Rewritten

Chapter 9

The third day, the work Bobby has for them has started to reach its finish line. There are, obviously, hundreds more books in the kitchen and library, but the unsorted boxes are nearly all organized.

Dean waits several hours for Past Dean to do or say something. Anything. But his past self seems intent on pretending Cas doesn’t exist. And Cas is doing his best to act like it doesn’t matter – hell, if someone watches them work, they would never suspect Cas is hurt.

But Dean can tell.

He’s tempted to get Cas alone somewhere and round a couple bases, but he knows he can’t. This angel is not his angel, and Dean is not this Cas’s Dean. He’s already done the work of opening Cas’s eyes that hey, there’s something seriously important between them and it’s mutual.

Toward sunset, Dean tries to subtly arrange things by asking Cas to go snag them all some more beers, and “hey, Past Me – go make sure he gets the right ones.” The bitchface he gets in return is a fairly impressive imitation of Sam’s trademark glare, and Dean snickers to himself.

Bobby, Sam, and Dean work in silence, all of them aware of the elephant in the room and all a little uncomfortable to mention anything about it. And when Past Dean and Cas return, they’re moving awkwardly, but more in the “maintain enough distance between each other” sense than in the “we were totally making out” sense. They both take seats on the couch, but keep to opposite sides and end up using the middle cushion for the sorted books.

Night starts to creep in first in the changing light and the switching on of lamps, and then in the infinitesimal tiredness making its presence known in all of them. For some reason, this long overdue and agonizingly dull work is more exhausting than getting knocked around in fights with demons. Maybe because there’s not the slightest trace of adrenaline to keep them all going.

Around 11, Bobby bows out and goes off to the side room he’s been using as a bedroom downstairs. He gives Dean a long look that Dean can’t quite decipher, and nods. “Night, idjits.”

They keep working, because there are four boxes in the room and they’re all only partially sorted. An hour into things, Sam suddenly slams down a book he’s been staring at without reading and pushes his chair away from the desk. “Okay.”

“Finally,” Dean mutters.

Past Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, here we go.”

“Dean, I have something like eleven hours left here,” Dean tells his past self, stretching his arms over his head tiredly.

“Ten,” Cas corrects with an upward flick of his gaze to the clock. “It was a little after ten when you called me.”

“Right. Thanks, Cas,” Dean says. He gets up from his chair and paces a little to loosen up his muscles. “I want to be sure things are gonna be okay when I go back.”

Sam quirks his lips. “Yeah, I’m pretty sick of feeling invisible when you guys act like you’re alone. I’m hoping if you get the fuck over yourselves, things’ll tone down a little.”

“Things will be fine,” Past Dean insists. He glances away, apparently still a little nervous.

There’s a heavy silence.

Past Dean exhales. “They will,” he says, finally gazing over at Cas. And suddenly, Dean understands how Sam feels, because there it is. There’s that nobody-else-around stare, and it is beyond weird seeing it from the outside. Cas smiles back at Past Dean and reaches a hand over between them.

Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean and smirks. Dean can’t even be annoyed.

When Past Dean takes Cas’s hand, Dean lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding until now.