The drive up to Red Cloud takes longer than he'd hoped.
US-281 is, for the most part, clear. But the brief, heavy rain that had come earlier in the day has made the surface slippery, and halfway to Nebraska, the flashing lights of an emergency crew bring Dean to a stop. A truck lays on it's side, it's cargo—more cans of soup than Dean has seen in his entire life—spilled all over the road.
Waiting to be given the all clear, Dean drums his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, cursing under his breath.
As if a month wasn't long enough to have waited, he's being forced to sit here and watch as a burly, moustachioed trucker scratches his junk and surveys the damage his toppled semi-trailer has inflicted on the highway.
Worst of all, it gives him time to think, and that's the last thing he needs right now. He just wants to get there, to walk in to the restaurant, sit down, order the damn coffee and hear that shift in the air that signifies Castiel's arrival.
His head is full of everything that could go wrong, and it's all because Chuck had told him not to pray.
He can't help but wonder; what if it's because he doesn't want to see me?
As much as he might dislike Chuck right now, he doesn't have such a low opinion of the guy to think that he wouldn't have mentioned that. But, still... he has been praying near constantly over the last few weeks, and he's heard nothing.
It's not completely impossible, as much as he might hope otherwise.
He can't stop picturing that blank stare Castiel had given him back at Lucifer's crypt.
His fear that somehow Naomi has taken hold of Castiel's mind again puts a chill into his bones, but the only other scenario his imagination manages to conjure up is arguably even worse; Castiel in complete control of himself, telling Dean in his blunt manner that things have changed since those books were written, that any feelings he did have were a lapse, an unpleasant phase, and should be forgotten.
His stomach is rolling, now. His throat tense.
"Come on, come on," he mutters, staring at the slow-moving clean up crew, and leans forward to knock his head against the steering wheel.
When he finally brings the Impala to a stop in the Biggerson's parking lot, almost an hour after leaving Lebanon, he's psyched himself out so much that he's a little unwilling to get out of the car.
It's fine, he thinks, Chuck said five minutes. Maybe even ten. He wants to see you.
The thought falls flat in his head.
"This is pathetic," he says under his breath.
Even so, it still takes another moment and a few deep breaths before he manages to climb out into the cool evening air.
The smell of rain still lingers, and his feet kick up water as he makes his way inside.
The Red Cloud restaurant is smaller than most Biggerson's, though the layout is exactly the same, and when he sits down in a booth by the window, a teenage waiter hurries over to ask what he wants.
"Coffee," he says, looking around the other tables for any sign of that familiar tan coat, "two cups. I'm meeting someone."
"D'ya want creamer?"
"No thanks."
"Anything else?"
Dean's nervous as a kid on a first date, and his palms are sweating. He wipes them on the sleeves of his shirt.
Should have gone with the yellow, he thinks.
The waiter clears his throat, and Dean looks up.
"Uh, no, thanks," he says, "Just the coffee for now."
"No problem."
The kid walks away, shoving the notepad roughly into his back pocket, and Dean drums his fingers impatiently on the table.
More than an hour later, Castiel still hasn't turned up.
Dean's had his coffee refilled three times already, and he isn't sure if the jittery feeling in his chest is a result of too much caffeine or panic that he's not going to show up at all.
The waiter is watching him, giving him that goddamn look—the one that says, awkward, someone stood this guy up—and as he walks back up to the table, Dean is tempted to crawl underneath it to save himself the embarrassment.
"You ready to order, or...?"
Dean clears his throat and slides his cup back across the table.
"Just another refill," he says, then points at the other cup, still full and now cold, "and if you could freshen that one up, that'd be great."
Glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen, the waiter flicks his pen against his open notepad.
"Uh, sorry, sir, but you'll need to order something..."
Dean presses his eyes closed and sighs.
"A slice of whatever pie you have."
"We've got Apple or Pecan."
"Surprise me."
The waiter clicks his pen and bustles off toward the kitchen, and Dean wills himself not to pray. He's been scared to even think about Castiel since he sat down, just in case that constituted praying, but the longer he's been waiting, the harder it's become.
Staring up at the ceiling, he tells himself to just be patient. Chuck didn't say he'd turn up instantly, after all.
At twenty to eleven, he's still on his own, and he's barely touched the pie.
The few other patrons have long since left, and with a little over fifteen minutes until closing time, he can feel the kitchen staff and two waiters waiting for him to leave so they can pack up and go home.
The six cups of coffee are sloshing around in his stomach every time he moves in his seat, and unable to ignore it any longer he gets up to head to the bathroom. It isn't until he's walking back a couple of minutes later that he sees him, sitting at a tiny table in the centre of the room, palms flat against the surface. Dean stops, his mouth opening a couple of times before any sound manages to come out.
"Cas?"
At the sound of Dean's voice, Castiel is on his feet, turning, his eyes wide.
There's the surprise, Dean thinks, and wonders briefly if Chuck hadn't noticed the way it was colored by relief, or if he had and just neglected to mention it.
"Dean," he says, his hands tensing, "I'm sorry, I—"
Dean recognises the movement in his shoulders, as though on some other plane he's stretching his wings, readying himself for flight.
Dean's chest clenches at the sight.
"Don't," he says, moving quickly toward him, "just... don't. Not yet. We have a few minutes, right?"
A little reluctantly, Castiel nods, still staring, and Dean points over at his booth, waiting until Castiel sits down before he speaks again.
He gestures toward the nearest cup.
"That's yours," he says, "might be kinda cold by now, though. Two sugars, right?"
"I—"
Castiel looks down at the coffee in confusion, then back up at Dean.
"How did you find me?"
"Chuck."
His eyes narrow infinitesimally.
"The prophet?"
"Yeah. Apparently not as dead as we thought."
Dean shifts in his seat, not entirely sure what to say now that he's finally got Castiel's attention.
Across the restaurant, someone clears their throat, and Dean looks up to see the two waiters hovering around the register.
Screw 'em, Dean thinks.
He looks back at Castiel. He looks haunted, harried, tired. There's one deep wrinkle in the space between his eyebrows, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is dirty, matted flat against his forehead.
Dean's fingers twitch on the tabletop with the urge to reach across and fix it.
"Are you okay?" he asks, instead, wishing he could think of something better, but truth be told he doesn't even know what he's thinking right now.
He's been waiting for this moment for a month; more than that, really, considering how long he'd been waiting the last time, and he doesn't think that one day—that one long, horrible day—counts.
Point is, half the time when he'd thought about seeing Castiel again, he'd been planning to yell at him. The other half, he'd been so shit-scared that he'd be seriously hurt, or dead, that the thoughts did nothing but devolve into deeply humiliating, panicked prayers that he muttered into his pillow until he eventually fell asleep.
So right now, with Castiel alive, if a little worse for wear, and sitting across from him with relief written all over his face, are you okay is about the best he can do.
"I'm... yes. I think so," he replies, "I'm sorry I haven't been... returning your calls."
"You could hear me, though, right?"
"Yes. I... it's a long story. There's angels hunting me."
Castiel fidgets, looking around the restaurant uneasily.
"I really shouldn't be with you now, Dean. If they find me I won't be strong enough to protect—"
"I don't care. This is long overdue, Cas."
"What is?"
"This... I don't know, man. Just," Dean gestures vaguely between them, "this."
Castiel looks down at the coffee as though it might hold the answers.
"Oh."
The sound of a cash register opening is jarringly loud, echoing through the empty restaurant, and Dean sighs heavily.
"They're going to kick us out any second," he says, leaning his elbows on the table, "can we just... I don't know. Is there somewhere we can go? Somewhere they won't be able to track us for a little while?"
"I don't..." Castiel looks back up, shaking his head, and his eyes are tight, "Dean, they could be here any moment. It's too risky. If I bring you with me, they'll know. I wish I could, but—"
"I get it. Too dangerous," Dean nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat, "I just... when do you think you'll be safe? Let me help, Cas. Just tell me what you need and I'll do it."
"Giveme your phone."
"What?"
"If I have a phone I can at least... I can call. I can't stay, not yet. But I can call."
He looks around, and Dean sees that tension in his shoulders again.
"They're close, aren't they?"
Castiel nods.
"Dean, I'm sorry."
His voice wavers, and Dean's pretty sure this is what it feels like to break into pieces.
"I know," standing up, he holds out his cell as Castiel rises to take it from him, slipping it into his trench coat pocket, "just... promise you'll call."
"I will," he says, tilting his head forward to meet Dean's eyes, "I promise."
He's about to disappear when Dean steps forward to wrap his arms around him. He breathes in deeply, feels his heart pounding hard as Castiel lifts his arms to squeeze back.
With his chin pressing against Castiel's shoulder, he tells himself it's temporary.
"It won't be long," he murmurs aloud, and Castiel pulls back to look at him, just barely smiling, and it's enough, Dean thinks, for now, it's enough.
He smiles back.
"It won't be long," Castiel agrees, raising one hand briefly to curl his fingers against Dean's cheek before he flies.
The void he leaves is big enough that Dean wonders if maybe the Chrysler building was too small a comparison.