Chapter Text
When all is said and done, Cas leaves.
It's only surprising because of how not surprised by it Dean really is. There's really no lead-up to it. The world shines a new day before them, and everything is okay now—freedom brushing fingertips, if only they know how to grasp it. Chuck is gone, Jack is God, and there's freedom on the other side of it.
Brittle and battle-worn, Cas looks at him over coffee one morning and says, "I need to go," and Dean instantly knows that he's not coming back.
He's not really sure how he knows it, but he does. It settles into the pit of his stomach, curling hot and tight like something he instinctively wants to tear out with his bare hands. He takes a breath, and it gets stuck in his throat, hitching there. It hurts, hurts, hurts when he finally exhales.
"Yeah," Dean says, "of course you do," and he nods jerkily as he looks down at his phone. He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't look up from the screen when Cas gets up and leaves the room. He doesn't finish his coffee, or move for a long time.
By nightfall, Cas is gone.
"It's just—" Sam grunts as he swings the iron wrench, ducking out of the grasp from the ghost woman from the 1800s who wears an unnecessary amount of frills, "—kinda out of character, don't you think? I mean, he didn't even really say goodbye."
Dean hums idly and strikes the match, not flinching when the woman goes screeching into flames. Salt crackles under his boots. "I dunno. Cas isn't really known for sticking around, is he?"
"Yeah, but he usually gives an impression of where he's going," Sam points out. He tosses the wrench to the ground and crouches down by the grave, warming his hands on the burning bones. "He really didn't tell you anything?"
"No," Dean says softly, "just that he needed to go."
Sam makes a small sound in the back of his throat, eyes glinting in the firelight. "Did you ask?"
"If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me." Dean looks up at the night sky, squinting. "Hell, he'd give me a call. But he hasn't, so."
"You could call him," Sam suggests.
"Yeah," Dean agrees.
But he doesn't.
There's a theory around tunnel-vision that Dean has, one he chews over in his mind when he's in the quiet of his own room. Just the ground-breaking idea that there's more outside of the tunnel he can see, if only he's smart enough to look for it.
He can hear Eileen and Sam laughing in the kitchen.
It's just.
Well, there was a time that Dean had been pretty sold on the fact that family—that Sam, in particular—was all he needed, was all he was ever going to get, was more than enough. Family has expanded and constricted through the years, stretching out to include others, shriveling back in when they didn't survive. It's hard having more people to lose, but Dean is starting to realize that it's equally hard not having them at all.
He's never really thought about it in depth. His end, if not bloody, was always going to have Sam in the background. His life, even, because that's how it's always been. They're in each other's pockets, have been for years, and they have no particular itch to get out and away from each other. They've been through too much to just go their separate ways. How do you breathe without the person you'd give your last breath for? That you have given your last breath for, given so much for. You don't, Dean doesn't think. You just don't.
But that's the tunnel vision, isn't it? He's not so sure on the theory, but it has solid groundwork. If all you've ever seen is the tunnel, how do you know something exists on the other side of it?
You have to leave the tunnel.
Sam's always been curious in the way Dean never really was, not instinctively. He wanted out, early in, and even if he doesn't want that anymore, he's not scared to follow the threads of his wants. He learns more sign language every day, and he's taken an interest in magic, and he isn't wary to dip his hands into the cool tide of freedom and see where he'll end up. If he's stranded, he'll just float. He's never really been one to sink.
Dean? A little different. He likes the structure of having a purpose. He likes not having to figure out what he wants—sort of just having it laid out for him already. A blueprint of how things should go. A mission he can follow and succeed in. The right thing, already within grasp, all figured out for him. No dipping hands into the tide, just the solid weight of a gun in his grip and the sense of accomplishment from saving the world one corner at a time, doing what he can while he still can.
But outside of that, around the edges of how he's hardwired, what else is there? Beer and bars and Baby? The low churn of television, or the blaring music that drowns everything else out? It all echoes off the walls of the tunnel. It's what he knows, because he hasn't gone exploring for anything else.
There's the hot and tight stretch in his stomach that he wants to claw out of him, and Sam's laughter rings out in the kitchen, and Dean closes his eyes.
It's just a theory.
It's only a theory.
Sam leans back in the passenger seat and grits his teeth as he stitches up the gash in his side. It's been a while since either of them have had to do anything like this, but it's not something one forgets. Dean doesn't complain about the blood on the leather, and Sam's hands shake as he pops the needle through sliced skin.
"Oh, I'm going to need to get drunk," Sam says after, his head leaning back on the seat.
Dean reaches back over the seat to fumble around for the half-bottle of whiskey he hid in here only two days ago, just so Sam wouldn't see it. Now isn't the time for dodging concern, not when Sam's cupping his side with trembling fingers and obviously flinching every time they go over a bump.
"Here," Dean says gruffly, passing the bottle to him without taking his eyes off the road. "Don't ask."
"I'm going to ask," Sam warns him. He waits to do it, waits until he's taken a few gulps, hissing in distaste and perhaps some relief—back to placebo methods of healing, because it's what you got when you don't have angels around to heal you. "You're not drinking and driving and testing fate, are you?"
"Fate's dead," Dean reminds him. He smirks a little at Sam's grunt. The road continues to spiral under Baby's tires. "No, I'm not drinking and driving. Wouldn't really be fair to anyone else, would it?"
"And you?" Sam asks.
Dean hums. "That, too." Except not really.
"Heard from Cas?" Sam takes another swallow immediately after he says it.
"No," Dean tells him.
Sam huffs out a weak laugh. "Gonna call him?"
Dean doesn't deem that question worthy of an answer. It's a really stupid question.
The thing is—the thing is, where did he go?
Sam's not wrong to say that Cas usually leaves with the general idea of where he's going, or what he's leaving to do, except for every time he's left when he never really meant to. Cas never means to die, Dean's pretty sure, so it's not like he can warn for that.
But, when there is nothing to do and nowhere to be, what does that mean for Cas?
Dean doesn't want to think about it, but he thinks about it a lot. It's like a splinter under his skin, burrowing deeper with each day that passes. His phone doesn't ring—no calls, no texts. He thinks about what Cas is doing, and where he is, and how he's faring. He thinks about the empty room that used to belong to someone who's no longer around. He thinks about the truck that used to have a spot in the garage, a gaping space now, left open for no reason at all. He thinks about the comfort of tunnels and how dark it is inside, making the bright outside of it seem like a threat rather than a chance.
Many times—far too many times—Dean opens his phone and hovers his thumb over Cas' contact. It becomes a habit. The 21/90 rule comes to mind—it takes twenty-one days of doing something to make a habit, only three weeks, and then you do it for ninety more days for it to feel like breathing. He can barely breathe for the entirety of every single time he nearly makes the call or sends a text.
And it's stupid. It's so stupid. It's possibly one of the most stupid things that's ever happened to him, to sit down day-in and day-out and almost call, almost text, almost and never actually doing anything. Almost only matters in horseshoes and hand grenades. This is neither, but it sometimes feels as volatile as the latter. Explosive, if not handled with care.
What's even more stupid is that Dean's not even sure why it matters so much. Did he expect Cas to stick around when the world stopped trying to end? Yeah, so maybe he did. That doesn't mean that's how things work out. Cas is his own person. He's family, without a doubt, but he's not required to find a home with them. Jody is family, too, and he's never wanted her to move in.
"Dude," Sam says.
Dean looks up from the phone, his thumb tracing the edge of it. Cas' number is on the screen, but he's looked at it so much that he has it memorized. He almost reaches out and presses on it, but ends up not doing it, just like all the other times. That's always how it goes. Almost, almost, almost.
"What?" Dean mutters.
Sam sighs, tapping his fingers lazily over his keyboard, not looking away from his laptop. "If you want to call him, just call him."
"I'm on Google," Dean lies—a reflex, as if he has something to hide. He doesn't. Maybe it's shame, or simple embarrassment.
"Uh huh." Sam shoots him a flat look, then focuses back on the laptop, eyebrows raised. "To call or not to call—all signs point to yes."
"And his signs point to no?" Dean challenges, before he can really stop himself.
"Um." Sam's fingers go still on his keyboard. He looks at Dean, then quickly away. His foot scuffs against the floor under the table, shifting in his seat. Outside, a storm may be brewing. "Are you upset?"
"No," Dean denies instantly—a reflexive response yet again. Another lie? Can't be. Sounds like it, even to him. He used to be better than this.
"Cas is...succinct," Sam says.
Dean frowns. "He likes emojis. Even that would be better than—"
"Two-way street, man," Sam mutters, ducking his head and focusing on his laptop with sudden intensity. "Your phone works as well as his does. Hell, you know how to find him if you really want to. You could do that, and you know it."
"Yeah," Dean mumbles, "I know," and he ignores that heated branding in his center that makes him want to gut himself.
He cuts his phone off.
Dean watches the news and tries to stop himself from wishing for a sudden meteor shower, or some kind of phenomenon that could be considered a threat on a massive scale. It's not a very sane thing to be wishing for, sort of like how he used to wish for vampires to suddenly overrun the school just so he could get out of class. Selfish of him. A desire for something, even if it ends in blood.
Just, if there was a meteor shower, there would be a collective effort to try and find ways to save the world, right? If it was supernaturally-induced, perhaps. Everyone would come together for that.
There are no threats, global or otherwise. Just regular hunts and regular life. The joys of freedom. It should be a relief, Dean tells himself. It is a relief. Life goes on, quiet about it. It just used to be so loud, that's all. His ears are ringing.
"Do things seem kinda quiet to you?" Dean asks Sam over lunch one day, palming the back of his neck as he drags his gaze from the door.
"No, not really," Sam replies. He doesn't wish for unnatural disasters, Dean bets. "Why?"
"Dunno." Dean waves a hand around vaguely, looking down at his half-finished plate of food. He doesn't remember tasting any of it. "Just seems kind of—quiet, I guess. Could be the Bunker. You ever notice how big it is? It's pretty big, dude. It feels a little empty, ya know?"
Sam taps his fork against his plate, but even that seems muted, somehow. "Maybe."
"I just—" Dean tightens his fingers around his fork, lips pressing into a thin line. He doesn't know how to say what he's trying to say, how to explain how cavernous this place feels all of a sudden. Even how, maybe, he feels the reflection of it on the inside, too. A lot of space unexplored and unused, space that could be teeming with activity, so empty that he feels small in his own skin. He can't explain that, even to himself, so he doesn't try. "I don't know."
"I was thinking…" Sam pauses, clears his throat, and sets his fork down. "Well, I've been thinking about asking Eileen if she'd like to stay."
Dean hums. "Figured you'd get around to doing it eventually. She's too cool for you, Sammy."
"Yeah, I know," Sam says, smiling.
"I think it would be good for you," Dean admits, because he does. Sam always seems happier whenever Eileen visits.
Sam flicks his gaze to Dean's phone on the table, always within reach, then quickly away. "Right," he says, and that's all he says, and that's for the best.
There's a hunt in Ohio that takes about a week, and Dean does it completely alone. Sam is handling a thing with Eileen, already gone from the Bunker when Dean got in Baby and followed the lead.
It's the first time Dean does something like this alone—really alone—in a while. Sure, he and Sam check in with each other, but that's it. Truthfully, it's just Dean. Just him, and his car, and some monster that doesn't win but manages to get a few hits in before its last breath. That survival instinct kicking in, urging it to put up a fight, such a human thing that doesn't really solve anything in the end.
Dean walks away. The monster does not.
Afterwards, he sits in a quiet motel room and cleans the dried blood out from under his fingernails with his pocket-knife. He's careful about it, dragging the blade along the caked in blood, watching it fall to the bedspread in flakes. Perhaps the person who cleans the sheets will think it's chili powder.
He gets a shower, unnerved by how fucking muffled everything is. He cleans out his ears for too long, even when they're long dry, and then he stares at himself in the mirror for a while. He has a split lip that would ache if he was in the business of smiling very often these days, and there's no real reason to reach up and prod at it, but he does anyway. Eventually, the dull throb gets on his nerves, so he dismisses it and gets dressed—his pain tolerance makes this injury seem laughable. It's mostly just annoying. Something to ignore.
When he sprawls out on the bed, he turns on the TV and watches things get made. He's more inclined to things getting built up, rather than torn down, these days. There's something almost sweet about it, innocent in the mere creation, like a windmill that keeps on turning long after there's nothing else to power up. God is gone, but creation continues.
Even still, he gets tired of it. He turns the TV off and lays down way too early, staring at the ceiling. Against his better judgement, he finds himself wondering what Cas is doing right this very second. He could call and ask. Hey, man, it's been a while. How's life treating you? Mine sucks.
Dean wisely doesn't pick up his phone.
Except he does, hours later when he jerks awake in the middle of the night, because he can't take it anymore. He just can't. He needs to know, and it's going to drive him crazy if he doesn't, and it's past two in the morning, so this is most definitely a stupid idea, but he does it. He does it anyway. Just picks up his phone, squinting blearily at the screen, heart racing in his chest as he types in the number off the top of his head with trembling fingers, and he makes the fucking call, tense in a bed that isn't his own.
And Cas doesn't answer.
So, Dean closes his eyes and hangs up. Doesn't leave a voicemail. Doesn't call a second time. He puts the phone on the stand by the bed and turns away from it, keeping his back to it. He tries to go back to sleep. Doesn't do that either.
The next morning, when he's sliding into Baby, his phone rings. He stares at the screen, stares at Cas' name on his screen, thumb hovering over the green arrow that he can easily tap and slide to pick up. A returned phone call, one that Dean doesn't answer.
Cas doesn't call a second time, and Dean doesn't return that phone call, and it's like two ships passing in the night. Except those two ships used to be a part of the same fleet.
Things change, though, and they clearly have.
"You look like shit."
Dean sighs and gives Eileen a sarcastic smile, holding his coffee up in salute. "Thanks, Eileen, really appreciate you saying that."
"Sam's too nice to tell you," Eileen informs him, leaning back in her chair. She regards him for a long moment, tapping her fingers against the table. "I just find it odd."
"Find what odd?" Dean mutters, watching her snatch a piece of bacon from his plate with narrowed eyes. She's a goddamn menace.
Eileen makes him wait, eating the bacon and staring at him. When she swallows, she very bluntly says, "I find it odd that the world's not ending, but you act like your world has stopped."
"I don't have a world," Dean tells her.
"We all have our own little worlds, Dean, and it's not often that we actually care about the one we're living in," Eileen replies.
Dean snorts. "Well, ya know, human faults. We get distracted too easily."
"Yeah," Eileen agrees. "Probably for the best. Could you imagine being aware of the full scope of the world and the weight of everything involved in living in it, but all the time? Just doesn't seem feasible. Too much exposure would be terrifying, I think. I don't know how you and Sam do it."
"Years of having no choice," Dean says.
Eileen nods. "Well, you have a choice now. You have a lot of choices now. It's a big world out there, Dean. Yours doesn't have to be so small."
"Sam put you up to this, didn't he?" Dean asks with a wry smile, watching her eyes light up with humor.
"He says I pull no punches." Eileen inclines her head, lips twitching. "But you do look like shit, or I probably would have left it alone."
"You're great at this, Eileen," Dean tells her, arching an eyebrow. "I can feel the wanderlust coming on already. Tomorrow, I'm on the fast track to the moon."
"Never been to the moon," Eileen comments idly.
Dean huffs a laugh. "Ya know, neither have I."
It hits Dean at approximately three in the morning that Cas could be in danger. Hurt, lost somewhere, or even killed. In trouble, maybe, because he's always been good at getting into trouble.
The thought sends him careening from his bed, heart abruptly tripping all over itself in his chest. Because what would happen if Cas was in danger? Dean doesn't know where he is, or what he's doing. He could go a long, long time not knowing whether Cas is okay or not. He could be one of those sad stories he's heard through the years where no one made the call, and it was far too late.
The idea of it makes Dean feel like his skin is stretched too tightly over his bones. He has his phone on and against his ear in seconds, hunched on the edge of his bed in panic, because—because—
"Hello, Dean," comes the rumble of Cas' voice down the line, perfectly safe and perfectly okay, sounding as he always has, and Dean is so fucking stupid.
Dean closes his eyes and presses the back of his hand to his mouth, breathing hard and sharp through his nose. The relief is drowned out by the swell of embarrassment that squirms under his skin. Briefly, he considers hanging up.
He doesn't. Instead, he rasps, "Hey, Cas."
"Is...everything okay?" Cas asks, slow about it, unsure. He has every right to be. It's three o'clock in the goddamn morning.
"Yeah," Dean says, helplessly. He runs his fingers over his eyes, shaking his head. "I didn't—I… Uh, is everything...okay with you?"
There's a long beat of silence, then, "Yes, everything is...okay, Dean."
"Okay," Dean mumbles.
"Is that why you called?" Cas ventures, now sounding confused on top of everything else, and Dean wants to die.
"No, I didn't—um, I didn't actually mean to," Dean tells him, which is an outright lie, and he winces at himself. Why lie? What is the reason to lie? There isn't anything to hide. Nonetheless, he digs the hole deeper. "My phone's been on the fritz. Randomly calls people lately. I should...probably replace it."
"A technological error," Cas states. There's a long pause. "So, this call is entirely pointless?"
Dean purses his lips, considering, then he scrubs his fingers through his hair. "Well, I don't make it a habit of calling people at the ass-crack of dawn, Cas. Not unless it was really important. Which...this isn't. So, yeah, it's pretty pointless." He winces and drops his hand down to the edge of his bed, digging his nails in. "Sorry if I woke you up or something."
"Mm, it's fine," Cas says—probably a lie, a habit he picked up from Dean. "Why are you awake?"
"Couldn't sleep," Dean admits, grimacing.
"That's unfortunate," Cas tells him.
"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Dean chews on his bottom lip for a moment, then stands to his feet, flexing the fingers of his free hand as he starts slowly walking towards his door. "It's, uh, been a while since—since I've heard from you, Cas."
There's some more silence, then the muffled sound of shifting, like sheets on skin. A bed? It's three in the morning, of course Cas is in bed. "I could say the same for you, Dean."
"You didn't call," Dean points out, pivoting on the spot and slowly moving back away from his door. Pacing. He's pacing.
"Neither did you," Cas retorts, though the words aren't barbed. Just a fact.
Except it's not a fact. Dean has to bite back the immediate urge to argue and say that he did call, because he did, but he can't say that because he's already said that he didn't. "Bygones," he says instead, forcing himself to say it, because some battles aren't worth fighting. "We're talking now."
"Yes," Cas agrees, and that's it.
"Right." Dean clenches his jaw and reaches up to clasp the back of his neck, squeezing it as he hangs his head and turns to start walking back in the opposite direction. "Right, well, that kind of requires talking. Just so you know."
Cas makes a low sound through the phone, an amused one. Asshole. "I'm aware. Fine. How have you been since we last spoke, Dean?"
Managing, Dean starts to say, then doesn't. "Great. Yeah, I've been—pretty great," he murmurs. "I'm getting back into the swing of things, anyway. Ya know, the usual. The, uh, acceptable usual, I mean. No pissed off cosmic beings. Not even a goddamn meteor shower. So, yeah, great. You?"
"I've been doing well," Cas answers dutifully, then goes into absolutely zero details, frustratingly enough. "Jack has recently brought up the idea of visiting, if you and Sam were okay with it. He wants to stop by. Is that alright?"
"What?" Dean comes to a halt in the middle of his room, chest tight, head snapping up. "Are you seriously asking? Of course he can, dude. Is that even a fucking question? Are you bringing him? Hell, he can come tomorrow, if he wants."
"I'll let him know." Cas sounds vaguely pleased. "I won't be bringing him, no. Jack can just...go wherever he pleases."
Dean swings his arm out lazily and starts walking again. "Oh, right. Because of the God thing. How's that going for him?"
"He seems well-adjusted. I think it suits him, as surprising as that may be. For all his divine power, he's remarkably untouched by greed. He mostly just wants to watch Teen Titans," Cas muses.
"The original, right?" Dean checks.
Cas chuckles. "Yes."
"It's the better version." Dean's lips curl up, and he reaches out to drag his fingers along the side of his desk as he passes it. "So, outside of monitoring the new God, what do you spend your time doing?"
"I don't always monitor him," Cas argues, huffing through the line. So bitchy. It makes Dean's lips curl up more into a full-fledged grin. "He does have other responsibilities, and I help him with those. Heaven, mostly. He's not always around."
Dean's eyebrows furrow. "You visit Heaven?"
"No. Not me, personally. I...can't, now that I'm human, not without consequences, and Jack is firm in staying uninvolved in things. I just give advice when and where I can."
"Do you miss it? Heaven, I mean."
"Not really," Cas tells him bluntly.
"Oh." Dean swings himself around, looking down at his bare feet. "Miss being an angel?"
"Sometimes," Cas answers with equal bluntness.
"Right. That's—well, I'm sorry, man."
"It's fine."
"Yeah." Dean chews his lip again, tapping his fingers against his own hip a little distractedly. He tilts his head back as he swivels around and starts pacing in the other direction. Again. "You never really answered me, you know. About what you've been up to since you—"
Since you left blares into the resounding silence from where he cuts himself off, and if Cas hears it, he shows no sign of it. He just says, "Mm, staying busy, mostly. What have you been doing?"
"Ah, uh…" Dean blusters for a moment, lost, because he's just now realizing that he doesn't have very much to say in this regard. He hasn't been doing much of anything lately. Just, "Hunting, mostly. Had a couple of things fall into our laps. Um, Sam's been doing good. Really good. Eileen moved in. They're going steady, I guess."
"That's nice," Cas says softly. "I'm glad."
"Yeah. She's great." Dean turns around again, taking a deep breath, then slowly letting it out. "I handled a case on my own about a week ago." Thought about you, made the call, and you didn't answer. "It was fine. I should probably get used to it, huh? Eileen and Sam take on some cases together a lot, so I kind of keep my distance. Could be some kind of mating ritual I don't know about, ya know?"
Cas huffs a quiet laugh, amused. "Hunting together is some form of mating ritual?"
"Who knows?" Dean asks, dropping his chin as he grins again. "They always have eyes for each other. A whole lot of staring and unnecessary touching. I mean, it's not like I would really know. I've never actually had a serious thing with a hunter, so I'm not exactly an expert. Just seems like something they do together that I don't need to intrude on, I guess, even though they try to get me to come sometimes, but I'm capable of doing this shit on my own. S'been a while, but I'm not an idiot. I mean, I do go with them, or even with just Sam, but I think it's good that they get out and hunt alone together, ya know?"
"Is that your way of trying to show your support?" Cas asks, sounding curious. Dean can perfectly picture him tilting his head, squinting his eyes.
"Probably," Dean admits. "I really like Eileen. If Sam screws that up, I think I'm gonna be just as hurt about it. She's fucking hilarious, man."
"Yes, I've met her," Cas tells him, like simply knowing Eileen is explanation enough, because you can't help but adore her. And yeah, that's pretty much it. "Even still, perhaps you shouldn't do a lot of cases alone. Just...be safe, Dean."
"Sounds like you're worried about me," Dean suggests, raising his eyebrows as he brushes along the edge of his desk again, picking up a pen and idly flipping it between loose fingers.
"Well, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't die," Cas says, his tone dry. Such a little shit.
Dean grins again. "That would be a shame, wouldn't it? Nah, you don't gotta worry about me, Cas. I'm Dean Winchester, dude. I got this."
"Arrogance begets mistakes, Dean Winchester," Cas tells him, wisely and solemnly. "Tread carefully where you walk, lest you trip."
"Okay, Yoda," Dean mutters, snorting. "I think I've got it covered, so pump the brakes, oh wise one."
Cas hums, and Dean can hear the smile in it—a small one, no doubt, curling at the corner of his lips, crinkling his eyes. It's crystal clear in Dean's mind, even if he can't see it. "If you say so, Dean. Just be cautious, please. It would be a shame if anything happened to you."
"It would suck to get this far and then, like, die at the hands of some medieval ghost who probably doesn't even know what a toilet looks like," Dean admits, flipping the pen in between his fingers carelessly, tipping his head from side-to-side.
"Very anticlimactic," Cas agrees.
Dean chuckles, shaking his head. "And you. I mean, you're not getting into any trouble, are you?"
"Ah." Cas is silent for a long moment, then he clears his throat. "At the moment? No."
"Cas," Dean says, his voice coming out sharp without his permission. He flips the pen again and catches it, clenching his hand around it.
"I'm Castiel," Cas tells him sagely. "I got this."
"Don't do anything stupid," Dean mutters automatically, grimacing as he squeezes his eyes shut, ducking his head. "Cas, I'm serious. How did you even—I mean, what are you even doing that gets you into trouble? Jesus, man. Whatever it is, stop."
"Well, now you sound concerned for me," Cas points out, the bastard.
"I'm not. I mean, I am, I just—" Dean heaves a sigh and wrenches around to start pacing again, unaware that he'd stopped. He tosses the pen back on the desk, scowling when it clatters over the side and disappears. "Just be careful, that's all. You're human now, so your chances of walking away from major injuries are very slim. It would be—" His throat sticks for a moment, and he has to clear it. "Well, it would be a shame, too, I guess. All that you've done, only to die on the insistence that tis but a scratch."
"I'm aware of my vulnerability, Dean," Cas murmurs. "It's not my first time being a human, if you recall. I've had some practice."
Dean winces, reaching up to swipe his hand over his face. He rubs it up through his hair, resisting the urge to slap himself very hard. "Right, no, I know. But you're also a stubborn bastard, so."
"Perhaps," Cas replies, as if that's even up for debate. "However, I have no desire to do anything stupid, as you say. I'm fine, I assure you."
"You'd—" Dean pivots on the spot, fingers flexing again. He halts, swallowing. "If you weren't fine, you'd call, right?"
Cas is silent for a long beat, then he says, "Yes, Dean, I would call if I needed to."
That hooks right into Dean's chest, burying deep, because it means he hasn't called before because he hasn't needed to. The sting of it is unexpected, and Dean isn't prepared for it. He clenches his jaw, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath. An anger he didn't even know he had swells up within him, bitter and burning in the back of his throat, and it's not really a surprise for all that he wasn't aware of it—he's always angry about something or another, always and always.
It causes him to lash out, takes him places he never wants to go until he's fully in the middle of being pissed off. It makes him grit out, "Yeah, well, ain't that a fucking relief? Would hate to hear you died or something from the goddamn news. That would just ruin my whole damn day."
"Would it?" Cas asks stiffly.
"A couple of hours, at least," Dean drawls. "Kind of like how I'm probably ruining those precious hours of sleep you need now. I should let you get back to that, shouldn't I?"
Cas huffs out a harsh breath. "Dean, I'm—"
"Goodnight, Cas," Dean snaps, wrenching the phone from his ear to hang up, then immediately regretting it as soon as his phone lights up with the call ended screen, revealing that they only talked for a little under half an hour. 27mins:42secs.
When Dean's screen goes dark, he hangs his head and blows out a deep breath. Slowly, he shuffles over to plug his phone into the charger, and then he gets back into bed. He doesn't go to sleep.