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Cas was sitting in the library, staring down at the cover of a book, when Dean walked in. He stilled in the doorway, watching Cas for a moment; Cas didn’t move, or even blink. He kept staring down at the book’s bland, green material cover in total silence.
Dean opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. He turned to leave, eyes wide with the weirdness of the scene he’d just walked into - and then, just as he was on the point of disappearing down the corridor and leaving Cas to his literary stare-off, something stopped him. He sighed, and let his eyes fall closed for a second before turning back round.
“You know,” he said gruffly, hitching on a smile like a too-tight shirt, “if you open the book, it’s easier to read.” He dropped into the chair opposite Cas, looking over at him and catching the depth, the strangeness in his eyes. Dean swallowed. “At least that’s what they tell me,” he added, with a nervous half-laugh.
“I was thinking,” Cas said, smiling slightly in response, putting his hand down flat on the cover of the book. The tip of his thumb and little finger stretched out over the edge on either side. Dean wished he had something to do with his hands; he felt hulking and awkward, sitting with his legs apart in the old wooden chair, with Cas opposite looking calm, composed, serene.
“Deep thoughts about the universe?” he asked, the half-joke falling hollow as a drum in a church when Cas nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
Dean cleared his throat and squared his shoulders as Cas frowned, obviously about to continue. “I was thinking about this book. And how it is meaningless.”
Dean looked down at the book. It was fairly fat, the cover a little dusty, pages yellowed.
“It’s a book,” Dean said, because he didn’t know what else to say. Cas nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s a book. But what does it mean?” His head was tilted to one side, his expression thoughtful, eyes resting on Dean’s.
“Well… I don’t know,” Dean said, shifting uncomfortably. He wasn’t smart enough for this kind of crap. “I haven’t even read it, so…”
“Exactly,” Cas said, smiling, and Dean found a pleased grin sliding onto his own face. Not smart enough, huh? Yeah, suck it, me. Well, other me.
“The book is meaningless because it is closed,” Cas said. “It’s scratchings on a page. It only becomes meaningful when someone opens it. When a person makes sense of the lines and shapes.”
“Right,” Dean said, keeping up. “So you’re saying that writing only means something when someone else reads it?”
“Yes.”
“Right,” Dean said again. “Well - yeah, I mean… duh?”
Cas smiled.
“Duh,” he said. “Yes. But then I was thinking about the other things that are given meaning only when there is someone there, to… see them, and understand them.” Dean frowned and Cas’ eyebrows raised. “You see,” he said. “You frowned at me. But using your facial muscles in that way would be meaningless if there were no one here to see it. Or if the people here to see it did not notice, or care.”
“Cas, where are we going with this?” Dean asked, trying to sort through that last sentence in his head, and piece it together in a way he understood. Cas shrugged.
“I was wondering how much of my life has meaning,” he said, after a moment’s reflection. “If books are given meaning by the reader, then who is reading me? Who is paying attention?”
“People ain’t books, Cas,” Dean said. “It’s more complicated than that.”
Cas accepted this with a nod of his head.
“Still,” he murmured, thumbing the pages of the book absently. Dean frowned, taking advantage of the fact that Cas’ eyes were downcast to study his face. He looked tired, and - and sad, Dean thought. Tired and sad and stretched a little thin. Dean’s frown deepened.
“I’m paying attention,” he said abruptly.
Cas’ head jerked up, his expression blank. A purity of focus. Dean swallowed hard.
“To - to you,” he went on. “I pay attention. I, uh, I read you.” He smiled nervously, mimicking holding a radio up to his mouth. “Breaker, breaker, do you read me?”
Cas’ smile twisted upwards, his eyes warm.
“I read you,” he said in a low voice, and for a moment they simply smiled at each other. Cas’ eyes dropped, however, his expression clouding. “Though I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”
“What’s that mean?” Dean asked. “I’m an open book. I’m The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I’m Winnie-the-freaking-Pooh. It doesn’t get easier to read than me.”
Cas snorted.
“I am!” Dean insisted. “My face says what I think. Simple as that. No secret meanings.”
“So, when you’re looking at me,” Cas began. Dean sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, not liking where this was going. “And your lips are slightly apart, and your eyes are very wide, does that - what does that mean?”
“Well - shit, Cas,” Dean croaked. “’m just looking at you.”
Cas nodded thoughtfully. Dean could feel butterflies in his stomach, twirling with sudden nerves.
“I mean - I mean, anyway, I’m not the one who always does the shoulders-back, chest-out, impressive-preening thing whenever we’re talking,” Dean said, the words spilling out. “What’s that even supposed to be, anyway?”
Cas looked taken aback.
“I do not do that,” he said haughtily, his shoulders hunching down a little all the same, self-consciously.
“You do,” Dean said, a smile stealing onto his face. Cas was embarrassed, too? Good. “You totally do.”
“Well - well, you lower your voice around me,” Cas said, narrowing his eyes. “Deliberately.”
“I do not.”
“You just did it, Dean.”
“I - I do not!” Cas snorted at Dean’s shaky soprano. Dean shook his head.
“Hey,” he said smugly. “At least when I look at you, my eyes don’t do the thing.” Cas wrinkled his nose in confusion. “You know, the thing. Where they go all warm and gooey.” Winning shot, Winchester. Got him.
Cas looked at him askance, and Dean felt a sudden spark of uncertainty.
“Yes,” Cas said, “you do. All the time. You look at me and your eyes… they… they do exactly what you just said.”
Dean stared at him for a long, long moment.
“Warm and gooey?” he asked disbelievingly.
“Warm and gooey,” Cas confirmed.
Dean swallowed hard and rocked back in his chair. Those butterflies in his stomach were turning faster than a whirpool.
“Shit,” he said. Cas nodded.
“I mean - I mean,” Dean muttered, trying to think of some kind of excuse, more for himself than for Cas. “I mean… I didn’t think I was - I didn’t realise, I thought it was just… I thought I had it under…” he lapsed into silence. The library around them was still, as though the very books around them were holding their breaths. “Shit,” Dean said again.
“Shit,” Cas repeated solemnly, as though trying it out.
Dean leaned forwards, elbows resting on the table.
“But, Cas,” Dean said. “If I’m looking at you like… like that, and you’re doing the same thing - you are,don’t argue - well, then, what… what does that mean?”
Cas frowned down at his hands, twisted in his lap.
“I - I think,” Cas began, “it’s like the book.”
Dean looked down at the green book on the table, still sitting exactly where it had been when he’d first walked into the room.
“The book?” he demanded. His heart was thudding.
“It’s scratchings on a page,” Cas murmured. “All of it. None of it means anything until we read it… until we pay attention.”
Dean swallowed.
“And if we do that?” he said.
“Then,” Cas replied, looking right into his eyes, his expression unreadable, “then it can mean whatever we want it to mean. This isn’t a book, it’s our story.”
Dean let out a shaky breath. Opposite him, Cas’ lips were parted in a matching sigh. They looked so soft, so tempting. His eyes were wide, and full up to the brim; the stretched-thin tiredness of his skin was gone, and he was - he was glowing, from the inside out. Dean hesitated just a second, before reaching out his hand over the table. The soft brush of Cas’ fingers against his palm, over the base of his wrist, stole his breath away.
“Cas,” Dean whispered. “I’m paying attention.”