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Dean somehow ends up in Cas’ room after Mary leaves. It says something about him, he thinks, that this is where he goes for comfort, something he’s too tired to consider as he falls face first onto the faded quilt. This room has always been uncomfortably empty, impersonal; Cas piles his few belongings on the nightstand instead of tucking them away in drawers, makes the bed meticulously as if it doesn’t belong to him. Still, Dean feels more at home here than he does among his collection of guns and aged family photos — especially given Mary’s graceful exit just an hour earlier.
The only color is in a glossy poster of a Monet painting perched above the dresser — Dean had gotten it for him as a Christmas gift the previous year, made a big show of wrapping it up and presenting it to a surprised Cas who had promptly declared it the best gift he had ever received. There’s a threadbare band shirt of Dean’s next to the bed, folded, and a pile of books in a language Dean doesn’t recognize. He reaches over to turn on a lamp and switches on the TV, turning the channels until he stumbles upon a rerun of Survivor.
Cas is still in Cleveland, hasn’t called since yesterday morning when he detailed his encounter with Crowley. Dean isn’t worried, just apprehensive. He knows better than anyone how quickly Crowley can turn on a person.
“How’s your mother?” he’d asked, sounding exhausted, and Dean assured him that everything was fine, that they were a happy hunting family together. How surprised he would be, returning to find Mary gone.
Dean feels his insides seize up remembering Sam’s face as the steel door slammed shut behind her, swipes a hand across his face as if to brush the image away. It reminds him a little too much of John giving him a few dollars and leaving them alone in a skeevy motel for weeks on end.
He takes out his phone, toys with it in his palm, checks his email for no reason other than to occupy his hands.
When will you be home? he texts Cas, trying not to sound desperate for attention. I miss you.
It’s not something he says, usually, knows that it will make Cas worry, but in the haze of raw emotion he can’t bring himself to care. He tosses the phone away without allowing time for an answer and kicks off his shoes, tucks himself under the quilt. Tells himself that it’s not weird to sleep in Cas’ bed because Cas doesn’t sleep anyway.
He dreams the same scene he’s played over in his head a million times — he’s four years old again, in a swing at the park and John is pushing him so high he feels like he’s flying. He can see Mary off to the side, holding Sam close to her chest, laughing like she’ll never be sad again, coming up behind John and looking at him like he holds the sun in his hands: in a way, he does. This was one of their happy days, what Mary was mourning when she took off for God knows where in one of bunker’s cars, taking the measly duffel bag that contained all of her earthly possessions with her. In this moment, the sun beating on his face, the swing driving him closer to the sky with every pump of his legs, John’s muscled hands on his back, he understands why Mary had to leave. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.
When he wakes up, a little shell shocked, his joints ache. The TV is too loud, blaring some cable access game show interspersed with static. Dean glances at the clock on his phone, realizes it’s half past three in the morning. He wonders if Sam is okay, if he found Dean sleeping in Cas’ bed, dreaming memories of Mary that Sam never got to have.
He hears the steel front door open, then shut. His heart catches a bit in his throat — has Mary come back already? Has she changed her mind? Footsteps make their careful way down the hall, quiet as one can be in a stone bunker. Dean holds his breath.
“Dean?” It’s Cas, illuminated in the doorway by the light from the static, keys in hand, looking more burnt out than Dean’s seen him in ages. His eyes look defeated but human, and his trench coat and tie are crumpled up in his arms.
It takes every ounce of willpower Dean has not to tuck tail and run. There’s a difference between telling an angel in Cleveland that you miss him and having that same angel standing in the doorway of his own room to find you in his bed. The silence is thick and tangible.
“Cas,” he says finally, letting the relief show in his voice. “You’re back, buddy.”
“And you’re in my bed,” Cas replies, moving to drop his things on the table. “What’s wrong?”
“Mom left. Apparently she needs to “mourn her husband and sons” as she knew them.” It comes out bitter. He knows he can’t be mad at her, but he still is.
Cas looks alarmed. “I thought you said things were good.”
“I thought they were.” And what a fucking sad sack he is. Sam had warned him that Mary was having a hard time, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas almost whispers. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, crosses the room to turn off the TV.
Dean doesn’t respond, doesn’t want to break this spell of Cas undressing, coming to bed to comfort him. The room is pitch black, but he hears clothes sliding onto the floor and suddenly Cas is next to him under the covers. As much as Dean doesn’t want to admit it, he needs the touch. He reaches out for Cas and finds his forearm, grabs on for dear life.
They lay in silence for a while, Dean drifting in and out of semi-consciousness.
“You said you missed me,” Cas says into the darkness.
Dean feels sluggish. “Of course I did,” he slips over words, sleep weighing on him. “You would never leave me.” Cas hums in affirmation. This feels right in a way that nothing has felt right since Mary came back from the grave.
He rolls over, buries himself in the planes of Cas’ chest and breathes. He looks down at the hands wrapping around his back, rough and calloused in a way Dean didn’t think angels’ hands could be.
Dean closes his eyes and feels like he’s flying.