Chapter Text
It starts, as most problems in their current lives do, with an angel being an asshole. Balthazar stands before them, unapologetic for his historical meddling.
“Sorry, you have me confused with the other angel. You know, the one in the dirty trench coat who’s in love with you.”
Dean’s reaction is perhaps half a second too late. Thankfully, Sam is more concerned with the angel before them to notice. Dean’s heart pounds a little faster, and his blood runs a little hotter. The sentiment had never been stated quite so clearly before, so plainly that he couldn’t sweep it aside this time. Sure, he’d noticed that Cas seemed to have issues with Dean’s personal space, a problem that apparently no one else experienced. He’d noticed that Cas’s stare, intense and unwavering, always seemed to rest squarely on him and him alone. Even when Cas lost his temper, it resided solely around Dean’s actions.
I rebelled for this?
I gave up everything for you.
He’d brushed these things aside as eccentricity or a lack of awareness of how humans normally acted. It was easier that way. It required nothing of him but a purposeful forgetfulness, an ability to shove away uncomfortable scrutiny, a skill with which he was well-equipped from years of pummeling down every unwanted emotion.
He tries to shove it down again, reflecting upon it would lead nowhere good. But Balthazar’s words, disconcertingly specific, refuse to be buried this time.
Dean forces his attention back to the conversation at hand. Distraction, another tried-and-true Winchester special.
“I don’t care,” Balthazar blithely replies with a mild chuckle. He and Sam turn to glance at each other with a contrary mixture of disbelief and recurring exasperation. Before either of them can respond, Balthazar disappears with a flippant “Goodbye, boys.”
Dean’s stuttering “wait” comes too late. Balthazar is gone, and with him, Dean’s essential diversion.
“Son of a bitch!” He curses both the angel’s lack of help and the encroaching emotions, jockeying for attention on the edges of his consciousness.
With deliberate force, he returns his thoughts to the case. He could consider these things later, preferably never, although that option was rapidly shrinking.
Goddamnit, Cas. He isn’t sure if that thought translates into prayer, if Cas hears him across an unknowable distance. He hopes so. Let him wonder what he has done to get Dean worked up. Let them both suffer.
***
The impossible effort of saving thousands of people becomes evident when they attempt to save one man, only for him to be killed immediately after. His body and blood spattered across the road paint a vivid picture of the futile task ahead of them.
Sam nudges him, pointing out a face in the window of the building across the street. They march over, stalwart and sure of their next course of action. If this lady librarian is killing people, they’ll stop her, like they do every other monster.
The building is full of boxes and machinery, restaurant supplies, by the look of it. His flashlight begins to flicker as they move further in. Fantastic. He digs his lighter out of his pocket and flicks it, attempting to brighten the darkness of the building. He clicks it with increasing frustration. He knows he’d refilled it recently. Sam looks at him with no shortage of judgment, as though he’d carry around an empty lighter like a fool.
Finally, a flame flickers to life as they open the door, only to be greeted with an inferno. Before they can be consumed, something pulls them back, and they materialize in a dark wood.
The night air is cold, so fresh he can almost taste the water in it. It soothes the incendiary breath he’d inhaled just before. Dean stumbles slightly on the landing, turning as he does to see if there exists yet another entity that needs killing.
His reaction time is, once again, a moment too slow. His eyes involuntarily flit up and down Cas’s body before he regains the power of speech.
“Cas.” There is the stare again. Entirely too long, markedly too intense.
“Hello, Dean. Sam.” Despite his greeting, his eyes never once shift from Dean’s. Even when Sam expresses his thanks, Cas never turns toward him, his body fully facing Dean. It isn’t until Sam asks for their location that Cas’s eyes briefly acknowledge his presence, immediately returning to Dean as though drawn by some undeniable force.
Uneasy under the weight of his gaze, he refocuses on his irritation with Balthazar, lashing it toward Cas, who maintains his standard impassivity. He calmly explains Fate’s apparent problem with their “tiny matter of averting the Apocalypse and rendering her obsolete.”
Thankfully, a long pause is expected after such a revelation. Forcing his eyes away from Cas, he looks intently at the ground, fumbling for how to respond.
The knowledge that they’d personally pissed off Fate is perhaps taken with a concerningly blasé attitude. Honestly, at this point, they’re lucky to run into something that doesn’t want to kill them.
Cas informs them, again in his nonchalant, succinct manner, that she will not stop until they’re dead. Again, they should probably be more distressed. Instead, they turn to dispassionate problem-solving over the natural fear any rational person would have when dealing with an enemy as powerful as Fate harboring distinctly homicidal hostility.
When Cas suggests they kill Fate, because of course he does, Dean can at least focus on something other than analyzing Cas’s every move. The sheer absurdity of the suggestion draws a brief wheezing chuckle from Sam. How would one go about killing Fate? Dean’s not particularly attached to the idea of destiny, but even he can recognize the impossibility of killing something that holds that level of control over the world around them.
Unsurprisingly, Balthazar and his little treasure trove of ultra-deadly weapons finally make an appearance.
“Balthazar does have a weapon that will work against her,” Cas assures them. Rolling his eyes with at least a little incredulity, Dean bites back.
“Of course he does. Yeah. Boy, that guy’s just got it covered, doesn’t he?” Cas’s gaze returns to him, calculating his response.
His response is perhaps a little harsher than normal. Balthazar’s words are lingering in the back of his mind, and it’s making him twitchy. It’s not Cas’s fault necessarily, but it does involve him and, as a party to Dean’s mild panic over his feelings on the matter, he’s becoming collateral damage.
“You need new friends, Cas,” Dean states with no small degree of animosity. Cas pauses before responding.
“I’m trying to save the ones I have, Dean.” Their eyes hold for a moment, another, and then one more before Cas looks away. How does he manage to convey so much in a look? There was a challenge in his eyes, as though daring Dean to respond. In what way, Dean isn’t quite sure, but it feels pivotal. Why does Cas’s dropped gaze make Dean feel like he’s failed some test? And why the fuck does the air catch in his chest because of it?
His next words, delivered directly to Dean, feel like even more of a provocation.
“I think you have an expression for it.” His head tilts slightly, as though expecting Dean to understand whatever subtext he’s trying to convey.
“Tempting fate.” The meaning tries to hit him with the force of a tractor-trailer, but Dean slams the door shut on that realization. He turns away, feigning disinterest in Cas’s charged countenance.
Stepping forward into Dean’s personal space, Cas grabs him and Sam by the shoulder. They land in their hotel room, where Cas lets go but does not move away. Sam paces away from them, mumbling details to himself while Cas stares at Dean, and Dean studies the scuffed beige wall.
With a muttered sentence about needing to go to the library and a quick goodbye, Sam is suddenly gone, and Dean is left alone with Cas and his discomfiting closeness and demanding stares.
What he says out loud is “Cas, personal space, remember?” But internally, he’s cursing this whole situation. How did he get here with someone he expected to be a friend? A brother? And why the fuck did Sam abandon him now of all times? Was research really that important?
Goddamnit, Cas. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cas’s eyes narrow, as though expecting Dean to apologize for his blasphemy. It looks like his internal monologue came across a little too clearly. Either that, or Cas is purposefully listening, something Dean has insisted he never do.
Stop listening. I told you to stay out of my head. For good measure, he adds, And stop looking at me like that. Perhaps they could go back to the way they were if Cas could reel in his significant looks.
It is difficult to ignore when you call my name so intently. Cas’s voice drifts across his mind briefly, but the presence retreats almost as soon as it arrived.
Indignation immediately flares in his chest. Dean’s eyes dart back to Cas, whose head remains tilted, as though trying to untangle something complicated. Dean glares back, packing every fear and apprehension into it. Stepping back, he tries to put distance between his body and Cas. Preferably, some kind of permanent barrier.
“I do not-" Moving so quickly, Dean barely registers it before Cas is even further into his personal space. There are only centimeters separating them now.
“But you do,” Cas replies, restrained but unflinchingly earnest. Dean’s glower loses its potency as Cas invades his senses. Heat rolls off him, causing Dean to break out in a sweat. Each breath is an exchange between them. Up this close, the blue of Cas’s eyes is beyond vivid. It nearly seems to glow. Dean tries to step away again; he desperately needs space. Before he can, Cas grabs his wrist, his grip like a vise, halting his retreat.
“Did you know you call out to me in your sleep?” Cas questions calmly, and how the fuck is Dean supposed to respond to that? He tries to come up with a reply, but it’s too much, too quickly. Why is Cas doing this? Why now? The closeness is making him dizzy, a heady kind of drunkenness that feels dangerously close to lust.
“When you dream of hell,” Cas continues, “you call for me.”
“I don’t dream of hell anymore,” Dean insists, and the small smile that quirks at the edges of Cas’s mouth is the first real emotion beyond his piercing intensity.
“You do. When you call, I always come and wash away the memories so you can sleep.” Dean has no response to that. All he knows is he has to get the fuck away from Cas before something unforgivable happens. Tremors are coursing through his body, and the grip on his wrist burns like a brand searing into his skin.
You know, the one in the dirty trench coat who’s in love with you. He feels ill, his stomach churning so forcefully that he’s worried he might actually be sick.
Cas’s eyes drop to his lips, ramping up the mixture of alarm and something else lingering behind it that he’d really rather not define. Cas reaches up, rubbing his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, and that look is back. It’s not just fervency. It’s heat, desire that sets every part of Dean aflame. A breath shudders out of him, and Cas matches it, an answering tremble revealing he’s also profoundly affected by the proximity.
"Dean." Cas has always said his name with such intention, such solemnity. Caressing each letter with a care that feels almost like prayer. Cas's eyes flicker up to meet his, as though seeking permission. Dean freezes for a single agonizing second, but he doesn't push him away.
Cas's fingers trace up his back lightly, watching him carefully for some sort of sign. Dean, heaven help him, arches into it. There's relief in Cas's eyes then, as though a heavy weight has been taken from his shoulders. His hand splays across his back, urging him forward. Electricity crackles through him when their bodies meet. It's the hand in his hair that does it. The moment before Cas can eliminate the remaining few centimeters between them. That’s the final straw.
“Cas, back the fuck up.” His free hand rises of its own accord, shoving Cas away. His body is jerked forward slightly before Cas releases his wrist. He’s breathing hard, trying to gather his control.
“Not cool, man. You can’t just- just say shit like that to people. Or stand so close to them. And why the fuck are you rooting around in my dreams? There’s-“ he takes a steadying breath, hoping he can turn this into another “here’s the appropriate way to be a human” lesson instead of whatever the fuck it actually was.
“You just don’t do that with people, alright? We’ve talked about personal space. You gotta stop getting all up in mine. Also, I told you to stay out of my head. That includes dreams. And just- hands off. Boundaries, man. Seriously.”
Cas’s face falls, and when he meets his eyes again, it’s with a look of loss so deep it feels like he could drown in it.
“Cas-” He meant for it to come out as a reprimand, but instead it sounds distinctly like begging. For what, he’s unsure. Another quirk of Cas’s lips, but this time, it’s one of profound sadness.
“How many times do we have to do this, Dean?” Cas’s whisper sounds as though it’s wrung out of him. There’s anguish in his voice, low and shuddering.
“What do you mean?” Confusion creases his brow. “We’ve never done this before.”
Cas’s eyes close, just for a moment, squeezed shut like he can’t bear to look at him. It’s with a forlorn smile and a final, gutted glance that he reaches up to Dean’s forehead, and everything goes black.