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Cas pretends to think about it for a second, the corner of his mouth barely upturned. "I prefer the word 'trusting.' Less dumb. Less ass."
With a smile starting to mirror Cas's, Dean opens his mouth only to freeze when the silence takes him off guard. It takes him a second to realize why: it's the absence of the sound of his brother's body being tortured, Jesus. Whatever he was going to say (even he doesn't know) comes out as a sharp laugh. It rings through the little nook Cas has followed him into, and just as loud is the back end, the inhale, quick and deep.
Shit. He covers his eyes as Cas takes half a step forward, basically obliterating the space left between them. "Dean."
"I'm fine, I just..." He takes a better breath and drags a hand down his face, remembering what he was going to say. "Man, I really missed you."
It's half a joke and all too serious, tears stomping on the sentence's heels, but Dean doesn't have the energy to hide it anymore. God, it's true, though. This whole time he's been wishing for someone to talk to—anyone, he had thought, but it was really Cas: Cas, who would understand and know, without asking, how to help Dean specifically. And then he couldn't talk to Cas not only because he was sworn to secrecy but because of his own fuck up on top of that. Because of course he did.
Cas turns away, and Dean knows it's because he knows Dean doesn't want to be looked at right now. Ironically, that makes it worse.
"I missed you too. I wish I..." He pauses, daring to look at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "Being human by your side would have been nice."
Dean tilts his head back far to grimace at the ceiling, but Cas hurries to add, hand fumbling at Dean's shoulder, "Not that I blame you."
"Cas..."
"I don't mean to make it worse. But I... thought you should know. It's true, after all."
"You shoulda hated me." Dean did, after all.
Cas is a better person than him, though, as he just shrugs and says, "Maybe. Instead I missed you."
"Dude, don't make me cry," Dean says, and he doesn't mean to, he really doesn't, but he can't regret it when the words fall out anyway because it feels so damn good to tell the truth for once.
"That's—" Cas stops, frowns, like he's only now hearing what Dean said. "Dean. Can I hug you?"
He's never asked before. Not that they— Not that they hug a lot without asking, that's not what Dean's saying, but the rare times they do it's a sort of unpremeditated, heat of the moment thing, impossible reunions and shit. They don't hug for comfort, or whatever Cas is offering now, but at the same time...
Well, they didn't hug when Cas came back after Kevin, or the last time they ran into each other, or the time before that, or even after Cas died and got resurrected. They're owed a dozen at this point, right? It's like cashing in on all of them at once.
Once Dean can justify it to himself that way, he nods and lets Cas fold his arms over Dean's shoulders, tugging him over out of sight of the main room.
Cas is a great hugger. He's all warm and careful, strong arms that squeeze and hold and... He's a good hugger. Dean wishes he could take credit like he can for a lot of Cas's human skills, but no, it's all him, there from the first time he grabbed Dean and Sam for an intense reunion in a mental hospital (because that's the kind of insane circumstances they have firsts in: dilapidated barns, mental hospitals, Hell). Honestly, he doesn't wish that at all. He likes the parts that are just Cas, under it all, his shitty taste in cars and music and friends. He doesn't like jam and he can't carry a tune and if you let him, he'll hug you so close. So Dean lets him, and he does.
Neither of them speak, the only sounds Crowley fiddling with metal in the distance and Cas breathing out slow in Dean's ear. It's comfortable, even though Cas is shorter, to have him draped over Dean's shoulders instead of the reverse. It lets Dean bow over even further, his face buried in the side of Cas's head, then his shoulder. His new coat is stiffer than the first one, but Dean likes it. It doesn't smell like anything but Cas: sweat and bad coffee, peanut butter and the deodorant Dean tried to erase the memory of when he kicked Cas out.
He breathes it deeply now and tries not to think about the rest of it, instead clenching his fists carefully in the back of Cas's coat, careful to wrinkle it only along the seams where it's least noticeable. These are Cas's clothes, for real now, and Dean treats them with the same reverence he did the hoodie and jeans Cas dropped in his care when he showered at the bunker and reemerged in Dean's pajamas. Dean would like to see him in his pajamas again. Dean would like a lot of things.
"M'definitely crying on you anyway," he admits, mumbling but trusting Cas to understand him anyway. "Just so you know."
Cas sighs. "If you must."
Dean snorts. It's a stupid, wet sound, totally gross, but when Cas's face turns against his ear, Dean can feel that he's smiling. Without pulling out of the hug, he grabs blindly at one of Cas's hands, lacing their fingers together carefully but certain. This, they haven't done. It's nice. Cas's thumb drags up the side of his, then back down, just the once. It feels safe.
"I'm so fucking sorry."
"I know." Cas leans his cheek on top of Dean's head. "I forgive you."
"You shouldn't," Dean fights back a little, though he doesn't move out of the hug. Cas shouldn't forgive him, sure, but that doesn't mean it's not real reassuring and nice that he has.
"It's not the worst thing I would forgive you." Cas drops the arm still around his shoulder and pulls back to look at Dean with his big tragic eyes, too earnest to look at directly and yet impossible to ignore. It's an unbearable expression on a good day, but here, like this, way too fucking close, Dean has to duck it, studying their shoes.
"Doesn't mean you should."
Silence reins for a moment, or as silent as it gets right now with the industrial creaks and moans of the old building, occasionally interrupted by Sam screaming in the distance. A lovely atmosphere, sure, though Cas's quiet presence makes it better.
Until it doesn't.
"Right, of course."
It's not at all what Dean is expecting: deadpan and slightly irritated. He looks back up in time to see Cas roll his eyes with his whole head and continue, "Sorry. Next time I'll remember to take into consideration your abysmal sense of self-worth."
"Fuck you, dude." Dean punches his arm, but lightly, even though it doesn't matter to Cas anymore. He's feeling fragile enough for the both of them. It's eased a bit by Cas's reaction of laughing through his nose. "Dick."
Cas laughs outright at that, the one with teeth and wrinkles by his eyes. It's a sight Dean rarely gets to see, though he suspects that's still more than most. He's really beautiful. Right now, this close, it's hard for Dean to remember why he's not allowed to think that.
Even when Cas's mouth stops laughing, his eyes keep going, looking at Dean all soft and shit. He didn't know you could miss that: someone looking at you. Maybe you only can if it's someone like Cas and a look like this, fond and knowing but honest too.
"I'm really glad you're back, man," Dean says quietly, and it's not right, Cas isn't back, Dean's the one who was keeping them apart, but it's as much as he's capable of right now without fucking crying again.
Cas is equally quiet. "I'm glad too."
His smile now is gentle as he reaches up so quietly, so slow that Dean thinks he might not know he's doing it, just as much as Dean doesn't know what "it" is.
Dean, at least, gets his answer when Cas buffs his knuckles across Dean's cheek, and it's like Purgatory again—the last time, fucked up as it is, they were good. Cas is more gentle than Dean was, but circumstances are different.
But, not really. It seems like they're always coming back together. Too bad that means they have to keep parting first.
And it's that last thought that makes him do it. Now is so not the time—Sam's got spikes drilled into his skull twenty feet away, for fuck's sake, and Crowley is definitely eavesdropping—but then again, when is it ever? Why do they keep waiting for a better chance that's never gonna come? At some point, the best shot has to be the one he can take.
So take it he does. Without even giving himself time to breathe, Dean darts forward and kisses Cas. It's unmistakable: there's no way to interpret it other than that Dean is madly, torturously in love with him. There's no margin of misunderstanding.
He's gone just as quickly, there and back again. Like it'll undo the entire last five minutes, Dean steels his face into something approaching composure and starts to turn back to the main room, to the bullshit of their lives, only to be stopped by Cas's grip on his shoulder.
"Dean—"
"Cas—"
Cas gets there first and tugs Dean back into another kiss, and it's better, so much better—he tastes like bad coffee too, and he must have forgotten to shave before the lights went back on inside because Dean can feel when Cas licks his mouth open—but Dean still has to ask, "Really?"
"Don't be an idiot," Cas barely gets out before reeling him in again.
He's somehow an even better kisser than he is a hugger. Maybe Dean's just biased, but those hands feel better on his face than anywhere else— yet. Yet.
Dean's about to get lost in that spiral when Cas leans back, hands holding Dean's face in place, to add, "Oh, and I love you."
"You—"
"Laverne! Shirley! Get in here!"
Crowley's voice is the rudest awakening Dean's ever had, and he was once woken up by two guys aiming shotguns at him who did, then, actually kill him. Dean's starting to understand the appeal right now. And he thought he hated Crowley before...
Cas gives him a look, very deliberate, very articulate. We will fix this, the look says. I promise.
His words add, "Later."
When Dean nods in receipt, Cas kisses his temple and turns him back towards the noise, the fate of the world, et cetera. He's right on Dean's heels.