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It's the screaming that wakes him first. Cas' hoarse voice echoing through the small house as Dean stumbles out of bed and down the hall. His fingers closed around a knife, long blessed and etched with protective symbols as he bursts into Cas' room.
In the bed, Cas writhes, gritting his teeth and twisting the sheets as Dean exhales forcefully.
Nightmares are nothing new.
Nightmares about a hellish entity that most know nothing about? Also nothing new.
It doesn't mean that it doesn't break Dean's heart to see someone suffering, especially when that person is Cas. Dean doesn’t have words to describe what Cas is to him, only that he is the lodestone that pulls Dean back over and over again. If pressed, Dean thinks he’d say that Cas is everything from partners to family to a best friend, and everything in between.
If Dean were different, in any way, he would call Cas his soulmate; even if soulmates were for other people.
He drops the knife onto the nightstand, crouching next to the bed, watching Cas’ face screwed up into a grimace, as if he’s in pain.
"Cas," Dean calls out from a healthy distance away, waiting for Cas' usual light sleep to interrupt at his voice.
Cas isn't screaming any longer, at least.
Instead, he's breathing harshly through clenched teeth, muscles in the side of his neck and jaw standing out in sharp relief of the bathroom light. Dean knee-walks forward, closer to the bed, grimacing when his knees crunch and protest for a moment, looking at the soft fan of Cas' eyelashes against his cheek.
Cas whines in his sleep, as if he can hear Dean but can’t reach him. He twists in the sheets, pulling the fitted sheet from the mattress as Dean creeps closer, laying a hand on Cas' forearm.
"Cas, come on, buddy," Dean says carefully, squeezing his forearm.
Dean expects him to come awake with a shout; maybe a swing of a sleep-heavy arm, anything but the soft cry and a flutter of those long lashes. He sounds lost and Dean, hurting for Cas, thinks of the nightmares that Sam used to have when they were kids; wanting a mother he never knew. Dean squeezes his arm again, hoping to anchor him in the moment.
Dean pulls his hand away as Cas sits up with a gasp, hands shaking as he rubs his face; eyes dart around the room. Dean keeps watching until Cas can meet his eyes. Dean stays crouched, looking up to Cas before he turns on the lamp.
The bulb emits a soft orange light that still makes Cas squint, sweat gleaming over Cas' forehead and upper lip. There's a shadow on his cheeks from stubble yet to be shaved off and Dean feels immediate fondness as always.
"I'm sorry to have woken you," Cas murmurs hoarsely. He clears his throat but Dean knows that his voice will stay hoarse as ever since Cas' return.
The Empty left roots in all of them, but none so much as Cas.
"I was still up, don't worry about it," Dean lies, avoiding Cas' eyes, knowing that Cas will still probably catch the lie. Instead, he leaves his hand palm up, an open invitation that Cas sometimes takes.
"Dean."
"Cas," Dean returns levelly, arching an eyebrow at Cas. Cas sighs slowly, rubbing his hands over his face before he reaches out and takes Dean's hand. His hands are warm and soft, no calluses or rough spots like on Dean's hands. Dean smiles to himself.
"Was it The Empty?" Dean asks, voice hushed as Cas hums brokenly. His knees ache at the continued kneeling on the floor beside the bed but he stays in place.
Dean curls their fingers together, allowing Cas to anchor himself in the touch.
"Yes," Cas says. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back to rest against the wall. Dean uses his other hand to gently trace the fine scars along Cas' hand; some from all the fighting before Dean's time in hell and some from Cas' time in The Empty. There's a network of silvered lines from Cas' wrist to palm, the same lines that cause Cas' hand to stiffen at times.
"Only this time, I was not the one taken," Cas says, looking over to Dean. His eyes are a soft, clear blue, like sea glass still wet from the waves. Dean swallows hard, unable to stop thinking of the tears in those eyes, the words that fell from Cas' lips.
"Oh," Dean says.
"Yes, oh," Cas mumbles tonelessly.
Dean watches a tear slip down the planes of Cas’ cheek; only one before he takes a deep, shaking breath. Dean squeezes his hand, for lack of anything to say.
Dean grimaces to himself, voice frozen when it's needed most. He acts, instead; he climbs onto the bed to wrap Cas in a careful hug. Cas freezes for a moment, a gasp the only acknowledgement before he slumps into the embrace.
Holding onto Cas, Dean's heart flutters anxiously, as if someone is going to yell at him or Cas is going to reject him. Anything that will tell Dean the voice inside his head was right all along; that he is broken because how can he not love someone who confessed their feelings to him so barely.
Dean's stomach twists but he doesn't move, offering comfort when his voice fails, being more important.
"Dean," Cas murmurs, head pillowed on Dean's collarbone. It's such a soft sound, happy and tired all at once and it pulls at Dean's gut. He thinks of sitting alone in the dungeon; back against the wall and head in his hands. He thinks about the tears in Cas’ eyes and how he had ached at the urge to say whatever Cas wanted to hear, even if it wasn’t authentic to himself.
Dean remembers wishing for a chance to say all the things he should have then.
"I never said anything before you were taken," Dean blurts out. "I mean. I - I told you not to do this but I meant don't say goodbye. But I didn't say anything else."
In his arms, Cas stills, breathing puffing against Dean's collarbone as Cas shifts away slowly. Dean can hear the rushing of blood in his ears, and feels his heart pounding faster and faster in his chest.
Cas stays quiet as he slowly pulls away, lifting his head from Dean’s shoulder. Dean aches to pull him close, to erase the words that just spilled from his lips. Dean thinks, desperately, that this is why he doesn't say these things out loud. He can never get the words right, can never express himself in a way that makes sense or doesn’t disappoint someone. He remembers Charlie’s expression as she reassured him that he wasn’t broken, that other people felt like him all the time.
He remembers her soft smile as he takes a slow, centering breath, trying to calm himself.
"Did you have something else to say?" Cas asks, soft and Dean swallows hard, throat clicking at the effort. Cas is patient and kind, and Dean thinks of a bible verse with something approaching hysteria.
"I. Cas," Dean says. He looks around the room before he meets Cas' eyes again. "I don't know."
"You don't know what?"
"I don't know what it means when you say that you - you love me."
"It," Cas pauses, a huff of laughter escaping him, incredulous almost. "It means that I love you."
Dean's stomach sinks lower, if that's possible, the same refrain of brokenness echoing sinisterly through his head.
"Cas, I'm telling you that I don't know what you mean when you say it. I don't. Feel the same," Dean tries, rushing to spill more words as Cas' face shutters in pain, "Shit, no. Uh, Cas. I. No, that’s - I mean. I've never felt like that. For anyone. I mean, I-I, you know, I tried for some people but Cas, I'm not uh. Wired for l- love like that."
"Dean, I did not say it for you to say it back. I know you don't feel like that for men-"
"Uh, not quite. I mean, I've slept with men and women but love, Cas. I'm not wired like that for love. L-like it’s like putting the wrong tires on Baby. Sure, she’ll run but - that doesn’t make sense. Son of a bitch. I. It’s like when you don’t understand a reference. That’s how I am about. Uh. About love," Dean says, watching Cas parse through it. Dean sits back, giving Cas space and taking space for himself.
"Bisexual," Dean blurts out; anxious to fill the silence. "I am, I mean. I, uh, told Charlie first. Charlie said that sex and romantic love are different for some people and they are, for me. Sex is sex and it's fun but I don't, uh. I don't fall in love."
Cas stays silent, processing it like he does when told an unfamiliar concept. Dean lets him think about it as he fights against the urge to flee the room and go sit in his shower like he did in the days after Cas was taken by The Empty.
Dean thinks about the people he took into his own family, the people who make up the pillars of his life now.The people he claimed as his family and the ones who make up for the absences of a childhood spent hunting monsters. The love he has for them as family but not enough to fall in love with anyone. Dean thinks about feeling broken, about not understanding this part of him before Charlie sent him link after link about attraction versus romantic love.
"If sex and romantic love are different, does that mean that some people want romantic love but not sex?" Cas asks carefully, picking his way through the words to come to the right ones. Dean exhales slowly, nodding carefully.
"A lot of people don't want sex. Or they only want sex sometimes. It's a spectrum, Charlie said," Dean says, awkwardly, wishing he had the ability to know how to explain this instead of only being able to repeat her words.
Dean tries not to think about blood splatter and hotel room and the aching loss of a little sister that brightened his life. He doesn't think about her gentle explanations to someone who should have known these things about himself.
Cas reaches out, pulling Dean's hand closer with careful motions. He holds Dean's hand as if it is something fragile and precious and Dean doesn't know what it means.
But he knows to give Cas time.
"I have only ever loved you like this. And I have had sex with others but it has not been fulfilling for me. If I do not want sex with a person I love, what does that mean? Does it mean that I don’t love them? That I’m not worthy?" Cas asks, plaintive, voice soft but still hoarse. The pain in his voice makes Dean swallow compulsively; eager to soothe and make it right, however he can.
Dean shifts so that his hip is pressed against Cas' legs.
"It means that you don't want sex. You get to decide what else it means, just like the rest of us, man."
"Does it," Cas pauses, looking up to meet Dean's eyes. Dean breathes in sharply, the gleam of interest in Cas' eyes as captivating as ever, "Does that change how you feel about what I said before I was taken?"
Dean's breath whooshes out of him as he blinks. He thinks about the things he wanted to say, how he wanted more time to explain himself.
The time that he has now.
"Is it okay if I say I don't know?" Dean asks, bracing himself for Cas to be disappointed. Dean ducks his head, closing his eyes against the sinister voice in his head, the thoughts of brokenness and not being the same as others. The thoughts that say he will inevitably disappoint someone just by opening his mouth and speaking. Dean listens to his and Cas' breathing in the quiet of the room. The hum of the quiet house fills his ears comfortingly.
Cas' hand is gentle with his, pulling on it carefully as Dean looks up.
Cas is smiling, the soft and secret smile that he saves for Dean. Cas slowly pulls Dean close.
"We can figure it out together?" Cas asks hopefully as Dean holds himself back, watching Cas' face. He expects the conversation to turn, to put Dean at the fault of this whole situation.
He thinks about watching Cas be stolen away; Dean thinks about holding his head in his hands, wishing he could cry but not sure if he would stop. Dean thinks about all the things he has wanted to say for months since Cas returned and finally gives in.
"Are you sure you even want to figure it out with me?" Dean asks, deprecatingly, as Cas' hand tightens on his.
"I love you. That's what matters."
"And if I can't feel the same way?"
"Love is a gift," Cas says, smiling at Dean, "You keep those, I hear. I do not need to hear it back, only to say it."
"Cas," Dean says softly. He says it to fill the silence and because he has no other words. Dean reaches out, pulling Cas close as he had earlier, sighing softly as Cas rests their foreheads together.
"Together?" Cas asks.
"Together," Dean agrees.