content: Sam is sick, Castiel takes care of him and Dean can’t handle all these overwhelming emotions.
word count: 1923
It’s good to be back home.
Admittedly Dean only has been gone for four days but it felt way longer than that. But he couldn’t refuse when one of his old hunter buddies called for a little back-up for an allegedly salt-and-burn. Sam and Castiel wanted to tag along, voicing their opinion on the matter very loudly because “It’s sounds like an easy case but you know better than anyone that appearances can be deceitful.”
But Jeffery has never been good with other people so Dean decided to go alone for now and call if anything fishy turned up about the case. At first he felt good about getting his way but in the end he regretted to not bring along his brother and his angel since the case turned out to be boring as fuck. Research, research and more research before they finally got a chance to burn the most annoying ghost in history.
So Dean can’t repress a relieved sigh when he enters the bunker and breathes in the smells of old books, coffee and chicken broth.
Wait, chicken broth?
Dean raises his eyebrows. Did Sam try to improve his cooking skills or did he succumb to some weird craving involving chicken soup?
In the end it’s not Sam Dean finds in the kitchen.
The angel turns towards him, face lighting up at the sight of Dean, and the hunter’s heart doesn’t make a jump at that. It does not!
“You’re back,” he notes unnecessarily. “I didn’t know you would be coming home today. Why didn’t you call?”
Dean frowns. “I sent Sam a text a few hours ago.” It isn’t like his little brother to not inform Castiel. “He’s here, right?”
“He is,” Castiel confirms, a strange look on his face. “But he’s asleep and probably hasn’t read your text yet.”
“Asleep? It’s three pm.”
Castiel avoids his eyes all of a sudden and well, this is never a good sign. Normally their staring matches are legendary, fucking sonnets are probably written about them somewhere in time and space.
Castiel only averts his gaze when he is ashamed of something.
“Cas,” Dean warns. “What is it?”
Castiel sighs, defeated. “I wanted to tell you,” he claims. “But Sam asked me not to.”