Dean tells himself he's just grabbing a beer. He tells himself that as he pops the cap, and as he paces the kitchen and drinks down the neck. He tells himself that right up until he walks into the war room.
Lucifer is slouched in one of the chairs, picking at a loose thread on Cas' slacks. He looks up when he hears Dean's footsteps; rolling his eyes, he asks, "What do you want?"
That's -- that doesn't have an easy answer. Dean shrugs and says, "Nothing."
"So you just came in here to stare at me at --" Lucifer glances at the clock "-- four in the morning?" He pauses, letting an ugly smile creep across Cas' face. "I guess that makes sense. I am wearing your boyfriend."
"He ain't --"
"Sure. Whatever you say."
The old machinery behind Lucifer buzzes and hums. Lucifer shifts in his chair, running his hand through Cas' hair before resting his arm on the table. He frowns up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. He sighs.
Dean says, "You don't like it here." It isn't a question.
"Nope," Lucifer says, shaking his head. "Being underground -- it reminds me too much of the cage."
"This place?" Dean asks, snorting. "Like the cage?"
"Spoken like a guy who only spent forty years downstairs." Lucifer taps his fingers on the table -- a short, irritated rhythm. After a pause, he points at Dean and continues, "I was down there for millennia. Thousands and thousands and thousands of years. Longer than your pea-sized human brain can even comprehend. Do you what to know what I did as soon as I got out?"
"I went to the park and fed the ducks. Well --" Lucifer grimaces and waves his hand "-- that's not entirely true. I did go to the park. But I killed an angel before I fed the ducks."
Dean's head is starting to hurt. He switches his beer to his other hand so he can press his bottle-cold palm to his forehead. "So?"
"I don't even like ducks. But ducks don't smell like sulfur. And they don't sing showtunes."
"Why're you telling me all this?" Dean asks.
Lucifer shrugs. "I don't know. Why are you even in here?"
"I, um." Dean looks down at his beer. He scratches at the label with his thumb. "I wanna talk to him."
Dean takes a breath. "Please."
"Please? Did you just -- please?" Lucifer laughs hollowly. "Wow. The other side of your bed must really be getting cold."
"I told you, he ain't --"
"Sure. I give it about five minutes after you chisel me out of here." Pausing, Lucifer smiles like a knife. "If you chisel me out of here."
"Look. I'll ask Chuck to make you a new vessel. I mean -- he can do that, right?"
"He could, but he won't. Not for his greatest disappointment."
"Christ," Dean says, rubbing his hand over his face. He didn't sign up for this. "Lemme talk to Cas, and I'll -- I'll figure something out."
Lucifer rolls his eyes. "Fine."
It takes a minute. Dean doesn't know if Cas is buried that deep, or if Lucifer is just enjoying making him wait. But eventually, Cas' face changes. It loses Lucifer's smug smirk. Cas blinks at Dean a few times. Then he asks, "Dean?" in a voice that's achingly familiar.
"Hey," Dean says, crouching beside Cas' chair. His hands are shaking. His heart is hammering in his throat. "How you doing?"
"I'm -- what's going on?"
"I wanted to talk to you, so I got Lucifer to buzz off for a coupla minutes."
Cas sits up straighter. "Lucifer? You -- why is Lucifer at the bunker? Has he hurt you?" A frown twists his mouth. "Has he hurt Sam? Is he --"
"Hey, no. It's okay." That's not exactly true -- nothing about any of this is okay -- but Dean doesn't know what else to say. "Chuck -- well, God, I guess -- God says we need him to fight Amara. I don't like it, but he ain't listening to me."
"God?" Cas asks. A complicated looks crosses his face, a mix of anger and confusion and sadness. It makes Dean's chest ache. "God is here?"
"Yeah, he's -- actually, I think he's watching Jessica Jones." It's the wrong thing to say; Cas grits his teeth and looks away. Dean says, "I'm sorry. You -- you probably want to talk to him."
"No," Cas says tightly. After a pause, he sighs under his breath. "That's not true. I do, but I doubt it's anything he'd want to hear."
"Yeah, he's been getting that a lot, lately." A knot is burning in Dean's throat, sour and hot. He touches Cas' sleeve and says, "Hey, listen. I'm gonna get you outta this. I don't know how yet, but I -- I'm gonna get you out."
"Dean." Cas slides his hand up Dean's arm and palms the side of Dean's neck. "It's fine. If I can help you defeat Amara --"
"I don't give a shit about Amara," Dean snaps. He sits up on his knees so he can lean over the arm of the chair -- so he can lean closer to Cas. "I just want you back. I --" he clears his throat --" I miss you."
"Dean," Cas says again. His thumb just barely brushes Dean's throat. "I'm sorry."
"Shut up," Dean says, shaking his head. He grabs a handful of Cas' coat and pulls him into a hug. "Don't talk like that. It's gonna be all right. I'm gonna get Lucifer outta you, and you're gonna come home." He hides his hot face against Cas' jaw and breathes Cas in. "You get that, right? That I want you here?"
Cas makes a soft, sad noise. "Dean."
Dean leans back and looks at him. "Tell me you get that."
Cas nods. He slides his hand to the back of Dean's neck and tucks his thumb behind Dean's ear. The war room's machines rattle and hum. Dean takes a breath. And another. Then he leans in and kisses Cas, soft and quick.
"He's coming back," Cas says quietly. He brushes his hand through Dean's hair. "He -- goodbye, Dean."
Lucifer grabs the wheel again before Dean can really pull away. He quirks an eyebrow and asks, "You done torturing yourself?"
"Yeah," Dean says, pushing himself to his feet. He needs another beer. "I guess."