If Sam hadn’t spilled his coffee all over the newspaper, Dean would have never looked at the date.
September eighteenth. Seven years to the day Castiel pulled him out of Hell.
I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.
Dean drums his fingers on the table, trying to decide what he should say to Cas, if anything. Sam stepped out of the room to get another newspaper from the store down the street, so it’s just him and Cas in the room. Although, the other man is sitting on the motel bed, looking down at his phone, oblivious to Dean’s thoughts.
Maybe he should man up and finally say what he’s been trying to show for years. He’s tired of waiting.
I’ll just wait here then.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean ventures. Cas looks up from his phone, raising his eyebrows.
"Can I, uh, talk to you for a second?"