Work Text:
translation via inversion
Cas gets weird after they canvas the antique store. Bitter. Avoidant. Mean. And admittedly, it's a fucked-up hunt right from the start, but seriously, it's like Dean's suddenly taken to shitting in his shoes or something, the way he's acting. Dean, specifically, because according to Sam Cas is reverting to his usual dorky stoic self so long as he is elsewhere.
Dean has no clue what he did. Is doing? Whatever. Far as he's aware, he's been the same old guy, just now with added burns from torching a cursed mirror for the greater good and even less faith in humanity. But if he had any hope that Cas would fix his nasty attitude once the whole ugly shitshow is wrapped—of course with the kind of conclusion that lends itself more to feeling sick than satisfied—he's swiftly disabused of his optimism.
Despite the extra night paid for, they stop at the motel just long enough to grab their stuff and check out, then hit the road, and Cas proceeds to spend the ride hunched in the passenger side of the backseat, far away as he can get, refusing to meet Dean's eyes in the mirror even once. In the diner they stop at for a midnight meal, it's the same shit. He barely speaks, lips a thin pale line of sullenness while he pushes his food around, and his newfound distaste for Dean is made painfully obvious by his choice of seat; Cas almost always sits next to him, goddamn it. Across the booth feels like a deliberate insult, what with the bonus grade A silent treatment.
It's all giving Dean uneasy flashbacks to Dad and the way he could go days with nothing more than a terse word when Dean disappointed him, only worse—the rare occasions Dean does manage to get Cas to acknowledge him, Cas flinches too, as if looking at Dean has a bad smell to it, something rotten. As if the sight of him makes Cas want to hurl.
"Dude!" he exclaims, finally losing it when he unloads one of the weapons' bags from the trunk into Cas's arms and the asshole actually grimaces as their hands brush. "What the hell is the matter with you lately? You gotta share with the class, buddy, because I got no idea what I did to piss you the fuck off."
Cas takes two steps back and shakes his head, clutching the dingy duffel to his chest like a protective barrier. "There's nothing wrong with me. You're just so– " he rasps, and his grimace deepens, "so– "
"What?" Dean demands.
"Awful," Cas growls, then turns on his heel and stalks out, leaving Dean and Sam gaping after him in bewilderment.
"Whoa, what did you do?" Sam wonders.
Dean throws up his hands. "I don't know!"
It doesn't stop there, either. Just gets even weirder over the next few days, because it's… inconsistent. Sometimes Cas is normal around him—the best friend Dean is used to, with his slight smiles and his politely feigned interest in Dean's music/shows/hobbies and his heavy, lengthy gazes that feel like, like—but then, others, an icy disgust steals over him again, and he can't seem to stand being in the same room as Dean for longer than he absolutely has to. Dean never knows which version he's gonna get, and it's driving him bonkers trying to work out what he needs to apologize for. He can't think of a single thing, much less one he messed up badly enough to warrant this confusing hot-cold treatment, but his gut twists with undefined shame nevertheless every time Cas recoils from breathing the same air as him.
Cas is no help. When he's tolerating Dean, he pretends not to have the faintest notion what Dean is talking about if he asks for an explanation, and when he's not tolerating Dean, well, no such conversation is happening. Sam tries too, but gets equally stone-walled. Jeez, who knew Cas had such a passive aggressive petty side to him? It's just so… out of character, dammit! Cas is usually the only person in Dean's life who can be counted on to even half-way like him at any given moment. There must be something; he must've done something.
But what?
Of course Sam is the one who figures it out.
"God, Dean, you just have to touch everything, don't you," he's bitching, gesticulating pissily over the basket of brackish-stained laundry he just dumped on Dean's bed. On top of the pile is the neat carved figurine Dean found in the antique shop. Dean's not sure what this has to do with Cas yet, but apparently it went through the wash in his pants' pocket and now a bunch of Sam's flannels are ruined? That's what he's gleaned so far.
"Oh, like you don't shoplift souvenirs once in a while," Dean scoffs. Please. He's seen Sam's collection.
"Not from antiquers that deal in cursed objects," Sam snaps.
Dean rolls his eyes. "If you think everything in that store was cursed, we better go burn the whole place down before the creepy sister inherits, Sammy." He picks up the whittled wooden disc and it settles—small, but oddly weighty—in the cup of his palm. "Come on, look at it. It's cool. If you'd just check pockets before you load the damn machine like I keep telling you, the paint wouldn't have run."
"It," Sam says prissily, "is a talisman enchanted with a medieval spell to repel suitors. A sort of… love inversion charm."
Dean's brows shoot up. "Huh. Really?" Sam nods. "Huh." He peers more closely at the coin-like carving, turns it over between his fingers. "I guess that could be useful. If we ever run into Becky or other would-be Mrs. Winchesters again, I mean."
"Dean," Sam sounds like he's in increasing pain. "You've been walking around with this in your pocket, right? Off and on?"
Dean recalls rubbing his thumb over it, intrigued, almost soothed, by the intricate texture. Shifting it from his coat to his jeans to his bathrobe… "Yeah, why?"
Sam gives him a significant look. Dean frowns back, not understanding.
"Christ." Sam closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Look, man. Just– don't shoot the messenger, okay? But listen to me. This thing is designed to protect the current wearer from any and all romantic interest, which it does by actively reversing the feelings of anyone who harbors said interest in said wearer. Are you following me?"
"Loud and clear, Wolfman Jack," Dean snipes. God, but Sam can be an asshat sometimes.
"And you've had it since the first day of the hunt…" Sam continues leadingly.
"...yeeees. Your point?"
Sam squints and sighs at him. Adds another significant look for good measure. "About the same time Cas started acting all strange around you…?"
"Yeah, so wh—" Dean cuts himself off as he finally picks up what Sam is laying down and his inner alarm bells start to wail. "Whoa. No. No way. You're not trying to say…" he trails off, unable to voice it.
"I don't know," says Sam. "Not my place. But maybe you should stop wearing it around, okay? Just– don't."
Dean's stomach plunges to his feet. "Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah," and stares at the horrible little thing in his hand.
Dean has many skills, and one of those skills is denial, and that being the case, it's pretty much a foregone conclusion that he's gonna deem Sam crazy, no matter the logic at hand. It's just a coincidence, a weird fucking coincidence, that's all. Haha, obviously. Probably the spell doesn't even work anymore. Cas can't be. Interested. In him. Like that. Right? That's crazy.
Regardless, and against his own better judgment, Dean decides to test it out. "Cas," he tries, the next day, with the charm in his pocket again and Cas cornered at one of the library tables. "We're friends, right? You, uh. You like me? As a person. Right?"
Cas's upper lip curls and he leans away from Dean enough to tip his chair onto its back legs, drama queen. "Friends?" he echoes, clearly aggrieved. "Definitely not. In fact, you're the worst thing that's ever happened to me. You ruined me. I find you repulsive, and vile as a person but, unfortunately, see no better option than to continue working with you for the time being, seeing that I am stuck here. Please go away. If we could interact as little as possible, that would be ideal."
Dean goes away all the way to his bedroom, where he slams the door, crumples onto his bed, and puts his head in his hands. Wounded, try as he might, he can't help flipping the words around in his head, translation via inversion. Friends? Definitely. In fact, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You saved me. I find you attractive, and admirable as a person and, fortunately, want nothing more than to continue being near you as long as you'll allow me. Please stay. If we could spend as much time together as possible, that would be ideal.
Actually. Actually, when he puts it that way…
Wait a second.
The day after that, Dean decides to run a second test. A much more important one. He slips the disc into Cas's trenchcoat pocket and—
Suffice to say, no one is prepared for what happens next. The problem with that decision, it turns out, is that Cas still has no idea what the hell is going on or that he's got a magical object in his pocket, only that Dean suddenly turns colder than when he sported black eyes, as hateful as a mark he used to wear on his arm, as vicious as he was in the moments before holy light broke Hell's chains on his soul. When Dean goes at him out of the blue, he's so shocked by it, so confounded, so heartbroken, he doesn't even try to defend himself, and Dean winds up flat out bloodying his mouth and throwing him from the bunker—all the while shouting with such volume and vitriol that both his throat and his heart will hurt later. He chases Cas out into the winter and slams the door in his distraught, confused face on the hissed promise that if he dares to come back Dean will fucking kill him once and for all, and gladly.
It's a lot. It's… not great. Dean is really very stupid. Can't even be trusted with the basic scientific method.
Luckily for him—for them both—Sam is there, lurking always around the edges of their interpersonal melodrama, and manages to steal past Dean, catch Cas before he vanishes on them, explain, as best he can, and wield his puppy eyes to convince Cas to burn the damn charm out of existence on the spot. Dean doesn't really understand the extent of what all went down when they get back inside—because that's how the spell worked, it made sure the victims perceived all their behavior as reasonable and consistent—but it's terrible enough in the retelling that he's grateful for the reprieve. Ugh.
And that leaves him and Cas with the fallout. (Sam, the coward, flees to his room as soon as he sees an opportune window.)
"Sorry," Dean mutters for the billionth time. Shit, what was he thinking? Upon reflection, is it any wonder no one except Cas can be counted on to like him very much on any given day? The idiocy and shittiness he's capable of… the real question is, what the fuck is wrong with Cas that he seems to, he seems to maybe— "The shit I said to you, god, man. I can't even…"
"On the contrary," Cas protests. His eyes are shining. Warm. Hopeful. "What you said was—" he takes a breath, "—wonderful. I didn't think, I never dared to imagine– and you kicked me out—"
"Again," Dean reminds him miserably.
"Again," Cas repeats, as if it delights him. He touches his split lip, smiles slightly. "You hit me. On the mouth."
"I knoooow," Dean moans, scraping his hands down his face. He'll never be able to make this one up to Cas. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" Cas paces forward into Dean's space and backs him up against the banister of the catwalk staircase. Dean gulps, going wide-eyed at the feel of a broad hand on his arm, his neck. Cas's nearness. "Sorry? Dean, if the truth is– is the antithesis to your words and deeds– then—"
Maybe what you meant was to kiss me leaps unsaid between them.
Dean captures Cas by the opposite arm, opposite side of the neck. Reflection, reversal. Same truth. "Yeah, well. I guess I– I think I might hate you. A little," he bravely manages to grit out. Funny, it's actually possible to say it this way. Now that he friggin' knows for sure.
"I hate you too," Cas rumbles against his mouth.