#evergreen endless

His heart ramps up a notch, the low level anxiety that’s always there nowadays trying to rear its ugly head again. He blinks it away; too hot for panic. Instead he takes a sip of lukewarm water, pretends it’s an ice-cold Heineken pulled straight from the tap, foamy and crisp. He presses the glass against his cheek until he can almost imagine the condensation rolling slow down his cheek. Sighs.  

Only seven background characters remaining now. Chuck can count them on his fingers. He really should draw a few more in, maybe some soldiers or tough types to watch Dean’s back.

But Dean’s delicate lately. Fragile. Chuck’s not sure he’s capable of bonding with any new people right now, or if he’d just see them as adding another weight to the crushing responsibilities bearing him down. So Chuck hasn’t made a decision one way or another, just waiting to see what happens.

But that means in the meantime, camp Chitaqua’s too quiet. Too large for so few people. Wind curls through trees, stirring the leaves into hollow whispers. Conversations have thinned to dust. Even Dean and Castiel circle each other carefully, crushed silent under the weight of everything they won’t say.

AKA, it’s all been a ridiculous bummer lately. Someone should shake things up. 

Unfortunately it seems like that someone is going to have to be Chuck. What could help?

Not that there’s anything left worth celebrating, but a party of some sort, maybe? It wouldn’t even be about the story, a plot beat or a clever turn in the narrative. Chuck’s kinda given up on that going anywhere, and a celebration would be pretty incongruous at this point anyway. But Dean needs something. Chuck can’t even remember what his smile looks like anymore.

Or, maybe it’s Chuck who needs this. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in days, and silence is starting to feel permanent.

______________________________

Chuck makes the rounds, one cabin at a time, to extend an invite. Most seem puzzled to see him, but he doesn’t get an outright no from anyone and that’s good enough.

Castiel barely hums a response when Chuck knocks on his door. It sounds welcoming enough, so he steps inside. It’s dark, curtains drawn tight. It’s... cluttered now, from when Chuck saw it last. Castiel’s started a collection of sorts; dried leaves hang from bits of string. Snail shells and bright rocks line the windowsill. Bougainvillea petals, those soft, tissue-paper kind, now faded, are scattered inbetween like muted confetti. Personal in strange, quiet ways. 

There’s a second bottle of hydrocodone on his nightstand, not the one Dean had originally given him, Chuck knows the label. Inventory is Chuck’s job lately—counting, tracking, keeping tabs. He doesn’t mind. It’s quiet, easy work. Better than lifting or patrolling. And thanks to that, he knows: thirty-seven pills remain in their stash. Castiel’s got seventeen of them right here.

What the hell.

“Cas, so uh– there’s this party, tonight, in the main hall, if you…want to join?” Chuck says. Castiel doesn’t answer for a long moment, then:

“Did you know some salamanders live their entire lives in pitch-black caves and never develop eyes? Not even vestigial ones. Just skin where their eyes should be. The Texas blind salamander has two black patches under its skin—remnants of eyes that never formed. It doesn’t need them. It senses prey through changes in water pressure.”

He smiles, faintly.

“Evolution gave up on vision and doubled down on feeling things.”

Chuck stares.

Fine. He doesn’t want Castiel at the party anyway.  He can leave him to commune with his eldritch Wikipedia.

______________________________

Chuck saves Dean’s cabin for last. He’s strangely nervous about it. Despite having explained the party plan a few times already, Chuck still stumbles over his words when Dean lifts a skeptical brow, barely looking up from the rifle he’s got in pieces in front of him.

“Not sure anyone’s in much of a partying mood,” Dean says.

“That’s the point,” Chuck replies, “Might help, you know?”

“Do what you want.”

“So you’ll come?”

No point throwing it all if Dean doesn’t show. If Dean skips it, everyone else will too. Dean Winchester—always the main character, even with no story left.

Chuck watches the way Dean’s fingers work, the almost surgical precision. The multitool glints as Dean pries the bolt loose, then holds it up like he can read its secrets. And—wait. That’s Castiel’s rifle. Why does Dean have it?

Weird.

Dean sighs. “Sure. Fine. Go ahead.”

Chuck leaves, and the last thing he sees is Dean wiping grime from the slide port with a rag and frowning at something only he can see. He looks so sure of himself. Like if he can just fix this, maybe everything else will snap into place too.

______________________________

Chuck tries his best.

He cobbles together a flimsy explanation for why there might still be crepe paper and streamers buried in the supply closet— something about old morale kits no one catalogued. It works, Chuck finds them there right where they’re supposed to be. They’re brittle now, color leached from years of sunlight and damp. 

He’s not about to waste generator fuel on the overhead lights, that’ll piss Dean off, but he does flip on the battery-powered string ones and sets up candles in jars across the space until the mess hall-slash-theater-slash-community hub glows with half-hearted ambiance. They even lend the worn out disco ball Chuck’s hung from the ceiling a little bit of glimmer.

He digs out the cassette player, swipes a tape he knows Dean likes from the Impala. She’s parked on the far side of camp now, weathered, almost forgotten. Not much point driving her here, they need four-wheel drive in this mud-scabbed world. Chuck’s not sure he’s ever seen her look so… sidelined. It’s a little upsetting.

Soon as the sun goes down people start trickling in and Chuck realizes too late why gatherings normally orbit the campfire— the circle of it can scale with them, shrink or grow with how many show up. This place doesn’t. Their dwindling numbers pair up in twos and threes, oceans apart. The music echoes. The disco ball glints dimly, hanging like some forgotten relic. Nobody looks up.

The alcohol stash he scraped together drains fast, but no one seems the fun kind of drunk. There’s no laughter. Just tired clumps of humans, murmuring and sipping that camp-made wine in old solo cups cracking at the rims from age.

Dean drinks with Spencer and Jonas. Chuck hovers nearby, not quite ready to join. Not until he’s a drink or two deeper—buzzed enough to forget how awkward he feels.

No one's dancing. Chuck cleared space in front of the stage for a dance floor. No one’s even near it. He’s not about to be the first person out there. Not that guy.

Risa grabs a whole bottle of that terrible rot wine, Elisa by her side, and on their way out she clinks it to Chuck’s cup with a dry “Great party, Shurley.” It sounds sarcastic. Chuck’s definitely decided he doesn’t much care for her.

As the night drags, Chuck invents a game for himself. Rules are simple: finish a drink every time someone leaves early.

It’s not even midnight when Jonas—or maybe Spencer, Chuck wasn’t really paying attention through the blur of the wine—gives Dean a friendly punch to the shoulder and throws Chuck a half-hearted wave before disappearing into the dark.

Dean’s the last one now.

Chuck finishes his drink anyway. Not because he wants another sip of this bitter brew— it’s not even getting him drunk in a fun way. He downs it because he’s not a quitter, and maybe because he’d like to win at least one game of his own devising.

He’s sitting on the empty stage steps now, Dan Brown paperback in hand. The letters blur like they’re trying to escape the page. His buzz feels more sour than warm. He looks up when hears footsteps. It’s Dean standing next to him, stage right.

“Reading at your own party?” Dean asks.

Chuck shrugs, folding the book in his lap as he looks Dean over. His skin glows pink from the heat, a flush settled across his chest where the top button of his Henley hangs open. Chuck’s gaze drifts there, drawn to the soft hollow of Dean’s throat, the slow drumbeat pulsing just beneath it. The collar’s frayed, a small tear worn through the seam. Dean wouldn’t have let that fly in the old world, back when they had laundry machines and standards. No wonder Chuck can’t look away.

“Wasn’t much of one, was it?” Chuck asks. “You taking off?”

He’s got a good enough buzz going by now that he’d figures he’ll head back to his cabin, jerk off or whatever— though even that’s been kinda feeling like a chore these days too.

Dean surprises him by dropping down onto the steps beside him. He grabs Chuck’s solo cup and peers inside, nose wrinkling when he finds it empty.

“You were right, actually,” Dean says. “It was kinda nice getting outta my own head. So… thanks.”

Something twists under Chuck’s ribs— a flutter he doesn’t recognize. He straightens, tries not to sound too eager. “Y-yeah. ‘Course, I…”

He trails off when Dean’s expression shifts, scrunches into something soft Chuck can’t read. It’s complicated, tangled. Chuck nearly dips into his mind to unravel it, but that sharp thought stabs him again: ‘useless, another mouth to feed.’ and he doesn’t.

Dean fishes around in his pockets, producing a deck of cards and a roll of pennies with a quiet thunk onto the wooden stage. 

“Five card stud. Two’s wild,” Dean says, cracking a smirk. “C’mon. You know how to shuffle or nah?”

Before Chuck can answer Dean’s already scooping up the cards himself, his lips pursing in focus as he begins to shuffle— fluid, practiced, a damn natural. The plastic-coated deck slips between his hands in a silken cascade, red and black flashing like a waterfall of worn magic.

The candles are burning low, wax puddling in tired jars. It must be late, but there’s no clock so who the hell cares anymore?

Dean deals. They're betting pennies, even though money's useless now, scuffed little tokens of nothing. But maybe it’s not about worth. Maybe it’s about structure. Ritual. Chuck refills their drinks with the wine—or whatever this rot is trying to be—ignoring the way the fumes sting his nostrils.

Chuck picks up his cards. A losing hand, low numbers commingling with mismatched suits. Dean’s face gives away nothing. Chuck could peek, could dip in and know exactly what cards he’s holding. But maybe where’s the fun in that? Maybe it’s okay not to win. Just two maybe, sorta friends, hanging out. Just this.

Quiet falls as Dean studies his hand. The silence itches, crawls under Chuck’s skin. It always does. Used to drive Amara—

Wait. Amara?

Chuck frowns, the name sitting weird in his chest. Who the hell is Amara? Before he can puzzle that out, Dean chuckles, breaking the silence.

“That bad of a hand, huh?”

Chuck winces and smiles, half-embarrassed, half-drunk. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, thumbing through his hand again. “Call.”

He tosses a battered penny into the space between them, their makeshift pot. Dean smiles lazily and matches it without hesitation. Dean fans his cards across the floor.  Wins with a two-pair. Of course he does. 

“You know I don’t care about pennies anymore, right? Who needs currency.” Chuck says as Dean collects his winnings. 

“Drinks then.” Dean says, “you lose, you drink.”

Dean’s been drinking, sure. But it’s hard to tell just how deep he’s in. His speech is steady. His hands is still neat, still precise. Like the drinking doesn’t touch him the way it does Chuck. Or maybe he's just better practiced at pretending.

“That doesn’t sound like losing.” Chuck says, but downs his glass with a grimace, only because it’s truly awful, cheap and sharp, more headache than high— but he finishes it anyway. Because rules are rules. 

“If we’re gonna play for booze,” he says, pushing his glass forward, “we better refill.”

Dean side-eyes him. “You sure? Someone threw a party earlier and wrecked our stash. Not even sure we have any left. And you know how many months its gonna take to re-brew?”

Chuck shrugs again. “There’s gotta be some people missed. Go check the table.”

Dean stands, finds a single leftover bottle abandoned on the fold-out table just like Chuck meant him to. 

“How did people not see this?” Dean mutters, shaking his head but doesn’t seem displeased by it.. When he drops back beside Chuck, he’s smiling—just a touch—as he refills their glasses. They deal.

Chuck scans his hand. A good one. Damn good, actually. A grin tugs at his mouth—small, crooked, pleased. Finally.

“You’re bad at this,” Dean tells him, amused.

Chuck shrugs. He’s feeling light and loopy better than he has in weeks. Maybe the wine isn’t so bad. “Now you know what my face looks like when I’ve got a good hand. I’m helping. Or maybe I’m bluffing. Raise.”

Chuck throws in another penny. Dean quirks a brow. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

Chuck rubs the rim of his card thoughtfully. “Feels weirder not to.”

Dean acquiesce and they play a few rounds together, drink more and more. Eventually, the stage creaks comfortably beneath them as they stretch out. Dean lies back against the boards like he owns the stage, legs sprawled, one arm folded behind his head. Chuck stays upright. Buzzed but twitchy. Like if he relaxes too much, he’ll fall through his own skin. Dean’s getting pink in the face, eyes a little glassy, and Chuck’s attention keeps drifting back to that open collar. That worn spot near the tear. Dean wets his lips with his tongue. Chuck watches him. Closely. Is that a tell? Or just a habit? He doesn’t know. 

“Shurley,” Dean says, soft. Almost gentle. “Draw.”

 Dean’s voice rings in his ears. The way he said his name. Chuck touches the deck, fanning his cards out slowly, dragging out the moment. He’s got a good hand. Real potential.

“Sure, sure,” Chuck mumbles, “I’m having trouble caring about the stakes here. We’re drinking either way.”

“The stakes?” Dean echoes, like it’s a puzzle he’s solving. “Fine. It’s your pride. Your dignity. Bragging rights when you scrape the pot to your side. Whatever works for you.”

Chuck flashes a grin, “Strip poker.”

Dean rolls his eyes and flicks a penny at him.

“No,” he says, “Focus, Shurley.”

Chuck just laughs, not disappointed. He didn’t expect that to be a win. He just wanted to see Dean smile. And for a second (just a flicker) he got it. That tug at the corner of Dean’s mouth. That brief softening.

Dean has gorgeous lips.

Chuck lets himself lean back, gaze drifting. Dean deserves better than this, war-torn camps and spoiled wine and poker played with scraps. Chuck knows, really knows now, that he doesn’t have much power anymore. If he did, none of this would be happening. If he did, Dean would be off saving the world. Being legendary and slaying monsters. Not rotting slowly in a camp that smells like mildew and lost time. He deserves better. All of it.

“What would you be doing,” Chuck says, “if this wasn’t happening? What do you think your life looks like?”

Dean blinks at him, caught off guard. “You know that better than anyone, Chuck. I didn’t  exactly have a shot at normal life even before all this crap.”

Wrong question, Dean’s expression shadowing momentarily. Chuck just thought it might be nice— for Dean— to imagine something better, just for a little bit.

“Fair,” Chuck says. “Me neither, I suppose. Guess we’re just destined for better things.” He says it lightly, and Dean snorts. That’s better. Chuck smiles, tosses a few coins into the pot. Maybe he’ll let Dean win, just for tonight.

He watches Dean consider his cards. And how does Dean still look so stupidly good, somehow? Years now of cold water showers, dull razors, ill-fitting and faded clothes, but he makes it work. Image meticulously maintained. Even now, Dean keeps his hair short, the perfect amount of stubble, his image tight—like that’s still a fight he’s still capable of winning.

Chuck especially likes that amused sparkle in his eyes as he reveals his full house and drags the pile of coins toward himself.  Dean shuffles and deals again, and then Chuck’s caught again on his hands—steady, fine-fingered. Nails clean and even. That’s almost weird, here. But nice.

Chuck knows what that hand looks like stroking a cock. He knows a lot of things he shouldn’t by now, memorized Dean’s scent. Dean’s touch. Dean’s taste.

Castiel knows what Dean tastes like. So Chuck does, too.

“I fold,” Dean says, suddenly and Chuck blinks back into focus.

“Why?”

“You’ve got that smile on your face again.”

Chuck can feel himself reddening, just a bit. It’s a good thing Dean can’t read his mind. He coughs, sets down his winning cards. Matching threes, nothing to write home about.

“So my bluff worked.” he says, then sets his hands on the stage to lean forward.

“Okay, listen.”

Dean raises an eyebrow but leans in, close enough Chuck feels the heat off him. He’s definitely as drunk as Chuck is now, eyes too bright as they study Chuck. “Listening.”

Chuck plucks a penny off the deck and flips it. It spins across the floorboards and lands on tails with a faint ting. “These are chips. We’re in… Vegas? Atlantic City? You got a preference?”

“Atlantic,” Dean says instantly, “Let’s get the fuck away from the West Coast.”

Chuck laughs. “Okay, so Atlantic City. Picture it. We’re in these filthy-expensive suits. Silk or something equally ridiculous. The women are gorgeous. Drinks flow free. That solo cup you’re holding? Cut crystal, full of a whiskey of your choice.”

“...Elijah Craig.”

As soon as he says this, Dean takes a sip of his current cup in consideration, then makes a face.

“Hm. They’ve slipped a little. But go on.”

Chuck closes his eyes, imagines cool air conditioning kissing his skin, not this muggy heat that still lingers in these after-midnight hours.

“We’re at a table. It smells like cigar smoke and expensive perfumes. Slot machines clatter, bells chime, people are winning all around us with raucous cheers. And God the bathrooms have flush toilets—”

And sure, maybe  Chuck’s getting a little bit carried away with it but when Dean laughs, it’s real, full-bodied and warm, Chuck’s almost startled by it because he didn’t realize how long it’s been since he’s heard that. Months, maybe longer.

And Chuck was the one to pull that from him. To give him that. 

Chuck continues, slower, softer, trying to keep the slur out of his words to keep Dean focused on the daydream, “We’re playing something high stakes…” 

“Blackjack. Hit me.”

Chuck shuffles, not gracefully, not like Dean, before tossing a card in front of Dean. Dean flips. A six.

“Hit me.”

Another card. A nine. Fifteen.

Dean leans forward, eyes narrowed in focus, and right before Chuck’s eyes he gets to watch Dean getting into this, imagining a moment that’s not life or death, not a single decision that needed to be made except whether he’s flipping another card or not. Living a fantasy just between the two of them right now.

“Hit me.” Dean murmurs.

An eight.

“The house wins, Mr. Winchester,” Chuck says, somberly.

Dean shrugs, warm and loose, tossing pennies Chuck’s way. “Chump change. Hit me.”

Chuck lifts a brow. “I haven’t even drawn yet.”

Dean’s grinning, so of course Chuck doesn’t argue— he lays down a two and then a seven. Dean’s still in.

“Hit me.”

Chuck throws down a three. Looks to Dean.

“Hit me.”

Chuck flips a five of clubs. Dean’s still in the game. In unison, they throw up their hands in sloppy, ridiculous celebration, and then laugh when they see they’d done that in unison. 

“You’re not supposed to be cheering me on,” Dean admonishes, a smile still cracking his lips.

“I’m the house. I can do what I want. And right now, you’re on fire, Mr. Winchester. Need another drink?”

“No. I need you to hit me!”

Chuck peeks at the next card, gives Dean a look. “You sure?”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean says immediately, then pauses. “Wait, what is it? Are you messing with me?”

“You sure?” Chuck simply repeats, smiling as innocently as he can manage.

“HIT ME.”

Chuck flicks the card at Dean’s chest. It bounces and lands face down in his lap.

Dean scoffs, “Wildly unprofessional.” He flips it—and when he sees the four his face lights up. Perfect twenty-one. He pumps his fist, and his laughter is a bright, beautiful, all the way real, joy.

Chuck watches him, grins automatically when their eyes meet.

“How do you get so lucky?” Chuck asks, even though some buried part of him knows it’s something in Dean’s DNA he himself planted. Luck rigged into bone and blood.

Dean shrugs, “Only with stuff that doesn’t fucking matter. Like playing for pennies.”

“Chips. High stakes,” Chuck corrects, gesturing at the scattered coins. “You’ve won… oh, I’d say about seven-thousand-four hundred and thirty-three big ‘ol American dollars. What’re you spending it on?”

They exchange a look —both solemn, ridiculous— and say in unison, “Hookers and blow.”

Then laugh way harder than the joke deserves.

Chuck deals again, fingers clumsy with booze. He barely registers the number on the card he throws Dean’s way. He's too busy staring at Dean, sprawled across the stage like he belongs there, all heat-glow and soft flannel and glittering eyes. 

Wasted. Comfortable. 

Gorgeous.

In that moment, Chuck realizes he can’t lie to himself anymore. All those failed romance beats with Castiel and Dean. It was never about them. All those late nights rewinding scenes in his head, imagining moments that actually stretched into something else. After all those times getting off so hard to any tentative moment Dean and Castiel share;  it wasn’t some generic dry spell on Chuck’s end, with easy access to live pornography at his fingertips, two hot men going at each other. It’s not about them.

It’s Dean. He’s the story. Always has been.

…Chuck might be a little in love with him?

The realization makes him go hot. He swallows rough and tugs at his collar that suddenly feels like it’s choking him.

“Dealer?” Dean prompts, a slur of amusement in his voice, “You calling it? What time is it? C’mon, let's just do War, or— no, Go Fish.”

Dean takes the cards from Chuck and starts shuffling, dealing again on his own, tongue stuck out in concentration. Chuck blinks. The alcohol spins uselessly inside him, no drive, just heat. He reaches out and lays a hand on Dean’s wrist. His thumb brushes the soft-worn edge of a flannel button, fabric thinned by too many washings. It's far too hot for flannel.

“I’m king at Go Fish. Never lose. You afraid?” Chuck says, half a smile. Flirting, or attempting to. It’s been awhile.

Dean yanks his hand back with an amused snorts, “Afraid? Fuck you.”

Chuck misses the contact immediately. That warm give of skin. That permission, however fleeting. And then—he wants more. All of it. Dean doesn’t have Castiel here, but Chuck could be enough. Just for tonight Chuck can give Dean what Castiel seems so stupidly fucking recalcitrant to.

Does Dean feel it too? This weird, unspeakable static sitting between them. Or maybe it’s just Chuck again, making something out of nothing. He’s always done that. That’s the whole point of storytelling, building whole arcs outta nothing.

“Dean—” Chuck starts, but his voice slurs and he cuts himself off, something fragile threading through the moment. He sets his hand down, rises slowly from his spot on the stage to circle toward Dean. Dean had been studying his cards, but jerks them out of reach, batting a hand Chuck’s direction.

“Dude, don’t look. Cheater—”

Then Chuck leans in. Dean’s eyes widen just before Chuck presses into his lap, heat stitching them together where skin meets skin, everything sticky and slow. 

Chuck doesn’t give Dean a chance to say anything before he's leaning in to press their lips together, Chuck tilting in to match the angle of the kiss. And God—it’s been so long. This kiss feels like the best thing in his small, half-lit life.

Dean’s lips are soft, yielding gently beneath Chuck’s tongue. Warm and rough, the stubble catching against Chuck’s thumb as he cradles his jaw with reverence. For a second, everything else disappears—the plot, the camp, the past. This moment hums.

Dean tilts his head back to break the kiss, “Chuck—”

Dean’s breath is running fast, warm as the still air around them on Chuck’s cheek. Chuck hums a soft, lopsided sound and slides off of Dean's lap onto his knees, both of them sprawled together on the stage and when Chuck bends down to work at Dean’s zipper with greedy hands, he sees another incongruous detail; a worn edge to the seam of Dean's left pocket, just a soft white tuff of exposed threads sprouting against the faded denim. Dean, utterly unmade.

Chuck reaches out to rub his thumb over that soft detail, then further to trace the curve of Dean’s cock. Even Castiel’s never tasted him, and Chuck's mouth almost waters in curious desperation. 

Dean shifts under him with a sound Chuck chooses to believe is arousal and murmurs a soft, pleased sound in response, until Dean plants a hand on his chest and shoves. Hard. 

Chuck nearly topples off the stage in a flailing mess of limbs and panic. He catches himself on the step, breath hitching as the world lurches sideways. Dean’s face swims in and out of focus, features blurring as Chuck squints through the haze.

Dean’s already on his feet, running a hand through his hair with a laugh that sounds too much like a scoff swallowed wrong.

“Sorry, I don’t swing that way,” Dean says, flashing a smile that’s too rehearsed, too practiced. Chuck’s heard that line from before. But there’s a flush high on Dean’s cheeks, uncharacteristic and pink. It’s cute.

Chuck gives him a flustered smile. “Bullshit. I saw you and Castiel—”

It’s meant to be light. A tease. He wants Dean to talk about everything those two are in his own words. But he doesn’t see the shift until it’s too late.

Dean’s eyes darken. “You what?”

“I mean, I—”

“You said you only saw plot points. That’s what you told me.”

Chuck freezes. “...oh.”

The clouds still hanging in the northern horizon are now in Dean’s eyes too, thunderous. He starts gathering the cards, scraping them together in jerky motions, but they keep slipping through his fingers. He gives up, lets them scatter, rubs his hands on his jeans like he’s trying to scrub something off.

He shoots Chuck a look— dirty, sharp. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Scoffs. Is gone in an instant, leaving Chuck still spinning on the stage. Alone.

Chuck huffs, draws his knees up. Okay, so he misread the moment. Fucked up. Anyone else, Dean probably would’ve punched, so why not Chuck, not now? Does he think Chuck couldn’t take it?

Chuck sulks. It takes him a long time to sober up enough to stumble off the stage and towards home, his dingy little cabin. He lands face first on his bed in the dark.

He doesn’t sleep.

______________________________

Later, Chuck thinks he should probably rewind this moment. He should.

But a small, stubborn, ugly part of him wants to keep this. Wants Dean to remember. Wants them both to carry it.

It was their first kiss.

Dean should know that too.

Fuck him.

And if Chuck changes his mind in the brittle light of dawn… 

Chuck’s not quite asleep, a light drowse more than anything, when Dean's nightmares start right on schedule. Their chokehold tighten on Dean until he's awake with a start, groggy and breathing hard. 

Fading flashes of Hell shiver through both their frames-- Chuck never dreams unless he’s borrowing someone else’s. 

“Dean?” Chuck stirs, drowsy-warm from sleep and worn-off liquor as he shifts to sit up, only for Dean to shush him.

“S’fine. Sleep.”

The soft rocking movement of the car, the creak of the door opening, the sound of boots on gravel. Dean’s trying to be quiet. Chuck doesn’t ask him where he’s going, because a simple skim of his mind says Dean doesn’t want to wake him. Dean wants to check in on Castiel. Alone.

Chuck huffs and turns over, the zipper of Dean's discarded jacket digging into his cheek. The gravel-crunch of Dean’s steps fade in Chuck’s own ears even as he still hears the present echo if it from Dean’s ears too, a strange mirrored overlay for a moment that’s wildly uncomfortable. 

When he woke up, Dean knew any further trying to rest would be useless. There wasn’t any point tossing and turning in the car, and so he sought out company. 

And something in his gut…well, instinct says Dean needed to check in with Castiel. He stands at Castiel’s side, and Castiel raises an eyebrow at him in silent question. 

“You should be resting.” Castiel says.

Dean shakes his head, waits a moment to make sure Chuck’s curiosity didn’t get the best of him, that Chuck didn’t follow after him, before Dean speaks in a soft murmur just for Castiel— though there’s something satisfying in knowing Dean can never be quiet enough that Chuck can’t overhear. 

“There’s something up with you. I can tell.” He says.

Castiel pauses. Something tight presses at the corner of his brow, something so minute Dean shouldn’t notice it, but he does and steps in closer.

“Like that. Don’t hide things from me. We’re past that.”

“It doesn’t concern you, Dean—” Castiel starts, then cuts off, raising a hand before Dean can angrily interject– Dean wants to, like fuck something doesn’t concern him at this point. But he softens at Castiel’s expression.

“Wait. You’re correct , you should know,” Castiel concedes, like he can also read Dean’s mind. “It will…affect things, in the future.”

Chuck resists the urge to directly spy on them through the back seat window. He knows they’re not far, just down the road a ways, two small figures sharing the streetlight, mostly obscured from Chuck by windows fogged-up from him and Dean’s breath.

Chuck traces a heart in the condensation that, from his perspective, perfectly encapsulates the two of them, the way they stand so unnecessarily close together.