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The silence stretches out long after Sam leaves the library. It lasts through two cups of the foul-smelling tea Sam kept shoving his way for Cas, and a second beer for Dean. He has time to count the tiles on the floor twice (thirty-seven visible squares, apparently) and to pretend to busy himself with every single item on the table.
Cas is much more adept at silence. His seems purposeful, thoughtful, not like someone had ripped all the words out of his mouth and left him gasping. Dean wonders how much angels really communicated before the apocalypse. He can imagine Cas drifting aimlessly through gardens and snow-capped mountains alone far more easily than he can imagine him strumming harps or whatever with the others.
He beats Dean to the punch, getting to his feet before he can work up the nerve to actually say something. Before Dean has a chance to protest, Cas makes his way around the table and lays a hand on his forehead.
“There.” His hand withdraws as quickly as it had come. “It’s over now.”
Dean gets the feeling he’s not talking about the attack dog spell.
“I hurt you.”
Cas shakes his head. But Dean remembers kneeling on the cold, hard stone of a crypt, hand sticky with his own blood but still–always–reaching for him. He remembers the words that stuck in his throat. Remembers feeling lost in the moments after Cas had gone, remembers walking away like nothing was wrong when everything was.
Even if neither of them sport scars or bruises anymore, the marks linger.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” The word, accompanied by yet another shake of the head, carries the weight of the commander he’d been years ago. “You weren’t yourself.”
Everything in his life is circular motion. Lose a friend, make a friend, lose a friend. Lie to Sam, agree to never lie again, lie to Sam. Damn the world, save the world, damn the world. He can’t stand the cycles anymore. It’s like Sam said. They have to become something new.
So instead of muttering another apology and darting off to his room like the little kid he’d never gotten to be, Dean takes a step closer. Puts his hands on Cas’s shoulders. Rests their foreheads together.
“I don’t want to hurt you again.”
They stay there for a beat longer than they have to, too long for Dean to shrug off as the way friends hold each other when everything goes wrong. Then they both step back. His hands are still on Cas’s shoulders.
“You won’t.”
And even though they both know it’s a lie, the thought of that reassurance is what finally lulls Dean to sleep that night.