Charlie is grinning wide enough to split, and Dean tries not to look at her for fear he'll grin back.
As it is, he can already feel the corners of his mouth tugging upward, and he's still too damn pessimistic to let himself smile. Until he's there, until he can see Castiel right in front of him, he can't let himself relax—as much as he might want to.
Sam, leaning against the other side of the table, clears his throat.
"Are you gonna go right now?"
Dean figures it'll take him maybe half an hour to make the drive up to Red Cloud, so if he leaves now—a quick glance at his watch tells him it's a quarter to eight—there'll still be a few hours before Biggerson's closes at eleven. He nods.
"No time like the present."
He makes a beeline for the kitchen to grab his keys, and Charlie trails behind him. He's picking up his wallet when she speaks from her place in the doorway.
"Aren't you going to change?"
He turns around to pull a face at her as he tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.
"No. Why would I?"
She gestures at the front of his shirt.
"You're all tomato-goopy."
Looking down, he realizes she has a point.
Little yellow seeds are stuck to the khaki fabric of his shirt, and he picks them off with the edge of a fingernail. They leave behind a slimy residue.
"Awesome," he says, dumping the keys back on the counter before making his way back out through the bunker toward his room, pulling the shirt off on the way.
Once he's in his room, though, staring into his chest of drawers at the few clean shirts he owns, he can't decide which to wear.
It's ridiculous—he knows it is—but somehow, with all the insight that Chuck's books have given him into Castiel's feelings about him, the prospect of seeing him has made him about as jittery and self-conscious as he was back in seventh grade shop class when he's flat out asked Ashley Castillo, do you like me?
Of course, he's not planning on asking. Even if he were, he already knows the answer, and it's not like, but love. Hell if that doesn't make the nerves even worse.
So now, Dean's standing in front of the bathroom mirror, holding up two shirts against his chest like a goddamned idiot.
There's no real difference between them—both are plaid, both are about a month away from being reborn as grease-rags for the Impala—but suddenly the question of which looks better seems incredibly important.
There's a knock at the half-open door, and Sam sticks his head through the gap.
"Hey, I was wondering—" Sam's laugh cuts his words short when he sees Dean, "uh... what are you doing?"
Glaring at his reflection, Dean throws the yellow shirt on the floor as he pulls on the blue one, blatantly ignoring his brother's second question.
"You were wondering what?" he says, rolling up the cuffs to his elbows and looking himself over.
Shaking his head, Sam smirks and pushes the door fully open to lean against the frame.
"Okay. So, uh... probably a stupid question," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, "but do you want me to come with?"
Dean adjusts his collar, frowns, and pulls the shirt off.
"Don't you still have research to do?" he asks instead of flat out saying no, and Sam nods as Dean leans down to pick up the yellow shirt.
He shakes off the residual floor dust before slipping it on, and Sam has to force himself not to roll his eyes.
"Dean," Sam says, "I uh... you do realize Cas literally wears the same thing every day, right?"
"I'm not— shut up Sam."
Sam's laugh echoes as he walks away down the hall, and if it weren't for the fact that it quickly descends into a fit of coughing, Dean would seriously consider tracking down that orange to pelt at his head again.
When he emerges from the bathroom five minutes later, he's back in the blue shirt.
Sam looks up from the table, purses his lips, and returns his focus to the book he has open before him.
"Shut up, Sam."
"I didn't say anything!"
Dean levels him with a look.
"I didn't!"
Self-consciously, Dean adjusts his collar, and looks up at a low whistle.
Charlie's making her way out of the kitchen, holding out his keys, and she gives him an encouraging wink.
"Lookin' sharp, Winchester."
The keys rattle when she drops them into in his hand.
"Thanks, kiddo," he says, pocketing his cell.
"You're gonna knock that angel on his feathery ass," she calls after him as he quickly ascends the stairs, and at the top, he pauses to point down at his smirking brother.
"You might wanna take some pointers from Charlie on how to be supportive."
Charlie's laughter and Sam's indignant, "I was being supportive!" is cut off by the closing door.