas, I don't know if you can still hear me, man, but you're always telling me to have more faith. So this... I'm trying, okay?"
He laughs again, pulls a dried up weed from the earth by his side. Picks it apart, staining his fingertips green.
"You need to come back," he pauses; amends, "come home."
A breeze rustles through the reeds at the pond's edge, and for a split second, he thinks the sound is wings.
When he realizes, his heart clenches in his chest and he closes his eyes.
"I, uh... look. There's some stuff we need to talk about. Stuff about you and me. Stuff we should have talked about a while ago, probably," he bites down on the inside of his cheek, hating that even this feels like too much of an admission, wishing it were easier.
"I just... I can't do it like this. You need to be here first. I need you to be here. I want you to be here."
He looks up again, knowing he needs to start heading back toward the diner, and sighs.
For a long time, he's silent. He tells himself he isn't waiting, but it's a lie. Of course he's waiting. He's always waiting.
He doesn't speak again until he's back on his feet, eyes downcast as though he's afraid to meet the eyes that aren't even there.
"Just... let me know you're okay," he says, forcing the words out, "the other stuff, it doesn't matter so much. I mean, I don't know if you even... it was a long time ago, right? Just come back. Call. Something."
He scans the empty park for some sign that Castiel is there.
"I'm here, Cas," he says, "whenever you're ready, I'm waiting."
There's no answer, of course, and he drops the torn up leaves to the ground and grinds them down with the toe of his boot.
While he walks the few blocks to meet Charlie, he tells himself it's just a bad time; that Castiel will come back eventually.
He tries to believe it.
He really tries.
The diner is packed; the lunch crowd filling every table, and though it's not quite twelve yet, Charlie is already there.
Dean sees her shirt before he sees her—bright yellow with what he's pretty sure is the face of a Pokemon taking up the entire front—and he shakes his head with a laugh as he walks toward her.
She's sitting in a booth near the kitchen, furiously typing something into her cell. She doesn't notice him until he slips into the seat opposite her.
"Your majesty," he says, and she jumps, nearly dropping her phone.
"Holy crap," she says, catching her breath, "did you freaking shadowmeld or something?"
He laughs as she hits send and shoves the cell into her backpack.
"Not my fault you weren't paying attention."
"Touché."
Drumming her fingers on on the table in front of her, she eyes Dean seriously.
"So," she says, after a moment, "Did you read it?"
Suddenly, Dean's mouth has gone dry.
"Yeah," he replies, reaching for the glass of water on his side of the table and downing the whole thing in one go.
He knows what's coming, now, and he wants off the ride.
She's going to ask him how he feels about it.
He isn't sure what exactly he was expecting if it wasn't to discuss his feelings, but now that the moment is upon him, he kind of wants to high-tail it outta here.
She's going to tell him to go for it, and he can't. Castiel is gone. He's probably dead, his brain supplies, again, and he yanks the menu out from under Charlie's bag, opening it and obscuring her from his view.
"You reckon they'll still do pancakes?" he asks, voice rough, "I could go for pancakes."
Purple fingernails appear over the top of the menu, pulling it down, and Charlie ducks her head, trying to make him meet her eyes.
"Dean," she says, "if you're not, you know, ready to talk about this it's okay."
She waits for him to look at her before she continues.
"We can talk about other things. Bizarre murders, viscera, apocalypses... You know," she waves a hand in the air, shrugging vaguely, "light stuff."
He laughs, and she grins at him from across the table.
"But," she says, "if you're just... if you're still worried that you're reading too far into it, then let me tell you, flat out, you're not."
Charlie reaches across the table to squeeze his forearm.
"He loves you. No doubt in my mind."
Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and nods, lips pursed.
"Yeah," he says, "I know. I know he does."
"You know that's a good thing, right?"
There's that battle again, his face trying to contort into a smile even though he feels like crying. He doesn't trust his voice not to waver, and he hates it.
He scrubs roughly at his eyes and nods.
A waitress arrives at the table, then, her notepad flipped open, and Charlie smiles up at her.
"We'll both have the pancakes, side of bacon," she says, before the waitress can even ask, "and coffee."
The waitress scribbles down the order and is gone within seconds, and Charlie turns back to Dean. He's still looking down, trying desperately to stop from falling apart, and she remembers what he'd said when she mentioned Castiel to him the first time.
"Dean... when was the last time you saw him?"
"March 20th," he answers, without hesitation, and he can't even find it in himself to be embarrassed that he doesn't have to think about it. Charlie knows. She understands him, probably better than he understands himself, considering how much insight Chuck apparently had into his subconscious.
"What happened?" she asks, gently, and Dean stares down at his hands, trying to figure out where to start.
He thinks for a long time, and Charlie mistakes his silence for reluctance.
"Hey, forget it," she says, "none of my business."
"No," Dean says, reaching out for the glass and turning it distractedly in his hands, "no I should, you know. Talk about it. It's just... well. You know me. Words aren't really my thing."
"It's okay."
For a while, neither of them say anything. Dean tries to figure out where to start, and Charlie waits. It isn't until the waitress has come and gone, leaving them with plates of pancakes and fresh coffee, that Dean finds his voice.
"He, uh..." Dean stops to clear his throat, pulling his mug of coffee closer, "since he got outta Purgatory, he'd been weird. We hadn't seen or heard from him in almost two months. Then he turned up when we were hunting down the second half of the demon tablet... but he wasn't himself."
Charlie nods, hands closed around her mug, and Dean's eyes glaze a little as he remembers.
"He was being controlled by this other angel, Naomi," he spits the name out like it burns, "she uh... she made him... she tried to force him kill me. He nearly did, too."
"Oh my god."
"Yeah. Anyway, he was... he was about to, you know," Dean raises one hand as if gripping a knife, then lowers it to rub at his brow, "to do it. But then he... he didn't."
Dean's jaw twitches as he stares into the middle distance, remembering.
"He snapped out of it. Healed me, told me she'd been controlling him, then took the tablet and left."
"How'd he snap out of it?"
"I uh... I don't know for sure."
Dean's eyes flicker down, and Charlie knows the look. She leans forward again.
"You have an idea, though."
A sad smile crosses Dean's face, briefly.
"Yeah," he says, "I told him we were family. That I needed him. That's when he dropped the knife. I thought he was going to stay, but..."
Dean waves his hands in the air vaguely; he left.
"And that was a month ago. No word since."
"Have you called him?"
"Yeah. Been prayin' every damn day. He's not answering," his eyes tighten as he looks out the window, "I don't know if it's because he doesn't want to answer or because he can't. Honestly, I don't know which scares me more."
For a moment, Charlie just looks at him. Then she slides out of her side of the booth and into Deans.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm hugging you," she says, wrapping her arms around his middle, and squeezing tight, "you need a hug, so just go with it, Winchester."
Dean hugs her back, his chin on the top of her head, hair tickling under his nose.
"Yeah," he says, "I guess so."