The pub was filled with people as usually on a Friday night, but it was still early, so there was an enclave of peace near the end of the bar. Some sappy compilation of '70 and '80 love songs was playing, barely standing out from the buzz of conversations, clinking of glasses and occasional outbursts of laughter. Strangely, Dean didn't mind. He felt safe and warm, even kinda drowsy, listening to Cas's calming voice, occasionally taking little sips of a not-so-good scotch the pub offered.

"...so of course there are many written sources mentioning a big flood that exterminated a certain civilization dating back to different periods and describing different places," the angel schmoozed tranquilly, swirling the liquor in his tumbler; he didn't like it, but he trusted Dean who claimed that for some strange reasons a person not drinking alcohol in a pub drew more attention than anything else, "I can't see why people are insisting that there should be only one such event. Each flood was designed and executed exactly when and where it was needed. You must admit that it is physically impossible to produce amounts of water..." he stopped, tilted his head and cleared his throat, "Dean, this is counter productive. You wanted to find a so-called hook-up here. There is no way you can do it if you stay focused on me like this."

The hunter straightened up a bit, letting out a quiet, resigned sigh.

"Yeah, I guess." He moved his gaze to his glass he'd been toying with more than actually drinking from it. Ice in his whisky had melted a long time ago.

"It would be easier if you explained my role as a wingman better. I still don't understand how my presence could help you."

"You know what? Forget it," Dean took a big swig of his drink. It was disgusting; the pub was sleazy and Dean was hungry; for a moment he wondered how come he felt so good. How come it always felt so good to sit with Cas in any hellhole or desert, drink, chat and just be. The more there was between them, the safer he felt, though he had always thought it would be otherwise.

"Remember when we were hunting that cupid?" he began, looking at his friend again,"It was a bar just like this one, just emptier and quieter."

"Yes. I do remember. I thought... I thought it was my last night on earth. Again. With you," though it was so curt, there was an air of solemnity and earnestness abut this answer.

"Some things never change, huh?" the hunter let out a soft, low chuckle "I remember when she made these guys fall for each other. Man, it was hilarious..."

The angel budged, slightly startled.

"Why do you mention it now?"

And that was as close as they had ever gotten to the unspoken line between them. A line that none of them dared to cross, afraid of what would follow. This time, hovewer, it was different. This time Dean knew that no matter how hard he tried to run, he couldn't run away from loss. All he could do was to convince himself to stop dreaming of safety and accept a small grain of solace.

It began with Dean's hand on Cas's arm - the slightest touch possible, a lingering question. A small, bashful smile on Castiel's face could be a yes. Dean slowly moved closer, mildly surprised by how it didn't feel strange at all. The angel wasn't even startled when the man slid his hand up to cup the back of Cas's head.

"I wonder if they fought it. Like mom and dad did. Like we do," he said dreamily before he realized the last sentence was no longer valid. The only thing that scared him was that he wasn't scared at all.

"It's been how many years now?" he asked, a bit dazed by all the care and fondness he saw in Cas's eyes. Hell, the angel could seem unfazed to those who didn't know him, but Dean saw everything.

"Seven," came a decided answer.

Dean huffed; his lips budged in a bitter, sad smile.

"Seven years. Seven fucking years and you're still looking at me like this. How is this even possible?"

"You knew?"

Instead of answering, Dean skimmed Cas's cheek and jaw with the back of his fingers. He let go and put his hands around his glass, but he still felt the warmth of Cas's thigh next to his and the roughness of Cas's knuckles grazing against his when the angel was toying with his own glass; the touch was slight, but steady. Reassuring.

"Sure I did. I..." the hunter had to stifle a nervous, burning laugh that welled up in him; he snorted, shaking his head in disbelief, "Damn, we've been scrabbling like a couple of old, stubborn dumbasses, and for what?"

"I thought you had certain objections."

"Yeah. I guess I'm just too old to give a damn." Winchester downed his drink. It was even worse than earlier.

"You're hardly old."

"Man, I spent forty years in hell. I may look young, but add this to my age and I'm almost eighty. Hell, sometimes I feel like I'm possessing this meat and I'm so fucking past giving a damn." Dean turned to his friend and leaned in slightly; he took in all the scars and bruises he saw on the other's soul; he swallowed against the aching awareness of how weary and devastated the angel was, "And you? You've grown old too. You lived up there, fighting your heavenly wars and going about your heavenly business for how long? Like half the eternity? And you were as good as new. Then, you get to spend seven years with the Winchesters and you end up in tatters. I can see it. Man, you're so broken," he ended in a whisper, unknowingly furrowing his brow in pity and an unspoken apology.

"It is not your fault, Dean. I would rather say it's your merit."

The hunter squinted, astonished by Cas's statement. If there was still anything that could surprise him, it was this weird guy.

"Angels are never allowed to get near this state," the angel continued with a slight, rueful undertone "As soon as their experience reduces their efficiency, they are either reeducated or made redundant. There are no second chances for us. There is no forgiveness. The fact that I am here with you means a lot to me."

"You're still so fucked up," Dean snickered under his breath.

"Dean, I know there is much to forgive," Cas began earnestly, but somehow an impish smirk managed to break through his composure "Including trying to kill you thrice," he finished more lightsomely.

Winchester nodded, rising his brows.

"Well, I've tried to kill you once or twice too. I guess it's... You know. Our thing."

There was a long pause; the small outburst of cheer was slowly fading; Dean sighed and swallowed against the bitter melancholy.

"You know?" he spoke again, a few tones quieter, "When I was with Lisa it was like walking through a minefield. I mean she had every right to expect a normal life, but it's that a normal life is so exhausting. I knew there was so much she wouldn't be able to forgive. One mistake, one outburst, one lie and I'd be out of her life. I understand. You... You're here. After all this shit we've been through, you are here looking at me like I'm worth anything."

"Dean, please..." Castiel said nothing more, but Dean knew. It took less than what he saw in Cas's eyes to let him know what the angel was thinking. What he was feeling. Instead of letting himself be carried away, Dean cleared his throat, squirming in his bar stool.

"You do realize that we'll probably keep beating the shit out of each other at least once a year?" he asked, cocking his head. Cas gave him a faint, fond smile.

"I do. It...It is something I could get used to," he let go of his empty glass to cover Dean's hand with his.

"So? Let's go home, okay?" the hunter asked, putting his arms around Cas's shoulders. The angel leaned into the touch leisurely, easily. As if they had done it a hundred times before.

Or perhaps they had without even knowing?

"Yes. Let's go home."