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Before everything went to hell--
No, scratch that. Before Sam went to hell -- though after Dean had, Dean was having a Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day. He sighed. And now he had that stupid kids' book running through his head, thank you, Sam-aged-three, who had loved it and made Dean read it until it fell apart and pages started getting left behind in motel rooms whenever they had to leave quickly.
Dean really hoped this day didn't end with leaving the motel quickly, though he wasn't ruling it out. He'd spent the night outside a supposedly haunted house -- outside-outside, not in-a-car-outside, because Sam had had a thought that needed researching right that second, Dean had pointed out that there were (maybe) lives at risk that they had half a chance at actually saving in the house. Cas, the jerk, had sided with Sam, pointing out that a ghost hardly measured up to an apocalypse in his most obnoxiously reasonable tone. And sure, Dean understood that on a sheer numbers level, but the odds were that Sam was just hurtling straight towards another dead-end line of research, so it could wait. He held out against Sam's disappointed eyes and Cas's furrowed brow for approximately thirty seconds and slammed the door viciously after he got out.
Nothing happened at the house, unless you counted finding a hole in his jacket lining, which Dean didn't. Dawn broke, and he trudged back to base.
The diner sharing the motel's parking lot was out of bacon. And sausage. And eggs. And no, they don't serve anything on the lunch menu until after eleven -- at which point Dean had to wonder why the place was open. A deceptively deep puddle out in the lot soaked his pant leg and spilled into his boot. And now Dean had a kids' book stuck in his head like a Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad song.
The key finally turned on the third try. The room was filled with flashing light. Dean frowned. Sam was curled around his laptop on one of the beds, peering at the screen which was probably not quite aligned with his personal sense of up and down. Dean wished him a crick in the neck as his eyes continued to seek out the source of the flashing. Cas, seated at the table, was staring intently at a computer as well. Dean blinked at him a few times -- not so much out of surprise as the ever-shifting light.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for scans of original Babylonian sources," Sam replied to the screen, worlds of duh in his voice. "Like I said, I think we need to go older than--"
"Not you," Dean snapped. "The disco ball angel."
Sam glanced up. Briefly. "He's discovered the internet."
Dean knew all of Sam's expressions, and that right there? That was a shifty look. "Sam."
Sam shrank a little smaller around his laptop and grunted like he was completely re-engrossed in his work.
"Sam. What exactly --"
Sam sighed like he was the one being put-upon. "Supernatural fansites."
"You let-- The ones with the --" There were no good answers here. "I'm taking a shower."
The hot water lasted just long enough for Dean to be directly under the spray when it cut out. "Oh, come on!" He gave it a moment to kick back in. It didn't. He dried off and tried to be glad that at least he wasn't muddy any more. He gave up trying and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to hide from the constantly shifting light.
The room was still bright when he woke but in a steady, thin-curtains way. He opened his eyes. "Hello, Dean." Dean blinked. Castiel was very close. Must be time for the personal space conversation again. "Sam said not to wake you, unless the apocalypse was imminent." Frown, mild confusion. "It is. The condition was meaningless."
"More imminent," Dean muttered and tried to stretch without bumping Cas, who hadn't left him much room for it and didn't make room now.
"Sam also said that you were having a bad day. You are in good health, and Sam is no less himself than when you parted." Head-tilt, curious.
Dean sighed. Cas was close enough that Dean's morning/could-be-afternoon breath bounced back on him. "It doesn't take broken bones or possession to make a bad day. Just little stuff."
Distant gaze, thinking. After a moment, he refocused on Dean. "A lost zebra day."
"A what?"
"A lost zebra day. An accumulation of small disappointments and setbacks resulting in a general feeling of malaise. The term is cited in the personal writings of a small number of the evangelicals of the Winchester Gospels."
It took a minute for the plurals to sink in, and another to translate the words from apparently insane angel to normal human guy. "You cannot take the weird fantasies of a bunch of- of fangirls on the internet seriously."
"You were not impressed with Chuck, either." He drew back slightly, looking down. Dean couldn't see his eyes. "Several will no doubt prove apocryphal. The stories are full of contradiction. But some provide reasons to hope." Castiel lifted his head and then his hand, fingers outstretched. "You should sleep."
"Don't you da--" Dean woke with an irritated start. He really, really hated when Castiel pulled that angel crap. He rolled his head toward the bedside clock to see how much time he'd just lost, only to find something fuzzy-white blocking his line of sight. He lifted his head slightly and blinked bleary eyes at it until it resolved into a beanbag toy, the kind found at truck stops for truckers (and hunters) to buy when they realized they'd missed their kid's birthday (again). This one looked vaguely horse-ish. He picked it up.
"It's meant to be a zebra." Okay, that explained the black stripes. He glanced over at Castiel sitting cross-legged on the bed -- further than the last time he'd woken up, but still a closer perch than most people would have picked, given all the available furniture. "I would have brought a real one, but Sam insisted this was simpler: using the toy as a symbolic object to signal the symbolic gesture of giving you a zebra, which --" Cas frowned. "I am not convinced this is simpler."
"Easier upkeep," Dean noted, as he sat up. Castiel's frown began to edge into a look of mild concern -- an identifiable expression even to those uninitiated in the fine art of Cas reading. "'S okay, I get it."
Castiel looked more dubious than reassured.
"I get it," he insisted, scooting back against the headboard and gesturing with the beanie. "This means you wanted to give me a zebra."
"The zebra--"
"-- is a symbol, too. I got it. You want me to feel better." Weirdly, it was kind of working. He smiled.
Cas didn't exactly smile back, but his eyes did that pleased thing, and Dean called it close enough. He sat there staring at him, and Dean held the ridiculous zebra and waited for Cas to break the moment with some 'now that you're fixed, this is the plan for today' declaration.
Dean held out for a ten count. "What?"
Castiel refocused between one blink and the next, but instead of answering, he rolled to his knees and crawled over to-- no, just plain over Dean who pressed back into the headboard and held very still. Cas's weight settled on Dean's thighs, trapping him beneath the covers. It was way past time for the personal space conversation. He opened his mouth to remind Cas about the usual human conventions -- right as Cas leaned in and pressed his mouth to Dean's, turning what was probably meant to be a chaste expression of affection into something just not chaste. At all.
He was kissing Castiel -- an angel and not an all-but-human, Grace-less one this time. And that was tongue and he was definitely going to hell. Back to hell.
If he didn't think about that too much, he could almost call it worth it.
The noise Dean made when Castiel pulled back was categorically not a whimper. When he opened his eyes, Cas was studying his face from a distance just barely far enough to focus, wearing a faintly pleased expression.
"What was that?"
"A kiss. It means the same as a zebra symbolically." His head tipped. "Sam indicated you would understand."
Dean's mouth worked silently. Sam was an asshole and not allowed to be alone with the angel ever again, assuming Dean didn't kill him, and -- Sam was conspicuously absent from the room, which wasn't his prank M.O. at all, and Castiel's eyes were actually crinkling at the corners. Dean's eyes widened, and he found his voice. "You're dicking with me."
And that was an actual smile, poorly hidden. Dicks with wings, every one of them, even the one he liked.
Dean refused to smile back. Refused. "You're not funny."
"You're smiling."
Dean shoved at him half-heartedly with the hand not clutching the stupid-looking zebra. Cas was unmoved -- unsurprising, it took much more force than Dean had to shift him -- and caught up the hand. His thumb skimmed over Dean's knuckles. Ridiculous that such a small motion could raise goosebumps.
"Maybe I am smiling," Dean admitted.
Cas looked supremely self-satisfied. His free hand slid behind Dean's head, tugging him close.
"You didn't really discuss this with Sam, right?" he asked. Cas didn't answer, pressing their lips together again.
Dean decided the answer wasn't that important, really.