Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

...Also known as, How Dean Winchester accidentally became the star of Chuck’s Hallmark Movie.

On Earth 246, Chuck decided to do something a little different for shits and giggles. He decided his favorite story, his favorite heroes Sam and Dean, were going to be supporting characters of sorts. They’d follow the same storyline to a point, but then backup heroes would take over for this particular Earth.

And in the beginning, it was awesome. If Chuck had to be completely honest with himself, this Earth was even better than all of the other Earths combined.

Tim and Wesley Wesson were interesting brothers, not quite Sam and Dean, but still interesting and flawed as all good heroes should be. Chuck had scripted their story just like Sam and Dean’s. He figured… why reinvent the wheel? The Sam and Dean story was a good one, his favorite one…he just wanted to see if different souls would react differently. You know… for science.

Tim and Wesley were a little more douchey, but you know… douches could still be interesting characters. Chuck had loved Mad Men’s Donald Draper after all.

Questionable characterization aside, Chuck imitated the Winchester storyline with Tim and Wesley. Just like Sam and Dean, Tim and Wesley were legacies with a Hunter mom and a Letters dad, John and Mary but better, version 2.0 if you will … Adam and Evelyn were a little less apple pie than the Winchesters. Momma Wesson was still pig roasted by Azazel, Daddy Wesson was the grieving widower with an all-consuming revenge vendetta. Tim and Wesley spent their life on the road in the back of a ’67 fastback Mustang. The brothers were smart, deadly, and were even debonair ladies men. Even better, they lacked the angst-ridden chick flick moments that Sam and Dean seemed to revel in.

Chuck loved them.

They were awesome in the beginning, everything unfolded exactly as Chuck wanted it to. Two brothers, devoted to each other, would sacrifice their lives for each other, go to Hell, and then be resurrected, banging chicks and fighting monsters. It was riveting and addictive and made Chuck wonder why he even bothered with Sam and Dean.

Until the Apocalypse storyline happened and then things on Earth 246 just went to shit. Tim was rescued from hell by Castiel, his favorite scrappy underdog angel but there was no Team Free Will. Castiel wasn’t following the script. He wasn’t the same without Dean. Where was the “I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition?” Where were the sexy Dom threats leaning up against the counter in Bobby Singer’s kitchen? Where were the long looks? Where was the wild sex hair!?

Where was the fucking subtext that those Bronly tin hatters denied?

It was all wrong.

Tim and Wesley just accepted their fates as angel meat suits for Angels. Michael and Lucifer battled it out, Castiel exploded, Lucifer and Wesley went to Hell… and Tim was left on Earth when Michael returned to heaven. There wasn’t even an Apocalypse battle royal that wiped out the majority of the population because Michael and Gabriel just agreed to let Earth be. (And where the fuck did Gabriel come into this? That was so fucking left field.)

Chuck was pissed. He was about to scrap the entire project. The whole thing sucked ass and not in the good toe-curling rim-job way. He decided that he was never going to deviate from Sam and Dean again. Tim was a sad desperate shell of a man (reminded him a lot of John Winchester after losing Mary… which, yuck, even he disliked the eldest Winchester.)

He was this close to cooking Earth 246 to cinders until Tim worked a case with Dean and Sam. A routine demon bust should have been no problem but Dean almost died because Tim was being a grade-A assbutt. The hero of the story almost killed his actual favorite character because he wasn’t paying attention! He was a complete and selfish idiot. His only redeeming quality is that he would pray (i.e., shout angrily) to Castiel whenever he got injured and happened to do the same for Dean.

And that is when the real magic happened… when Castiel first laid his hand on Dean… and it made Chuck think that maybe Earth 246 wasn’t all garbage.

Just maybe, Earth 246 wasn’t his favorite fantasy horror monster show… but it could be Chuck’s first Hallmark gay fantasy chick-flick. Sweet and saccharine with a little bit of angst and you know… even God loves a good romance.

Chapter Text

 …and his name is Castiel, Angel of Thursday, Holy Tax Accountant of the Lord

Dean hated Tim Wesson with a passion.

From the start of the hunt, Dean knew he should have fought a bit harder after being voluntold by Bobby to assist Tim on this particular hunt. It should have been an easy case, classic pissant demon stirring things up and causing havoc in a small country town in Nowheresville, ‘Murica. It would have been an even easier case if Tim wasn’t a roaring drunk. At first, Dean gave him some slack, he too liked a few drinks and couldn’t really judge Tim for liking a slug from his hip flask on the job. And as much as it pained Dean to believe, it was said that Tim and his brother saved the world from the actual freakin’ Apocalypse a few months ago. Bobby had confirmed that Tim had even lost his brother, that the kid had sacrificed himself to the actual Devil, and was rotting away in actual Hell. Dean couldn’t imagine the pain Tim was going through and so he was willing to give Tim Wesson the benefit of the doubt.

God, if he lost Sam… he’d be a wreck.

So, when he sees Tim swigging from his flask which is refilled on the sly a few times throughout this dreary day, Dean thinks it won’t be an issue. Wesson is supposedly a legendary hunter, one of the best in the field, certainly, he can handle his booze.

When push comes to shove, Dean also needs a drink. The day is miserable, the sky hasn’t quit dumping on his day and it is cold. So cold he could feel it seeping into his bones. The two hunters are holed up in a damp and rotting house on the edge of town, the storm raging outside. Intel said the demon had a few places he used to stash people. One house to torture and one house to snack on the corpses. Unfortunately, they found the house for snacking and Sam was out looking for the torture house. The sticky floor and moldy death smell permeated the air, turning Dean’s stomach. They had found remains earlier squirreled away in the hurricane cellar. Tim had barely batted an eye, the strange fucker, but Dean felt a twinge of pity for those poor people. He was hunting to save people, like his Dad before him.

Saving people, hunting things… that was the family business. Crisscrossing across the country slaying monsters looking for the demon with yellow eyes.

That was the life of the Winchesters and everything was copacetic up until Sam went off to Stanford. Things were quiet for Dean for a few years while Sam was gone as far as hunting went… until their Dad went missing hunting for The Demon. The boys had found their Dad but Sam lost his girl. And then, things had been really rough when Sam started having realistic, future telling visions. The Visions, hell the whole situation, scared Dean, but he knew his brother and his brother was no monster. Instead, the boys went after the demon and they’d even nabbed Samuel Colt’s gun for themselves. Unfortunately, the Winchesters seemed to be consistently two steps behind old Yellow Eyes. A car crash almost ended Dean, but John had struck a deal. Dean was lost without him but continued on for Sam’s sake. Sam’s visions grew more intense and they followed them religiously. Eventually, the visions brought them to Cold Oak, South Dakota.  Where they found bodies of kids like Sam but no explanation of what had really happened.

Lost and not knowing where to turn at that time… they met up with Bobby and met the Wessons for the first time. Dean didn’t care for the Wessons but Bobby, Bobby had always been his favorite hunter. His Dad has dropped the two of them off at Bobby’s house regularly until Bobby and John had a nasty fight. He later learned that Bobby wanted to keep Sam and Dean with him and John had reacted poorly… guns were drawn. Regardless, if Bobby needed them, he and Sam were there and they’d help the Wessons close Hell’s Gate. Dean provided back up while the Wesson saga unfolded, he watched as Yellow Eyes taunted Tim about Wesley’s death. He watched his Dad and Wessons’ Dad souls fight the Demon that killed their respective mothers. He watched Tim get thrown around like a rag doll.

And before anyone could react, Dean dove before Tim could, scooping up the Colt and shooting Yellow Eyes right in the middle of his skull.

That was the exact moment the Winchesters and Wesson’s rift began. Tim Wesson was livid that Dean was the one who got to end old Yellow Eyes. He was pissed and Dean didn’t care, the demon was dead and Dean’s story had come full circle. Sam’s visions stopped and things returned to normal for the Winchester’s and their hunting life.

Over the years, the Wessons and Winchesters ran into each other out on an odd hunt.  Bobby would have to be called in to play referee because Tim held a grudge (i.e., butthurt) about Dean “stealing his chance to end Azazel.” But Tim’s hurt feelings didn’t affect Dean. His life had moved on, he and Sam were only hunting part-time anyways. And they only continued to hunt because Dean was still one of the best. He was good talking to people, figuring out the monster of the week and was excellent in battle conditions. He was quick and a damn good fighter. Tim Wesson could suck it because Dean Winchester was a badass.

Now, on their current case, with Sam was out canvassing, looking for the latest abducted victim, Dean prepares the house and sets the trap for the demon. While Tim’s been out doing who knows what, Dean has drawn a perfect demon trap in hot pink spray paint. (The spray paint a joke courtesy of Sam, but the joke’s on him… Dean actually likes hot pink sparkly spray paint, it puts some pizazz in his day.) He already blessed the water and got his recording of an exorcism ready to play. They’ll easily get the drop on the demon and save the kid who went missing earlier today, fourteen-year-old Robin Dixon. After they’ll get drinks and maybe if the pickings are good and his luck is in, Dean will get laid. Dean really needs to get laid.

When said demon comes ambling through the doors soaking wet, dragging a very large corpse behind him, Tim’s nowhere in sight… which further irritates Dean. Thankfully, the stupid demon bastard comes waltzing through the living room, right across the sparkly pink demon trap which lives up to its name and traps him. He’s a short rotund man with beady eyes and oily hair.

“Hey, demon dick,” Dean snarks and with the toe of his boot flicking up the carpet.

“Going to send me back to hell, hunter?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” Dean retorts, “But where’s the girl you snatched earlier today?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“You’re not going to voluntarily,” Tim Wesson laughs hollowly, appearing across from Dean in the doorway drunk off his ass. A crack of lightning highlighting his laugh, Dean rolls his eyes… this was almost as bad as a B movie.

The comical way the demon face falls and looks momentarily afraid of Tim, solidifies the moment as a bad B movie. Dean is thoroughly amused at the whole situation until he looks closer at Wesson. The other hunter’s face stretches into a twisted smile. His eyes are sunk deeply into his gaunt face. His once attractive features are mangled by grief and personal neglect. Dean’s amusement evaporates and he feels a twinge of worry watching Tim Wesson.

Tim pulls up a chair to the edge of the demon trap, a grizzly looking knife dangling loosely from his hands. His face is a mask of perfect indifference, chilling and deadly.

“I’m going to carve it out of you,” Tim states.

“The fuck you are!” The demon roars launching himself at Tim.

On a sober day, Tim would have deflected and would have taken care of said demon scum easily. Unfortunately, as established… Tim is not sober and fights very poorly. It’s in the blink of an eye that Tim is thrown into Dean, knife still in hand, and stabs Dean straight in his gut, knocking Dean into a termite-eaten wall. Undeterred, Tim ruthlessly pulls the dagger from Dean’s gut, whirling around and plunging it into the demon, ending him with a crackle of electricity.

Partially in the stupid wall, Dean inches his way out and wills himself not to panic. Panic would make the blood pump faster. Putting careful pressure on the wound, he curses his luck. Curses Tim. The hot sticky blood seeping through his fingers, coating them.

“You need to take me to the ER,” he groans.

“No, I need to find the girl.”

“Tim, fuck you! You stabbed me. Take me to the fucking ER,” Dean shouts at the stupid drunk.

“I don’t have time for this shit,” Tim snarls and then barks up into the ceiling, “Castiel, you useless feather duster, I need you to come to heal this jackass.”

Dean pales, Tim has lost his mind. He knew Wesson was badly off… but wasn't aware of the extent. He is literally talking to the ceiling. Shouting out for this Castiel. Over and over again, Tim continues to shout angrily for this Castiel. And Dean… Dean is going to die in this house, on this disgusting sticky floor, covered in termite droppings. Pulling out his cellphone and choking out dry sobs as more blood escapes him. The tears burning in his eyes and the well of emotions clogging his throat. He is shaking, he could barely get his fingers into his jeans pocket. His fingers slipping, messy from his own blood, and he feels frustrated that he can’t get a good grip on his phone to open it. He needs to call Sam. He needs Sam.

Tim sees what he is trying to do and backhands the phone away from Dean’s grasp, “Don’t fucking call an ambulance, you’ll be dead by the time they arrive,” Tim barks and then shouts, “CASTIEL! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!”

Weak, vision swimming, and teetering towards delirium, Dean crawls towards his phone. Tears slipping from his eyes. If he is going to die… he needs to say goodbye to Sam. He needs to tell him not to do anything stupid. Sam would be desperate. Sam would even make a deal for Dean. He couldn’t let Sam do it.

He’ll make Sam promise to finally ask their neighbor out. Start a life. Maybe she’ll be able to keep Sam’s purpose grounded. With Dean out of the picture, maybe Sammy would even get a dog and have kids. It has always been the two of them, keeping each other tethered to reality. Sam is everything to Dean, he desperately doesn’t want to leave his brother behind.

More tears well in his eyes, his fingers inches away from his cell. Desperation clings to Dean, he can almost touch it, a hair's breadth away.

So close. So close. So close.

He knew he’d been on borrowed time, ever since Reverend Le Grange had exchanged a life for his all those years ago and then again when his Dad made the deal with Yellow Eyes.  He knew it’d catch up to him, he thought he would be ready when the time came.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t ready at all. He loves life. He wants to see one more sunrise. Have one more beer with Sammy. Shoot off some fireworks in an empty field again like they did when Sam was a kid. Take a long trip, no hunting just sightseeing, in the Impala.

He wants Sam to fall in love.

Dean too wants to fall in love.

To wake up to someone and to go to bed with that person every day for the rest of his life. Curl around them in a bed full of blankets. Kiss the nape of their neck. Run his hands down their body. Watch the laugh lines form around their eyes and the grey slowly pepper their hair. Bicker about whether to turn on the heat at night when his blood ran thin with age.

O’ how he wants someone to want him forever. To love him forever. To walk through life with him.

He’ll never get that chance, dying on this stinking floor. A sob breaks from his lips, as Dean stretches his fingers to his phone. The black device taunting him, screen broken… like so many things in his life. So broken. He is so very broken.

Broken Dean Winchester. Never the same after his Daddy died. He can hear them saying it.

Never the same, wanting more and never feeling as if he deserved it. Taking care of Sam, his only purpose until Sammy didn’t need him anymore. Sammy didn’t really need him anymore… right? He’d be okay if Dean died. Dean tries to convince himself that Sammy will be ok.

He can’t believe he is dying from Tim Wesson’s drunkenness.

Dean can see the pity in everyone’s eyes, looking at Sam, everyone surrounding his pyre.

He’ll have a Hunter's funeral, Sam wouldn’t have it any other way. They can’t risk Dean coming back and haunting the Earth. It’d serve Wesson right if he haunted his ass. The fucking drunk.

Fucking Tim Wesson.

“Castiel! Fuck you! You fucking bird! You need to come here!”

A gust of cool wind breezes past, caressing his sticky and sweat-soaked face. A man appears, a blue and tan blur in Dean’s darkening vision. A reaper, Dean thinks, but not...Tessa? Yes, Tessa. Tessa is his reaper. He’ll go with Tessa this time, it is his time. He can go with soft-spoken Tessa.

 The smell of sweet mountain air follows him and Dean breathes deeply, trying to blink away his tears. A calmness sweeps over him, everything is going to be ok, he is going to be led to the afterlife just like last time.

“About time,” hisses Tim, “I’m going to go find the girl.”

“Please,” Dean whispers, flecks of blood escaping his lips. He begs for some kind of help, whether to end his life quickly or to save him. Dean doesn’t know.

The blue and tan blur stalks towards him, holding out a large hand. Tentatively the large hand splays across his gut wound. A light glows and Dean feels safe, at peace, and his vision clears. It is over in an instant, the man withdraws his hand.

Looking up, the tan and blue amorphous being takes the shape of a very attractive man who looks to be in his early thirties. Flyaway hair, tan trench coat, blue tie, and a blue suit with a white button-up underneath. The man has the bluest eyes, wide and a little guarded but magnetic. Dean feels like this man is staring straight into his soul, stripping it down and caressing it with his eyes.

Backing up, and bracing himself, Dean gets to his feet. The man has only stepped back enough to let Dean get up. The stranger stands straight, shoulders back, eyes staring unflinchingly at Dean.

“Who are you?”

“Castiel.”

“Well, I figured that much… what are you?”

“I’m an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean’s mouth drops open, “Get the hell out of here! There is no such thing!”

“I assure you, I am an Angel,” Castiel states, running his hands down the lapels of the trench coat. A flash of emotion akin to curiosity swells in Dean, perceiving the gesture as a nervous tic. Licking his lips, Dean takes in all the nuances of the creature before him. With the last of the storm dying outside, a new storm brews between them.

Castiel's head tilts to the side, his brows furrowed in puzzlement…almost as if he’s trying to understand something in the weighty silence. As if he has found his answer, Castiel takes a deep breath and with a roll of his shoulders and a crackle of lightning, huge shadows of wings stretch out on the wall behind him. Large inky-black shadows stretching upward, each primary feather stretching out clearly and displaying across the walls. Beautiful, deadly, powerful wings stretch the entire width of the house. Dean’s eyes widen and he fights the urge to step back.

“Oh man,” Dean chokes out, his heart suddenly swelling with a mixture of fear and wonder. An angel, a real-life angel came to heal him. He can’t help but think of his mother. Dean doesn’t remember his mother very well, but a blurry memory he holds close is that of his Mom telling him that angels were watching over him while she tucked him safely into bed. And Dean… he’s really just been healed by one. Castiel shifts again, the shadowy wings disappearing.

“Thanks, buddy, thank you, for coming and healing me,” he breathes out, a blush tingling through his cheeks. The angel steps closer, eyes flickering between Dean’s eyes and his lips. 

Castiel, so close Dean can feel the heat emanating from his lean yet solid frame, cocks his head to the side with a puzzled but amused expression on his face. “You’re welcome.”

“Holy shit. A real angel. So, you’ve got the wings and a harp and everything?” Dean asks, eyes round.

“I don’t possess a harp,” Castiel replies stoically, but a slight twitch to his lips and Dean knows that he has amused the angel.

Letting out a small huff of laughter, Dean can’t help but smile in response; beginning to babble nervously, “Well, I won’t tell anyone that, it’ll be our secret. Man, I hate to ask this but you seem to have a lot of juice and despite you healing me I’m still feeling a bit beat… but anyways, do you have a way to get rid of these bodies so I don’t have to drag them out and start digging?”

“I can assist with the bodies,” Castiel states, walking away from Dean, kneeling down and tapping the foreheads of the corpses and Dean watches as they instantly turn into dust.

Dean lets out a whistle of appreciation between his teeth, “You sure are handy.”

With a nod of his head as some sort of goodbye, Castiel disappears with another quiet whoosh and Dean is left standing in the middle of the house not quite believing what had just happened. A real angel. A freaking angel just healed a stab wound like it was nothing and Tim Wesson made him appear by just shouting for him! Looking down at his healed skin, he touches his stomach hesitantly as if the smooth skin is a mirage. Dean can still feel the heat of Castiel's touch, he shivers, and goosebumps erupt on his skin.

Pulling his phone out of the rubble, he opens it and calls Sam. After a quick discussion, that yes Tim and Sam found the girl, and yes, let’s go get some beers, and yes, Sam all is fine here. Dean meets Sam and Tim at the local dive bar.

Before anything is said, he storms up and clocks Tim straight in the face, breaking the skin of his knuckles. Snarling down at Tim’s prone figure on the floor, “Hey Tim, good seeing you… since you left me rotting on the floor of that house.”

“Dean! What the Hell!?” Sam cries out.

“I knew you’d be fine Winchester, Castiel came and healed you obviously.”

Shaking out his quickly bruising hand, Dean swipes Tim’s beer and takes a swig, “That’s beside the point, asshole.”

“Who is Castiel?”

“Apparently, Tim here has an angel on speed dial. Who knew, right? Came down after Tim called and I was literally touched by an angel, no questions asked. Now, I’ve got to know… how does a measly bastard like you get the direct number for heaven,” Dean snarks, gesturing angrily at Tim.

Grunting and wiping the blood off his lip, Tim stumbles as he gets to his feet, glaring at the Winchesters the entire time. As he storms off he quietly responds to Dean’s question, “He rescued me from Hell and honestly, there are times I wish he left me there.”

Watching the sad form of Wesson stumble out of the bar, Dean rolls his shoulders back and flexes his now bruised hand.

“What fuckin’ douche,” Dean murmurs taking another swig of beer.

Chapter Text

…Or: How Castiel shows up after every case, disposes of the bodies, and eventually joins the Winchesters on hunts.

Dean never expects to see Castiel again after that one memorable hunt with Tim. He relates the whole bizarre incident to Sam and then to Bobby, who then confirms that yes, Castiel was real and he was an actual freakin’ Angel of the Lord. Bobby previously had the privilege of meeting Castiel a few times, and is keen to describe him as a quiet nerdy little angel but definitely a badass warrior of God. Sam was thrilled and Dean… he was leery and half believed that angels were just like any other monster. He didn’t want to consider it fully, but sometimes if it was too good to be true it usually meant that some asshole was doing something pretty evil.

He was pretty firm in this belief until Castiel started showing up at the tail end of their cases. The first time the angel appeared, he appeared so close to Dean that once again he could feel the warmth radiating from his body and could feel the brush of the tan trench coat against the back of his hand. The smell of fresh mountain air after the rain tickling Dean’s nose. Petrichor, Dean’s mind had supplied, the angel smells like petrichor. Where his brain knew the word to describe that smell, Dean never could figure out.

With a serious and sonorous, “Hello, Dean.” Castiel would immediately turn and dust the corpse of the nasty werewolf that Dean had just shot. Before Dean could utter a single word, Castiel was gone taking the fresh air with him. Dean was left behind, mind whirling with the thought that an angel was playing his personal sanitation worker and also that the angel knew Dean’s name.

That was six months ago.

Weirdly enough, after every case and without fail… Castiel now appears, never staying too long. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t, but every time Castiel gingerly touches the forehead of each monster with the pads of his fingers and reduces them to ash. Often he looks sadly at the mangled creatures but there are instances, where the particular monsters in question are never human, the stoic angel remains unmoved.

In those quiet moments, Dean learns the micro-expressions of Castiel, Angel of the Lord. He learns what each sigh means, he studies head tilts and every quirk of the angel’s lips. Dean learns that the angel's eyes are fathomless pools of emotion. In his heart, Dean knows it's dangerous to learn someone else so intimately, to even entertain the idea of a friendship. Both Winchester brothers have terrible track records when it comes to any kind of relationship outside of each other. They have Bobby and each other and frankly, Dean convinces himself that is everything he needs. Despite his hesitation, Dean is drawn to Castiel and even with all their differences, Dean thinks the angel has a pretty unique sense of humor. Before he knows it, Dean’s favorite part of the hunt becomes Cas’ taking out the garbage.

The dusting of his monsters goes on without any change from Dean, though Sam’s bitchface increases after every hunt. Looking at and disapproving of the whole entire situation. Dean knows that they should probably talk about more than just whatever random thought pops into Dean’s head at the moment. They should have a real talk, man to angel and it should probably start with; Hey Castiel… why do you keep popping up and dusting our baddies? Not that we don't appreciate it.

Sam never says anything, and the fact Sam doesn’t say anything about his displeasure eventually gets under Dean’s skin. He’s never known Sam to bite his tongue and the fact that he’s giving Dean pointed looks instead of a full-on lecture is making the Bat-signal go off in Dean’s brain. Though in the beginning, Sam did make a sassy remark that Castiel was appearing solely for Dean’s benefit.

So, Dean holds out for a while. He likes his little angelic sanitation worker. It has been super convenient. They haven’t had to burn bodies or dig shallow graves. And frankly, he’s not a spring chicken anymore…he’s hit thirty, and digging those graves is not as easy as it used to be.  Everything is running to plan until one particular afternoon where Sam hisses out a curt Dean while Castiel is dusting a few shifters that were trying to pass off as the family pets. Dean instantly understands his underlying message his brother is saying; Talk to Castiel or I’m going to throw a hissy fit that would make a toddler blush.

“Hey Cas, before you fly off, would you like to have a couple of beers with us?”

Castiel stops and his head swivels between Dean and Sam slowly, “Alright.”

“Ok! See, Sammy…he’s having a beer with us,” Dean states clapping the angel on the shoulder and leading the way out to the Impala. Dean pulls out the cooler, grabbing three beers and opening them with his ring and handing them off. He leans against the Impala, tilting his head back and letting the sun warm him. Sam sits on the cooler and Castiel is close by, hesitantly standing between the two brothers and not quite knowing where he fits yet.

“I find it amusing that beer was created completely by accident from an unwashed sticky bowl,” Castiel comments taking a sniff from the bottle and then drinking the amber liquid, “How unfortunate…the taste is only molecules.”

“So, I’m guessing you're pretty old,” Sam hesitantly mentions, “You are the first angel we’ve met, but apparently there are a few on Earth?”

“Not anymore, I am the only angel that I know of that is currently on Earth,” Castiel comments breezily, taking a sip again and making a face.

Dean takes the bottle from his hand, “Alright, buddy, you don’t have to drink it. Why are you the only one?”

“My orders were to observe Earth and to guard Michael’s Sword,” Castiel hesitates, his tongue darting out to dampen his lips as he eyes his beer in Dean’s hand, “But I have come to believe that I have been cast out because the other angels have reason to fear me. It is well known amongst members of the garrison that I was resurrected by God himself after Lucifer atomized me.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean hands the beer back to Cas and watches as the angel takes another sip and makes another face. “So? Shouldn’t they be happy that Dad brought you back?”

“No one has seen or heard from God since he created us, his involvement in my resurrection is worrisome to Michael and Raphael. Gabriel on the other hand was pleased,” Castiel states easily.

Sam stays quiet, processing the information but Dean presses on, “You are telling me that God is not pulling the strings in heaven right now?”

“No, it is Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel that rule heaven right now. They are the Heavenly Host, a committee,” Castiel answers and takes a sip, “This molecule taste is growing on me.”

“I guess a committee is a good thing,” Sam says shortly, the disappointment radiating from his pores.

Castiel’s eyes flick up towards Sam, “We still answer prayers, Sam. Though, sometimes the Fates and the other pagan deities get in the way.”

Nodding and taking a sip of his beer, Dean clears his throat, “So, uh, Sam’s existential crisis aside... Why do you keep showing up and dusting our monsters? Not that we don’t appreciate it, but you have to have better things to be doing right now.”

“I don’t have better things to do, Tim Wesson is no longer hunting and doesn’t require my protection,” Castiel states so honestly that it makes Dean wince.

“Well, would you like to go on hunts with us? Instead of just cleaning up our mess?” 

Castiel levels his piercing gaze at Dean and Dean can see the flicker of something more flash in the angel’s eyes that Dean can’t identify. “I’d enjoy that,” he states, taking another sip, his lips twitching in a small smile.

At first, praying to Castiel for a routine salt-n-burn feels like he’s straight up insulting the angel. He’s legit asking a warrior of God to come help salt and burn a malevolent ghost of the week that hates infidelity. Dean can’t quite blame Jerry for sticking around since his wife and lover killed him and tried to frame it as a home invasion. But now Jerry is a dick and he’s killing off cheating spouses in some little town in the middle of nowhere.

Dean really doesn’t want to pray to Castiel, but Sam has insisted that they had promised Castiel he could participate in hunts. And so…he sits in a moldy hotel, sweating palms up and open, eyes closed, and he’s praying for the first time in a long time. So very long, he hasn’t prayed since Layla Rourke. Guilt clogging his throat, he shoves the image of Layla to the side… it wouldn’t do him any good to think of her right now.

Embarrassment is thrumming through his veins. He’s convinced that the blue-eyed angel didn’t really know what he was agreeing to when he said he wanted to go on hunts. Sam and Dean are not as interesting as the Wessons, saving the world and dealing with demons like they are no big deal. They are just normal hunters. Hell, they aren’t even full-time hunters anymore. Sam is a paralegal who works from home and Dean works at Bobby’s garage remodeling classic cars. They live in a four-bedroom ranch nestled in between properties of Sheriff Mills and a Social Worker named Eileen. Most people in town think they are gay life partners instead of brothers, much to Dean’s chagrin and Sam’s amusement. He doesn’t see how Sam thinks it's funny. Officially, because they are wanted felons by the FBI, they are Dean and Sam Singer in Sioux Falls on all their real important documents. Dean lets the town folk let think what they will about that.

“Well, I feel stupid for doing this-” Dean pauses and pops one eye open to look over at Sam, who is nodding reassuringly from his own ugly motel bed- “But yeah. We promised. So, let’s give it a shot. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to Castiel to get his feathery ass over here. We’ve got a case.”

“Hello, Dean,” a large hand is placed on his shoulder and Dean’s senses fill with all that is Castiel. Petrichor and sweet mountain air. The weight of Castiel’s hand curves around the meat of his muscle, so warm it feels like it’s branding him. The brush of that trenchcoat against Dean’s jean-clad knee.  Dean opens his eyes, meeting Castiel’s piercing gaze.

“Hey Castiel,” Sam smiles, “What have you been up to?”

“Hello, Sam.”

The hand hesitantly drops from Dean’s shoulder as Castiel moves to prop up against the dresser. Ankles crossed, hands framing his sides, Castiel looks almost like a relaxed human and not the formidable warrior. He looks good like this, Dean thinks, relaxed and talking with Sam. Blush tinging his cheeks, Dean shakes his head clear… he’s not going to indulge in those thoughts about an Angel. It is one thing to have a small crush on Dr. Sexy it is totally another to actually notice a man in real fucking life.  A voice in his head barks at him that good hunters don’t notice other men that way… It sounds faintly like his father from so long ago.

“I’ve been traveling, seeing things that I find interesting on Earth. I was visiting the Bakony Mountains when I heard your prayer,” Castiel comments.

“Where is that?” Dean asks.

“Hungary, it's a pleasing mountain region.”

Before he can filter his words, they tumble out of him unbidden, “Is that why you always smell like mountain air, man? Flying from one mountain to another?”

Furrowing his brows, Castiel looks over at Dean. His lined lips open to respond but before he can answer, Sam clears his throat, “So yeah. We’ve got a case. It’s not the best one, but it could be tricky depending on whether the guy was cremated or not. We’ve got a vengeful spirit. Jerry Mayer, we’ve noticed he’s been killing people off who have cheated on their spouses.”

“Is infidelity common?”

“Uh yeah, common enough that Jerry is killing enough to get our notice. It seems to be every few months. But let’s get this show on the road and interview some people,” Dean states clapping his hands together after rubbing them on his jeans. His hands are still sweaty, nervous that Castiel will think this is a waste of time. That he will think that what Dean and Sam do is a waste of time.

“I wonder why this occurs every three months,” Castiel mumbles, “What the significance is of that time frame.”

“Dunno, but we are going to find out. Then we are going to gank a ghost and after that, we are going to eat some grub,” Dean replies cheerily, which Cas just nods his head seriously in agreement as they head out the door.

It turns out that Jerry Mayer’s spirit was operating through his antique store, his soul targeting people that visited his estate sales which were held every three months prior to his death. It was an open and shut case, a simple salt-n-burn. A newbie hunter could have solved it. It rubs Dean the wrong way, but Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. They spend the night in the graveyard, taking turns digging up a casket and then standing over the flames while Jerry’s corpse burns. It’s disgusting and they have to stand downwind. He’s just glad he rubbed some of Sam’s hippy homemade vapor rub under his nose to keep out the sickly smell of flesh burning.

In the morning, after showering off the graveyard dirt and changing into fresh clothes, Dean convinces Sam to go to a local diner for breakfast. Castiel magically appears clean and put together, waiting for them in their motel room. Dean, waiting for Sam to condition his hair for the thirteenth time, watches as the angel digs through his toiletry bag and then his duffle. Inspecting each item, Castiel even sniffs his deodorant and tastes his toothpaste. Dean only putting a stop to the angel’s curiosity after he finds the skin mag stash at the bottom of his duffle.

Finally seated for breakfast, Dean is happy to see that Castiel doesn’t make faces while drinking coffee as he did with beer. He seems to enjoy the bitter liquid immensely, drinking two cups black, and even eating a few bites of Dean’s hash browns. His body closely pressed against Dean’s in the small booth, his thigh resting against Dean’s. Dean can practically feel the sinew of the angel’s muscles beneath the thin dress slacks.

He needs to talk to the angel about personal space, as soon as fucking possible.

Regardless of the lame case, Castiel seems to enjoy their company. Sam and Castiel discuss the most insane topics, ranging from the War of the Roses to the lore on djinn. Dean doesn’t add much to the conversation, too wrapped up in enjoying his brother nerding out with Castiel.  Dean does throw in what he knows when they talk about literature, much to Sam’s surprise and amusement. Castiel’s gaze levels on Dean, unwavering, and holding a few minutes too long.

“You know…I didn’t think angels would look like tax accountants. I was expecting something a little more… I dunno, more warrior less Dad,” Dean says, waving his fork when there is a pause in the conversation and Castiel’s eyes are resting on Dean’s.

“Jimmy wasn’t a tax accountant,” Castiel states simply, his hands fiddling with the lapels of his trench coat.

“Who the fuck is Jimmy?” Dean incredulously barks.

“My vessel, his name was Jimmy. He’s in Heaven now, and this body has been mine since my Father brought me back, but regardless he wasn’t a tax attorney. He was a radio airtime salesman,” Castiel says sipping his coffee.

“You possessed some poor bastard and now he’s dead?”

“Jimmy Novak was a man of faith, he prayed for this. To bring higher purpose into his life to aid my mission in protecting the Michael Sword. I never thought my mission would have ended his time on Earth, but he is home now, his real home in Heaven. I routinely check in on him. He’s angry, but pleased that I’ve kept his promise to watch over his daughter and wife.”

“Do they understand?” Sam asks, genuinely curious.

“They are very angry with Jimmy for wanting this and Claire is never pleased to see me,” Castiel responds fiddling with his cup.

“How old is Claire?” Dean asks, pulling Castiel’s mug out of his hands and handing him a cup of water instead.

“She is a child, twelve or thirteen, I think,” Castiel sighs, “I do not make a habit of visiting them. Only a few times to let Amelia know of Jimmy’s death and when Claire prays to me. Her prayers are increasingly vehement of late.”

“Then don’t answer them, you aren’t a punching bag, Cas,” Dean states firmly.

Dean is relieved when Bobby calls, breaking Castiel’s current wide-eyed questioning gaze. Like a blue-eyed puppy, Dean thinks answering Bobby with his own gruff hello. He halfheartedly listens to Bobby telling them not to head back home just yet because he has another case just a few hours away. Demons have cropped up, leftovers from the Apocalypse. Dean tells Bobby to text Sam the details, they’ll catch a few hours of sleep at their motel and then head out later today.

“I need my four hours, Bobby,” Dean grumbles as a goodbye and hangs up the phone.

“What are you going to do when we nap?” Sam asks, sprawling out in the booth across from them, his eyes heavy.

“I’ll just wait,” Castiel answers.

“Can’t watch us sleep, Cas, that’d be creepy. We could get you a book, find a park, read outside, get some sunshine,” Dean grunts.

“If that’s what you wish, Dean,” Castiel replies.

“Yeah, I don’t need you watching me catch some Z’s,” Dean states, throwing some cash down on the table and heading out. Dean drives to the secondhand shop he saw near the motel. With sure strides, he finds the books, Castiel trailing after him. He looks around for Sam.

“Sam is still in the car,” Castiel answers, peering over Dean’s shoulder at the book Dean grabbed. The angel's chest is partially pressed up against Dean’s back. It makes the fine hairs stand up on the back of Dean’s neck.

It’s just too close. Too close to not be gay and it makes Dean nervous, “Hey buddy, you need to give me my personal space.”

A questioning look flickers over Castiel’s face, his eyes scrunch up and his head tilts to the side. 

“You stand too close, Cas. You gotta leave a little space between people. A man needs his space,” Dean explains, he places a hand on the angel’s chest pushing him back a little.

“My apologies, Dean,” Castiel states reaching out for the book Dean has in his hands, “This one seems interesting.”

“Peruse for your own books,” Dean fires back, snatching the book back.

He can see a twitch of Castiel’s lips in a small smile before the angel’s attention is diverted to the worn spine of books. In his peripheral vision, he watches as Castiel thumbs through the shelves, picking books up at random. He watches Castiel read a few synopses’ and Dean determines that Castiel knows what he’s doing. When they both have a few books between them, Dean’s even picked up a few for Sam, they amble over to the cash register. His eyes flick over the dramatic cover of a romance novel.

“Dark Angel, Lord Carew’s Bride? You picked up a chick book?”

“Two books in one, their respective plots seemed interesting,” Castiel answers, handing him the book so Dean can read the back. Scanning the back quickly, it is a historical romance novel. Letting out a grunt of disapproval, he puts the book on top of his and then motions for the others from Castiel’s hands.

The books are paid for and the drive back to the motel is quick, Dean collapses onto the bed. He hands off the bag of books to Castiel and waves him off.

He definitely needs his four hours undisturbed.

Hunting demons with an Angel of the Lord is an amazing experience. First of all, the demons are absolutely terrified of Castiel. Secondly, Castiel can use his grace and singe the motherfuckers right out of their hosts. It is awesome and yet incredibly brutal to watch. Dean feels a twinge of sadness for the poor individuals that are possessed, but his last brush with a demon has left him a little gun-shy of getting too close to demons to perform an exorcism.

Cas literally walks in and slaughters them all. Dean turns to Sam, a look of wonder and a goofy smile on his face, “We should totally keep him around.”

“He’s not a pet, Dean,” Sam scoffs but has a slight smile on his face because of Dean’s exuberance.

Rolling his eyes at his younger brother, Dean jogs towards Castiel and throws an arm around the angel’s shoulders, “I gotta tell you Cas, you should hang out with us more often.”

Chapter Text

…and the domestication of an angel by one Dean Winchester

Ironically, it was a Thursday that Dean had first left his lunch at home and Castiel brought it to the shop. Castiel had unofficially moved into the Winchesters’ home. Dean was happy to see Castiel and Dean’s bright orange lunch box clutched to his chest, his eyes flitting around to the ’54 Chevy truck. The smell of Bondo putty was heavy in the air, making the angel’s nose wrinkle. Dean knew that the putty had an offensive smell, but he was used to it. Some of the best of his childhood memories were tinged with the smell.

The angel looked so out of place in the shop, so otherworldly with his blue eyes trained on Dean. Roy and Walt had given Castiel the side-eye but didn’t comment while they continued working on a different car. Dean had pulled up a stool, patted it for Cas to sit, and continued working the truck. At that time, he was in the middle of wet sanding a certain portion and he didn’t quite want to stop just yet.

Castiel had sat quietly, watching Dean work.

Dean felt oddly comfortable under Castiel’s regard. With any other person, he would have bristled at the undivided attention… but he felt oddly at peace under the angel’s gaze. It made him think of his mother, it brought up the flashes of memories that he had of her. The smell of pie, the shimmer of her blonde hair in the sun, and the feel of the cotton nightgown underneath his small hands.

It made Dean feel safe, so Dean didn’t fight the strange pattern that fell between the two of them.

Castiel would bring Dean’s lunch, always coming a little early to watch Dean work. Then Dean would take a break, eating his lunch out in the salvage yard with Castiel. Like going on hunts, some days they were quiet but other times they talked about whatever came to mind. Castiel would ask Dean questions about whatever book or show he was reading or watching. The angel would ask him about the weirdest things.

Talking to Castiel was like talking to a strange toddler that didn’t quite understand the societal norms or popular culture. He couldn’t understand references from current books or shows or older popular culture. Dean lamented that he spent quite some time explaining his jokes. He hated explaining jokes, it sucked the humor right out of them but Castiel would duck his head in a small smile when he finally understood the reference.

He would deny it, but Castiel’s cluelessness was endearing to Dean. He may roll his eyes at Castiel and complain, but he felt that he was useful to this powerful celestial being. It was a heady feeling. Feeling important to someone (something) was so out of this world. He’d never been important to anyone but Sam and Bobby, and now that Castiel relied on Dean’s knowledge of humanity… Dean wasn’t going to give that up.

Castiel had taken up residence in a corner of Sam’s office, in a worn yellow flower-patterned wingback chair that Dean picked up specifically for the angel at a thrift shop. When he wasn’t with Dean, Castiel could be found flipping through books or watching Netflix on Sam’s old laptop. He’d help Sam with research, either paralegal or monster related. The two of them would bicker about whatever the hell nerdy thing they were researching.

Bees, wendigos, biblical lore, the ethics of testing cosmetics on monkeys, greyhound racing, and more. Sometimes Castiel would search Dean out, his face fierce with concentration, and ask Dean his opinion… as if he was the tiebreaker between the two of them. Dean would always be flummoxed by Castiel’s intensity, Sam grinning cheekily but trying to hold a straight face at the absurdity of their questions.

Now, standing in the kitchen Dean’s puzzlement soon turns into exasperation when the questions are so obviously encouraged by Sam playing devil’s advocate or being a douche. He can only hold in his irritation so much when Castiel’s earnestly asking him questions like “How important is lipstick to you, Dean?” And “Why is six afraid of seven?” Sam has reached a new low in playing around with Cas’ innocence.

“Quit fucking around with Cas,” Dean barks at Sam one afternoon when the angel corners Dean in the kitchen to ask him about his feelings of the ethics of pornography.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Sam replies almost too innocently.

“I’m serious, stop fucking with him. He’s an angel of the Lord for Christ’s fucking sake. He doesn’t need to talk about porn,” Dean growls out.

“I caught him watching porn, that’s why we were talking about it,” Sam retorts back.

Whirling towards Castiel standing the hallway Dean levels a look at the angel, “You don’t watch porn with other dudes in the room and you don’t talk about it!”

“Both you and Sam spend an inordinate amount of time watching pornography, I was interested in it and it was there. Though, I don’t quite understand the appeal of animated tentacle pornography. It seems quite farfetched that a woman would enjoy being implanted with dozens of eggs and then fertilized,” Castiel answers with a sarcastic wave of his hand, much to Dean’s mortification.

“Hentai? That’s what Sam caught you watching?” Dean wants the Earth to swallow him whole.

“Well yes, you seemed fond of the animations, so I wanted to understand their appeal.”

“Cas, buddy,” Dean wheezes, “Have you been spying on me?”

“No.”

“Cas.”

“I thought you were having a nightmare or perhaps in danger, you had shouted out. It was only once and I was there very briefly, I saw the animations on your screen.”

“What. The. Fuck. Cas.”

Dean doesn’t think he has ever been so mortified in his life, and that is saying something because his Dad had once walked in on him getting a blow job in the bathroom. He can feel his skin roasting with embarrassment and Sam is snickering in the background like a fucking girl.

“Don’t ever spy on me again,” Dean grounds out between his teeth.

“As you wish,” Cas responds easily to Dean’s retreating back, he’s got dinner to make and he’s not dealing with this bullshit any longer.

“Don’t quote The Princess Bride at me either, you numbnuts,” Dean shouts over his shoulder.

Dean knows Castiel feels bad for his peeping Tom moment, but he can’t let it go. He’s irritable and he’s beating out a particular dent in a passenger door to burn off some aggression. Castiel watching him masturbate has been haunting him all week and he can’t shake the thought. His mind screams at him that it was a dirty violation, but at the same time, it makes his lizard brain light up like it's freakin’ Christmas.

Dean doesn’t lie to himself about certain things. He’s a man of certain tastes; burgers, Baby, classic cars, pie, Led Zeppelin, and really good sex. Dean actually loves really good sex, either with himself or with someone else. One thing that holds true for Dean that he doesn’t even bother denying is that he likes being watched. (He’s a kinky guy, the pink panties in his drawer are a testament to that.) And Dean really likes the idea of someone accidentally stumbling upon him. Its why the Impala is one of his favorite places to fuck. The untinted windows in the dark of the night. The smell and feel of the dark leather surrounding him while he’s sinking into the wet heat of his latest conquest.

In his mind, he entertains on going out on a case just to get laid. Something messy and difficult, followed by a busty girl riding him in the backseat of the Impala. He can picture it now, messy dark hair almost indecipherable from the dark leather. Light eyes fringed with long lashes fluttering as he plants kisses down her body. His phantom girl is soft and sweet and has curves for days. Her thick muscular thighs wrapped around Dean and her nails bite into his skin.

Shit, I need to get laid, Dean thinks shaking his head out of the fantasy.

It’s been a long time since he’s gotten laid, it’s been a year since the case with Tim Wesson and at that point, it had been a few months. Doing the mental math in his head… It's been more than a year and a half since he slept with anyone. Frowning to himself, he didn’t even realize he was being celibate… was he getting old?

“Awww Winchester don’t be so sad, where’s your boyfriend today? Maybe he can cheer you up,” Walt asks, throwing a rag at Dean’s head.

“Who?”

“Your creepy boyfriend wears a fuckin’ trench coat all the time,” Roy jeers from under a ’64 Javelin.

“He’s an angel, you ass,” Dean barks out.

“Angel? In that dirty trench coat?” Roy wheels himself out from under the car on the creeper seat.

“Show some respect!”

“Holy shit,” Walt stops, “Is that tax accountant lookin fuck Tim Wesson’s angel? Cassiel? Castelle? What was that angel’s fuckin’ name, Roy?”

“Castiel,” Dean hisses through his teeth, “And he’s not Tim Wesson’s angel. Cas is his own man-being-whatever he is.”

“Multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent,” a voice with a dry deep timbre sounds from behind Dean’s back making Dean jump out of his skin.

“Cas!”

“Dean.”

Cas doesn’t break eye contact with Dean until Roy clears his throat. Dean feels the loss of the angel’s eyes keenly. His head is so messed up… he definitely needs to go on a case.

“So, you're the angel that pulled Tim Wesson out of Hell,” Roy states gesturing to Castiel.

“I am.”

“Heard he averted the apocalypse and got his brother killed,” Roy comments, smearing grease under his nose as he rubs it. Dean grimaces, he misses the days when Roy and Walt would mind their own business. As hunters they are decent but he doesn’t much care for them and he’s really wishing Bobby hadn’t taken pity on them and employed the pair of idiots.

“I’d rather not talk about that asshole Tim Wesson,” Dean states, throwing a rag at Roy and gesturing under his nose so Roy wipes his own.

“He’s not hunting anymore, heard that? Apparently he’s shacked up in Indiana with some chick and their kid. I think her name is Lisa?”

Dean stops dead in his tracks, his heart sinking into his stomach. He just knows, deep in his marrow the answer to his question before he asks, “Lisa Braeden? In Cicero, Indiana?”

“Uh yeah,” Walt chuckles, “That's kinda freaky, man. How’d you know that?”

Staring up at the ceiling, Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep cleansing breath. Lisa was… damnit… he always thought Lisa was his and that douche Tim Wesson swooped in and beat him to Dean’s one chance at normalcy. He’s been meaning to go back to Cicero for a while now, it seems now he has no reason to. He had called Lisa after Castiel saved him from imminent death. They had talked and she seemed interested in Dean if he ever made his way out to Indiana.

He just never found an excuse to go out to Indiana. Which was stupid.

Why was he so busy that he didn’t go out to Indiana? Fuck.

What had he been doing for the past few months?

Gripping his head and tugging on his hair, he screwed his eyes shut till he could see the red of his blood vessels.

Tim Wesson beat him to the chance of having an apple pie life. What the hell has he been doing?

Castiel. He’s been with Castiel.

These past months he’s been busy with getting Cas used to humanity so the angel no longer stuck out like a sore thumb. They’ve been having fun, spending all this time together. It was easy being with Cas, he had become Dean’s best friend. Dean had spent all of his time off from work showing Cas his favorite movies, teaching him how to shoot a gun, driving the Impala, listening to records, and going to antique stores. Castiel had started collecting a myriad of different objects like a quirky little angel magpie. Dean never knew what would catch Castiel’s interest. Snuff boxes, fountain pens, crystal animals, salt and pepper shakers, brooches, and even asparagus tongs. So, Dean had willingly taken him to all the antique stores within 100 miles and bought whatever caught the angel’s fancy. They were antiquers. He was an antiquer.

Son of a bitch!

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Dean ignores the concerned looks Castiel is shooting his way. He walks outside and lets out uneven shuddering breaths behind his fist. He’s furious and just a little sad, running his hands down his face and digging them into his thighs as he hunches over.

Yeah. He’s furious at Tim. Fucking Tim Wesson. That son of the bitch with his douche hair and his perfect douche smile. He’s living Dean’s dream. 

Tim’s the one that is having picnics and going to baseball games, not Dean.

That drunk asshole!

Well, whatever, Lisa can have Tim Wesson. Lisa can’t be all that great if he didn’t hightail it to Cicero as soon as he found the time. In a sudden fit of clarity, Dean realizes that they deserve each other, they can have their life together and he’ll find someone else. Until then, he has Cas and Cas is more than enough.

The anger evaporates instantly, deflating like a balloon. He’s not really even that upset, he realizes. He’s just… irritated that Tim Wesson beat him to the white picket fence. And truth be told, he really likes going junking with Castiel.

Without hesitation, Dean pulls out his phone and deletes Lisa’s number. He then shoots Sam a text to find them a case, he could use the open road to distract him from this weird feeling.

Sam finds them a case in Tulsa, Oklahoma. A faith healer by the name of Peter Holloway. Just thinking about faith healers pisses Dean off. Between his feelings about Lisa and now this faith healer… Dean just feels like someone is out to get him. Ever since Sam said that case was a faith healer he can’t shake the feeling of Reverend Le Grange’s dry pillowy palms on the side of his head and the blurred image of the reaper standing over him.

He doesn’t say anything about his deep and unwavering hatred to Sam, just agrees and packs up the Impala like normal. It was a nine-hour trip from Sioux Falls to Tulsa. Dean’s beyond sore and just wants to crash.

“Dean, don’t sleep yet, we have to research,” Sam says, throwing a pillow from the other bed. Cas is sitting at the rickety table flipping through Sam’s lore books. His trench coat firmly in place like a suit of armor.

“You nerds research, I’m going to watch my eyelids and enjoy some magic fingers,” Dean mumbles, slotting some quarters into the machine.

“Gross, Dean.”

“My knees hurt and my back aches, leave me alone I’m getting old,” Dean grumbles, flopping onto his back. He closes his eyes and lets the vibrations soothe his muscles. Two calloused fingers press into the middle of his forehead, the cool feeling of grace fills him up eliciting a short gasp of pleasure. The ache in his back and knees disappearing in an instant.

“Thanks, buddy.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He can hear Cas take up his post at the rickety table and the shuffling of papers begins once again. Dean decides to sleep regardless, he doesn’t want to research into Holloway and slowly drifts off. When he wakes Sam and Cas are still where he left them, flipping through books and searching public records. Stretching, scratching his stomach, and rubbing his eyes he watches Sam and Castiel. Sam seems content doing research but Castiel seems uneasy, his fingers strumming on the table.

“We have no lead on what kind of creature Holloway could potentially be or whether he’s working dark magic to trap a reaper,” Castiel states, eyes flicking up from the books to meet Dean’s.

“Then we start asking questions, I’ll go and meet up with some locals,” Dean replies groggily, his voice rough with sleep.

Sam makes a sour face, “You are going to a bar.”

“Yes, I’m going to a bar alone… Cas, stay with Sam,” Dean states getting up and stretching some more, Cas eyes trained on him. He goes through the motions of freshening up, feeling pretty upbeat about tonight. He has high hopes of ending this god-awful dry spell that somehow he fell ass-backwards into. Shrugging on his canvas jacket he pats Cas’ shoulder and heads out the door, Baby’s keys swinging around his pointer finger.

“Use protection!” Sam calls after the door closes behind him. Dean can’t help but to roll his eyes, he’s the one who drilled into Sam’s head about the importance of protection when Sammy was fifteen years old. He was all gangly and awkward limbs at the time, just at the cusp of one of his crazy growth spurts.

Rolling down his window, Dean drives around Tulsa, enjoying the busy streets and the quiet of having the car to himself. He watches the world swirl around him, thinking about all the different people and where they are going. That they all have lives and friends and their own demons to battle. Hopefully, Dean chuckles, not in the literal sense.

Dean ends up at Susie’s Bar, after driving around looking for a watering hole. It’s a quiet place but it’s still early. He gets a beer and plants himself on one side of the bar so he can watch the TV. Basketball is on, not that Dean really is paying too much attention to it. Dean doesn’t follow sports besides the wrestling matches his Dad used to bring him to and he has to admit that wrestling is more of a show than a sport nowadays.

“Not a fan of the Oklahoma Thunder?”

“Uh, no not really,” Dean answers the bartender with short clipped words.

“Me either,” the bartender answers but decides to stand in front of Dean, “What brings you to Tulsa?”

Leveling a look at the man, Dean decides that he probably won’t be ending his dry spell with this bozo bartender loitering around, not that he’s seen anybody that he would be interested in. Might as well work the case.

“I’m looking for a faith healer,” Dean replies, softening his voice and leaning into the guy, “I know it sounds bat shit crazy, but… yeah, I was healed by one years ago and now I’m looking for another one.”

“Yeah? Man, I believe you. There is a regular here, Ronnie, once you get enough drinks in him he starts saying he was healed by a faith healer. Ronnie should be in here soon, he never misses a Friday night now that he’s no longer blind,” the bartender laughs at his own humor.

“Thanks man, point Ronnie out to me when he comes in?”

Dean doesn’t have to wait long for the bartender to point out Ronnie, the guy comes up to the bar and sits two seats away from Dean. Dean strikes up a conversation with Ronnie about beer cheese initially, which he can’t help to laugh about the lameness of that conversation opener. They chat easily and Dean eventually mentions that he recovered from cardiac arrest and was miraculously healed. He goes about the whole thing casually, but Ronnie lights up and Dean has him eating out of the palm of his hand.

Dean’s meeting Holloway in thirty minutes. He sends a text to Sam, letting him know that he’s meeting their target. Dean and Ronnie pass the time drinking beer and talking about miracles and faith. And when Dean shakes Holloway’s hand and gets to talking to the guy, he’s disappointed to learn that Holloway is just a normal guy that is running a scam. No monsters, no magic, just Ronnie and Holloway preying on unsuspecting victims for their money.

Shrugging off this unnerving feeling, Dean says goodnight to the weird pair and goes back to the motel. He feels off, thinking the beer cheese and pretzels aren’t quite agreeing with him.

Sam and Cas are sprawled out on one of the beds, a pizza and six-pack between them.

“Hey, glad you’re back, we were about to start one of your favorites,” Sam says, tossing him a beer. The beginning of The Untouchables is playing, Cas makes room for Dean by laying across the foot of the bed. Dean passes a few pillows so Cas can be propped up and he sits next to his brother bumping his shoulder fondly.

They watch the movie and eventually Dean lets the pair know that Holloway was a scam. Sam is disappointed but agrees that’s what the research is showing on his end. When the brothers get ready for bed, Cas mentions hitting up a few antique stores tomorrow afternoon but suggests that they go fishing on the river in the morning.

In the morning, they rent poles and gear and perch on the side of the river. The trio is relaxed, comfortable in the quiet silence of each other's company. The sun glistens against the water and Dean basks in the warmth of the early morning sun. His freckles will stand out sharply against his skin by the time the day is done, but Dean can’t be bothered to dislike his freckles on such a beautiful day. Sam passes the large camping container of hot coffee between the three of them.

The day started good, he even convinced Cas to ditch his suit and trench coat, which was a win in Dean’s books. Cas had looked adorably flustered coming out the motel room in Sam’s oversized flannel and Dean’s band t-shirt and jeans. The angel had grumbled but acquiesced about needing to blend in better. Just thinking about it makes Dean chuckle, causing Cas to look over at him with narrow eyes. He flashes Cas a winning smile, flicking his wrist to cast out and keeping his amusing thoughts to himself.

The warmth of the sun lulls Dean into a content state once he puts down his pole, not quite awake but not sleeping. He thinks he can smell hay rotting and decay at one point but ignores the out of place smell. When Sam presses his boot against Dean’s thigh to wake him up, Dean easily rolls up and follows his brother to the car. They drop off their rented gear, Dean searching for places that might interest Cas.

“I found a place around the corner,” Dean says to Cas handing his phone back.

“Yeah? You think they’ll have a good book collection?” Sam asks, ruffling his hair off his head.

"The building 103 square feet with over 75 booths, I would imagine at least one of those has a collection of odd books,” Cas informs them, passing Dean’s cell phone back to him.

“Antique store, then food. Afterward, we’ll hit the road home?” Dean asks starting up the Impala and steering the Impala the way the store.

“Sounds good to me,” Sam states with a smile, “Remember when we were accused of being antiquers on that one case at the old hotel?”

“Yes,” Dean grumbles while Sam laughs.

“So get this Cas, we go into this creepy historical hotel for a case in Connecticut. We go and check-in, the owner just assumes that we are antiquers because Dean here looked the type and asked if we wanted a king bed. And don’t you know, Dean…who would actually believe that you are an antiquer now. Well, you and Cas,” Sam teases and pushes into Dean’s shoulder.

“I don’t understand why antiquing is related to the size of the mattress,” Cas answers reasonably.

Looking heavenward, Dean shakes his head but parks the Impala and tries to ditch Sam and Cas by hoofing it towards the front door of the store. He doesn’t succeed, his brother’s freakish legs are too long and Cas is determined to hear an explanation from the two of them.

“Gay men like to go to antique stores,” Dean states harshly before he opens the front door and ducks inside.

“That seems like an unnecessary generalization towards a group of people,” Cas states, following behind Dean, he can hear Sam’s quiet laughing.

“Shut up, Sam.”

He loses both Sam and Cas in the maze of the store. The musty hay smell returns, but Dean blames it on the antiques around him. Dean finds his way to the tools and weapons section of the store and forgets about his annoying little brother trying to insinuate shit about Dean’s proclivities. Ass.

He’s gazing at a naval flintlock blunderbuss that seems way too pricey to be sitting in a case in a random antique store when he feels Cas’ presence at his back. He’s so close that Dean can feel the angel’s breath moving the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Goosebumps run down his spine and he shivers.

“Space, Cas.”

The angel ignores him, instead he placing a figurine of cherub angel on the glass display in front of Dean. A swell of emotion rises in Dean, it's the same figurine that watched over him in his nursery. White curls, puffy white wings, little red mouth, arms perched on the thing’s knees and hands resting on its cheeks.

“That’s nice,” Dean croaks out, picking the figurine up gingerly.

“I had a feeling that you would like it,” Cas replies, softly squeezing Dean’s bicep. Dean meets Cas’s eyes, feeling the whirl of unfamiliar emotions and the sharp need to break the tender moment.

“It'll go nice in your crazy collection,” Dean jokes, but it falls flat.

Cas hums in agreement before sauntering off, his eyes understanding and a sad smile on his lips. Dean watches him walk away, the flannel not as dramatic as the trench coat. Dean spends the rest of his time wandering aimlessly through the store, the delicate porcelain angel clasped between his hands. When they finally leave, Dean buys the angel and tucks it into his bag before Sam sees.

Sam maps a course to get home, swinging by a drive-thru, and they head out.

Something feels wrong, the longer Dean drives. He can’t place it but Dean agrees to stop at the scenic overlook off of the parkway. Sam steps out of the car, doing his stupid yoga poses in front of the hood of the Impala. Dean watches his brother for a beat, laughing to himself before he too decides that he needs to stretch his legs. Dean decides he’ll check the trunk, the nervous energy needing an outlet.

“We’ve got a few more hours so you might as well stretch your wings while you get the chance,” Dean comments to Cas, who is standing so close Dean can feel the back of his knuckles brush against his leg. Petrichor tickles his senses and fills him with a sense of home.

“Is that so?”

Dean can hear Cas’ exasperation tinting his voice, and it makes Dean smile that he’s ruffled his feathers. He can’t decide what to say next to vex the angel, something inane and pointless. Cas hasn’t moved an inch from Dean’s side and when Dean looks up from the trunk, it’s to look into the purest crystalline blue eyes. The sun makes them glow and Dean’s mind stutters trying to describe them.

Beautiful, Castiel’s eyes are so beautiful.

Audibly swallowing, Dean closes the trunk, his mischievous humor morphing into something more tender. He watches as Cas reaches out with a tentative hand to touch his own hand resting on the trunk. Familiar callouses wrap around his own and squeeze lightly, Cas’ gaze steady and filled with warmth and fondness and Dean is stunned by the emotion that he doesn’t dare to name.

The emotion fills him up, almost drowning out the sense of wrongness that is beating around in his skull.

Until the disquiet grows too heavy to ignore, despite this moment he can’t shake that something is very wrong. The buzzing in his ears grows louder and his vision starts to blur as if someone has slathered petroleum jelly in his eyes. He can see Sam and Cas talking to him but he can’t make out the words. Eventually, his body crumbles weakly to the pavement.

“Dean? Dean!?”

Cas is reaching out for him, cupping his face in those hands of his. The world around him flashes to dark and then bright, Cas bright eyes glowing from the sun are only consistent in Dean’s swimming vision.

“Dean!” A voice whips through his mind, the real Castiel is calling for him. Castiel needs him.

Gasping, Dean tumbles into the night.

“Cas? Sam?”

“O’ thank God!” Sam cries pulling Dean into a hug.

“What happened?” Dean croaks looking around. His body is weak and shaky. The smell of hay rotting, general filth, and misery assault Dean’s nose. Dean’s on a rickety iron single bed, wrapped in Sam’s arms with Cas kneeling on the ground in front of them.

“Holloway was a Grigori,” Sam says, shaking Dean’s shoulders, “They consume souls, apparently! God Dean, if we hadn’t it in time…”

“Grigori?”

“An angel. An abomination,” Castiel rasps out, wiping the blood from his own lips and nose.

“I don’t-”

“You were here for the past four days, Dean. Held in your own personal heaven while Holloway fed on your soul,” Sam says, pulling Dean up to standing, “Cas and I killed him but you weren’t waking up like the others. He consumed quite a bit of your soul.”

“You’ll be fine, Dean,” Cas states, answering Dean’s unspoken question.

The trio piles into the Impala, stumbling limbs and shaky hands, after Sam makes a call for emergency services for the other victims. Dean practically falls into the passenger seat and Cas falls into the back. The angel sprawls out, obviously worn out from battling the Grigori. His head is tipped back and his eyes closed.

Feeling raw Dean can’t shake his heaven, “So… we didn’t go fishing?”

“No, we didn’t go fishing,” Sam answers with a dry sad laugh.

“Can we eventually all go fishing? Maybe hit up a few stores afterward? For Cas?”

“Sure, Dean, we can do that,” Sam answers hesitantly, unsure.

Dean reaches back and grabs Cas’ hand suddenly. He squeezes it, feeling the realness of the calluses of Castiel’s palms. They meet each other's eyes and Castiel grasps his hand back. He grips Cas’ hand tight, afraid to let go. A myriad of emotions cloy in the back of Dean’s throat, but he holds Cas’ gaze steady, letting those blue eyes anchor him.

 Eventually, Dean lets out a weighty, “Let's go home.”

Chapter Text

…Angel colds, and bedtime routines.

Dean has trouble deciphering between the Grigori’s heaven and reality in the following weeks. Most of the time Dean feels like his feet are rolling beneath him and that he’s stepped outside his own reality. The dissociation is pervasive and he can’t help to think he’s about to wake up in a barn. That his soul is being drained from him slowly as he goes about his day and that he’s losing himself to his dreams. He brushes his teeth in the morning and he thinks, Am I really brushing my teeth? What’s the point in brushing my teeth if I’m in a dream? Or he’s taking a shit and he wonders if he is actually taking a shit.

The feeling of derealization is worse than the feeling of coming to after the djinn dream, at least then he knew that it wasn’t real. Mom and Jessica weren’t alive, Carmen was a model for an El Sol advertisement, and most days Sam and he get along real well. The Grigori heaven was so close to reality that somedays Dean can’t make heads nor tails of the situation. The only thing good that has come out of this situation is that his life currently is heaven dream worthy. Living with his brother and Castiel is fulfilling his deep need for family and intimacy. The hole in his chest that has been there since his father died has been filling and Dean feels more content than he has in years. The fact that he’s so content (and he doesn’t dare say it, but he’s happy) stirs up even more uneasy feelings. He doesn’t say anything to Sam or Cas, he can’t explain this feeling to himself much less to another person.

Regardless, Cas knows that he’s having difficulty. When Dean feels the weighty feeling of “fuck is this real!?” Cas is nearby with a soft grasp of Dean’s hand and a quiet, “This is real, Dean.”

It’s not until Cas starts showing interest in food that those moments go away. Even in his heaven, Cas didn’t eat. 

Dean finds a lot of joy in feeding people. He likes to think he has the spirit of a little Italian grandma inside of him muttering broken English and urging all her relatives to eat even after six courses. Mangiare! Mangiare! He takes to feeding Cas with zeal; pizza, burgers, pot pie, pie, Philly cheesesteak, tacos, etc. Anything that Cas shows interest in, he makes.

They have a system. Dean’s cookbooks litter the surface of the kitchen counter. Cas goes through them and places a post-it for the ones he wants to eat. They also make trips to the library to borrow more cookbooks and Dean has even subscribed to some blogs for new ideas for meals. It's a delicious exploration of food for every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They take trips around the world with food as their catalyst. Dean’s spice cabinet is brimming to the point that spices randomly fall out of the cabinet if it is opened too fast.

On Sundays, all three sit down and meal plan and then go grocery shopping for the week. It’s domestic and so sweet it sometimes makes Dean nauseous. Sam always advocates for Meatless Mondays, Cas likes some kind of breakfast on Wednesdays, and Dean insists on either burgers or pizza on Fridays as a break from cooking.

They don’t really talk about why Cas is consuming food when he never needed to before, or why there are dark circles around his eyes, or why his hair looks even more crazy than usual. Or at least, Dean doesn’t mention it or think about it too hard. Sam does mention the eating but Dean tells him to shut it and not to ruin it for Cas who seems to be enjoying the finer things in life.

It’s not until one Friday night after the pizza and beers are gone that Dean notices that Cas is not delivering his dry commentary from the loveseat. They are watching Sam’s pick, some psychological suspense movie that Dean is only half watching because he’s so tired. Looking over at the angel after a particularly ridiculous scene for a wry statement, Dean's heart stops when he notices Cas is asleep and curled in on himself. Dean’s hotdog pajamas are twisted around the angel’s legs and one of Sam’s Stanford shirts is rucked up displaying Cas’ smooth abdomen.

He reaches over and smacks Sam in the arm, earning a loud “ow!” But he shushes Sam and points over to Cas. His brother blinks owlishly and lowers the volume of the television to a whisper of indecipherable noises. Gathering the blanket from the back of the couch, Dean covers the angel and the brothers move into Dean’s room to talk.

“So… he’s sleeping,” Sam states anxiously, rubbing his hands together and then running them down his face, “Something has to be wrong and I knew it… he’s eating and sleeping now. I mean, he hasn’t been quite the same since we rescued you from the Grigori but you had convinced me that he just decided to like food.”

“Congrats on being right, Sam,” Dean snarks and paces.

“I didn’t want to be right, Dean!”

“Well, you are and now we have an angel sleeping on our couch and no idea what’s going on with him,” Dean retorts back.

“Well, we can ask him first. Then we fix it. I’ll need to look through Bobby’s lore books, maybe he has something on angel physiology,” Sam says taking a loud breath.

“Ok, we can fix this. No big deal. Though, he can’t continue to sleep on the couch. I’ll clear out the spare room and he can have that,” Dean says rubbing the back of his neck.

“Gonna put your pool table in the garage?” Sam teases.

“Yeah, Sam, I don’t think I can make the pool table into a bed for Cas,” Dean snarks and pushes Sam out of his room before Sam can say anything else stupid. He’ll clear out the fourth, and smallest, bedroom out tomorrow. The room that is his overflow, pool table, and weird weapons they don’t often use. He knows Cas will put up a stink about having a bedroom. The angel already acts like he’s indebted to the Winchesters for just hanging out.

Dean creates a mental list for tomorrow; Bed, mattress, dresser, lamp, little side dresser, and maybe a little something to show off his weird collection.

Flopping down on the bed, Dean worries that something is really wrong with Cas. He smothers Sam when he’s got a cold, but what if this is worse than an angel cold… what if his angel is dying?

Panic swells and sits on Dean’s chest. He wants a drink but then Sam will corner him and talk about his feelings and dear sweet baby Jesus he does not want to talk about his feelings. Cas has become an anchor for Dean. He looks up to Cas, this magic celestial being of God, it makes him feel less alone and chosen. Cas chooses to stay with the Winchesters even if he can flit around the world. Cas wants to be with Dean.

No one has chosen to be friends with Dean. No one wants Dean. He has Sam and Sam is his built in friend since birth. Sam didn’t choose to be friends with Dean, Dean kinda forced that friendship back on him when he showed up in Palo Alto. Cas is the one who watches Westerns and Scooby Doo on Sunday mornings. Cas is the one that shares his food with Dean and doesn’t complain about his music. He doesn’t even complain when Dean sings off pitch and horribly on purpose, he just levels Dean a look that says, “I know you can sing. Knock it off.”

Cas is the one who doesn’t understand personal boundaries. He doesn’t seem to care if Dean’s hand stays too long on his shoulder or if Dean fixes his clothes or bosses him around a little. Cas’ body sways into his when he desperately wants to touch the angel, longing for more thrumming through his veins.

If Cas is dying… he leaves behind a sinking emptiness in Dean that he can’t fathom. It curls in his throat and burns his eyes. He doesn’t want the angel to leave him. He doesn’t want to watch Cas fade into nothing.

Groaning and clearing his throat, Dean shakes the thoughts from his head and rolls onto his stomach. Dean wills the thoughts to empty from his mind and scatter about the room. He can’t start catastrophizing now, he’ll wait until Sam does a little digging in Bobby’s library.

Dean spends a fretful night of sleep, but he wakes up to the smell of bacon, waffles, and coffee. Sam is perched next to Cas drinking some weird smoothie while Cas pours batter into their ancient waffle maker.

“Morning, Dean,” Cas rumbles out and hands him a coffee. He takes a grateful sip. Cas knows that Dean needs to be caffeinated as soon as he wakes up.

Sam gives Dean a small smile, eyes full of unspoken worry, “Cas and I are going to Bobby’s to do some research. You wanna come?”

“No, I’ve got things to do around the house,” Dean replies, flicking to the back of Cas’ head. His brother nods in understanding, they might not fully be able to communicate with ESP but Sam will get Dean’s message.

“Maybe I should stay with Dean and help with the chores, Sam,” says Cas as he puts a mountain of waffles in front of Dean. Strawberries, whipped cream, and syrup overflowing over the top.

“Nah, go visit Bobby,” Dean replies around a mouth full, “It’ll be boring. Go nerd out with Sammy. I’m just going through my old clothes and crap in the spare room.”

“Don’t get rid of anything,” Cas warns and Dean nods in response.

When Cas started hanging out more and eating, it seemed natural to Sam and Dean that clothes had to be procured for the angel. Cas had been fascinated with the whole shopping process until Cas and Sam watched a documentary about carbon footprint and the waste humans create. Dean had dared to throw out a worn and tad too small shirt and Cas had lamented for a day about the wastefulness of the fashion industry. Dean had to go fish the damn thing out of the garbage for the harping angel. He had even convinced (nagged) Dean to switch the Winchester household to more sustainable things. They no longer bought paper towels or napkins or paper plates or plastic baggies. They fricken brought cloth bags to the grocery store. (And how was Dean supposed to pat chicken with no paper towels… he couldn’t figure out.) Thank God Cas had lost the toilet paper argument. Even Sam said no to the “family paper” roll. Though, much to his chagrin… Dean did install bidets on the toilets. His asshole had never been so clean.

To add to Cas’ thrifty ways, he had taken to wearing Dean and Sam’s old hand me downs, plus frequenting the local thrift stores. He didn’t quite like the “lumberjack look”, as he was known to call it with air quotes and all, but he was slowly developing his style outside of the suit and trench coat. It was a little thrilling to see Cas in his old clothes.

Dean didn’t mind the household changes, shit… they were saving a lot of money but fuck it made him feel like a fairy toting the cloth bags around. He could feel the curious beady eyes of the housewives and hear the faint barking of John Winchester talking about those fucking faggots and their greenhouse gases global warming bullshit. He doesn’t let his Dad’s voice ring in his ears too long, not when Cas is happy with the changes. Dean may grumble and groan, but he was always happy to be outvoted by the carbon footprint nerds.

Thankfully, the damn hippies didn’t dare to mention a thing about the Impala.

After basically kicking Sam and Cas out, Dean makes quick work of emptying the spare room, hauling bag after bag into the garage. Old weapons, his Dad’s stuff from his storage units, and a few dozen paperbacks he hadn’t gotten around to donating yet. He shuffles the pool table on his garage creepers, he feels a little leery of leaving it in the garage but decides quickly that Castiel’s angel illness is more important. He takes a break for a beer, sipping the cold Margiekugel slowly. Dean can’t help but smile when he turns the key to the old 1975 chevy truck to go shopping, it doesn’t quite roar like the Impala but the beast rumbles along its way.

Dean hits one of Cas’ favorite antique stores, it's a small place and is run by an elderly couple. He scores a whole bedroom set for Cas for practically nothing. (The lady had recognized him and gave him a good deal as well as introducing herself as Margaret and her husband John). He’s excited about his score, two dressers and a queen bed frame in sturdy wood, both pieces are mid-century modern furniture with its light polish, simple lines, and lack of fixtures. The older woman even gives Dean a small beaten up old China cabinet too, explaining that it will best display Castiel’s collection. With soft smiles and knobby hands, she pats Dean’s face and tells him to sand it down and paint it a sunshine yellow for his special friend.

Dean can’t help to bluster through his thank you. Embarrassed but knowing better than to explain the truth. What could he really say? “Oh no, ma’am, that guy you see with me? He’s a real life angel of the Lord that doesn’t understand fuckin’ boundaries and not my gay lover that I’ve been having errant thoughts about?” Uh no. Regardless of how uncomfortable he feels about being known as the town token gay, his heart warms toward Margaret when she tucks a silver money clip into Dean’s flannel for Castiel. Margaret is ninety-two and she insisted on holding the door open for Dean while he loaded the pieces of furniture. John looked on, directing Dean how to best load the furniture in the bed of the truck. He leaves the antique store feeling bashful and cheerful.

Dean buys Cas’ mattress and box spring new, if the angel is going to sleep he’s going to sleep in style. Memory foam all the way. He grabs new bedding at Target along with a few different types of pillows and yellow paint from the local hardware store. The truck is brimming. The back looks like a weird game of Tetris and the bench is covered in his new purchases. He gets home, a little exhausted but continues on. He throws the new bedding into the wash and wheels the new bedroom furniture into the house.

Dean has a few more beers and pats himself on the back for getting everything done.

He’s spread out on Castiel’s new bed, eyes closed with a beer in one hand, and freshly dried sheets thrown over his face when the two nerds get home late in the afternoon.

“Uh, Dean?”

“Just resting my eyes,” Dean replies, waving Sammy off. He pops up and smiles, “Taddaaa!”

“You have purchased different furniture and are moving into a different bedroom?” Cas asks.

“No, this is yours,” Dean answers, gesturing with his hand to the room.

Cas, bless his little angel heart, Dean thinks, tilts his head to the side and stares at Dean. He can see the loading wheel above the angel’s head just buffering as he’s trying to decipher what is truly going on.

Good ol’ Sam sweeps in for the rescue, “You need a space to sleep, Cas. Just yours.”

Cas nods stiffly, eyes flitting around the room and then finally resting on Dean. Fishing in his front pocket, Dean sets his beer down on the floor to pull out the money clip. Sliding a few dollars inside of it, he could never hand anyone an empty money clip, he tosses it Cas’ way. The angel catches it and his brows furrow even more.

“From Margaret at the antique shop, to add to your weird collection. She also gave me a china hutch for display that I have to fix and paint,” Dean flippantly answers the unspoken question.

“It is not haunted or cursed,” Cas states after sniffing the money clip.

“Haunted? Cursed?”

“My collection, those items I’ve been collecting were haunted or cursed objects. I convene with those spirits and set them free into Heaven. Or break the curse if I am able to. Humans get attached to the weirdest objects,” Cas replies serenely, the tip of his tongue touches the money clip and he nods to himself like he’s saying “yep, not haunted.”

“Son of a bitch! I’ve been buying you haunted shit!?” Dean bursts out.

“Yes, Dean.”

“The asparagus tongs? What kind of Casper the friendly fucking Ghost gets attached to asparagus tongs?”

“Edith Cole, they were a gift from her husband for their twenty-fifth anniversary. He went off and fought in the American Revolutionary War and was killed in battle. Edith was quite lonely her entire life. No children but she wasn’t a malevolent ghost, just was waiting for her husband to come back. She was ready to enter the Kingdom of Heaven to see him.”

“Alrighty-then,” Dean answers with a nod and a swig of his beer, “Let's get these sheets on the bed so I can go start on dinner. Tomorrow I’ll work on the cabinet to display your ghost trinkets. Maybe do some warding for the shit that you can’t uncurse.”

“Technically-”

“No, Sammy. I’ve been buying ghost trinkets.”  

They leave Cas in his new room to make dinner, the angel wearing a small smile when he runs his hands across the quilt Dean picked out for him. Dean finds Sam leaning against the counter, beer loosely between his fingers. He hands another to Dean from the fridge. Leaning against the counter, the brothers sip in silence until Sam breaks it.

“So… no mention of angel colds in any of Bobby’s books.”

“No?”

“I got more information from Cas though, he says his grace is fading and that we shouldn’t worry at all. No mention of that in any of the Enochian books either. Falling? Yes. Fading, not so much,” Sam sighs, taking a swig.

“Not a single mention in his entire library?”

“Unfortunately no, we checked the entire library but Cas prayed to Gabriel to appease me. No answer yet, but Cas says that he’s prayed to his brother before and it always takes a while for him to answer,” Sam replies.

Dean hums a noncommittal noise, taking a sip of his beer and pulling out ingredients for burgers. Beef. Check. Lettuce, bacon, cheese, onions, and tomatoes. Check, check, check, check, and more check. He locates the buns and gives them a cursory glance for moldy spots. They are a little dry, he figures he’ll toast the buns.

“Dean.” Sam states, using his imploring voice, “We gotta talk about this.”

“We really don’t. We don’t know anything until Cas gets an answer to his prayer. So, until then, we go about as normal. Do some more research and just… fix it. We’ll fix it,” Dean answers angrily, taking another swig. He places the bottle on the counter with a heavy hand.

“What happens if there is nothing to fix, Dean? You gonna pretend everything is ok while Cas may be dying?”

“We don’t know that!” The words burst from Dean loudly, but then he reigns in his emotions not wanting Cas to overhear, “We don’t know if that is what is happening, and Cas said not to worry. So, we aren’t going to worry. Can it. I’m going to make burgers tonight. Will you see if Cas wants swiss or pepper jack on his burger?”

“Yeah, Dean, I’ll go ask him,” Sam sighs.

They don’t talk about anything of substance for the rest of the night. Dean drinks more than he has in a while. He’s quite buzzed and barely pays any attention to the movie that was chosen for the night. It was Cas’ turn to pick the movie, so they’ve ended up watching some historical costume drama about a painter and her husband. Sam sniffles through the end and even Dean has to admit being a little choked up from the movie. Not that he would admit it. They part ways when the credits roll. Going about their normal bedtime routines.

He’s drifting to sleep when a soft knock on his door jars Dean awake, “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Cas head pokes through the crack of the door. His hair is disarray, blue eyes wide and hopeful, “How do you fall asleep? It's quite a process and I… I haven’t quite mastered it intentionally yet.”

Groaning and rolling out of bed, Dean gestures Cas to go back to his room with an impatient wave of his hand. He follows Cas to the new bedroom. The angel sits on the bed awkwardly and Dean suppresses the eye roll. Cas is in his jeans and the bed is still made military standard tight where Dean made it earlier.

“First, get undressed to your comfort level. I sleep in my boxers and t-shirt, so does Sammy,” Dean teaches, “Second, you have to get in the bed. Did you brush your teeth?”

“I brushed my teeth, yes,” Cas replies dolefully, taking off his clothes and folding them to sit on top of his dresser. Unlike Dean, he removes his shirt revealing toned and tan skin. The light curls of chest hair travel across his chest and a trail leading down his abdomen. He stares at Dean for more instructions, making Dean blush and the warmth of arousal thrum in his lower belly. It’s been a long time since anyone has been naked in front of Dean and it’s a heady feeling. Cas is so beautiful with his runner’s build and wiry muscles. He squashes his arousal down by thinking of cleaning the shower drain of Sam’s hair.

“Jesus Christ, Cas. Get in bed,” Dean huffs out pointing to the bed.

Cas scurries in between the sheets and brings the blankets up to his chin, “I’ve tried this before, Dean. I even counted sheep like Sam instructed.”

“Sammy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Dean sighs sitting on the edge of Cas’ bed, “I sleep on my stomach and Sam does too. Maybe you’ll be more comfortable that way.”

Cas flips over onto his stomach, eyes still peering over at Dean. Reaching over and flicking off Cas’ lamp darkness hushes the room and also silences Dean’s misplaced ire. Placing a large hand on Cas’ back he strokes his hand from the nape of Cas’ neck to the middle of his back.

“Close your eyes, Cas, and relax,” Dean whispers, “When Sammy was little, he used to have problems when Dad made him sleep in a separate bed from me. Used to tell us that I’d gotten too old to share with my little brother. I probably was thirteen or fourteen at the time. I’d wait till my old man fell asleep, having to listen to Sam count his sheep. He thought he was being quiet but man that kid doesn’t know how to whisper. Anyways, I’d rub Sam’s back till he fell asleep then have to sneak back to my bed before Dad woke up.”

“Did he always fall asleep that way?” Cas asks quietly.

“Yes, till he turned about fifteen and told me that he could fall asleep himself… the little shit,” Dean huffs out a laugh. Cas laughs quietly too but soon relaxes into Dean’s touch.

“Good night, Dean,” Cas whispers snuggling into the bed and arching his back into Dean’s steady hands.

“Night, Cas.”

Dean strokes Cas’ neck and back until Cas’ breathing settles into the deep sleep pattern. Slow and steady. Dean’s fingers continue to travel into Cas’ wisps of hair at the base of his neck to the golden field of skin along the knobs of his spine. Up and down, a comforting touch until Dean catches his hands exploring down Cas’ muscular arm. Slowly, he pulls his hand back and watches Cas sleep. Giving himself the time to soak in his friend’s sleeping visage. Cas lets out a sleepy huff of disapproval making Dean smile. Brushing Cas’ hair away from his forehead, Dean gives himself a perfunctory nod and lets the angel be. He quietly leaves Cas’ room, feeling satisfied that he helped his friend.

Flopping on to his own bed, he can’t help but wish there was someone to get him to sleep.

Chapter Text

…or so hard that it knocks the wind out of you

It’s not long until Castiel is practically fully human, the majority of his grace sputtering out like a finicky lightbulb. Their research is completely fruitless, and Gabriel has yet to answer Cas’ prayer, but in the meantime, Cas fully embraces his humanity. He eats, he shits, he brushes his teeth, and much to Dean’s annoyance he runs with Sam in the mornings. Tiny little running shorts in neon colors; red, green, and yellow. Dean isn’t a praying man, but he prays for winter to arrive, so Cas starts wearing real clothes again. He doesn’t think he can see any more glistening naked skin without snapping.

Dean goes to bars and no one, literally no one, will take him up on a one-night stand. Everyone in town, he assumes all 154,791 people who live in Sioux Falls, think he’s gay. Bobby says that the majority of the townies think he’s in an open polyamorous relationship with both Sam and Cas. Bobby, that asshole, doesn’t dispel any of those rumors when he hears them.

Dean wants to scream from the rooftops that he’s not in a relationship with his brother or with a former angel of the Lord, but he knows it won’t do any good… he knows how it looks with Castiel.

They stand too close. They stare too long at each other. They bicker like an old married couple.

Not to mention that they do everything together. Cas still brings Dean his lunch at work every day. On Saturday nights, they’ll go to their local CoOp bookstore that has tapas, beer, and coffee. They talk about books, eat delicious cheese coated food, and drink beers. They hit up bars afterward and play pool. Sometimes Sam joins them, sometimes it’s just the two of them.

Even Dean will admit that they are doing everything that entails dating without the actual fucking. And Dean… Dean is going crazy. He’s got these warring feelings brewing inside of him that he just can’t figure out. Is he into Cas? Is he into dudes? Is that why he’s spending all this time with Cas? Or is he just desperate from this insane dry spell and it’s Castiel’s proximity that has got some of his wires crossed. Is he Cas-sexual?

He’s never felt this way about anyone and frankly, he’s scared. Dean’s got this one old argument between his old man and Sam on repeat in his mind. It haunts him late at night when he’s all alone and Cas is tucked safely in his bed, no longer needing Dean to help him to sleep. His Dad had been cursing about faggots after seeing the news about the AIDS epidemic and his little brother, only eight years old at the time, had hotly proclaimed that love is love and that their Dad was wrong.

Dean wasn’t a stranger to John Winchester’s tirades about manliness. At twelve, he was experiencing the first wave of instructions from John about how to be a real man. That night though, that night when Sam had dared to say that love is love was the first night that had seared into Dean’s brain the realization that he would never be able to express all of himself in front of his father. That he could never be true to himself around John Winchester.

Dean’s known. He’s always known that if he allowed himself, he could swing both ways. He’s just never allowed himself to even entertain the idea before now. Before Cas. 

Dean tries to figure it out the best way he can…  he watches a shit ton of gay porn. Some of it he gets into, some of it is drilling straight into his sexual fantasies. Soft touches between two men. Strong muscular bodies that caress each other and kiss deeply like they are drowning in each other. He’s always liked the fantasy of porn, but the soft moans and blissed out faces of those who achieve climax is what he really likes. Bodies painted in pearlescent white. He can’t help but sink into the fantasies, imagining it’s Cas in some of the clips he watches. Messy bed hair and pink lips stretched around his cock. Their bodies would move together seamlessly, sweaty skin sticking together, the smell of petrichor buzzing and filling his whole consciousness. Dean can almost feel Cas sinking into him inch by inch. Maybe Dean is the one topping, Cas’s heat enveloping him... Dean doesn’t care. He’s always been considered a thoughtful and thorough lover, even to his one-night stands.

He’s a good lay. Dean knows this and he assumes his fantasies are being driven by him being bummed that no one will take him up on some sexytimes. He thinks if he can just have sex with someone… it’ll answer all his questions and clear up some confusion.

“Here,” Sam says one afternoon, tossing Dean’s phone from across the living room into Dean’s hands, “I downloaded a dating app for you.”

“What?”

“You have been bitchin’ about your celibacy, so I downloaded and set up a hookup app for you,” Sam says with a wave of his hand.

“What’s wrong with going to a bar?” Dean questions but opens the app… he’s already got a few matches.

“What’s wrong is that you bring Cas with you every single time you go out now,” Sam scoffs settling into the couch and flicking on the TV.

“Hey now! Cas fits in really well, don’t knock his people skills,” Dean scolds his younger brother.

“Dean,” Sam says his name like he’s an idiot, “You and Cas come off as a couple even more so than you and I ever did. When you're with Cas you might as well have, “I Bottom for Cas” written in sharpie on your forehead.”

Gaping at his brother, Dean clutches his phone to his chest. Sam’s hit too close and he reacts in defensive anger, “What the fuck, Sam? I do not!”

“Yeah, you do,” Sam informs him like he’s simple.

“You are fucking asshole,” Dean snips.

“Alright, Dean, whatever you say. Next time you go out the bar, don’t bring Cas along, see how it goes,” Sam basically sing-songs in mockery of Dean’s feelings.

Dean goes to the bar without Cas. He picks up a beautiful dark-haired girl with the lightest eyes. They have sex in the back of the Impala. It’s rushed, dirty, and Dean feels the guilt sinking into his soul when it’s all done and over with.

Dean falls into a spiral of self-hatred for an entire month, unintentionally bringing the whole house down with him. He goes into what Sam calls, “Dean Winchester’s triad of coping; sex, booze, bad food.” He snaps at them, drinks, and hits the bars around town hard on the weekends. He doesn’t cook any longer and spends all his downtime holed up in his room eating take out and watching slasher movies.

He ignores Cas and is gruff to Sam. Sam tolerates it, Dean is his brother and he’s used to these swift changes in Dean’s mood. But Castiel… Castiel doesn’t take it well.

Cas is quiet and very angry, as far as Sam can tell. They don’t talk and Cas has stopped bringing Dean’s lunches by the shop. Sam heard the tail end of that argument, Dean nastily saying that he doesn’t need Cas hovering at work.

After that… Sam tried to play mediator and have them open up about what’s truly going on during dinner, but he’s met with clipped answers about being frustrated with humanity from Cas and nothing, but sassy asshole replies from Dean. Sam drops it after a while, but it gets worse. He feels like his parents are fighting and possibly divorcing before his eyes. Dean is angry and lashing out and Cas is crumbling, the human emotions overwhelming in the moment. He’s stopped shaving, showering, and volunteering at their local library.

Sam tries to get Cas to open up with a few beers, but Cas just jokingly tells him not to ask stupid questions. They sit in silence, drinking beer after beer on the back porch while Dean is off doing God knows what with Lord knows who.

“Seriously though, what’s bothering you?” Sam asks after Cas has drunk more than his fair share of the beer cooler. Their empties are littered around them on their back porch. It's inching towards three in the morning and Sam can only take so much brooding.

“I imagine a few things are contributing to my current predicament. Ten beers, for one. The realization of my mortality. And the fact that Dean no longer wants my company,” Cas slurs and takes a sip.

“Yeah, ten beers in one sitting isn’t helping with the whole mortality thing,” Sam replies simply while thinking about Dean.

He knows his brother, but he doesn’t quite know that’s going on with Dean right now. He’s quiet, aloof, and hitting the bottle a little harder than normal. Sam knows that means he’s hiding something big; he just doesn’t know what.

“Dean… Dean is complicated.”

Cas lets out a huff and a sarcastic eye roll, “Thank you for your insight, Sam.”

“You know what I mean Cas, just… I don’t know, man, just don’t write him off,” Sam sighs out and stares out into the twinkling sky. The summer air is humid, even at night, sticking to their skin. It makes their beers in their hands sweat with condensation. The two of them are slumped in the Adirondack chairs that Dean made with the almost empty cooler between them.  Sam brings his beer to his temple and lets out another sigh.

“Dean feels things so acutely, I know he’s trying to figure something out but, in the process, he’s shut me out,” Cas states quietly, peeling the label of the bottle. He’s practically whispering and Sam strains to hear him murmur, “I didn’t fall for this.”

“Come again?”

Sam stares at the former angel before him, scruffy face and wild hair. He’s in a pair of Dean’s old sweatpants that ride low on his hips and Sam’s Stanford shirt pulled tight across his chest. It takes only a moment to realize that Cas is the epitome of someone who looks like they’ve been dumped. Heat flashes Sam’s cheeks and he feels so guilty.

He made fun of Dean for coming across as Cas’ partner. Cas’ bottom. Sam signed Dean up for the hookup app. He practically kicked Dean out the door towards the faceless masses of warm bodies. Sadness swiftly swirls in his mind and he can’t help but blame himself for causing Cas’ pain.

“Cas,” Sam croaks and the former angel shakes his head, holding out his hand to stop Sam. Sam knows his face says it all when Cas reaches out and grasps Sam’s hand squeezing once and letting it go, wearing a soft sad smile that tears Sam up even more.

“No, don’t,” Cas commands, voice unwavering.

You fell for Dean, wants to escape his lips but Sam swallows it back.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, mostly out into the yard. Cas hums in acknowledgment, a low gravelly sound, he finishes his drink and goes inside. Shutting the door quietly behind him.

Dean knows he’s fucked up.

Royally.

Cas left. He had threatened he was going to leave, and he had actually followed through. He packed up an overnight bag into one of Bobby’s beaters and drove off to Bobby’s. Dean had never seen Cas so angry before, usually, he’ll just take Dean’s vitriol in silence but Dean guesses that even angels all have a breaking point. Sam isn’t even trying to talk to him anymore.

He’s an ass. Dean knows this about himself and didn’t want to be an ass… but he still managed to scare Castiel off.

After sleeping with that chick, Dean hated himself. He felt like he cheated on Cas and they weren’t even in a relationship. He definitely didn’t deserve to even start anything if he couldn’t even keep it in his pants. Hell, the guy was still sort of an Angel and Dean had kicked him when he was already down. Dean was careless with his words and Cas’ feelings. Proving he didn’t deserve Cas.  At the time, Dean thought pushing Cas away out of his own hate spiral was the best thing to do. He was wrong.

Pride eating away at him, he waits three days for Cas to come home before eating crow and admitting that he needs to ask his brother where Cas went. Dean had called Bobby earlier that day, the gruff old hunter telling him that Castiel wasn’t staying with him.

“I don’t know, he’s not answering my texts,” Sam answers shortly, peering up from his laptop.

“What do you mean he’s not answering you?”

“Exactly what I said Dean, he’s not answering my phone calls or texts,” Sam irritably repeats.

Dread blankets Dean, making him sweat, “Pull up the phone GPS.”

“That’s an invasion of his privacy, Dean.”

“I don’t care, pull it up.”

Mumbling under his breath, Sam pulls up Cas’ location through the cellular carrier. The towers pinpoint him in the vicinity of Jenny Lake in Wyoming. Over thirteen hours away. Dean swallows the lump in his throat.

“Son of a bitch.”

 Dean hisses through his teeth. He checks his spare bag of clothes together, haphazardly throwing toiletries and necessities in with it. Sam meets Dean at the door with a canteen of coffee. The clear intention of not coming with Dean but still in a brotherly way supportive.

“Thanks, Sammy,” he states woodenly grabbing the coffee from Sam.

“Drive safe.”

Dean makes it to Jenny Lake, finding his way into the national park early morning. Driving through the early morning light Dean would have found it ethereal and holy if the park wasn’t already packed so early in the morning. It's beautiful, green, the mountains are so large and it’s so far away from home (from Dean) that it makes his entire being ache. He doesn’t understand why Cas is here, if he wanted to go camping or hiking… he could have done it closer to home. Closer to him.

Pulling up a photo of Cas, he gets the attention of a desk clerk in the ranger station.

“Excuse me, have you seen this man?”

The individual sighs at him, “They’re a lot of people that come through the park, sir. It’s impossible to remember every face.”

“Look again,” he says, pulling out his fake FBI badge.

The older ranger just glances at the photo, expression unchanged and exasperation heavy tone, “Sir, there are a lot of people in the park. Could the man you are looking for be a registered backpack hiker?”

“Yes,” Dean agrees readily.

“Name?” The ranger says from around the computer.

“Uh, Castiel?”

“Last name?”

“Winchester?” No hiker. “Or Singer?” No result.  “Novak?” None.

“I’m sorry Officer, it looks like we can’t help you at this moment. We can keep an eye out for the gentleman,” the ranger finally unhelpfully says after over an hour of searching for Castiel in their system. Dean knows the ranger isn’t actually sorry. He can tell by the ranger’s face that if he could, he would give any chance to screw Dean over.

Dean thanks him anyways, on autopilot going back to his car. Panic making him jittery and exhausted at the same time. Dean collapses into Baby’s hot bench seat. His skin sticks to the leather and the metal seat buckle burns into his thigh through his thin fed suit trousers. Resting, and burning his hands on the steering wheel, he drops his forehead to the back of his hands. Letting out a string of curses and then quieting. Dean doesn’t know how long he sits there, the heat surrounding him making him feel nauseous. Sweat drips down his back and he half-heartedly puts the keys in the ignition. Not bothering to turn the key and feeling that he doesn’t even deserve air conditioning.

He did this. He was an ass and now Cas is nowhere to be found. He could be lying in a ditch for all he knows. Or hijacked by some crazy hippy orgy. Dean doesn’t know what would be worse.

Dean doesn’t know where to turn, he thinks about calling Sam and asking him to check the GPS once again, but he can’t bring himself to. He wants results. Dean wants real help.

Clearing his throat, he starts a prayer that he memorized months ago… just in case, “O’ blessed Archangel Gabriel-”

“Whoah buddy. I’m gonna stop you right there,” a voice says next to him in the cabin of the car.

Dean jerks up, looking over at the man in his car. He’s got golden eyes and sandy brown hair. He has an average build compared to Dean. But his eyes are intelligent and mirth dances across his face. A little smirk plays on his lips.

“Let’s get some AC going on in this car while we sit here and chat. Ok, Dean-o?” The guy gestures to the car’s AC and Baby roars to life. The air conditioning blasting far colder than Dean could ever expect from his Baby just by turning her on.

“Gabriel?”

“No, I’m a Trickster looking to torment you a few hundred times over,” the angel deadpans, “Yes, I am the magnificent and wonderful Archangel Gabriel. You prayed, I answered. That's how this angel gig works. And you are the human pet that my little baby bro Cassie adopted. He talked about you.”

Chilly air blasting in his face, drying out his lips, he licks them slowly and carefully thinks about his next works, “Castiel said you never answered his prayers.”

“Oh boy… I’d hate to cause even more drama in this telenovela but I totes answered his prayer. He already knew what I was going to say and that’s all on him to explain why he lost his angel mojo,” Gabriel says, stretching out in the cab and throwing his arm over the back of the bench seat.

Feeling irritated at Cas, he can’t help but burst out in frustration, “So he knew this entire time! This entire fucking time I’ve been worried that he was slowly dying!”

Raising his hands in front of him, Gabriel’s smirk never dropping from his face, “Again, I’m not going to get into it with you. That’s all Cassie-poo.”

A noise of frustration claws at the back of Dean’s throat but he lets out of shaky breath. Running his hands down his face he looks out into the beautiful wilderness in front of him. The mountains tipped with snow and the fields below lush with vegetation and life. The lake glimmering in the distance. It's all so beautiful and Dean feels so wretched that he can feel his misery clouding the air like bitter miasma.  Dean sits in silence long enough that he starts to feel awkward. He doesn’t understand why Cas would withhold information from him, even before he started acting like an asshole.

“I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me,” Dean says quietly, looking out the window at the Tetons in the distance.

“Well…” Gabriel starts and lets out a dramatic sigh, “He figured you knew he wasn’t really dying, and he did tell you not to worry. But bless your little heart, I guess I really need to spell it out for you because you are denser than a multigrain loaf. Just between you and me, falling off a bank for love is a tad overdramatic for our dear Cassie. He’s more self-sacrificing than that.”

Dean looks over at him sharply, the reference to the movie City of Angels sinking in. He looks away from the Archangel when the guy gives him a knowing smarmy smile. The implication that Cas loves him weighs on Dean’s mind. Laying over all of his thoughts and flooding his chest. He feels giddy and sick at the same time. It’s everything he could have ever asked for and yet he’s terrified at the same time.

“Where is he?” Dean slowly asks, watching a family unload their hiking gear from their car. The kids running around their parents talking excitedly. Dean picks at his fingernails, waiting for Gabriel to answer him. Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“He’s in a small cabin in town, not a part of the park. Want me to hold your hand while you talk to the lover boy?”

“I think I can manage,” Dean states with false confidence.

“Good luck, big boy,” Gabriel teases and with a whoosh of wings disappears in front of Dean’s eyes. A piece of paper fluttering down from his ceiling and landing on the black leather. An address. Dean seizes it and punches it into his phone, thanking Gabriel quietly while his tires smoke as he peels out of the state park.

It’s a short drive and he’s pulling up to a small cabin that was on a small winding dirt road. Calling it a cabin is kind, it's more like a shack someone plopped down on some really gorgeous land and forgot about. Once again, Dean can’t fathom why Cas is so far away from the comforts of home. He knows that Cas loves his room, his bed, the garden they’ve been building out back before he goofed up, and their house.

Dean’s knuckles rap on the door sharply. The door whips open, revealing a disheveled Castiel. Wild hair, a start of a thick beard, and only wearing boxer briefs that are snug around his thighs. There is a pregnant pause between the two men. Dean meeting Cas’ eyes, but noticing they aren’t quite the ethereal blue he’s so fond of. There is something wrong, his eyes are deadened to Dean. They are flat and glassy.

“What are you doing here, Dean?” Simple question, loaded answer.

“Why did you leave?” Dean asks instead, he wants to reach out and touch Cas… but everything about his body language is shutting Dean down like Dean is an unwanted stranger.

“Really? That’s disappointing. I was hoping after you traveled all this way that you’d reach for more stimulating dialogue. Is that all you want to know?”

“Well, yes… but I want you to come home too,” Dean answers honestly. He searches Castiel’s face for the warmth that is usually directed his way but he finds none. With sinking realization, Dean realizes that he really did screw up. They might not come back from this.

Cas seems poised to strike, a cruel smirk and angry eyes warping his face, “And I want my powers. This existence… this life with you is hopeless, hapless. I left because I can’t stand dealing with your internalized homophobia. What kind of future are you offering, Dean? Playing house in secret with your brother for the rest of my existence? I’ll pass.”

“You’ll pass?” Dean replies angrily. His internalized homophobia? Playing house? Dean’s pissed and he tries to strong-arm his way into the cabin. Cas shoves him down the stairs and the two stare angrily at each other.

“Yes, you’ve traveled a long way for nothing. You can turn around and head back now. Have a nice life,” with that, Cas slams the door in his face

Dean steps fully down and works his way stiffly into his car. He stands at the side of Baby for a beat and then decides that something really isn’t right with Cas. The entire interaction with Cas felt wrong to him, Cas himself felt wrong and he just can’t shake that feeling. His gut would never lie to him. Dean grabs the Monster kit duffle from the car, armed and ready just in case.

“You again?” Cas all but spits after Dean knocks loudly on the door.

“Cristo,” Dean hisses. Cas flinches and the black eyes of the demon reveal themselves.

Dean charges at and grapples with the demon possessing his best friend. The cabin is small, a one-room hovel with the bare essentials. Dean and the demon crash into the bed and Dean tries to throw him off so he can grab his duffle. Ripping open the bag, he palms the jug of Holy water and splashes it into the demon’s face. The demon screeches angrily, grabbing the fire poker from the wood burning stove and swings it haphazardly at Dean. The demon is mad and uncoordinated, not a fighter.

The demon makes it too easy. Dean yanks the fire poker out of his hands and throws it across the room, breaking glass and splintering wood. Upsetting the demon’s footing, he goes down and Dean covers Castiel’s body with his own. Dousing the demon with more holy water and all but shouting an exorcism in Castiel’s burning face.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…” Dean pants and twists the demon’s arm behind his back to get leverage, “Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te.”

Black smoke pours from Cas’ mouth, his body slumping in Dean’s arms as the black smoke disappears down through the floor. Cradling Cas against his chest, Dean checks for wounds and bumps from his all-out fistfight with the demon. He pushes the wet hair out of Cas’ eyes and waits for his friend to wake. Dean’s heart slows and he feels exhausted. The adrenaline rush is over and he fights the wave of sleepiness. Instead, he focuses on the next steps in repairing what he broke between him and Cas.

“Dean?” Cas all but gasps out, his body jerking in fear against Dean’s.

“I’m here, Cas. I’m here,” Dean chokes out, holding on to Cas and trying to comfort him.

“I… Dean… the demon-”

“Is gone, you're safe… well, sort of… we’ll have to get you an anti-possession tattoo as soon as possible,” Dean awkwardly jokes and pulls Cas closer into his own body. They hold on to each other until Cas’ tremors stop and his breath evens out.

“Dean, you came,” Cas whispers, pulling up and out of Dean’s arms so he can look into Dean’s eyes. The ethereal blue is back, like shining crystals in the sun. Every line in Cas’ face is back to normal and his body melts into Dean. Open, affectionate, and so Castiel that it warms Dean’s heart.

“Well you worried me sick when you stopped answering Sam’s calls and texts,” Dean scolds, but not with any malice. He says this with a smile, hand on the back of Cas’ neck as a steadying presence.

“My apologies while you were being an ass,” Castiel deadpans and Dean can’t even hide his grin, “I was planning on staying at Bobby’s for a few days. The demon… the demon got me when I was getting groceries to take to Bobby’s. We aren’t home, are we?”

“We are definitely not in Kansas, Toto,” Dean airily replies, gesturing to the state of things around him. Cas looks at him strangely and then checks Dean for bumps and bruises. His nose centimeters from Dean’s while the former angel checks his eyes. Dean can’t tamp down the smile that blossoms on his face.

“Dean, we don’t live in Kansas… we live in Sioux Falls. Did you sustain a head injury from the fight with the demon?” Cas asks seriously, his long fingers wandering through Dean’s hair checking Dean’s head for bumps.

“No, Cas,” Dean laughs, tugging on Cas’ hand so they are entwined in his lap, "It’s just a quote from a movie Wizard of Oz? I made you watch it?”

“I can’t recall it right now, is it the one where there are three sisters fighting for the affections of one man?”

“Not even close, man. I think you’re the one who “sustained the head injury.” Come on, buddy. Up and at them, let's get you more comfortable,” Dean replies pulling Cas to his wobbly feet. Steadying him, Dean puts the little room back together. Sweeping the glass with his boot, he helps Cas sit on the bed.

“Dean, the demon… It said some terrible things. I couldn’t even fight him because I was trying to protect what little remnants of grace that remain,” Cas explains, eyes wide and guileless as the realization sinks in

“Water under the bridge, Cas. Don’t worry about it,” Dean brushes off while checking Cas’ feet for glass. Cas' hand reaches out and touches Dean’s shoulder lightly.

“No, no… I have to set this right,” Cas pauses, letting out a shaky breath, “Knowing you has been the best part of my life. It’s not hopeless or hapless. The demon was completely wrong. The things we’ve shared this past year have changed me to be better, to become something better. Being human, I’ve gained something that I would have never had in heaven. You are my family. You and Sam… and I love you.”

“I know buddy, I feel the same way,” Dean answers readily, clasping Cas’ arm. Cas shakes his head, his grip on Dean’s shoulder tightens and he pulls Dean closer to his body. Blue eyes, clear and bright stare into Dean. His bottom lip being worked raw between his teeth.

“No, Dean, you don’t understand. I love you.”

Chapter Text

…and its sweet beginning

Love.

Even though Gabriel had implied it, Dean can hardly believe Castiel when he utters those words. If he’s completely honest with himself, he knows he loves Castiel too. It’s not a big revelation, just something that has been growing below the surface that he has struggled to find the courage to admit.

He’s still gathering his courage.

Dean finishes checking Cas’ feet for glass shards, frozen for a few beats of his erratic heart. Blood rushing to his face, he can’t help ducking his eyes in shyness but wills himself to stand and frame Cas’ face with one hand. Brushing his thumb over Cas’ fuzzy cheek, he looks into the eyes of his angel. Cas’ eyes are guarded but when Dean places his other hand on Castiel’s cheek to fully frame his face, Cas’ face transforms into unadulterated hopefulness. His lips parting in a soft silent gasp.

Dean presses a chaste kiss to them. It’s fleeting and sweet. A perfect first kiss. Cas’ beard scratches at his stubble, his lips are dry and pliant beneath his. Sulfur from the demon possession colors the kiss. It makes Dean wince with disgust that he quickly tries to hide. Dean pulls away and wets his own lips with his nervousness.

“We should clean all of this up, get some rest, and head back home tomorrow?” Dean asks quietly, his thumb running across Cas’ bottom lip. Cas nods in agreement, so Dean releases him from his grip and grabs Cas’ shoes.

They make short work of cleaning up the damage, both to the cabin and Castiel. Castiel shaves, showers, and brushes his teeth. He comes out of the bathroom with a hesitant smile and opens his arms to show Dean the restoration to his former self. Clean-shaven face, hair somewhat tamed, and in Dean’s spare clothes since the demon ruined his own.

“Lookin’ real good there, Cas,” Dean compliments.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas returns just like his normal self, much to Dean’s relief.

“Hungry?”

“I could eat,” Cas replies.

“There is a steakhouse, I think it’s called the Mangy Moose. I passed it going through town,” Dean questions, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“That sounds agreeable.”

“Ok then.”

The two men stare at each other awkwardly for a beat, Dean’s nerves betray him, but he gives Cas a shy smile and chuckles to himself. He doesn’t know how to make this less awkward, but the two shuffle to the Impala in silence. Dean drives to the steak house and from the corner of his eye, he watches Cas’ long tan fingers drum impatiently on Baby’s seat. Dean doesn’t say anything though… he’s never been real good at talking about his feelings. They reach the steak house, sit, and order in uneasy silence.

The restaurant has an actual stuffed moose pulling a sleigh hanging from the ceiling along with other woodsy paraphernalia. Dean’s eyes flick around the restaurant. To the TVs, back to the stuffed moose, to Cas’ chest, to the bicycles hanging from the ceiling, the stuffed raccoon, the cast iron tub, and back to the Moose… Dean can’t look into Cas’ eyes yet… not without word vomiting up his feelings and potentially not saying something right.

“Dean,” Cas starts when the waiter leaves them, “You don’t… you don’t have to feel obligated to me.”

Cas’ face is twisted in misery, working the napkin between his hands.

“Cas, buddy, I don’t feel obligated,” Dean tries to express and looks at Cas, pleading the angel to read between the lines. The words, I love you too, this is like a dream come true. I can’t believe you love me, roll around in Dean’s head and he quiets them, not wanting to express his feelings in public.

“Oh, ok,” Cas answers shortly, his brows furrowed. His eyes down and focuses on the napkin, Dean is about to explain but then their food is delivered and Dean’s train of thought is interrupted.

They spend the rest of the meal in silence. Oppressive, awkward silence. Conversations on the tip of Dean’s tongue that he wants to start but then stops by the long looks from Castiel. Looks of embarrassment and hesitation are exchanged. Dean pays without comment and they make their way back to the cabin. The asshole demon that possessed Cas had helpfully rented it for a few days on Dean’s credit card.

The whole cabin is pretty plain beside the stupid moose printed comforter that is thrown across the double bed. The walls are paneled, a wood stove is in the center of the room with small armchairs sitting in front of it, and the bed to the side. A small kitchenette and a bathroom off to the left side of the room.

They get ready for bed, just like they do at home. They share the cramped space, bodies brushing together with every movement. Dean in his shirt and boxers and Cas in his tight boxer briefs. Brushing their teeth, washing their faces, it's an eloquent dance of familiarity and intimacy. Everything is normal until Cas stops short at the bed and stands awkwardly at the foot. The moose comforter mocks Dean, he can almost hear his brother heckling him.

“We can share,” Dean gruffly says, gesturing to the bed. Castiel only nods in agreement, sliding between the sheets and curling up onto his side. Dean watches while he curls around himself, small and visibly tense. Dean slides behind him, hesitantly putting a hand between Cas’ shoulder blades. Cas doesn’t relax under his hand at first, but Dean decides that he could give Cas a back rub as he used to when the angel had difficulty sleeping.

His hand starts its journey, up and down Cas’ back in soothing strokes until he feels Cas relax beneath his ministrations. The pads of his fingers drag against the smooth expanse of Cas’ tanned skin. Dean runs his hand down Cas’ muscular arm to intertwine their fingers. He picks Castiel’s hand and presses a kiss into his palm, tasting the salt of his skin on his lips. Dean tucks Cas’ arm back against him, his angel watching Dean with curious eyes.

Dean’s hand makes its way back up Cas’ arm, over his shoulder, to underneath Cas’ jaw. Cupping it, he brings Cas’ lips to his own. Pressing another soft and sweet kiss. Then another. Then another.

Each press of the lips, Dean tries to express how much he loves Castiel. How Castiel represents home to him. How his life has become so much fuller and more wonderful with Castiel in it. How Castiel is in Dean’s heaven exactly how their life is now and how much that says about their relationship. He wants to tell Cas that he wants to spend all of his days with his best friend at his side.

Instead, Dean kisses. Soft, slow, measured. Reverently. He opens the kisses for soft exploration of Cas’ lips and tongue. Dean guides Cas’ lips against his own until Cas is an expert. They parry back and forth; lips swollen and spit shiny. Breath mingled and noses rubbed against each other in fondness.

When Dean pulls away, after one more small peck of a kiss, Cas' smile is infectious, and his eyes light up with happiness. Dean could drown himself in that happiness.

“I was a dick. I fucked up and I was taking it out on you,” Dean whispers against his lips, touching their foreheads together and breathing in Castiel’s sweet breath from the toothpaste.

“I figured that out, Dean,” Cas replies sassily and presses his lips against Dean’s so sweetly it makes Dean want to weep with relief.

“I’m… I’m not good at this,” admits Dean.

“I know, that much is obvious.”

Dean stops and looks at Cas, soaking in the visage of the man underneath him. His ocean eyes filled with teasing mirth, the messy black hair, and his wide smiling lips. Dean eyes shutter closed when he feels the other man’s hands drifting over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Dean asks, but the joke in his voice sounds weak even to him.

“Not really, I’m over a millennium old and I like to think I know you,” Cas answers, his tone soft as his fingers card through Dean’s hair.

Dean lets out a huff of exasperation but melts into Cas’ exploration. He’s been starving for this, the easy intimacy between the two of them. He can’t recall how long he’s wanted the soft touches of someone’s arms around him. He lets out a soft moan when Cas’ hands roam down his neck and over his chest, the pads of Cas’ fingers teasing his nipples through his shirt. Cas kisses him softly but hungrily. His lips are smooth and his tongue makes arousal sing through Dean. Dean tries to hold his pelvis away from Cas, but his hands travel down to Dean’s ass and press Dean down into Cas’ parted legs.

A lightning bolt of pleasure strikes Dean, snaking its way down to his core.

A wanton moan rumbles out of Dean’s chest when his arousal meets Cas’ own hard cock. He bends to Cas’ will, body pliable when Cas flips them and takes control. Cas removes Dean’s shirt, his hands and lips worshiping Dean’s body beneath him. Cas bites and laves his tongue against Dean’s neck, his jaw, and his clavicle. Squirming with pleasure, Dean runs his fingers through Cas’ hair and runs his hands down the expanse of his back.

Their lips join, hardly coming up for air, as the two men rut against each other. Castiel’s hips are smooth and strong against Dean’s. Dean doesn’t even try to hold back the moans and grunts of his appreciation for the man above him.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Cas whispers into his ear voice teasing and breathy, biting his lobe, “Not today, but soon. I’m going to open you up so slow and when you start begging, I’m going to fuck you the way you deserve.”

“Don’t make promises, Cas. Maybe I’ll be the one doin’ the fuckin’,” Dean parries back, throwing his head back and his hips grinding up into Cas’ own. He’s putty in Castiel’s hands, moaning and panting with every teasing touch.

“I don’t think so, beautiful,” Cas teases, shucking Dean’s underwear down his legs. Cas is quick to wrap his hand around Dean’s length and give a few maddening slow strokes. Dean gives in to Cas, enjoying every dry pull on his cock, and secretly grateful for Cas’ obvious consumption of pornography. When Cas removes his own boxers, Dean pulls Cas' hips down into his, bucking against the soft warmth of Cas’ pelvis.

“Lube?”

“In my duffle, side pocket,” Dean answers and watches Cas’ lithe form cross the room. Enjoying the view, he palms his length and gives a few strokes, “Hurry up man, it’s been a while and I might come without you.”

“You’re ridiculous,” retorts Cas, smiling and rolling his eyes. He throws the lube at Dean from across the room, making Dean reach up to catch it. They exchange a quiet laugh and a smile. Cas even stops at the side of the bed, his erection bobbing heavily against his belly, tip gleaming. Dean runs his hand up a strong thigh and gives Cas a teasing touch. His hand swirls at the head, feeling the warm and steel-hard flesh in his palm. Cas’ gaze is intense with hunger and is focused on Dean.

“You want this?” Cas asks, fingers trailing down Dean’s arm holding his cock.

“And I thought you were a millennium old all-knowing being,” jokes Dean, giving a teasing tug. 

“Dean.”

“Jesus, Cas. Don’t get all pissy, yes, I want this. I want you,” Dean replies, tugging on the back of Cas’ thigh to come back to bed. They exchange soft kisses until Cas’ taciturn, but valid, concern about consent melts away.

Popping the cap of the lube, Dean pours some into his hand and runs his hand down his length. Exhaling in pleasure from the cold wetness. When Cas’ body is snug in between his legs, Dean aligns their dicks and wraps one of his large hands around the two of them together.

“Perfect,” Cas sighs, on his knees and thrusting into Dean’s hand. Dean watches Cas’ body in rapture. The sight of their lengths sliding against each other, the flexing of Cas’ abdomen, and the cords of muscle in his thighs. He’s gorgeous and Dean closes his eyes in bliss. His orgasm building within him. When Cas’ hand reaches between them, enclosing around Dean’s and urging them faster, Dean loses himself in the pleasure.

“O’ Dean,” Cas groans and tumbles into his orgasm after, Dean’s stomach painted in ropes of white. Castiel is cautious of totally resting his body against Dean’s, their release, and softening members pressing in between them. Cas lazily plants open mouthed kisses wherever he can reach, still bearing the majority of his weight on his arms.

“Just rest, baby, I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs against Cas’ temple, stroking the sweaty hair away from Cas’ forehead. Pulling his lover's body against his own, feeling the tension drop out of Cas slowly. The weight of Cas is amazing, solidifying that Dean just really had sex with a man. It’s perfect for Dean, feeling like he’s truly come home.

“Baby?”

“Don’t like ‘baby’?”

“That’s the Impala,” Cas sighs, face pressed against Dean’s neck.

“Sweetheart?”

“No.”

“Pookie?”

“Dean, that’s demeaning.”

Both of them are laughing, high on endorphins. Lazy kisses and laughter are traded as Dean goes through other nicknames; sweet pea, love bug, cutie pie, honey bun, pumpkin. All are vetoed, Cas laughing loudly when Dean gets absolutely ridiculous and tries to call him turnip. Tenderly, Cas cleans them both off with a warm cloth and settles next to Dean. Curling over his chest and lightly tracing his fingers connecting the freckles that splatter across Dean’s skin.

Dean’s almost scared to say it, but he plants another tentative kiss on Cas' temple. His words rumbling against Cas’ cheek, “My love?”

Cas is quiet, but he shifts to look Dean in the eyes.

Breathing hard, Dean’s smile unsure, “I think that’ll do, love.”

Cas’ voice is deep and sonorous, “I like that.”

They stay like that, bodies intertwined and comfortable. Skin pressed against skin until Dean starts drifting off into a comfortable and content sleep. He feels Cas shift against him and a soft kiss against his lips.

“Sweet dreams, Dean,” is whispered against his lips.

“G’night, love,” slurs Dean.

They continue as they always have been once they do get home. Castiel sporting a shiny new tattoo over his ribs, something in Enochian to protect him from both demons and angels. They have their movie nights, grocery shopping, and Cas continues to bring Dean’s lunch to him during the day. The only difference in their daily life is those soft maddening teasing kisses during the day and the exploration of their bodies at night.

They don’t kiss in public, or in front of Sam, but Cas will press his lips against Dean’s when they are alone. Dean can guarantee a few kisses throughout the day. When Cas hands Dean his coffee in the morning when Dean walks him back to the truck after lunch, and if they are alone when they are washing the dishes after dinner. They are sweet and wonderful and they make the back of Dean’s teeth ache with how saccharine they are being.

They have long talks, curled up together on the porch in the swing. Castiel finally explains why he fell from grace. That healing Dean’s soul from the Grigori was an insurmountable task and Castiel willingly gave all his power to bring Dean back from the brink of death. When he had prayed to Gabriel, it was just confirming what he had already known… that he was slowly becoming human. Castiel’s grace is still hanging in there by a thread, though he admits that it’s so weak that he doesn’t tap into it for anything. Though Dean has his doubts of being worth it, Cas readily admits he would do the same thing a thousand times over and that being with Dean is exactly what he wants.

And that’s exactly what they do with their days, do exactly what they want. The brothers don’t hunt much, serving more as a backup to their network of hunters. Castiel volunteers and they spend the majority of their days in domestic bliss.

The only thing that could be improved is that Cas still sneaks into Dean’s room once Sam has gone to bed. Dean would prefer for the two of them to go to bed together, but he hasn’t quite figured out how to come out to Sam yet.

Despite not telling Sam and somewhat sneaking around, having Cas in his bed is completely worth it. Some nights they cuddle and other nights he tortures Dean in the best way.

Dean loves having sex with Castiel. He loves learning his body. Never having had the opportunity before, he is learning that having a long-term sexual partner facilitates the best sex he’s had in years.  He enjoys watching Cas writhe in pleasure through his eyelashes while Dean’s got a mouth full of cock. He gets high on the power it brings him watching Cas being reduced to a shaking mess. Dean loves aligning their cocks together, he really enjoys thrusting between those glorious runner’s asscheeks, and he loves listening to the sounds of Cas’ pleasure when Dean’s hands just touch and explore. Though he loves giving Cas pleasure, nothing is better than when Cas takes control in the bedroom.

The former Angel of the Lord has an intense focus and determination to wring every ounce of pleasure from Dean and a penchant for making him beg for it, just like he had promised. They haven’t even had penetrative sex, yet. And Dean begs, he tries to stay quiet but most of the time he ends up sounding like a two-dollar whore.

“Cas, come on, I’m ready, please.”

“Dean,” Cas voice soft yet unyielding, “I did extensive research and I’m not about to rush this and end up hurting you.”

Castiel has three very lubed fingers deep within him, brushing up against his prostate making Dean’s legs quiver and his hands clench into the sheets above him. It’s a familiar feeling, one that he’s become addicted to in the past few weeks but now he needs more. He needs Cas.

“You son of a bitch, I am so in love you but if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to kick your ass out of this bed so hard it’s going to make you wish you never fuckin’ saved me. We’ve been doing this for weeks and I won’t ask you again,” Dean snarls and thrusts down onto Cas’s fingers, his frustration making him shake with need.

“You're in love with me?” Cas whispers out, his motions stalled.

Dean’s fog of frustration clears and takes a good look at his lover. His body is glistening with sweat, his hair wild from Dean’s fingers earlier, his own erection heavy between his legs. He looks amazing and Dean can’t believe the look of shock on Cas’ face right now, “Of course. I love you. You know that, Cas.”

“I… I really didn’t know for sure. You’ve never explicitly said it before,” he answers slowly, hesitantly, his deep voice unsure.

“Castiel,” Dean breathes out, “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

“I love you too, Dean.” Cas leans down and kisses Dean. It's a sweet kiss and the entire moment would have brought tears to Dean’s eyes if it wasn’t for the fact that his ass is deliciously full of Cas’ fingers. Cas even has the audacity to brush his fingers against his prostate while kissing him, making Dean writhe.

“That’s great, I’m so glad we cleared that up,” Dean pants, his hips canting down and his body eager for more.

“Me too, now I can make love to you,” Cas smiles, eyes crinkling and gums showing.

Dean can’t quite think of a witty comeback, the keen loss of Cas’ fingers makes him shudder, his eyes close and his mouth is dry. He doesn’t have to wait long, Cas decides to answer his previous pleas. Every inch is slow and torturous, Castiel watching his face as their eyes lock on to each other. When Cas bottoms out, Dean feels full and slightly uncomfortable but he won’t fight it… determined that he’s going to enjoy this. He can tell by Cas’ blissed out face he’s already there. They move together, slowly at first until the fire of white hot heat of release grows in Dean. He’s close and he can tell by the stuttering of Cas’ hips that he’s not the only one.

Harder, faster.  Dean urges his lover and Castiel gives in, pistoning into Dean. The loud slap of skin reverberating against the walls. The sounds coming out of Cas are out of this world, soft and deep, and praising Dean. You're so beautiful and strong. Feels so good. So in love with you. Confessions that tip Dean over the edge, he erupts shortly before Castiel painting his own chest up to his neck. He watches Cas’ climax unfurl and thinks to himself that he’ll never get tired of seeing Castiel’s rapture.

“S’good,” Dean mumbles into Cas’ neck. Cas hums along with him. They don’t bother getting up, falling asleep plastered to each other's bodies and beyond gross. Dean will wash the sheets tomorrow anyways.

Dean finds himself spending his Saturday morning with Sam for the first time since Cas moved in almost a year ago. Cas had an early morning shift at the library, which Dean was bummed out about but understood. He wanted to go hiking this weekend, the weather had finally tapered off into fall and it was downright gorgeous outside. He almost begged Cas to take the morning off, but Castiel was really excited about securing a full-time position after volunteering for so many months.

Dean brews coffee for him and Sam, chops an array of vegetables, and assembles the two veggie omelets. Sam comes bounding through the house, sweaty and breathless from his run. Dean waves at Sam and then his brother disappears. Dean hears the shower kick on, sipping his coffee and watching the vegetables sauté in his skillet. He slowly assembles breakfast, enjoying his coffee and thinking about what he’s going to make for dinner. Cas had mentioned tacos the other night, so he’ll have to go out and get the ingredients later. He’s deep in thought when he hears Sam come back into the kitchen.

“I found a house on my run,” Sam interrupts his musing, sliding into one of the kitchen chairs.

“What?”

“A house, it's a decent price. Kinda small, but I’m just one guy so I’m gonna call the realtor to see the inside,” Sam states, taking a swig of his water.

“What? Why are you thinking about buying a house?”

“Dean-”

“Don’t, “Dean,” me asshole. Not in that tone. I know that tone, that’s your “You are being stupid and I’m going explain something to you like your in friggin’ kindergarten tone.” Bitch,” Dean snaps waving the spatula at Sam.

“I’m not going to explain anything to you, you jerk. I just want my own space,” Sam says slowly and hesitantly.

“Why? What’s wrong with our house? Is it not good enough anymore?” Dean angrily jabs at the omelet, destroying its perfect shape. He’ll give it to Sam, the ass.

“The walls are thin,” Sam states simply.

Throwing down the spatula and turning off the burner he wheels around and looks at Sam, “What the fuck are you talking about? The walls are thin? Is this about our movie marathon when you had a migraine the other night? You are going to buy a whole other goddamn house because of that?”

Groaning and running his fingers through his long hair, Sam looks exasperated but drops his hands down the table in defeat, “Dean, this is not about your movie marathon. If I have to hear you and Cas one more night after last night I’m going to have to be admitted to the psych ward. You guys, I know you are trying to be quiet… but Jesus, Dean you are so friggin loud.”

Mind on the fritz, Dean just stares at his brother for a few minutes. A blush working up his neck and cheeks. He’s not ashamed of being with Cas, it’s just… he’s held it so close to his chest that he couldn’t figure out the way to tell Sam.

“Cas is terrible at sneaking out of your room in the morning too,” Sam adds, rubbing the back of his neck and clearing his throat.

“How long?”

“How long have I known?…Well, it’s been a few months now. I swear I thought you two had something going on before that demon possessed Cas, but I asked Cas and holy shit did he share way too much information. I know he’s doing really well with being a human here lately, but you are going to have to talk to him about privacy and boundaries,” Sam laughs awkwardly.

Dean nods, turns around, and plates their omelets. He sticks Sam’s in front of him and then settles down across the table. He ends up taking the broken omelet, pushing it around his plate, and nibbling on it here and there.

“This is a good thing, Dean. I’m happy for you, I just don’t want to hear it anymore,” Sam says trying to catch his brother’s eyes, “I know you don’t like change, but I think this will be good for you and Cas. He was talking about having a full real life with you the other day. Pets, kids, marriage, the whole “apple pie life” you’ve always wanted.”

Nodding, Dean takes a sip of his coffee, “He wants a cat. I told him I was allergic.”

“You can get the shots or take the pills,” Sam offers the solution with a smile.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Dean answers with a hesitant smile. His brother might as well be waving the bisexual pride flag he’s got such a goofy grin on his face. In response, he stabs Sam’s omelet with his own fork to make the omelet ugly like his.

“Hey now!” Sam explains swatting at Dean’s fork, “Eat your breakfast instead of pushing it around, your eggs are getting cold.”

“Your eggs are getting cold, bitch.”

“Jerk."

That night, Cas joins him in bed wearing Dean’s hotdog pajamas. Cas is happy, his face relaxed and content. His hair is sticking straight off his head from drying it roughly with the towel from his shower. He flops down next to Dean and wiggles his way next to him in the most exaggerated silly way to make Dean laugh, which he does. They kiss unhurriedly with no intention apart from kissing, until Cas moves to snuggle and Dean picks his book back up to read. Cas rests his head up against Dean’s chest, closing his eyes and soaking in the warmth of their bodies together. Snaking a cold foot into Dean’s pant leg, Cas sighs in contentment.

“I saw the prettiest orange tabby at the humane society today,” Cas comments softly, his voice hushed to not disturb the relaxing quiet.

“Still allergic, Cas.”

Cas presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead and the familiar rush of grace fills Dean’s body. Dropping his book, Dean stares at his lover flabbergasted.

“And now you're not,” Castiel impishly replies.

“Cas-”

“Yes, I used the last of my grace. His name is Baby, he was one of five former feral kittens. An elderly couple was taking care of them, but when the wife passed the man moved in with his daughter and there was no one to care for them. He was her Baby. He’s so sweet, Dean. I’m picking him up tomorrow,” Cas explains quickly and with a smile.

Taking a moment to just look at Cas, his former angel of the Lord… Dean decides that he’d really do anything to make Castiel happy.

“I’d like to go together, maybe swing by the pet store first to get supplies,” Dean says and nuzzles Cas’ neck.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, love,” Dean replies and kisses Cas’ smile. Letting out his own sigh of contentment he curls around Cas and they kiss until Dean can no longer hold his eyes open. He drifts off to sleep knowing that his life with Castiel is his heaven on Earth.

-end