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You're lovable, so lovable
But you're just troubled
Guess what? I'm not a robot.
Dean is reading news stories from the past five years on Chuck's laptop, finding article after article about the virus and the rebellions and everything else that went to Hell, so to speak, over the last five years when the door bangs and Cas comes staggering into the cabin, breathing hard, his shirt torn and bloodstained.
Dean jumps to his feet. "What happened?" It takes him half a second to realize everything that's wrong with the picture—not only is he not used to seeing Cas scruffy and in jeans, but he's never seen him use a door before.
"Ambushed," Cas says shortly. "We thought we heard someone else out there over the radio, but when we went to check it out, a gang of Croats jumped us. Eight of 'em." He heads straight for the cabinet, limping slightly, and pulls out a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet. Before Dean can say a word, he unscrews the top one-handed and takes a massive belt from it with a barely audible mutter of "Fuck."
He can't get used to him swearing, either. Dean takes a few steps closer, his eyes on the red stains blossoming across the side of Cas' blue shirt. Fear grips him and he forces himself to try to sound calm. "Cas, were...were you...?"
"No, I wasn't infected," he snaps, slamming the bottle down on a table. "Franklin grazed me as we were shooting our way out of there. Idiot can't even shoot straight. I don't know how he's still alive." He attempts to take off his jacket and gives a soft hiss of pain, and Dean hurries to his side.
"Here." He slides the field coat gently from Cas' shoulders and throws it aside, and Cas lifts his right arm to inspect the damage. His shirt is torn where the bullet skimmed against his skin, but it doesn't look deep. Cas gives a rueful chuckle and shakes his head, and Dean knows he's thinking about a time when a wound like this wouldn't have given him more than a few seconds' thought before it healed. "Not too bad," he tells him, with an odd note of false bravado in his voice. "We can sew that up in no time."
"Oh, can we?" he shoots back, taking a few steps away from Dean and grabbing the bottle again. He gives another mirthless laugh. "So now you're adding 'nursemaid' to your long list of talents? That's precious."
Dean stares at him. "I...what...?" he manages, totally thrown by the callousness in Cas' voice. "What does that mean?" he asks, hearing how clueless it sounds.
"It means, O Fearless Leader, that it's a bit late for you to start trying to fix things." He goes back over to the cabinet and opens it again, rummaging inside it for something. "I think it's fair to say that ship has sailed."
"Fix—" Dean can't even put a sentence together. He just stands there, arms swinging stupidly by his sides, watching as Cas locates a battered first-aid kit and checks its contents, then sets it down on the table and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Cas, are you pissed at me for—"
"Me? Oh, no, not at all," he says, still with that terrible sarcasm, raising his eyebrows innocently, but not quite looking at Dean. "No, what would I possibly have to be mad about? You had nothing to do with this, after all. Nothing could've prevented all of this." He pulls his shirt off gingerly and throws it on a chair, and then goes back to the kit and pulls out a needle and thread. His torso is already lined with scars; one across his clavicle, another an inch from his heart. He used to be smooth as glass, it was just the other night, it seemed— "This was always meant to be, wasn't it."
"You mean...Michael?" Dean asks in disbelief. "You're pissed at me because Dean—I mean, the other one—because I didn't say yes? When you spent all that time telling me not to?" Cas doesn't say anything; he just threads the needle with difficulty and then lifts his arm again, turning at an awkward angle, trying to sew himself up. Dean can't help himself. He steps forward again. "Here, let me—"
"Don't." Cas suddenly swings around, dropping the needle, and grabs him, hard, clutching a fistful of Dean's jacket at his shoulder. Face-to-face for the first time since Cas entered, Dean looks into his eyes, his pupils unnaturally large, his face blazing with an emotion Dean can't read. "You've done enough." He gives him a slight shake, but he doesn't let go. "Get it? Enough. You did this."
"Oh, I did?" Anger fights its way to the surface, combating the guilt and confusion. That wasn't how it had been, not entirely, and they both know it. Dean pulls himself roughly out of Cas' grip, although he doesn't step back. "All by myself, huh? Sam—" (it hurts, literally makes his chest ache to say his name, but it needs to be said) "had nothing to do with it? You had nothing to do with it? Because I've been wondering for a while, man, just how did Sam get out of Bobby's panic room a few months back? I mean—a few months in my—in 2009—you know what I mean," he snaps, glaring at Cas, who looks stunned, or as stunned as he can through his inebriated haze. "Yeah. I figured that out. So don't pin this all on me. Besides, I think some of your asshole angel-bros have to shoulder some of—"
Cas' lip curls, and this time his fist swings out of nowhere, catching Dean right across the mouth. His aim is poor; it's a clumsy, impulsive action and Dean knows he could've knocked him cold if he'd really been on form, but even so, he tastes blood and stumbles back, shocked. His hand flies automatically to his mouth, but before it even gets there Cas grabs him again with both hands and slams him against the wall. Dean can't quite smother a small gasp of pain—however much Cas may have changed, he's still strong as hell. "Don't call them that," he snarls. "They're not my brothers anymore. I'm not one of them." Dean just looks defiantly back at him, feeling a warm drop slide down his chin. "Fine. You don't believe me?" Cas releases him, and without breaking eye contact reaches down with his left hand swipes his fingers across the gash in his side. He gives a violent shudder of pain, but doesn't make a sound, and then he shoves Dean aside and dashes his hand against the wall in a circle, making the sigil that he used to use save Dean, to prove that he was on his side. "Cas, wait—don't—" Dean says, reaching for his arm as he bloodies his own fingers again, but Cas shrugs him off and finishes the image, clumsily, as he's not left-handed, and then grabs Dean's wrist in a painfully strong grip and, before he can react, slams his hand against the symbol.
Nothing happens, not even a flicker. Cas releases him and spreads his own hands, one now scarlet, in a parody of amusement. "Get it now? Remember? I'm one of you."
"Well, maybe you should've left too, then!" Dean practically shouts before he can stop himself. "I mean, hey, they clearly didn't give a flying fuck about humanity or any of it, and you're standing her bitching me out because I didn't say yes to that douchecanoe and torch half the planet—why are you still here, then?"
It's Cas' turn to gape now, his eyes going wide in disbelief as he looks back into Dean's anguished face. "Why—why didn't I—" He begins to laugh, an uneven, slightly wild sound that's close to a sob. He lifts a hand almost absently, shoving back his hair and leaving a reddish smear across his forehead. "You still don't get it, do you," he exclaims, more statement than question. "You have no idea."
"Educate me, then, because I don't get it. You're telling me this is all my fault, but you're still here and fighting, so—"
"I stayed for you," Cas interrupts, and this shuts Dean up. "When all this shit started and the angels left, you told me I had a choice to make, and you'd understand either way. That whatever there was between us, you understood that I still had to consider my brothers—" he spits out the word like it tastes bad "and that you couldn't expect me to stay with you and the group when there was a pretty good chance that everything was fucked and everyone was gonna die." He's working himself up again; just remembering seems to be causing him pain. "But I could tell you wanted me to stay. You didn't have to say it, I just knew. You know, I think that's why I stayed." He shakes his head again, still smiling faintly. "Because you didn't ask me to. Because I let myself think you actually cared about what happened to me."
"What—'between us'...?" Dean repeats blankly, almost in a whisper, but now he starts to understand. He knows that he's always known what this was about, and what must have happened between them in those five years. It had started during his time, in his past, in 2009 or probably before, really. He didn't even really know when it had started, somewhere in the no-personal-space thing or the oddly long looks. He hadn't even really thought about it at the time; it had just felt so bizarrely natural because it wasn't natural—he'd never felt anything remotely like it for a dude before, really, but then he'd never met anyone like Cas, so it just seemed to follow that everything would be new between them. And there had been touches, sure, moments when their shoulders brushed and neither had pulled away. And then there was that time a few weeks ago (try five years ago, he reminds himself, but he can't think of it that way; the memory is still so sharp and real) when they'd driven from Pennsylvania to Maine to go find Raphael, and when they'd been in the Impala with Cas riding shotgun, Dean had just reached over and put his hand on his knee as though it were the simplest thing in the world. But it had all gone unacknowledged by both of them until finally that night when he'd taken Cas out to that whorehouse and they'd gotten thrown out and all. It had been a real laugh, except for the part where it hadn't, because Dean had spent the entire night terrified that Cas really was going to die the following day, and when they'd gotten back to the hotel room, Dean had leaned over and kissed him, partially because of that whole not-gonna-die-a-virgin thing, but more because the idea of losing him was just too much. And it hadn't been weird at all when Cas has responded a little clumsily, to be sure, but eagerly, his hands gripping the side of Dean's face, his long, slim fingers caressing his neck.
It hadn't felt strange that there was a smooth, hard chest underneath the shirt when he slowly unbuttoned it instead of soft, round breasts, or that he felt the rough scrape of beard stubble against his neck instead of a shiny swipe of fruity-scented lipgloss, because he wasn't just some guy, he was Cas,and the only thing that made sense was to be as close to him as possible, in every way, before he lost him forever. It hadn't happened that night, though, not all of it—Dean had wanted to; oh God, had he wanted to. He'd been hard and ready practically since seeing Cas with his hair all rumpled and his shirt and tie half pulled off of him back at that brothel. And Cas had seemed to as well: he was certainly kissing him back and tugging at his clothes, but there was something about the way his hands had trembled against Dean's waist and the breathless, anxious look in his eyes that had made Dean stop. There was no reason to rush him. Somehow, it felt like he could will Cas to survive the next day by starting something new and demanding a future. Now you have to stay, he wanted to say, absurdly. You can't go now that we've just begun. They had simply lain down and slept—or Dean slept, and Cas just lay there quietly (just as he'd said he would spend his last night on Earth after all), his head in the crook of Dean's shoulder, and when Dean awoke, he'd thought to himself that it was perhaps a bit odd that he didn't feel the slightest flicker of discomfort at the thought that he'd nearly deflowered an angel—but he'd be damned if anyone would ever know about the cuddling part. Cas had looked over and realized he was awake and blushed, actually blushed, and then started redressing to go hunt down Raphael. They hadn't talked about it again.
He surely isn't blushing now. Dean can feel Cas watching him closely, studying his face as he figures it out, and he nods slowly. That hadn't been the end of it at all. That had been the beginning. "There you go," Cas says, his voice now a soft growl. "Now you get it."
"Cas, I—I don't know what to say," Dean stutters, feeling winded. "I'm sorry. Really, I am, I never meant to..."
He doesn't know how to finish it. '...To kiss you'? 'To stop kissing you'? 'To destroy the world, but more importantly, us'? How can he apologize for what he hasn't yet done? Cas just glares. "Oh, well, if you're sorry, then I guess it's all right," he snaps. "Never mind that Sam's gone, and Bobby's dead, and most of the world is dead or running around as fucking zombies out there, or that Lucifer's probably going to finish us all off tomorrow—no, if you'resorry, then it's OK." He's getting himself worked up again, his eyes like blue fire, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. "And the thing of it is—" he starts to laugh again, that rough, mirthless bark "—that even if you had said yes, the fight would've killed half the world anyway, and I'd have lost a couple thousand more brothers, and I'd probably be dead myself, really, they wouldn't let me live, not after what I did for you, no." He's raving, half sing-song, still with a twisted smile, the combination of chemicals and emotion raging through his system. "And if they didn't kill me, I'd still be here, with you, because I'll always choose you, even when it doesn't make any fucking sense—" he grips his hair with his unbloodied hand, looking both anguished and on the verge of more laughter. "And you know, when Sam said yes—well, no, of course you don't, because it hasn't happened yet, not to you—and when Michael told you you had one last chance to say yes and you told him to go fuck himself, you know what I thought?"
He pauses and looks at Dean, who realizes he's actually waiting for an answer. "Uh—" It takes him a second to find his voice; his throat has gone dry. "I—no, I don't."
"I thought oh, thank God," Cas says, his voice a hoarse rasp now. He takes another step towards Dean. "I was glad. I was glad you said no and doomed us all, because it meant...it meant I could have you just a little longer. What do a few billion lives matter if I get what I want, right?" He shakes his head, disgusted—with himself? With them both? Dean can't tell. "And so then I stayed, because you stayed, and now I'm still here and I'm...this, and I'm standing here telling you what you're going to do as if it'll make a difference." He scoffs.
There's a brief silence as Cas just stands there, swaying slightly, blood still leaking from the gash in his side, and Dean just watching him in disbelief. "So—what are you tellin' me here?" he says finally. "That when I get sent back to my time, whenever the hell that happens, you want me to say yes? 'Cause I don't think 2009-you is going to be too cool with that. You just want me to—to give in and become Michael's bitch just so you don't become human and we don't, you know...whatever this is? Because that's not you, man. I know you. You care about this planet, you—"
Cas breaks into another laugh, even harsher than before, and looks sharply at Dean. "Don't you get it?" he demands, his voice becoming a hiss. He takes yet another step towards him, so suddenly that Dean backs up right into the wall in surprise, expecting another punch. "Still? No, Dean, I don't want you to say yes. I should want you to. I should've always wanted you to. I should've stayed away from you and—and stayed with my brothers. But I didn't—I couldn't, and even now, after everything, I still don't want you to give in, because—God, because these last five years have literally been worth the fucking world to me." He's barely two feet away from Dean's face now; like a terrible parody of his old self. "You see? You did this to me. I...I'm this way because of you. I—" He's trembling. "I'll always choose you, over everything, you ruined me—"
"Don't say that," Dean tries to shout, but it comes out a whisper. "Cas, you're not...please, don't say..." But there's nothing he can say to make it right. Unconsciously, almost, he lifts a hand to touch his face.
That's all it takes. When Dean's hand makes contact with his jaw, Cas' reserve seems to break, and he seizes Dean with both hands and kisses him, ferociously, so that Dean collides hard with the wall against his back. Dean, for his part, grips his shoulders, tasting whiskey, smoke and blood, his own or Cas', he can't tell, as he kisses him back, desperate to fix this, to fix him, the man he didn't even know he'd wrecked. Cas' hands slide down to his neck, and then to his chest, where he tears off his jacket, and then his outer shirt. Dean's lip stings where Cas split it, and he can feel his tongue nudging gently against the spot. His hips grind into Dean's, and Dean can feel him through his jeans, hard, nudging insistently against his thigh. His heart pounds—he knows he's furious, he's high out of his mind, he's broken—he's not the same Cas, and yet he is; his hands feel the same against Dean's chest as they did two weeks/five years ago; the sound of his breath is the same. And Dean wants him just as much as he did that first night.
Cas breaks the kiss and, panting, looks Dean right in the eyes, a faint smear of Dean's blood on his lips. He grips the back of his neck with his right hand. "Tell me you want me," he breathes. "Tell me—say it wasn't all for nothing." His grip tightens, and he leans forward, his forehead nearly touching Dean's. He moves his left hand to Dean's shoulder and pushes the sleeve of his t-shirt up, pressing his hand to the mark on his arm, the mark of his own touch. "Say it."
Dean shudders, his knees buckling. When Cas touches the brand, something white-hot and electric seems to course through his whole body, making him feel like he could come right then and there. "Yes," he gasps, knowing that in that moment he would say yes to anything, everything Cas could ask of him. He doesn't know why, and he doesn't care. "Oh, God, yes."
Cas almost smiles. Then he kisses him again, just as hard, and keeping his hand on his shoulder, reaches down and fumbles with Dean's belt. Dean does the same at Cas' waist, but Cas is faster, and he has his belt on the floor and his fly undone before Dean's even gotten the buckle undone. He knows what he's doing, Dean realizes, because he's done this before. We've done this before. Cas suddenly grasps his shoulder harder and turns him around so he's pressed against the wall, his cheek and his palm against the bloody sigil, and as he hears the whsst of leather on fabric as Cas pulls off his own belt and unzips his jeans, a bolt of something like fear—or excitement—or maybe both—tears through him. And he realizes he's trembling too, quaking with nerves like a Catholic schoolgirl on prom night, because he's never done this before. They had their fumbling, groping make-out session, sure, but that was nothing, and suddenly everything else he's done in his life, all of it, all of the women and the threesomes and the fourgys and whatever the hell else he'd done—for all they compared to this, and to Cas, they might as well never have happened, because nothing's ever, ever made him feel like this, this desperate longing, this fearful ache. "Cas—" he tries to say, his voice cracked. "Cas, please—"
"Shh," Cas says softly, his mouth against Dean's ear; whether command or comfort he can't tell. He reaches around and slides a hand up Dean's t-shirt, stopping at his heart, which is pounding almost painfully hard now, pressing him back against his own chest, and eases his jeans down over his hips with the other hand. The feeling of Cas' skin against his own robs him of breath and of words. "I know what you like."
His hand slides down from Dean's chest to his stomach, and then further south, wrapping his fingers around Dean's cock. Dean shivers violently, and somewhere in the vague recesses of his mind he understand something else: it was always going to be like this. Zachariah wouldn't leave him there, eventually he would bring him back to 2009 so he could say yes; that was the whole point. He was showing him what would be unless he changed it—but of course, he couldn't change it, because it clearly did happen, he was seeing it right now—or could he? He doesn't know; he can't think straight and he's never been an expert on time travel anyway, and he's quite sure that he wouldn't be able to figure it all out even if Cas wasn't now stroking him with long, languid touches and kneading his hip with his other hand. But this was happening, as sure as anything; this was always their first time. Whatever happened after this—or before it—this was always the beginning of something. Whether it really lasted five years or not, it was.
Cas moves his hand up over Dean's back, over the beads of his spine, and then down over his ass, then across his waist, leaving faint streaks of blood across his skin, as if to mark him further: you are mine. He leans his knee between Dean's legs and nudges them further apart, and Dean quivers even more. He tightens his hold on his cock ever so slightly, and Dean lets out a groan. "Tell me you want me," Cas whispers again.
"Yes." Dean nods, his forehead scraping the wall. "I want you."
"Say you'll always want me." He buries his face in Dean's neck, his rough cheek against smooth skin. Dean reaches back and grazes his thigh.
"Always, yes—always."
"You'll choose me." His voice breaks, and he grips his shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"I will—Cas, I will." It sounds like a prayer, almost, the first prayer he's ever said aloud. Cas releases his shoulder and reaches back down, sliding his hand between Dean's legs, and then slowly, shifting his hips to find the right angle, enters him, and Dean lets out an "oh, God" that ends on a whimper. His hand involuntarily clenches into a fist and then slams flat against the wall again, because it hurts, yes, as he knew it would, but he wants it, because somehow it tastes like penance and reward at the same time. He wants him, he's always wanted him, and he needs Cas to know what he's always meant to him. For the first time in his life, he wants to be taken; he doesn't want to be the one in charge, he wants to give himself over entirely, to offer himself, not as a weapon or as a puppet, but himself and nothing more. I can't be a savior. This is all I am.
Cas thrusts against him, slowly, breathing out hard as he does so, and Dean can feel him against his back, taut as a wire, and he knows he's holding himself back. Despite everything, he's still almost trying to be tender; he's the same old Cas, really, still trying to keep himself in check. His cock throbs against Cas' hand, and he quickens his strokes. Cas grasps Dean's other hand and presses it against the wall too, pinning his wrist. Dean looks over to their hands, and he slides his hand on top of Cas' and pulls it in to him so that Cas' arm is wrapped around his shoulder, pressing his mouth to the sweating palm and then taking each of his bloody fingers between his lips, slowly, one by one, as if it will wash him clean and undo everything. He tastes sweet and bitter and unmistakably human. Now Cas groans, growling Dean's name softly into the back of his neck as he rocks into him, and Dean throws his head back to receive Cas' lips against the side of his throat, half-kiss, half-bite, as pain and pleasure race through him until he can't tell the difference anymore.
Cas moves harder, and the movement of his hand quickens as well, his breath ragged against Dean's neck. "Cas," he says, his lips moving against the fingers still pressed to his mouth, although he doesn't quite know what he means to say. "Cas, I—fuck," he gasps, and comes into Cas' hand. He shudders again and bites down on Cas' fingers without quite meaning to. Cas almost laughs at this, and jerks his hips once, twice more, and then exhales hard, groaning out a word that Dean doesn't know as he finishes. It sounds like Enochian.
They stand there for several long moments, breathing hard and sweating, Cas' arms still around Dean's hip and shoulder, his face against the back of his neck. Dean closes his eyes, his forehead against the wall, feeling Cas' heart pounding against his back. For a moment, everything stands still; there's no apocalypse, there's no Lucifer, no God, nothing exists except the places where their skin touches and the salty taste still in Dean's mouth.
Then a shout echoes distantly across the compound, and faint voices reply, and though there is no burst of gunfire or further panicked cries, the moment is broken and Cas lifts his head and gives it a shake, as if trying to bring himself back to Earth. He untangles his arms from around Dean, and Dean turns around unsteadily, pulling his jeans back up over his hips. Cas wipes his hand on his own jeans, almost as an afterthought. He runs his fingers through his hair again, and then his gaze returns to Dean's face. He gives the closest thing to a genuine smile that he has all night, and reaches out to wipe two fingers across Dean's face. He shows him; his cheek is smudged with blood from where he was pressed against the sigil Cas made on the wall. Dean scrubs the back of his wrist against his face, and then half-shrugs at him—what are a few more bloodstains, really?
There's not much left that needs to be said between the two of them, it seems. Dean picks up his shirt and jacket from the floor, and Cas crosses back to the table where the first-aid kit is still lying open. Apparently deciding that sewing himself up is too much bother, he pulls out a few wrapped gauze pads and a roll of white tape. He goes to tear open the paper envelope with his teeth, but Dean comes to his side again and says "C'mon, let me—please." He can hear the pleading note in his voice, and knows that Cas can too. The corners of his mouth twitch, and he wordlessly hands the gauze to Dean, turning and lifting his arm out of the way. Dean reaches into the white plastic box and takes out an antiseptic wipe. "This is gonna sting a little," he tells him, and for a moment they lock eyes again, acknowledging the absurdity of saying this to a man who's spent five years being shot and stabbed and ravaged as he battled a zombie apocalypse, and who has also just punched him in the face and then fucked him. Cas huffs a quiet laugh, and then flinches ever so slightly as Dean leans in and cleans the gunshot wound with the disinfectant. He kneels halfway to get a better angle, and steadies himself with his other hand on Cas' side. Once cleaned, he places a layer of gauze over the gash, which isn't that deep after all, and secures it with the tape. Then he looks up at Cas, who is watching him, the fury gone from his eyes, a kind of resigned sadness having settled on his features. He extends a hand and pulls Dean back up.
"That, uh...that oughta hold for a while," Dean tells him, pointlessly, just to have something to say. Cas just nods. Another pause. Then, "Cas, I'm s—"
Cas interrupts him with a shake of the head. "I know. You don't..." He sighs and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. "So am I." He chuckles bitterly. "And I'm kinda not, too. I guess that's the problem."
Dean just nods, his hands in his pockets. After what just happened, it feels strange to be standing this close to him without touching him. Now that it's started, he can't believe he was ever surprised about the last five years—how couldn't they have been together? Why weren't they sooner? Why had they wasted so much time? And what would happen once he got back to 2009? How soon would it be before...
As if reading his mind, Cas looks at him again and says "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"When you get back to your time, don't tell me about this."
"No?"
"Nah." He shakes his head. "I won't believe you. It'll happen soon, though. You gotta give me time, you know." He smiles faintly as he talks about his former self, as if it was someone else, someone he used to know who was long dead. "Did we already have that night before I trapped Raphael, after the whorehouse?"
"Uh—yeah," Dean replies, still trying to wrap his mind around the whole time-travel thing. "Just a few weeks ago."
"Huh," he says, nodding again. "Then yeah, it'll be soon." His mouth twists into another sad smile. "It's another whole last-night-on-Earth thing, actually. Or that's what we'll think at the time. That seems to be kinda our thing, doesn't it."
"Yeah, I guess," Dean says uncertainly. He knows he shouldn't ask, but he can't help himself: "So...so you know everything that's going to...?"
"I know what happened," he shrugs. "At least, in this version."
"'This version'?" Dean looks at him sharply. "So you think I can...you know, change things?"
"You can always change things. The question is if you will," Cas tells him simply, and for a moment, he really is his old self—wise, enigmatic, infuriating. "If you really want to, still." And Dean knows exactly what he's saying: Zachariah's whole point in sending him ahead was to show him the horrors of the future, thinking that it would motivate him to change his mind. But he couldn't have known what else he would learn in his own future, and now he realizes he'll have to decide what's really worth it: them, or the world. And right then, somehow, it doesn't feel like an easy decision.
Cas just watches him sadly with his head tilted slightly to the side. It's such a familiar gesture that Dean actually has to press his hands tight against his own legs to stop himself seizing Cas and never letting go. "Now you know," Cas says. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see what you do."
They look at each other for another moment, and Cas reaches out again and brushes Dean's face with one hand, his thumb skimming across his lips. Dean closes his eyes briefly at the touch. Then Cas turns away, picking up his shirt from where he'd discarded it on the chair, and heads for the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turns back and says "Watch out for Paris Hilton."
Dean blinks. "What?"
"You'll see." He looks at him for another long moment, and then smiles and is gone.
Dean looks around, feeling more lost than ever. Five years...how could he be expected to give that up? And yet, how could he even think of saying yes? But then again, nothing was for sure...maybe it wasn't as simple as all that. Was it worth the gamble? Maybe just asking that proves it, he thinks. Maybe even considering letting half the world die proved that he wasn't fit to battle Hell. Maybe he was ruined too. But then, didn't that mean they really weremeant to be? Maybe when you were broken, that was the only thing left to do: find someone else who was in pieces too, in the slight hope that together, you'd make a whole.