[ Cas' head spins with how much whiplash he's receiving here, and he just... openly stares at Dean in utter disbelief.
Here's the thing. This is... this is what they do. They push at each other, push until they find what gives under relentless attacks. They trade pain, because Cas knows he's the only one left who knows Dean in a world gone dark, and if he doesn't take Dean's swings, if he doesn't swallow his charge's vitriol and lashes and barbs, if he doesn't roll with figurative punches and holds back against them with low blows of his own, then Dean's swings will eventually hit someone else, and for that Dean will not be able to forgive himself.
Cas believes with certainty that to shoulder Dean's resentment is to prevent it from turning inwards more so than it already has.
They do this. They wrestle with each other, they deal their blows, they push against each other, and they keep pushing, and then they live to fight another day.
And when instead of pushing, Dean... pivots. Cas pitches forwards, stumbles, and finds himself off balance.
What... just happened?
He was expecting a swing, and it never came, and for a moment it shows, the way he shifts from one foot to the other. The way his face is angled away, but his eyes linger on Dean. It's not quite the long, silent stares and non-verbal communication they used to be able to do. But it's also not Dean barking something over his shoulder and Cas staring into nothing with a chuckle.
Cas licks his lips, and it takes him a moment, to loosen the barbed wire wrapped around his tongue and swallow down the sharpness that he was prepared to fling right back.
And for a moment, this feels worse, because he doesn't know how this Dean operates, who has so obviously existed in this space for some time, and it's... affected him. How, Cas doesn't quite know just yet, and it's a bitter pill to swallow to realize that he's a stained remnant from a life Dean got to leave behind.
Is he the one dragging Dean into the muck, now? ]
Yeah, uhm. Yeah. Understood.
[ He doesn't snap the words as he intended to originally.
The instinct to swing the other way immediately is strong, to quip that it's not on Dean - inaction isn't quite the same as action. But they both know that would be a cruel thing to say, too, and note... quite fair. Not when Dean Winchester is trying to hold out a gnarled olive branch and so very obviously struggling not to fumble it.
Will wonders never cease. Perhaps, for now, instead of wrestling each other down into the mud and drowning in it, they can just... lie in the dirt next to each other.
Toddler steps, or however that one goes. ]
You're better at, uh. This, than I am. [ Steadier hands. Cas gestures at his wounds. Something in his posture... it doesn't deflate, but there's a subtle tension that bleeds out of his lean frame, as he fishes for the whiskey and takes a good swing from it, wincing at the burn and welcoming it. ]
So, uh. You have a liger and the Colt. I still have the, uh. The rifle. Some ammo. The handgun and knife are gone. [ He sits, so Dean can have better access. ] You wanna, uh. Walk me through our assets? [ Our, not yours. If Dean can manage to hold that gnarled olive branch without bursting into flames or breaking it, then Cas can indicate the same. They used to be good at this, once upon a time - at fighting back to back, running their shit together. Cas is a soldier, a tactician, and can be as ruthless as Dean himself. So... with monsters on the prowl outside, what does Dean...
no subject
Here's the thing. This is... this is what they do. They push at each other, push until they find what gives under relentless attacks. They trade pain, because Cas knows he's the only one left who knows Dean in a world gone dark, and if he doesn't take Dean's swings, if he doesn't swallow his charge's vitriol and lashes and barbs, if he doesn't roll with figurative punches and holds back against them with low blows of his own, then Dean's swings will eventually hit someone else, and for that Dean will not be able to forgive himself.
Cas believes with certainty that to shoulder Dean's resentment is to prevent it from turning inwards more so than it already has.
They do this. They wrestle with each other, they deal their blows, they push against each other, and they keep pushing, and then they live to fight another day.
And when instead of pushing, Dean... pivots. Cas pitches forwards, stumbles, and finds himself off balance.
What... just happened?
He was expecting a swing, and it never came, and for a moment it shows, the way he shifts from one foot to the other. The way his face is angled away, but his eyes linger on Dean. It's not quite the long, silent stares and non-verbal communication they used to be able to do. But it's also not Dean barking something over his shoulder and Cas staring into nothing with a chuckle.
Cas licks his lips, and it takes him a moment, to loosen the barbed wire wrapped around his tongue and swallow down the sharpness that he was prepared to fling right back.
And for a moment, this feels worse, because he doesn't know how this Dean operates, who has so obviously existed in this space for some time, and it's... affected him. How, Cas doesn't quite know just yet, and it's a bitter pill to swallow to realize that he's a stained remnant from a life Dean got to leave behind.
Is he the one dragging Dean into the muck, now? ]
Yeah, uhm. Yeah. Understood.
[ He doesn't snap the words as he intended to originally.
The instinct to swing the other way immediately is strong, to quip that it's not on Dean - inaction isn't quite the same as action. But they both know that would be a cruel thing to say, too, and note... quite fair. Not when Dean Winchester is trying to hold out a gnarled olive branch and so very obviously struggling not to fumble it.
Will wonders never cease. Perhaps, for now, instead of wrestling each other down into the mud and drowning in it, they can just... lie in the dirt next to each other.
Toddler steps, or however that one goes. ]
You're better at, uh. This, than I am. [ Steadier hands. Cas gestures at his wounds. Something in his posture... it doesn't deflate, but there's a subtle tension that bleeds out of his lean frame, as he fishes for the whiskey and takes a good swing from it, wincing at the burn and welcoming it. ]
So, uh. You have a liger and the Colt. I still have the, uh. The rifle. Some ammo. The handgun and knife are gone. [ He sits, so Dean can have better access. ] You wanna, uh. Walk me through our assets? [ Our, not yours. If Dean can manage to hold that gnarled olive branch without bursting into flames or breaking it, then Cas can indicate the same. They used to be good at this, once upon a time - at fighting back to back, running their shit together. Cas is a soldier, a tactician, and can be as ruthless as Dean himself. So... with monsters on the prowl outside, what does Dean...
... what do they have in their corner? ]