I just need something to get me through exam season, but not an in-depth, proper story. These'll only be beta'd by myself, but hopefully I'll publish one per day... and not neglect revision and/or exams.

edit: i somehow published this without the first paragraph. I'm crying a little bit. fixed now.

Dean's sitting quietly, and I think that's when I first knew something was up. Dean isn't even quiet when he's asleep; his loud personality manifests through snores that sometimes seem to shake the whole bed.

I put my bag down, and I sit on the sofa next to him. "Hello, Dean."

My mind runs through the possible courses of action. Going for the direct route has never worked; he's so set against 'chick flick moments' that if he smells even a hint of one from a mile away, his walls are up instantly and you have no chance of getting him to talk. However, I can't simply leave him to stew on it – that usually results in an explosive display of repressed emotion, and I don't think I can handle seeing Dean angry as a consequence of my actions (or lack thereof) again.

How does one broach a dangerous subject subtly, yet speedily, without knowing the subject?

"Hey, Cas." He says the words on a sigh, and my eyebrows furrow. He sounds almost… mournful.

"Did you have a good day?"

He shrugs, delightfully uncommunicative. "Didn't do much. Yours?"

"As usual." Why is Dean staring at the TV if it's not on? "Is it… customary for you to watch the TV whilst it's off?"

"Nah, I turned it off."

I wait a few beats for him to continue, as he always does; tell me about the episode of Dr Sexy MD he was watching, comment on the Spanish channels being much better than the 'reality shit' on the rest of the channels, anything… but he doesn't expand, leaving me to continue conversation. This role reversal doesn't suit our characterisation, Dean.

"What were you watching?" I refuse to pay any more heed to the air of awkwardness and look directly at Dean. He seems somewhat more comfortable under my gaze, unlike when first we met.

"Some sappy romantic shit. Think it was supposed to be a movie." The hint of a smirk makes me roll my eyes, much as I am glad for the… Dean-ness of that simple gesture.

"Tell me about it, it sounds interesting."

His eyes snap to meet mine, almost in a panic. He seems satisfied in what he sees, mocking me with a smile and turning back to the blank TV screen. "Some couple were perfect together, then one of 'em dies, and the chick's told he was a crap boyfriend for the whole rest of the film. It ends with her kissing this dude she met halfway through."

"That sounds cheerful."

His only response is a grunt.

I don't think this is going anywhere. Maybe if you were better with words…

"Did you find it so good that you could bear no other cinematic production to grace the screen or do you find the black fascinating?"

His mouth twitches into the shape of a smile again. "I was just thinking."

I raise my eyebrows a little. "Anything you feel like sharing?"

"Not particularly."

I give up. "Well, I'll be here if you change your mind."

I move off and away from the sofa towards our small kitchen; I may as well get on with dinner and leave him with his thoughts. If he explodes, then at least I can know I've tried.

Not that it's much of a consolation. I feel as though I ought to try harder, and, in fact, I turn and open my mouth to Dean's back more times than I can count before realising I have nothing to say to him.

The smell of almost-cooked pasta draws Dean over to wait for his bowl. We eat in silence; me unable to instigate conversation, him unwilling. I find it hard to even look at him, so I don't.

"Cas." He says suddenly, and I look up from my two-thirds empty bowl. His bowl is finished and his fists are clenched on the table, but he's looking down until his eyes snap up to mine. "Are you happy?"

I feel my head tilt in confusion, and I have a small portion of my brain lamenting the awkward habit left over from teenage-hood, while the rest of me wonders. "I- what?"

"Are you happy?" He repeats, simply.

I feel lost and open my mouth to answer, then close it. I know the answer, of course I know the answer, but I don't know the context of the question and I don't know if it's the rightanswer. "Yes." His eyes say he doesn't believe me. "Dean, why do you ask?"

He looks down. "We're not exactly a normal couple."

"Well, no; normal couples don't-" he interrupts what would have been an abysmal attempt at a joke.

"Let me finish." I nod. "Normal couples don't have a pile of bills that only one of them pays. Normal couples go out on dates sometimes, not just eat pre-made pasta at home." I look down at the pasta I have left. "No – I don't mind the pasta, I… let me get to the end?" I nod again, drop my gaze back on his. "They have cute pet names. They give stupid gifts. They hold hands, for fuck's sake, and we don't even do that. I just… I guess I don't see how you can be happy with me."

"I'm with you." He opens his mouth. "No – it's your turn to let me finish. You know I lack finesse with words, so bear with me." He nods, a wry smile twisting his lips. "I've never hadnormal, Dean. My family left me hardly normal. And then I met you, and you never made me feel like I wasn't. You can't control the chemicals in your brain, you can't control depression… so you can't control whether you feel comfortable enough to get a job or go on a date." I pause, look up. "Honestly? Those are parts of a very short list of things that simply aren't great about our relationship. They're not even on a list of things I dislike. If you want to do them, then I'll be happy, yes. If you don't… well, I'd rather have you, regardless."

My pasta's cold, so I put it on the side and walk over to where Dean is sitting. "Is that why you were quiet?"

He nods, doesn't look at all surprised that I noticed, that I linked the two. We smile ruefully at each other as I take the seat directly next to him.

I count the breaths he takes, one… two… three, then I feel his warm hand entwine itself with mine.