Archive of Our Own ^beta

As it turns out, getting Cas back from the Empty is the easy part.

Not that it's uncomplicated, by any means. It takes months. Months that Dean feels acutely, like a bone-crushing weight that grows with every second.

Especially after the first few weeks, once he dries out and puts down the bottle for good. He scours the bunker, pouring everything he can find down the drain, except for a handful of bottles left over from its days as a Men of Letters chapter house. It seems a shame to throw them away, considering they're probably worth a small fortune. Instead he boxes them up for Claire, who comes and goes with increasing regularity; helping when she can, and being a quiet, comforting presence when she can't. Because Claire understands him, has always understood him, in a way few others have. Kindred spirits, maybe. Or maybe, with Jack in Heaven, she's just the only one who misses Cas as much as he does.

It takes months of research and failed attempts, but in the end, the solution is simple. Poetic, even. Dean just has to die.

Angels go to the Empty when they die, and Dean was possessed. So was Sam. So was Claire. All they have to do is get enough residual grace into Dean that he's mistaken for an angel, then kill him, then bring him back. Simple, really.

The grace extraction is the hard part. Sam toughs it out, because of course he does. Even though he hates this plan, even though he's sure it's not going to work. He'd said his piece, tried to talk Dean out of it, but Dean had been resolute. And so he'd gotten on board, intent on doing whatever he could to make sure Dean makes it back alive. They haven't talked about it, but Dean thinks Sam knows. Knows that, if things go on like this, Dean isn't going to make it anyway. So they have to try.

Dean tries to keep his plan from Claire, but she's too smart, can read him too easily, and she knows when she's being lied to. When she finds out, she insists on helping, just like Dean knew she would. He tries — tries to talk her out of it, tries to call the whole thing off, to demand they find another way. But she's so like him, and she won't take no for an answer.

They can't face restraining her, so Dean holds her while they do it. She holds his hand in a death grip, breaks three of his fingers, but he doesn't care. The screams hurt much worse, will haunt him forever. Even years later, when she's too grown for him to consider her a child anymore, though he still will anyway. Even then, he'll still hear the way she screamed until she was hoarse, until her lungs gave out, until there was no sound left. Dean will never forgive himself for that, another burden of guilt he'll carry. Maybe the heaviest of them all.

---

Through all their planning and preparations, every minute of every day that passes, Dean prays to Castiel. He's well aware that Cas almost certainly can't hear him, but just in case… Just in case.

He prays for Cas to hang in there, to give them a little more time, to keep fighting, to not give up. Because he's coming to get him, no matter what. He'll be there soon, Cas, please, just hold on a little longer. Just don't go to sleep.

---

For once in their lives, the plan actually goes… as planned. They inject Dean with the grace, and then with the barbiturates they still keep in an emergency kit in the infirmary. All this time, Dean has known exactly where the kit was, could picture it perfectly in his mind, even when he tried not to. As his eyelids become too heavy to keep open, and his breathing slows, he thinks that, one way or another, it was always going to come to this.

He finds Cas, awake and waiting for him, and isn't that just… everything. Cas smiles when he sees him, like he expected this. Like they had an appointment, and Dean's only just a little late.

They stay quiet as they wait for Sam to wake Dean up, not wanting to attract any attention to themselves. Dean really isn't supposed to be here, and the last thing they need is for the Empty to chuck him out, punt him over to Heaven or Hell or Purgatory. They can't risk it. It can't all be for nothing.

And so they sit in silence for what feels like hours, Dean clutching one of Cas's hands between his own, not daring to let go for even a second, in case he chooses the wrong one and is pulled back without him.

Dean doesn't know what he would say, anyway, if he could. In all his wildest daydreaming about getting Cas back, he never let himself get this far. Never thought about the after, never prepared any words, in case he never got to say them. Even as they sit in silence, waiting, he still doesn't let his mind run that far ahead. All he knows is Cas is here, and his hand feels warm and good in Dean's own.

It takes so long that Dean starts to wonder if the plan failed; if he's too old, his body too damaged from years of fighting and drinking and thinking he had nothing to live for, and they can't bring him back. He wonders if he'd mind if they couldn't, if he'd care as long as he got to stay here with Cas. No Heaven, no Hell, no free will. Just Cas, and him, and this quiet, empty space. That deal doesn't seem half bad, considering.

They bring him back, though. He wakes up in a bed in the infirmary, Sam breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead as he holds much used defibrillator paddles an inch above his bare chest. Claire stands in the corner, arms wrapped around herself, tears streaming silently down her face. Sam collapses onto the adjacent bed, the paddles falling from his hands and snapping back on their bungees. So Dean was right — they had almost lost him out there.

It takes a moment for his brain to reboot, to remember what all of this was for. He pushes himself into a sitting position, his head swimming from the lack of oxygen. Pain rips up his spine, closing like a vice around his temples, but he doesn't care, can't care. His hands are empty and cold, and Cas isn't there. Claire looks like she's going to be sick, but then, in the distance, they hear something. A loud, metallic clanging.

Dean stumbles to his feet despite Sam's loud and vehement protests. His legs don't quite cooperate, but he tries to cut them a little slack considering. Sam wraps an arm around him, bearing some of his weight as they chase after Claire, beating a familiar path that Dean hasn't walked since it happened. He couldn't face that room, the emptiness of it, the deafening silence Cas had left behind when he'd taken everything else with him. Which is why Dean had locked the door, sure he'd never open it again.

Except now, someone is inside, banging to get out.

Cas spills onto the floor when they get the door open, apparently having been leaning heavily against it. He's weak, exhausted and frail, but alive. Despite being in less than fighting shape himself, Dean hauls him to his feet, and the three of them manage to get him up the stairs and into his room, through another door that's been resolutely locked for months. The room is stale, dust hanging in the air, but Cas is well beyond caring. He can barely keep his eyes open as they get him into bed, but he spares enough energy to pull Claire into a tight hug, pushing her hair back from her face and soothing her as she clings to him and cries. He tells her it's all going to be okay now, and just the achingly familiar sound of his voice after all these months is enough to convince Dean that it's true.

---

Cas sleeps for days on end, so long that Dean convinces himself that he's never going to wake up. Sam has to forcibly remove him from Cas's bedside to get him to eat and shower and sleep every day or two. Eventually, Cas starts to stir, opening his eyes once in a while and offering Dean a reassuring smile. Eventually, he wakes for good.

That was the easy part.

The hard part comes after, when Cas is back on his feet, and uses his newfound freedom to avoid Dean. When he finds excuses to quietly slip from rooms shortly after Dean appears. When he finds a way to never be alone with him.

Dean isn't making it any easier, though. In the rare moments when he actually does manage to catch Cas alone, he finds he can't get a single word out. It feels like his throat is closing up, his tongue tying itself in knots, and silence sits heavy on their shoulders until Cas finds a reason to walk away.

But then Dean overhears Cas casually telling Sam that he's thinking about leaving, about going to visit Jody and the girls for a while, and the impossible knot inside him loosens just enough.

He traps Cas in the kitchen later that night. Just the two of them — he had told Sam earlier, in a string of whispered threats, that he needed to go to his room and stay there. Cas looks nervous when he realizes he's let himself be caught out, Dean blocking the only exit. His eyes dart around the room, not able to meet Dean's. And Dean has to ask, even though he's afraid of the answer. He takes a deep breath, braces himself.

"Are you taking it back?" He asks, his voice a rough scrape with disuse.

He hadn't realized, until that moment, how long it's been since Cas really looked at him. His too blue eyes pierce Dean like a knife, but he doesn't answer. And Dean needs an answer, now, before the ground opens up and swallows him whole.

"Are you?" He asks again, voice stronger even though he feels weaker with each passing second, drained in a way he didn't know was possible.

"Is that what you want?" Cas asks hesitantly, and that pisses Dean off enough to keep him from crumbling to dust on the spot. Because isn't that just so fucking typically Castiel? Never a straight answer, never what he wants, only what he thinks Dean wants from him. Always ready and willing to sacrifice himself at the altar of Dean Winchester. He's going to scream, he's going to yell at him, he's going to hold him tight and never let him go, he's going to—

"I want the truth," Dean says, biting back the unhelpful for once he wants to spit at him. Cas doesn't answer for so long that Dean's starting to think he won't. That they'll just exist in the same general vicinity and never speak another word to each other.

"Then, no," Cas says finally, and feeling floods back into Dean's fingers and toes. He crosses the room in a few strides, coming face to face with Cas, who looks terrified. What does he think Dean is going to do? Throw him out? Hit him? Give him everything he's ever wanted? All seem equally terrifying to Dean, but he's never been good at this sort of thing. Never been good with words, in general. And his throat is closing again. A swell of emotion nearly bowls him over, as does the knowledge that even though he feels them, means them, wants to say them, he just can't. Not now, anyway. Cas just has to stay, has to give him a chance to get his head on straight, and then, then he can—

"Dean," Cas says, and it's the first time he's heard his name out of Cas's mouth since he left him. It sounds good, like something warm and safe that's always been there, even if he could never quite make himself look at it.

Cas's lips are soft against his, though he can feel the tension radiating off of him. Surprise, wonder, terror, maybe all of the above. That's what Dean is feeling, anyway.

"Dean, I—" Cas begins when he pulls away.

"Shh," Dean interrupts, walking Cas backwards with tiny steps until he's pressed against the counter. "Please, Cas, I just… Please."

And maybe it's a little underhanded, maybe he knows Cas has never been able to deny him anything, but when Dean kisses him again, Cas isn't complaining.

And so they don't talk about it. Not then. Not later, when Cas tells Sam that he's changed his mind, that he's actually going to stay for a while. Not when they find themselves wrapped up in each other anytime they get a quiet moment alone. Not even a few nights later when Dean, unable to sleep, opens his door to find Cas lingering in the hallway, making himself small like he's been caught red-handed.

"You can come in," is all Dean says. And then, when Cas tries to argue, tries to ask him if he's sure, a more insistent, "Cas. Come to bed."

Dean is grateful that Cas doesn't try to bring it up, either. Because he's not ready to say it, and he can't open the door, start the conversation until he can tell Cas everything. Until he can give Cas the words he knows he needs to hear. But every time he tries, every time he looks at Cas, sees his angel smiling at him like he's ever been worthy of such a thing, something inside of him locks up. His insides turn to ice, and all he can think about is Cas's tear-stained face, the sinking weight as it had set in: Cas loved him, and he'd died because of it.

Bringing Cas back from the dead was the easy part. Learning to live again is harder.

---

Dean has never claimed to know what he's doing — just generally, but about this sort of thing in particular. It's plain, in retrospect, but in the moment, drunk on the taste of Cas's mouth and the heat of his hands on his bare skin, Dean doesn't catch the deeper meaning in his words.

"What is it that you want?" Cas asks him, tangled up with him in his sheets, their clothes in a long forgotten pile on the floor. It's not the first time, or the second, or even the tenth. He's lost count, frankly, of how many times they've done this. The only thing he's certain of is that they haven't done nearly it enough. They have a lot of wasted time to make up for.

"I want you," Dean groans in response, mistaking the question for a tentative show of dominance, not recognizing it as an even more hesitant attempt to clarify the nature of their relationship. "I want you, Cas, please."

And Cas gives him what he wants, because he always does.

---

Cas tends to leave after sex, once it becomes clear that Dean isn't going to try to angle for a second round, and Dean tries not to feel anything about that. Logically, it makes sense to him. His week long nap when he returned to the world of the living notwithstanding, Cas doesn't sleep. And it must be extremely boring to lay still and listen to Dean snore for seven hours straight. Logically, it makes sense.

Logic doesn't really do anything for Dean's feelings, though.

Usually he lets it go, tries not to need him too much. But some days are easier than others.

---

Dean hadn't really intended to keep hunting, not with Chuck out of the picture and Cas back where he belongs. But Claire still wants to hunt, and so when she calls, they go.

She and Kaia run into a bit of trouble in Tulsa. Something they thought was a shifter, but after a silver knife had done nothing but make the thing angrier, they'd run for the hills and called for reinforcements. Sam offers to stay back, do a little digging in the archives and see if he can turn up anything of use. Or maybe he just knows that, if Claire needs help, Cas is going. And if Cas is going, Dean is going. They haven't discussed, but Dean and Cas aren't hiding it, not that they could if they tried.

Sam doesn't say it, but Dean thinks he's just keen not to end up sharing a motel room with them. And besides, someone needs to feed Miracle.

So they go it alone.

They send Claire and Kaia home, over increasingly furious protestations from Claire. Kaia, for her part, is amused by the fact that they, Cas especially, tend to treat her like she's much younger than her 26 years. In her teasing, Kaia calls them her dads, and Cas smiles at that.

With a little help from Sam and his research, they take down the not-quite-shifters, and earn themselves a pretty decent ass-whooping in return. Cas heals Dean's wounds before Dean can even catch his breath to ask if he's okay, but even after he's still sore and bone-tired. He's gotten old. The last year especially feels like it's aged him disproportionately, and he's gotten comfortable with his quiet, sedentary life. He's not used to getting swatted around like a bug by the monster of the week anymore. He's out of practice with being in pain.

It's late afternoon by the time they finish burning the last of the evidence, but Dean can't face another night in a shitty motel. He's become accustomed to a certain level of comfort over the years, and his aching body demands a long, hot shower with much better water pressure, and then a good night's sleep on his memory foam mattress, preferably with Cas's arms around him. He's looking forward to falling asleep to the smell of Cas's skin, instead of that of stale sheets and mildewed carpet.

Annoyingly, when he makes it out of the shower, Cas isn't waiting in his bed for him like he'd hoped. It's so late it could almost be called early, and Sam has long since gone to bed, so he treks out into the hallway, a towel slung low on his hips. He finds Cas in the kitchen, scrolling aimlessly on Dean's laptop while he nurses a cup of tea.

"Coming to bed?" Dean asks, instead of demanding or, worse yet, begging. Cas looks up, taking a long moment to let his eyes wander down the length of Dean's nearly naked body before he responds.

"You said you were tired," he says. "I didn't think you'd want to…"

"I mean, I don't necessarily," Dean says, trying to ignore the pang of rejection he feels at Cas's words. "I just… I just want you with me." A painfully long pause, then, "is that okay?"

"Of course, Dean," Cas says, closing the lid of his laptop and standing up. Of course it's okay, because Cas always gives him what he wants. And that's nice, and all — more than he could have ever imagined he'd get. Certainly more than he deserves. And yet, he still wants more. He wants Cas to want it, too.

Or maybe he's just in need of a good night's sleep as the little spoon, not that he would ever admit it outright.

He falls asleep with his head on Cas's chest, lulled into oblivion by the soft rumble of Cas's amused voice as he reads him a long string of threatening texts from Claire. The last thing he recalls is Cas's quiet chuckle over a particularly colorful message, and the sensation of Cas's fingers tracing barely-there patterns on his back.

---

Dean is already agitated as he drifts back into consciousness, though he's not sure why. He cracks his eyes open blearily, coming face to face with his alarm clock, which informs him it's not quite five in the morning. As tired as he was driving home the night before, he's exceedingly glad they left when they did. There's nothing to do today, nowhere to be, so he closes his eyes again, hoping he might be able to drift off and catch a few more hours of sleep.

And then his bed frame gives a telltale creak, and he realizes what woke him up in the first place. What always wakes him up — the sound of Cas leaving.

"Where're you goin'?" Dean mumbles, rolling on his side to face the door. Cas looks like a deer in headlights, halfway out of bed, a t-shirt he'd stolen from Dean at one point or another riding up over his stomach as he tries to pull it on.

"It's still early," Cas whispers back. "Go back to sleep."

"You come back to sleep," Dean replies nonsensically, and Cas chuckles. Dean wonders if he can play off sleepiness as an excuse for whining and tugging at Cas until he lays back down. But he's awake now, and a lazy morning in bed just doesn't sound as nice if he has to do it alone. He'd much rather get up and spend his day like he usually does, following Cas around the bunker like a shadow.

"Why're you always leaving?" Dean asks, a serious question, though he hopes it doesn't come off as such.

"I wasn't sure if I should stay," Cas says, an uncomfortable note in his voice.

Dean rubs sleep away from his eyes so he can focus on the man before him, still perched on the edge of the bed. "Of course you can stay, Cas. I like it when you stay."

"Oh," Cas says, appearing to think it over for a long moment. Eventually he acquiesces, swinging his legs back onto the bed and pulling the covers over himself again. Dean shifts closer until his side is pressed to Cas's, enjoying the renewed warmth of his body beside him. Lazy morning in bed back on the schedule, Dean lets his mind drift.

Not sure he should stay? Who was Cas kidding? Dean had all but dragged him to bed the night before for the express purpose of using him as a pillow — how much more transparent could he be? Cas hadn't been so sure last night, either; hadn't thought Dean would want him in his bed just to sleep.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Mm?"

"You know you're not only allowed in my bed after you've fucked me, right?" Dean asks with his usual tact and eloquence.

He expects Cas to laugh, maybe give him a gentle shove he can use as an excuse to worm himself closer into Cas's side. He doesn't expect the quiet "no" he gets in response.

Well, Dean's definitely awake now. He sits up, flipping the bedside lamp on so he can see him better. "What do you mean, no?"

Cas looks about as perplexed as Dean feels. "I believe that's still the term," he deadpans, but something in Dean's expression must tell him he's no longer in a joking mood. "No, I didn't know that."

"What do you mean you didn't know that?" Dean says, the octave of his voice rising in frustration. How does Cas get through everyday life being this much of an idiot? "Of course you're allowed here. Anytime. No matter what. I always want you here with me, that's kind of… part of it."

"Oh," Cas says, though no dawning clarity seems to pass over his face. "Part of…what?"

"You know," Dean says, making a somewhat frantic and completely inarticulate gesture between the two of them. "Part of…this!"

"Oh," Cas says again, and Dean's getting tired of hearing that word out of his mouth, like everything Dean is telling him is somehow a surprise. Like he doesn't know. "I apologize. I didn't realize that was part of the typical casual sex arrangement."

The words make so little sense to Dean that it takes him several seconds to even begin to absorb them. "The typical what?!"

"Uh—" Cas sits up, wrong-footed by Dean's explosive response. "I'm not…sure I know what's going on?"

Dean snorts. "That makes two of us, buddy." He rubs his face with his hands, wondering if this all might be some kind of post-hunt exhaustion-induced fever dream. "Cas, do you think we're just…hooking up?"

"Of course not," Cas says, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. Until he opens his mouth again to follow it up with, "we're also friends."

"Goddammit," Dean groans, but he quickly backtracks when he sees Cas's face fall. "I mean, yes! Of course, obviously, we're friends. You're my best friend, Cas. The best friend I've ever had."

Cas perks up at that, a smile tugging at his lips. Dean sincerely hopes it's because he likes hearing it, and not because this, too, is new information to him.

"We're a little more than friends, though," Dean continues.

"Yes," Cas agrees. "We also have sex."

"I mean, sure," Dean says, feeling like they may be destined to stay in this looping conversation forever. "Yes, that too. But…more than that."

Cas's head tilts to the side, his eyes narrowed in confusion. It's an achingly familiar expression, one Dean most closely associates with the early days of knowing him, back when he used to make that face damn near every time Dean opened his stupid mouth. How far they've come, in the thirteen odd years since.

"Like how?"

And yet, apparently, not far enough.

Dean manages not to groan in frustration, but it's a close thing.

Bringing Cas back to him was the easy part. Figuring out how to describe what Cas means to him is harder.

"It's like… dating isn't right, it's more than that…" He trails off, casting his eyes around the room in hopes of divine inspiration. His own reflection catches his eye in the mirror above the dresser, bare from the waist up, a faded mark still visible on his arm where it's resided all these years. "It's… it's a profound bond," he tells his reflection. "Right?"

"Oh," Cas says, his eyes wide and shining with something like hope.

Oh. Because he didn't know. Because Dean never found the words to tell him.

"All this time, you really didn't know?" Dean asks, not waiting for the answer he unfortunately already knows. He takes Cas's hands in his, like he had in the Empty, holding on too tight. "I'm so sorry, Cas, I'm not… I'm not good with words, I can never just—"

"It's okay, Dean," Cas interrupts before he can dive in too deeply on the self-flagellation. "I understand, now. You don't have to say anything."

Because Cas thinks he doesn't want to say it, and Cas always gives him what he wants. He wishes, for once, that Cas would let him do the same.

Dean sits back on his heels, his legs tucked beneath him as Cas leans against the headboard, a smile on his lips, so sweet Dean can practically taste it. And he thinks, maybe he can. Maybe he can give Cas something, some fraction of what he deserves, even if his head is still the fucked up mess it always is.

"I'm not good with words," Dean repeats, moving slowly until he's straddling Cas's lap. Cas's chest rises and falls as his breaths become sharper, faster, his pupils dilating. "But let me show you."

"Dean," Cas protests, already squirming underneath him as Dean leans into his space. "You don't have to—"

"Shh," Dean whispers into his neck, pressing a kiss to the place where he can see his pulse jumping. "I want to. Please let me."

Cas's breathing is ragged, but he nods. Dean kisses below his ear, around his jaw, his chin, just softly, ghosting his lips across his stubbly skin. He hasn't even done anything yet, and Cas is already looking up at him, completely in awe. Like Dean is the most perfect thing he's ever seen, like he can't quite believe his luck. Dean wishes he could tell him that he feels the same, but the words jumble up inside of him like they always do, too tangled and big and important for him to have a hope of getting them right. But this, he can do. He can show Cas that he… He can show him, the best and most honest way he knows how.

Dean climbs off of Cas's lap, exhaling a small laugh at the dismayed expression he gets in response. He stands, pulling Cas to his feet, boxing him in with the backs of his legs to the bed. The clothes he wears once belonged to Dean — a faded AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats that have seen the inside of too many motel washing machines in their long lives. Cas does have his own clothes — Dean took him shopping weeks ago for more comfortable attire, since he couldn't abide sleeping in bed with Cas in his full tax accountant get up — but he still seems to prefer things he pilfers out of Dean's dresser. Dean is more than happy to let him take anything he wants, clothing or otherwise.

Dean gathers the worn and fraying hem of his shirt, pushing it slowly up over his stomach, revealing the long stretch of pale skin inch by inch. Cas doesn't rush him, just watches curiously as Dean traces his skin like he's trying to map every part of him in his mind. He raises his arms when Dean reaches his shoulders, letting Dean carefully peel his shirt off. He tosses it aside, lost somewhere in the darkened corner of the room, though Dean wouldn't mind if it was never seen again. He'd be perfectly happy for Cas to never wear a stitch of clothing ever again, naked and permanently confined to Dean's room, like an ancient marble statue of a Greek god made flesh and bone, an inexplicable and incomparable gift.

Dean turns his attention to the sweats, pulling at the drawstring, which is knotted tightly to hold them up over Cas's slightly narrower frame. The fabric slides down a bit to hang low around his hips. The dark line of hair on his stomach makes Dean lick his lips involuntarily as he traces it to where it disappears below the waistband of his boxers. By now he's seen Cas naked more times than he can count, but he doesn't usually just let himself look. He's always…well, busy. Too interested in touching and kissing to take the time to drink him in properly. But now that he's really looking, he's not sure he'll ever get his fill of the sight of Cas's body. The hard lines of his abdominal muscles flex and contract, tense and shy under Dean's appraising stare. Dean hooks his forefingers over waistband of Cas's sweats, sliding them down over his thighs and the swell of his half-hard length in his boxers. Dean crouches to the floor, helping Cas step carefully out of them, then tosses them aside. He adjusts position so he's on his knees, running one hand up the back of his calf. Something of what he's thinking must show in his face when he looks up at the angel before him.

"Don't," Cas says, his voice oddly choked up.

"Why not?" Dean asks, removing his hand from where it was caressing the back of Cas's thigh, but making no move to stand.

"Because I'm not… I don't deserve—" Cas breaks off, shaking his head and looking anywhere but at Dean. He swallows hard, his voice a little stronger as he continues. "Because I'm fallen, Dean. I'm barely even an angel anymore, I'm only still allowed to be one because of Jack. I'm not worthy of anyone's worship, much less yours."

Dean stares up at him for a long time, waiting for Cas's breathing to stabilize, for his gaze to meet Dean's again before he opens his mouth. Because maybe talking about Dean's own feelings is hard, verging on impossible. But telling Cas about himself is easy.

"Cas, in all my life, every creature of Heaven or Hell or wherever else we've ever met, you're the only one I've ever thought was worthy of worship," Dean says, ghosting his fingertips over the back of Cas's knee, his touch growing more insistent when Cas doesn't tense or pull away.

"That was true thirteen years ago, it's true now, and it's been true every minute in between," Dean continues, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Cas's knee. "When you were an angel," he says, trailing kisses up the inside of his thigh as he speaks. "When you were God. When you were dead. When you were human. It was always true."

Cas bites his lip, clearly doubtful, but something in his expression tells Dean that Cas wants to believe him. He thinks about how different Cas is now to the man he first met all those years ago. How different he is himself. And yet, they're still so much the same.

What's the matter? He thinks about asking him. You don't think you deserve to be loved?

Dean looks down at the floor, willing his throat to stop closing on him. He can feel the heat of Cas's gaze prickling the back of his neck. He can't say it, not when Cas is looking at him like that, like he—

"I love your feet," Dean says without thinking, surprising them both. But they're in his line of vision, and it's true, and his tongue doesn't tie itself in knots at the mere thought, so he goes with it. Baby steps, or something. "I love that they're always cold, because mine are always warm, so when you lay next to me I get to warm them up for you."

He runs the backs of his knuckles over the top of Cas's bare foot — cold to the touch, as always. He lets his hands trail further up, skimming over his shins. "I love this spot," Dean murmurs, tracing the dimple on the inside of Cas's knee and making him shudder. "Because it makes you do that," he says, grinning.

"Same with this spot." Dean presses his thumb into the dip of his hipbone. Cas's arms hang limply at his sides, but his fingers twitch in response to Dean's words or his touch. Dean takes one hand in his, turning it palm up and tracing the lines there until Cas extends his fingers.

"I love your hands." He hears Cas's breath hitch as he presses his lips to the tip of his thumb. "I love watching them load a gun," he says with a kiss to his forefinger.

"Or grip your angel blade." His middle finger. "Or drive your car." His ring finger. "Or when you're putting honey in your tea." His pinkie.

"Or when you're touching me," he says, dragging his lips over Cas's open palm. Dean lets him go, his hand closing reflexively into a fist as his arm drops back to his side. Dean doesn't look at his face, just continues his careful inventory of his body, but he can feel his chest rising and falling with quick, staccato breaths.

"I love your arms," he continues evenly, tracing the lines of his veins up the soft skin of his forearms. "How they feel wrapped around me. When you use them to hold my hips down while you fuck me."

That earns him a surprised hiccupping gasp from Cas, and Dean bites his lip, trying not to feel too pleased with himself. Unable to reach any higher in his current position, and his knees screaming at him for a break, he pushes himself to his feet. Standing in front of Cas, he still doesn't meet his eye, instead dropping his head to kiss the dip at the center of his chest.

"I love that this spot fits my head perfectly, and that I can feel your heartbeat there."

He drags his lips across the hard line of Cas's jaw, closing his eyes as Cas's breath ghosts over his cheek. "I love your jaw," he murmurs into his skin, so quiet he can barely hear himself over his own racing heartbeat. "I love how it tenses when I annoy you."

Cas makes a small sound at the back of his throat that Dean thinks is a shaky laugh, and he smiles. "And I love your laugh. Especially when I say something that surprises you, and you can't help it."

Cas's lips are parted slightly, his mouth slack. "I love your lips," Dean whispers, brushing against them with his own as he forms the words. "The way you kiss me. How they feel on my mouth, on my cock. How they look when you smile."

"Dean," Cas breathes, his voice shaky, and Dean's eyes finally flick up to meet his. He finds them dark with hunger, and Dean wonders if the same need is mirrored in his own. "I don't… I don't deserve this."

"But you do," Dean tells him, and he wishes it were that simple. That he could just say it, and make him believe. But he can read skepticism in every feature, so he changes tact. "Do I?"

"W-what?" Cas stutters, taken aback.

"What if I want to do this? What if this is good for me?" Dean asks. "Do I deserve it?"

Cas opens and closes his mouth a few times, unable to formulate an answer. He looks like he wants to argue, but also seems wildly turned on by the idea that Dean might be getting some kind of gratification from this. And oh, is he ever.

"I want this Cas," he says, looking up at him through his eyelashes and giving him his best pleading eyes. "I need this. Please let me?"

It's a dirty move, but Dean has no regrets as he watches Cas's willpower melt before his eyes. Taking full advantage, he guides Cas back down onto the bed. Cas is pliant, letting Dean lay him down on his stomach without complaint, even though his boxers are starting to look more than a little uncomfortable. Dean casts his eyes around the room, hoping he's not going to have to make a run for the medicine cabinet in his current state, but luckily his eyes alight on a bottle of lotion left on his dresser. Perfect.

He snags the bottle before crawling back onto the bed, pinning Cas down gently with a knee on either side of his hips. He uncaps the bottle, squeezing a generous portion into the palm of his hand. The scent envelopes him, a mix of sweet grass and vanilla that has reminded him of Cas since the first time he smelled it. Back then it had devastated him, his grief taking him out at the knees. Now, it just makes him smile as he breaths it in.

Cas tenses as Dean's hands touch the small of his back, but he quickly relaxes as Dean moves his thumbs in small, circular motions over the ever-present knot there. He moves his hands up slowly, massaging Cas's back with firm pressure, feeling him sink further into the mattress below him with every bit of tension released.

Dean reaches Cas's shoulder blades, and is startled when Cas cries out in response to his touch. He lifts his hands immediately, his eyes scanning the flushed skin of Cas's back, searching for injury. "Cas, what—"

"Sorry, sorry," Cas manages through shaking breaths. "It's just—I wasn't—" he swallows hard, tries again. "It's just…my wings."

That brings Dean up short. Of course he knows, logically, that Cas has wings. But given the fact that he's only seen them on a handful of occasions, even fewer of which were when Cas was actually alive, it's easy to forget that they're there. Dean massages his fingers into the muscle of Cas's shoulder again, softer this time, and Cas makes a small, wounded sound somewhere deep in his chest.

"Am I… hurting you?" Dean asks, pulling his hands away.

"No, just…sensitive," Cas says, his breathing slowing back to something like normal. "They're…heavy. They make my shoulders ache, sometimes."

As much as Dean wants to ask Cas if he can see them, if he would let him see them, he knows this isn't the time, but he's definitely marking that for further exploration at a later date. His hands creep forward, fingertips skimming over the curve of Cas's shoulder blades. Cas jumps, his hands fisting into the sheets, but he doesn't tell him to stop. Dean slowly increases pressure, moving his thumbs in widening circles, feeling the knots of muscle soften under his careful ministrations.

A deep ache starts to grow in his hands, his fingers heavy with the repetitive motion he's not used to, but he doesn't stop. It's easy to ignore, more than soothed by the feeling of Cas relaxing beneath him. It's still hard to believe, sometimes, that he gets to have this, gets to touch Cas with such tenderness and reverence whenever he wants. For so many years contact was restricted to moments of healing or relief or anger; it's surreal to be allowed to touch as much as he wants without carefully constructed pretense.

As his slow progress reaches the base of the angel's neck, Cas starts to squirm underneath him. He mistakes it for frustration at first, an attempt to rock his hips against the mattress and create some much needed friction, but then notices Cas is once again holding the sheets in a white-knuckled death grip.

"Too much?" Dean asks, lightening the pressure. Cas doesn't speak, just shakes his head, but Dean thinks he would be unlikely to complain even if Dean was pushing hard enough to break bones. He rubs his thumb over the back of Cas's neck and leans down to kiss his cheek in a silent apology, only to find it covered in tears.

"What's wrong?!" Dean yelps, horrified. He slides off of Cas's back, letting his knee take his weight as he leans forward to get a better look at him. Cas unhelpfully turns away, hiding his face in the pillows as his entire body begins to shake.

Dean stretches out beside him, rubbing what he hopes is a comforting hand in small circles over his back. "Cas? Can you talk to me? You're scaring me."

Cas turns his face back to Dean's, his eyes still screwed shut. Tears stain his cheeks and the fabric of the pillowcase beneath him. He gropes blindly, finding Dean's hand and clutching it in his. His grip is bruising, the bones of Dean's fingers complaining as they're forced together, but he doesn't mind; he just pulls Cas's hand to his face, gently kissing his knuckles.

"You're not hurting me… It's just—" he manages between hiccupping gasps of air. He finally opens his eyes, and even red-rimmed with tears, they're beautiful, somehow bluer and more brilliant than usual. "I've never… No one has ever… I didn't know it could feel like this. I didn't know I could feel like this."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, other than the obvious words that are still locked somewhere deep inside him. He thinks he knows what Cas means, because he's never felt like this before either. Like he no longer has to hide his soft underbelly, because the things that make him soft don't have to be a death sentence. Like, in Cas's hands, he's infinitely more breakable than ever, but it doesn't scare him anymore.

"You're so beautiful," Dean murmurs, gently brushing Cas's tears away with his thumbs. Because it's true, objectively, in every sense of the word. Cas closes his eyes against the compliment, his eyelashes fanning out over his pink cheeks.

Dean kisses him chastely, a soft brush of lips, but Cas doesn't seem to think much of that, pulling him in with a hand on the back of his neck. A newfound need to him, Cas kisses like he wants to be inside of Dean, to open his chest and make a home for himself somewhere inside Dean's ribcage. Dean, remarkably well in control of himself up to this point, can no longer help the growing interest between his legs. Cas, much too in tune with his body, notices immediately, hand closing around him in a loose fist. Dean groans into his mouth, and Cas swallows the sound down, reaching for the waistband of his own boxers.

"Wait," Dean says, catching Cas by the wrist. Cas makes a frustrated sound, twisting against Dean's grip, but he doesn't put any real force behind it. If he wanted to, he could easily free himself, and probably put Dean through a wall for good measure without so much as breaking a sweat.

"Just let me take care of you," Dean croons, rolling Cas onto his back. Cas looks like he wants to argue, but his interest is quickly piqued when Dean produces a bottle of lube from the nightstand. Dean straddles his thighs, effectively pinning him to the bed. He tries not to feel too flustered by Cas's eyes on him as he slicks his fingers and starts opening himself up, but he knows without looking down that his chest is a blotchy pink.

"You always take such good care of me," Dean says, trying to distract himself from the prickling heat of Cas's eyes on him. Given the frequency with which they've been doing this lately, it doesn't take much to prepare him. Cas's wandering hands sear the skin of his thighs and hips, and Dean has to force himself to focus. "You saved me. From hell, and a thousand times over since."

The angel's pupils are blown wide, his eyes darker than he's ever seen them, and he stares at Dean like he's in a haze, drunk on his words and the show Dean is putting on. When he's ready, Dean slides off of Cas's thighs, making Cas squirm in response, at once overwhelmed and in desperate need of more. Finally relenting, Dean curls his fingers over the waistband of Cas's boxers, pulling them down slowly over his thighs. Still at least somewhat in control of his appendages, Cas pulls up first one leg, then the other to let Dean rid him of the last layer of clothing left between them. Freed from the confines of his boxers, his cock slaps against his stomach with each movement, and Cas moans at the friction.

"You're the reason I'm still here," Dean says, climbing up Cas's body to straddle his hips. He runs his fingers over Cas's stomach, gathering the slick of precome that's pooled there before sucking them into his mouth. A string of curses spill from Cas's pretty lips, his heels digging into the bed and jostling Dean, in search of something, anything to relieve the ever-growing ache, but Dean is careful not to touch him just yet. He captures Cas's lips with his own, letting him taste himself in Dean's mouth. Silently telling him that this mouth, this body, all of it, belongs to Cas.

"You saved me," Dean says as he pulls away, taking Cas's hand and aligning it with the mark he still bears on his shoulder. Once, years ago, Cas had offered to heal it for him. At the time, Dean had said no, made some joke about chicks digging scars. But he hadn't really known why he didn't want him to. Why, even then, the idea of not having it seemed so abhorrent to him. He knows, now.

"You rebuilt me from nothing," Dean says, taking Cas's cock in hand, lining himself up and letting him finally, finally slip inside. Cas's left hand grips Dean's hip so tightly it's almost painful, but his right remains on Dean's shoulder where it belongs. Where it's always belonged.

Dean rocks his hips back and forth, taking Cas a little deeper inside of him each time. And fuck, it feels so good Dean is losing his focus. But it's not about that, not about him. It's about Cas, only about Cas. When he's fully seated in his lap, he takes Cas's chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up to look at him. He runs his thumb over Cas's mouth, and his lips part instinctively.

"Do you know what that makes you?" Dean asks. Blue eyes locked on green, Cas shakes his head a little, too far gone for words. "That makes you my God."

That sparks something in Cas, a growl low in his throat that Dean feels as much as hears, and he could swear the empty water glass and small stack of books on the side table rattle and shake in response. Where Cas had been so gentle and pliant before, letting Dean do as he liked, now he takes what he wants, crashing their lips together, his tongue quickly finding its way into Dean's mouth as he thrusts up underneath him. Dean's moans only spur Cas on further, intent on chasing every sound he can pull from Dean.

Cas guides Dean's hips as he rides him, his lips leaving Dean's to instead latch onto the pulse point in his neck, sucking and biting at the spot he knows makes Dean wild with need. This is supposed to be about Cas, but it feels so good that coherent thought is out of reach for Dean. He's aware that he's still talking, calling Cas his God, telling him that he's beautiful. Perfect. Holy. Any number of things that he might normally find embarrassing to say out loud, though they're no less true. The only thing that keeps him babbling and baring his soul are the pretty sounds each revelation seems to rip from Castiel’s throat. Cas loves this, and Dean loves him. He loves him, he loves him, he—

"Dean!" Cas’s voice is sharp, almost a cry, and Dean knows his thoughts have tipped over the edge into prayer. Cas heard him, and he knows. He sits up, tipping Dean back to balance against his thighs. He pulls Dean flush to his chest, scratching his back with his nails as he claws at him, wanting him closer. Because he knows. He knows.

It’s out there now, and Dean couldn't take it back even if he wanted to. And he doesn't want to, not in the slightest. Quite the opposite — he wants more. He wants Cas to hear it. To know it was given freely, not stolen from the deepest corners of Dean’s heart.

He swallows roughly — with everything else he’s told him, how can this one, last thing still be so hard to let go?

“I love you,” he murmurs, and Cas’s eyes fly open. Under his gaze, what had felt impossible mere moments ago now seems like the easiest, truest thing in the world. Cas is frozen still in Dean's arms. He looks dazed, like he's not quite sure this is really happening.

Now that the floodgates have been opened, he can't help himself. “I love you. I love you,” he says again and again. He murmurs the words into the skin of Cas’s neck, his shoulder, his collarbone, sealing them in place with one gentle kiss after another. Dean rolls his hips, pulling a moan from Cas, his mouth falling open.

"I— fuck, Dean, please—" he babbles, the small movements of his hips underneath Dean growing more erratic by the second. He runs his hands up Dean's stomach, his chest, over his shoulders, stopping when his fingertips meet raised skin. He traces the outline of his own palm, fascinated. And then, so quiet Dean almost misses it, "mine."

Dean tilts Cas's chin up with a finger, making the angel look at him. "Yes, Cas," he promises. "I'm yours. All yours."

Cas's breath catches in his throat, his hand wrapping around Dean's length as he whispers "mine" to himself again. It doesn't take long before Dean comes over Cas's hand and stomach, Cas kissing the hollow of his throat as he works him through it.

He's still trying to remember how to breathe when Cas's arms wrap around him, flipping them over in one swift motion and pinning Dean to the bed beneath him. Dean drops his head back into the pillows, moaning as he's overwhelmed by the mix of pain and pleasure that accompanies overstimulation.

"Dean," Cas says, wide blue eyes staring down at him in awe. "Will you…will you say it again? Please?"

It takes a long moment for Dean to make sense of his words, lost in a fog. He reaches up, cupping Cas's face with a hand. Cas closes his eyes, leaning into his touch.

"I love you," Dean says. Cas kisses him frantically, Dean repeating the words into his mouth over and over until the angel's hips stutter, crying out as he spills inside of him.

Cas's breath comes in fits and starts, his eyes squeezed tight shut, a stray tear escaping at the corner. Dean runs a thumb over his cheek, brushing it away.

"I've got you," he murmurs, Cas's boneless body slumping heavily against his chest. He trails his fingers over his back, scratching gently with his blunt nails as Cas slowly comes back to himself. Eventually, he regains enough control to roll off of Dean. He reaches out blindly, groping for the blankets and coming up empty. Unwilling to sit up, Dean catches the comforter between his feet, and Cas chuckles as he pulls it up and over their sweat-cooled bodies, tucking it around them.

Dean is used to Cas taking his leave while he's still catching his breath. But Dean had told him he could stay, and so… he stays. He wraps an arm around Dean, lets Dean tangle their legs together, and settles like he has no intention of moving until told to. They're both sated for the moment, but Cas can't seem to keep his hands off of him. Cas kisses his neck, behind his ear, breathes him in. It's a softer and sweeter sort of hunger than before, no sharp edge to it, but he loves it all the same.

Dean didn't know it was so easy to get everything he wanted.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and Cas touches his lip with a fingertip. "What is it?"

"Do you remember when we first met?" Dean asks, only a little seriously. Cas has been alive…pretty much forever. He's seen the creation of the universe, the deaths of galaxies. For him, meeting Dean was probably just a normal Thursday.

"Of course," Cas says with an exaggerated sigh, but Dean can see affection shining in his eyes, so open and plain it almost steals his breath. "You're not so easy to forget."

Dean props his head up on his hand so he can look down at Cas beside him. "You told me that good things happen."

Cas exhales a soft laugh. "You didn't believe me."

"I didn't," Dean agrees. "But it was true. Good things do happen, have happened. A lot of them since then." His eyes search Cas's face, cataloging every wrinkle and line, proof of the life he's lived on earth. The life he's lived with Dean.

"You were the best one," Dean tells him, and his answering smile is blinding. Cas pulls him down with a hand on the back of his neck, and Dean can feel that perfect smile against his lips as he kisses him.

They break apart a few minutes or hours later, and Dean settles with his head in the dip of Cas's chest, just where he belongs. Cas holds him close, his arms wrapped tight around him like he's clinging to him for dear life. Dean listens to his heartbeat, and wonders if Cas believes him — that he loves him, that he's his. Or if he's like Dean was, smiling and nodding and pretending to believe, all the while preparing for the moment the rug would be pulled out from under him.

He hopes that, eventually, Cas will learn to believe him, just like Dean did. That he'll realize that Dean is his, completely and irrevocably. That, no matter what, Dean isn't going anywhere. That he doesn't always need to hold on so tight.

Not that he minds, though. He just holds Cas the same way, clinging to him until he drifts back to sleep in his angel's embrace, content to do so for as long as it takes to set in. Even if it takes the rest of his life.

Because loving Cas…that's the easiest thing in the world.