Chapter 12

"Bobby, seriously", Dean said, grumpily. "You can't cheer me up today. You're wasting your breath, buddy. Understand? Es imposible, or whatever."

"Spanish, eh? Not bad, mi hijo." Bobby simply placed his sombrero on Dean's head, flipping his finger against it. "Now you're authentic."

Dean was relieved to hear Bobby's footsteps clear away from him.

These days, Bobby was Dean's favorite companion, by far. That was why he'd developed the habit of hanging out with him every day, when Crowley was gone, and school was done. Because usually, that was when Dean was done, too. Generally, with the world and stuff. And Bobby understood. Or, possibly, he just didn't give that much of a damn. But that was fine, too, exemplary even, as long as the outcome was the same—no stupid questions.

Face covered with Bobby's huge sombrero, Dean lay on some old car tire in a corner of the heating room. Now, as Bobby was loudly carrying some wires around, all focused on finishing today's work shift again, Dean took the time to just close his eyes for a moment.

He breathed in, deeply. It was always so warm down here, snugly. Even though Dean was unwilling to laugh at any of Bobby's jokes today, that didn't mean he wasn't still enjoying the old man's presence and calming working sounds. Sometimes he even fell asleep in the tire, as a messed up, exhausted bundle. Well, okay, maybe the fact that they were occasionally smoking pot down here also had something to do with that. But, whatever—sleep was sleep, and Dean needed it really badly. As he'd presented pretty accurately in math class earlier... ugh, why.

Dean pressed his eyes shut and shifted into a more comfortable position. Tires were more comfortable than you'd first think. The intense gum smell was also kind of addling his mind, which was rather welcomed. And in a few hours, Bobby would wake him up, allow Dean to lock the cellar door for him, and they'd stroll about the schoolyard together—

"Ay, son!" Bobby suddenly yelled, frightening Dean witless. "I know exactly what you need!"

"Bobby, no—"

… La cucaracha, la cucaracha, ya no puede caminar…

… Porque no tiene, porque la falta, marihuana que fumar…

La Cuca-"oh god, not again"-racha.

Deafeningly loud.

Everything was changing, with a drastic speed that Dean couldn't quite catch sometimes, but there was one constant that always stayed the same: That goddamn song.

Well, Dean guessed, he just had to accept it as an undeniable part of the crammed Mexican universe in St. Tipper High's basement, where there was no such thing as time.

And as long as he didn't feed Dean his torta loca famoso before class, Bobby was actually the coolest, most badass old man there was. And the Mexican would probably die before he'd try pulling that off again. Dean had taken care of that. He'd kicked Bobby's ass so hard the Monday after his birthday, he wouldn't be surprised if it still hurt.

Finally, Dean was left in peace. Well, if you considered hammering, wall-shaking basses and being forced to listen to the same Spanish song about cockroaches or something a thousand times in a row peaceful, that was. Most days, Dean genuinely did. At least he was unable to hear his own thoughts that way. That, precisely, was the definition of peace.

"Una cosa me da risa", Bobby screeched.

Miraculously, his voice was cutting through the unbelievable noise. It certainly couldn't be considered singing anymore. He was literally screaming. Dean, who's face was shut off from the light by Bobby's sombrero, shamelessly laughed at him. It was like Dean was lying right in front of some huge bass box in the middle of a friggin' rock concert.

"Ya se van los carrancitas", Bobby roared on, "porque vienen los villastas!"

The refrain started over, and Dean died laughing.

Suddenly, a rather unfitting tune was chiming in. At first Dean lazily thought it was part of the song, because he barely noticed those wrong-sounding notes—they couldn't compete at all, volume-wise—but then again, he'd listened to La Cucaracha about a million times and it didn't just change overnight.

Dean frowned, his eyeballs wandering around, confusedly.

His cell phone.

"Fuck", Dean breathed out.

Quickly, he left the noisy room, unnoticed. In front of the heavy cellar door, Dean came to a halt and leaned against the cold cement wall. He fixed the sombrero's position on his head and picked up.

"Yeah?" He yelled into his cellphone. The music was still all around him.

„Dean?" A quiet voice asked.

"Yes, Dean speaking", he repeated, loudly. "Who's asking?"

"It's me", the voice answered, hesitatingly. „Sam."

Immediately, Dean was alarmed. Sam never called him. Ever. And the hell was going on with his voice? God, he could've missed ten of his calls already because of that insane noise in there.

„What's wrong, Sammy?" Dean yelled, heart beating fast.

„Dean, can you come home? Now? It's... Dad."

A wave of anger rushed through Dean's body. "Did he call or somethin'?" He snapped, expecting to hear some senseless message, or the text of another ridiculous postcard.

"No..." Sam paused, and Dean heard his brother take a wobbly breath.

„He's back."

Dean hadn't seen his Dad in two friggin' months.

The dry, colorful leaves were loudly crushing under Dean's frantic feet, and his eyes nervously wandered around the dawning sky.

He spotted a bat doing stunts in the cold evening air.

My blood's bad anyway, Dean thought as his look was stuck to that little black vampire creature for no longer than two winks.

In the lull before the storm, there had been countless sensations Dean could have remembered clearly for the rest of his life, such as the unfamiliar feeling he'd felt at the sound of his father's angry, muffled voice from inside the cottage, and the sight of the dirty jeep parking in their driveway, quite natural, as if it had never been gone. Some kind of reluctance, he'd felt while following the beaten track. To go in there, to look out for Sammy, to settle the differences between the fighting parties. Or that weirdly attractive possibility to simply stay out of it, turn around, leave, forever.

All of that at once, on the short way up the small hill. But no, that'd be too logical to memorize. Of course it would be the random bat that would forever mark that moment in his mind. That last special one, before his life would be torn to shreds once and for all. Life's humor was absurd and cruel.

And right then, as Dean took one final breath before slamming the door open, the joke was on him.

"Your brother lost his mind."

In the middle of the dark room, his father John and Sam were standing dangerously close to each other, radiating a tense, oppressive atmosphere. Struck by a strong sense of déjà-vu, Dean faltered, soaking it all in.

John—if he wasn't an illusion—was wearing a stained, loose plaid shirt out of a bleached, oversized blue jeans, his eyes, that were now looking at Dean, expectantly, were dead-serious, his cheekbones sharply protruded. He'd lost weight. Other than that, his appearance hadn't really changed. He was just kind of meager and more tanned. Still, he seemed like a stranger.

Sam was facing Dean too, relieved, but his eyes were also filled with blind fury. With a painful twitch, Dean's headache reported back to him.

"Yeah, hello, Dad", Dean replied with dry sarcasm. "Oh, I'm fine. Grades are rocking, too, thanks for asking."

John just stared at Dean, sinister.

Dean stared at his feet. "I don't know about you two, but I could really use some food right now."

Admittedly, a poor attempt at reconciling.

Actually, a horrible attempt, Dean realized as soon as the words really sunk in.

In fact, he'd just given Sammy, who was already disappearing into the kitchen, the clue to fuel the fight even more.

Twenty long minutes later, Sam served dinner.

Cautiously, Sam placed a big, heavy pot on their tiny dining table, and Dean was vigorously praying to every single deity he could come up with. He flashed John, who was sitting on the stool next to him, a nervous look. By his standards, he was looking pretty relaxed, Dean observed. He wondered how fast that could change.

Sammy lifted the pot's lid. A cloud of steam escaped, and Dean peeped over the seam. Thank God, it was just brown rice. A bit risky, all right, but still within reason.

"Rice, huh?" Dean turned to John, forcing a smile. "Yum."

John didn't react, simply kept on staring into space, emotionless. Dean's smile died.

Then, Sammy came back from the kitchen, carrying a huge black pan—"it's a wok, Dean"—and placed it on the table, next to the pot, going painfully slow. The tension was about to kill Dean, so he started manically tapping the table's surface with his forefinger, again and again, perhaps the melody of Eye of the Tiger, anything to calm him down. When John glared at him, he abruptly stopped.

Finally, Sammy lifted the pan's lid, releasing another steam cloud, and Dean didn't dare to look, because he had such a horribly bad omen. Please, he begged, don't let it be tofu. Not in the first minutes of John's return. Anything else would be acceptable, but not tofu, hell no, oh Jesus, don't let it be—

It was scrambled tofu.

Fuck my life, Dean thought. Why, Sammy, just why.

"Sam", John began, frowning at the pan's square-shaped, whitish content. "What kind of meat is this? It must have gone bad. You should throw it away."

Sam hesitated, surprisingly, but only for a split second.

"It's not meat", he casually stated while sitting down at the table.

Desperately, Dean clutched at any straw as he saw John's frown deepen. Dean coughed slightly, trying to catch Sam's attention to show him his unmistakable, wide-eyed dude-seriously-look. Dean even shook his head, unflashy but on point. Of course Sam didn't see any of it, presumably on purpose.

"What does that mean?" John asked, focused on Sam, who firmly returned his stare.

"It means", Sam replied, "that it's tofu."

Dean winced, pressing his eyes shut.

The following moments of silence dragged themselves endlessly. It was kind of like that silent moment before a wave crashed. The only sounds in the room were the snick of Sam's cutlery, his defiant chewing and—Dean noticed with horror—the rising volume of John's breathing. Jesus Christ, he was friggin' gasping. Through narrow slits, Dean cast a quick glance at him. John's lips were nothing but a white, thin line, his whole head red with anger. It was the same look he always got after missing a target. Only then, he usually became really verbal. And really physical—

"That's it!" John suddenly shouted, making the brothers jump in fright.

With one strong movement, and a shattering primal scream, John grabbed the table surface with both of his hands and knocked it flying. Not kidding. He literally flipped the table over.

Scared shitless, Dean instinctively shrunk from the scene, forgetting that he was still kind of sitting on a chair. So at full tilt, Dean landed backwards on the wooden floor, his back dashing heavily against the backrest with a disgusting crack. Dean's vision turned black. Groaning, he rolled from one side to the other, like you'd do after a solid kick right in the nuts. Vaguely, he felt his hand burning on some hot rice spread on the floor, when suddenly Sam's feet were storming past his head, making him feel a cold breath of wind on his distorted face. Alarmed, Dean automatically forced himself to bob up, his back a sole pulsating pang.

"Tell me you're joking, Sam!" John shouted. "Tell me you're joking!"

"I'm not!" Sam cut in, harshly, screaming himself. "Deal with it! I'm done with hunting! Eating meat is wrong!"

"And here we go", Dean groaned, holding his throbbing head.

It seemed like they were now continuing their fight from earlier, seamlessly, and there wasn't much Dean could do about it. Sure, this moment had been bound to come, but that didn't make it any better. Still, he was floored by the situation, shocked. Uselessly, he placed himself in safe distance to John, feeling like decoration, an extra, like this was happening to somebody else and not to him.

With pent-up anger, Sammy roared on, exploding like a bomb.

"It's what I believe in and there's nothing you can do about it! In fact", Sam paused and lowered his voice to a provocative tone. "Neither me nor Dean have been hunting while you were gone."

"Well, I kinda—"

"You haven't, Dean!" Sam yelled, aggressively, and Dean, the useless extra, nearly swallowed his own tongue. Rigidly, he saw his brother take a defiant step to face his father, going on. "I won't let you control me anymore, Dad. This is my own decision and my damn confidence!"

"Shut your mouth." John dictated, coldly.

Sam, however, couldn't be scowled into silence.

"No, you shut your mouth. Go on, abandon me. I don't care."

"C'mon, Sammy", Dean piped up between the two. "That's enough. You've made yourself pretty clear here, don't you thi—"

"You're a shame for our family, Sam", John stated, furious.

"Family? Yeah, good one", Sam snorted, voice dripping with burning contempt. "You're a shame! Ever since Mom died you're a fucking… We're better off without you, anyway!"

"Right, Sammy", Dean tried again, attempting to put on a soothing tone. "Why don't we discuss this later, 'kay?"

"No! Don't touch me! I'm done with him!"

"Enough", John harshly interrupted the brothers. "I've had enough with you two. The last months, I've been on the road, I was content with my life, and now this! Get in the car, both of you! We're leaving, now, and I'll teach you what hunting really means!"

Sam was beside himself. "Go to hell!"

He stomped past John, long hair strands covering the biggest part of his heated face. He didn't even bother slamming the door on his way out. Mentally, Dean was already chasing after him. It was only the frighteningly unaffected, cold sound coming out of his father's mouth that kept him from doing it. His own name had never sounded so terrifying.

"Dean?" John stared at him, firmly.

At first, Dean didn't know what John was saying. What about him? He'd just tried to calm both of them down. John wouldn't punish him for that, right? Right? Then, it clicked. He couldn't be serious. He couldn't be asking that of Dean. No friggin' way. But his eyes were telling another story: He absolutely could. Obviously, John was leaving Dean a choice, but his eyes didn't. Fuck Dean, this couldn't be happening.

"Dad." Dean swallowed, feeling smaller than that tiny bat he'd seen. Maybe he should have, but when it came to this, at least that one thing, Dean wasn't at odds with himself. "I'm not leaving Sammy."

His father's face grew rock-hard. Eventually, John nodded, shortly, his look already out of the door.

"Fine. I might have known it."

As he saw his Dad turn around on the doorstep, Dean's ears were ringing. The sunset in his back, his father was only a dim scheme.

"I'm sorry, Dean", he said. "I'm a hunter, and I thought you were, too. Let's just bring this off now." He paused to pull the car keys out of his pocket. "Sam's your responsibility now." While turning around, he added: "I'm out."

"Dad? You can't be serious!" Dean finally shouted, running after his father. "He's fourteen! He doesn't know better!"

Horrified, Dean slammed his hands on the car window. John didn't react, didn't even look at him.

"He didn't mean to… fuck! Come on, you know he doesn't actually… Dad!"

With a horrific, surreal roar, the engine started and the car tires nearly crushed Dean's feet. Tumbling backwards, Dean helplessly watched the jeep roll onto Fleeing Deer Street, and with a strange tunnel vision, Dean saw John chase off. Slowly, Dean began walking down the hill, hypnotized. He stumbled several times, but didn't fall.

This was a fucking nightmare. It had to be. That was the only logical explanation. Dean was still sleeping and this was one of his bad dreams. Yeah, just a vivid dream. One that featured racing hearts, shaking hands and tears, but still. If felt real, so fucking real, but it couldn't actually be, right? It had to be a sick, perverted illusion, his mind playing tricks on him, brain finally going nuts.

Trouble was that bumping into somebody, at full power, would've definitely woken Dean up in the end.

But instead of starting from his sleep in his bed, soaked with sweat, distraught, crying, he found himself staring at Cas, soiled, warm, and wearing his yellow garden gloves.

"He's not picking up."

Dean groaned, burying his head in his hands.

Crouching on the red, baggy couch, he had no idea how much time had passed since Cas had picked him up on the street, as a nervous, apathetic wreck. But it didn't matter where or when Dean was right now.

Just—where the actual hell was Sammy? All right, most likely he was just with Jess or something, because she was always the first one on his list to run to. But Dean couldn't relax all the same, because none of them bothered answering their cellphones.

Guessing wasn't enough, he had to know for sure that Sammy was okay, and not sitting on some old trucker's passenger seat on the road to nowhere, running away from home. Or, even worse, breaking out together with Jess. Those things happened all the time.

And also, of course Cas' presence didn't leave Dean all that cold, either. Especially how they were sitting. It was the exact same position like that one time, when Dean had temporarily lost his mind and had made a move on Cas. Well, except for his arm, maybe, it wasn't pathetically twining around Cas' shoulders this time. But other than that, yes, it was Dean's birthday again. Not like Dean wanted his arm to lay in its former position, no, definitely not, that'd be seriously—improper. And… Oh, shut up!

Dean's arm was already really busy supporting his smoking habit, anyway. Holding cigarette after cigarette, lifting, lowering, flicking away butts, pulling out new ones… A full time job.

"Well", Cas replied, sincere as always. "Perhaps he doesn't want to talk to you."

"Oh, really", Dean grouched, peering hard at him from below. "No shit, Cas. How'd you come up with that?"

Testily, Dean took a long, deep drag, taking a sideling look at Cas. Of course, the confused frown wasn't too long in the coming.

Slowly, Dean blew the smoke into the cottage's heated air, because only then it formed the nicest shapes. Smoking inside another person's house might seem rude, but, Dean thought as his eyes lazily skimmed the overstuffed, rubbish-strewn room, not at Cas' place. Well, not anymore, that was. Cas' once pretty decent tidiness standards were now written large in the history of the neat-and-clean-math-teach era.

And Cas didn't mind at all. In fact, he'd surprised Dean a few minutes ago by asking if he could "have a taste of it", because it looked "quite delicate".

"You've tried to reach him approximately ten times now", Cas tore Dean out of his reasoning, still pondering over the sarcastic remark. "It seemed like the most logical conclusion. He doesn't want to talk to you, Dean."

"Yeah, thanks, Cas. Praise your brains, man. Thanks a lot for making that clear to me."

Cas just nodded. "My pleasure."

Dean's skeptical eyes possibly lingered in Cas' for a little longer than absolutely necessary. Then, his phone vibrated in his jean's pocket, urgent, and Dean broke away to have a look.

I'm with Jess . Now stop terrorizing me, jerk.

Dean huffed. He turned to tell Cas about Sammy's vital sign. "Hey, Cas, seems like Sammy's fine. And, hate to admit it, but you were probably right, he—"

Dean choked mid-sentence. Cas was nodding, attentively listening. But he wasn't just looking anywhere. First of all, he was fucking gaping. Secondly, directly at Dean's fingers. The rollie nearly dropped out of his hands.

"Uhm", Dean chuckled, awkwardly. "You… wanna try again?"

"Yes", Cas immediately said. "I liked it. I'm glad that Sam is okay."

"Yeah, uh. You sure you wanna try again?" Dean swallowed. "'Cause last time you coughed like a—"

Cas simply picked it out his fingers.

"It's, uh… kinda wet… and gross—"

Except that it wasn't gross at all. Cas had been right, it looked… actually delicious. And this time, Cas didn't even cough, didn't even clear his throat or anything. He really just tasted the smoke, and then blew it away, all the while wearing a serious expression. Dean had never wasted a thought on the aesthetics of tobacco consumption before, but Cas seemed to prove a point right here. Not to mention Dean's spit, that was kind of in Cas' mouth right now.

Dean cleared his throat. "What's this?"

Hit or miss, Dean fished a coffee-stained, crinkled sheet of paper out of the hopeless chaos that was Cas' couch table.

"Oh."

Cas grabbed the dirty paper, holding the cig like a pro. "That shouldn't be lying around here. These are the data for our upcoming class trip in January."

Well, that had certainly been a hit.

"Did you say class trip?"

"Yes…" Cas skimmed the paper. "Two days… to St. Tripper… with me and Mr. White… We're visiting the Tolerance Day, and, apparently there will be plenty of free-time."

"Hold on. We're not seriously going on a trip from St. Tipper... to St. Tripper?"

"Apparently, yes", Cas muttered, reading. "It says the town has good beaches."

"No, I mean", Dean tried again. "I've heard better jokes, you know. Never mind. Can't go there, anyway. Sam's my responsibility now", he reluctantly quoted John.

"Dean—"

"What?" Dean asked, testily.

Shrugging, Dean leaned back, and Cas swallowed whatever comment he was about to make, and kept on reading as if he was only learning about the trip in that very moment—which wasn't too unlikely.

There had yet to be a way, right? Maybe Sam could stay with Jess—no, scratch that. Her parents would never in the world allow him to spend two nights with their precious princess. Also, what if they conspired against humanity or something? Hippies were unpredictable after all. Nope, Jess was definitely out. So… who'd be there to trust? Gabe would be with Dean—and was less trustworthy than the Russian president. So, what about…

„Flynn", Cas spoke out Dean's thought. „Sam could stay with the Whites."

It was only then Dean realized how wrong that sounded.

"Cas", Dean began. "I can't just shunt Sammy off somewhere. I don't even know Walt Jr., or Flynn, or whatever, that well. What if I come back and Sammy's suddenly religiously listening to Eminem and starts calling himself DJ McMoose or something? Wouldn't want to be responsible for that."

"I understand", Cas replied, after a while of falling quiet. "Your father is acting irresponsible. And you don't want to do the same. You don't want Sam to think less of you."

Dean just blinked at Cas, open-mouthed.

Quickly, he shut it again, when Cas, who was now sitting bent forward, leaning onto his lower arms, slightly tilted his head to give Dean a compassionate look. Childishly, Dean couldn't refrain from stealing his halfway-down cigarette back, in a poor attempt to rebuild the crumbling wall between them. The rollie's bottom was wet with Cas' spit, though.

"Yeah, well", Dean said, stuffing it into the corner of his mouth. "It's not that big of a deal, Cas. Doesn't sound too great if you ask me, anyway. St. Tripper, my ass, and beaches are completely overrated anyway. Seriously, I'm good."

"You", Cas corrected, still closely watching Dean, "don't think you deserve it. The enjoyment."

"What? No." Dean shifted, nervously. "I just, uh, don't wanna leave Sam here like that, y'know. I wish I could go, though", he said, defensively. "It'd just feel wrong, that's all. Sam's too young, and he shouldn't have to… you know…"

"Go through the same as you did?"

Their eyes met.

Silently, biting his tongue, Dean nodded.

Neither of them felt the need to add anything more. Dean just buried his face in his hands, breathing in and out, pressing his torso onto his knees. Pictures of John sitting at their dinner table, red with anger, relentlessly coming back to him. The casualty in his last words: I'm out. Now, more than ever, it was all on Dean. Groaning, he pressed his fingertips against his forehead, as hard as he could.

That was when a cautious touch on his thigh made him freeze.

"I'll miss you, Dean", he heard Cas say, firmly and hesitantly at the same time.

Dean removed his hands from his face, looking at Cas' hand resting on his thigh. The brief, comforting touch got to him, and their conversation from earlier at school came to his mind, making him smile, albeit painfully. He glanced up at Cas, who looked as if he was about to wrap Dean in a blanket, make him soup and propose watching crap TV with him, all night, as if nothing else mattered.

"You miss me all the time, hm?" Dean asked, shyly nudging Cas' shoulder. "Even in the future, you miss me. Gotta say, that's pretty good for my ego."

Cas smiled, looking down at his hand on Dean's leg. "I'm even missing you right now, if it makes you feel better, Dean."

Dean huffed, following Cas' look. "That does kinda make me feel better."

A moment of silence passed.

"No, it doesn't", Dean added, low-voiced. "Not at all, actually."

Cas looked up at him, anxiously. "But I can't switch it off, Dean."

"No, no, that's not what I mean, Cas", Dean quickly said, calming. "It's just. You… pining for me or whatever, y'know, it—it's not exactly Christmas eve." Dean stopped, gesticulating hand in the air. "Bad analogy. Winchester Christmas is about as fun as being chased across the swanky front yard of some suburban Dad 'cause you've been just about to whip it out for his daughter." Dean paused again. "So, from this point of view, you saying that you miss me actually feels like Christmas to me, Cas."

"Oh", Cas made, slightly nodding. "I understand. It… hurts you, doesn't it? Not physically, but—"

"Case is solved, Sherlock", Dean hectically interrupted him. "You can call Watson now, have a drink, maybe more, s'been a successful day on the drama front."

Cas frowned, reading Dean's face. "I don't understand that reference."

Dean gasped, annoyed. "Yeah, well, it's not my fault you've been living under a rock your whole life, Cas."

Cas looked down at Dean's leg again, pondering. Dean thought he looked sort of offended.

"Didn't mean it like that, Cas", Dean rasped, shameful. "You know you're awesome. Hell, you speak friggin' math as your first language. That's more than I will ever know."

"Thank you, Dean", Cas replied, downcast. "I just wish I could be better at—normal things, though. I wish I wouldn't have to research every human convention beforehand. I wish I—" Cas sighed.

"—I wish wouldn't be so lost without you, Dean."

Dean felt his throat tightening. "You're not lost, Cas. Hey, you're doing great. I mean. Look at you. Wow. Your—your beard, man! Ain't many guys who can grow something bad-ass like that. And you're teaching a whole class. Every day. You—"

Dean made an ultimate gesture at Cas' messy couch table, his dirty documents, and the spotty teacher shirt lying in the back of the room, next to his messy bed.

"—I mean, you—"

"I'm a mess, Dean", Cas finished for him, silencing Dean with a serious look, making Dean swallow, guiltily.

"There's no way to put it nicely, I'm afraid. And not only that, but I lack social skills. It is a severe problem, and it's getting worse. After all, it is the reason we don't do … this anymore, isn't it. You became tired of explaining planet earth to me. And that evening, on your birthday, because I couldn't possibly control these 'emotions' anymore, I absolutely crossed the line, and there is no way to put that nicely, either, Dean."

"Wait, you crossed the line?" Dean repeated, eyes wide.

"Yes", Cas confirmed with a half-shrug. "Of course."

Dean huffed, baffled. "As far as I remember, Cas, it was no one but me who pretty much barrel-rolled over the line. I touched you up."

"But I enjoyed it", Cas countered. "A little too much, I'm afraid. Dean, I would have let you done… anything to me. Anything at all."

It took Dean a few seconds to process that information. "Okay. Okay, but. I wanted to kiss you in that moment. Hollywood-style."

"But I had an erection, Dean", Cas said, sighing, annoyed. "And Balthazar will never stop mocking me about what happened, because of course, after you've been gone, he immediately noticed my 'situation'."

"Yeah, but", Dean said, swallowing. "I literally stuck my thumb in your mouth, Cas, so I think I win."

Cas turned to him, rolling his eyes. "Why are we arguing about this, Dean?"

Dean looked away, falling quiet for a moment. "I—I don't know."

Cas nodded, seriously. "Me neither."

For a moment no one said anything, Dean listening to his thudding heartbeat, contemplating whether or not he should tell Cas to finally take his hand from his thigh, until Cas spoke up, quietly, looking nowhere in particular.

"Most of all", he began, gravely. "I just wish we could go back to where we were Dean, because quite honestly, you made my life enjoyable and… frankly, livable. Now it is just—plain human existence, I guess. It's strange. Meaningless. I don't like it."

"No one likes it", Dean agreed, quietly.

Cas understood what Dean meant, and compassionately, he fell silent again.

"Do you want to talk about what happened today, Dean?" Cas asked, after a while, turning his head to give Dean a warm look. "With… your father?"

Dean puckered his lips. "Not particularly, no."

Cas nodded. "I understand. I just want you to know that, whenever you or your brother needs something—help, a ride to school, or just a little company—I'm here for you. For both of you. Reason or time doesn't matter."

"Okay", Dean said, feeling a lump coming about in his throat. "Thanks, Cas. That—that means a lot."

Cas didn't say anything more, just quietly began caressing Dean's thigh with one thumb in response, comforting. Dean wished it wouldn't affect him as much, wished he could just enjoy some comfort for once without getting all girly, but of course his breath hitched, loudly, and he felt sudden redness creeping up his neck. Cas—of course—took notice right away.

"Is this okay, Dean?" Cas asked, hesitantly. "Should I stop? Or is it—acceptable?"

Dean made a fist, looking away.

Cas waited, patiently.

"Why are you even asking", Dean grumbled, eventually, barely audible.

Cas heard it though, and smilingly, carried on with caressing Dean like he was fragile, needed to be fixed or something. It was kind of nice, though, friendly, even, and Dean hated himself for overreacting the way he did. Because his body definitely did, making that tiny spot where Cas' hand lay seemingly radiate all over him. His brain soon joined the party, too, pondering over what was going on between them, right now, and whether this was going to be just a one-time reunion or not. The sheer possibility of them 'going back together' sent Dean's heartbeat flying.

For a few minutes, Dean maintained his crouched position, listening to the frictional noise of Cas' hand stroking his jeans over and over, slowly, clocklike, until he just couldn't take it anymore.

What the hell did Cas think he was doing? Well, the more bothering question was probably why Dean was enjoying it as much as he did.

He wasn't sure whom he was so friggin' angry at when he finally leaned back, let out his held breath, and sourly faced the opposite wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cas doing basically the same, except for the thigh-stroking thing, of course.

"Cas?"

"Yes?" Cas replied, immediately.

Dean turned his head, giving him a look as if to say you fucking know what.

Unfortunately, Cas eyes were really distracting, always had been, so the desired effect kind of vanished away when Dean's look got stuck in them. Those bluer-than-blue irises were enraging Dean even more, especially their stupid honesty, and innocence and—oh, hell, not this again.

That tragic glimpse, that thing Dean had noticed the last time they'd sat here alone together, when Dean had… well, when he'd touched… yeah, never mind. Through angry eyes, he found that certain expression in Cas' look again, the one that had driven him crazy over the last months whenever he'd remembered it, because it'd been friggin' impossible to forget, okay. That longing.

Stop it, Dean wanted to grouch at him. Stop looking at me like you fucking… like me more than you should. Stop that shit right now—and stop stealing my voice while you're at it.

A few more seconds, and Dean, with a long, annoyed sigh, grinded out his—their—cigarette in some used plate on the table. Then, he simply grabbed Cas' hand, the one that had lain on his thigh, and found Cas' innocent look again. Sort of accusingly, Dean cupped it firmly with both of his hands.

Is that what you want? His look asked.

Cas didn't need to say anything. Because he just swallowed, eyes evasively wandering to his trapped hand, shyly. It was hard to tell, because at least half of his face was covered with thick, scruffy hair, but if he was seriously blushing right now, then that friggin' did it. Obviously, he was trying to kill Dean.

Unstoppably, the bottled-up, aching rage started seething in Dean's guts, in his whole body. So what if he just did it? After all Cas was practically begging for it.

And goddammit, those hot, sweaty fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of his palm made him tingle in all the wrong places. Also, Cas wasn't pulling away, not one bit. Hell, he was the one who had initiated it, kind of. So, Dean thought, what if he just…

… he was actually going for it.

There was a tiny moment, when Dean had already leaned in so close that Cas' breath was tickling his tight lips, when Dean was afraid Cas would suddenly back off, reject him, or even worse, laugh. But Cas didn't move at all, not even his fingers. Dean lowered his look, hesitating. Saw the striped pattern of those pink lips, individual, like fingertips. Tempting.

Dean was in over his head, unable to think twice about it.

It was supposed to be a quick, angry peck—a basic fuck you to Cas' constant touches, stares and general confusion.

But then, when Dean actually met those dry, warm and full lips again, soberly, and they were giving in so maddeningly easy, he forgot all about his plan. His mind turned blank, into a puddle of awe.

So that was kissing. The things Cas wasn't doing were driving Dean crazy, the way he was accepting Dean's kiss, but really didn't do anything about it. Lips closed, rigid, he was at a loose end.

Dean had no idea for how long they'd been lingering over his former peck, breathing onto each other's faces, his heart shamelessly whooping it up for Cas, when he couldn't resist anymore.

He wanted more. Wanted to get the best of Cas, push him over, gently, but not too gently, and sit on his lap again, make him feel those 'emotions' that Cas found so overwhelming, to show him how much he wanted him, too.

Earth to Dean, his mind interrupted. You're friggin' kissing him.

Dean startled and backed off.

Far enough to quickly sift through Cas' eyes.

Confused, he found them closed.

In fact, Cas' facial features were completely out of it, softened, dreamy. Slowly, Cas leaned in again, not even hesitating, only willing to go back to where they'd been only seconds ago. Wherever that had been.

Dean gasped, panicking, when Cas opened his eyes.

Quickly, Dean stared down at his own feet.

"Unacceptable", Cas concluded, questioningly.

Dean just nodded.

"Unacceptable as hell."