The first night they share a bed itâs out of necessity. Deanâs pushed further than he meant to with the driving and heâs barely going to get his four hours as it is, so when the night clerk only has a room with one double bed left, he sighs and nods his assent.
He thinks about offering to sleep on the floor or somehow un-making then re-making the bed to give them separate-but-equal spaces, but fuck it, heâs tired. Â They get changed for bed in silence and Cas is already flat on his back under the covers (the way he prefers to sleep) (not that Deanâs ever noticed) when Dean climbs in. Â After a mumbled ânightâ, Dean starts on his right side, facing away, but he must be overtired because he canât seem to settle and he tosses and turns until he ends up on his left side, restless. When his top hand shifts and brushes up against Cas, Dean knows he should yank it back but he keeps his eyes closed and lets it rest there, just his pinky and ring finger against the firm rise of Casâs shoulder. Cas doesnât pull away either, but probably heâs already asleep. Â A few moments later, Casâs right hand crosses the mattress until his knuckles are resting against Deanâs left hip. Â Deanâs focus narrows to these two small points of connection between them and he finally drifts off, waking more thoroughly rested than the brief couple of hours shouldâve afforded.
Theyâre nearly to the eastern border of Wisconsin, just south of Sheboygan, investigating a small cluster of freak accidents but with each witness they interview it becomes more and more clear that itâs nothing but a basic haunting. Â Itâs good practice for Cas, though, whoâs getting better at the fed stuff. Mostly heâs learned to keep his mouth shut, but heâs also tempered that unremitting stare into a solemn look that makes people feel like theyâre being heard and taken seriously. Â Also, somewhere along the way heâs picked up a new shirt to wear with his fed suit; deep blue instead of white. Â It probably isnât regulation (well hell, neither is Samâs hair), but it looks good on him.
That night Dean doesnât bother with pretenses, just starts on his left side, his fingers boldly against Casâs shoulder. Cas grazes his hand against Deanâs bottom hip again, but shortly after he pulls his hand away and Dean curses his own recklessness even as his stomach sinks. Heâs just about to turn onto his other side and pretend none of this ever happened when Casâs hand is back, his fingers curled into a loose fist, lightly resting on Deanâs top hip instead. Dean smiles his relief into his pillow and slowly slides his hand until his whole palm is on Cas, fingers curled over his shoulder, forearm lying against Casâs upper arm.
In the morning, everything goes back to normal. Cas doesnât try to sneak in little touches, Dean notes, no brushing arms when they walk or feet resting against each other under the table, no prolonged press of fingers when passing the sugar. Thatâs good, Dean thinks. It saves them both a lot of awkwardness if Cas understands that nothing has changed.
They spend much of the next day locating the grave, finally finding it in an overgrown corner of a mostly unmarked cemetery. From the look of things, nobody has been out here in years, so Dean gives the go ahead to start digging while itâs still light out. Â Everythingâs by the book until Dean finishes salting and is just about to torch the bones when Cas, sore from the last shift of digging, reaches both hands over his head to loosen his stiff shoulders. Dean gets a glimpse of smooth, firm stomach and the cut of sharp hip bones and fumbles the lighter. Â Swearing, he jumps into the grave, digging around in the loose dirt to find it. Â He yells at Cas for no good reason, which he knows isnât fair, but Cas just gestures wordlessly with the shovel to where the lighter is lying in plain sight.
That night, already up against Casâs shoulder, Dean bends his knees until they rest against Casâs upper leg. Cas responds by uncurling his fingers and resting his hand on Deanâs hip, rubbing the occasional small circle with his thumb over the hem of Deanâs shirt.
The next morning they check out, car packed to head back to Kansas. Â Dean sits in the parking lot drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. âYou ever been to North Dakota?â he asks.
âIâve heard nice things about it,â Cas says, looking out the window, but Dean can see the slight upturn of his mouth.
(continue reading on ao3)
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