Cas cherishes the rare moments when a glimpse of old Dean can be seen through the shell that has hardened around him since the day Sam... Since the day Sam died - that's how he likes to think about it. There is nearly no trace of that heedless, ferocious boy the angel dragged out of Hell; even the blind fury that kept him going for months has now died down, solidified into bleak, hopeless, cold hatred. Still, the task of repairing cars sometimes gets Dean so engrossed that his features soften, his voice becomes melodious and cordial, his words flow easily, weaving stories from long lost movies and books. Sometimes the illusion is almost perfect; the smell of grease and gasoline, well-known series' of sounds, the triumphant smile spreading on Dean's face as soon as he succeeds - it all reminds Cas of Bobby's salvage yard, the good old days. They used to be terrified, exhausted and in pain most of the time, but they had one other. Now Cas sometimes catches himself expecting Sam to come by with two cold beers, put one on the ground next to his brother and sit on a tool box. Dean would snake out from beneath the car, sit up, complain that the beer was too warm, call Sam a bitch or try to get him dirty with grease - by accident, of course. The younger Winchester would retaliate by joking about Dean's beer belly or about how old and rusty he was. Bobby would laugh at all of them and call them idjits.
It was possible to forget about the Apocalypse back then. Now... sometimes the illusion is almost perfect, but it's only an illusion.
There is always something that knocks it down. Gunshots and Yager's yelling coming from the shooting range; the roar of jet engines or rumble of army choppers above their heads; someone coming to ask the leader for instructions. Dean would sober up in no time. His eyes would darken, his shoulder would square and he would answer in this guttural, harsh voice Cas could hardly recognize as his.
It's no different this time. Upon hearing footsteps on loose gravel Castiel knows that the moment of peace is over.
It's Randy - that young ex-troop that ran away from a... well, not a battle. A carnage. Even though Chuck (he was a good soul after all) did anything he could to convince the kid that there was nothing he could have done to save his comrades, anyone can feel that air of shame and regret tinging the usual PTSD in him. He sought someone he could serve to absolve himself and he found his God in Dean. Ever since Randy learned what was happening, he grew to hold Dean in high esteem that the leader likes to describe as creepy. No wonder he does. Winchester blended with a conglomeration of all possible male heroic figures; he is his fatherly figure, his archetypal staff sergeant, his Jesus Christ, his Captain America. Cas presumes that it's why Dean seems to hate the boy in particular, though he might as well be wrong. He feels like he doesn't know Dean as well as he used to.
Still, he knows him well enough to know that Dean will stand up, wipe the grease off his hands in a few quick, rough, almost violent motions, dust his knees off, straighten up, rise his chin and snap:
"What do you want?"
He places his hand on the back of Castiel's neck, standing next to the angel who is sitting on a tool box. It's not a caress, rather marking his territory. It's another thing that Dean does only in Randy's presence.
"Sir, we received a radio broadcast. I think you should check it."
"I told you not to call me that," Winchester growls. His grip on Cas's neck tightens to the point when it's almost painful, but not quite.
"Yes, sir!"
Dean doesn't even sigh or roll his eyes. It's a bad sign.
-x-x-X-x-x-
"So the army decided to get their asses out of Wisconsin, Michigan, northern Illinois, northern Indiana and Ohio..." Dean states woodenly.
"It will become no man's land, so survivors will be forced to either be evacuated or legally renounce USA citizenship," Castiel adds, cocking his head and rising his eyebrows in amusement. The other two hunters get the joke. They both snicker, because imagining that any legal procedures make any sense proves that Mrs Palin simply knows nothing about the situation.
"Yeah. Uncontrollable territory. I kinda get why..." Bobby clucks his tongue, "Detroit."
"Detroit," Winchester repeats. He takes a big swig of whiskey straight from the bottle and winces in disgust, "the fun part is," he tries to speak against the fresh burn that alcohol gave him; it's making his voice hoarse and choky, "they're gonna nuke Chicago, Detroit and Cleveland."
"Balls. We need to get the Colt from Crowley's deposit."
Dean pours himself a glass properly this time; he offers another to Bobby, but the hunter shakes his head, looking at his foster son with reproach.
"Relax," Dean tilts his chair back, balancing on two back legs like a teenager, "We have 70 hours till the bombs drop. 12 hours getting there, 12 hours back, let's say... 18 hours to get shit done, 6 hours in case there's a fuck up. More than enough."
The angel stands up slowly to stretch his shoulders.
"All right, I'll start packing. You taking M16 and Desert Eagle or A-K and Uzi's?"
Dean goes from nonchalant to tense and angry in a heartbeat; upon sitting up properly he sends his lover a threatening glare.
"I'm taking everything, 'casue you're not coming."
"Uhm... And what about Fi-Fi, Chloe and Coco? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I presume that a person who can actually see them will come in handy..." This time it is Castiel who has the high ground; having sat down again he puts his legs on the table and crosses his arms behind his head. Dean tries to regain his composure, although he looks like a beaten dog, casting fleeting glances on Bobby and Castiel. The reason why he needs Cas for the mission is exactly the same reason why he wants to keep him as far from it as possible. Hellhounds. Crowley trained them not to attack upon hearing a certain spell and left them to guard the Colt in an old deposit in Detroit - the only place they knew Lucifer wouldn't check. Theoretically it is safe to retrieve it... But only theoretically.
"I know the lullaby too," Winchester states with fake composedness, "I can deal with some buff, mutated zombie puppies."
"Yeah, and you suck ass at fencing," Bobby reminds caustically, "Boy, I could cut the ground from under your feet right now. If things go west, you'll need the blades and mr feathery ass here, who knows how to spin these babies because he's done it since the dawn of the fucking solar system!"
Cas sends Winchester a triumphant look.
"Yeah.. And who won't pass the warding," the latter drawls out.
"Dean!" Cas tenses up again, "We've talked about this. I'm human. No matter how hard you deny it, I'm human."
"How do you know?"
"Because..." Cas begins edgily, but a half-fond, half-teasing smirk brightens up his face, "If I was an angel, I would fly you home and kick some reason into your obdurate brain right this second."
Bobby snorts sarcastically.
"Well, thanks for not exposing me to the sight."
There is a moment when Dean looks like he's giving up, but the next second his features sharpen; his voice is gruff and dead again.
"Cas isn't coming."
"Why not?"
The angel ruffles; they both start up, inflamed by anger and spite that get triggered way too easily these days, ready to turn their quarrel into a fight any moment. Singer knows too well how this is going to end; luckily, his cabin doesn't have stairs, so he can roll his wheelchair freely to get out of their sight; he knows he would be ignored anyway.
"Because I'm not letting you near that hellh...," Dean hisses furiously; suddenly, he falters and squeezes his eyes shut; his lips go pale; he can barely speak, "When Jo... I can't lose... I.. I just can't," he shakes the weakness off and finishes in a dead, taut voice, "I won't let you near them. Understood?"
"Well, that's a pity, because I am not letting you go there alone either," Cas waits to see a spark of understanding in the hunter, but there isn't any; he grunts in helpless frustration, "Dean. I am deeply moved by your irrational protectiveness. In any other set of circumstances I'd be delighted, but now... Like you had the courtesy to put it, shit must be done and I happen to be the only one who can..."
He stops short. Something is different about the hunter - he's less aggressive, more tense. His lower lip is trembling ever so slightly. The angel is sure that nobody else would notice, but he knows Dean just too well. He understands.
Aggravation leaves Castiel in one deep ragged sigh when he realizes how terrified Dean is. Instead of continuing the cross talk, he pulls his lover closer to cup his cold, rough face and look him in the eyes.
"Dean. They won't harm me. I will be all right. I promise. Understood?"
After a moment of hesitation, Dean nods with a small, uneasy smile.
"Understood."
I do realize that this part does not make much sense in terms of plot, but I hope I managed to give you a nice one-shot revolving around Dean's attitude and his feelings for Cas. Anyway... who am I fooling? We all come here for feels, not for the plot, am I right?
If you think that this part wasn't angsty enough and you're worried that I'm getting too soft - fear not, I will give you pain, misery, anxiety and violence soon. Most of the one-shots in this series will be on the angsty/heavy side, but you'll find one or two lighter ones like this.
Please R&R, let me know if you're liking this series.