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Dean didn’t have a plan.
He just drove.
After Lisa told him to get out—for good this time—he didn’t bother to argue. Didn’t pack a bag. Didn’t ask for his hoodie back from the coat rack. He got in the Impala, turned the key, and pointed the car down I-70 with nothing but Springsteen on the radio and a hollow ache in his chest.
It wasn’t like he was about to call Mom. And Dad… wasn’t an option.
So that left Sam.
Dean pulled up outside his brother’s apartment sometime past ten. The street was quiet, tree-lined and lit with flickering old lamps. He parked the car, sighed, and stared at the building for a long moment before finally getting out.
He didn’t text. Didn’t knock, either.
“Sam?” he called as he stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “You better have something stronger than light beer, man. I just got my heart drop-kicked into next week.”
No answer. But there was music playing softly from down the hall—something classical, maybe, or one of those instrumental playlists Sam liked when he was studying.
Dean walked in farther. The place looked… nice. Cleaner than he expected. The bookshelf in the corner had actual books on it—not just Sam’s usual stack of textbooks, but hardcovers with gold-lettered spines and weird poetic titles like A Map of the World and The History of Rain. There was a typewriter on the desk. A fucking typewriter.
And then, footsteps.
Dean turned just as someone emerged from the hallway, barefoot and towel-drying his hair.
He wasn’t Sam.
He was tall, lean, with messy dark hair that curled slightly at the ends and piercing blue eyes that flicked to Dean immediately. He wore a worn gray T-shirt with a faded quote across the front in loopy cursive that Dean didn’t bother trying to read.
“Oh,” the guy said. “You must be Dean.”
Dean blinked. “Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”
“I’m Castiel,” he said. “Sam’s roommate.”
Dean stared. “Since when does Sam have a roommate?”
“Since August,” Castiel said simply, crossing into the kitchen. “We met in American Lit. He said you might drop by.”
“He did not say you existed,” Dean muttered.
Castiel didn’t seem offended. He pulled two mugs down from a cabinet and glanced over his shoulder. “You want coffee? Or whiskey?”
Dean frowned. “You offering coffee and whiskey at the same time?”
Castiel tilted his head. “I find it helps, depending on the kind of night you’re having.”
Dean let out a huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s a whiskey night.”
“I thought so.”
He poured them each a couple fingers of something amber from a bottle near the sink. As he handed Dean a glass, he leaned against the counter and said, “You smell like gas station aftershave and despair.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Do people usually let you talk to them like that?”
“Only if I’m right.”
Dean rolled the whiskey in his glass. “You’re an English major, huh?”
Castiel smiled faintly. “Guilty.”
“Figures,” Dean muttered.
“Sam speaks highly of you,” Castiel said, more gently. “He says you’re kind, when you think no one’s watching.”
Dean blinked, caught off guard by that. “Yeah, well. Sam says a lot of dumb things.”
Just then, the door opened again, and Sam came in carrying takeout and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He paused when he saw Dean.
“Hey,” he said. “You made it.”
Dean pointed toward the stranger. “You didn’t tell me your roommate was a poet who drinks whiskey and stares into people’s souls.”
Sam chuckled, tossing his keys into a bowl. “Yeah, well. Cas grows on you.”
Dean glanced at Castiel, who was calmly sipping from his glass and still very much watching him.
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“It’s true,” Castiel said, unbothered.
Sam dropped onto the couch and opened the takeout. “You okay?”
Dean hesitated. “I got dumped.”
That made Sam pause, chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Lisa?”
Dean nodded.
“Damn,” Sam said. “I’m sorry, man.”
Dean shrugged, trying to look casual even though it still felt like someone had reached in and wrung his ribs dry. “Wasn’t working. Not really.”
A silence settled. Comfortable, but weighty.
After a moment, Castiel spoke again. “You can take my room, if you’re staying the night.”
Dean glanced up. “What? No. I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”
“You’re not,” Castiel said calmly. “I sleep on the couch when I write anyway. You look like you need the space.”
Dean wasn’t used to kindness without strings. But Castiel was serious. Not pitying, not pushy—just… offering.
Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks. I mean it.”
“You’re welcome,” Castiel said, and his eyes didn’t leave Dean’s even once.
Dean took another sip of whiskey. He was still heartbroken. Still lost. Still stuck in the middle of a life he didn’t know what to do with.
But at least here—surrounded by books and strange roommates and Sam’s quiet, steady presence—it didn’t feel quite so unbearable.
It felt, maybe, like the start of something.
Dean woke to the sound of typing.
Not the soft clatter of a laptop keyboard, but the staccato click-clack of a typewriter. For a few seconds, he couldn’t figure out where the hell he was. The sheets smelled like linen and ink. There was a copy of Leaves of Grass on the nightstand and a sketch of a crow pinned to the wall.
Then he remembered: Sam’s apartment. Castiel. Whiskey. Lisa.
He groaned and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. Mornings after breakups always felt like being run over by a cement mixer full of regret.
Dean shuffled out of the bedroom—Castiel’s bedroom, technically—and into the living room, where he found the source of the sound. Castiel sat cross-legged on the couch, hunched over an old blue Royal typewriter, his hair sticking up wildly like he’d been running his hands through it all morning. He wore a hoodie now—navy blue, sleeves pushed up to the elbows—and plaid pajama pants.
He paused mid-sentence when he noticed Dean standing there.
“Good morning,” Castiel said. “I made coffee. It’s strong.”
Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”
“Just after eight.”
“Seriously?” Dean squinted toward the window. “Is it always this bright in here?”
“Yes. Sam says the east-facing windows are good for his circadian rhythm.”
Dean dropped onto the armchair with a grunt. “Of course he does.”
Castiel rose and went to the kitchen, returning with a mug that said This is probably wine on it. He handed it over.
Dean stared down into the steaming black coffee. “Thanks. For, uh… everything. The bed. The whiskey. Letting a grumpy stranger crash your apartment.”
Castiel tilted his head. “You’re not that grumpy.”
Dean snorted. “Give it time.”
Castiel sat back down on the couch and resumed typing, slow and deliberate. It wasn’t exactly awkward—just quiet. Comfortable, even.
“So…” Dean cleared his throat. “What are you working on? Great American Novel?”
Castiel didn’t look up. “A poem about loss and smoke and the echo of footsteps.”
Dean blinked. “That’s a lot for eight a.m.”
Castiel stopped typing. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” Dean said quickly. “I didn’t mean—just… surprised, I guess.”
Castiel nodded. “Writing helps me think.”
Dean sipped the coffee. “Sam said you’re in English.”
“I am,” Castiel said. “Creative writing concentration. I also TA for one of the intro lit classes.”
“Bet the freshmen love you.”
“They don’t know what to make of me,” Castiel said, a hint of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “But a few of them write well. One girl handed in a short story last week that made me cry.”
Dean eyed him. “You cry over student papers?”
“Only the good ones.”
There was something about the way Castiel said it that made Dean’s chest ache. Honest. Simple. Like it didn’t even occur to him to be embarrassed by it.
Dean leaned back, watching him from across the room. Castiel had this strange calm about him, like he operated on a different wavelength from everyone else. Quiet, but not shy. Thoughtful, but sharp.
Dean didn’t know what to do with that.
Before he could think too hard about it, Sam shuffled out of his bedroom, hair a mess and hoodie halfway zipped. He looked between them, then raised an eyebrow.
“You two bonding already?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “More like your roommate is gently judging my entire emotional collapse before breakfast.”
Castiel didn’t look up. “Not judging. Observing.”
Sam grinned. “Told you he grows on you.”
Dean muttered into his coffee. “Yeah, yeah.”
Sam wandered into the kitchen, calling back, “You sticking around today?”
Dean hesitated.
He should go. He should face his stuff, pack up what Lisa hadn’t thrown onto the lawn, find somewhere to be pathetic in peace.
But the idea of going back out there—back to that apartment full of memories and empty promises—made his stomach twist.
“I might,” he said. “If that’s cool.”
Sam poked his head out and looked at him seriously. “Of course it’s cool.”
Castiel added, “You can stay as long as you need.”
Dean met his eyes. For someone he’d just met, Castiel made it alarmingly easy to feel like maybe he wasn’t a burden.
Dean nodded, then looked down at his coffee.
“Alright. But if you’re gonna keep typing sad poetry at me, I get to control the playlist.”
Castiel raised an eyebrow. “What do you want to listen to?”
Dean smirked. “Zeppelin.”
Castiel paused, then nodded once. “Acceptable.”
Dean smiled into his mug.
Maybe this wasn’t the worst place to fall apart after all.
By noon, Led Zeppelin was playing quietly from Sam’s Bluetooth speaker, Dean was freshly showered in a T-shirt he’d borrowed from his brother’s drawer (Stanford Law School: Objection Overruled), and Castiel was inexplicably reorganizing the bookshelf—by theme.
Dean stood nearby, nursing his second cup of coffee and watching with mild confusion as Castiel muttered things like, "Coming-of-age adjacent but not emotionally immature," and "Technically gothic, but too hopeful to shelve near Faulkner."
“You know you’re doing this in front of a guy who alphabetizes his DVDs, right?” Dean said.
Castiel glanced over his shoulder. “I’m aware.”
Dean smirked, then turned toward the kitchen. “You hungry?”
“A little.”
Dean opened the fridge. “Jesus, Sam. There’s nothing in here but oat milk, leftover tofu, and a jar of something unlabeled that’s definitely fermenting.”
“That’s Castiel’s,” Sam called from the hallway.
Dean grimaced. “Is it a science experiment?”
“It’s homemade kimchi,” Castiel replied serenely. “It’s very good.”
Dean pulled his head out of the fridge. “I’m ordering pizza.”
Castiel didn’t argue.
Fifteen minutes later, Dean and Castiel sat at the coffee table, a large pepperoni pizza between them. Sam had vanished to the campus library, claiming he had to return some books and “make sure the TA didn’t destroy his thesis draft.”
Dean didn’t ask. He was too busy inhaling carbs and melting cheese.
“This,” Dean said through a mouthful, “is the best thing I’ve had in days.”
“I’m glad,” Castiel said, delicately picking a pepperoni off his slice.
Dean eyed him. “You a vegetarian or just weird?”
“Mostly weird,” Castiel said, and something about the way he said it made Dean huff out a laugh.
There was a moment of silence as they ate, comfortably seated side by side on the rug. Dean leaned back on his hands, staring at the ceiling.
“So… what’s your deal, Cas?”
“My deal?”
Dean turned his head. “Yeah. You live with my brother. You write poetry at sunrise. You alphabetize books by vibe. What’s your thing? Where are you from? What made you decide to spend four years surrounded by people quoting Sylvia Plath in coffee shops?”
Castiel chewed slowly, then set his pizza down.
“I grew up in Pontiac. Michigan, not Illinois. My parents were strict—religious, old-school. We didn’t talk much. Books were safe. Poetry made sense in ways people didn’t. I started writing young. And when it came time to pick a college, I thought… maybe I could finally say something real.”
Dean blinked. “Damn.”
“I didn’t mean to overshare.”
“No, it’s…” Dean shook his head. “You’re just real comfortable talking about real shit.”
Castiel smiled faintly. “And you’re not.”
Dean gave him a look. “Didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Dean reached for another slice, partly to avoid answering. “You always like this?”
“Direct?”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Nosy.”
Castiel tilted his head, considering. “Only when I care.”
Dean stared at him, not sure how to respond to that. It was too honest. Too gentle. The kind of thing people didn’t say unless they wanted something. Except… Castiel didn’t seem like he wanted anything.
He just was.
“You don’t know me,” Dean said after a moment.
“I’d like to,” Castiel replied, quiet and steady.
Dean looked at him then—really looked. At the soft curl of his hair. The way his fingers lingered near his typewriter. The calm that never seemed to leave his voice.
For a guy Dean had met less than 24 hours ago, Castiel was already unsettling something in him. And not in a bad way. Just in a way that felt like a crack forming in old armor.
Dean looked away. “You always this intense?”
Castiel shrugged. “Only when I mean it.”
Dean didn’t have a good response to that. So he finished his pizza, changed the subject, and spent the rest of the afternoon losing a Mario Kart tournament to someone who claimed to have never played before but managed to red-shell Dean off Rainbow Road every single time.
Later, after Sam got home and the three of them fell into an easy, chaotic rhythm of arguing about movies and debating whether or not Die Hard was a Christmas film, Dean caught himself laughing.
Really laughing. The kind that felt rusty from disuse.
And when Castiel looked over at him, head tilted and a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips, Dean had to look away again.
Because something about that look said I see you.
And Dean wasn’t sure he was ready to be seen.
Dean couldn’t sleep.
He blamed the unfamiliar bed, the weirdly soft pillow, and the way the radiator clanked every so often like it was being haunted. But mostly, he blamed his brain—loud and wired and spinning in circles about Lisa, Castiel, and everything in between.
He tossed onto his side. The sheets smelled faintly like laundry detergent and cedarwood soap. He’d bet money that Cas used those tiny bars from the fancy aisle in the health store—probably handmade by monks or something. Of course he did.
Dean sighed and stared at the ceiling. Then the wall. Then the ceiling again.
After what felt like an hour, he sat up and rubbed his face with both hands. Through the apartment’s thin walls, he could hear typing again—slow and methodical. He figured it had to be after midnight.
Getting out of bed wasn’t a conscious decision. One minute he was sitting on the edge of the mattress; the next he was cracking the bedroom door open and padding barefoot down the hall.
Castiel was still on the couch, wrapped in a soft gray blanket like a burrito, his typewriter now sitting idle on the coffee table. He was scribbling edits in a notebook, glasses perched low on his nose.
Dean paused in the doorway. “You don’t sleep?”
Castiel looked up, unsurprised. “Not much.”
Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me guess—insomnia?”
“Sometimes. But mostly…” Cas shut the notebook softly, “…I’m afraid if I sleep, the words will be gone when I wake up.”
Dean leaned against the doorframe. “Is that poetic, or a cry for help?”
Castiel smiled, small but genuine. “A little of both.”
They stared at each other for a beat, then another.
Dean cleared his throat. “Mind if I sit?”
Cas moved the notebook aside, making space. “Please.”
Dean settled next to him on the couch. Close, but not quite touching. He noticed the mug in Castiel’s hand was half-full of tea. No honey. Of course.
“I don’t get you,” Dean said after a while.
Castiel glanced at him. “That’s alright.”
“I mean it,” Dean continued. “You’re just… you say shit no one else says. You don’t freak out about silence. You read too many books. You make kimchi, and you let strangers sleep in your bed like it’s nothing.”
“They’re not strangers forever.”
Dean huffed a laugh. “You sound like someone from a damn indie movie.”
“I was once accused of that by a film major named Eli who only wore turtlenecks.”
Dean snorted. “Did he break your heart?”
Castiel looked down into his tea. “Not really. But I think I broke his.”
That made Dean go quiet.
He looked at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. Cas wasn’t fidgety. He wasn’t trying to fill the silence or tiptoe around the weight in Dean’s chest. He just was. Sitting there. Solid. Steady.
It was weirdly comforting.
Dean leaned his head back against the cushion and exhaled slowly. “Lisa said I don’t know how to let people in. That I’m all charm and no follow-through. That I never let her really see me.”
Castiel didn’t say anything, but he was listening. Dean could feel it.
“I thought I was doing everything right,” Dean said, voice lower now. “I was there. I helped with Ben. I made dinner. I didn’t screw up. But it still wasn’t enough.”
Castiel shifted slightly, turning toward him.
“Maybe it wasn’t about doing everything right,” he said. “Maybe she wanted you to be something, not do something.”
Dean didn’t respond. The words felt too close to something he hadn’t dared to touch.
“I’m sorry she hurt you,” Castiel added. “But I don’t think she was trying to.”
Dean swallowed around the tightness in his throat. “I didn’t come here to have my life psychoanalyzed by a guy in pajama pants with tea.”
“No,” Castiel said softly. “You came here because you needed to be somewhere safe.”
Dean looked at him. Really looked. His face was soft in the low lamp light, shadow curling around his jaw and cheekbone. His eyes were deep, almost oceanic, and when they met Dean’s, it was like standing on the edge of something vast.
“You always talk like that?” Dean asked, voice quieter than before.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re in a poem.”
Castiel smiled, slow and quiet. “Maybe. Or maybe you’ve just never been listened to like this before.”
Dean didn’t know what to say to that.
So he didn’t say anything.
He just sat beside Castiel in the quiet hum of midnight, warmth between them where their knees almost touched. The city outside whispered through the window, muffled and far away. Dean breathed in, and the ache in his chest didn’t go away—but it eased a little.
Eventually, Castiel stood and pulled a folded quilt from the arm of the couch, offering it wordlessly.
Dean took it.
And that night, for the first time in days, he slept.
The apartment was still when Dean woke.
No clacking typewriter, no arguing roommates, no vibrating phone full of unread messages. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and soft light leaking in through the blinds. The quilt Castiel had given him was warm and smelled faintly like lavender and something woodsy—like pine or cedar.
Dean stretched slowly, savoring the rare feeling of not needing to be anywhere, not having to explain anything. For once, no one was asking anything of him.
Except maybe his bladder.
He padded to the bathroom, relieved himself, and caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, hair like a failed science experiment, stubble that was halfway to a beard. But there was a softness in his face he hadn’t seen in a while.
Not happy, exactly. But calm.
When he wandered into the kitchen, he stopped short.
Castiel stood barefoot in front of the stove, his back to Dean. He was wearing a black Henley and flannel pajama pants, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from sleep. There were two mugs on the counter, a skillet of something sizzling on the burner, and a half-read copy of The Collected Poems of W. H. Auden open on the table.
Dean blinked. “You cook breakfast?”
Castiel glanced over his shoulder. “Occasionally. Only if I like the person.”
Dean smirked and stepped farther into the kitchen. “That an insult or a compliment?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Castiel replied, deadpan, flipping what looked like French toast in the pan.
Dean grabbed one of the mugs. “This for me?”
“Obviously.”
He took a sip. Perfect. Hot, strong, and just the right amount of bitter. He leaned back against the counter, watching Castiel move around the kitchen like he belonged there—not just in the apartment, but in this moment. Quiet, competent, soft around the edges.
Dean was still trying to figure out what box to put him in.
“So,” Castiel said after a beat, plating two thick slices of French toast, “do you want to talk about what you’re doing next? Or is that off-limits?”
Dean lifted a brow. “You mean, like, life?”
Castiel gave a small shrug. “Or just the week.”
Dean sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t have a plan. Lisa doesn’t want me back. I’ve got some savings, no apartment, and no reason to go back to the place where I watched everything fall apart.”
“You don’t have to decide anything yet,” Castiel said simply, placing the plate in front of him. “You’re allowed to rest. To not know.”
Dean sat down slowly. “That’s not usually how I operate.”
Castiel joined him at the table. “Then maybe it’s time to try something different.”
They ate in silence for a minute or two, the kind that felt like a choice instead of an awkward gap.
Dean chewed thoughtfully, then glanced over. “Why’d you let me stay, Cas? You didn’t even know me.”
Castiel didn’t look up from his plate. “Because Sam trusts you. And because I saw someone who looked like he’d been carrying his own weight for too long.”
Dean’s jaw flexed. He looked away.
“I don’t usually let people help me,” he muttered.
“I know,” Castiel said gently. “But I’m not people. I’m me.”
Dean looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly, but not in a bad way. More curious than anything.
“You always this sure of yourself?”
“Only when it matters.”
Dean let out a breathy laugh. “You talk in riddles.”
Castiel tilted his head. “You listen like you want answers.”
They stared at each other across the table, and something clicked into place—quiet and powerful, like the moment just before a storm breaks. Dean felt it in his chest, low and steady, and for the first time in days, it didn’t scare him.
It just made him curious.
“What would you write about me?” Dean asked suddenly, surprising even himself.
Castiel blinked. “Pardon?”
“If you had to write something. A poem. A character sketch. Whatever it is you do. What would you say?”
Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver.
“I’d write about someone made of armor and ash,” he said quietly. “Who carries everyone else’s battles but doesn’t know what it means to be unarmed. Who mistakes silence for safety and runs when it gets too quiet.”
Dean swallowed hard. He didn’t move.
“I’d write,” Castiel continued, “about someone brave enough to start over, even when he doesn’t think he deserves it.”
Dean stared at him, something raw rising in his throat. It wasn’t a love poem, not really. But it was something. Something true.
He stood slowly, clearing his throat and carrying his plate to the sink. “You got more coffee?”
Castiel nodded. “Always.”
Dean poured himself another cup. The silence stretched out again—comfortable, steady.
And though nothing had been decided—though his heart still ached and his future was still hazy—Dean felt a strange certainty settle in his chest.
He didn’t know where he was going. But maybe, just maybe, he’d found the place to figure it out.
And maybe Castiel wasn’t just Sam’s roommate anymore.
It rained that afternoon.
Not a gentle drizzle—the kind that feels poetic and wistful—but a real, pounding rain, loud against the windows and turning the world outside gray and waterlogged. Dean sat curled into one corner of the couch, nursing his fourth cup of coffee, watching raindrops race each other down the glass.
Castiel sat in the opposite corner, feet tucked under him, legs bent like a cat. He was wearing a thick navy cardigan now, the sleeves too long, and he held a copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem in one hand, thumb absentmindedly rubbing the edge of the page.
Sam had gone out for groceries two hours ago. Dean wasn’t sure if he got stuck in the rain or if he was giving them space on purpose.
“Do you always read this much?” Dean asked eventually.
Cas didn’t look up. “When I can.”
“Why that one?”
Castiel finally glanced at him. “Because it reminds me how beautiful the truth can be, even when it’s hard.”
Dean let out a low breath. “You make it sound easy. Feeling stuff.”
“It’s not,” Castiel said. “It just gets harder when you pretend you don’t.”
Dean didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. So he looked back at the window, tracking the raindrops.
A long moment passed.
“You ever been in love?” Dean asked suddenly, not quite knowing why.
Castiel didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
Dean’s stomach did a small, involuntary twist. “Yeah?”
Cas nodded once. “Freshman year. I was seventeen. He was a poetry major who quoted Neruda like it was gospel. He dumped me three months in because I told him I didn’t believe in soulmates.”
Dean let out a quiet laugh. “Ouch.”
“He cried more than I did,” Cas said simply.
Dean grinned despite himself. “Course he did.”
Castiel looked at him then—really looked. Not studying, not dissecting. Just seeing. “What about you?”
Dean hesitated. Then he shrugged. “I thought I was. With Lisa. And maybe I was, once. But I don’t know. I think I loved the idea of her more than the person she really was.”
“That happens,” Castiel said, voice low. “We fall for what feels safe. Not always what’s true.”
Dean shifted on the couch, his fingers tightening slightly around the mug in his hands. “I think I was just tired of fighting. Lisa… she made things quiet.”
“And now?”
Dean looked at Castiel. Rainlight painted shadows across his face, softening the sharp angles of his cheekbones. There was no judgment in his eyes. Just that steady presence again, the same one Dean had started leaning into without meaning to.
“Now it’s loud again,” Dean admitted. “But not in a bad way.”
Castiel nodded once, then turned a little more toward him. “You don’t have to know what comes next, Dean.”
Dean looked down. “I always thought I did. That if I didn’t have some kind of plan, I’d fall apart.”
“Maybe falling apart is what makes space for something new.”
Dean blinked at him. “You say stuff like that a lot.”
“I know.”
“It’s annoying.”
Castiel smiled. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Dean didn’t answer, but he didn’t look away, either.
The space between them felt different now. Thicker. Charged. Not uncomfortable, but not quiet, either.
Dean’s hand tightened around his coffee mug. “You ever write about people you haven’t figured out yet?”
“All the time,” Castiel said. “They usually become the ones I think about most.”
Dean swallowed. “You writing about me yet?”
Castiel’s eyes softened. “I already have.”
The words hit Dean like a soft thud—not painful, just unexpected. Real.
And somehow, not terrifying.
Dean set his mug down on the coffee table, heart ticking a little faster. “Can I read it?”
Cas shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not done.”
Dean exhaled, eyes drifting to the window again. The rain was slowing. Light was beginning to filter through the clouds.
“Let me know when it is,” he said quietly.
“I will.”
They sat in silence for a long time after that—closer now. Close enough that their knees brushed every now and then, not by accident. Neither of them moved away.
The storm passed. The sky cracked open just a little. And somewhere between the smell of wet pavement and the flicker of something unsaid, Dean realized this wasn’t a pause in his life.
It was a beginning.
It was well past midnight when Dean wandered into the living room again. He couldn’t sleep—not because of noise this time, but because his brain wouldn’t shut off.
Everything felt too close. The quiet. The stillness. The way Castiel had looked at him that afternoon, like he was something worth watching. Worth writing about.
The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving behind a glossy quiet in the city outside. The world felt suspended. Waiting.
He half-expected Cas to be asleep, but no—he was at the coffee table again, legs folded beneath him, notebook open, pen moving slowly. Not the typewriter this time. Just ink and silence.
Dean paused in the doorway, one hand curled loosely around a glass of water. “You ever stop?”
Castiel glanced up. “Only when I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t help.”
Dean crossed the room and sat on the couch. He didn’t ask permission this time.
“What are you working on?”
Cas looked down at the notebook, then flipped it shut. “Nothing ready.”
“Still about me?”
A pause. “Partly.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “You always this transparent?”
Castiel smirked faintly. “Only with people who don’t realize how much they give away.”
Dean leaned back into the cushions and exhaled slowly. “You talk like you know me.”
“I’m beginning to.”
Another silence. It didn’t stretch as long this time.
“You think I’m scared of this?” Dean asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could second-guess them.
Castiel looked at him, eyes steady. “I think you’ve never been offered something without expectations. That it feels suspicious. Or dangerous. Because it’s soft.”
Dean’s jaw worked slightly, like he was chewing on the thought. “Yeah, well. Soft things break easy.”
“They don’t always,” Castiel said quietly. “Sometimes they just bend. Sometimes they hold more than you think.”
Dean rubbed a hand down his face. “You say stuff like that and I don’t know whether to laugh or kiss you.”
The moment hung in the air like a held breath. Castiel didn’t look away.
“Why not both?” he asked, voice low.
Dean’s heart skipped. Or maybe it stuttered. Either way, he felt the shift. Like the ground beneath him leaned just a little closer.
He didn’t answer with words. He leaned in. Slow. Tentative. Giving Cas plenty of time to pull away.
He didn’t.
Their lips met like a question—gentle, uncertain, testing. Dean wasn’t sure who sighed first, but suddenly the kiss wasn’t so hesitant. It was warm and quiet and real, like an exhale he hadn’t known he was holding.
When they pulled apart, it wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft separation, breath shared in the few inches between them.
Dean blinked slowly. “That wasn’t what I came out here for.”
“I know,” Castiel murmured. “But I’m glad you did.”
Dean ran a hand through his hair, grinning despite himself. “You realize this complicates things, right?”
“Only if you let it,” Cas said. “It doesn’t have to be a confession. It can just be a moment.”
Dean considered that. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yeah, okay.”
They didn’t kiss again, not that night. But Dean stayed on the couch beside him. Not speaking. Not needing to.
Eventually, Castiel leaned against his shoulder, notebook forgotten on the floor. Dean didn’t move.
And for the first time in weeks, his mind was quiet.
Dean woke up with a crick in his neck and someone’s hair in his face.
It took him a few slow, bleary seconds to piece it together: couch, blanket, the soft pressure of a shoulder resting against his chest. Castiel.
They must’ve fallen asleep like that. Neither of them had moved.
Dean shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, but Castiel stirred anyway, letting out a sleepy sigh that hit Dean’s collarbone like warm breath. His fingers curled reflexively against Dean’s hoodie.
“Morning,” Dean said, voice rough with sleep.
Castiel made a small noise of acknowledgment but didn’t move.
Dean stared up at the ceiling for a moment, replaying the night in his head. The kiss. The quiet. The calm that had followed.
It hadn’t been a declaration. It hadn’t needed to be.
But it had meant something.
“You drool,” Dean muttered lightly, nudging Cas with his knee.
“No, I don’t,” came the muffled reply.
“You kinda do.”
Cas finally pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes squinted and hair doing something halfway to gravity-defying. “You’re one to talk. You snore like an idling truck.”
Dean smirked. “Damn. And here I was thinking this was a romantic morning.”
Castiel blinked slowly. “You could still make it one.”
That shut Dean up. Not because it was too much—but because it was honest, and Dean had never been good with honest right after waking up.
Before he could formulate a half-decent response, the front door opened, and Sam’s voice drifted in.
“I swear, if I find one coffee mug in the bathroom again, I’m—” Sam stopped when he rounded the corner into the living room. “Oh.”
Dean and Castiel were still tangled up on the couch, blanket falling halfway off Dean’s lap, Cas blinking blearily at the interruption.
“Morning,” Castiel said casually, not moving.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “So… that’s happening now?”
Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. He glanced at Cas, who just gave him a slight smile—small, unbothered, entirely Cas.
Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “Kinda? Maybe. I don’t know.”
Sam grinned. “You kissed, didn’t you.”
Dean groaned. “Can we not—”
“I knew it,” Sam said, disappearing into the kitchen. “There was weird tension and meaningful eye contact for like two days straight. It was painful.”
Dean buried his face in the blanket. “I take it back. I want the rain again.”
Castiel chuckled softly and reached over to steal one of Dean’s throw pillows, hugging it against his chest.
In the kitchen, Sam clanged around unnecessarily loudly, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m making eggs and not sharing unless someone gives me details.”
“No one’s giving you anything,” Dean called.
“You literally made out with my roommate in the room where I eat cereal.”
Dean glanced at Castiel. “Do you regret it yet?”
“No,” Cas said without hesitation. “But if Sam keeps talking, I might.”
Dean laughed, really laughed, and Cas leaned into him again, bumping shoulders.
And just like that, the weirdness passed.
The day began.
And everything—all of it—felt a little more like something Dean could handle.
Maybe even something he could want.
By midafternoon, the apartment was warm with the smell of coffee and eggs, rain-washed sunlight spilling through the windows. Sam had long since retreated to his room with a very smug smirk and headphones the size of dinner plates. Dean suspected it was less about music and more about giving them space—though he’d never admit it.
Dean found himself alone in the kitchen with Castiel again, the dishes done, mugs cooling on the counter, and neither of them quite sure what came next.
Cas leaned back against the sink, arms folded, a quiet sort of calm about him like he’d already made peace with whatever came after this. Dean wasn’t used to people who didn’t push.
“So,” Dean said finally, picking at the label on a bottle of seltzer, “are we gonna talk about it?”
Castiel tilted his head. “About the kiss? Or the fact that you snuggled in your sleep?”
Dean gave him a look. “I did not snuggle.”
Cas smiled. “Dean, you latched onto me like a heat-seeking barnacle.”
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, flustered despite himself. “I was half asleep.”
“You were drooling.”
“Allegedly.”
Castiel’s smile faded to something softer. “It doesn’t have to mean anything big right now, if you don’t want it to. But I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
Dean was quiet for a moment. Not uncomfortable—just careful.
“It meant something,” he said finally. “To me.”
Castiel didn’t move, didn’t say anything right away. Just watched him. Dean wondered if that was what being seen felt like—not just looked at, but understood.
“I’m not good at this,” Dean added. “At… people. Or feelings. Or knowing when to stop talking before I ruin everything.”
“Then don’t stop,” Castiel said. “Just talk slower.”
Dean let out a laugh—sharp and surprised. “That your solution to everything?”
Castiel pushed away from the counter and stepped closer, close enough that Dean could smell the faint trace of cloves and clean cotton. “No,” he said quietly. “Just the important things.”
Dean’s chest did that thing again—the twist and flutter and pull. But this time he didn’t try to push it down.
“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “So, what is this?”
Castiel met his eyes. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”
Dean thought for a moment, really thought. And then—
“I want to figure it out. Slowly. Without screwing it up.”
Castiel’s smile returned, soft and steady. “Then we start there.”
They stood in that quiet space, not kissing, not touching, just choosing something unnamed but undeniably theirs.
And for the first time in what felt like years, Dean didn’t feel like he was running from something.
He felt like he was walking toward it.
And Castiel was already waiting.
The apartment was dark except for the soft amber glow from the streetlights leaking in through the windows. The rain had started again, gentler this time, tapping rhythmically against the glass.
Dean stood in the hallway, thumb rubbing absently along the doorframe to Cas’s room—the room he’d been sleeping in since showing up here like a damn storm cloud.
He cleared his throat. “Hey.”
Castiel looked up from the bed, where he was folding a blanket, like he’d just assumed tonight would go back to the way it had been. Like the couch was waiting for him. Like Dean hadn’t kissed him. Like something hadn’t shifted.
“You don’t have to do that,” Dean said. His voice was lower than usual, almost hesitant. “I mean… the couch thing. I’ve been thinking about it. And it’s your bed, man. You shouldn’t be the one getting kicked out.”
Cas tilted his head, slow and quiet. “So… you want me to sleep here tonight?”
Dean scratched at the back of his neck, avoiding his eyes. “I’m just saying—if you’re okay with sharing, you don’t have to go out there.”
There was a pause.
Then Cas said, voice calm and warm as ever, “I’ll go wherever you are.”
Dean’s eyes snapped to his, something flickering behind them like a match catching fire.
“Yeah?” he asked, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. “Even if I snore?”
Cas stepped closer. “You held onto me in your sleep last night. I think I’ll manage.”
Dean’s grin widened, crooked and a little cocky now. “Guess I’m irresistible.”
“You are,” Cas said simply, before reaching for Dean’s hand and lacing their fingers together.
It should’ve been awkward. It wasn’t.
The bed was warm and smelled like both of them now. The moment they slid under the covers, something shifted—deeper this time. Quieter. The kind of shift that buzzed just under the skin.
Dean turned toward Cas, his hand brushing against his chest, fingertips skimming over soft cotton.
“I meant it,” he said. “I didn’t want you out there alone. Not anymore.”
“I never felt alone,” Cas murmured, brushing a thumb along Dean’s jaw. “Not since you got here.”
Dean leaned in and kissed him, slow and deliberate. There was no rush—just a hunger that had finally found somewhere to rest.
Their mouths moved together like they’d done it before in a dream. Dean rolled onto his back, pulling Cas over him, their bodies pressing flush. Cas kissed him deeper, his hips slotting into place like they were meant to fit there.
Dean groaned into the kiss, his fingers tangling in Cas’s shirt, tugging it upward, baring his skin. Warm. Solid. Real.
Cas shivered when Dean's hands slid along his sides, trailing up his ribs, thumbs brushing over his nipples just to see how he'd react.
He reacted.
With a gasp and a grind of his hips that made Dean's breath hitch.
“You gonna keep doing that?” Dean asked, voice thick now. Teasing. Needy.
“If you want me to,” Cas whispered.
“I want—” Dean kissed him again. “—so fucking much.”
Cas sat back enough to pull his shirt over his head, and Dean followed, tossing his to the floor without looking. Their bare chests touched, skin to skin, a heat that made Dean’s pulse skip.
Cas leaned down, kissing along Dean’s throat, his collarbone, the edge of his shoulder. His hands moved slowly, reverent, tracing Dean like a map.
“Jesus,” Dean muttered, arching into him. “You always this good at this?”
Cas smiled against his skin. “Only with you.”
Pants came next—unfastened, peeled off, kicked to the foot of the bed. Dean hissed when Cas gripped his thighs and settled between them.
“Cas—” he started, but then Cas was kissing down his stomach, tongue flicking just enough to make Dean shudder. He grabbed at the sheets, his other hand buried in Cas’s hair.
It was slow, intimate, almost unbearable—the kind of touch that made Dean forget every bad day he’d ever had.
When Cas finally took him into his mouth, Dean swore aloud, hips jerking before Cas’s hands held him steady. Deep. Wet. Perfect.
Dean didn’t last long. It was too much, too good, too Cas. He came with a gasp, hand trembling against Cas’s shoulder.
Cas slid back up beside him, breath warm against his cheek.
Dean pulled him in for a kiss—messy, grateful, deep.
Then he rolled them over, pressing Cas into the mattress.
“My turn,” he whispered, voice rough with need.
And for the rest of the night, they didn’t need to talk about where they were going or what it all meant.
Because they were already there. Together.
And neither one of them would be sleeping alone again.
Dean woke to warmth.
Real, solid warmth—one long line of it pressed up against his side, an arm slung across his waist, a leg tangled with his, breath ghosting against the back of his neck. And a soft, rhythmic heartbeat under his palm, because at some point in the night, he’d rolled over and curled his hand against Castiel’s chest.
He didn’t move for a while.
The light was just starting to filter in through the blinds, slanted and gold and soft in that early-morning kind of way. The room smelled like sleep and sweat and skin—like last night, thick in the air.
Dean let himself replay it.
The way Cas had touched him—like Dean wasn’t something to conquer, but something to learn.
The way they’d kissed after, slower and quieter, in between shared breaths and lazy murmurs.
The way Cas hadn’t left. Not even to clean up.
He’d just stayed.
Dean’s heart thudded. Steady. Not panicked. Just present.
He shifted slightly, turning enough to see Cas’s face, half-buried in the pillow, hair a complete disaster, lips parted slightly in sleep. One arm still draped over Dean’s hip, fingers curled loosely, like he didn’t even know he was holding on.
Dean reached up and gently brushed a thumb along Cas’s brow. Just once.
Cas stirred.
His eyes opened slowly—still heavy with sleep but soft and clear when they landed on Dean. “Hey,” he rasped.
Dean swallowed, something small and solid catching in his throat. “Hey.”
Cas blinked at him, and then, without a word, leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Dean’s cheek. Not heated. Not teasing. Just warm.
Dean smiled, barely. “So… that wasn’t a one-time thing?”
Cas shook his head slowly. “Not unless you want it to be.”
“I don’t,” Dean said, before he could second-guess it. “I really don’t.”
Cas smiled back, the kind that unfolded slowly, like dawn.
They stayed like that for a while—no rush, no pressure. Just the quiet miracle of waking up beside someone who didn’t demand anything more than the truth.
Eventually, Dean stretched, wincing a little. “Jesus, we did a number on each other.”
Cas hummed. “You did beg me to stay in bed.”
“I didn’t beg—”
“You muttered it into my neck,” Cas said, smirking now, his voice still sleep-rough and delicious. “Something about not wanting me to get cold.”
Dean groaned and flopped onto his back. “Great. And here I thought I was smooth.”
“You were,” Cas said, rolling halfway onto him. “But you’re even better like this.”
“Like what?”
Cas kissed the edge of Dean’s jaw. “Honest.”
Dean let out a breath. “You’re gonna make me soft, you know that?”
“I already did.”
Dean reached up and tugged him down by the back of his neck, kissing him again—slow, deep, unhurried. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for more but promised it, if they wanted.
When they finally pulled apart, Cas rested his forehead against Dean’s.
“Want breakfast?” Dean asked, voice quiet. “I make a mean scrambled egg.”
Cas smiled. “Only if I can sit on the counter and watch you.”
“You planning on wearing pants?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Dean grinned and rolled them both out of bed in a tangle of limbs and lazy laughter.
And for once in his life, the day ahead didn’t feel like something he had to survive.
It felt like something he wanted to wake up for.
Dean stood shirtless in the kitchen, flipping eggs in the pan like he hadn’t just had the best sex of his life a few hours ago. The sun was streaming through the windows now, lighting up the counters, the coffee pot, and the half-naked man currently sitting on the counter, barefoot and smug.
Castiel.
Wearing only Dean’s t-shirt.
It hit mid-thigh and clung slightly to his hips in a way that made Dean very distracted.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean muttered, trying to focus on the eggs.
“Like what?” Cas asked innocently, sipping from the mug Dean had handed him.
“Like you know you’re wearing my favorite shirt and sitting there like it’s a goddamn modeling shoot.”
Cas raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know it was your favorite.”
“You’re a liar,” Dean said, glancing over his shoulder. “You picked it up off the floor, smelled it, smirked, and put it on.”
Cas took another slow sip of coffee. “Maybe I just wanted to smell like you.”
Dean’s brain short-circuited for a second. “Okay, well, that’s illegal.”
Cas grinned. “Is it?”
“Yes. Highly.”
Dean plated the eggs, tossed a piece of toast onto each plate, and set them on the small table.
“Get down from there and eat before I change my mind and take you back to bed,” he said.
Cas hopped down without comment, but the look in his eyes said he was considering it.
They ate in companionable silence for a minute, the clink of forks and the low hum of the fridge filling the space. Dean couldn’t remember the last time breakfast had felt this easy. This good.
After a while, Cas set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, looking at Dean over his mug.
“You’re humming,” he said softly.
Dean blinked. “What?”
“You were humming. Just now. You didn’t even realize it.”
Dean paused. “Huh.”
“Is that… unusual for you?”
Dean thought about it. “Yeah. Kinda is.”
Cas smiled like he already knew that. “You happy?”
Dean looked at him for a long moment. Then down at his plate. Then back up.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”
Cas didn’t say anything else—just reached across the table and slid his fingers into Dean’s, warm and steady.
Dean squeezed back.
No rush. No pressure.
Just them.
Later, Sam came home, took one look at Castiel wearing Dean’s shirt, and turned around without a word.
Dean shouted after him, “We used a condom, Sam! Stop looking traumatized!”
From the hallway: “YOU COOKED EGGS! I DON’T KNOW WHERE ANYTHING’S BEEN!”
Dean was laughing before the door even clicked shut again.
And when Castiel stood up, walked over, and curled his arms around Dean from behind, nuzzling into his neck like they’d been doing this for years, Dean didn’t tense or deflect or make a joke.
He just leaned back.
Let himself have it.
Because whatever this was, it felt like the start of something real.
And Dean Winchester?
He was all in.
AngelandHunter1 Sun 13 Jul 2025 05:46AM UTC
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