Tangents
Crisp black air is being strangled by the cobra curls of cigarette smoke. Castiel sucks it all in, hoping the lingering poison has the same calming effect as it does for the chimney of a man, leaning against the other wall of the restaurant. Cas's ribs struggle to keep in his spastic lungs; his entire body wretches with the images of Dean, so comfortable resting inside Lexi's mouth. He lets his spine grind against the brick facing of the building as he tries to reason with his own skin, telling it that it has no right to crawl. Dean isn't his; he was never his. Yesterday did not stake some claim on the weary, Winchester. Cas had no reason to be this hurt by what Dean was doing in there, but reason somehow, didn't matter anymore. Castiel feels the most loss by that fact, than anything.
For a moment, Cas wonders if Dean is drunk—maybe, maybe he is just out of his head again. Of course, Sam would never let that happen, not after how happy he was at the sight of his sober brother. No, there is no substance to blame here. Cas feels sad and shockingly, surprised at the realization. Dean did this on his own, of his own volition. He forgot about Castiel and their night together: their time on that couch, their respite in each others' arms; he forgot in less than twenty four hours. Why on earth would Cas be surprised by that? After all, he has watched Dean perform the same act, night after night, opening the curtain for several showings of the world famous "No Two Girl's the Same" for seven years, now. The only exception, being Lisa, who felt often, he's sure, as Cas does now. No, the fact that Castiel was a man should make no, logical difference. The fact that he was supposedly Dean's best friend, should; but perhaps, Dean is more of a shallow pond than Cas had interpreted.
Besides, Cas pushed him into this, didn't he? He was so afraid of breaking Dean's porcelain composure, that he enraged him to a point of cracking it anyway. He left Dean's house this morning, with a red faced man with bursting veins, in his wake. He wanted to turn around and re-phrase what he said, to let the true meaning come through; but he continued on home. Not caring in the frustrated moment that once again, Castiel muddied up his words with too many questions and commands. Instead of telling Dean that he wanted to come at all of this slowly, to really see if it will truly work—he told his mending friend that Dean was too weak to handle such a change to his norm. Weakness, the worst offense in Dean's eyes and Cas accused him of it over and over, in different, heavily worded ways. Of course Dean would tire of the attack and seek the familiar comfort of a stranger, whose only care is the curve of muscle beneath Dean's jacket.
Yet, Dean always knew what Cas meant before, when he would go off on his tangents. Dean is the only one who ever knows what he means; sometimes, before Castiel even figures it out. He should have known what Cas was trying to say. Dean should have understood that none of it was in offense; but as a genuine concern from one friend to another. Why didn't he hear him this time? Why didn't Dean know? Other than the fact that everything between them changed on the surface, what changed just beneath it?
Cas rocks forward off his heels, pushing himself from the wall. He looks back towards the entryway of the restaurant and considers for a fleeting moment, going back inside and attempting to clear everything up. But poor Sam is already doing damage control for him. Going back in now would only cause him more turmoil. No, Cas will go. He will do at least one honest thing and catch up on all his overdue work that he claimed was overtaking his time. Castiel will get in his car and leave this world of Winchesters, perhaps for good. Part of him hopes for the finality—he hopes that Sam won't attempt to fix things again. It may just be easier to go back to the lonely place he knew so long ago. At least then, he never had to worry about bringing anger into verdant eyes.