Chapter Text
“I can’t fucking do this anymore,” Dean shouted, standing up so quickly that his chair shot back behind him. He slammed the book in his hands and hung his head. Cas looked up to see Dean drawing in ragged angry breaths and hanging his head in frustration.
“Dean…?” Cas wasn’t sure what had just occurred. “What’s wrong?” He reached out to touch his friend on the shoulder, an act that he had used to comfort him many times in the past. This time, however, Dean flinched out of his reach with a horrified expression. Cas withdrew his hand and sat frozen, unsure what to do next. Dean averted his gaze, mumbled to himself, and stormed out of the library.
Their friendship had been through so much. They’d survived apocalyptic chaos, death, loss, and betrayal but somehow, they’d always been able to talk things out. Dean wasn’t the most communicative and was prone to speaking through actions rather than his words, but for the most part, Cas could usually tell what Dean was saying when he gave angry looks or frustrated sighs. Cas, to his detriment, was just as bad at discussing his feelings. He often didn’t really understand what he felt or did not take the time to consider how his feelings might affect others. But he listened to Sam and was trying to rid himself of the “forgiveness, not permission” mentality.
Lately, Dean’s thoughts had been less than recognizable. One moment he would be placid, washing the dishes or driving with one arm out the window. The next, he would be terse and angry with his jaw clenched so tight and his eyes trained ahead. Cas had asked about the rapid change in mood to no avail. Dean had simply gotten quieter and would find a way to leave the situation. Cas worried that the lingering effects of trapping Michael had caused permanent damage and that Dean was in trouble, but without him to confirm, Cas was helpless to do anything about it. On top of it all, they’d been stuck in the bunker for weeks and cabin fever had set in almost immediately. Neither Dean nor Cas were at their best when they felt bored or trapped-a lifetime of traveling, constant moving, and endless changes had solidified their rambling habits. Sam had sought refuge with Jody when the virus became a serious concern. Dean had initially grown anxious, talking cryptically about his time jump to 2014 and the Croatoan virus that still gave him nightmares.
Three weeks into quarantine, Cas was becoming increasingly confused. Dean would greet him in the mornings with a cup of coffee and hot breakfast. Cas would catch him staring over the table, barely averting his eyes when he was caught. They would pass in the hall, and Cas would feel the brush of Dean’s flannel against his arm as if he were getting just a little closer than necessary. When they watched television, Dean would prop his arm against the back of the sofa and lean towards Cas ever so slightly. Cas knew he wasn’t going crazy; he knew he wasn’t imagining these moments. They’d had so many over the past eleven years. But almost immediately after Dean initiated some kind of contact, he would retreat into himself and flee the room. Cas was used to this too. In the beginning, he’d believed it to be part of Dean’s demeanor-he was a confusing man. As time progressed, Cas began to recognize Dean’s actions for what they were-fear. Dean was afraid of rejection. He was afraid of exposing himself. He was afraid of his own wants. He was afraid of wanting something that he could lose. Dean was afraid of his father’s expectations, of betraying the memory of John, of betraying what he wanted Dean to be.
Cas was thankful that Sam would be home at the end of the week. Sam provided a much-needed buffer for Dean that allowed him space to process his feelings. Sam provided distraction-in cases, in humor, in anything-but-this-tension, and he would be willing to give Cas advice--if he was brave enough to ask for it. But Sam returning also meant that Dean would retreat back into himself. Despite his exasperating departures from any attempt at intimacy, Dean was still trying. With Sam home, Dean would go back to using humor as a defense, setting cups of coffee on the table rather than placing them in Cas' hands, and keeping to his side of the sofa. If Cas wanted things to change, it was going to have to be before Sam’s return.
--
Sighing to himself, Cas stood up from the library table and turned to push in his chair. He leaned over the scrolls he had been translating and set a marker down to save his place. With another resounding sigh, he turned in the direction of the hall and tried to make up his mind if he should press the issue. For all his simple pleasures, Dean was a complicated man and Cas was hesitant to pry, not knowing how Dean would react. Being holed up underground was not doing anything for Dean's frustration tolerance. In the end, his worry won out and Cas walked down the hall after Dean.
Dean made no answer when Cas knocked on his bedroom door. Cas knocked again louder, “Dean can I please speak with you?” Again, Dean made no reply. Cas turned the knob slightly, expecting to find it locked and was surprised when the door opened slightly. “Dean?” he asked to the dark of the room.
“Yeah, Cas, I’m here.” Dean’s voice sounded pained. “I’m fine, Cas,” he said before Cas had a chance to voice the question.
“You’re not fine, Dean. That much is clear. Please talk to me.” Cas scrubbed at his face, standing in the dark of Dean’s room staring at his outline laying across his bed. He could tell from the muffled reply that Dean was facing the wall.
“I don’t know what I am, Cas.” Dean’s voice sounded distant. Cas took a few cautious steps forward, making just enough noise to let Dean know what he was doing. It would do no good for either of them to startle him now. Dean turned his head in question as he felt the bed sink down when Cas sat at the edge.
“Dean…” Cas began. He reached across the empty space and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean lay rigid, but didn’t pull away. Undeterred, Cas swung his legs up on the bed and drew himself up behind Dean, sliding his hand down his arm and around his waist, pulling him in close to his chest. Dean’s chest rose and fell sharply. Cas let out a tired sigh into the hairs at the back of Dean’s neck.
“Cas, I don’t think I can do this,” Dean whispered. “I don’t think I would survive losing you again if we did this. I’ve lost you so many times before. What would I do if something happened to you?” Cas could feel his rapid breathing shift into quiet sobs as he spoke the words. He pulled Dean closer still to his chest, hand splayed across his chest, holding them together with his hand over Dean’s heart.
Cas took a steadying breath and leaned up to prop his head up with his arm, catching Dean’s eyes in the dark. “Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch. A fearful thing to love, to hope, to dream, to be – to be, and oh, to lose. A thing for fools, this, and a holy thing, a holy thing to love. For your life has lived in me, your laugh once lifted me, your word was gift to me. To remember this brings painful joy. ‘Tis a human thing, love, a holy thing, to love what death has touched.”
Dean splayed his hand over Cas’, holding it firmly against his own heart and allowed himself to be overtaken by quiet sobs. Cas quietly shushed him, “I know this is complicated-for so many reasons. But I want you to know that I want this, want you. If you aren’t ready, I’ll understand. But I am here when you want me. I am not going anywhere.”