Rattled
The line rings once. Dean holds his breath, wondering if Cas will answer. The line rings again and Dean feels his stomach start to twist—a third ring. He isn't going to answer. By the fourth ring, Dean pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at it; his lips parted, as if to ask the phone why it won't let him to talk to Cas. Dean's fingers slide along the back of the phone's face, applying more and more pressure, getting ready to shut the damn thing and stop the dull, muted sounds of the fifth, unanswered, unforgiving, heartbreaking ring.
"Dean! I'm so sorry!"
The far-off hum of Cas's voice sends a shock through Dean's spine. He nearly drops the cell in the spastic frenzy of bringing back to his ear. His almond eyes stretch as Cas's voice booms through the speaker.
"Dean, please. It was stupid of me to find her, I know that now. I just wanted to make things right! I just-"
"Cas!" Dean grins, something he hasn't felt himself do in months. The muscles along his jaw flinch a bit from the foreign movement.
"Dean, please, let me finish. You need to know, I never intended to upset you. I was just concerned! Sam said that you were really . . . off; I know you did not want to talk to him anymore so I thought, maybe I could-"
"Cas, shut up for a second, would ya?" Dean feels a chuckle wrap around his words. An unusual warmth is spreads through him; not the burn of whiskey or acid and bile—but a kind, gentle warmth that Dean thinks he may remember. Silence takes over the line and Dean looks at his front door.
"Cas, I know you're down the street, man." Dean shakes his head with twitchy smile as the image of Cas, in his car, head plopped back against the headrest dances in his mind. "Would you mind coming here so we can do this face to face?" Dean hears a shaky, rasped breath slip through the grated plastic. He knows Cas is nervous; the guy is always nervous. Dean beams again at the familiarity of the sound.
"Are . . . are you angry with me Dean?"
Dean's happiness drips from his lips. His eyes drop to the ground as if he could see where the smile had fallen to. The warmth inside him begins to burn again—the villain-guilt, waging war on the foreign-happiness he was so excited to reacquaint. Cas, Cas was afraid of him. Cas was afraid to be in the same room as him. And why wouldn't he be? The last time they were together, Dean almost—
He cuts off the thought. He doesn't want to think out loud of what he always believed he was so incapable of doing. He had never tried to force himself on a woman, none the less a guy, especially not a friend. He has beaten dudes bloody for doing crap like that; hell, he has beaten guys for far less than doing. Man, woman, child, it didn't matter. If Dean even heard a guy talking about that no means yes shit, his blood would boil.
His mind trails back to one particular douchebag. The guy nearly got Dean arrested. The brute of a man cornered a waitress near a restaurant that Dean was visiting. Dean didn't bother to ask for details — he just saw the tears in the waitress's eyes and the hungry look on the man's face as he imprisoned her in the alley way. That hunger was soon replaced by blood and bone shards as Dean pummeled him into the sidewalk. When the cops arrived, Dean was swiftly handcuffed and led to a squad car; his only salvation was the waitress's embellishments on what happened. Dean thanked her properly for her quick thinking a few days later; and she thanked him too. That was a good night.
Dean envies that man now, he got what he deserved, and his face is probably still mangled from Dean's efforts. Where was his consequence? Who was going to beat him bloody? Who was going to give him the scars to look at every day, to remind him of how far he has fallen? Dean would gladly take scars over this—over the sound of Castiel, frightened and nervous to be anywhere near him. That is as good as death.
"Dean?"
"No, no Cas. I am not angry with you. I . . . I promise. Please, come here. I won't-" Dean gulps down the boulder-sized lump that's choking his words. "I won't hurt you, man."
Silence again.
Dean falls into the armchair that sits, facing the front door. His elbows stab at his knees as his free hand swipes over his face. Dean shoots glances up at the ceiling, the whites of his eyes, overflowing his bottom lids. His chest heaves heavy, unsatisfying breaths into the air. He doesn't trust him anymore. How could Cas ever trust him after what he's done? Cas's rattled voice makes Dean bite at his own.
"Okay Dean, I'll be right there."