.

They don't talk about what the hell's happened to Adam after the Green Room's vanished from the warehouse — if he's burned alive by the light, maybe he's under angelic torture. Or where the hell Cas banished himself and his attackers off to. Dean crawls into the passenger seat, self-medicates himself with a few stronger beers as they pass through San Bernardino. Nods off before they reach Arizona.

Sam doesn't blame him for shutting down in the last couple hours and keeps the radio off and windows rolled down for a passing breeze as his older brother dozes.

The thing about Dean is he's not really a noisy sleeper.

Some nights, yeah — his snores are irritating. Sam has nights hampered with restless sleeping and snacking on saltless crackers while mindlessly watching infomercials.

But in general, Dean is not a sleep-talker or grumbler or whatever. Sam worries in silence at first when Dean jerks around in his sleep, eyelids twitching over concealed eyeballs, and makes soft noises. Assuming it's a nightmare, and keeping his eyes firmly on the stretch of blacktop, Sam touches Dean's shoulder and gives it a mild shake. "Dean? Dean…hey?"

It doesn't work but the jerking settles down. Dean's tightening expression visibly eases. Sam peers at him through the corners of his eyes, pushing air through his lips in a relieved sigh.

"—mmhm," Dean breathes out, his left cheek pushed up against a leather duster pillowing the back of his head on the seat.

Another noise, almost like a whimper, and Sam gazes curiously at him as his older brother squirms in place and groans — clear as Arizona daylight — "Cas…"

The first thing Sam registers is the guttural-spoken name.

Next is the blaring train horn.

He snaps into action, eyes bugging in their sockets and slamming on the brakes inches from the railroad tracks. A graffitied, cargo-shipping train rockets in front of them, inches from the front bumper. Dean jolts awake. "The f—!" He flails his limbs, his spine trying to go ramrod straight. "What happened?" he barks at Sam whose knuckles are clenched bone-white to the steering wheel, entire Impala swaying.

"Sorry, um," he yells over the roaring noise, staring guilty at Dean's incredulous look. "I was… caught off guard. The… train," Sam finishes lamely, gesturing.

"You were…" Dean trails off, eyebrows furrowing together.

He scrubs a hand over his face — looking more tired than before the nap, crapcrap. "Okay, Sammy. I think you need some rest," he sighs.

"I'm fine, Dean."

Dean nods at him, eerily compliant. "Fine enough to drive us into a train, let's go." He cracks open the passenger door and steps out. Sam rolls his eyes at the sarcastic jib and does the same on his side.

.

"What were you dreaming about earlier?"

Dean gulps down his mouthful of chicken BLT, smearing a bit of mustard on his chin. "What are you talking about, Sam?"

He shrugs, poking at his lukewarm egg muffin sandwich.

"When I was driving, it looked like you were dreaming while you were conked out, man. You were… making noises."

"That's vague," Dean mutters, attempting to rub at the mustard smear when Sam cues him, tapping at his own face, towards the right-hand side of his chin. He misses.

His younger brother snorts, grinning, eyes going back to his half-eaten dinner.

"If you don't remember then I don't wanna break the news to you, Dean."

Dean lounges back against the driver's seat, shooting Sam one of his 'don't even' glares. The night air pouring in feels stale, tastes stale. Sam crumples up the rest of his food and his trash, catching a glimpse of the glare and his toothy grin separates to laugh. "I think you were dreaming about Castiel."

"Cas?" Dean shakes his head, pokerfaced but Sam's seen it enough to know when his jaw seizes at an accusation. "I wasn't dreaming about Cas."

Sam adds on, getting a perverse bit of enjoyment in seeing his big brother fighting the urge to punch him and sulk down in his seat, "I heard you, Dean. You said his name. And clearly not in the 'let's-be-friends-and-get-some-cold-ones' way but more of the 'please-keep-doing-that-with-your-tongue' way."

"You're so full of shit." It's too dark in the surrounding area to see if Dean's blushing. Oh, that would be hilarious.

"Uh-huh."

"We're not talking about this, Sam. There was no dream." The key in the ignition jams in place and Dean switches on the car, radio blasting with Lynyrd Skynyrd, and he tosses aside the styrofoam carton containing the rest of his greasy dinner. "So shut up." They pull out of the road ditch, headlights framing the shadows of the open-air area.

"Whatever you say," Sam mumbles, crossing his arms and hiding another grin.

.

.

.

Jimmy Novak's backwards tie unfurls from its limp knot as Cas strips away the ruined scrap of clothing. The creature they ganked lies dead at their feet. A gash on Cas's right hand weeps blood. Before Dean can address it, Cas sucks the V-line between his thumb and finger with open lips, fucking being pornographic about his technique and stares Dean right in the eye. Right though his dark eyelashes.

Heat travels down Dean's chest, for his dick as Cas's tongue peeks from those lips, runs along his skin, slurps the blood-dribble escaping his mouth— pretty is not a good enough word to describe the blue of Cas' eyes.

They're not like Jimmy's. Jimmy's eyes were never this mesmeric, this luminous, this heady.

A groan sounds from deep in Dean's throat and Cas' lips curl up faintly.

.

.

.