fic, Supernatural: When You Say Nothing At All (Dean/Castiel), PG
So, uh. This stuff exists because for some random reason last week I ended up listening to Ronan Keating on youtube without any reason except that when I was like TEN my favorite song was the title song. Then after I was like 'wtf is with me' on Twitter someone who shall be named in the A/N was like 'well maybe it's because he sounds kind like Jensen at times' and I was like 'duh that's a point' and then we were like 'there should be fic' and so I figured well, fine there should, and it should be crack. Then it ended up not being completely crack and way too long, but I'll cut it now.
Title: When You Say Nothing At All
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Rating: PG for swearing, mostly.
Wordcount: 5200
Spoilers: heavy for 5x14. (Actually, it's kind of a whacked tag.)
Warnings: karaoke, Sam singing Mariah Carey, smash of canon angsting with probably unrepentant schmoop (I mean, you've seen the title), drunk people who don't necessarily think straight and karaoke.
Disclaimer: SPN isn't mine and nothing else is either. Thankfully, I dare say.
Summary: where Dean and Sam are wasted, Castiel is the only sober one, dares happen, karaoke happens and Dean dedicates country songs to Castiel even if he hates country music and it's totally chick flick, except that Castiel doesn't care anyway.
A/N: imora_mi_savur has her share of Twitter-guilt for this and I won't really start going into it if only to preserve my mental sanity. It was supposed to be crack. Then it took a life of its own and became a 5x14 coda which is why it isn't exactly total crack. And just to be clear: why I won't deny liking When You Say Nothing At All, I hate Mariah Carey.
It happens because Dean is drunk. No, there's no other reason.
Correction. Dean isn’t drunk. Dean is wasted, though it’s the kind of wasted where you do and say stupid shit but can actually stand on your feet while doing so. And Sam is as wasted as he is, if not more. Actually, scratch it; Sam has to be more drunk than Dean is for two reasons. One, because he never could fucking hold his alcohol; two, because he was the one daring him with the karaoke.
Of course, Dean actually accepted the dare, which is indeed a proof that he’s wasted. Otherwise he’d have never done such a thing. Sam is enough of a girl that he’d have done it even without the drinking, but Dean? Not a fucking chance.
Alright, maybe doing a short recap wouldn’t be a bad idea. That’s how things went down, more or less.
So, Cas (who, by the way, is a goddamn fucking cheater since he has drunk as much as Dean and he’s barely tipsy), who notoriously doesn’t know how to mind his fucking business (then again, he doesn’t still get personal space, so if he doesn’t know privacy he probably can’t know how to mind his fucking business), had a talk with Sam some three days after the worst of his withdrawal passed, hallelujah, and of course he had to report to his brother all the conversation with Famine.
Apparently eating fucking raw meat doesn’t mean you block out what other people say.
Whatever the hell.
By the way, Dean wasn’t there. Dean was outside having a beer and working on the car and trying not to think about that fucked up emptiness gnawing at him from the inside which just got worse after the whole second horseman shebang.
Anyway, Sam had decided that fuck it, really, fuck it, they were going to have fun, whether they wanted or not, at least for one night.
Dean had argued that you can’t have fun if you feel like shit, but Sam had forced him into the car with the angel in the backseat and drove them into town. Bobby had shouted don’t crash anywhere, you three idjits, and that had been all.
Clearly, since Sam had been the one to organize the whole thing, he got to choose the bar. Not that Dean would have even chosen (he’d have just gone into the first he saw) and like Cas had an idea, but anyway. And since the target was having fun, Sam chose the one where they had fucking karaoke, because, as he said, seeing other people totally embarrassing themselves? It can’t get more fun than that, and having fun is what they need. Cas had said that it sounded mean, Sam assured that if you sing karaoke then you know that you’re going to make yourself ridiculous and then they got in.
Whatever. Not that it made any difference to Dean.
He just didn’t give a fuck and he wasn’t feeling any better.
Anyway, after the first three people he was feeling physically ill and when Sam ordered drinks, he decided to have one even if he didn’t exactly feel like drinking. Still, maybe sobriety wasn’t the right choice while listening to some selected teenagers from Sioux Falls butcher Britney Spears, and it takes a lot to butcher something that isn’t even music to begin with.
Anyway, Sam had declared the evening a drinking contest.
Cas had obviously won that, since half an hour later he was still sober.
And Dean and Sam were, as previously stated, wasted.
So you know, when you’re drunk you’re apt to say and do stupid shit. That was what happened. It went more or less like this:
Dean: Fuuuck, if you know you can’t sing just fuckin’ don’t. Never thought I’d re-evaluate Barbra Streisand.
Sam: Dean, dammit. Why do you always need to complain? They’re havin’ their fun, they
don’t care ‘bout in key or off key or what the fuck ever and they’re enjoying themselves.
Dean: Whatever.
Cas: I believe the both of you have had enough to drink.
Dean: Shut the fuck up and gimme another shot.
Sam: Geez, d’you even know what does it mean to enjoy yourself?
Dean: Yeah I do, thank you so much.
Cas: I believe he enjoyed himself when we were at that den of iniquity, even if I did not…
Sam (after a minute during which he reflected on what could den of iniquity possibly mean): You took an angel to a brothel?
Dean: So fuckin’ what?
Sam: Dude, your idea of fun is… fucked… up. An’ I’m sure that you wouldn’t have an inch of the guts it takes to go up there.
Dean: Are you fucking daring me? I’ve fucking spent forty years in Hell, you think I can’t handle some girly shit like that? Fuck you. You’re the one who’d chicken out ‘cause you can’t sing worth a dime and you know it.
Sam: No, you wouldn’t do it ‘cause you’re a self-conscious son of a bitch who wouldn’t really do that.
Dean: Do you want to dare me?
Sam: Yeah, I dare you. I go and you go and we’ll see who backs out. You choose what I sing and I choose what you sing. Well, the singer anyway. And since everyone is dedicating songs to whoever, that too.
Cas: I believe this is not a wise…
Dean and Sam: Shut up, Cas.
Dean: Fine. Deal. Shake?
Sam: Shake. You start or I do?
Dean: You do. What do I sing?
Sam: Well, I’ll be generous and let you choose, but it’s gotta be country music. And not Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Steve Earle or Gram Parsons. Or any of the few ones you consider even remotely serious.
Dean: Fuck. Fine. I’ll give you a choice too. Celine Dion, Mariah Carey or Whitney Huston.
Sam: Dude, that’s low. In comparison you got it easy.
Dean: Fine. Ask them what they got and you get to choose the song too. Like I'd back down.
So Sam had gone to whichever dude was in charge of the music, got himself a list and came back to the table, his legs not exactly straight but whatever, along with a small bottle of water he got from the counter. Then he scanned the list for five minutes, then took a pen and underlined a title three times.
“Take it or leave it, jerk.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dean had said, but he couldn’t back off now. Not when he had given Sam that choice and when he had condemned himself and the bar to have their ears hurting by the end of the song. ‘Cause see, Sam always was a crap singer, but when he was drunk? He got worse.
Still.
So this is how Dean is clenching his glass foreshadowing the pain his ears will suffer in a short while as Sam, after finishing the water bottle in mostly one go, gets on stage and waves around. Some girls actually swoon when he smiles.
Who’d say that the idiot was going through demon blood withdrawal three days ago?
Whatever the hell.
So Sam talks to the guy and then is on the stage and the music dude is all excited.
“And now, our next brave singer… Sam Winchester! Let’s give Sam some cheer, people!”
Sam nods and thanks and grabs the microphone. The more this goes on the more Dean thinks it was an awfully bad idea.
“Sam, before you tell us what you’re going to sing, would you like to dedicate your song to someone if they’re present? You don’t have to but most people do.”
“Oh, sure thing,” Sam slurs, even if he doesn’t sound that drunk anymore. Duh, maybe that’s why he asked for the water before. Dean doesn’t even try to. Dean needs to be very drunk to do this.
“So which is your song and who’s your person?”
When Dean realizes that Sam went for Mariah Carey and Hero of everything he wishes he had never put her in the choices. This is going to be so painful. Then again, he was drunk when he thought it up.
“And I’d love to dedicate it to my brother Dean over there because he doesn’t think he’s one but he should know better.”
A lot of awwwwws starts from half of the room. Dean flushes when Sam says who he is and the music dude asks him if he’ll wave for them.
He needs another drink.
And then the torture starts.
Dean doesn’t know if the worst thing is the lyrics, the music or Sam’s singing; ‘cause he hates Mariah, but at least she ain’t off key.
Also, Sam singing stuff like there’s a hero inside your heart, you don’t have to be afraid of what you are, there’s an answer if you reach into your soul? Jesus. First thing, it’s been established that Dean doesn’t have much of a soul to reach into anymore, if he isn't even able to want or yearn for something or whatever. Or is dead inside. Second thing, damn, someone singing this is supposed to be Lucifer’s vessel? Maybe they should summon the devil and make him witness this. No one would want to possess Sam after.
Shit, Dean is so really drunk if he’s even considering this.
Cas meanwhile is the only person who doesn’t seem at least slightly bothered by Sam being completely off-key, even if at least he’s fucking doing it seriously. Like he’s pouring his heart into it.
So when you feel like hope is gone, look inside you and be strong and you’ll finally see the truth, that a hero lies in you.
Ouuuch. Dean is never going to complain about Bon Jovi ever again.
Even if Castiel now looks fucking touched. What. Meanwhile some girl is shedding a tear and he hears someone saying that even if he ain’t a good singer he really does stuff with his heart.
Right. Sam Winchester to a T, indeed.
You can find love if you search within yourself and the emptiness you felt will disappear, and then a hero comes along with the strength to carry on, and you cast your fears aside and you know you can survive…
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn Sam and cheesy songs and the karaoke and the drinking and Cas saying that Sam really knows him well. He should teach Cas what’s real music someday.
Yeah, good one, especially since he’s the one next and he can’t really chicken out now. Even if… Jesus. Sam is evil. More evil than Dean ever was. How is he supposed to sing that? And dedicate it to someone, too? Damn, he feels like he should pick Sam since Sam picked him, but… someone would probably ask him whether he has incestuous tendencies and then he’d think about all the people writing fanfiction where he and Sam are fucking like bunnies right this moment and he’d throw up and he’d lose by default.
So, no.
Damn. Why did he ever touch alcohol this evening?
There will be tomorrow, in time you’ll find a way.
Dean fucking hates Mariah Carey.
Also, it worries him that Sam hasn’t read the lyrics once. The fucking girl knows it by heart already. What the hell did he do to deserve this? He’s so not ever going to let Sam live this down, even if he probably won’t live down his own stunt, either.
Thankfully it only goes on for another couple of minutes before the dude exclaims ‘A nice applause for Sam!” and people apparently do cheer even if he barely got two notes right in the whole song.
“That was such an enchanting performance,” Cas compliments Sam as he gets back. Dean doesn’t comment and rather groans.
“And… who’s the next one?” the music dude asks, and Dean huffs and stands up.
“That’d be me,” he says as he makes his way over to the stage.
Some girl tells her friend that he has a fantastic ass.
Dean suddenly wants to say yes to Michael right here and right now for a second, then he shudders and goes to talk with the music guy since he has to inform him.
“Dude, did you and your brother dare each other? He could pass for someone with girly tastes after all, but you don't really seem the kind to…”
And well, Dean is wearing the damn leather jacket, of course he isn’t the kind.
“Yeah. Dare, indeed. And yeah, I usually like harder stuff. Of the Metallica kind. Whatever, man, just let’s get on with it.”
“Sure. Which version you want?”
“What?”
“Duh, we have the slow country version, y’know, Alison Krauss, and the more upbeat one. Ronan Keating's, if you...”
Dean wishes he didn’t know the difference. But well, there’s a limit to everything. “Go for the second,” he interrupts. “At least I’m not gonna sing stuff like a goddamn girl.”
The dude nods and Dean goes to the center of the stage, taking the microphone. He feels dizzy. He feels positively drunk but kind of more sober at the same time. Dammit.
“Aaand, this is our next brave singer, Dean Winchester! An applause for Dean, people!”
He wants to disappear when it happens. “Thanks, thanks,” he says trying to stop them. “And I swear, ‘m not as bad as my little brother over there,” he adds, and at least a good half of the room laughs. Sam gives him his drunken seal of disapproval and Dean smirks.
“So, what are you going to sing to us tonight? And you’ll dedicate it to someone?”
“Uh. Yeah and yeah. My song is… uh, When You Say Nothing At All, by… seemingly a hell of a lot of people but for now, well, I guess Ronan Keating in this case.”
One of the girls near the stage says that oh-my-god it will be just so awesome, someone so hot singing that! I bet he has to have such a sexy voice!
Dean wants to die. And then tries to think quick. He can’t dedicate it to Sam unless he wants everyone to think he likes his brother that way. He won’t dedicate it to dead people or not present people because just, no. And he won’t back out, even if he’s sure that Sam won’t hold it against him if he does. But…
It leaves…
Suddenly something warm uncurls in his stomach, despite himself, but… it might be that he’s drunk, but he has a flash of last night, when he had gone outside in the yard again wondering if he should just go, say yes and fuck it all and then suddenly Cas was there and had stuck there for hours without even saying a word. He had just sat down next to Dean and hadn’t done anything except tentatively bring an arm around his waist when Dean’s head had dropped on Cas’ shoulder in a moment when he felt just so tired. And suddenly saying yes didn’t seem such a solution anymore. And it’s followed by another couple of similar flashes, one of which is being in an alley behind a whorehouse laughing harder than he had in years.
Fuck this, he decides. If he makes an ass of himself, he’ll say he was wasted, which isn’t technically a lie. Also, he can’t do more chick flick than Sam anyway. At least he isn’t singing stuff by a goddamn female pop singer. Yeah, fine, male pop singer, but it still beats it.
Also, it’s not like he’s picking Cas just because he’s the only candidate. He’s kind of sure that in his own twisted way Sam had meant what he said before and… he’d be sort of meaning it now. Maybe it won’t hurt too much.
“And uh, it’s for… for… for my friend Cas over there,” he blurts, eying their table. “Because, uh, he needs to hear it too. I think.”
“Great! A nice applause! Cas, can you wave at us?”
Cas sort of does, but looks at Dean like he can’t believe that he has just done this. Even if he doesn’t seem angry. He seems a mix of surprised, honored, awed and fuck, he’s smiling that hint of a smile of his directly at Dean like the whole room isn’t watching them.
And then the music starts and Dean is thankful that some girl he fooled around with in 1999 was obsessed with this piece of crap because while he’ll need to check the words at least he won’t miss beats and he remembers it fairly decently.
Okay, time to man up, he thinks, and starts on cue.
“It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart…” he starts, aware that he’s blushing crimson by this point and that his voice is shaking. And that he sounds absolutely not convinced of what the hell he's doing. “Without saying a word, you can light up the dark… try as I may, I could never explain… what I hear when you don’t say a thing…”
He takes a breath, glad that he hasn’t butchered anything until now, or not too much; and while it’s corny as hell, it’s not like it isn’t true. After all, he never really needs to talk to Cas. Like last night. Or the one before. Or the afternoon five days ago when Sam was screaming out of his mind and if Cas hadn’t been present Dean would have probably smashed the Impala again.
“The smile on your face lets me know that you need me, there’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me…” he keeps on, his voice still shaking a bit, feeling completely out of his element; and then he raises his eyes and meets Castiel’s and oh. If Cas was looking at Sam with admiration before, now he’s looking at Dean like… like he gets it as usual, and… suddenly the next two lines don’t hurt his sense of dignity that much. Not that he'll say it out loud even under torture. “The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me whenever I fall… you say it best when you say nothing at all,” he finishes, and good, first refrain done, just another half to go and then he's done, but he’s still holding Cas’ stare and oh crap, they’re right in one of their staring contests in front of an entire bar and…
He’s glad he doesn’t have to look at the screen. He’s fine with looking at Cas, really.
“All day long I can hear people talking out loud, but when you hold me near, you drown out the crowd…” and fuck, well, isn’t that exactly what they’re doing right this moment? Except the holding part, but well. “Try as they may they could never define, what’s been said between your heart and mine…” he keeps on, putting the hand not holding the microphone in a pocket of his jacket because he feels like he needs to drown into it in order not to cringe at the lyrics; and goddammit, Cas is still looking at him that way and there are butterflies everywhere inside him all of a sudden and it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t...
He doesn’t…
He shouldn’t feel any kind of butterflies if there was nothing inside, right?
He tries to ignore it and keeps on. “The smile on your face lets me know that you need me, there’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me,” and damn, why does his heart skip a beat when Cas gives him a small nod? “The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me whenever I fall… you say it best, when you say nothing at all…” he ends, and if he's kind of getting half into it, well, it's not like he's ever going to live this shit down anyway.
He doesn’t have time to feel ashamed because he’s still holding Cas’ gaze and his short break is almost over.
“The smile on your face lets me know that you need me, there’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me,” he starts again, the music slowing down when it almost stops. And yes, he’s still staring right into Cas’ eyes when he starts again, his voice a bit lower. “The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me, whenever I fall… you say it best… when you say nothing at all,” he sings slowly, and for some reason it feels kind of good to just do something stupid like this without giving a damn, and he gets ready to finish. If he isn’t wrong, Cas’ eyes are actually sort of fucking wet.
That's when he realizes he never had a talk of the kind with Cas. He never told him thanks once, just assuming that he’d know without Dean needing to talk about his fucking feelings. Maybe he knew after all, but hearing it… now Dean is sorry it ended up happening like this (especially because he'd have stuck to a simple thank you instead of, you know, the singing), but of course Cas wouldn’t have an idea. Fuck, sometimes he really is a jerk.
And he needs to be done with this right now or he’ll do something embarrassing. “The smile on your face, the truth in your eyes, the touch of your hand lets me know that you need me…” he trails away as the music does, too, and fuck if this isn’t the closest he has seen Cas to glowing.
And then there’s silence and before the guy can tell people to give him a nice applause, a couple of girls start clapping wildly and the fucking entire bar is and then one of them says why is it that all the good ones are gay or taken? and Dean realizes that at this point everyone probably thinks that he and Cas must be an item and it’s too much.
He’s drunk, he has maybe slept a total of eight hours in the last four days, he feels like he can’t stand, he just sang karaoke and a goddamn crap country/pop song just because his idiotic brother dared him to and basically told Cas that…
Fuck. He has stood up to his dare. No one will blame him if he faints, even if it isn’t exactly manly.
A second later, everything goes black.
--
He wakes up on a couch he doesn’t recognize with a hammer in his head and still feeling not exactly sober, and the first thing he meets is blue eyes. Deep, clear blue eyes that can only belong to one person.
“… Cas? where…”
“The back of the bar. You fainted on the stage and we brought you here. Sam caught a ride from the man in charge of the karaoke and told me to tell you that you really are a girl. I do not understand why…”
“Let it go. How come we’re in the back if it’s closed?”
“Well, we’re actually locked in.”
“What?!”
“Dean. You were not in condition to drive, Sam wasn’t either and I suspect you wouldn’t have appreciated me driving your car without asking you first and without practical experience. The owner said that this room has a bathroom and a couch and is comfortable enough. Tomorrow morning we’ll go when he opens the bar. Your car is in the parking lot, by the way.”
“… uh. Shit. My head fucking hurts.”
“He also told me to give you these,” Cas says handing Dean some aspirin and water. Dean sits up against the arm of the couch, which at least is comfortable enough, and gulps them down. It doesn’t do wonders but it helps with the headache.
“Thanks,” he mutters, and he hopes that Cas gets that it’s not just about the aspirin. Cas squirms a bit in his seat and brings it closer to the couch.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“About… I think we should… talk? Or if you don’t wish so…”
Dean doesn’t exactly want to talk about it. Hell, no. He wants to bury it deep and forget about it, or at least that’s what his instincts say. He has done that for all of his life, it’d be easy to do it now. Except that he just wants to quit everything and he doesn’t know if it’s worth it. Dean shakes his head and decides that it’s time to cut all the crap. He doesn’t want to but has to admit that can’t do this on his own, not anymore; and he doesn’t want to just shrug things off this time, not when, pathetic as it may sound, that stupid karaoke was the first time in months when he actually felt anything close to not metaphorically dead, and if embarrassment was at least half of it well, it's still better than nothing.
He isn’t sure if he should try to forget it. And all this time Cas has stuck like no one else in his life has stuck; he deserves an explanation, because it’s not like Dean was forced to choose someone or anything. And he isn’t sure that he can blame all of this on the alcohol. Maybe he’s not equipped to deal with everything on his own anymore and he just needs to suck it up and accept it.
“Listen. That song sucks ass. The lyrics are corny and the music is chick flick. Alison Krauss is a fucking woman and a country singer and the only four women I’ll ever consider listening to are Patti Smith, Lita Ford, Janis Joplin and Joan Jett. And Ronan Keating was in fucking Boyzone which is as bad as chick flick country songs.”
“I believe I don’t understand this…”
Dean is perfectly aware that he’s totally rambling by this point, but it doesn’t want to stop. Also, good to know that Cas doesn’t have an idea of who the hell Boyzone are, or were, or whatever. “Lemme finish. Also, it’s country, and country is evil. Unless it’s Johnny Cash. Johnny Cash is awesome, not evil. Anyway. That was the premise, which is, I don’t like that song. And I never will. But… I meant it. More or less. Without all the cheese and the sugar, but I meant it and I don’t even…”
“You don’t even what?”
“I’m fucking tired. I’ve been shoving stuff inside and just kept on going all my life and when that other son of a bitch said I was dead I just… figured he was right because that was it. And damn, I just… while I was there making a fool of myself singing fucking country music while freaking staring at you I didn’t… it was…”
He realizes he isn’t making any sense and that Cas is probably confused as fuck here, but he doesn’t dare raising his head. He can’t do this if he looks at Cas right now.
“It felt good. But not because of the singing. That was fucking embarrassing. You just, you were looking at me like I wasn’t, and…”
He has to be still very, very drunk, otherwise he wouldn’t be talking as much and he’d make a lot more of sense, but suddenly he stops because Cas has ditched the chair to sit on the couch; after all it’s huge and there’s some space between Dean’s legs and the end of the cushion. Dean leans back against the arm of the couch and damn, he wishes his head wasn’t pounding. He sucks a breath in when Cas (who ditched the coat and the jacket) moves tentatively closer and touches his arm, lightly.
“You aren’t,” he simply says, not needing to add anything else, and if Dean hadn’t known that he needed someone to say it, now he knows because for some reason those butterflies return along with a warmth spreading from where Cas is touching him to… fucking everywhere. “You never were,” Cas adds softly, and when Dean sags forward because it’s too much and he’ll fucking burst, a hand catches the small of his back breaking his fall and he finds himself clutching at Cas’ shirt while Cas’ other hand reaches behind his neck.
“You aren’t,” Cas whispers again, and fuck if he isn’t… literally… speaking to his heart.
Fuck. He still has to be drunk. He wouldn’t even think such a stupid thing otherwise.
“And Dean?”
“Yeah?” he asks, still against Cas’ neck, not really feeling like moving anytime soon. He just doesn’t have the strength to, not when he feels like Cas is there holding him together before he falls apart when holding shit together it’s the one thing he did all his life and see how great he did.
“First, that song is not really that bad as you think. Second… as much as it is and it will be possible for me… the reverse is valid, too.”
It takes Dean some thirty seconds to realize it. He can’t exactly think coherently after all.
You’ll catch me whenever I fall. There’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave. Lets me know that you need me.
Shit, shit, shit. If he understood right, it means that…
“Well, not bad for not being someone who perches on people’s shoulders,” he whispers trying to change the mood because he’s just so not saying it, but Cas’ lips suddenly cover his for a split second before he moves away obviously thinking he shouldn’t have; Dean drags him back when he tries to go and shakes his head, not really knowing what to say at that but knowing he needs to act.
He kisses Cas then, keeping a hand behind the angel’s neck, and while he doesn’t try to make the kiss too passionate he makes clear that it’s not friendly at all; he doesn’t even want it to be friendly. It feels so good to kiss someone and feel something, and the way Cas is kissing him back, thoroughly, slowly, his tongue tracing Dean’s lips over and over, like a goddamn pro and like he really, really wants this, makes Dean feel dizzy on top of his headache and residual drunkenness. When they part it's just there, written in Cas’ eyes, and Dean would feel embarrassed and totally ashamed if he was in the right frame of mind because it’s too much. But he nods, acknowledging it, and Cas doesn’t speak; he just lays down, too, and Dean lets himself close his eyes. He can’t help thinking that it’s been months since he slept with someone; he thinks he had forgotten how good can it feel when there’s a comfortable, warm weight against you and it’s all you can think about.
Damn, this isn't how it usually works. It's just not his thing. Except that he really can’t or won’t complain about it. Which probably means he’s losing it, but he doesn’t mind right this moment.
Especially because he definitely doesn’t feel dead, not when he can feel his heart about ready to burst from his chest and the slow beat of Cas’ against his frame.
No one says anything, but it’s fine.
They both say it better when they say nothing at all. If it’s absolutely chick flick, so be it.
End.
Title: When You Say Nothing At All
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam
Rating: PG for swearing, mostly.
Wordcount: 5200
Spoilers: heavy for 5x14. (Actually, it's kind of a whacked tag.)
Warnings: karaoke, Sam singing Mariah Carey, smash of canon angsting with probably unrepentant schmoop (I mean, you've seen the title), drunk people who don't necessarily think straight and karaoke.
Disclaimer: SPN isn't mine and nothing else is either. Thankfully, I dare say.
Summary: where Dean and Sam are wasted, Castiel is the only sober one, dares happen, karaoke happens and Dean dedicates country songs to Castiel even if he hates country music and it's totally chick flick, except that Castiel doesn't care anyway.
A/N: imora_mi_savur has her share of Twitter-guilt for this and I won't really start going into it if only to preserve my mental sanity. It was supposed to be crack. Then it took a life of its own and became a 5x14 coda which is why it isn't exactly total crack. And just to be clear: why I won't deny liking When You Say Nothing At All, I hate Mariah Carey.
It happens because Dean is drunk. No, there's no other reason.
Correction. Dean isn’t drunk. Dean is wasted, though it’s the kind of wasted where you do and say stupid shit but can actually stand on your feet while doing so. And Sam is as wasted as he is, if not more. Actually, scratch it; Sam has to be more drunk than Dean is for two reasons. One, because he never could fucking hold his alcohol; two, because he was the one daring him with the karaoke.
Of course, Dean actually accepted the dare, which is indeed a proof that he’s wasted. Otherwise he’d have never done such a thing. Sam is enough of a girl that he’d have done it even without the drinking, but Dean? Not a fucking chance.
Alright, maybe doing a short recap wouldn’t be a bad idea. That’s how things went down, more or less.
So, Cas (who, by the way, is a goddamn fucking cheater since he has drunk as much as Dean and he’s barely tipsy), who notoriously doesn’t know how to mind his fucking business (then again, he doesn’t still get personal space, so if he doesn’t know privacy he probably can’t know how to mind his fucking business), had a talk with Sam some three days after the worst of his withdrawal passed, hallelujah, and of course he had to report to his brother all the conversation with Famine.
Apparently eating fucking raw meat doesn’t mean you block out what other people say.
Whatever the hell.
By the way, Dean wasn’t there. Dean was outside having a beer and working on the car and trying not to think about that fucked up emptiness gnawing at him from the inside which just got worse after the whole second horseman shebang.
Anyway, Sam had decided that fuck it, really, fuck it, they were going to have fun, whether they wanted or not, at least for one night.
Dean had argued that you can’t have fun if you feel like shit, but Sam had forced him into the car with the angel in the backseat and drove them into town. Bobby had shouted don’t crash anywhere, you three idjits, and that had been all.
Clearly, since Sam had been the one to organize the whole thing, he got to choose the bar. Not that Dean would have even chosen (he’d have just gone into the first he saw) and like Cas had an idea, but anyway. And since the target was having fun, Sam chose the one where they had fucking karaoke, because, as he said, seeing other people totally embarrassing themselves? It can’t get more fun than that, and having fun is what they need. Cas had said that it sounded mean, Sam assured that if you sing karaoke then you know that you’re going to make yourself ridiculous and then they got in.
Whatever. Not that it made any difference to Dean.
He just didn’t give a fuck and he wasn’t feeling any better.
Anyway, after the first three people he was feeling physically ill and when Sam ordered drinks, he decided to have one even if he didn’t exactly feel like drinking. Still, maybe sobriety wasn’t the right choice while listening to some selected teenagers from Sioux Falls butcher Britney Spears, and it takes a lot to butcher something that isn’t even music to begin with.
Anyway, Sam had declared the evening a drinking contest.
Cas had obviously won that, since half an hour later he was still sober.
And Dean and Sam were, as previously stated, wasted.
So you know, when you’re drunk you’re apt to say and do stupid shit. That was what happened. It went more or less like this:
Dean: Fuuuck, if you know you can’t sing just fuckin’ don’t. Never thought I’d re-evaluate Barbra Streisand.
Sam: Dean, dammit. Why do you always need to complain? They’re havin’ their fun, they
don’t care ‘bout in key or off key or what the fuck ever and they’re enjoying themselves.
Dean: Whatever.
Cas: I believe the both of you have had enough to drink.
Dean: Shut the fuck up and gimme another shot.
Sam: Geez, d’you even know what does it mean to enjoy yourself?
Dean: Yeah I do, thank you so much.
Cas: I believe he enjoyed himself when we were at that den of iniquity, even if I did not…
Sam (after a minute during which he reflected on what could den of iniquity possibly mean): You took an angel to a brothel?
Dean: So fuckin’ what?
Sam: Dude, your idea of fun is… fucked… up. An’ I’m sure that you wouldn’t have an inch of the guts it takes to go up there.
Dean: Are you fucking daring me? I’ve fucking spent forty years in Hell, you think I can’t handle some girly shit like that? Fuck you. You’re the one who’d chicken out ‘cause you can’t sing worth a dime and you know it.
Sam: No, you wouldn’t do it ‘cause you’re a self-conscious son of a bitch who wouldn’t really do that.
Dean: Do you want to dare me?
Sam: Yeah, I dare you. I go and you go and we’ll see who backs out. You choose what I sing and I choose what you sing. Well, the singer anyway. And since everyone is dedicating songs to whoever, that too.
Cas: I believe this is not a wise…
Dean and Sam: Shut up, Cas.
Dean: Fine. Deal. Shake?
Sam: Shake. You start or I do?
Dean: You do. What do I sing?
Sam: Well, I’ll be generous and let you choose, but it’s gotta be country music. And not Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Steve Earle or Gram Parsons. Or any of the few ones you consider even remotely serious.
Dean: Fuck. Fine. I’ll give you a choice too. Celine Dion, Mariah Carey or Whitney Huston.
Sam: Dude, that’s low. In comparison you got it easy.
Dean: Fine. Ask them what they got and you get to choose the song too. Like I'd back down.
So Sam had gone to whichever dude was in charge of the music, got himself a list and came back to the table, his legs not exactly straight but whatever, along with a small bottle of water he got from the counter. Then he scanned the list for five minutes, then took a pen and underlined a title three times.
“Take it or leave it, jerk.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dean had said, but he couldn’t back off now. Not when he had given Sam that choice and when he had condemned himself and the bar to have their ears hurting by the end of the song. ‘Cause see, Sam always was a crap singer, but when he was drunk? He got worse.
Still.
So this is how Dean is clenching his glass foreshadowing the pain his ears will suffer in a short while as Sam, after finishing the water bottle in mostly one go, gets on stage and waves around. Some girls actually swoon when he smiles.
Who’d say that the idiot was going through demon blood withdrawal three days ago?
Whatever the hell.
So Sam talks to the guy and then is on the stage and the music dude is all excited.
“And now, our next brave singer… Sam Winchester! Let’s give Sam some cheer, people!”
Sam nods and thanks and grabs the microphone. The more this goes on the more Dean thinks it was an awfully bad idea.
“Sam, before you tell us what you’re going to sing, would you like to dedicate your song to someone if they’re present? You don’t have to but most people do.”
“Oh, sure thing,” Sam slurs, even if he doesn’t sound that drunk anymore. Duh, maybe that’s why he asked for the water before. Dean doesn’t even try to. Dean needs to be very drunk to do this.
“So which is your song and who’s your person?”
When Dean realizes that Sam went for Mariah Carey and Hero of everything he wishes he had never put her in the choices. This is going to be so painful. Then again, he was drunk when he thought it up.
“And I’d love to dedicate it to my brother Dean over there because he doesn’t think he’s one but he should know better.”
A lot of awwwwws starts from half of the room. Dean flushes when Sam says who he is and the music dude asks him if he’ll wave for them.
He needs another drink.
And then the torture starts.
Dean doesn’t know if the worst thing is the lyrics, the music or Sam’s singing; ‘cause he hates Mariah, but at least she ain’t off key.
Also, Sam singing stuff like there’s a hero inside your heart, you don’t have to be afraid of what you are, there’s an answer if you reach into your soul? Jesus. First thing, it’s been established that Dean doesn’t have much of a soul to reach into anymore, if he isn't even able to want or yearn for something or whatever. Or is dead inside. Second thing, damn, someone singing this is supposed to be Lucifer’s vessel? Maybe they should summon the devil and make him witness this. No one would want to possess Sam after.
Shit, Dean is so really drunk if he’s even considering this.
Cas meanwhile is the only person who doesn’t seem at least slightly bothered by Sam being completely off-key, even if at least he’s fucking doing it seriously. Like he’s pouring his heart into it.
So when you feel like hope is gone, look inside you and be strong and you’ll finally see the truth, that a hero lies in you.
Ouuuch. Dean is never going to complain about Bon Jovi ever again.
Even if Castiel now looks fucking touched. What. Meanwhile some girl is shedding a tear and he hears someone saying that even if he ain’t a good singer he really does stuff with his heart.
Right. Sam Winchester to a T, indeed.
You can find love if you search within yourself and the emptiness you felt will disappear, and then a hero comes along with the strength to carry on, and you cast your fears aside and you know you can survive…
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn Sam and cheesy songs and the karaoke and the drinking and Cas saying that Sam really knows him well. He should teach Cas what’s real music someday.
Yeah, good one, especially since he’s the one next and he can’t really chicken out now. Even if… Jesus. Sam is evil. More evil than Dean ever was. How is he supposed to sing that? And dedicate it to someone, too? Damn, he feels like he should pick Sam since Sam picked him, but… someone would probably ask him whether he has incestuous tendencies and then he’d think about all the people writing fanfiction where he and Sam are fucking like bunnies right this moment and he’d throw up and he’d lose by default.
So, no.
Damn. Why did he ever touch alcohol this evening?
There will be tomorrow, in time you’ll find a way.
Dean fucking hates Mariah Carey.
Also, it worries him that Sam hasn’t read the lyrics once. The fucking girl knows it by heart already. What the hell did he do to deserve this? He’s so not ever going to let Sam live this down, even if he probably won’t live down his own stunt, either.
Thankfully it only goes on for another couple of minutes before the dude exclaims ‘A nice applause for Sam!” and people apparently do cheer even if he barely got two notes right in the whole song.
“That was such an enchanting performance,” Cas compliments Sam as he gets back. Dean doesn’t comment and rather groans.
“And… who’s the next one?” the music dude asks, and Dean huffs and stands up.
“That’d be me,” he says as he makes his way over to the stage.
Some girl tells her friend that he has a fantastic ass.
Dean suddenly wants to say yes to Michael right here and right now for a second, then he shudders and goes to talk with the music guy since he has to inform him.
“Dude, did you and your brother dare each other? He could pass for someone with girly tastes after all, but you don't really seem the kind to…”
And well, Dean is wearing the damn leather jacket, of course he isn’t the kind.
“Yeah. Dare, indeed. And yeah, I usually like harder stuff. Of the Metallica kind. Whatever, man, just let’s get on with it.”
“Sure. Which version you want?”
“What?”
“Duh, we have the slow country version, y’know, Alison Krauss, and the more upbeat one. Ronan Keating's, if you...”
Dean wishes he didn’t know the difference. But well, there’s a limit to everything. “Go for the second,” he interrupts. “At least I’m not gonna sing stuff like a goddamn girl.”
The dude nods and Dean goes to the center of the stage, taking the microphone. He feels dizzy. He feels positively drunk but kind of more sober at the same time. Dammit.
“Aaand, this is our next brave singer, Dean Winchester! An applause for Dean, people!”
He wants to disappear when it happens. “Thanks, thanks,” he says trying to stop them. “And I swear, ‘m not as bad as my little brother over there,” he adds, and at least a good half of the room laughs. Sam gives him his drunken seal of disapproval and Dean smirks.
“So, what are you going to sing to us tonight? And you’ll dedicate it to someone?”
“Uh. Yeah and yeah. My song is… uh, When You Say Nothing At All, by… seemingly a hell of a lot of people but for now, well, I guess Ronan Keating in this case.”
One of the girls near the stage says that oh-my-god it will be just so awesome, someone so hot singing that! I bet he has to have such a sexy voice!
Dean wants to die. And then tries to think quick. He can’t dedicate it to Sam unless he wants everyone to think he likes his brother that way. He won’t dedicate it to dead people or not present people because just, no. And he won’t back out, even if he’s sure that Sam won’t hold it against him if he does. But…
It leaves…
Suddenly something warm uncurls in his stomach, despite himself, but… it might be that he’s drunk, but he has a flash of last night, when he had gone outside in the yard again wondering if he should just go, say yes and fuck it all and then suddenly Cas was there and had stuck there for hours without even saying a word. He had just sat down next to Dean and hadn’t done anything except tentatively bring an arm around his waist when Dean’s head had dropped on Cas’ shoulder in a moment when he felt just so tired. And suddenly saying yes didn’t seem such a solution anymore. And it’s followed by another couple of similar flashes, one of which is being in an alley behind a whorehouse laughing harder than he had in years.
Fuck this, he decides. If he makes an ass of himself, he’ll say he was wasted, which isn’t technically a lie. Also, he can’t do more chick flick than Sam anyway. At least he isn’t singing stuff by a goddamn female pop singer. Yeah, fine, male pop singer, but it still beats it.
Also, it’s not like he’s picking Cas just because he’s the only candidate. He’s kind of sure that in his own twisted way Sam had meant what he said before and… he’d be sort of meaning it now. Maybe it won’t hurt too much.
“And uh, it’s for… for… for my friend Cas over there,” he blurts, eying their table. “Because, uh, he needs to hear it too. I think.”
“Great! A nice applause! Cas, can you wave at us?”
Cas sort of does, but looks at Dean like he can’t believe that he has just done this. Even if he doesn’t seem angry. He seems a mix of surprised, honored, awed and fuck, he’s smiling that hint of a smile of his directly at Dean like the whole room isn’t watching them.
And then the music starts and Dean is thankful that some girl he fooled around with in 1999 was obsessed with this piece of crap because while he’ll need to check the words at least he won’t miss beats and he remembers it fairly decently.
Okay, time to man up, he thinks, and starts on cue.
“It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart…” he starts, aware that he’s blushing crimson by this point and that his voice is shaking. And that he sounds absolutely not convinced of what the hell he's doing. “Without saying a word, you can light up the dark… try as I may, I could never explain… what I hear when you don’t say a thing…”
He takes a breath, glad that he hasn’t butchered anything until now, or not too much; and while it’s corny as hell, it’s not like it isn’t true. After all, he never really needs to talk to Cas. Like last night. Or the one before. Or the afternoon five days ago when Sam was screaming out of his mind and if Cas hadn’t been present Dean would have probably smashed the Impala again.
“The smile on your face lets me know that you need me, there’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me…” he keeps on, his voice still shaking a bit, feeling completely out of his element; and then he raises his eyes and meets Castiel’s and oh. If Cas was looking at Sam with admiration before, now he’s looking at Dean like… like he gets it as usual, and… suddenly the next two lines don’t hurt his sense of dignity that much. Not that he'll say it out loud even under torture. “The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me whenever I fall… you say it best when you say nothing at all,” he finishes, and good, first refrain done, just another half to go and then he's done, but he’s still holding Cas’ stare and oh crap, they’re right in one of their staring contests in front of an entire bar and…
He’s glad he doesn’t have to look at the screen. He’s fine with looking at Cas, really.
“All day long I can hear people talking out loud, but when you hold me near, you drown out the crowd…” and fuck, well, isn’t that exactly what they’re doing right this moment? Except the holding part, but well. “Try as they may they could never define, what’s been said between your heart and mine…” he keeps on, putting the hand not holding the microphone in a pocket of his jacket because he feels like he needs to drown into it in order not to cringe at the lyrics; and goddammit, Cas is still looking at him that way and there are butterflies everywhere inside him all of a sudden and it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t...
He doesn’t…
He shouldn’t feel any kind of butterflies if there was nothing inside, right?
He tries to ignore it and keeps on. “The smile on your face lets me know that you need me, there’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me,” and damn, why does his heart skip a beat when Cas gives him a small nod? “The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me whenever I fall… you say it best, when you say nothing at all…” he ends, and if he's kind of getting half into it, well, it's not like he's ever going to live this shit down anyway.
He doesn’t have time to feel ashamed because he’s still holding Cas’ gaze and his short break is almost over.
“The smile on your face lets me know that you need me, there’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave me,” he starts again, the music slowing down when it almost stops. And yes, he’s still staring right into Cas’ eyes when he starts again, his voice a bit lower. “The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me, whenever I fall… you say it best… when you say nothing at all,” he sings slowly, and for some reason it feels kind of good to just do something stupid like this without giving a damn, and he gets ready to finish. If he isn’t wrong, Cas’ eyes are actually sort of fucking wet.
That's when he realizes he never had a talk of the kind with Cas. He never told him thanks once, just assuming that he’d know without Dean needing to talk about his fucking feelings. Maybe he knew after all, but hearing it… now Dean is sorry it ended up happening like this (especially because he'd have stuck to a simple thank you instead of, you know, the singing), but of course Cas wouldn’t have an idea. Fuck, sometimes he really is a jerk.
And he needs to be done with this right now or he’ll do something embarrassing. “The smile on your face, the truth in your eyes, the touch of your hand lets me know that you need me…” he trails away as the music does, too, and fuck if this isn’t the closest he has seen Cas to glowing.
And then there’s silence and before the guy can tell people to give him a nice applause, a couple of girls start clapping wildly and the fucking entire bar is and then one of them says why is it that all the good ones are gay or taken? and Dean realizes that at this point everyone probably thinks that he and Cas must be an item and it’s too much.
He’s drunk, he has maybe slept a total of eight hours in the last four days, he feels like he can’t stand, he just sang karaoke and a goddamn crap country/pop song just because his idiotic brother dared him to and basically told Cas that…
Fuck. He has stood up to his dare. No one will blame him if he faints, even if it isn’t exactly manly.
A second later, everything goes black.
--
He wakes up on a couch he doesn’t recognize with a hammer in his head and still feeling not exactly sober, and the first thing he meets is blue eyes. Deep, clear blue eyes that can only belong to one person.
“… Cas? where…”
“The back of the bar. You fainted on the stage and we brought you here. Sam caught a ride from the man in charge of the karaoke and told me to tell you that you really are a girl. I do not understand why…”
“Let it go. How come we’re in the back if it’s closed?”
“Well, we’re actually locked in.”
“What?!”
“Dean. You were not in condition to drive, Sam wasn’t either and I suspect you wouldn’t have appreciated me driving your car without asking you first and without practical experience. The owner said that this room has a bathroom and a couch and is comfortable enough. Tomorrow morning we’ll go when he opens the bar. Your car is in the parking lot, by the way.”
“… uh. Shit. My head fucking hurts.”
“He also told me to give you these,” Cas says handing Dean some aspirin and water. Dean sits up against the arm of the couch, which at least is comfortable enough, and gulps them down. It doesn’t do wonders but it helps with the headache.
“Thanks,” he mutters, and he hopes that Cas gets that it’s not just about the aspirin. Cas squirms a bit in his seat and brings it closer to the couch.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“About… I think we should… talk? Or if you don’t wish so…”
Dean doesn’t exactly want to talk about it. Hell, no. He wants to bury it deep and forget about it, or at least that’s what his instincts say. He has done that for all of his life, it’d be easy to do it now. Except that he just wants to quit everything and he doesn’t know if it’s worth it. Dean shakes his head and decides that it’s time to cut all the crap. He doesn’t want to but has to admit that can’t do this on his own, not anymore; and he doesn’t want to just shrug things off this time, not when, pathetic as it may sound, that stupid karaoke was the first time in months when he actually felt anything close to not metaphorically dead, and if embarrassment was at least half of it well, it's still better than nothing.
He isn’t sure if he should try to forget it. And all this time Cas has stuck like no one else in his life has stuck; he deserves an explanation, because it’s not like Dean was forced to choose someone or anything. And he isn’t sure that he can blame all of this on the alcohol. Maybe he’s not equipped to deal with everything on his own anymore and he just needs to suck it up and accept it.
“Listen. That song sucks ass. The lyrics are corny and the music is chick flick. Alison Krauss is a fucking woman and a country singer and the only four women I’ll ever consider listening to are Patti Smith, Lita Ford, Janis Joplin and Joan Jett. And Ronan Keating was in fucking Boyzone which is as bad as chick flick country songs.”
“I believe I don’t understand this…”
Dean is perfectly aware that he’s totally rambling by this point, but it doesn’t want to stop. Also, good to know that Cas doesn’t have an idea of who the hell Boyzone are, or were, or whatever. “Lemme finish. Also, it’s country, and country is evil. Unless it’s Johnny Cash. Johnny Cash is awesome, not evil. Anyway. That was the premise, which is, I don’t like that song. And I never will. But… I meant it. More or less. Without all the cheese and the sugar, but I meant it and I don’t even…”
“You don’t even what?”
“I’m fucking tired. I’ve been shoving stuff inside and just kept on going all my life and when that other son of a bitch said I was dead I just… figured he was right because that was it. And damn, I just… while I was there making a fool of myself singing fucking country music while freaking staring at you I didn’t… it was…”
He realizes he isn’t making any sense and that Cas is probably confused as fuck here, but he doesn’t dare raising his head. He can’t do this if he looks at Cas right now.
“It felt good. But not because of the singing. That was fucking embarrassing. You just, you were looking at me like I wasn’t, and…”
He has to be still very, very drunk, otherwise he wouldn’t be talking as much and he’d make a lot more of sense, but suddenly he stops because Cas has ditched the chair to sit on the couch; after all it’s huge and there’s some space between Dean’s legs and the end of the cushion. Dean leans back against the arm of the couch and damn, he wishes his head wasn’t pounding. He sucks a breath in when Cas (who ditched the coat and the jacket) moves tentatively closer and touches his arm, lightly.
“You aren’t,” he simply says, not needing to add anything else, and if Dean hadn’t known that he needed someone to say it, now he knows because for some reason those butterflies return along with a warmth spreading from where Cas is touching him to… fucking everywhere. “You never were,” Cas adds softly, and when Dean sags forward because it’s too much and he’ll fucking burst, a hand catches the small of his back breaking his fall and he finds himself clutching at Cas’ shirt while Cas’ other hand reaches behind his neck.
“You aren’t,” Cas whispers again, and fuck if he isn’t… literally… speaking to his heart.
Fuck. He still has to be drunk. He wouldn’t even think such a stupid thing otherwise.
“And Dean?”
“Yeah?” he asks, still against Cas’ neck, not really feeling like moving anytime soon. He just doesn’t have the strength to, not when he feels like Cas is there holding him together before he falls apart when holding shit together it’s the one thing he did all his life and see how great he did.
“First, that song is not really that bad as you think. Second… as much as it is and it will be possible for me… the reverse is valid, too.”
It takes Dean some thirty seconds to realize it. He can’t exactly think coherently after all.
You’ll catch me whenever I fall. There’s a truth in your eyes saying you’ll never leave. Lets me know that you need me.
Shit, shit, shit. If he understood right, it means that…
“Well, not bad for not being someone who perches on people’s shoulders,” he whispers trying to change the mood because he’s just so not saying it, but Cas’ lips suddenly cover his for a split second before he moves away obviously thinking he shouldn’t have; Dean drags him back when he tries to go and shakes his head, not really knowing what to say at that but knowing he needs to act.
He kisses Cas then, keeping a hand behind the angel’s neck, and while he doesn’t try to make the kiss too passionate he makes clear that it’s not friendly at all; he doesn’t even want it to be friendly. It feels so good to kiss someone and feel something, and the way Cas is kissing him back, thoroughly, slowly, his tongue tracing Dean’s lips over and over, like a goddamn pro and like he really, really wants this, makes Dean feel dizzy on top of his headache and residual drunkenness. When they part it's just there, written in Cas’ eyes, and Dean would feel embarrassed and totally ashamed if he was in the right frame of mind because it’s too much. But he nods, acknowledging it, and Cas doesn’t speak; he just lays down, too, and Dean lets himself close his eyes. He can’t help thinking that it’s been months since he slept with someone; he thinks he had forgotten how good can it feel when there’s a comfortable, warm weight against you and it’s all you can think about.
Damn, this isn't how it usually works. It's just not his thing. Except that he really can’t or won’t complain about it. Which probably means he’s losing it, but he doesn’t mind right this moment.
Especially because he definitely doesn’t feel dead, not when he can feel his heart about ready to burst from his chest and the slow beat of Cas’ against his frame.
No one says anything, but it’s fine.
They both say it better when they say nothing at all. If it’s absolutely chick flick, so be it.
End.