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Sam is gassy, and he folds his underwear, and he spends fucking forever reading the list of ingredients on the back of anything he buys. He corrects Dean’s pronunciation of words, and he picks out weird fruit-scented shampoo, and he refuses to do them all a favor and get laid more than once a century. Sam, in short, drives Dean nuts—but he’s Dean’s brother, and Dean loves him something fierce, and anyway, Dean’s been putting up with this shit for twenty-seven years. He’s used to it.
Dean has known Castiel for not quite two years, has been seeing him on a day-to-day basis for less than half that time. From the day they met, Castiel has certainly displayed his share of odd habits—popping up out of nowhere; lacking any conception of personal space; that staring thing—but Dean mostly chalked those up to Cas being an angel. Angels aren’t human; you can’t apply the same rules to them. Forgetting that could be a very dangerous thing.
And it isn’t that Dean’s forgotten. It’s that Castiel—slipping and sliding toward humanity, losing his grace—doesn’t fit into easy categories anymore. Dean can look at Castiel and logically know “angel,” but at the same time he can’t help glancing over at the guy, the friend in the seat next to him, and thinking, Jesus fuck, could he stop doing that?
“Cas. Cas.” Castiel blinks and finally looks up from the diner menu he’s studying as if it’s an ancient text. “It’s just lunch,” Dean says. “No need to get nervous now.”
“This meal is not making me anxious,” Castiel says seriously. Across from them, Sam is giving them a bemused look; apparently he can’t feel how the table is fucking vibrating.
“You wanna quit with the fear and trembling then?” Dean asks, and when Castiel’s forehead creases deeper in confusion, he presses a hand to Cas’ thigh. A second later Dean realizes that that’s a fucking weird thing to do, but it gets his message across: Cas finally stops restlessly pumping his knee up and down. His lips part in surprise as he realizes what he’s been doing, some subconscious twitch getting the best of him for what Dean realizes might be the first time ever. For a second, the look on Cas’ face is one of pure dismay. “My apologies,” he says stiffly, shifting away from Dean’s touch. And now Dean feels strangely guilty: he’d forgotten, or perhaps never even considered, how freaky it must be for Cas, to lose control of something over which he once held perfect mastery.
“No big deal,” Dean says. “I’d rather deal with your wandering knee than have to listen to Sam drumming his fingers all the time.”
“What? I do not—” Sam starts, before seeming to realize he’s been doing precisely that and clenching his hand into a guilty fist.
But the truth is Dean is used to Sam’s impatient tapping. It’s normal. Cas developing odd nervous tics all of a sudden—that is not normal. That is weird, and possibly just as worrying as the way Cas lets out a little sigh when he bites into his turkey sandwich, the corner of his mouth twitching up when he licks a dollop of mayonnaise off his lips.
As worrying as the way Cas seems to suddenly lose focus, his gaze drifting off to one side as they sit around the motel room that night, fruitlessly, Dean thinks, “going over their options” (but Sam insists). Dean follows Cas’ eyeline and finds him staring at their wavy reflections in the darkened glass of the room’s single window. As Dean watches, Cas’ dark twin tilts his head to the side. His eyes widen, considering. And then, as Dean watches, as Dean stares, the mirror-Cas lifts his fingers and touches them gently to his own cheek.
“Dean!”
He snaps his head back around; Sam’s giving him a fixed, constipated look. “Are you even listening to me?”
“You left off at us being screwed, right?”
“Dean,” Sam and Cas sigh in unison, and it’s so accidentally perfectly timed that Dean sort of loses track of his funk.
“Have you guys been practicing that?”
Sam rolls his eyes, but Cas has turned back and is glancing between them, his curiosity transferred. He looks almost amused.
Dean would think that Cas’ expressions would be getting easier to read, now that he’s—with everything that’s happening. But that’s not the case at all. Cas is starting to seem like a book that’s been inexpertly translated: Dean keeps getting thrown by the occasional, sudden out-of-place turn of phrase. His reaction to losing the ability to Apparate is a resolved, quiet acceptance, but when Sam questions Castiel’s conclusions on an ordinary monster hunt, Cas seethes with anger and impatience.
“Trust me,” he grinds out. “It’s an adjule.”
“Where’s the research to support this?” Sam says, displaying a level of annoyance for which Dean is usually the sole, lucky recipient. “I just spent four hours in the library, Cas, and I didn’t find any evidence to support the idea that—”
“Maybe it’s one of those giant worm-things from Tremors,” Dean suggests.
This earns him twin glares.
“It’s an adjule,” Cas repeats, still glaring. He grabs a beer out of Dean’s newly procured six pack and starts twisting its neck like it’s a chicken he wants to have for dinner. “It is commendable that you put in so many hours at the library, Sam, but nevertheless, I have many centuries’ more wisdom and experience than you and...WHY CAN I NOT OPEN THIS BEER?”
Wordlessly, Dean hands Cas the bottle opener.
At the table, Sam is doing a very poor job trying to stifle his laughter and, when that fails entirely, to hide the fact that he is laughing by ducking down behind the computer screen. For once, Dean finds himself having to shoot his brother the “don’t be an asshole” look instead of the other way around.
Cas drops the bottle opener and the beer cap on the table, then takes a long, slow pull of his beer. “You know,” he says, conversationally, “I used to be able to twist people’s heads off with my bare hands. It was very convenient.”
Sam finishes his chuckling off in a sort of choking cough. “I, uh, I think I’ll go back to the library and see if I can corroborate your theory, Cas. Why don’t you guys drive back out to the ranch and see if you can interview any more witnesses?”
“Fine,” Castiel snaps.
Dean sighs. “Fine.”
They’re driving away from the motel when Cas speaks again. “Dean, I know how little you like needless delay. I think you and I can manage to kill an adjule on our own, don’t you?”
It turns out to be two adjules, but they manage all the same. Dean’s adrenaline’s pumping as he surveys the corpses, and Castiel: axe in hand, his cheeks lightly flushed, his breathing slightly heavy. “You all right?” Dean asks.
At first Castiel’s expression seems to imply that he is of course all right, he is both unstoppable force and unmovable object and certainly not the least bit winded by a fight with a couple of adjules (told you, Sam!). But then he blinks, a long slow slide of his lashes folding closed, and when he opens them again he’s looking at Dean with a weird sort of anticipatory hopefulness. He licks his lips. “I am perhaps...thirsty?”
Dean’s gonna have to talk to Cas about doing...that. That lip-tongue thing. In public. All the time. Dean swallows; the fight coughed up a lot of dry desert dust, and he’s a bit thirsty himself. “Knew we shouldn’t have left the beer back at the motel.”
“Isn’t there water in the car? Sam reminded you yesterday—”
Aww, fuck. Sam had gone on and on about remembering to put plenty of water in the car before driving out into the desert. But then they’d gotten busy and Dean sort of had other things on his mind at the moment, and Jesus, like he really needed Sam and Cas double-teaming him like— He doesn’t need both of them harassing him all the time, is his point.
“It’s a thirty-minute drive, Cas,” Dean says. “Just...slosh the spit around in your mouth.”
As Dean watches, Castiel actually tries this. “That does not help,” he reports.
“Help me clean up these bodies,” Dean says with a sigh.
Cas, it turns out, likes lighting shit on fire, and that, at least, is a habit Dean can get behind.
The same cannot be said for Cas’ sudden, newfound desire to sing along with the radio. Objectively, Dean would have to admit that he actually has a pretty nice voice, but nevertheless... “Those aren’t even the right lyrics!”
Cas’ jaw clicks closed; Dean’s not sure he’d even been aware of what he was doing. He watches as Cas mentally reviews the words that had been coming out of his mouth. “He is not informing the listener that a bathroom will be available on the right?”
“What? It’s not meant to be instructional, Cas! It’s a song. A song called ‘Bad Moon Rising.’ Do you think that maybe, just maybe, John Fogerty might be saying that there’s a bad moon on the rise, and not offering you advice on where to take a piss?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Cas says with what could, Dean supposes, be considered refreshing honesty.
Dean gives the wheel a thump, followed quickly by an apologetic stroke. “I suppose I should be grateful that you’re not trying to get me to listen to Coldplay.”
“Who’s Coldplay?”
Before Dean can formulate a suitably scathing response, his baby’s motor starts making a noise it really should not be making. “Whoa whoa whoa!” Dean says. “What’s this? What are you doing to me?”
They coast to a slow, remorseful stop. “I think we are out of gas,” Cas says helpfully.
“I know we’re out of gas!” Dean shouts. “What I want to know is why we’re out of gas.”
He sees Cas bite his lip. “I suspect the answer, ‘you drove us out here without putting sufficient gas in the car,’ isn’t the one you are looking for.”
Dean wheels on him. “I drove us out here confident that you had filled her up because you told me that you had filled her up.”
Cas folds his arms, righteous in his certainty. “I told you no such thing.”
Dean will not grab Cas by the lapels and shake him. Dean will not grab Cas by the lapels and shake him. “At the gas station by the motel. I gave you my credit card and went in to get a map. When I came back, I said, ‘All set?’ and you said, ‘All set,’ Cas, I fucking heard you.”
Cas stares down his nose at Dean; he looks like he wants to threaten to throw Dean, if not back into Hell, then possibly into a pit of stinging nettles. “I said, ‘All set’ because I was ‘all set’ to go kill the adjule. If there’s a special code that’s meant to convey that you desire something from me, in the future, Dean, I think it would be better if you told me in advance.”
His voice is dripping with condescension, and he’s totally working the smug angel expression that Dean can’t say he really misses on him. “All good points, Cas,” Dean concedes. “Except for one thing: what the fuck do you think I gave you the fucking credit card for?”
Cas is silent for several long seconds. Then he says, “Ah.”
Castiel actually looks sheepish. His hands have sunk down to his lap, and he’s doing something very close to twiddling his thumbs. Two red dots have risen on his cheeks.
“All right, okay,” Dean says, several seconds and a couple of deep breaths later. “We both fucked up. It was stupid, and Sam’s gonna make fun of us, but it’s not a big deal, we can call him and he’ll come and get us.” Dean hesitates. “Unless you can—”
“No,” says Castiel: quietly, definitively.
“Okay, no problem,” Dean says, fumbling for his phone. He almost drops it entirely when Cas’ hand brushes, fleetingly, against his wrist.
“Be sure to tell Sam that he was entirely wrong about the adjule first.”
They’re smirking at each other as Dean dials.
In retrospect, however, it was perhaps not the best idea to lead with the told-you-so. “Wait, so you’re out by the Evans ranch?” Sam says. “Isn’t there another service station right near there?”
“Yeah, it’s a couple of miles back down the road...” Dean starts.
“I’m not stealing a car just to save you from having to walk a couple of miles, Dean,” Sam says.
“A couple of miles in the desert, Sam!”
“You’ve got water in the car; it’ll take you an hour. It’ll take at least that long for me to pack up here and scope out a vehicle and buy the gas and drive it all the way out there...maybe this’ll teach you a lesson in the importance of planning,” Sam says, and forget it. Angel-smug is nothing in the face of Sam-smug.
“I hope you have fun trudging all over the desert looking for my dry, parched bones after I die out here and start haunting your ass,” Dean says.
“Sorry, did you say something? I can’t hear you over the hum of the A/C. Actually it’s getting a little frosty in here. I may have to put on a sweater—”
Dean snaps shut the phone. “Sam says he won’t steal a car and come pick us up.”
“How unreasonable of him,” Cas says.
Dean takes in Castiel’s perfect poker face and glares. “Let’s see how you feel after you’ve walked three miles in this heat.”
Twenty minutes later, Dean wants to take that back. He doesn’t want to see how flushed Castiel is getting, his steps slowing, his skin sweaty and pale under his tight collar. “You want to go back to the car and wait?” he asks.
Cas shakes his head.
“Might be better if someone watches her and makes sure no one messes with her,” Dean offers, generously.
“I’m fine,” Castiel insists. His jaw is a stubborn, sharp line.
“Sure.” Dean pauses, gnawing his lip. “How ’bout you take some of that off, though?”
Cas’ eyes flicker over. “You want me to take off my clothes?”
Dean flushes and looks away. “No, go ahead and sweat box yourself to death.”
Dean hears a sigh and then the sharp swish of fabric pulled against fabric. When he glances back, Cas has his coat thrown over his arm and is stuffing his tie into one of the pockets. Juggling the weight of the coat awkwardly, he attempts to unbutton his collar.
“Here—” Dean says, stepping toward him without thought. “Let me—”
“I’ve got it,” Castiel snaps and Dean throws up his hands again. It’s like dealing with Sam as a teenager all over again, he thinks. He resumes walking, and every slow, sliding step of Cas’ sounds to Dean like he’s straining for the exit.
Five or ten minutes later, down another half a mile or so of road, Dean hears Cas suck in a breath. “I wish Sam had stolen a car,” he rasps.
Dean pauses for a second, his feet turned in two directions. “Told you he was being a bitch,” he says finally. He reaches a hand out, fingers beckoning, and Cas relinquishes the heavy bulk of his balled up coat. Dean smoothes it out and slings it over his shoulder. He waits a second until Cas falls into step with him. “Told you you should walk more, too,” he says.
Glancing over, he can see Cas’ brow creasing in confusion.
Dean waves a hand. “Ages ago. You should pay more attention to me, Cas.”
“I pay attention to you,” Cas says seriously.
“Oh yeah?” Dean quirks an eyebrow. “You been absorbing all of my wisdom?”
Cas nods, two sharp dips of his head. “Yes. I am going to write a book. ‘Chapter One—’”
He pauses. “‘When in a whorehouse,’” Dean supplies.
“A den of iniquity,” Cas corrects. He licks the curve of his parched lips.
“Right, sorry. ‘When in a den of iniquity...’”
“‘Don’t order off the menu.’”
Dean snorts. “Right. And don’t try to bond with the girl by talking about her father the disgruntled post office employee.”
“Once again, you did not tell me that in advance,” Cas chastises him with a sad shake of his head. Dean tries not to notice that his hair is damp with sweat, the dark strands curling down around his face, plastering themselves against the pink-skinned curve of his neck.
“My bad,” Dean says. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re putting it in the book. You know, for next time.”
Cas does his jerky nod thing again. “Yes. It will be a very important book.” He starts unbuttoning his cuffs, shoving his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. “I’m going to call it The Tao of Dean.”
Dean barks out a distracted laugh. “Do you have anything on under that?”
It kind of blows Dean away that Cas has to peer down his own open collar to check. “I...there appears to be an undershirt of some sort.”
Dean nods. “Okay, good. Then take the shirt off too, and you can tie it over your head and drape it over the back of your neck. You’re getting a bit of a sunburn there.”
“A sunburn,” Castiel says in a flat, dead voice. Of course, he seems to be saying. He strips out of the shirt almost violently, then struggles to fashion it into some sort of headcovering. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to make me look ridiculous?” he asks.
“Getting a bit vain there, Cas?” Dean says, his voice tighter than he’d like. “Don’t worry,” he adds immediately, “it’s a good look for you. Very Lawrence of Arabia.”
Actually, Cas does look ridiculous in his dusty black pants and thin wifebeater, trying to secure his white work shirt around his sweat-damp head. As Dean watches he contorts his finely muscled arms and Dean can see the sharp lines of his shoulder blades, the dark tufts of hair under his arms. Cas looks ridiculous, and more like a man than he has ever looked, and suddenly Dean’s mouth feels as dry as this endless fucking stretch of road. Cas’ balled-up coat is like a rock in his arms.
“Who?” Cas asks, for what Dean realizes must be the second time.
Dean mumbles something about camels and quicksand and Peter O’Toole—“There’s a movie, Cas, I’ll show you sometime. Now come on, we’re almost there. We’ve got to be almost there.”
They are almost there. And then they are there: the gas station appearing almost out of nowhere, on the other side of a small rise. “Thank fuck,” Cas says, and Dean stumbles a little before sending a jerky glance over his shoulder. Cas unwinds the shirt from his head—Vain, Dean thinks—and gives Dean a look that’s begging him to offer a challenge.
“Maybe you should hold off on the part of the book about language use,” Dean says finally as they trudge past a pair of old-school gas pumps.
Cas uses the shirt to wipe sweat off his brow. “But that’s my favorite chapter.”
Inside the tiny shop, there’s no A/C but there is a fan blowing. Cas pauses in front of it, his eyelashes drifting closed. Dean leaves him to go negotiate for a can of gas. When he gets back, Cas is piling bottles of water on the counter.
“Are you really going to carry all of that back?”
“No,” Castiel says.
Dean buys it anyway. He gets a bag for Cas’ water bottles and an extra one for his discarded clothes. Cas collects them both without a word. Only once they’re outside does he speak again: “Wait.”
Dean sets the can of gas down by his foot. Cas follows suit with his bags, but pulls a bottle of water out of one as he stands again. Dean watches as he takes a long, glugging sip. Careful! Dean wants to say. Don’t make yourself sick. He holds his tongue.
Cas drinks the whole bottle, then tosses it in the trash. He reaches into the bag for another.
“Your tonsils are going to be swimming,” Dean says, no longer able to help himself. Cas ignores him, popping open the bottle and emptying the water over his head.
“Jesus!” Dean says, stepping away from the splash. Cas emits a happy little sigh. He licks at his lips, at the water running in rivulets down his cheeks, pearls of liquid on the ends of his eyelashes. “That felt good,” he says.
“Great, now you’ll be dripping all over my seats.”
“I’ll dry off on the walk back,” Cas says placidly.
Dean scowls. “If a breeze picks up, you’re going to be freezing.”
A breeze doesn’t pick up. The air stays heavy and hot, the sunlight thick and dusty like the road underneath their feet. Cas’ bags bump against his legs and Dean shifts the gas can from hand to hand. He takes the bottle of water Castiel offers him.
He drains it quickly, then tosses the empty bottle to the side of the road. “Dean,” Cas chides.
He’s hot and tired and this gas can is fucking heavy. “Seriously?” Dean says. “Your side wants to sandblast the world and you’re getting on my case about littering?”
Cas’ shoulders stiffen; Dean immediately regrets his words. But it’s too late: “My side,” Cas says, “insisted that this world was beautiful and worth saving.”
“Is that your plan if we win this?” Dean asks, pretending he’s not scrambling down into the tiny ditch and retrieving the bottle, pretending that the question itself isn’t pointless and cruel. Cas holds open his bag and Dean deposits the empty bottle in with the full ones. “You gonna become an environmentalist?”
“It would perhaps be fitting,” Cas says, adjusting the bags and combing his fingers through his damp, curling hair. For a moment he looks impossibly young. Then he turns to Dean and his eyes still have that weight behind them, the wisdom of ages that Dean doesn’t think he will ever lose. Even in that future that can’t ever exist, Castiel’s eyes betrayed him, revealed the truth of what he was.
“We could travel from place to place,” Cas says now, and his face betrays very little besides a faint blush of sunburn and an even fainter spark of humor. “Saving people from environmental violations, hunting down polluters.”
“Oh, is this a team effort now?” Dean asks. “Just so you know, I fell asleep when Sam tried to get me to watch An Inconvenient Truth.”
“There’s nothing inconvenient about ecological protection, Dean,” Castiel says, straight-faced. They’re walking down the side of a dusty road with the sun setting at their backs and Cas is wearing dirty businessman’s shoes and a thin cotton tank top still wet enough that if Dean looked (he doesn’t) he could see the dark outlines of Cas’ nipples. Dean knows that Castiel knows the key to every language on the planet, but he doesn’t know to take his coat off when he’s hot, or not to gulp too fast when he’s thirsty. And now he’s here, walking beside Dean, joking gently about the future they’ll never have, and he shouldn’t— Dean doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to make of this, of him. Who Cas is and who he’s becoming.
Dean can’t talk about any of that, so he says, “You know, it’s funny. The two of us at that gas station back there.”
“I did not enter the store dressed as Lawrence of Arabia,” Cas says with dignity.
Dean spends a second wishing he’d remembered to snap a picture with his phone. “No, I mean,” shifting the gas can again, waving his hand, “the first time you spoke to me. Or tried to speak to me. It was at a gas station like that. You blew out all the windows.”
“That was not...my intent,” Cas says, pausing midway through the sentence to open a water bottle with his teeth. This conversational track is really not helping Dean’s sense of cognitive dissonance any. “I had every cause to believe that you would be able to understand me.” Cas gives Dean a sideways look. “I was rather disappointed in you.”
Dean swallows his instinctual reaction to any form of the word “disappointment.” “Um, I don’t think so,” he says. “The way I see it, you were pretty desperate to talk to me again. That’s why you kept trying even though you knew it didn’t work. You were like,” he pitches his voice up in the world’s worst-ever Cas impersonation, “‘Dean! Hi, Dean! Over here, buddy! Hope you like the handprint, I made it myself!’ Admit it, you were worse than Becky, dude.”
“You’re right, Dean,” Cas says, the water bottle’s nozzle sliding out of his mouth with a pop. “I’m your biggest fan.”
He’s looking at Dean. Staring at Dean, really—but then, he always does that. It’s never seemed like this before, though: the heat of his gaze, like there’s something appraising behind it. Dean is suddenly aware that Cas is not the only one who’s hot and sweaty, his t-shirt sticking to his skin. Cas’ eyes slide along Dean’s body, then return calmly to his face. For a moment, his gaze is forceful, challenging.
Then he blinks and turns and gestures up the road. “Your car is still there.”
“It damn well better be,” Dean grouses. His heart is racing but it’s easy enough to pretend it’s due to concern for his baby.
“I am glad nobody ‘messed with it,’” Cas says awkwardly. This from the guy who got off the line about ecological protection without a hitch. Dean is fucking confused.
“Gimme a minute and I’ll fix her up,” Dean says, trudging ahead purposefully. He fills the tank slowly, doling out the appropriate scoldings and consolations. When he’s done, he puts the empty gas can in the trunk next to the spare he’d of course forgotten to fill up. (Sam may have a point about planning.) Shutting it, he sees that Cas has moved around to the front of the car. His neck is tilted upward, toward the darkening sky.
Dean walks over to him. “Did I say you could sit on my car?”
Castiel doesn’t move. “I don’t remember requesting your permission, no.”
They stare at each other, a much more familiar exchange of glances. After a moment, Dean pulls himself gently up onto the Impala’s hood beside Cas. “So what have we learned today?”
“You should follow your brother’s recommendation and keep an adequate supply of water in your vehicle?”
Dean does not consider this piece of advice suitable for The Tao of Dean.
“Also, Sam should be willing to commit acts of petty larceny when requested.”
“Actually, it’d be grand theft auto, but whatever.” Dean glances at Cas’ bag of water bottles and frowns. “Should have bought a couple of beers.”
“I purchased these while you were acquiring the gas,” Cas says, producing a pair of Slim Jims from his pocket.
There’s a joke there, but for some reason Dean shies away from making it. Instead he says, “You really are an angel!”
Cas’ expression is hard to read. “In a way.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. He decides he should probably stop talking. Instead, he unwraps his Slim Jim and takes a robust bite. Damn. It’s not quite a beer, but after a lot of walking, heavy lifting, and monster-killing, a miscellaneous meat product sure hits the spot.
Cas, apparently, does not agree; without warning he makes a gagging sound and spits into the dirt. “Perhaps I will become a vegetarian,” he says, straightening back up and groping for his latest water bottle.
“Oh no,” Dean says, “don’t go all Vulcan on me. Don’t go all Sam on me.”
“Am I not allowed to have preferences?” Castiel asks.
“No, of course,” Dean says, helping himself to Cas’ rejected Slim Jim. “Just, you know, good ones.”
Cas lets out a little huff of a laugh. “What?” Dean says, when he spectacularly fails to explain himself.
Cas shakes his head, then tentatively—like he’s still learning his body, not like he’s asking Dean’s permission to lie on his car, but whatever—tentatively, he leans back on his elbows, sinking down beside Dean. “It’s...‘funny,’ I suppose. Like the gas station.”
Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again. He waits.
“In Heaven,” Cas says slowly, his throat sounding parched, though Dean’s seen just how much water he’s put away. “Among angels, what you consider preferences, personality traits...all of those things are seen as weaknesses, as flaws. It is...interesting to now be facing the possibility of becoming nothing but a collection of those flaws.”
“Cas...” Dean says. He can’t read Castiel’s tone at all. He can’t even begin to know what to say.
“It’s interesting,” Cas repeats, in that infuriatingly neutral tone of voice.
Dean’s feeling less positive toward the Slim Jims now. His stomach churns. He feels his mouth open and then the words tumble out.
“That is a fucking stupid way to look at it. I’m sorry, Cas, but it is. Your personality is a flaw?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I happen to like your personality, okay?” Dean says—a sentence the likes of which he hasn’t uttered since that time he tried to let a girl down easy circa 1997.
“You like Slim Jims,” Cas points out.
“Okay, maybe the smartassery is a flaw,” Dean amends, and Cas laughs. Genuinely laughs. His eyes crinkle around the edges and he looks at Dean like he thinks Dean is ridiculous. Like he thinks Dean is ridiculous, but doesn’t mind that much, really.
“I like your flaws,” Dean finds himself saying. “You keep surprising me with new ones. It’s kind of amazing, Cas—”
Dean realizes that Cas’ knee is jiggling up and down, up and down.
Dean slides his gaze down Cas’ body, all the way down, then up again to his face. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” Cas says. Then, “Yes.”
Dean can no longer pretend that his own heart isn’t racing. His mouth is dry again, but Dean’s suddenly sure that this thirst is nothing that Cas’ bag of bottled water can quench.
He pushes the bag onto the ground so that there’s no longer anything between them.
“Don’t be,” Dean says, and curls a hand over Cas’ thigh.
Cas, Dean discovers later, hogs the covers. He’s short-tempered before he’s had his coffee—and even sometimes after—and he borrows Dean’s clothes indiscriminately and without permission. He’s pushy and aggressive in bed and honestly a bit of an exhibitionist. He’s also not entirely kidding about that environmental protection thing.
Dean’s getting used to it, though. He can’t say he really minds.