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Dean wasn't nervous, or scared, or anxious, or whatever Sam was saying he was acting like. And he most definitely wasn't worried. He just didn't appreciate being lied to. At least that's what he would say if asked about it. But, in Purgatory, he had learned to stop lying to himself. He learned to stop pussy-footing around shit and just tell it how it is—to himself.
And how it is is that Cas said he was going to stay with Fred for a couple days and it'd been longer than two—which, generally, a couple is two—days. In fact, it'd been four days.
Honestly, Dean still wasn't fully convinced that Cas was back for good. Whatever brought him Top Side could very easily put him back down and his prolonged absence was not making the heart fonder. In fact, it was going to give the heart a fucking major heart attack.
“You need to relax, man,” Sam said, not looking up from his laptop as he took a sip of his nasty ass, fancy schmancy Starbucks coffee that cost ten bucks. “Cas is an Angel and he's in an old folks home. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Did you have a brain aneurysm, or have selective memory?” Dean got off the skanky motel bed, taking a step closer to his brother. “Because I'm pretty sure the last case we had was some nutty doctor using one of his patients to pull a John Dillinger the Road Runner way.”
“Hello, Dean.” He spun around, every muscle fighting to not let his hand fly to cover his hammering chest. “Sam.” Cas nodded at Sam, who chuckled in return before standing.
“Good to see ya, Cas. I'm gonna go get some more coffee.” If you could call it that. “Do either of you want anything?”
“No,” Cas blinked, turning back to Dean, whose heart was still pounding in his chest from his Angel's impromptu drop in. He shook his head 'no' and then listened to Sam's footsteps go to the motel room's door and leave.
“I'm late.”
“Yeah, you're late.” Dean could hear to the rumble of the Impala start and then slowly fade away as Sam pulled out of the parking lot and down the road.
“Sorry.”
Dean nodded, going to sit back down on the edge of the bed he deemed his—the one closest to the door. “How's Fred?”
Cas sighed loudly, sitting next to him on the brown comforter. “As well as one can be expected after having their mind tampered with. I believe Sam would be better suited for that conversation.”
“Cas,” He really didn't want to have that conversation. He didn't need to have that conversation. Cas had made up for it, and, God knows, he was punishing himself more than Dean ever could.
“What, Dean?”
What, Dean? How about, stop blaming yourself for things that you have no control over. But Dean knows how it goes. He could go on until he was blue in the face and it wouldn't make a lick of difference when it came down to it. Was it something that Cas had picked up from him? Or would he still blame himself for everything if he never met Dean? Hell, if he never met Dean he never would have went all Bruce Almighty on everyone's ass.
He sighed and knocked his foot into Cas'.
“What are you gonna do now?”
Cas paused, thinking, before answering, “I have no idea. I can't go back to Heaven--”
“No one's asking ya to.” He knew it was a mistake as soon as it had left his mouth before when he had asked Cas to go back to Heaven. Dean wouldn't ask him again. Not now. Not when he knows. “Why don't you stay with us, like you wanted. We can go back to how everything was before you went all Sheriff on us.”
“That's impossible, Dean.”
Dean turned his head towards Cas before scoffing. “No, it's not, you just don't want to because you aren't done feeling sorry for yourself. You fucked up, dude. Everyone does.” Cas breathed out a laugh. It was still such an odd experience, seeing him smile and hearing him laugh. In the past week, Dean had seen Cas happy more often than he had in the whole five years combined since he'd met the Angel. “What?”
“Isn't that ironic,” he asked, tilting his head in the way that only Cas does. “What is it? The pot calling the cattle black.”
“Kettle.”
He was right of course. But Cas was different. He was an Angel, not some weak human who had nothing to his name besides his convictions.
“Even if I . . . 'didn't feel sorry for myself', I could never go back. Just the same as you could never go back to who you were before you sold your soul for your brother and went to Hell. People change, Dean; they evolve.”
But that was the thing.
“But you aren't a person, Cas, you're an angel.”
“I don't feel like one anymore.”
Dean turned, studying his friend. There was a part of Dean that knew Cas was right, he was nowhere near the Angel Dean had met five years ago in the old abandoned barn, and part of him was grateful for that. Over the years, Cas had become a partner, a comrade, a friend, and somewhere along the way Cas had even become family, and Dean wouldn't trade that for anything, not with his dwindling number of people he still gave a rat's ass about. Even if it meant having another weakness, something else those evil bastards could use against him, but wasn't that the point of closing Hell? If—when—they closed the Gates of Hell, he wouldn't have to worry about some supernatural thing toying with the people he loved. Then he'd be free to do what he wanted, with whom he wanted.
He wasn't naïve, there were still going to be things to hunt—thank fucking god because he wouldn't know what to do with himself if there wasn't—there would still be evils in the world seeking out their next kill, but demons had the biggest numbers and they definitely had caused more issues for the Winchester's than any other thing. Without demons everything would be a little better for everyone.
Dean let out a soft sigh before wiping his hand over his face.
“Look, Cas, buddy,” he turned his body more towards the man next to him, bringing his knee slightly higher on the bed, “I know how easy it is to blame yourself for everything that goes wrong in your life. Trust me, I know. It's the Winchester Way. But it's not you, man. Everyone's already forgiven you. You just need to forgive yourself.”
“Do you, Dean?” Cas looked up at Dean, eyes searching in the way that made Dean feel like he could see down into the very soul of him—and he probably could. “Do you forgive me?”
Dean's told him that, hasn't he? At some point between killing Dick and fighting for their lives down in Purgatory, he had taken Cas aside and told him he forgave him? He swore he had at some point.
“Yeah, man.” His foot knocked into Cas' again. “I forgive you. I've forgiven you a long time ago.” And at that, something in Cas lightened, like he wasn't as heavy as he was when he thought Dean was still holding some grudge against him.
Dean scrunched his brow, looking down at Cas' hand. Did Dean's forgiveness really mean that much to him? Of course it did. Dean wasn't a total moron. He brushed his finger down the side of Cas' pinky, down the side of his palm and then back up. Dean could feel Cas staring at him, could feel the questions that he wanted to ask. He looked up, smiling softly as he ran his fingertip back down Cas' hand. Cas tilted his head slightly, doing his soul searching gaze before a small smile tugged at his lips. Not one of those full-blown hundred watt smiles. One of those smiles that Dean made him do for the first time when they sat on the park benches after Dean saved the town from the creepy Halloween dude.
It was the smile Cas had just for Dean.