[fic] Supernatural - There's Only One Sure Thing That I Know [2/4]
May 18th (16 Days)
Four job interviews in and Dean is starting to really realize that he has no references besides Bobby, no skills, and that he has never actually held down any kind of real employment, ever. The one thing he's pretty much qualified to be is FBI agent, but that's because he's had the kind of hands-on experience with the Bureau that rules out that career path forever.
"Um," Dean says, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I guess you could say that a weakness of mine is that sometimes I can get too involved in the job."
Rebecca Miles, proprietor of Therapy Café, raises an eyebrow at that one. She makes a note on the legal pad balanced on her knee, probably something about how much of a complete tool he is.
"Alright, Dean," she says, "Tell me why you're the right person for this job."
Dean's palms are sweating and he knows he's giving off ex-con-esque just give me one more chance kind of vibes, but hell, the bar is called Therapy Café, they should be prepared for a few crazies.
When Dean had told Castiel about his intention to get a job, Castiel had insisted on holding a practice interview with questions he'd found on the internet. When Castiel had said, "Tell me why you deserve this opportunity,"Dean hadn't had a good answer. Castiel had looked disappointed and sad, resigned like he'd been when they first met.
Still, Dean could write a novel on fake it 'til you make it, so he draws on confidence he absolutely does not have and smirks. "Because," he says, putting as much leer into his voice as he can, "Women come to this bar."
Ten minutes later, Dean walks out the door with instructions to return the following night and a black t-shirt that says You Deserve Therapy in white letters across the front.
May 19th (19 Days)
Lisa picks up right before it goes to voicemail, and says, "Shit! Oh, wait, I mean, hi Dean. Sorry, I dropped the phone in the trash."
Dean really, really wants to ask how the hell did you do that? but instead opens with, "So, I got a job."
She gasps, shocked. Dean would feel more insulted about that if he hadn't totally been mooching off of her for the last six months. "You're messing with me," she says.
"Not at all," Dean says. "You're talking to Therapy Café's newest bar back." He'd been hoping to go straight to bartending, but they wanted things things that Dean didn't have, like experience and applicable knowledge. This way, he has to wash a fuck-ton of beer glasses, but he at least he gets a share of the tips.
"Whoa," Lisa says, probably too stunned to work her way up to complete sentences.
"I know, right," Dean says, "Worst name ever." It's probably one of those stupid little jokes, like naming a bar The Bank so your clientele can say things like, I'm just running to The Bank, to make themselves feel clever.
"Oh not even, I used to wait tables at a place called Big Dick's Halfway Inn. You don't ever want to put something like that on your resume." Lisa says, laughing. "I'm just floored that you're becoming a productive member of society. I mean, you spend all that time as a lump on my couch, and now you're going legit?"
"It's Ohio," Dean says. "It's warped me."
"I'll say," Lisa says. "So you're stopped hunting, stopped sulking, and you've got a real job. What's next? Cold fusion? World peace?"
"Did you know that the Ohio state motto is, With God, all things are possible?" Castiel looks over at Dean from where he's watching reality TV, and raises his eyebrow at that one.
"You are so full of shit, Dean Winchester," Lisa says.
"Just ask Wikipedia, man," Dean says. "The internet never lies."
It freaks Dean out how easy it is to fall into a routine.
He wakes up around noon, eats some cereal, argues for an hour with Castiel or Bobby or Castiel and Bobby about whatever dumbass theory they've come up with that day. Castiel usually storms out at some point, but he always comes back with food.
From what Dean can tell, Castiel's been working his way through every nondescript burger joint in the entire state. Three weeks in and Dean's pretty sure could write a God-damn guidebook to the best fries in Ohio. He's getting a little bit sick of the diner food diet, and he's started putting on enough weight that joining a gym seems worth the money.
So Dean eats lunch with Castiel, goes to work out for an hour, and then calls Lisa.
"You don't have to call every day," she says.
"Yes I do, it says so right here in the manual," Dean says, which at least earns him a laugh.
After that he either communes with daytime television or he wastes a quarter tank of gas driving to the Indiana border and back. It's more and more depressing each time he does it, and he's getting fucking sick of the landscape, so it tapers off from once a day to once a week within the first month.
"Still stuck," he tells Lisa, every single day.
Dean gets Thursday nights off, so he and Castiel switch off choosing what to do. Dean always picks dive bars with cheap whiskey, and Castiel likes to go to places that serve sangria and hors' d'oeuvres. Dean always orders the least girly thing on the menu, but he usually ends up drinking half of Castiel's concoction, too.
Dean gets paid on the first and fifteenth of the month and deposits the check into his real, grown-up bank account. Since he still lives like a refugee, the numbers in his account go up fairly steadily. He puts half of each paycheck away in savings, even though the rational part of his brain asks him what he thinks he's saving for. Even if he does fuck-all with the money, Dean like logging into his credit union's website and watching the numbers getting bigger. The hunting lifestyle does not usually come with a positive balance.
Actually doing a day's work, instead of just hustling pool or living off of scammed credit cards, is new and different and sucks in new and different ways. Dean's back hurts when he gets off his shift at night, and when customers are being douchebags you can't just shoot them in the face with rock salt to make them go away.
Half of the time he leaves work at the end of the night promising himself he won't come back. He goes in the next day mostly because he's tired of living like a crazy person, moving from a crappy motel room in one city to a crappier motel room in a different one every week.
He gets the urge to hunt every once in a while, but he's starting to understand that he can't keep recklessly throwing himself towards danger. He promised Sam, and even beyond what he'd said before Detroit, there's the way Castiel looked at him when they'd torched Vice Principle Jessup in Boardman. Dean would crawl over broken glass if it meant he didn't have to get that look from Castiel, ever again.
June 23rd (52 Days)
More often than not Dean's shifts synch up with a bartender named Savira.
Savira has black hair and long legs and mixes up a margarita that makes you so drunk you can still feel it two days later. Dean had thought when he'd first started working at the bar
that she had a thing for him. This held up until their second shift together, when she told him that her boyfriend's in the Air Force, and put on 15 pounds of muscle while he was deployed to Iraq. She'd also mentioned that she was taking self-defense classes. She had offered to demo some moves on Dean, and he'd backed off pretty damn quickly after that.
Wednesday nights are typically pretty quiet, but tonight they've got a DJ in from Cincinnati that has drawn in some new people. They're also in the thick of wedding season, and Dean has counted no fewer than three bachelorette parties.
"Who," Savira says, pouring out tequila shots while Dean cuts up limes. "Is that totally cute dude in the corner? Not that I'm looking. He's just been staring at you for like, 10 minutes."
"Jesus Christ," Dean mutters under his breath. Castiel is standing in the corner, almost hidden behind a pillar, staring at Dean and looking creepy as hell. The trench coat is really not helping the stalker chic vibe he's got going. "That would be Cas. I swear, man, we talked about the staring thing."
"That's Cas?" She whistles low under her breath, which Dean is fairly sure is inappropriate behavior towards an angel of the Lord. Not that she's looking.
"Yeah," he says, "What of it."
"Nothing." She says. "It's just the way you described him, I don't know, I thought he'd look different." Dean wasn't aware that he'd described Castiel to his coworkers, ever.
"What does that mean?" Dean asks.
"Oh, I don't know. Nothing." Savira says, looking shifty as fuck.
Castiel finally walks up and sits on one of the stools, his wrists resting on the bar with his forearms at perfect 90 degree angles away from his sides. "Dean," he says. "I was hoping to speak with you."
"Hey man," Dean says, "I'm working."
"I am aware of that. It's a matter of some urgency." Castiel says, sounding quietly panicked. "The toilet in the motel room started to back up. I did not know what to do."
Savira looks at Castiel like he's lost it and says, "Dude, use the plunger."
"The plunger?" Castiel asks, looking at Savira as though she's speaking one of the three languages he doesn't.
Savira walks away with the tray of shots, shaking her head and muttering, "Boys," under her breath.
Dean has seen Castiel face down the legions of hell without batting an eyelash, but the toilet in the motel room seems to have him actually freaked out. "Hey, just talk to the dude at the front desk. Tell him to call the maintenance guy and have us moved into a room that doesn't smell like sewage, ok?"
"Alright, I will do that." Castiel says, relief pouring into his voice.
"You couldn't have just called?" Dean asks.
"I wanted to see your place of business. It's... nice." Castiel looks around the room, eyes catching on at least three different ambiguously gendered couples making out in dimly lit booths.
"Which is totally your polite way of saying it's a den of iniquity, I know." Dean says. Castiel doesn't nod or anything, but Dean can totally tell that's what he's thinking.
Castiel stands. "Alright. I will see you back at the motel, then," Castiel says and walks out.
Savira comes back carrying 10 empty shot glasses and wearing a feather boa.
"Don't ask," She says. "What was up with your boyfriend just now?"
"What?" Dean asks, because, what? Boyfriend?
"He was totally acting like he'd never seen a toilet before," Savira says. "Is he from, like, some sort of third world country? Dude, is he like, your mail order bride?"
"What? Fuck no!" Dean shouts.
"Whoa, touchy," She says. And then, "Wait. You two live in a motel? Why the hell would you do that?"
"You know what," Dean says, "That's a very good question."
June 24th (53 Days)
The next day, Dean signs a lease on a furnished, second-story walkup three miles from work.
"Oh, we're so glad you chose to become part of our family," says Pamela, a member of the suffocatingly sincere front office staff. Dean is kind of proud of himself that he only flinches slightly when she reaches out to hand him the keys.
Moving in consists of grabbing Dean's duffle bag out of the back of the Impala and bringing it into the apartment. When that's done it becomes clear that between the two of them, they own next to nothing.
Castiel walks into and then out of the bathroom, quietly laughing to himself. "If my understanding of human physiology is correct," Castiel says with a kind of sideways tilt to his mouth, "You are going to need to purchase toilet paper." It takes Dean like 30 seconds to realize that this is Castiel's idea of a joke.
"Aw, hell," Dean says.
Dean runs to Wal-Mart to buy the things that it's immediately obvious they need, like sheets and paper towels and hand soap. He isn't home again for 10 minutes before he realizes they actually need way more than he'd bargained on.
Castiel comes with when Dean heads back to the store, because when he'd asked, Dean had stupidly thought, what could it hurt?
"A toothbrush holder," Dean says, incredulous at the white porcelain object in Castiel's hand. He would ask, what the hell are you on? except that Dean has totally seen Castiel buy Martha Stewart Living and Good Housekeeping and O at the check-out line in the grocery store. At the time, he'd thought it that all the super-white linens and shit had reminded Castiel of Heaven, and that it had just been some really weird form of homesickness. "We can't use a cup?"
Castiel puts the toothbrush holder down and sulks his way into the next isle.
"We need a shower curtain. And a rug." Castiel says. He grabs a red shag monstrosity off a low shelf and pulls something equally hideous, orange, and vinyl off a rack. "Do these match?"
"Good God, no." Dean says. Castiel frowns, though Dean isn't sure if it's because of the blasphemy or if it's because Dean obviously doesn't understand his design aesthetic. "Why can't everything just be blue? Or, like, how about this one? It has seashells on it. People always have seashells and shit in their bathrooms."
"Philistine," Castiel mutters, under his breath.
They compromise and get green.
"So," Dean says. "I got an apartment."
"You've given up, haven't you." Lisa says, sounding defeated. Which is the obvious way to look at it, and Dean doesn't know why he didn't really think of it like that.
"Hey, no," Dean says, "It's only a month-to-month lease, it's not permanent. I'm just sick of living like a roadie, you know? I'm not 19 anymore, living on the road doesn't sound as glamorous as it used to. I mean, how many times can you come home to a shitty motel room before you just lose it completely?"
Dean has had to learn how to do the whole talking on the phone thing. Before getting stuck across state lines from his girlfriend, the longest conversations Dean had over the phone had been about demonic omens and fucked-up witchcraft.
Besides learning phone etiquette he never picked up like a normal human being, like how to not constantly talk over each other and everything else, Dean has also had to learn how to talk to Lisa. When he was living in Cicero, they didn't really spend a lot of time talking about stuff that didn't involve the day-to-day workings of living together, like, are you going to pick up Ben? What do you want for dinner? They didn't really do a lot of the how was your day, honey stuff.
"Yeah, you're right." Lisa says, but she doesn't sound happy. Lately, she's been sounding really distracted and tired when he's called.
"Well," Dean says, trying for lively and missing it by a mile and a half. "That's pretty much what I did today. How are you holding up?"
Lisa says, "Oh, fine," in that wistful tone that women use when they're not fine at all.
Dean is about to utter the dreaded phrase, what's wrong? when she blurts out, "No, wait, that's a complete lie." She then launches into an involved story about the new girl that was just hired on at the yoga studio.
Lisa's work stories are like dispatches from an ongoing soap opera with a cast of 20-something, exceptionally flexible women. They're pretty much the best things ever.
"And, ugh, and then can you believe it, she totally went back to that jerk," she finishes, 10 minutes later.
"Man," Dean says. "That sounds rough."
"No joke." Lisa says, and then, "Oh, hey, Ben was asking about you today. He was wondering if you were gonna come home before football season starts."
Dean is sick of saying I don't know. He's sick of saying I'm sure Bobby and Cas will figure something out. He's sick of saying, What's the weather like there?
"I will try my hardest to be there," Dean says, sounding spineless and pathetic to his own ears, "But it's really..."
"Out of your control," Lisa finishes for him. "Yeah, I know. It's just hard to believe that Dean Winchester, savior of the human race, can't drive 40 miles down I-70 without getting his ass kicked. And you're with an angel! Can't he just, you know, smite his way through?"
"It doesn’t work that way," Dean says, shaking his head even though he knows she can't see it.
"Oh, I know," Lisa says. "I just like saying smite."
July 1st (60 Days)
Dean has the night off, and it's Castiel's turn to choose, so they're in a trendy downtown wine bar - thankfully one that also serves beer. Halfway into his second Red Stripe, Dean makes the mistake of getting up to go the bathroom, and by the time he comes back, a 30-something brunette with expensive highlights has slid onto the empty bar stool next to Castiel.
Castiel is always getting hit on in bars.
Anytime they go out, Castiel becomes a car-battery-charged electromagnet for desperate women and sexually adventurous men. Dean doesn't completely understand what the draw is, but he figures if he could bottle and sell it, they'd never have to work another day in their lives.
Dean usually gets picked up on by cocktail waitresses with tramp stamps and retail workers with tongue piercings; Castiel gets propositioned by gorgeous divorcees who offer him investment advice. Dean's still not sure who's getting the better end of that one.
The brunette orders a glass of wine from the bartender, and then casually swivels on her stool to lean in and strike up a conversation. She says, "My name's Karen," and extends a well manicured hand towards Castiel, who just looks at it until she takes it back.
Karen, undeterred, looks Castiel up and down, takes in the corporate casual and says, "So, what do you do for a living?"
What do you do for a living? is one of the all-time greats in Dean's pantheon of crappy angel pick-up lines along with, You from around here? and, Where have you been all my life? because, despite Dean's best coaching, Castiel still hasn't gotten a good handle on how this whole human interaction thing
works. ("You want me to be untruthful," he'd said, looking at Dean like Dean wanted him to smite kittens just for kicks. Dean had tried to add the condition, "Only when the truth will freak people the fuck out," but even that hadn't stuck.)
Castiel says, like always, "I am an Angel of the Lord." If asked directly, Castiel still wouldn’t think twice about giving away his credit cards, social security number, and mother's maiden name if he had one.
Karen laughs a little, like she thinks Castiel just has a really quirky sense of humor. When he doesn't join in, she awkwardly morphs it into one of those really obvious fake coughs and turns back to her wine.
Dean's kind of disappointed. Sometimes Castiel uses his freaky mindreading mojo and says things like, "You should not feel guilty that he married you only because you were pregnant," and they throw their drinks at him. On a good night, going to a bar with Castiel is better than watching Springer.
An eternity of stony silence and eerie staring later, Karen slinks away, looking bewildered and clutching her glass of merlot a little too tightly, and Dean takes his seat back. Castiel nods in acknowledgement of his return, but seems otherwise unaffected by the encounter.
"So, Angel of the Lord, huh?" Dean says, and knocks back the last of his beer. "You get dental with that?"
"Jimmy Novak once had a terrible overbite and was in desperate need of a root canal," Castiel says, and his smile is all perfect, gleaming white teeth.
"I'll take that as a yes," Dean says, and orders another round.
July 6th (65 Days)
"I would like to acquire a library card," Castiel says, out of the blue one morning. "I have exhausted the resources I have found using the internet."
"Ok," Dean says. "Can't you just... go get one?"
Castiel frowns and shakes his head and says, "I do not know how." Dean forgets, sometimes, that Castiel only plays a human on TV.
"Well, OK, I don't really know, either," Dean admits. "Sam used to handle that shit."
According to the Dayton Metro Library website, all you need is a photo id, which they both have plenty of, and proof of residence. The main branch turns out to be down the street from Dean's work, so Dean grabs an electric bill and his car keys, and drives them both downtown.
Castiel's absolute cluelessness usually charms women, and the woman behind the circulation desk is no exception. They get library cards, a tour of the collection, a lecture on the history of the building and the Ohio library system in general. Castiel even gets a poster of cartoon Superman flying over a stack of books that says READ!
The librarian, when she's not being really really into Castiel, is really into murder mysteries, and shoves three of them into Castiel's hands before he can protest.
"Well, even if you don't love them, they're fun." She says, and winks, and sashays off. Dean is pretty sure that her phone number is on one of the bookmarks she shoved into Castiel's pocket. As soon as she's gone, Castiel makes a beeline for the history/religion/boring section. Dean stops him with a hand on his chest before he can get too far.
"My shift starts in 10 minutes, do you think you can find your way home?" He asks. Dean's not so much worried about Castiel's ability to get around, the guy can still zap himself wherever he wants to go, as long as it's somewhere in Ohio. It's more that surrounded by boring, dusty-ass books, Castiel looks like a kid in a candy store, and Dean is worried that he's not going to remember to leave.
"Absolutely," Castiel says.
"Write if you find work," Dean says, and walks out.
When Dean comes home from work that night, Castiel is sitting in the living room, reading a book improbably titled Bimbos Of The Death Sun. Dean doesn't ask how Castiel found his way back. He also chooses not to ask about the mud tracks near the front door or the twigs he finds caught in Castiel's hair.
July 11th (70 Days)
"Dude," Dean finally says, after watching Castiel start to leave the apartment for fifth day in a row in his white shirt, blue tie, and gray slacks. "You can't wear the same thing every day if you're gonna actually see other people more than once a month."
Castiel asks, "Why not? You wear that to work every day."
Dean looks down at his You Deserve Therapy shirt, which is starting to fray around the collar and come apart at the hem. "That's different," he says. "This is a uniform, they make me wear this. You, on the other hand, look like a crazy homeless dude." Which is interesting, because last year they were both of them living like crazy homeless dudes.
Dean tries to talk him into dressing like a normal human being, but apparently over the last few years he's gotten into the whole Holy Roman Tax Accountant look. He's still really into ties and button-downs, though he's ditched the trench coat, thank God.
"No," Dean says, putting his foot down. "None of that corporate casual shit."
So Dean takes Castiel to Wal-Mart, where he hates everything, Goodwill, where he only picks out things that are butt ugly and look like they haven't been worn since 1967, and Target, where Castiel tries on white skinny-leg pants and a plaid shirt, with a frickin' bandana tied around his neck.
"You look like an 18 year old hipster," Dean says in disgust.
"The young woman at the counter recommended all these things," Castiel says.
"That's because she's an 18 year old hipster," Dean says. The young woman in question has a dream catcher tattooed on her shoulder, is wearing an ill-fitting jumpsuit, and looks like she fell out of a documentary about Woodstock. She's also staring at Castiel like she wants to eat him.
"Dude, no," Dean says. "Just no."
Castiel in skinny jeans freaks Dean the fuck out enough that he calls truce and he lets Castiel pick out the most boring-ass clothes he can find. Castiel looks disappointed every time Dean tries to maneuver him towards the clearance racks, so everything he wants is full-price. When the lady at the checkout tells him he can save 10% by opening a credit card, Dean does the math in his head and says, "Hell yes."
Castiel walks out of the store with a three-pack of boxers, a three-pack of wife beaters, a six-pack of tube-socks, four button-down shirts, four pairs of slacks, and a pair of tennis shoes. Dean walks out of the store with a lower credit score.
For days after, Dean wakes up to the sight of Castiel walking around the apartment in boxer shorts, holding a shirt or a pair of pants and looking confused. Whenever he notices that Dean's awake, he'll hold up whatever it is that he's looking at, and ask, "Does this match?"
Dean is usually laughing too hard to say yes or no, and Castiel eventually puts on whatever he wants in cranky defiance. It's totally pathetic, but for a while, it's kind of the best part of Dean's day.
July 31st (90 Days)
Three months in and Dean finally cannot stand the idea of eating another cheeseburger.
"That's it," Dean says. "I am not eating any fast food for at least a month. I really mean it: no burgers, no tacos, and no deep fried anything."
Castiel tilts his head to the side, considering. "I am curious to see if you can do this thing."
"Yeah, well," Dean says, "You're helping."
Castiel checks cookbooks out of the library, titles like Eating Well and The New Vegetarian Cookbook and one that Dean assumes is a joke called Good Stuff, which is almost entirely recipes for burgers and fries.
"Are you fucking with me?" Dean asks. "The only things in this book that aren't deep fried are the milkshakes."
Castiel shrugs and says, "I was both fascinated and repulsed by the bacon-wrapped asparagus."
Dean picks out five things that don't look like they'll kill him to make or eat, and Castiel starts putting together a grocery list that's longer than the usual cereal, milk and beer. Dean sucks at time management, and by the time they've got the list finished, he's nearly running late for work.
"You got this?" He asks, gesturing towards Castiel with the shopping list and a credit card.
"I believe so," Castiel says. He even sounds like he's telling the truth, which means he's either gotten better at lying, or he really doesn't know what he's getting himself into.
Two hours later, Dean gets a call on his cell phone.
"Dean," Castiel says, sounding confused and annoyed, "What does fennel look like?"
"How the fuck should I know?" Dean says, "Ask someone who works there."
Dean finds out when he gets home that fennel looks like a cross between a turnip and a feather boa.
"Which side of this thing do you eat?" He asks, seeing as they both look equally unappetizing.
Castiel says, "I was hoping you would know."
"Jesus," Dean says, opening the fridge. Usually, it contains only booze and condiments, but now he can't see through to the back wall. "Did you leave anything in the store?"
"Yes," Castiel says, handing him a green pepper and a paring knife.
During the first week of Experimenting with Real Food, Dean burns his arm in three places fighting with the oven, accidentally uses cayenne pepper instead of chili powder, and dumps an entire pot of soup on the floor. It's almost enough to make him go running back to diners and dives, but he hits enough culinary home-runs that it's all worth it.
Castiel still doesn't need to eat, but he tries whatever it is that Dean's having, and he always does the dishes after.
August 2nd (92 Days)
Dean totally forgets about calling Lisa for like a week and a half, and feels like a completely dick. He dials her number, composing more and more elaborate apologies as he waits for the phone to connect. Lisa picks up after three rings and before he can even say hello, she blurts out, "I'm pregnant."
All the apologies drop out of Dean's head, he does some frantic mental math, and comes up with, oh shit.
"It's not yours this time, either," Lisa says, stopping Dean's freakout in its tracks.
"Oh," he says, floored. He isn't faking the shock or disappointment he feels, but he also isn't faking the bone-deep sense of relief. "How did that happen?"
"In the usual way, Dean," Lisa says, the you idiot left unspoken. "I met someone. He rides a vintage Harley and likes kids." She pauses. "And you were gone."
Dean glances across the living room at where Castiel is perched on the couch reading If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him, the latest recommendation from Kathy the Librarian. "Yeah," Dean says, "I still am."
"Look, Dean," Lisa says, her voice starting to waver. "We had great sexual chemistry. No one can deny that. And you've become a great friend. And Ben loves you, you're great with him. But I've been thinking about it a lot, and I don't think we ever really worked, not like we really should have. What do you think?"
"Lisa," Dean says. He pauses, not sure what he's supposed to say. He's not sure there is a right thing to say. The silence stretches out for what feels like forever
"Yeah." Lisa says, eventually. "Ok, yeah. That's what I thought, too."
Dean comes home that night after a double shift, having been thrown up on twice, and is in no fucking mood. The sight of Castiel perched over the laptop in the living room is simultaneously so familiar and so fucking useless that Dean finds himself suddenly, irrationally angry. He slams the door, but Castiel barely even twitches.
"Welcome back, Dean." Castiel says, not looking away from the laptop screen.
Dean walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and stares aimlessly into the blinding white interior. "Any new leads?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
"No," Castiel says, "Though I remain confident that an answer will be found."
"You've been looking for three months and there's been nothing. Less than nothing. What the fuck do you do all day?" Dean closes the fridge door and leans back against it, feeling restless.
"Without unfettered access to the Host, I do not have all the resources I need. I am making do with what I can find here, but the information is mostly incomplete and in many cases wholly incorrect." Castiel says, his voice flat. It's how he says nearly everything these days, and it makes him sound like a God damn robot.
"Seriously, three months of dead ends and that's your whole story?" Dean asks.
"Yes," Castiel says.
"How does nothing bother you, anymore?" Dean asks, "I swear to God, Cas, you used to at least get pissed off."
Castiel is a picture of serenity when he says, "What do I have to be angry for?"
Dean feels his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "We're trapped in Ohio," he shouts. "What, did you forget about that one?"
Castiel sighs and stands, finally stepping away from the damn computer. "I did not forget, I simply choose to believe that-" Dean drags himself out of the kitchen and into the living room, positions himself so that he's standing right in front of Castiel, about four feet and twenty miles away. He almost misses the days before Castiel finally learned about personal space.
"If you fucking say one word about the will of God, I swear I will not be able to control myself." Dean grits out between clenched teeth.
"Dean," Castiel says, very slight traces of desperation creeping in to his voice. He turns his face towards the window, away from Dean. Dean can't get a good read on him. "This is not like the last time, where I made a choice and accepted the consequences of my actions. This time, I have been cut off from the Host without reason."
"So you're, what, trying to this too shall pass your way through it?" Dean asks, incredulous. "Fucking hell, Cas, that's all the more reason to get pissed off. I sure as shit wouldn't want to be stuck down here with me."
Castiel sighs. "I am trying my hardest to make due and have faith," He says. "It's not made easier by you when you do things like this."
Dean asks, "Do things like what? Jesus, Cas, will you at least look at me?"
Castiel keeps looking away, will not meet Dean's eyes as he says, "When you act as though your life is worth nothing, and that I all I sacrificed for you has come to nothing."
"Listen," Dean says, "Listen, Cas, I..."
Castiel turns toward him, and before Dean can puzzle out what the hell he was going to say in the first place, Castiel suddenly hauls forward and kisses him. Castiel's mouth is shamelessly mobile, open and wet. He's kissing with purpose, like he's proving a point, and Dean is a little stunned, a bit surprised, and a lot into it.
Castiel pulls back and says, "You deserved to be saved."
Dean sucks in a breath, light-headed. Before he has enough oxygen getting to his brain to start processing, Castiel kisses him again.
Castiel says, "Your life is not meaningless."
Dean doesn't want to hear it, but he does want to feel Castiel's body against his, does want to feel Castiel's hands gripping him tight.
Castiel says, "You are worthy of love."
Dean shoves ineffectually at Castiel's shoulders, pushes until he gets enough clearance to take a few stumbling steps backwards.
"Stop it," Dean pants, "Stop talking." Castiel is still staring at him. He has that same intense look in his eyes, the one that he always gives Dean when they're alone and close like this, the one that says, why can't you see what I see when I look at you.
Dean pulls himself fully upright, takes another step back. Castiel stays in the same position, standing alone in the middle of the room, looking rumpled and lost, out of place. "I have to go," Dean says. "I'll be back when... I'll be back."
He catches a fleeting glimpse of Castiel's disappointed face on his way out the door.
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4