AU: Dean is a hunter, but Mary is alive. Dean brought Cas home to met his mother. And well … mothers always know best.
"So," Mary says, because she’s not one to not grab an opportunity by the balls, "Dean’s not seeing anyone right now, then?"
"Not that I’m aware of," Castiel says. "Though I must disclaim that if Dean told me not to tell you, I could be lying right now."
Mary laughs. “Oh, then he could be with you, is that it?”
"Me?" Castiel double-takes.
"It’s not completely out the question, is it?" Mary asks. "You get along so well."
"Oh." Castiel’s smile fades a little. "I’m not his type."
Apparently it’s Mary’s turn to be startled. Not his type doesn’t mean not interested, and Mary’s getting a good hang of the angel not-speak that seems to be universal. “What do you mean?”
"Oh, you know about Dean’s taste in partners. He prefers individuals who are…" Castiel’s gaze moves to the middle distance, a thoughtful little frown following his struggle to put it into words. "Self-assured. Confident and knowing of what they want, and how to pursue it. Dean is drawn to people like that."
Mary can’t say that that’s incorrect. Mary could say that it’s not always that neat, but as much as she loves her son she doesn’t always know what he’s thinking, or the turns of logic Dean tends to employ when it comes to the people he’s close to. All Mary does know is what she’s seen when these two are in the same room together, but goodness knows that has to be only a fraction of what they are to and have been for each other (Dean will never ever tell her the full story, she knows).
"Yes." Castiel nods, seemingly pleased with his answer. "I’m not his type. But this is all right, as he is the best friend I’ve ever known, and that is not a consolation prize."
Mary touches Castiel’s arm. It’s a poor replacement for words of comfort and encouragement, but Castiel seems to appreciate it.
"I’ll go check on Sam," Castiel says. "Will you be…"
"Yes, I can finish up here," Mary says. "Go ahead."
Castiel takes his leave, and Mary sits there feeling a little bereft, a little helpless, a little annoyed, and trying to cling on to the memory of how much she’d disliked it when her own father had tried to set her up in her youth (but this is not like that, she tells herself).
There’s a rush of movement at the corner of Mary’s eye, and she turns just in time to see Dean — Dean, who they’d both thought was out of the house buying groceries but apparently was too busy making like an angel and creeping on them — practically running off down the hallway in the direction Castiel had gone.
"Well then," Mary says.