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Castiel fiddles uneasily with the collar of the ill-fitting T-shirt he’s wearing as he watches his clothes—tan trench coat, white shirt, tie, pants—tumble about in the dryer before him. The shirt he’s wearing now is far too big, the material soft and old and worn. If a great gust of wind were to blow through this dingy little laundromat, the shirt would surely fall to pieces. He wouldn’t like for that to happen; after the events of the last few days, this ratty old shirt and jeans are the only clean items of clothing he—here, Castiel supplies mental air-quotes—owns. The T-shirt is Sam’s and the pants are Dean’s; the Winchesters were kind enough to loan him some items of clothing so he could take his soiled coat, shirt, tie, and pants to be laundered.
Castiel scuffs his soles anxiously on the linoleum.
He sighs and worries at a stray thread. The hard plastic of the seat is unforgiving underneath him. Crowley might have saved his life, such as it is, and things might have gone back to the way they were before Ramiel, before their failed mission, before—
Before—
Castiel tears savagely at the loose thread and rips a hole in the shirt.
Sam and Dean are late. Mary is off doing Lord knows what. He’s all alone.
A bell chimes and Castiel tears his gaze away from the dryer.
Dean saunters in with a white paper bag in one of his hands. Castiel drops his hands into his lap and stops scuffing the soles of his shoes on the white linoleum.
Castiel makes to push himself out of the hard plastic chair but Dean throws up a hand and gives a gentle shake of his head. He settles back in the chair and resumes watching the dryer.
“Watched pots never boil, y’know,” Dean says gruffly, taking the seat next to Castiel. He sets the paper bag on the little round table between them and reaches into it.
Castiel puzzles at that, brow furrowing. The dryer is neither a pot nor is it boiling. “But it’s not—”
“You know what, never mind. Not important, in the grand scheme of things.” Dean pulls a pink glazed donut out of his crumpled bag, offering it to Castiel. “Here. Thought you could use the sugar high.”
Castiel carefully plucks the donut from Dean’s fingers. It’s tacky with pink icing and he squeezes his fingers together, rubs the icing around and generally makes a mess of himself.
“Thank you, Dean,” he mumbles, turning toward him but not quite meeting his gaze.
“Welcome.” Dean stretches his legs out and rests his hands over his chest. “Cas, I just wanted t—”
Castiel cuts him off by shoving the whole donut into his mouth. When he hazards a glance at Dean, Dean’s staring at him, mouth open, jaw slack.
“What?” Castiel tries to speak around the donut but it comes out sounding more like whmmph than an actual proper word.
At least with his mouth full of donut, he doesn’t have to participate in this conversation.
Dean waves a dismissive hand in the air and looks down at his boots for a moment. Then he lifts his head and their eyes meet, bounce away like billiard balls. Castiel watches Dean stare at the space between his feet. He chews noisily, chokes down the rest of the donut. Wipes the pad of his thumb across his sticky lips and sucks off the last of the icing.
The silence pulses like a living thing. The buzzing of a dryer cuts through it like a blade so that the silence oozes between them.
“That—that’s mine,” Castiel says to fill the silence, nodding toward the dryer. He’s never really been a big talker and yet, inexplicably, it’s all he can think to do to fill the awkward spaces between them.
All he can think to do to keep Dean from asking him about—about—
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says his tone dry, brittle. He sweeps a hand through his bristly light brown hair and Castiel follows the movement of his hand—back and forth, back and forth. His knuckles are mottled raw and red. “You’re the only one in here.”
“You’re here as well,” Castiel reminds him.
“Yeah. I am.” Dean looks at him again and tightens his hands on his knees. “So, Cas, how’re you…how’re you holdin’ up?”
“How am I holding up?” Castiel pauses to turn Dean’s question over in his head like a stone. “Pretty well, I think. Absent the clothing situation, of course.” Castiel tugs on the collar of his borrowed shirt.
“Well, good. I’m glad you’re, uh, doing well,” Dean says, clearing his throat unnecessarily loudly.
Castiel can practically hear the unasked questions about to roll off the tip of Dean’s tongue. The troubled look in Dean’s eyes tweaks something in Castiel’s heart. Dean is troubled—his forehead is lined with worry and his mouth is pursed in a tight line—because of him, because of Castiel.
Because Castiel thought he was going to die and—selfishly—let loose his deepest, darkest secret like a beast he’d been keeping caged all this time.
Castiel sighs and slumps forward in his seat until he props his elbows on his knees.
“You—you said some things.” Dean tiptoes around the minefield nimbly.
“I did indeed say some things.” Castiel drops his head in his hands and tugs at his stiff, unwashed hair.
“It was heat-of-the-moment… You thought you were gonna die and it just slipped out, huh?”
Dean’s giving him an out and the offering—the gift—is almost tempting enough to take. Castiel could play along, agree that his utterances were simply soppy, emotional nonsense borne of pain and delirium and fear, and leave it at that. The poison made him say those things and nothing has to change.
Castiel can keep on, as he has, and nothing has to change.
The painful twinge in his heart demands to be heard, though. Castiel slides his hand over his chest and closes his eyes.
“Cas?” Dean prods gently.
“No,” Castiel says, letting his hand fall into his lap. He forces himself to look at Dean, hold his gaze. “I wouldn’t say something I don’t mean, not like that. Not at death’s door. It’s too important.”
Dean is silent but for his breathing.
“You—you owe me nothing, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, reaching out and covering Dean’s hand lightly with his own. A benediction. An offering, a gift of his own. “Not your friendship and certainly not your love.”
Dean flicks his eyes away, his hand stiffening under Castiel’s. “Cas, I—”
Castiel pulls his hand away. “I should see to my laundry.” Castiel gets up and turns to go.
“Cas, wait,” Dean says, grabbing for his hand.
Castiel looks down at their hands, at Dean’s red knuckles. “Yes?”
Dean’s lips tremble and his eyes flicker over Castiel’s face, searching. “I—I—you’re my best friend,” he stammers.
It hurts not to hear those words issue forth from Dean’s lips. But, then again, Castiel really hadn’t been expecting to. His affection for Dean has never been contingent on whether or not Dean feels anything back.
He’s family, Dean said so himself. Isn’t that good enough?
It has to be.
Castiel manages a small smile and squeezes gently on Dean’s hand. “I know.”
A corner of Dean’s mouth ticks up. “We good?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” Castiel asks, tilting his head.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe…” Dean trails off, eyes falling to their hands, which are still joined. He looks as though he wants to rip his hand away, but makes no move to.
And neither does Castiel. He’ll let Dean be the one to pull his hand away. Castiel could stand here holding Dean’s hand in his, running his thumb over the reddened knuckles, for at least another millennia. Perhaps even two.
Dean draws in a deep, raggedy breath. He sounds as if he’s been punched full of holes. “Cas, would you have said anything if you didn't think you were dying?” he finally asks.
Castiel looks everywhere except at Dean. He probably can’t avoid answering the question outright, and Dean won’t take well to lies or half-truths.
“No,” he answers truthfully.
Dean flinches, looks away for a second before turning back toward Castiel. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why say something then?”
Castiel smiles. “I couldn’t throw away my shot, as the poets say.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Are you quoting Hamilton at me?”
Castiel can almost feel the broken pieces slowly starting to mend.
“I get out sometimes.”
Dean closes his eyes and exhales, stares up at the ceiling for a few very long seconds, then slings arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “Let’s get your stuff and go home. Okay?”
Castiel leans into his shoulder. “Sounds most excellent,” he hums agreeably, looping an arm around Dean’s waist.
Dean leans in, pauses. Castiel can practically hear the gears turning in his head before he leans in the rest of the way and presses a dry kiss to his temple. It’s not much, just the barest press of lips against the side of his head, but it’s something. He wonders if Dean would have done that had anyone else been in the laundromat with them.
Maybe not. Castiel doesn’t think it matters.
Dean slips his arm away from Castiel’s shoulders when he goes to get his clothing out of the dryer. When Castiel joins him, Dean clips him on the shoulder in a friendly way, but his hand lingers a touch too long to pass it off as merely accidental.
Castiel doesn’t know what it means, what any of it means, really. And, again, he’s not sure it matters.
They go home.