A/N: Early Cas/Dean interaction is definitely my favorite time frame, and this fic should more rightly be set in season four or five, but it references the bunker and a few things that happened in season eleven, so that's when this will stay. I do have a few other plot bunnies in the works, though, because damn if those two aren't just made for writing about in all their awkward and loyal glory.

Glasses Make the Man

By: Syntyche

2.

It was still freakin' weird not having to worry about leaving enough hot water for Sammy to shower later, a necessity Dean had long borne with every battered motel stop since Sam had learned he could choose his own hair care products that didn't already come free with the room. Even at a young age, Sammy had been more than a bit of a prima donna and had required a lot of hot water, his own personal shampoo, and alone time to complete the entirety of his grooming routine, and that had not lessened in the slightest as he'd gotten older, with embarrassingly smooth and perfect hair that was much less Zestfully clean like Dean's and much more Maybe it's Maybelline.

Dean sank further into the shower's warm embrace, willing away the sleep crowding against the backs of his eyes that had promised to help him vacation from the ache of his battered body but had instead totally screwed him over and delivered the usual Technicolor travel pamphlet of nightmare-splashed destinations instead: Visit beautiful wooded Purgatory! Fight for your life among our lovely pines! or Sunbathe near one of Hell's lakes of fire! We can't wait to chew the flesh from your bones again!

Nope. Just nope. Dean shut that line of thinking down hard, pushing it away, locking it up, jamming it into one of the bunker's hundreds of hideyholes for the unwanted and weird. Nightmares, napping dreams, I-blinked-for-a-second-and-I-was-back-there, he couldn't help. Thinking about it while he was awake and aware? Just no. The kicker was he just couldn't seem to forget. Couldn't completely brush them aside, couldn't move on. Could still function, yes, no choice there, but when it came to not occasionally still hearing Alastair's leering tongue against his ear or the hollow clicking of the gun Sammy was trying to empty into his skull, well, Dean could no more escape those half-unearthed memories, breaking up the landscape of his mind like bones and broken pottery pulled up by eroding flood waters, than he could imagine himself having a normal, well-adjusted life.

Dean pressed his forehead against the cool tile, a sharp juxtaposition to the muggy air fogging around his body from the shower's steam. The temperature change didn't help his headache or blurred vision as much as he would have liked, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

God, the bunker was perfect. Plenty of hot water, his own room, and he now had more stuff than just what he could stow in the back of his Baby, plus he could make his own damn bacon cheeseburgers whenever he wanted that had somehow miraculously even earned Sammy's salad-shaking, calorie-counting exacting seal of giant approval.

It was glorious. So damn glorious.

Warm water kissed his skin, beading and sliding and dripping to hit the shower floor tile and swirl down the drain. Dean didn't even want to think of all the clogged motel drains Sammy had left behind over the years, or the poor hot motel maids in their little maid uniforms that had had to dig those gigantor-sized hairballs out of the showers.

Dean blinked, reached clumsily for the soap. He was really thinking too much about Sam right now, especially while in the shower, but even now it was hard to help, with years upon years of ingrained protectSammy/watchoutforSammy/SammySammySammy drilled into his character since he'd barely been old enough to carry his little brother. All the shit they'd been through since, all the times Sam had walked out on him to make himself a better, shinier life without his big brother, it didn't matter. It just didn't. He would protect Sammy till the day he died permanently, and he'd accepted that years ago.

Dean ran the dwindling bar of soap across his slick skin, already adding a mental note to pick up more - along with beer and more beer - the next time he was out. He'd have to check his PO box too: Wetblanket Whinypants Sam had shut down Dean's lucrative prescription hustling, but that didn't mean Dean was out of funding options. He literally couldn't afford to be, and Sam really should either pitch in or shut up: as bitchy as Sammy had always been about Dean's liberal use of liberated credit cards, his little brother hadn't once hesitated to happily spend or charge any money Dean had been able to scrounge up by whatever means necessary at any point in their lives. Dean hadn't exactly had the luxury of being picky about where the money to keep Sammy fed and clothed and Dad patched up had come from, and could only count himself lucky that he'd never had a chance to sit down and feel properly guilty about how he'd provided for his family then or now.

Saved him a hell of a lot of time to feel guilty about pretty much everything else, though, so win win. Seriously, how the angels could have even considered him a viable contender for an angelic vessel was beyond him: his body and soul were so stained from this life even Cas' occasional wiping the slate clean couldn't really hide the damage. More like, at best misdirect the audience into thinking there was actually something worth seeing here.

Dean blinked again, shoving a hand across his eyes in a completely useless attempt to push away the blurriness that had taken up residence where his ability to see clearly had once been. He probably should have rinsed the soap off his hand 'cause it stung a little, but he didn't really care, ignored the slight pain that narrowed his eyes and squinted furiously at the tiny bottle of motel shampoo sitting on the shower ledge as though his will alone could bring the miniscule words into focus.

It didn't. Stupid fucking go-for-the-head attack that he, ironically, should have seen coming, but Sammy had shouted something - probably, also ironically, "look out" - and Dean had already been on his knees, blood soaking through the back of his shredded jeans (as he mourned the loss of the incredibly comfortable jeans more so than the thickly lashed skin beneath the tattered denim.)

Dean sigh-growled, turned so the stream of water hit the back of his shoulders instead, waiting until he was good and damned ready before twisting off the water and groping blindly for a towel that somehow wasn't where he'd sworn he'd left it slung over the shower stall door. His glasses, however, were exactly and mockingly where he'd left them; he pushed a hand through his damp hair to get what water out he could, then down his arms, sides, and ass, more carefully his legs, and figured that was the best he was going to do as far as minimizing the puddles he was about to leave on the bathroom tile. He put his glasses on - cause Dean Winchester was all about safety - and stepped out into the muggy air of the bathroom.

And fuck it if his glasses weren't fogged up before he was even halfway out of the shower; all he could see was a tan blur in front of him that looked vaguely person-shaped -

"Cas?" was the undignified and completely unmanly yelp that came from him as his dripping and solidly naked form almost collided with the angel who had gone straight-up creeper right in his bathroom. Dean yanked his glasses off - which didn't help clear his vision in the slightest - and put them back on - also no help - and floundered around for his towel, snatching it from Cas' hand when the angel politely held the missing item out to him.

"Dean," Cas replied seriously, sounding completely unperturbed and in fact a little pleased to be of use. Dean wrapped the towel around his waist and tucked the trailing edge in as Cas peered at him intently. "You have glasses on," the angel announced, sounding quite proud of his skills of observation.

"Yes." Dean swatted at the hand blob that was currently drifting across his fuzzy vision, coming closer than he was at all comfortable with. "What are you doing? Don't touch them."

"You look … different," Cas said, and Dean could hear the frown in his voice, as if he were trying to piece together this new and mysterious side of Dean, the bespectacled side. "Smarter," Cas added thoughtfully, still reaching for the black frames, head tilted like if he could just figure this out the mysteries of the universe would suddenly make sense.

"Stop trying to touch my face," Dean backed up a step, away from the waving blurriness that was Angel Glasses Inspector #3. "And get out," he added, not sharply because Cas was Cas no matter whether leviathan or delusions of grandeur, but a little sharply because he couldn't seem to help ribbing Cas. It was like how he'd used to be able to tease Sam, before things between them got so strained and difficult and exhausting.

A long finger almost jabbed him in the eye and Dean yelped and swatted the angel away. "Cas, I mean it!"

"I would like to, Dean," Cas said agreeably, eyes squinched and thoughtful, hand still so close to Dean's face the hunter was actually nervous, respirations speeding up without his permission. "But it's so difficult not to want to touch you - your glasses," he clarified and there was something in his normal monotone that shifted but Dean couldn't identify. "All of your glasses," he added seriously, wavering hand still frozen inches from Dean's dripping form.

"Cas. Get out."

"Of course, Dean," was the immediate reply, but when Dean squinted bleary eyes the trenchcoated angel still stood patiently and uncomfortably close - personal space never being a concept Cas had fully grasped.

Dean heaved a massive sigh, heated skin burning in mild embarrassment as he shoved past Cas to the sink and his toothbrush. Dean was pretty sure he wasn't displaying anything the angel hadn't seen before, but still …

"No, you are correct, Dean," Cas confirmed affably, "In fact, I have on numerous times seen you - "

"Uh, no, Cas," Dean interrupted, "Just … stop … saying what I'm thinking. It's rude."

"I beg your pardon, Dean," Cas murmured apologetically, "It's certainly not my intention to make you uncomfortable."

"We're a little past that, Cas," Dean mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste, but he just couldn't help the smile that cracked the corner of his mouth. "Listen, Cas, buddy," and he cringed at that, "I'm just gonna finish up here and then we can, uh, do whatever you came to do out in the library."

"Of course, Dean. I will see you momentarily." Cas actually moved a fraction toward the door before he paused, looked back at Dean. "Will you be wearing your glasses?"

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