Moving On (Destiel)

53: A start or an end?

Cas knew Dean. He alwayshad. Ever since he had come across that other boy on the playground he had it make his devotion to get to know Dean, and finally he could be proud to call them best friends. And best friends knew each other fairly well, didn't they?

You could say they knew everything about each other.

But then again, how much of what you know is because you can sense it, how much because they tell you, and how much because you were there with them?

Right. It's not always so easy. Sensing is open to interpretation. Words can be formed, be influenced and -ing, manipulate. And because you're not one and the same, taking in your surroundings won't be the exact same. Although Cas chose to believe that really best friends know enough to be able to tell and foresee how their best friend would react. It was the only way. Why should the one pure thing – profound friendship – worth believing in, something possible for anyone, be ruined by something like "people can keep secrets"?

No, he didn't want to see sense to that.

Nor did the five years old version of him – even less so than now.

No, the young Cas thought he knew Dean. And he wanted Dean to know him in return.

That was alright. That worked.

Only was Dean Dean Winchester, after all – and it was never just "alright" and "working" with Dean Winchester. Even as a little boy, he'd had to keep secrets. To just not talk about certain stuff.

Cas didn't know.

Dean didn't want Cas to know.

Cas, on the other hand, did not know such restraints.

Seeing Becky Novak in that living room had set something off in Dean. Brought the memory back vividly.

Of that one afternoon that had poked the last hole into the bubble he had been living in until then, perforated, but not burst yet.

Dean had known Cas quite well, too. Better, probably, because Cas always told everything about himself. He could never shut up, and Dean liked that a lot about him. He liked to listen to Cas ramble about something so ridiculous that it could set them both off giggling for hours.

But the same conditions applied to him, too. He was only six himself. He had spent much time with Cas, but could he really guess his thoughts to everything?

The proof had unfolded that afternoon: No, he could not. Not entirely.

He might not know what it was off about his best buddy, but there was something when Cas came a little too late to their meeting place at the playground. They used to play at Cas's, mostly, and Dean's house had been set strictly off-limits – coming from both John, who had lost wife and kid, and Cas's mother, although Dean hadn't bothered to dig too deep into what was her problem. 

Her new problem somehow involved her house being off-limits as well, so Dean and Cas had agreed to use the playground a few blocks from each of their houses as a meeting place. It was also the place they had first met, and at least to Dean it held a special spot in his heart ever since.

Cas's usual greeting, "Hello, Dean", remained off, even when Cas decided to just take on the swings. Dean silently followed and for a while, they just swung back and forth. Dean eventually managed to turn the game into a competition and squeezed a genuine laugh out of Cas.

And for a while, everything stayed alright.

He didn't ask Cas. Cas didn't tell him.

Maybe this problematic dynamic could be found in their relationship today, too. Miscommunication. Always sent them failing, apparently. And they just never learned from their mistakes.

They spent their entire playing time on those swings, not a word exchanged. Sometimes, best friends didn't need those, of course, and it was definitely content, but it wasn't... right.

Dean was cautious all the time and with the help of facial expressions and dumb moves always trying to make Cas smile, laugh, giddy. To see Cas like he was used to.

But he wouldn't get to see Cas carefree this afternoon. And for a second, Dean of six years, not consumed by worries and fears just yet, doubted he would ever see this boy he cared so much for, free and genuinely happy again. 

He had banished that thought as quickly as it came, of course, but what he did know when Cas eventually got off the swings, his back lightened by the falling sun behind them, his black hair glistening, and walked away, all without a glance back, what he knew sitting alone on the slowing swing, watching Cas go, was that this was the last time. 

Cas never came to the payground again. 

Dean now knew the words Cas hadn't spoken then. He could see them play off in Becky's face. My mother doesn't want us to meet anymore.

He remembered what had happened back then as a result.

Would they do it any differently this time?