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“Hey there, Mr. Winchester. The usual?”
Dean nods to the young woman as she tips his chair back and turns on the warm water.
He doesn’t know her name, but he figures they must all know him here since he’s been coming every three months for the past year and a half.
It's been 5 years since Chuck.
Since Cas.
Dean never thought he'd live this long. Five long years. Long enough to realize what those little touches from Cas meant to him. Healing a broken arm, closing a wound.
It’s not that he needs healing. Dean doesn’t hunt anymore. He and Sam have been out of it for some time now, turning over the bunker to Garth and some of the younger hunters, sharing a house closer to Jody and the girls.
Civilian life.
Claire’s commented on how good his hair looks lately, now that he doesn’t insist on doing it himself all the time anymore. How he “cleans up nice” for an old man.
Jody’s tried to set him up on dates more times than he can count, and so far he’s successfully evaded each attempt. It’s not that he wants to be alone. It’s just…
Not now. Not after…
So once every three months, Dean comes here, sits down, and pays for some stranger - doesn’t matter who - to tip him back and wash his hair with gentle warmth and some fancy shampoo that smells like crushed almonds.
He sits back, closes his eyes, and lets a stranger’s hands sift and comb through his hair, because it means nothing…and everything.
Just once every three months, for twenty minutes, Dean sits back and tries to remember what it felt like to be touched with gentleness. With care.
What it felt like to be touched by Cas.