#userjenmish

So, every time Dean says something wrong, he feels like a teenager with an embarrassing crush, mulling over his own words, regretting them even years after having said them. It's like an endless cycle of self-loathing, which he's an expert on.

Sometimes it's not even his long, big speeches that have the most meaning behind them, but the little sarcastic quips here and there, or the small, quiet sentences spoken in moments of uncertainty. Those are the ones that rewrite themselves in his heart, like lines of a poem carved in stone.

"Cas, we've talked about this. Personal space." I want you to be close to me all the time but I'm scared you'll just want to walk away.

"Morning, sunshine. Want some coffee?" I love that you're here. This is your home.

"I'd rather have you. Cursed or not." There is nothing that could ever change the fact that I love you.

"I need you." I love you no matter what.

"Of course I forgive you." I never wanted you to leave.

Then there's a look of sorrow, or a hug, a pat on the shoulder, a mixtape...

There's always something, and yet that something never seems to be the words that have been lodged in his throat all through the past decade.

Holding the weight of his regrets, Dean lays back on his memory foam mattress and stares at the ceiling. He pictures Cas' eyes from memory. The way they droop when he's tired, and sparkle when he's curious. The way they squint when he's angry or thoughtful, almost cartoonish. I love him, he thinks, with an ironic chuckle. I love him, and I'm never gonna be able to tell him.

Just as he's about to start round two of his self-loathing ritual, there's a knock on the door.

"Yeah, come in."

Cas walks in, wearing a pair of Dean's plaid pajama pants and a Zepp t-shirt. He's holding two steaming mugs that carry the smell of ginger, and his hair is all over the place.

"What's so funny?" Cas asks when Dean starts laughing.

"Dude, you look like a hedgehog."

Cas does not seem to be happy about Dean's comparison, judging by the squint of his eyes. But that just makes it funnier, so Dean smiles deviously at him until the angry facade is gone, replaced by soft, ocean-blue eyes.

"Dean, it's four in the morning. Why are you not sleeping?"

"Well, I could ask you the same thing."

Cas sighs. "I was making some tea." He says, handing one of the mugs to Dean. It warms up his hands when he holds it.

"At the crack of dawn? Sounds like someone's got a bad case of insomnia." He says it like it's a joke, but he's worried. Again, not good with words.

"Yeah. Maybe I do." Cas says in a raspy voice.

Before regretting it, Dean pats the spot beside him two times, signaling for Cas to sit down. Cas walks the short steps towards the bed and sits down slowly, careful not to spill his scalding tea mug on himself. Then, he lays his head back against the headboard and closes his eyes.

Because Dean has no self-control, he scoots closer to the former angel and stares. His eyes trace the slope of his nose and the curve of his eyelashes, and the way his jawline is pointing upwards. He suddenly gets the urge to trace it with his fingers, to feel the stubble growing there. A wave of longing hits him like it's done a thousand times before, and he does nothing to stop it.

A second later, Cas' breath startles Dean out of his internal thinking. That's when he realizes how close their faces actually are. His first instinct is to move away, maybe say some joke about personal space, but he finds himself unable to move an inch. Cas is just watching him intently and shamelessly, and it occurs to Dean that maybe he's not the only one who likes to observe his best friend like he's a renaissance painting.

Since his body has decided to become a full-time statue, all Dean can do is stare at the wooden headboard next to Cas' face. Then he clears his throat quietly and replaces what he wants to say with something else, the way he always does.

"Maybe you could, um, stay here. Y'know, to help with your sleeping problems. A different mattress might, um. It might help."

Cas takes a little while to answer, long enough for Dean to start panicking. But when he's about deflect his offer with a joke or a change of topic, Cas nods. They're still close enough that his hair tickles Dean's forehead when he moves his head.

"Yeah. It might help." Cas says, matching Dean's small, tense tone of voice.

Dean's brain stopped working the minute Cas sat on his bed, but the rest of his body doesn't seem to have gotten the memo. It's moving on its own, and a second later, his forehead is touching Cas'. He feels electricity run through it, like his skin is made of lightning. If Cas weren't human now, Dean wouldn't dismiss that possibility. Dean does his best work to assess the situation, but all he's coming up with is a repetitive whisper of Cas' name inside his otherwise empty head. He does the one thing he's never been able to do, which is voice his exact thoughts out loud.

"Cas..." he whispers, feeling their breaths mix together.

Cas has always been braver than him, so he's the one who closes the gap. He presses his lips against Dean's, so ghost-like and soft that he's not sure it's real. To test that theory, Dean's brain finally restarts with a jolt, and then he's pushing forward, deepening the kiss, which he's now sure is actually happening.

Cas returns the kiss like he's been drowning for ages and can finally breathe again. The electricity Dean felt when their foreheads touched is dialed up to a hundred where their lips are sliding against each other, like tiny little fireworks exploding against his skin. Despite the surreal feeling of kissing the man he's been in love with for ages, it also feels like home. Cas tastes like ginger and honey, and that cherry chapstick Dean bought for him at the grocery store.

Dean traces Cas' jawline with his thumb the way he was imagining just a few minutes earlier, which pulls a sigh out of him. The stubble tickles his skin, and it feels so good he thinks he might explode. A million words unspoken fly through Dean's mind, but he doesn't need any of them at the moment.

But this time, Cas' insistent gaze isn't stubbornly trying to catch his own. No, this time, the angel is looking anywhere but at him, as if his eyes would get burnt out if he stared anywhere even close to his vicinity. How ironic.

Not an angel anymore, Dean reminds himself, just to add salt to the gaping wound growing steadily in his chest. He closes his eyes just a fraction longer than a normal blink, then pulls some bills out of his wallet. He hands them out to Cas, and doesn't lift his gaze from where it's been staring out of baby's windshield for a while now.

Cas speaks after what feels like an eternity of silence, which he kept during the entire ride to the motel. "Dean, I don't need your money."

Dean feels like someone is slowly pulling on the stitches that are keeping his heart together. He knows a pathetic piece of paper doesn't fix the fact that he's dumping his best friend when he needs the most help.

Still, he stows his shame deep in the confines of his mind, knowing it'll come to bite him in the ass later, and he unsticks his eyes from the turned off 'no vacancy' sign he was just tracing with his eyes, to finally look at Cas. His eyes are dull and emotionless, almost reminding him of when they first met, when he was still following the rule of heaven, but he can still see just a sliver of sadness in the subtle droop of them. He blinks back what he thinks might be tears, and he knows his eyes are pleading, but he really couldn't care less about whatever shred of dignity he has left.

"Cas, please. Take it."

Cas looks at him, for one, two, three seconds, and Dean realizes how much he's missed the endless blue staring back at him. But it's gone again in an instant, and all that's left is Cas' calloused hand pulling the dollar bills from Dean's grip, turning around and walking the desolated parking lot towards the dingy building standing behind it.

Dean stays, and watches Cas' back, strikingly different when it's wearing a hoodie instead of a tan trenchcoat. He watches Cas' feet step slowly towards the dim yellow light coming from the front desk. He watches him pause and stare down for what feels like an eternity. He watches as he finally pushes the entrance door, and faintly hears the sound of a bell through baby's open window.

Castiel's electric blue gaze, full of betrayal and regret, stares back at him from the empty passenger seat. He closes his eyes, and is immediately greeted by the image of his best friend, messy-haired and bruised, eating a burrito on the bunker's table. Another image of him follows, dead on a chair, with an angel blade stuck to his chest. Then another, walking the short path towards the entrance door of a motel in the middle of nowhere.