A/N: I played Bingo with a couple of transvestites at a gay bar last weekend. A very interesting way to spend a Saturday night, and very entertaining, if only because one of the other girls couldn't get over the fact that a man in neon pink spandex looked prettier than her. Also, I watched Jaws for the first time in fifteen years- and if you ever want to psychologically scar a child, letting them watch Jaws the night before a day at the beach is a very good way to go- and it is still the best movie ever. I dare anyone to disagree.

This monster has maybe two more chapters left. The end was the part I was least satisfied with, and so it is undergoing renovations right now.

Cas doesn't call him, the day after date night- and god, he is going to murder Gabriel; amazing how one three-minute conversation can completely undermine one's own understanding of themselves, and naturally Gabriel knows exactly what to say to turn Dean into a jealous obsessive jerk because he is indeed pure evil, and Dean owes an apology to Sam for all the times he made fun of Sam's little freakouts because he became Gabriel's pet project at some point-

Cas doesn't call him, the day after date night, or at least Dean doesn't notice if he does. Even after he gets home, loud noises and bright lights still have the potential to crack his skull open, so he goes and curls up in bed and whimpers to himself for a while. Then, when he feels a little less like week-old roadkill, he gets ambitious and drags himself out of bed and curls up in the shower and whimpers to himself for a while, wondering the whole time what the hell he'd drunk last night. He's nobody's definition of a lightweight, and he's never gotten a hangover this bad before. By the time he's on his feet and somewhat ready to face the day, it's almost four in the afternoon.

Thus Sunday passes in an indistinct haze of pain and nausea.

Monday is boring and completely unremarkable. Dean lets his cell phone battery die and tells himself that he isn't actually avoiding Cas. He takes Chinese takeout to Sam's office for lunch, because he can empathize now, and lets Sam- who watches his brother with observant eyes, and moves with the studied carelessness of someone who is eating dinner with a tiger and knows full well that one false move will end with him on the menu- take two of the fortune cookies. He doesn't make fun of Sam once even though it means leaving the conversation stilted and awkward because all they do is pick at each other in a mostly good-natured sort of way. By the time he leaves, he's fairly sure he's convinced Sam that he is either possessed or a Dean-clone.

Thus Monday passes in self-imposed silence.

Tuesday comes, and almost goes, before Dean finally cracks.

"So how was the date?" he asks, trying to pick up a discarded shirt without using his hands or bending over. Laundry day was always interesting in the Winchester home, resembling an Olympic sport more than a household chore, and Dean had carried that with him after moving out.

"I don't know," Cas says, which Dean figures he should've expected. "She didn't throw her drink in my face and have her brother slash my car's tires."

"So better than Homecoming," Dean says brightly, because he's long ago gotten over his guilt on his part in that fiasco- hey, think of the stories they got out of it.

There's a moment of silence after that, and Dean recognizes the sound of Cas gearing up to ask him something, something he wouldn't ask anybody else because no one understands his peculiar brand of naivety like Dean does.

"I was thinking," he says, far too quickly, almost desperately. He falters there, but Cas waits, a different sort of silence than the one before. "You know, Sam's birthday is coming up. We should do something for it."

"In a month," Cas says, as though there were some way Dean could have forgotten. "And I'm not sure he would want us to do something." He says 'do something' like it's the verbal version of a snotty rag, holding it at arm's length and giving it a bit of a sneer. He clearly knows Dean far too well.

"Just a little party."

"You said that about the graduation party you threw him," Cas says. "And then you 'accidentally' invited those strippers, and I had to spend an hour convincing him not to kill you."

Dean hadn't known that. And it's Cas, so he knows it's not an exaggeration for effect.

"Well, thanks for that," he says, since it seems only polite to thank someone for saving your life, and doggedly continues. "But he's turning thirty, we can't just do some quiet dinner in a fancy restaurant."

"That's what we did when I turned thirty."

"Yeah, but your parents were in town, and they scare the crap out of me." Dean admits this honestly, with absolutely no shame, because it's true. Cas' parents are creepy, his mother especially.

Dean continues to hash out his plan, rolling right over Cas' occasional comments, until he drops his cell phone into the empty- and thankfully dry- washing machine. He can't quite reach it, and so he has to go get something to stand on, which is something he hasn't had to do since he was seven. By then the conversational thread is well and truly lost, and Cas has to go anyways, so Dean says goodbye, then sets about seeing how many pounds of laundry he can stuff, clown-car-style, into the machine.

Thus Tuesday passes, and ends with Dean feeling like himself once more.

In hindsight, it was his own damn fault. He knows, he knows, better than to underestimate Cas, who sits so solidly on the so-clueless-it-hurts line that it's easy to forget that he sometimes manages to loop back around to the other extreme. Who knows Dean well enough that sometimes, when Dean least wants him to, he all but literally reads Dean's mind, like Dean's every thought is written on his face.

Thursday night, Dean shows up at Cas' place in a far better mood than he had been the previous week. He brings two pizzas this time, since he'd felt in a Hawaiian sort of mood and boring ole Cas gets this look on his face- like he's being asked to bite into a lemon- every time he's faced with something that isn't pepperoni on his pizza. He also brings the Jaws collection and roots for the shark, and tosses back three beers in quick succession, just generally content with the world and completely oblivious to Cas' growing agitation. Finally, when Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfuss onscreen were contemplating their long swim home, Cas snatches his fourth beer right out of his hand before he can get it open and gets up, moving to the kitchen but stopping just before actually going in.

"Why does it bother you that I had a date?" he asks finally, and Dean stares at him, at the line of tension across his shoulders.

"I didn't say that," he says finally, knowing even as he said it that it's weak but he couldn't just let that sit in silence. "What makes you think that?"

Cas gives him a look, and Dean concedes the stupidity of such a question and moves on.

"It's a little weird," he says, in self-defense, because Cas ain't buying what he's selling. "My brother, setting my friend up. It's kinda…" He shrugs, looks at the credits scrolling up the TV. He'll babble just about anything if Cas keeps quiet long enough, they both know that. Dean doesn't do so well with silence.

Cas still says nothing, but sits back down and gives Dean his beer back. He's letting it die- not that he believes Dean, but he has to, because he doesn't want to follow the logical line of reasoning and arrive at the obvious conclusion which casts Dean in a very unflattering light. But it's not good enough, not for Dean, so he searches for the right words as he rolls the bottle in his hand slowly, memorizing the fine print on the edge of the label.

"It's just… It's Sam. I mean, I know he means well, but he doesn't get you, not really, and I don't want you getting hurt or something because my brother's an idiot." He starts out slow but speeds up quickly, until he rushes headlong into the last half of the sentence like an out-of-control train, until he feels like the words are red hot and burning his tongue and he just wants them out.

And Cas just stares at him, until Dean is seconds away from channeling his inner preschooler and whining stop looking at me. And then he smiles, a long slow quiet smile, almost shy, and looks away without saying anything.

Dean, relieved to be off the hook and apparently back in Cas' good graces, grabs the remote and skips back a bit, because nothing can dispel the threat of any lingering sentimentality quite like an exploding shark.

That smile sticks with Dean that night, leaving him tossing and turning endlessly as best he can on the couch- which, truth be told, is more comfortable than his own bed- until he ends up on his feet and pacing. He stops in front of the fridge and stares at it for a long minute before finally opening it, and then just stands there, bathed in the bluish light, the wave of cold air like a knife's edge scraping over the bare skin of his stomach.

Thinking about it, now, he can count on one hand the number of times he'd seen that smile. Always, every time, it's because of something Dean said or did. No one else has ever caused that smile.

He doesn't believe in the soporific properties of warm milk, so he ends up stealing a piece of Cas' pizza. He picks the pepperoni off and gnaws mindlessly on the crust, moving away from the fridge while the door is still open- the only light in the whole house- and through the living room to the hallway beyond, off of which are the bedrooms. There's a guest room but Dean's never slept in there. He's always gone with the couch.

Every Thursday night- or Friday morning, if you want to get technical- when Dean falls asleep, there's still lights on down the hallway, still the faint sounds of movement. Every Friday morning, when he gets up, Cas has been gone for over an hour. This is the first time he's been here and awake while Cas was asleep. It's an odd feeling, one he doesn't care to examine too closely.

He closes the refrigerator, throws away the remnants of the pizza slice, and spends the rest of the night laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling.

Saturday afternoon greets the world with a snarly thunderstorm that knocks out the power in half the city and soaks Dean through to the bone, after the Impala's front right tire very audibly finds a nail-studded two-by-four in one of the roadside puddles and Dean ends up putting the spare on while practically underwater. Rather than try to figure out which of his favorite Saturday night hangouts have power, he just goes home.

The water in the shower is warm, to chase away the chill of the rain, the needle-spray just shy of bruising force. He leans against the wall and lets the water pound out the tightness in his back, idly tallying up the days since he'd last had a date- of any meaning on the word. It's been longer than anyone would guess. Maybe he's burning out- Sam had certainly predicted that often enough, back when Dean started visiting Cas practically every day, back when Cas was in college, because his sophomore year he lived in a coed dorm which is quite possibly the best argument for higher education that Dean has ever seen.

He braces himself against the wall and wraps his fingers around his cock and starts stroking, efficient and businesslike, needing the emotional release more than the physical. He watches a bead of water trace its way down his hand, following the lines in his skin, and bites at his lower lip as he pulls from his mental file of images and closes his eyes-

And sees Cas and that damn smile, and his back arches and he comes hard.

Thirty seconds later he's out of the shower, towel wrapped loosely around his hips, staring his own reflection in the eyes.

What the fuck was that?

Contrary to popular belief, Dean is by no means stupid. He's not even one of those who has to make some excuse about the difference between street-smart and book-smart- he's the former more than the latter, but still. His biggest obstacle in high school had been attitude, not aptitude, and he'd gotten a half-dozen letters from some fairly respectable colleges, which he had ultimately declined because he just wasn't interested. He can't calculate interest rates out in his head or recite the periodic table, but he's not some sort of idiot.

The problem, the thing that makes him look like some sort of mental defect, is the company he keeps. Cas is basically a reservoir of information, able to remember every damn thing he's ever learned- Dean keeps encouraging him to go on that Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader show, because Cas actually remembers fifth grade in fine detail, whereas Dean's memory of that year most predominately feature breaking his arm by jumping off the swing set and being quasi-stalked at recess by a girl named Sally Longfield- and he knows how to make that work for him. And Sam- well, Sam is certified genius material. It's hard to look like anything more than a gibbering idiot when compared to that kid.

The point is, Dean isn't stupid. When he finally stopped to think about it, he realized fairly quickly where to pin the blame for all of this. Sunday morning, after the rain had stopped and he'd gotten a real tire on the Impala in place of the spare, he went out to catch himself an archangel.

"Gabriel!"

Gabriel, Dean notices, has some interesting reflexes. Rather than stop and look around, he ducks his head a little and speeds up, as if afraid something is going to be thrown at him. Dean supposes, with Gabriel's unique brand of charm and singular approach to like, such caution is necessary. He lengthens his stride and reaches the apartment complex's door just in time to shove it closed again, cutting off Gabriel's escape with seconds to spare.

"Oh good, it's you," Gabriel says, and pivots on his heel to face Dean and gives his classic shit-eating grin. "What can I do you for?"

"There isn't enough money in the world," Dean drawls, not able to help himself, and even smiles a little when Gabriel barks a laugh. "Who did you think I was?"

"Your brother," the older man says simply. "You two do sound alike when you're bellowing."

"What'd you do now?" Dean asks, most rhetorical, since he knows he'll be hearing about it one way or another.

"Nothing new," Gabriel shrugs it off. " 'Pissed' seems to be his default setting when it comes to me. I'm used to it."

"Yeah, speaking of which," Dean shifts a little, leaning against the door to keep it closed. "I finally figured out who's responsible for all this weird shit recently."

"I personally blame the Republicans," Gabriel says, straight-faced. "Or I used to. Apparently, that isn't very PC. So now I blame Martians and global warming."

Dean stares at him, as though if he's watched long enough he'll suddenly, magically, start being less crazy.

"Right," he says after a while. "Back on Earth, now. Did you tell Sam to set Cas up on a blind date?"

Despite all appearances, Gabriel also is not an idiot. He is, however, considerably more devious than Dean- more so than most people, really. He can tell in a glance that jokes and dodges are what Dean is expecting, and counters by moving to the other end of the scale.

"Yup."

"What? Why?"

Gabriel looks at the door, which Dean is still blocking, then back at the parking lot behind him, then at the cloud-choked sky. He can't scrounge up the mortally-offended face fast enough, so he settles for indignant.

"He's my brother," he says, slowly enough that Dean will hopefully understand on the first go-round. "I'm allowed to care about him."

"Yeah, you are, but you-" Dean cuts himself off before he can finish that, because Gabriel is pretty easy-going as far as these things go, but there are lines not meant to be crossed and Dean has seen what this bastard is capable of when he's well and truly mad. "You don't show concern like this," he finishes, a bit lamely, but at least he avoids any open declarations of war.

Gabriel waits, apparently seeing if Dean's going to continue painting himself into a corner. Dean abandons his current tack before he shoots himself in the foot.

"Why'd you drag Sam into this?" he demands, because is Gabriel is allowed to play the big brother card, then so is Dean.

"Because I'm the boy who cried wolf," Gabriel says. "I've spent Cas' whole life teaching him not to trust me. Everything I say, he takes to mean the opposite. Besides, Sam knows a… better class of women, you could say."

"And this isn't some secondhand attempt to screw with him?" Dean asks in disbelief. Gabriel scoffs.

"Do you really think I need Sam's help to tease my kid brother?" he counters. "I don't always have underhanded motives, you know. I am capable of being a decent guy."

Dean has to give him points just for getting that out with a straight face.

"You can't tell him," Gabriel says. "He liked her, and if he hears I had anything to do with it…"

"He told you he liked her?"

"Course not," Gabriel snorts. "Like he can tell. It took him eight years to realize you were his friend, no way is he gonna know he likes her after one date." He wedges a hand between Dean and the door and pushes him away.

Dean lets out a disbelieving laugh and scrubs his hands over his face. "God. I get what you mean about you being the boy who cried wolf. I keep waiting for the punch line."

"Well, here it is," Gabriel says as he opens the door. "I got tired of waiting for Cas to handle it himself, and decided to help him out. All I want is for him to be happy." He pins Dean with a knowing look, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You're supposed to be his friend, so maybe you should be asking yourself why you don't want that."

The door clicks shut and locks behind him, leaving Dean standing outside with only a score of uncomfortable questions for company.