Existentialism as It Pertains to Halfsies (In Two Parts)
[Read Part II on ao3] <full list of tags available here
(Please accept this drunk sketch to tie together my drunk-post of part I)
“No,” Dean said slowly, carefully, eyes closed and fingers wrapping the lip of the sink hard enough to dent the porcelain. He breathed the word in like an affirmation, tried not to think of Cas or that kiss or any of the ridiculous shit he’d said because, Dean was going to do this. He had to. It was his moral imperative not to gamble with the planet this time, and something as abstract as happiness was nowhere to start laying bricks.
Maybe if he snuck out now—random day, random time—he’d get this done without a tail. He’d pay a fisherman like he planned, charter a boat, and get it over with. No Sammy. No Cas. The less they knew, the easier it’d be for them to move on.
Dean opened his eyes, stared himself down in the mirror, tried not to see the little blue cross sigil Cas had drawn at his temple—
“Do you think it would also help here?” he’d asked, finger brushing and eyes talking loud even when he wasn’t. It was the first thing he’d said since the big gut-spill and Dean couldn’t forget the chills his voice culled. Or how close they’d been sitting. The tilt of Cas’ head when he asked it— not quite looking at Dean but not quite looking at the little patch of skin in question, either. Dean had wanted to kiss him again. Knew in an instant that they’d still be glued together recycling each other’s air if Jack hadn’t bounded into the library and broken the party up asking if they needed help picking warding or drawing anything on. Then, of course, sticking around just to yammer about the car ride to and from New York, leaving Cas to chew his cheeks and silently work sigils out on Dean’s arms with markers.
But, that was the thing about unfinished conversations—and kids, apparently—they had a habit of sticking around.
Still, it’d damn near taken an act of God to keep Dean from stealing another kiss, with or without Jack there, so it was something that needed the kibosh quicker than yesterday. It’d already grown enough legs to shame a millipede.
He turned the hot water knob, splashed and scrubbed his face. “No,” he said again, to his hands this time. “Get it outta your head. You already know you an’ Cas ain’t gonna fix this.”
The next time he looked up, it was straight at the sigil, freshly smeared; proof enough, he supposed, that no matter how hard Cas tried to help with this, Dean would always ruin it. Then again, he’d also never admit he was fishing for literally anything to hang this decision on.
He growled and slapped the water off. Turned to the closet and grabbed a coat, a second shirt. His softest, most favorite band tee. He passed up shoes and underwear, the small box of photos he’d kept close to his chest over the years and strung what he had over an arm, rounded the bed in a straight beeline for the door. But, he stopped short. Snagged on the sight of Billie’s book; just sitting there at the edge of his mattress… waiting.
