Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean wasn’t sure why he’d let Ellen talk him into coming out tonight. The Roadhouse was always crowded on a Friday, the floor sticky with spilt beer, the air thick with the scent of beer, sweat, and the aroma of burgers frying in the back. The band in the corner played too loudly, and the laughter from the bar was too loud. 

The band Backwater Sons were playing a not-too-polished rendition of Skynyrd’s Simple Man. 

He shifted on his stool, thumb rubbing the condensation down the neck of his bottle. Maybe he looked out of place here, because every time someone’s eyes swept the room, they skipped over him like he wasn’t even worth a second glance. Ellen said he needed to get out more, meet people, but sitting at the bar with a lukewarm beer didn’t feel like much of a start. 

Dean wasn’t shy exactly, not in the way people meant. He knew how to crack a joke, how to smile when someone bumped his shoulder—but carrying a conversation beyond that? Letting people see more than the surface? That was where everything always went sideways. He was different, and people had a way of sensing that, deciding it was easier to move on than to stick around. 

Dean left for Colorado State University with no real plan except that he needed to get out of his hometown. His dad had never cared what he wanted, and Dean wasn’t built to follow orders for his whole life. 

At CSU, he tried his hand at environmental sciences — it wasn’t the straightest path, but it made sense to him. He loved being outside, loved the quiet of the woods and mountains, and studying something tied to nature felt like a way to ground himself. But college wasn’t easy. Dean wasn’t a natural with textbooks and exams. He managed to get by, but he always felt a little behind everyone else, as if he were speaking a different language. 

That’s when he found Ellen. 

He’d wandered into the Roadhouse his first semester, broke and homesick, lonelier than he’d admit. Ellen Harvelle didn’t know him from Adam, but she poured him a coffee and made him a plate of food “on the house.” She said he looked like a kid who needed someone in his corner. 

She was right. 

Ellen gave him a place that felt like home. When he needed extra cash, she offered him shifts busing tables. When classes chewed him up, she told him he was tougher than he thought he was. And when Dean wanted to quit and run home, she gave him that hard-edged motherly look that dared him to prove her wrong. 

She wasn’t family, not by blood, but sometimes it felt like she was the only family he had. 

That was years ago. Dean hadn’t exactly soared since—life had a way of knocking him sideways—but Ellen’s Roadhouse remained the one place he knew he belonged. 

Dean listened to Ellen argue with Jo, who was like a sister to him; she was Ellen's daughter and a spitfire. They were talking about carding the college kids who thought they were slick with their fake IDs. 

That was when the frat boys arrived. 

Dean noticed them because everyone did—five of them, loud and already half-drunk, wearing jackets stamped with Greek letters that made Dean roll his eyes. They swaggered like they owned the place, leaning over tables, laughing too hard at nothing. 

And maybe Dean should have ignored them. Should have kept his head down and minded his own business. But one of them stumbled into his stool, hard enough that Dean nearly dropped his bottle. 

“Watch it,” Dean muttered, setting the beer back down. 

The guy smirked, too close, reeking of whiskey. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Didn’t mean to upset you.” 

Dean’s mouth went tight. He wanted to snap back, but his throat locked up the way it always did when people looked at him like that. He hated it—hated how easily silence pinned him down. 

The frat boy leaned in, his friends laughing behind him. “C’mon, smile for us. You’d look prettier if you smiled.” 

Dean stiffened, fingers curling around the bottle. He didn’t notice the man who had been standing near the end of the bar until a deep voice cut through the noise. 

“That’s enough.” 

It wasn’t loud, but it carried a distinct tone. The kind of voice that made the rowdiest drunk pause without even realising why. 

The man, who was clearly an Alpha, stepped forward, and Dean finally looked up. He was older than Dean, maybe early thirties, dressed in a trench coat that didn’t belong in this dusty little bar. His presence filled the space, and his eyes—blue, sharper than the neon beer signs—were fixed on the frat boy. 

“You’ve had your fun,” the man said. “Now back off.” 

The boy bristled, puffing up like a cornered dog. But when the man didn’t move, when those eyes didn’t blink, the bravado wilted. Muttering under his breath, he slunk back to his pack. They grumbled, threw a few looks over their shoulders, but eventually drifted toward the pool tables instead. 

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. 

The man turned to him. “You alright?” 

Dean nodded too quickly, then forced himself actually to speak. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” The man studied him for a moment, then tilted his head. “You shouldn’t let them talk to you like that.” 

Dean bristled before he could stop himself. “I can handle myself.” 

A flicker of something crossed the man’s face—amusement, maybe. Not mockery, but like he’d expected the spark. “Of course you can,” he said smoothly. “Doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.” 

Dean didn’t know how to answer that. He ducked his head, heat crawling up his neck. Nobody ever talked to him like that—like they actually meant it. 

The man didn’t press. He ordered a drink from Jo, gave Dean one last nod, and moved to a table in the corner. 

But Dean felt those eyes on him more than once that night. And for the first time in a long while, someone noticing him didn’t feel like a threat. It felt… different. 

Dean tried to shake it off, but his shoulders stayed tight. He hated the way people like that frat boy could crawl under his skin so fast. Hated that he hadn’t been able to say what he wanted, that someone else had to step in. 

But his eyes kept drifting to the corner where the stranger sat. The man looked out of place in Ellen’s Roadhouse—polished, deliberate. He nursed a glass of bourbon like he wasn’t in any hurry, eyes moving over the room with that same deliberate calmness that had shut the frat boys up in seconds. 

Dean didn’t want to stare, but hell, if it wasn’t hard not to. 

“Friend of yours?” Ellen’s voice snapped him out of it. She leaned across the bar with that look, the one that meant she knew more than she was letting on. 

Dean shrugged, fiddling with the label on his bottle. “Don’t know him.” 

“Funny. He sure looked at you like he does.” 

Dean’s ears burned. “He was just… being decent.” 

“Mhm.” Ellen didn’t push, just gave him that sly smile and went back to wiping down the counter. 

Dean groaned and took another sip. He should go home. He should quit while he was ahead. But his feet wouldn’t move, and every time he glanced up, those blue eyes seemed to find him through the crowd.  

Eventually, Dean couldn’t stand the pull anymore. He slid off the stool, muttered something about “fresh air,” and stepped outside onto the porch. The night was a blanket of comfort, the crickets loud beyond the gravel lot. He leaned against the rail and let the quiet settle. 

“Too loud in there for you, too?” 

Dean startled, turning to find the man standing a few feet away, bourbon still in hand. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but there was a softness in his expression now, something that took the edge off that Alpha authority that he held.  

“Guess so,” Dean muttered, shifting his stance. 

Castiel joined him at the railing, leaving space so as not to overcrowd him. “It’s not the kind of place you usually see someone like you.” 

Dean frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Only that you seem shy. Thoughtful.” Castiel glanced at him. “Not the type who enjoys being shouted at across a crowded bar.” 

Dean huffed, how the heck, did this stranger, see through him like this? “Yeah, well. Ellen made me come out. Said I needed to ‘live a little.’” 

“And do you?” the Alpha asked. 

Dean hesitated, then laughed without humour. “Most people don’t really notice me long enough to find out.” 

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he instantly wished he could take them back. But the Alpha didn’t laugh or look away. He studied Dean, slowly and carefully, as if he were actually listening. 

“I noticed,” he said. 

Dean squinted and pointed out something to the Alpha next to him. “Fireflies,” he murmured to himself. “Photinus pyralis.” 

The Latin rolled off his tongue easily, the way it always did when he let himself nerd out over things nobody else cared about. Most people saw bugs. Dean saw patterns, flashes of light with purpose behind them — tiny signals of connection. 

He smiled faintly, watching one swoop down in that telltale arc, like a little lantern falling through the night. 

The door banged open behind them, spilling music and voices back into the night. A couple stumbled out, laughing too hard, and Dean looked away from his bugs. By the time he gathered himself enough to glance up again, the Alpha had taken a step back, as though giving him space to breathe. 

“Enjoy your evening,” he said.  

The Alpha tipped his glass in a parting gesture and disappeared back inside, leaving Dean rooted to the spot with his heart beating too fast. 

-0- 

Dean lingered outside longer than he meant to. The night was cooler than the Roadhouse, crickets singing loudly in the weeds by the fence. His car sat at the far end of the lot, a blue Chevy C10 Pickup, seen better days, but he cherished it.  

He blew out a breath and started down the steps. He hated how small those frat boys had made him feel and hated that it had taken someone else—someone like the Alpha to set them straight. 

“Dean.” 

The voice stopped him cold. 

The Alpha stood a few paces off, near the edge of the lot. No glass in his hand now, nothing to suggest he’d been drinking at all. He just stood there as though he’d been waiting for Dean to step out. 

Dean shifted, uneasy. “You always hang around parking lots calling out strangers’ names?” 

“Not strangers,” The Alpha said simply. 

Dean did not want to address that, search too deeply.  “I should head out.” 

The Alpha seemed to understand. “Then I’ll let you.” He stepped aside, giving Dean space like it mattered. But those blue eyes followed him, not in a way that trapped him, but like he mattered. 

Dean unlocked his car, slid into the driver’s seat, and glanced once in the rearview mirror before pulling out. The Alpha was still there, dark silhouette against the glow of the Roadhouse, unmoving. 

By the time the gravel lot gave way to highway, Dean realised his hands were tight on the wheel, his heart thudding far too hard. 

He told himself it was nothing—just some older guy who happened to step in, who happened to notice him. 

But Dean already knew—he wouldn’t be forgetting those eyes anytime soon. 

-0- 

Dean always felt more himself outdoors. 

Inside, people’s eyes crawled all over him, like he was a bug ready to be examined. Out here, under the wide sweep of the sky, the only eyes on him belonged to birds flitting through the branches or a stray squirrel bold enough to peek down from a tree. They didn’t care if he stumbled over his words or stayed quiet for hours. 

The park sat outside Willson’s busier streets, and it wasn’t anything fancy, with winding gravel paths, old wooden benches, and a pond where kids tossed bread to the ducks. But Dean liked it. He came here whenever the world pressed too close. 

Today, he’d claimed a bench tucked under a sprawling oak. The roots twisted out of the ground, making the seat tilt slightly, but Dean didn’t mind. His sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil tapping against the paper. He wasn’t drawing anything, simply letting lines form until they looked like something—shadows of leaves, the dip of a sparrow’s wing, a half-formed face. 

The air smelled of moss and blooming flowers. Dean breathed deep, letting the sounds and smells settle him. 

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first. The gravel crunch was faint, measured, until a voice cut through the quiet. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Dean’s head snapped up. His stomach dropped before it did a strange little flip. 

The Alpha, from the bar, stood a few feet away, framed by the green of the trees. Gone was the trench coat from the Roadhouse—today he wore a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, dark trousers, polished shoes that somehow didn’t pick up any dust. He looked like he belonged in a glass-walled office, not among joggers and kids with kites. 

Dean tried to mask his surprise. “What, you following me now?” 

The Alpha’s head tilted slightly, as if considering the question. Then one corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile, but the closest Dean had seen. “No. This park happens to be on my route home.” His blue eyes flickered to the sketchbook. “You draw.” 

Dean felt heat climb his neck. He shut the book too fast, the slap of paper loud in the quiet. “Sometimes. Wait, way home? It's not even midday?” 

“My meeting got cancelled, so I came for a walk. Then I thought I would grab lunch.” 

The Alpha moved toward the bench, pausing with a silent question in his stance. Dean gave a half-shrug that wasn’t precisely a refusal, but neither was it a permission. The Alpha sat, leaving space between them, but close enough that Dean could sense him. 

For a moment, neither spoke. The rustle of leaves filled the gap, the distant quack of ducks on the pond. Dean shifted, restless. “Guess I should… thank you. For the other night.” 

The Alpha turned his head, studying him. “For what?” 

“For stepping in with those frat idiots.” Dean’s fingers worried at the corner of his sketchbook. “You didn’t have to.” 

“I disagree,” he said. “I never did introduce myself. My name is Castiel Novak, but please feel free to call me Cas.” 

“Nice name, angelic?” Castiel nodded but said nothing more on the subject.  

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Dean welcomed it.  

“So,” Dean tried, needing to break it before he drowned in it, “what’s a guy like you doing hanging around Willson, huh? Don’t tell me you actually live here.” 

“I do.” 

Dean was shocked. “Seriously?” 

“Yes,” Castiel said, shifting slightly on the hard bench. “My company headquarters are downtown. I prefer to stay close.” 

Dean whistled. “Company, huh? You mean like… office job?” 

“Something like that,” Castiel said. His eyes caught the dappled light through the trees, precise and piercing. “I’m the chief executive officer.” 

Dean stared. “CEO? No way.” He barked out a laugh, quick and disbelieving. “You don’t… You don’t look like one.” 

Castiel seemed to be amused. “Should I ask what you think a CEO looks like?” 

Dean shrugged, half embarrassed, half amused. “Suit, tie, Bluetooth glued to your ear. Thinks that the world owes them something, that you have to bow down to them.” 

“Then perhaps I am an exception,” Castiel said, not unkindly. “I carry authority, yes. But authority without purpose is arrogance. Authority should be used to guide, to listen, to protect.” 

Dean frowned, not sure he had an answer. Most people who had authority in his life had used it to push him down, to remind him of his place. Castiel’s words landed differently, like stones setting a foundation instead of breaking it. 

The wind picked up, lifting the edge of Dean’s sketchbook. He pressed it down quickly, but not before Castiel’s gaze flickered toward it. 

“You see the world differently,” Castiel said, murmuring. “That is a gift.” 

Nobody said things like that to him—not without a joke behind it, not without a smirk. He wanted to brush it off, crack something innovative, but his chest felt too full. 

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice rough. “Doesn’t always feel like much of one.” 

Castiel didn’t argue. He didn’t try to fix it with platitudes. He sat there beside him, solid and present, like he had all the time in the world to just… be. 

Dean found himself sneaking another glance at him. The guy carried himself with a steely certainty—every movement deliberate, every word chosen with care. There was no doubt he was a man people listened to, but he was different from most Alphas that Dean had ever met.  

For someone like Dean, who’d spent most of his life feeling like background noise, that steadiness felt dangerously close to comfort. 

And he didn’t know what to do with that. 

-0- 

“Dean, would you like to walk with me, then grab lunch? I have a meeting this afternoon, but like I say, I am free until then.” 

Castiel stood, and blue eyes watched. Dean put his sketchbook in his bag, zipped it up, and slung it over his shoulder. “Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks, Cas,” 

Castiel’s voice was throughfall as they strolled past the pond. “You like nature.” 

Dean’s lips tugged into a small smile as he watched a dragonfly hover over the water. “Yeah. Always have. It’s one of the reasons I did environmental science at school. Figured it’d give me a chance to learn more about how it all fits together.” 

Castiel glanced at him, interest flickering in his eyes. “Fits together?” 

Dean nodded, shifting his sketchbook under his arm. “You know… ecosystems, habitats, all that. Nothing’s random out here. The birds, the bugs, the trees — they all depend on each other. Kinda like a puzzle that actually works if you give it the space to.” 

For a moment, Castiel was silent, but it wasn’t dismissive. He was studying Dean like the words mattered. 

“That tells me you see the world with more clarity than most,” Castiel said finally. 

Dean ducked his head, cheeks warming, but this time he didn’t try to laugh it off. “Guess I like noticing the little things.” 

“Noticing,” Castiel repeated softly, as though testing the word. Then he nodded, as if it explained something important. 

Dean squinted at him. “So, what kind of CEO are you, anyway? Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys building oil rigs or something.” 

Castiel’s lips twitched, almost amused. “Hardly. My company develops renewable energy and sustainable infrastructure. Solar, wind, green architecture. I believe we have a responsibility to preserve what we’ve been given.” 

Dean’s eyes widened. “Wait—you’re serious? That’s… that’s badass, man. You’re actually out here making a difference.” Excitement sparked in his voice. “So, you’re the guy making sure the future doesn’t turn into one giant landfill. That’s—hell, that’s exactly the kinda stuff I studied back at CSU. It’s—” He cut himself off, flushing. “I mean… it’s cool.” 

Castiel’s eyes softened. “It’s more than cool. It matters. And I would very much like to hear what you think of it.” 

The café Castiel chose wasn’t flashy. For a man who carried himself as if he belonged in glass towers, he chose a quiet corner spot with worn wooden floors and windows that let the sunlight pour in. The smell of fresh bread and herbs wrapped around them the moment they stepped inside. 

Dean slid into the booth opposite him, a little stiff at first. He still wasn’t sure why he’d said yes — maybe because Castiel asked like he expected Dean to say yes, but without a trace of arrogance.  

After they ordered, Dean was unable to hold back the questions. “So… all that stuff you said earlier. I gotta admit, I wanna know more. What kinda projects do you actually do?” 

Castiel’s eyes warmed with interest. “That depends. Some weeks I’m in meetings about solar developments. Others, I’m overseeing housing designs that use recycled water and reduce energy waste. We’ve started funding wind turbines along the plains outside the city. And in the mountains, we’re working on balancing new builds with wildlife conservation. It’s not simple. But it’s necessary.” 

Dean’s face lit up, more animated than he’d been in months. “That’s… that’s amazing. Seriously, that’s the kind of work I dreamed of doing when I finished my degree.” 

Castiel tilted his head slightly. “You finished your degree?” 

“Yeah.” Dean grinned. “Four years of late nights, labs, papers, I thought would kill me. But worth it. I know, not a subject many Omegas get into, but it was me, my tribe, so to speak.” 

He gestured with his hands, tracing invisible shapes. “And you’re telling me you’re out here designing entire cities, buildings, energy grids to keep that balance? Man, that’s—hell, that’s everything.” 

He stopped himself, flushing. “Sorry. I get carried away.” 

Across the table, Castiel’s expression softened. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but it wasn’t mocking. He looked as though he was pleased. 

“Don’t apologise,” Castiel said. “It suits you. You’re passionate. That is rare.” 

Dean ducked his head, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. Most people tuned him out when he got going. Castiel didn’t. He listened like every word mattered. 

Their food arrived, warm plates filling the small table. They ate in companionable quiet, and Dean found himself watching Castiel — the neat, deliberate way he cut into his meal, the steadiness that never seemed to waver. This man carried authority like a second skin, but never once made Dean feel small under it. 

When the waitress cleared their plates and left them with the check, Castiel leaned back, his eyes fixed on Dean again. 

“Dean.” 

Dean shifted, heart giving a stupid little jolt. “Yeah?” 

“I would like your number,” Castiel asked. 

“My number? Why?” 

Castiel’s voice was confident. “Because, little Omega, I would like to carry on this conversation.” 

Dean’s pulse jumped. Heat climbed the back of his neck. He scrambled for a joke, an excuse, but nothing came. In the end, all he could do was scribble his number on the corner of the receipt and slide it across. 

Castiel tucked it away carefully, as if it were something rare and valuable. 

Outside, the sunlight felt too bright, his chest too full. Dean shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and tried not to grin like an idiot the whole way back to his truck. 

Chapter Text

Dean spent the rest of the day trying not to think about Castiel. 

Which, of course, meant he thought about him constantly. 

He replayed their walk in the park, the lunch, the way Castiel had listened—like his rambling about fireflies was worth more than a passing comment. And then that final moment: “Because, little Omega, I would like to carry on this conversation.” The words clung to him like the warmth of sunlight long after it set. 

By the time Dean crawled into bed that night, he had convinced himself he wouldn’t actually hear from Castiel. Guys like him didn’t call guys like Dean. He was busy, powerful, important. Dean was… well, Dean. 

The phone buzzed just past ten. 

Dean snatched it up before he even thought about it, heart in his throat. The number wasn’t saved, but the message was simple. 

[Unknown] I trust you made it home safely. 

Dean stared at the screen, a grin threatening to split his face. He typed back, hesitated, deleted it, tried again. 

[Dean] Yeah. Truck still runs, somehow. Guess the universe was on my side tonight. 

The reply came faster than he expected. 

[Cas Novak] I’m glad. Would you be free to talk tomorrow evening? 

Dean’s heart kicked against his ribs. He read it twice, then a third time, making sure it wasn’t his imagination. 

[Dean] Uh… yeah. Sure. 

[Cas Novak] Good. I would like to hear more about your work at CSU. Your perspective interests me. 

Dean lay back against the pillows, the glow of the screen painting his face. Nobody asked about his degree—not anymore. People assumed he’d wasted time, or they brushed it off. But Castiel? He wanted to know more. 

Dean typed back, fingers a little shaky. 

[Dean] Careful what you wish for, man. I can talk your ear off about wetlands and lightning bugs. 

The three dots blinked, and then. 

[Cas Novak] I have no doubt. That is precisely why I asked. 

Dean dropped the phone on his chest and covered his face with one hand. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time—like someone valued him. 

And the thought that Castiel Novak—CEO, Alpha, him—wanted to keep the conversation going? 

That was enough to keep Dean smiling in the dark long after the phone went quiet. 

-0- 

The Roadhouse always felt different when it was empty. No music rattled the walls, no pool balls cracked across felt, no laughter spilt from half-drunk college kids—just the creak of old wood and the smell of coffee brewing in the back. 

Dean pushed the door open; the bell above it gave a tired jingle. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows and cut across the bar. Ellen stood behind it in her house sweater instead of her usual button-up, a mug in one hand. Jo was perched on a stool with her hair tied up, flipping through a dog-eared notebook. 

“You’re early,” Ellen said, one brow raised. “Bar doesn’t open for another six hours.” 

Dean gave her a half-smile. “Didn’t come for the bar. Came for you.” 

That earned him a softer look, which Ellen hid by setting out another mug and filling it with coffee. “Sit down, then.” 

Dean slid onto the stool beside Jo. She looked up, a smirk already tugging at her mouth. “So. Mystery man.” 

Dean groaned. “Word gets around too damn fast in this town.” 

“Didn’t need words,” Jo shot back. “You’ve got that look — like someone lit you up from the inside.” 

Ellen set the mug down in front of him. “She’s right, you know. You’ve been walking lighter since the other night. Who is he?” 

Dean hesitated, thumb tracing the rim of his mug. “Name’s Castiel. Met him here, actually. He… helped me out when some idiots thought I was fair game.” 

Ellen’s mouth tightened. “Good man, then.” 

Dean nodded. “More than that. He… listens. Like, he actually gives a damn what I’ve got to say. And I don’t— I don’t get that much.” 

Ellen reached across the counter and rested her hand over his for a moment. “Then don’t push him away, Dean. If he makes you feel seen, you hold onto that.” 

“So, when do we get to meet him?” Jo asked.  

Dean flushed and gulped his coffee. “Slow down, Jo. It’s not like that.” 

“Sure,” she teased. “For now.” 

Dean shook his head but couldn’t stop the smile creeping on his lips. For the first time in a long time, the idea of family didn’t ache. Sitting here, with Ellen’s steady presence and Jo’s teasing grin, he felt like maybe he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought. 

“Did you hear from that brother of yours lately?” 

Dean hummed around his mug. “Yeah. He’s fine — found himself a girlfriend and even asked me for dating advice. My baby brother’s all grown up.” 

“Nice. He coming back to visit?” 

“Poor college kid can’t do that. Though he was talking about Mexico with his friends.” 

Jo slammed the coffee pot down hard. “Now, now — don’t take your temper out on the coffee,” Ellen scolded. 

“Sam needs putting right, or Mary does,” Jo shot back. 

Ellen wiped the countertop. “Sam will grow up, Jo. Meanwhile, if Dean finds a decent partner — an Alpha or an equal — I hope they will put him in his place if necessary. Sam’s got a good heart; he forgets his childhood wasn’t as… glamorous as Dean’s.” 

Dean’s eyes flickered between the two women. It was nice to have them in his corner. “No. Mum brought him up; I stayed with my bitter old dad, and I don’t talk to either of them. I feel better for it. I love my brother, but he’s learning to respect my boundaries now that he’s older.” 

“Good. Like it should be,” Ellen said. 

They spent the next hour talking before Dean had to head out to run errands. He was glad they were in his life when he needed them most. 

-0- 

When Dean went out and about, his mind went straight back to Castiel. 

Everywhere he looked, he found things he wanted to point out. 

At the farmer’s market, a stall had bundles of wildflowers tied with twine, sunlight catching on the petals. Dean snapped a quick picture. 

At the park, he spotted a fox darting across the grass — too quick for most people to notice, but he caught it on his phone just before it disappeared into the brush. 

Another picture. Even at the petrol station, a cluster of bright yellow moths fluttered around the pump light. Dean laughed to himself and caught them, too. 

It felt silly. But it also felt… good. Like maybe Castiel wouldn’t mind. 

Dean finally thumbed through the pictures and sent them—no explanation — just three snapshots from his day. 

For a few minutes, there was nothing. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe Castiel didn’t want random texts clogging up his phone. 

Then the reply buzzed. 

[Cas Novak] These are beautiful. 

Another message followed right after. 

[Cas Novak] The way you look at life is so different, Dean. 

Dean stared at the screen, ears burning. His fingers hovered, trying to come up with something smart, but another buzz cut him off. 

[Cas Novak] Dean, you are so endearing it makes my teeth ache. 

Dean choked on a laugh, covering his face with one hand. “What the hell, man…” he muttered, but he couldn’t stop grinning. 

He texted back before he lost his nerve. 

[Dean] Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might send you a whole nature documentary. 

Castiel’s reply came quicker this time. 

[Cas Novak] I would very much like that. 

Dean dropped the phone onto the seat beside him and shook his head, his smile refusing to fade. Nobody had ever wanted his little, nerdy observations before—until Castiel did. 

For the first time in a long time, Dean felt like he was worth listening to. 

-0- 

Dean woke to a text from Castiel and smiled before he was even fully awake. 

[Cas Novak] Sleep well, Dean. 

Dean stared at it for a long minute, grinning like an idiot before finally dragging himself out of bed. 

By mid-afternoon, while he was half-buried in a basket of laundry, his phone buzzed again. Castiel’s name lit the screen. 

Dean fumbled it open, heart kicking. 

[Cas Novak] Dean, may I ask you something? 

Dean dropped the shirt he was folding and thumbed back. 

[Dean] Shoot. 

The reply came a beat later. 

[Cas Novak] Would you like to join me this weekend? There’s a trail outside of town — quiet, beautiful this time of year. I thought perhaps we could walk it together. 

Dean’s first thought: This sounds like a date. His second: Oh God, this sounds like a date. 

He typed and erased twice before finally sending the message. 

[Dean] You asking me out, Cas? 

The three dots blinked, then. 

[Cas Novak] Yes. If you’ll allow me. 

Dean sat back hard on his bed, heat crawling up his neck. No one had ever asked him so simply, so directly. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, grinning despite himself, and typed. 

[Dean] …Yeah. I’d like that. 

Another buzz. 

[Cas Novak] Good. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning. Please send me your address. Dress comfortably. 

Dean shook his head and tossed the phone onto the bed. His pulse was still hammering, but beneath it was something else — anticipation. 

A hike with Castiel. Out in the quiet. Just them. 

Hell, if this wasn’t a date, he didn’t know what was. 

Saturday morning came too early, but Dean was already awake before the sun finished climbing. He stood at the mirror longer than he cared to admit, tugging at the sleeves of his old flannel, swapping it twice before finally giving up. Boots, jeans, jacket tied at the waist — practical. 

The low rumble of an engine outside made his stomach jolt. He peeked through the curtain to see Castiel’s car parked at the curb — sleek, black, gleaming. Of course it was. 

Castiel was waiting when Dean stepped out. He wasn’t dressed like a CEO today, though — just hiking boots, dark jeans, a jacket zipped against the morning chill. Still looked put together, like he couldn’t help it. 

“Good morning, Dean.” 

“Hey.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Hope I don’t slow you down out there.” 

“You won’t,” Castiel said. “You look ready.” 

The trail lay forty minutes out of town, winding into the foothills. They drove with the windows cracked, crisp mountain air rushing in. Dean pointed out landmarks along the way — ridges where he’d hiked before, the river that ran down to Willson — and Castiel listened, asking the kind of questions that told Dean he wasn’t merely making conversation. 

When they reached the trailhead, Dean took a deep breath. The air smelled of pine and damp soil, birdsong threading through the quiet. 

“This is more my speed,” Dean admitted, pulling on his pack. 

“I thought it might be,” Castiel replied. “You said you liked nature. I wanted to see you in your element.” 

Dean’s chest tightened at that — the way Castiel noticed. 

The trail wound steeply, aspens quivering overhead. Dean walked ahead, scanning the ground like he always did. A few minutes in, he stopped suddenly and crouched low. 

“Check this out,” he called. 

Castiel stepped closer, watching as Dean traced his fingers over an indentation in the dirt. “Tracks?” 

“Elk,” Dean said, his voice warming with excitement. “Big ones. See how wide the hooves are? And the drag mark here — that’s probably a bull with antlers catching low branches. Herd must’ve passed through a couple days ago, headed for the valley.” 

He looked up, grinning despite himself. “You ever seen a herd up close? They’re massive. The whole mountainside can look like it’s moving when they cross.” 

Castiel crouched slightly, studying the ground where Dean pointed. “You read the land very well.” 

Dean ducked his head, suddenly self-conscious. “Just… learned to pay attention, I guess. Nature tells you a story if you listen.” 

Castiel smiled. “Most people never bother to hear it.” 

Dean straightened, brushing dirt off his palms, but his grin lingered. He felt lighter, talking about things that mattered to him, things he knew were true. And the way Castiel looked at him with intent, quietly amused — it was enough to make his pulse stutter. 

Halfway up the ridge, the ground tilted steeply. Dean’s boot slipped on a root, and before he could hit the dirt, Castiel’s hand closed firmly around his arm, steadying him. 

“You alright?” Castiel asked. 

“Y-yeah.” Dean huffed a laugh. “Guess I’m not as sure-footed as the elk.” 

“I would not call you graceless,” Castiel said, his eyes lingering on him a moment longer than necessary before he released his arm. 

When they finally reached the clearing at the top, the trees opened onto a wide view of the valley — golden fields spread below, shadowed forests at the edges, the town just a scatter of rooftops in the distance. 

Dean let out a low whistle. “Damn. Would you look at that?” 

“Beautiful,” Castiel murmured. 

Dean turned his head, and for one breathless second, he wasn’t sure Castiel was talking about the valley at all. 

-0- 

The climb down was trickier than the way up — loose stones skittered under their boots, roots twisted across the trail. Dean went first, his shoulders hunched with concentration, trying not to look like an idiot tripping over his own feet. 

“Careful,” Castiel said behind him. 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, thanks, Dad.” 

A pause. Then: “I prefer Daddy.” 

Dean stumbled so hard he nearly went face-first into the dirt. Castiel’s hand shot out again, closing around his wrist until Dean caught his balance. 

Dean whipped around, wide-eyed. Castiel’s face was unreadable, but there was the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. 

“You—” Dean stammered, heat crawling up his neck. “You can’t just… say stuff like that.” 

“Why not?” Castiel’s tone was mild, but his eyes held him fast. “It startled you?” 

Dean opened his mouth, shut it, then managed, “Yeah. —didn’t expect it.” 

Castiel released his wrist slowly, fingers brushing Dean’s skin as they slipped away. “I’ll try to be less surprising next time.” 

Dean huffed out a laugh, still flushed, and turned back down the trail before his legs gave out. But the warmth where Castiel had held him lingered, a slow pulse that refused to fade. 

They walked in silence for a while, though it wasn’t heavy. If anything, it thrummed with something unspoken, a charge Dean felt in the air as surely as static before a storm. 

Near the bottom, the trail dipped into a patch of tall grass, the sunlight slanting low and golden. Dean paused to brush a hand over the seed heads swaying in the breeze. 

“Always liked this part,” he said softly. “Reminds me the world’s still… good. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.” 

Castiel stopped beside him, watching the light catch in his hair. “It is good,” he said. “Because you're in it.” 

Dean turned, startled. His chest felt tight, too full, and for a second, words failed him. 

Castiel only inclined his head, as if that settled it, and gestured toward the car. “Shall we?” 

Dean followed, heart thudding, the warmth between them simmering steady under his skin. 

The car was warm, the hum of the engine filling the silence as they pulled away from the trailhead. Dean shifted in his seat, acutely aware of the faint ache in his calves from the climb — and the lingering heat where Castiel’s hand had caught his wrist. 

He stole a glance at the man beside him. Castiel drove the same way he did everything else, like he owned whatever space he moved through. His hands rested loose on the wheel, his posture calm, but there was something about the air between them that felt… charged. 

Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh. Thanks. For today. Been a long time since I got out like that.” 

“I’m glad you came,” Castiel said. His eyes flickered from the road to Dean for a heartbeat before returning forward. “I enjoyed your company.” 

Dean felt his ears heat. He tried to laugh it off. “Yeah, well, not sure how entertaining I am.” 

“You underestimate yourself,” Castiel replied. 

When Castiel pulled up outside Dean’s place, he turned the engine off but didn’t move right away. 

Dean shifted in his seat. “So, uh… guess I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes,” Castiel said. His voice was full of promise. “I’ll call you.” 

Dean nodded, throat dry. He slipped out of the car, closing the door carefully. Castiel waited until he was up the walk before pulling away, the car rolling smoothly and quietly down the street. 

Dean stood on the porch for a long minute after, trying to will his heartbeat to calm down. 

-0- 

Sunday mornings were for catching up. Laundry in a pile by the couch, dishes stacked in the sink, coffee cooling on the table beside his laptop. Dean sat at his desk, cursor blinking at him from the middle of a half-finished sentence about pollinators. 

It wasn’t glamorous. Freelance work never was. But writing about the environment—wetlands, fireflies, foxes adapting to cities—kept the bills paid and his brain busy. More importantly, it felt like doing something and giving a voice to places and creatures most people never notice. 

He was halfway through re-reading a paragraph when his phone buzzed. Castiel’s name lit the screen. 

Dean’s heart kicked stupidly, and he opened it fast. 

[Cas Novak] Forgive me, Dean. I never asked what you do for work. 

Dean smirked faintly. Figures. Most people never asked, or they thought he was mated and his Alpha provided for him. Some old-time thinking was outdated.  

His thumbs hovered, then tapped: 

[Dean] Freelance writing. Environmental stuff mostly. Articles for conservation groups, eco-magazines. Doesn’t make me rich, but I like it. 

The reply came quickly. 

[Cas Novak] That is admirable. You give a voice to the world that cannot speak for itself. 

Dean stared at that for a beat too long, warmth creeping up his neck. Nobody had ever put it like that. Usually it was: So, you blog about trees? Or you're an Omega and you work?  

He shook his head and typed back. 

[Dean] You make it sound fancier than it is.  

Three dots blinked back. 

[Cas Novak] May I read something you’ve written? 

Nobody ever asked to read his stuff, apart from those who paid him.  

He chewed his lip, pacing the kitchen once before dropping back into the chair. 

[Dean] Uh… it’s not, like, exciting. Just articles about wetlands and fireflies and stuff. 

[Cas Novak] Dean, if you wrote it, it will be worth reading. 

Stupidly, recklessly, he attached a PDF of his latest piece: “The Quiet Guardians: Why Wetlands Matter More Than We Think.” He hesitated, then hit Send before he could change his mind. 

The silence felt unbearable. He tapped the edge of his mug, stared at the clock, and told himself it didn’t matter if Castiel read it or not. 

The phone buzzed. 

[Cas Novak] “Wetlands remind us that even the smallest, messiest-looking places have value.” 

That was his line. His words. Castiel was quoting him back to himself. 

Another buzz followed. 

[Cas Novak] That is not just science, Dean. That is the truth. You write with clarity and purpose. You make the world live on the page. 

Dean pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, ears burning. Nobody had ever read his words like they mattered. 

He fumbled a reply. 

[Dean] You’re making it sound fancier than it is. It’s just an article. 

Almost instantly. 

[Cas Novak] You are wrong. It is more. You are more. 

Dean groaned, flopping back in his chair with a helpless laugh, covering his face with one hand. Who even said things like that? And why did it make his chest ache in a way that was equal parts terrifying and wonderful? 

He peeked at the phone again, a smile tugging at his mouth no matter how hard he tried to fight it. 

Damn him. 

-0- 

Castiel sat in his home office, fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood of his desk. The papers spread before him blurred together, figures and reports failing to hold his attention. His thoughts were elsewhere — with Dean. 

He had read the young man’s words twice, perhaps three times. The article had been earnest, clear, and powerful. It carried Dean’s voice in every line: humble, certain, passionate. And yet Dean dismissed it as “just an article.” 

Castiel did not understand the lack of self-regard — it stirred something in him. Not irritation with Dean, but with the way life had trained him to belittle his own worth. He saw brilliance where Dean saw “just.” He saw someone worth listening to, worth knowing. And he would show Dean, piece by piece, until the man could see it for himself. 

Determination hardened in his chest. He wanted Dean’s laughter, his little observations, the light that sparked in his eyes when he spoke of things he loved. He wanted to know him — properly, wholly. 

Castiel picked up his phone. His thumbs moved with a certainty that felt like slipping into place. 

[Cas Novak] Dean, would you allow me the pleasure of your company again? Perhaps dinner on Tuesday evening.  

He paused only a moment before sending it. There was no reason to wait. Patience had its place, but so did decisiveness. 

The screen glowed back at him in the dim light of his office. Castiel set the phone down, steepling his fingers. He would be patient with Dean’s hesitations, but he would not falter in pursuit. 

Because Dean Winchester was extraordinary. 

And Castiel intended to prove it to him. 

Chapter Text

The office windows stretched floor to ceiling, spilling late-afternoon light across the conference table. Castiel sat at the head, a stack of reports before him, but his phone was in his hand. Dean’s article remained open on the screen. He had read it twice already, each line resonating more deeply the longer it lingered. 

The door creaked open. 

“Still here?” Balthazar sauntered in, tie loose, a grin playing at his mouth. “Honestly, Cas, one might think you’ve married the place.” 

“I was working,” Castiel said, though he didn’t bother to hide the phone when his brother slid into the chair beside him. 

Balthazar was curious. “What’s this then? Ah—an article?” 

Before Castiel could angle the phone away, Balthazar plucked it deftly from his hand, eyes skimming the screen. “‘Wetlands remind us that even the smallest, messiest-looking places have value…’” He nodded with approval. “Well, that’s not bad. Not bad at all.” 

Castiel folded his arms, watching. “Dean wrote it.” 

“Dean?” Balthazar’s brow arched. “The Omega from the Roadhouse?” 

“Yes.” 

Balthazar kept reading, his grin fading into something impressive. “Cas… this is good. Clear. Accessible. Not the usual dry drivel we pay consultants to churn out.” He tapped the phone against his palm. “We could use someone like him. Fresh voice, passionate, knows his stuff. He’d eat our media team alive.” 

Castiel’s mouth tightened, though it wasn’t in disagreement. He had thought the same — Dean’s words had validation. But the notion of pulling him into their corporate machine… He was not certain Dean would thrive under such constraints. 

Still, pride swelled quietly in his chest, listening to his brother. Dean was more than he realised, and others should see it too. 

“I’ll consider it,” Castiel said finally, reclaiming the phone. “For now, I intend to know him better.” 

Balthazar’s grin returned, sly this time. “Ah. So it’s like that. Careful, brother — fall too deep, and even you might drown.” 

Castiel slipped the phone into his pocket, expression unreadable. But his thoughts remained with Dean — his words, his brilliance. 

He was falling for the green-eyed Omega, and he would gladly drown in his presence.  

-0- 

Dean tried to work, but between editing a section on migratory birds and checking his phone every ten minutes, his focus was shot. 

By mid-afternoon, Castiel texted. 

[Cas] What are you writing today? 

Dean sent back a screenshot of the draft headline: “The Sky Highways Above Us: Migration in the Rockies.” 

[Dean] Trying not to bore people about geese. 

[Cas] If you’re writing it, Dean, it won’t be boring. 

Dean rolled his eyes, though his smile betrayed him. 

Later that night, his phone rang.  

“Tell me something you love, Dean.” 

Dean lay flat on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Thunderstorms, I guess. Not the dangerous kind. Just when the air smells like rain, and the sky lights up. Makes the world feel alive.” 

“I like that answer,” Castiel murmured. “It suits you.” 

Dean groaned, burying his face in a cushion. “You say stuff like that, Cas, and you expect me to sleep?” 

“I expect you to dream,” Castiel said. 

Dean’s laugh was muffled, helpless. 

Tuesday came too fast. Dean tried on three shirts before settling on one, muttering at his reflection like it might talk back. Why it mattered so much, he didn’t know. Except it did. 

At seven, the sound of an engine rumbled outside. Dean peeked through the curtain — a sleek black car parked at the curb, Castiel stepping out, in a dark jacket and open collar. 

Dean’s stomach flipped. 

“Dean,” Castiel greeted, his voice warm. 

“Cas,” Dean managed, trying not to choke. God, the man was beyond handsome.  

Castiel opened the passenger door for him. “Shall we?” 

Dean slid in, pulse thundering. For two days, they’d been voices and words across a line, sparks flickering through a screen. Now, with Castiel beside him, the air felt heavier, simmering with something unspoken. 

Waiting. 

-0- 

The restaurant was tucked away on a side street Dean barely noticed before — small, warm light spilling through the windows, the kind of place that didn’t need a neon sign. Inside, the air smelled of herbs and baked bread, soft jazz curling low from hidden speakers. 

Dean hesitated just past the door, tugging at his sleeve. “Cas, this place looks kinda… fancy.” 

“It’s unobtrusive,” Castiel said, guiding him forward with the steady presence of his hand at Dean’s back. “I thought you’d prefer that.” 

Dean agreed, he did. He wasn’t used to someone thinking about what he’d prefer. 

They were shown to a small table near the window. Castiel sat with his usual straight-backed composure, jacket laid neatly aside, his blue eyes already on Dean, like there was nothing better in the room for him to focus on.  

Dean cleared his throat, reaching for the menu. “Uh… any recommendations?” 

“I’ve been here before,” Castiel admitted. “Their roasted chicken is excellent. But order whatever you like.” 

Dean smirked faintly. “You don’t strike me as a roasted chicken kinda guy.” 

Castiel’s eyes crinkled, and Dean thought he was adorable; he almost choked on that thought. “And what kind of man do I strike you as?” 

Dean nearly dropped the menu. “Uh—I dunno. Steak? Something serious.” 

“Mm.” Castiel studied him a moment longer, then returned to his menu, leaving Dean flushed and fidgeting. 

The food came quickly — bread, wine for Castiel, water for Dean, then their meals. Conversation drifted from small things — hikes, favourite foods, books Dean pretended not to read — into deeper ones. 

“So,” Dean said around a bite of chicken, “what about you? You run this big company, but you’re out here hiking with me. Why?” 

Castiel dabbed his mouth with his napkin, eyes never leaving Dean’s. “Because I wanted to.” 

Dean poked his tongue into his cheek. “That’s not an answer.” 

“It is,” Castiel countered. “I wanted to know you. I still do.” Castiel held out his hand for Dean to take. Dean hesitated for a second but took it.  

“I want us to become more exclusive partners, boyfriends, whatever the word is you want to be.” 

“Are there rules?” Dean asked because, before, there were always rules.  

“I do not date lightly. I am a monogamous man. If I date you, it will be just you. And I expect the same in return.” 

“That’s… okay. More than okay, actually.” 

“Good. You should also know that I value honesty. If something troubles you or if you feel doubt, I want to hear about it. I will not tolerate you belittling yourself in silence.” 

Dean stared out the window, frowning at the words. “Kinda a tall order, Cas.” 

“I will remind you,” Castiel said, “as many times as it takes, until you believe me: you are worth more than you think.” 

Dean let out a shaky breath and looked back at the Alpha.  

“There is more,” Castiel continued, his tone still even, deliberate. “Time, we set aside together is ours. No distractions. Communication is non-negotiable. If you need space, please let me know. If you are busy, please let me know. I will always answer you, Dean. I expect the same courtesy.” 

Dean managed a weak laugh. “You always lay down the law like this?” 

“I believe in clarity,” Castiel said. “And loyalty. If you are with me, I will protect you — from others, from doubt, from anything that threatens you. But loyalty runs both ways.” 

“I accept that, all of it, some of that I will find hard though.” 

Castiel squeezed his hand. “That’s what a relationship is about, Dean, being there for each other, helping each other grow, not tearing each other apart.” 

“What... what about heats?” 

Castiel paused and brushed his thumb over Dean's knuckles. “Darling, if you don’t wish to take your heat with me, then you do not have to. I will not force the issue.” 

Dean almost broke down then. Castiel looked alarmed, like he would jump out of his chair and scoop Dean up and run and hide him away from the world that had hurt him.  

“Why, are you so nice to me?” Dean said, wiping his eyes though no tears had fallen. 

“You're one of the kindest, sweetest people I know. Now, darling Omega, shall we have dessert? I think you need sugar after all that.” 

Dean sniffed and shifted in his seat. “If they have pie and ice cream. Will you excuse me? I need the bathroom.” 

Castiel stood has Dean did, and he watched the Omega leave. Who had hurt him? Someone had more than someone, and Castiel did not like that one bit.  

When Dean came back, the dessert was waiting for him. Pie with ice cream. “Tell me more about you, Cas.” 

“I was not always the man you see now,” he began, voice smoky, like a tall mountain. “I was born into a wealthy family in Chicago. Old money. Boarding schools, connections, expectations. My parents assumed I would become a lawyer or a politician. I did not argue.” 

Dean’s brows lifted. “So you were the guy in the suit, huh?” 

Castiel’s lips quirked faintly. “Yes. I studied Political Science and Law at Yale, then attended Harvard for my graduate work. I was on track to join one of the most powerful corporate firms in the country. And for a time… I did.” 

Dean gripped the edge of the table. “Can’t picture you as some shark lawyer.” 

“Nor can I,” Castiel admitted. “But I was. My days were spent drafting arguments for companies that destroyed land and lives in the name of profit. I was very good at it. Too good. I won cases I should have lost.” 

His gaze drifted past Dean for a moment. “One case involved the draining of a wetland for development. The science was clear, the harm undeniable. But I argued, and I won. That wetland is now a strip mall.” 

Dean gasped, but he still could not look away.  

“I realised then,” Castiel said, voice firming, “that my life, my education, my privilege—everything I had been given—was being used to harm, not to protect. And I could not abide it. So I left. I built my own firm, and later a company. Now, I use the same tools and knowledge to fight for balance. To preserve rather than destroy.” 

Dean sat there, staring, his heart hammering. He’d expected Cas to say he’d always cared, that he’d been born some eco-warrior prince. But this? This was different. 

“You chose it,” Dean said. 

“Yes.” Castiel’s eyes met his again. “Because the world deserves defenders. And because I no longer wished to be a man who won the wrong battles.” 

Dean felt a mix of admiration and something warmer he couldn’t quite name. “Damn, Cas.” He shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Here I was thinking you were just another suit. Guess I was wrong.” 

“You were. And I am glad to have corrected you.” 

Their eyes held a moment longer than they should have, the air between them charged, simmering. Dean felt his pulse trip, his fingers twitching on the tablecloth, tempted to reach across again. But he still had his reservations and held back for now.  

The drive back should have been the end of the evening, but when Castiel slowed near the park, he turned his head toward Dean. 

“Would you join me for a walk before we go home?” His voice was smooth, his eyes tender. “The moon is bright tonight. It would be a shame to waste it.” 

Dean wanted to say something witty, something easy, but all he managed was a breathless, “Yeah. Sure.” 

The park was nearly empty at this hour, and shadows stretched long under the silver glow of the moon. The air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and lavender. They walked side by side along the path, their steps unhurried, the night quiet except for the rustle of leaves overhead. 

Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to still the nerves buzzing in his veins. “You always do this? Moonlight walks after dinner?” 

Castiel glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Only when the company is worth it.” 

Dean ducked his head, trying to hide the grin tugging at his mouth. 

They stopped at a small clearing where the trees opened to reveal the sky — stars scattered across velvet, the moon hanging low and bright. Dean tilted his head back, breath catching. “Damn. That’s something.” 

“It is,” Castiel agreed. But when Dean lowered his eyes, he found that Castiel wasn’t looking at the sky at all. He was looking at him. 

The world seemed to still, Dean’s heart thudded, loud enough he swore it might echo. 

“Dean,” Castiel said softly, stepping closer. “May I?” 

His brain supplied, hell yes. He knew somehow Castiel would be worth it. “Yeah. You can.” 

Castiel’s hand lifted, cupping Dean's cheek. Dean sighed, like he’d waited for this for a lifetime. And then his lips were on his, warm and certain beneath the silver glow of the moon. 

Firm, unhurried at first, lips soft, despite Castiel's always looking chapped. Dean’s chest tightened, a low sound slipping from him before he could stop it. Castiel angled closer, deepening the kiss, his mouth coaxing Dean’s open. 

Heat rushed through him as Castiel tugged gently at his lower lip, teeth grazing enough to make Dean shiver. The kiss wasn’t greedy, but it wasn’t innocent either. It lingered, pressed, promised more. 

Dean’s hands found the fabric of Castiel’s jacket, gripping hard, steadying himself against the pull of it. He felt the slow slide of Castiel’s breath, the deliberate pressure of his mouth—each second sinking deeper, drawing him in. 

When they finally drew apart, Dean’s breath caught, his cheeks hot despite the night air. “Well,” he managed with a shaky grin, “guess that beats dinner and a movie.” 

Castiel kissed the corner of his mouth like he needed to taste one more time. “I should hope so.” 

Dean laughed, breathless, but his chest felt lighter than it had in years. 

“Now, my sweet Omega, let me get you home,” 

Dean felt happy for the first time in a long time and kissed Castiel goodnight. He was falling for the Alpha, and he was not going to let self-doubt get in the way.  

-0- 

By Thursday, Dean was running on fumes. His stomach had been unsettled since morning, his head pounding, and by late afternoon, he’d given up on the article draft glaring at him from his laptop. He’d crawled into bed instead; phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. 

The screen flickered once, twice, before dying altogether. No charging, no buzzing. Nothing. 

Dean swore weakly, panic pressing against his ribs. He hadn’t answered Castiel’s last message. What if Cas thought he was ignoring him? What if he thought Dean wasn’t interested? 

Tears swam in Dean's eyes, he tried to wipe them away, but they came steadily and fast.  

He sat up too fast, dizziness rushing through him. His throat burned. 

“Shit,” Dean whispered, fumbling for the landline he barely used. His fingers dialled almost on instinct. “Ellen?” 

Her voice came warm, almost motherly. “Dean? Honey, you don’t sound good.” 

“ I-I think I’m sick. The phone’s dead; I'm not sure if it’s broken or not charged. Cas is gonna think I’m—” His words broke off with a groan. 

“Don’t you worry about Cas,” Ellen said firmly. “I’ll handle it. You lie down.” 

At Novak Industries, Castiel looked up from a meeting when his secretary appeared in the doorway. “Mr Novak? There’s a call for you. Urgent.” 

Moments later, Ellen’s voice came through the receiver. “Castiel, it’s Dean. He’s sick, and he’s worried you’ll think he’s ignorin’ you. His phone’s out, he can’t call you. He needs help.” 

Castiel was on his feet before she’d finished. “Can he let me in, if he’s so sick?” 

Castiel had been concerned about the radio silence and was going around to Dean's apartment that afternoon after work. It was not like Dean, who sent him ten messages a day.  

“I’ll give you his spare key. Go to him. Make sure he’s alright.” 

“I will,” Castiel said, trying to stay calm, but his pulse was already racing. “Thank you, Ellen.” 

Thirty minutes later, Castiel was at Dean’s apartment door, Ellen’s spare key in his hand. A bag of supplies swung from the other — bottled water, electrolyte packets, crackers, medication. He unlocked the door, stepping inside. 

“Dean?” He called out, not wanting to scare him.  

A faint sound came from the bedroom. Castiel crossed the space in a few strides, finding Dean pale and curled under the blankets, eyes bleary. 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice cracked, half relief, half embarrassment. “Didn’t—didn’t wanna bother you—” 

“You could never,” Castiel said, kneeling at his side. His cool hand pressed gently to Dean’s forehead. Too warm. His brow furrowed with concern. “You need fluids. Rest. I’ll stay.” 

Dean blinked up at him, lips parted, too exhausted to argue. 

And for the first time in a long time, he let someone else take over. 

-0- 

Dean woke up some time later, blinked at Castiel, eyes glassy. “You… you came.” 

“Of course I came.” Castiel opened a bottle of water. He stirred in the electrolytes, then slipped an arm behind Dean’s shoulders, lifting him carefully so he could drink. “Sip slowly.” 

He was slightly concerned about Dean not knowing he was even there, but said nothing.  

Dean obeyed, swallowing a few mouthfuls before leaning against Castiel’s chest with a tired sigh. “Tastes awful.” 

“Necessary,” Castiel said, but his hand rubbed slow circles between Dean’s shoulder blades as he coaxed him into another sip. 

When Dean had finished, Castiel eased him back onto the pillows and pressed a cool cloth to his forehead. Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, relief softening the tight lines of his face. 

“You didn’t have to,” Dean murmured, voice small. 

“I wanted to,” Castiel corrected. His thumb brushed along Dean’s temple. “You matter to me.” 

Dean’s throat worked, his eyes opening enough to meet Castiel’s steady blue gaze. “Stay,” he whispered, raw and unguarded. “Please. … stay with me?” 

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed. “Move over.” 

Dean shifted without protest, and a moment later, Castiel stretched out beside him. Dean immediately tucked himself into the Alpha’s solid warmth, burying his face against his shirt. His body relaxed, his breathing easing for the first time all day. 

“Thank you,” Dean whispered, voice muffled. “Didn’t want to be alone. Don’t—don’t want you to go.” 

“I won’t,” Castiel promised, wrapping an arm around him, holding him close. “Rest, Dean. I’ve got you.” 

And Dean, feverish and exhausted but safe in Castiel’s arms, let himself drift into sleep with a contented sigh. 

Sunlight spilt in through the curtains, warm across the bed. Dean stirred, and it took a moment for the fog to clear. His head still ached, but his stomach wasn’t as tight, and there was a steady warmth at his back. 

He shifted, and it took him a moment to realise a warm body next to him.  

Castiel was still there, stretched out beside him, one arm draped across Dean’s waist, holding him close like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

Dean should’ve pulled away, made some dumb joke, but he didn’t. Instead, he lay still, soaking in the comfort. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up with someone there — someone who stayed. 

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice rumbled low behind him. “How are you feeling?” 

“Better. Still kinda weak.” 

Castiel’s arm tightened briefly around him before he eased back, sitting up. “That is to be expected. You need food.” 

Dean rolled over to watch him. “You… stayed the whole night.” 

“Yes.” Castiel stood, smoothing his shirt, calm as if it were obvious. “You asked me to. And I will again, if you need me.” 

Dean’s chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with fever. He pushed himself up slowly, hair a mess, and gave a crooked smile. “Thank you, Cas. Really. Don’t think anyone’s ever…” He trailed off, embarrassed. 

Castiel leaned down, his hand warm against the side of Dean’s face, thumb brushing under his eye. “You never need to thank me for caring for you. You matter, Dean. I will remind you until you believe it.” 

Dean’s eyes stung, but he grinned anyway. “Careful. Say things like that, and I might get used to you.” 

“I would prefer you did,” Castiel said. “Now. Breakfast.” 

Ten minutes later, Dean was propped against his pillows with a tray in his lap — toast, tea, and a bowl of oatmeal. Castiel sat in the chair at his bedside, composed as ever, watching to make sure he ate. 

Dean took a bite, shaking his head with a laugh. “You know you don’t have to fuss over me like this, right?” 

“I am not fussing,” Castiel said. “I am ensuring you recover.” His eyes softened. “And I do not mind staying. In fact, I prefer it.” 

Dean’s cheeks warmed. He ducked his head, smiling into his tea, and for once, instead of pushing the care away, he let himself accept it. 

Castiel took his temperature and hummed. “Low-grade fever. Can you manage to have a shower? I would run a bath, but I don’t want you to fall asleep, and it’s not appropriate for me to be in there with you.” Dean could see the flush on Castiel's cheeks but said nothing.  

“I can have a shower, but I will be quick; my legs feel shaky.” 

“I will stay nearby in case you need me,” Castiel said.  

Dean nodded, the Alpha took his breakfast tray, and Dean stood trying to catch his balance. Then grabbed his dresser and took out clean sleep clothes.  

Castiel poked his nose back into the room. “Sweetheart, where do you keep your clean sheets? I will change them while you shower; you can’t get back into bed with sweaty sheets.” 

“Oh, um, there is a cupboard you pass, in the hallway. It has sheets and towels that kind of thing.”  

Castiel vanished again, and Dean went into the bathroom. He clicked the light on, and he blinked back the sting of the light. Then he used the toilet, flushed, and put his clothes on the lid. Then he started the shower and slid into the hot water. He had not realised how sweaty and sticky he felt. He was quick; his legs hated him at the moment, so it took less than ten minutes, and he was back in the bedroom.  

“Can you dry my hair, please, Alpha?” 

Castiel grabbed the towel and dried Dean's hair for him. Kissing him on the cheek. Then Dean got back into bed, half asleep, with his tasks. Castiel came back and kissed him again and told him to sleep.  

Castiel put the washing on and cleaned up the apartment, not that it was too dirty, but he did the floors and cleaned the counters. Keeping the dust down, he did not want Dean to deal with all that.  

Then he called Ellen and kept her updated, and then checked Dean's phone. It was dead, even when he tried to charge it. It would need to be repaired, or he would need a new one. So, he called his brother to pick up his spare one he had and drop it off at Dean's house, so at least he would have one for now.  

For now, he got on with his work until it was lunchtime or Dean woke up and needed his medication or something to eat. Dean was his top priority.  

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled of garlic and herbs, the last of dinner still lingering in the air. Dean leaned against the counter, towel slung over his shoulder, watching Castiel rinse plates in the sink. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, the Alpha looked entirely out of place and yet completely at home. His movements were neat and precise, as if he were chairing a meeting instead of washing dishes. 

“You know,” Dean said, smirking, “you don’t have to do that. I cooked.” 

“I am capable of washing dishes,” Castiel replied, not looking up. 

“Didn’t say you weren’t capable. Just—hey, not like that!” Dean pushed off the counter, laughing, as Castiel stacked the wet plates directly onto the drying rack without using a dish towel. “You’re getting streaks all over them.” 

Castiel paused, brow furrowing like Dean had accused him of a crime. “They will dry. That is the purpose of the rack.” 

Dean grabbed the towel and snatched one of the plates from the rack, holding it up. “Yeah, but they dry clean if you wipe them. No streaks, no spots. It’s basic kitchen science, man.” 

Castiel arched a brow, utterly unimpressed. “Dean, water evaporates regardless of whether you rub a towel over it. You are adding unnecessary labour.” 

“Unnecessary—?” Dean barked out a laugh, waving the towel like a flag. “Look at you. The big-shot CEO doesn’t believe in drying dishes. This is a deal-breaker.” 

Castiel shook his head and grinned. “If this is the issue that ends us, then our relationship is on fragile ground indeed.” 

Dean laughed, stepping closer to bump his shoulder against Castiel’s. “You’re hopeless, you know that? Absolutely hopeless.” 

“And yet,” Castiel said, finally meeting his eyes with that steady blue gaze, “you are still here.” 

Dean’s grin softened, his stomach flipping at the quiet certainty in the words. He ducked his head, hiding the warmth crawling up his neck. “Yeah,” he muttered, drying the plate properly. “Guess I am.” 

Castiel reached out, brushing his damp fingers across Dean’s wrist. “Good.” 

After Dean had recovered from his fever, Ellen hadn't stopped talking about him, and he was welcomed by the Roadhouse anytime. Even Jo liked the Alpha.  

Dean had never forgotten his kindness and how he’d treated him like something precious. Dean let his guard down more than ever and started letting Castiel into the cracks, into the places he thought were broken, but the Alpha was repairing them brick by brick.  

When Dean had his heat, the second month of dating, Castiel never pushed. He left a gift basket with Jo and made sure to leave a shirt with his scent to help him through the hard times. Dean appreciated it. They kissed, but never went further; it was like the Alpha was waiting for his say-so, and that made all the difference in the world.  

“Sweetheart, where did you vanish?” Castiel asked, kissing him on the forehead, his fingers still wet with water.  

“Thinking of how good you are for me,” 

Castiel pulled him onto the couch. “I like taking care of you, my darling. Now, did you want to watch a show?” 

“Yeah, pick something we both can watch.” 

The hum of the documentary filled the living room, bees darting across the screen in high definition, their tiny bodies catching the sunlight as they danced between flowers. Dean was stretched out on the couch, one leg tucked under him, Castiel sitting close enough that their shoulders brushed. 

“Y’know,” Dean murmured, gesturing at the TV. “Without bees, we’re basically screwed. Whole food chain collapses. People don’t even think about it.” 

“I do,” Castiel said. “Bees are essential. Without them, humanity starves. We invest heavily in pollinator projects.” 

Dean gave a little grin. “Of course you do. Big bee hero, of mine.” 

Before Castiel could reply, Dean’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen without looking. “Sammy, hey.” 

The voice that came through was caustic, demanding, and far too loud. “Dean, I need money. Mom won’t send me more.” 

No hello, no how you doing, Dean, straight into what he wanted. 

Dean realised belatedly that he’d hit the loudspeaker. Castiel’s brow arched slightly, but he stayed silent, eyes fixed on the screen. 

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do you need money, Sam?”  

“For a trip,” Sam said, like it should’ve been obvious. “It’s important. Everyone’s going. You don’t understand—” 

Dean sat up, frustration flaring. “Sam, have you got a job yet? Or are you just hoping someone else is gonna foot the bill every time you want something?” 

“I don’t have time for a job, Dean. I’m at Yale. Yale! Do you know how much work that is? You wouldn’t get it.” 

Dean flinched like he’d been struck. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess not.” 

On the couch, Castiel’s fingers flexed against his knee. His expression didn’t change, but his posture did — straightening, still, intent. 

Sam’s voice barrelled on. “Mom’s being unreasonable. She knows trips are networking opportunities. You want me to succeed, don’t you? I need about $600. You can afford it.” 

Dean dragged a hand down his face. “Sam—” His voice cracked with weariness. “I don’t… I can’t keep pulling you out of every hole. You’ve gotta stand on your own two feet sometime. You’re smart. Smarter than me. Smarter than anyone I know. You’ll figure it out.” 

“You’re supposed to have my back,” Sam snapped. “What kind of brother are you if you won’t even help me when I ask?” 

Dean shut his eyes, the sting battering him. “The kind that’s tired, Sammy.” 

The room went quiet except for the bees humming on-screen. Castiel shifted closer to the phone, his voice cutting, with an edge that Dean had not heard from him before.  

“Samuel.” 

Dean startled, eyes flicking to him. Sam went silent on the line. 

Castiel’s tone carried an edge that brooked no argument. “This is Castiel Novak. I am with your brother.” 

“…Who?” Sam asked, defensive. 

“Dean’s partner,” Castiel said. “And I have listened long enough.” 

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Cas—” 

Castiel lifted a hand, silencing him with nothing but the gesture. His eyes were fixed on the phone; his voice was cold steel wrapped in velvet. 

“You speak as though Dean owes you. He does not. He has already carried more than his share. You’re at Yale, Samuel. That is a privilege, not a burden. If you require money, then you must work for it. Do not demand it. Not from your mother. Not from your brother.” 

There was a pause. Sam’s voice came back like a gunshot. “You don’t know me. You don’t know how hard it is—” 

“I know entitlement when I hear it,” Castiel cut in. “And I know the toll it takes on the one who always gives. I will not allow you to drain your brother any further. Not financially, not emotionally.” 

Dean sucked in a breath, his brain stalling. No one had ever said that for him before. Well, Ellen tried to keep the peace between them when Sam visited occasionally, but that was it.  

On the other end, Sam sputtered. “You think you can tell me—” 

“I am telling you,” Castiel said. “Grow up, Samuel. You are capable. Smarter than most, I'm sure. Prove him right. Stand on your own two feet.” 

The silence that followed was thick. Finally, Sam snapped, “Fine,” and the line went dead. 

Dean slumped back against the couch, phone slipping from his hand. His eyes were fixed on nothing. “Cas… you didn’t have to—” 

“Yes,” Castiel said, his voice softer now. He turned, reaching for Dean’s hand, threading their fingers together. “I did. Someone needed to.” 

Dean’s chest was aching, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he had to defend himself. Didn’t feel like he had to carry it all alone. 

He leaned into Castiel, the big, strong Alpha beside him; that’s all he wanted right now. 

On the screen, bees swarmed a hive, working in quiet harmony. Castiel’s arm came around him, holding him. 

“Rest now,” Cas murmured. “I’ve got you.” 

Castiel’s arm stayed firm around him, solid, patient, waiting. Finally, Dean exhaled, the words slipping out like it was past time he said them. 

“Mom took Sam when he was a baby,” he began, eyes fixed on the flicker of the screen. “She raised him like he was spun of gold. Sam grew up thinking he was special — hell, she made sure of it. Always told him he was better than the world. And I…” Dean tried to find the words. “I love my brother. I’m proud of him. But days like this? Days like this make me tired.” 

Castiel didn’t interrupt. 

“She used to call me,” Dean went on, voice like shattered glass. “Tell me I should do better that I was jealous. That I’d never amount to much. When I finally blocked her number, it was the only peace I ever got. She never wanted me, Cas. Said that’s why she left me with John.” 

He forced the next words out. “And John — he hated me for it. Hated that she left me with him, hated that his life moved on without her. He… blamed me. And he made sure I knew it.” 

The clock on the wall ticked in sympathy. “So, I don’t talk to them. Not anymore. I can’t. I still try with Sammy, though. I want to. He’s my little brother. But God, it’s hard. He doesn’t even realise half the stuff he says.” Dean gave a broken laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe he will now. Maybe he’ll have to grow up a little. ’Cause you…” His voice caught, and he turned his face, meeting Cas’s steady blue gaze. “You had my back. And I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.” 

Castiel’s brow furrowed, but not in pity. His hand came up, cupping Dean’s jaw with quiet reverence. “You deserved it long ago, Dean. You deserve it always. I will stand with you. Every time.” 

Dean leaned into the touch, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then maybe I ain’t as tired anymore.” 

Cas’s thumb brushed across his cheek, slow and sweet. “No. You are not alone in this fight any longer.” 

Dean’s chest ached, but for once it wasn’t from carrying too much. For once, it was a result of finally letting some of it go. 

Dean slipped his arm around Cas’s shoulders, pulling him closer. 

Castiel exhaled — a low sound, almost a moan, reverberating deep in his chest. It made Dean’s skin prickle, heat running down his spine. Cas shifted with him, and the two of them sank back against the couch cushions, bodies pressed together. 

The bees on the TV droned on, forgotten, as Dean tilted his head and kissed him. 

It wasn’t tentative this time. It was hungry in the way emotion makes you hungry, the kind of kiss that says thank you, stay, don’t let go. Castiel answered it thoroughly, his hand sliding into Dean’s hair, angling him closer, deepening the kiss until Dean’s breath came ragged. 

Dean sighed against him, fingers fisting in the fabric of Cas’s shirt. Their mouths moved together, unhurried but insistent, each kiss longer, hotter, pulling them further under. The weight of years of silence and loneliness melted away in the warmth of Cas’s lips, in the certainty of his touch. 

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Dean rested his forehead against Cas’s, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. 

“Guess the bees’ll survive without us watching,” he murmured. 

Castiel’s lips curved, brushing lightly over Dean’s again in a softer kiss. “They will. But I prefer this.” 

Dean laughed, low and breathless, before tugging him down once more, and the documentary faded into nothing but background noise. 

-0- 

Dean was sprawled on his couch, laptop open but ignored, thumb flying across his phone. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Cas had looked last night, barefoot in Dean’s kitchen, sleeves rolled, pretending he knew how to load a dish rack. 

He smirked as he tapped out a message. 

[Dean] You left your tie here last night. Want me to keep it hostage until our next date? 

He waited, staring at the little “delivered” icon. Nothing. 

[Dean] could auction it off to your board of directors. I will pay my rent for the month. 

Still nothing. Dean’s grin faded. 

[Dean] …Cas? 

Finally, the phone buzzed. 

[Cas] Dean, will you stop? I’m in a meeting. 

Dean stopped in his tracks, the words hitting harder than they should’ve. He reread them. And again. Cold. Harsh. The same tone he used to get from John, from Mary — stop bothering me, you’re too much, quit it. 

He felt sick. He dropped the phone on the couch cushion, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, well, should’ve known better,” he muttered. He pulled the laptop closer, trying to drown in his work. 

Across town, Castiel sat at the head of a glossy conference table, men and women droning through quarterly figures. His phone buzzed again, a reminder of the look of Dean’s last message before his own hasty reply. 

Dean, will you stop? 

Castiel bit his lip, an old habit when he was anxious. He hadn’t meant it harshly. He’d only been trying to focus, but tone was easy to misread in text. And Dean… Dean had been bruised enough by words in his life. 

Without hesitation, Castiel unlocked his phone beneath the table. He scrolled, searching “bee memes.” 

A moment later, Dean’s phone buzzed. 

[Cas] [a cartoon bee with sunglasses: “Bee cool.”] 

Dean frowned at the screen, then snorted. 

Another buzz. 

[Cas] [a bee clutching a protest sign: “Save the bees or else.”] 

Dean’s lips twitched. He bit the inside of his cheek. 

Another. 

[Cas] [a gif of a bee missing a flower completely, tumbling through the air.] 

Dean burst out laughing, loud enough that his cat Gismo leapt off the back of the couch with an indignant mrrp. 

[Dean] …You’re such a dork. 

[Dean] Okay. You’re forgiven. Daddy. 🐝 

The word was meant as a joke, cheeky payback. But the second Dean saw it, his eyes went wide. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit—” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, muttering. “Way to go, Winchester. Real smooth.” 

At the conference table, Castiel’s phone lit. He read the message. Heat shot straight up his neck, blooming across his cheeks. His jaw flexed as he straightened in his chair, tugging his tie like it had suddenly shrunk. 

His board members droned on, oblivious, while the word seared across his thoughts: Daddy. 

He typed back before his composure could fail him. 

[Cas] Brat. 

Dean’s laughter rang out, helpless, bubbling into his chest. 

[Dean] Hah! Gotcha. 

[Dean] Don’t pretend you didn’t like it. 

There was a long pause before Castiel’s reply came.  

[Cas] We will discuss this later. 

Dean bit his lip, grinning so hard his face hurt. He tossed his phone aside, stretched out across the couch, warm all over. The sting of that earlier message was long gone, replaced by a sweet, giddy glow. 

Dean was still chuckling to himself hours later, half-heartedly typing at his laptop when a knock sounded at the door. He padded over, socks sliding on the floor, and pulled it open. 

Castiel stood there, still in his work suit, tie loosened, trench coat folded over one arm. His blue eyes flickered over Dean, but there was a faint flush at his collar that Dean didn’t miss. 

“Well, if it ain’t the CEO himself,” Dean drawled, leaning against the doorframe. “Shouldn’t you be off making deals or saving bees?” 

“I concluded my meeting,” Castiel said, stepping inside as Dean moved back. “And I thought it best we discuss your… choice of words earlier.” 

Dean shut the door, biting back a grin. “Oh, you mean when I called you Daddy?” He let the word roll off his tongue slowly, teasing, watching the way Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “What, that embarrassed you in front of your little board meeting?” 

A flicker of colour rose on Castiel's neck. “Dean.” 

Dean couldn’t help it — he laughed, leaning into the counter. “Aw, come on, Cas. I can picture it. You, sitting all serious at the head of the table, numbers and graphs and all that—then boom. One little text from me and suddenly you’re red as a tomato.” 

“Brat,” Castiel said, a growl in his throat. 

Dean grinned widely, stepping closer. “There it is again. You keep calling me that, I’m gonna start thinking you like it.” 

“I do not tolerate interruptions in my meetings,” Castiel replied, but his voice was tighter than usual. “Particularly when they… distract me.” 

Dean raised his brows, amused. “Distract you, huh? Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

He was close now, close enough to see the way Cas’s eyes had darkened, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from him.  

“Hey. For real, though. Thanks for the memes. I was… I was stupidly bummed after that first message. But you—” He tapped Cas’s chest lightly, right over his heart. “You made it right. Means more than I can say.” 

Castiel’s expression softened, his hand rising to cover Dean’s where it rested. “I will not always say the right thing, Dean. But I will always try. Especially with you.” 

For a beat, neither of them moved. Then Dean tilted his head up, daring. “So… you gonna kiss me, Daddy, or just keep standing there?” 

Castiel let out a sound — half a growl, half a sigh — and the next moment his mouth was on Dean’s, firm and unhesitating. Dean laughed into the kiss, hands fisting in Cas’s shirt, before melting into it, all teasing giving way to pure need and want. 

When they broke apart, Dean rested his forehead against Cas’s, still grinning. “Guess I really am a brat.” 

Castiel’s lips brushed his again in a softer kiss. “Yes,” he murmured. “But you are my brat.” 

Dean barely had time to catch his breath before Castiel’s mouth was on his again. This kiss was different, hungry, answering every tease Dean had thrown his way. 

Dean groaned into it, fingers fisting in Cas’s tie, yanking him closer until they stumbled back toward the couch. Cas let himself be pulled, his hands finding Dean’s waist, firm as he steered him down onto the cushions. 

They landed in a tangle, Dean laughing breathlessly against his mouth. “Easy, big guy — I don’t have insurance if you break the furniture.” 

“Brat,” Castiel muttered again, nipping at Dean’s lower lip just enough to make him gasp. 

Dean shivered, his laughter melting into something warmer, needier. He looped his arms around Cas’s shoulders, pulling him down until their bodies pressed flush, chest to chest, heat radiating through their clothes. 

The kiss deepened, mouths sliding, opening, tongues brushing in a slow, desperate rhythm. Dean whimpered softly, the sound muffled against Cas’s lips, and Cas answered by holding him tighter, one hand sliding up into his hair, the other anchoring at his hip. 

The world narrowed to the heat of it — the taste, the pressure, the steady rumble of Cas’s breath. Dean arched up into him, lost in the sensation of finally being wanted this way, of being cherished and claimed without a word. 

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathing hard, Dean let his head fall back against the cushions, lips swollen, eyes bright. “Holy shit.” He grinned crookedly, brushing his thumb across Cas’s jaw. “Guess I really am your brat.” 

Castiel’s eyes were dark, his voice like gravel. “Yes. And I intend to keep you that way.” 

Dean laughed, breathless and giddy, before pulling him back down for another kiss. 

The TV hummed forgotten in the background, the rest of the world slipping away as they lost themselves in each other, tangled up on Dean’s couch — and neither of them minded one bit. 

Chapter Text

Balthazar leaned lazily against the doorframe of Castiel’s office, with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. The city lights stretched wide through the window behind him, but his blue eyes, much like his brothers, were fixed on his brother. 

“When,” he drawled, “do I finally get to meet this mysterious Omega of yours? You’ve been seeing him for nearly six months, Cassie. I’m beginning to think you’ve invented him to keep me out of your hair.” 

Castiel looked up from the folder in front of him, expression as flat as ever. “Not yet.” 

Balthazar’s brows shot up. “Not yet? Oh, come on. You’ve practically moved into his apartment, if half the things I’ve overheard on the phone are true. Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by me.” He smirked. “Because I promise, I’ll be on my best behaviour.” 

Castiel shut the folder with deliberate calm, resting his hands on top of it. “It is not you I hesitate over, Balthazar. It is me.” 

Something in his tone made Balthazar’s smirk fade. He moved inside, lowering himself into the chair opposite his brother’s desk. “Alright. No quips. Tell me.” 

Castiel exhaled slowly, leaning back. His gaze flickered toward the window, past the glass and steel of the skyline, somewhere far away. “You remember.” 

Balthazar didn’t need clarification. He set his cup down with a soft clink. “Of course I do.” 

The room seemed misty with the memory. The almost-mating. The way Castiel had come home hollow, silent, his heart bruised in a way Balthazar hadn’t been able to fix. 

“You were in love,” Balthazar said. “Or near enough. And then it shattered. There wasn’t a damned thing I could do except watch.” He shook his head, his voice softening. “So, forgive me if I’m not convinced, brother. Forgive me if I prod. I want to make sure you don’t wind up bleeding again.” 

“Dean is not the same. He is… different. He is cautious. Wounded, though he does not show it. And I will not parade him before anyone until he is ready. Until I am sure.” 

“Cassie, listen to yourself. Six months, and you still won’t let me meet him? That doesn’t sound like a man who isn’t sure. That sounds like a man who’s terrified he’ll lose what he’s found.” 

Castiel didn’t answer right away.  “Perhaps I am.” 

For a long moment, silence settled between them. Then Balthazar stood, circling the desk until he was beside his brother. He clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder. 

“Then I’ll support you,” he said. “I may tease, but I’m not blind. You’re happier than you’ve been in years. You laugh, Castiel. Do you know how rare that’s been?” His hand squeezed. “I’ll wait. I’ll be patient. When you’re ready — when he’s ready — I’ll be here. And I’ll welcome him.” 

Castiel looked up at him, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. Balthazar offered a crooked smile, softer than his usual smirk. 

“We lost our parents too young,” Balthazar said. “It’s been us for too damn long. If you’ve found someone worth holding onto? I’ll do anything to make sure you don’t lose him.” 

For once, Castiel allowed himself a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Balthazar.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Balthazar said lightly, reaching for his cup again. “Just make sure when you finally bring him ‘round, he doesn’t hate me.” 

Castiel’s smile lingered, faint but real. “He will not.” 

Balthazar raised his cup in a mock-toast. “Then here’s to the mysterious Dean. May he be the one who sticks.” 

-0- 

Friday mornings at the market were quieter than weekends, but Dean liked it that way. The air was cool, stalls set up along the sidewalks, the smell of roasted coffee, doughnuts, and scented candles drifting between voices. 

He stopped short at a booth near the end of the row. Sitting on a weathered crate was a sculpture of a bee — wings cut from shards of recycled glass, body twisted together from scrap bolts and copper wire. Imperfect, but full of life. 

Dean smiled to himself. Perfect. 

Cas would love it. He could already picture the way the Alpha would tilt his head, call it “charming,” then set it somewhere the light would catch it, in all its glory.  Dean handed over a couple of bills without hesitation, tucking the bee carefully into his bag. 

Back home, he set the gift on the table, where the sunlight streamed through the blinds and splashed across the glass wings, scattering little rainbows on the wall. Dean stood there a long minute, watching the light, his chest warm at the thought of giving it to Cas later. 

But work called. He booted up his laptop and pulled up the new client brief he’d agreed to the night before. The paycheck wasn’t huge, but steady money meant keeping the lights on. He rubbed the back of his neck, scanning through the attached documents. 

Halfway through, his smile vanished. 

Renewable energy reform. Policy drafts. Stakeholder outreach. 

Dean frowned. He read slower, line by line, but there was no mistaking it. This was the same project Cas had been buried in for weeks. Maybe the opposite side of it. 

“Shit,” Dean muttered. His chair scraped back as he stood, pacing the room. Money be damned. He couldn’t let Cas walk into this blind. 

In a rush, he stuffed the printouts into his bag, grabbed his keys, and bolted out the door. The little bee on the table caught the sun one last time as he left, scattering light across the empty apartment. 

Novak Industries loomed tall and imposing against the skyline, glass gleaming in the afternoon sun. Dean’s boots echoed across the marble lobby, nerves buzzing as he strode up to the desk. 

“Hi—yeah, Dean Winchester,” he said quickly. “I need to see Castiel Novak. Urgently.” 

The receptionist’s smile was professional and calm. “Mr Novak is in a meeting. Do you have an appointment?” 

Dean’s stomach dropped. “No, but it’s important—” 

“Sir,” she interrupted, her voice firmer now, “I can’t allow you upstairs without clearance.” 

Dean ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “C’mon, Cas, pick the worst damn time to be busy—” 

“Well, well,” a voice drawled from behind. “So this is Dean.” 

Dean spun, startled. A man about Cas’s age strolled across the lobby, suit neat, golden hair perfectly styled, eyes gleaming with mischief. He looked like Cas if someone had stripped out all the restraint and replaced it with charm. 

“I—uh—yeah?” Dean said. 

The man smirked. “Balthazar Novak. Castiel’s brother. And judging by your face, you must be the reason he actually smiles at his phone.” 

Dean flushed scarlet. “He… he does that?” 

“Constantly. It’s nauseating.” Balthazar turned to the receptionist, his smile as smooth as honey. “He’s with me.” 

“But Mr Novak is in a—” 

“I’ll take responsibility,” Balthazar cut her off easily. “Castiel will want to see him.” 

Dean was half-relieved, half-nervous as Balthazar clapped him on the shoulder and steered him toward a private elevator. 

“Come along, darling,” Balthazar said with a wink. “Let’s go crash my brother’s meeting, shall we?” 

Dean’s heart hammered as the doors slid shut. Cas was upstairs, and Dean had never needed to see him more. 

The elevator doors slid shut, the hum of machinery filling the silence. Dean shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, trying to steady his breath. 

The elevator hummed as it climbed, polished steel reflecting Dean’s nervous pacing. His bag thumped against his leg with every step. Balthazar leaned casually against the wall, watching him like a cat at play. 

“So,” Balthazar said, swirling the words with amusement. “Why are we about to interrupt my brother’s very expensive board meeting?” 

Dean blew out a jagged breath, running a hand through his hair. “I got a commission this morning. Freelance article. Thought it was another piece on renewable energy. But the more I read…” He unzipped his bag, pulling out the file and jabbing a finger at the pages. “The brief is stuffed with this language about ‘flexible targets’ and ‘strategic offsets.’ Looks harmless, but it’s all loopholes. It means corporations can look green while doing jack shit.” 

Balthazar’s smirk faltered. His eyes sharpened. “You’re certain?” 

Dean nodded, grim. “Positive. I’ve seen this crap before. And buried in the contact sheet?” He shoved the paper at him, tapping the name at the bottom. “Roman Industries. Dick Roman himself. He’s behind it. Cas has no idea. And if Roman’s people throw this down during the pitch, it’ll gut everything Cas is building.” 

The name made Balthazar’s mouth twist. Gone was the Playboy charm; in its place was something colder, more complex. “Dick bloody Roman,” he muttered. “Of course.” He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with a snap. “Then you’re right. We can’t wait.” 

Dean’s pulse hammered. “So what do we do?” 

Balthazar’s lips curved — but this time, it wasn’t playful. It was sharp, dangerous. “We march in like it’s a battle. Because it is.” 

The elevator doors slid open. The hallway gleamed, voices carrying from the boardroom at the far end. Dean swallowed hard, falling into step beside Balthazar. 

They didn’t hesitate. 

The heavy double doors swung open, and the room fell silent. Rows of executives turned, startled. At the head of the table, Castiel stood in front of a projector screen, mid-sentence, pointer in hand. His intelligent blue eyes locked on Dean immediately, widening. 

“Dean?” His voice cut the air, abashed with surprise. 

Dean forced himself forward, the file clutched in his hand. “Cas, I need to talk to you. Now. It’s urgent. It’s about this proposal.” 

Murmurs rippled through the room. 

Balthazar strode in after him, every inch the polished Novak heir, voice smooth but commanding. “Ladies and gentlemen, apologies for the interruption. But you’ll want to hear this. Consider it… a tactical adjustment.” 

Dean dropped the file onto the glossy table with a thud, causing papers to spill across its surface. His voice was shaky, yet it conveyed honesty. “My client’s Roman Industries. This is their language. Loopholes, offsets, smoke and mirrors. They want to greenwash the whole damn project. It looks clean, but it’s poison. If they roll this out before you finish, it’ll undercut you completely.” 

The room buzzed with uneasy whispers. 

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, flicking down to the documents. He scanned fast, jaw ticking, and when he looked back up, the muscle in his cheek twitched. 

“Ten minutes,” he said curtly to the room. “Adjourn. Now.” 

Chairs scraped, papers rustled, and a stream of suits shuffled out, some muttering, others eyeing Dean like he’d just dropped a bomb. They all moved to Castiel's office for privacy.  

Castiel’s office was vast and austere, the glass wall behind his desk opening onto the sprawl of the city. Afternoon light poured in, spilling across shelves lined with files and thick law books, across the black marble desk that seemed too clean, too precise. 

The door shut with a quiet click. Silence settled, heavy as stone. 

Dean shifted his bag onto the desk and pulled out the file, hands slightly unsteady but determined. He flipped it open, spreading the pages across the glossy surface. “Here,” he said quickly, jabbing a finger at the text. “Look at this. Strategic offsets. Flexible targets. Sounds harmless, right? Technical jargon. But it’s not. It’s a loophole. Let's corporations look green without changing a damn thing. They buy credits, fudge numbers, keep polluting, and the public thinks the crisis is solved.” 

Castiel bent over the desk, scanning the lines with a lawyer’s precision. His blue eyes scanned fast across the page, brow furrowing deeper with each word. 

Dean’s mouth felt dry, but he kept on. “I’ve seen this trick before. Back when I was in Colorado, still at school. Local firms attempted to incorporate the same language into state policy. Almost worked, too. If some watchdog group hadn’t raised hell at the last minute, it would’ve been law. Stuck with me ever since.” He tapped the line again, harder. “This is the same playbook. Roman’s playbook.” 

At the name, Castiel’s head snapped up. 

Dean flipped to the back page, stabbing at the fine print. “See the contact line? Roman Industries. My ‘client.’ They didn’t hire me to inform the public — they hired me to launder this crap into legitimacy. Make it look balanced. Make it look like reform. But it’s not. It guts what you’re building before it even launches.” 

The silence stretched. 

Castiel’s eyes narrowed on the Roman letterhead as if it were poison. When he finally spoke, his voice was edged with steel. “You are certain.” 

Dean met his eyes. “Positive. This isn’t just corporate fluff. It’s sabotage dressed up as compromise. And if they slide it across the table while you’re mid-pitch? You’ll be cornered before you can counter it.” 

For a long beat, Castiel said nothing, his blue eyes fixed on Dean. Then he reached out, pressing his palm flat on the paper, pinning it to the desk. “You saw what no one else did.” 

Dean’s mouth went dry. “I… yeah. Guess so.” 

From the corner of the room, Balthazar swore under his breath. He’d perched himself in one of the leather chairs, legs crossed, swirling the remains of his drink like he was watching a theatre production. “Well, isn’t this domestic. You save the planet, he saves you from the paperwork. It’s enough to make a grown man weep.” 

Castiel’s glare cut sharply across the room. “Balthazar.” 

Balthazar held up his free hand, grin unabashed. “What? I like him: brains, guts, and a sense of timing. You’ve been brooding in this glass box for years, and suddenly, he storms in like a knight with receipts. Honestly, Cassie, I’m impressed.” He tipped his glass toward Dean. “If you don’t marry him, I will.” 

Dean flushed crimson, feeling his cheeks heat. “Oh god.” 

“Out,” Castiel said flatly, voice dark as thunder. 

Balthazar chuckled, unbothered. He rose, straightening his jacket, and clapped Dean on the shoulder as he passed. “Good work, darling. Keep him honest.” 

The door clicked shut behind him. 

Silence again. 

Dean shifted, suddenly too aware of the space between them, of how close Cas stood over the desk. “Sorry if I… made a scene out there. I just—” He gestured helplessly at the papers. “I couldn’t sit on it. Money be damned.” 

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice softened, though his eyes still burned with intensity. “Do not apologise. You did precisely what needed to be done. You saw the strike coming before anyone else. You acted.” 

Dean gave a crooked half-smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t want to watch you get blindsided, Cas. Not after all the hours you’ve been putting in.” 

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Cas moved, slow, circling the desk. He stopped in front of Dean, close enough that Dean could see the flecks of lighter blue in his eyes, close enough to feel the steady warmth radiating from him. 

“You are invaluable to me,” Cas said quietly, with a weight that pinned the words in the air. “Not just because of this. But because you care enough to fight beside me.” 

“Guess, I learnt something at school, huh? Guess I’m not some nobody without a brain.” 

“Never,” Cas said, fierce. His hand rose, steady, cupping Dean’s jaw, thumb brushing just under his cheekbone. “You are anything but.” 

Dean leaned into the touch before he could stop himself, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. The tension in his body eased, replaced by something warmer, something more dangerous. He opened his eyes again. “You’ve got no idea what that means to me.” 

“Then let me show you,” Castiel murmured. 

The office was quiet, the city alive beyond the glass, but in that moment the world narrowed to just them: a detail writer with intelligent eyes, an Alpha CEO with iron in his spine, both standing on the edge of something bigger than either had planned. 

Their mouths met, rough and desperate at first, like the weight of everything unsaid had driven them both to the edge. Dean let out a sound — half a groan, half a sigh — his fingers curling in the lapel of Cas’s suit jacket as he pulled him closer. 

Cas kissed him back with intensity, one hand sliding to the back of Dean’s neck, holding him firm, the other braced against the desk as if he needed the anchor. Dean melted into it, heat sparking low in his belly, every nerve alive. 

When they finally parted, breath ragged, Dean pressed his forehead to Cas’s, eyes half-shut, voice shaking with something that felt too big for him. “I—hell, I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, but… I’m gone on you, Cas. Have been for a while.” 

The silence stretched, charged. Then Cas’s hand tightened at the back of his neck, his blue eyes burning into his. 

“I love you, Dean,” he said like it was a fact. “I have for some time.” 

Dean let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking into a grin he couldn’t hold back. “You really know how to knock a guy flat, don’t ya?” 

Cas smiled. “Only you.” 

Dean kissed him again, softer this time, slow and lingering, his hands sliding up into Cas’s hair. “Love you too, Daddy,” he whispered against his mouth, half-teasing, half-true. 

The way Cas groaned into the kiss made Dean’s whole body light up. And for the first time in years, maybe ever, he didn’t feel tired. He felt alive. 

-0- 

Evening settled softly over the city, the streetlights outside Dean’s window throwing a warm glow through the blinds. Cas stood near the door, trench coat draped over his arm, still very much the Alpha who had run a boardroom hours earlier — and yet, here, he looked easier, like he belonged.  

Dean kicked off his boots, then walked over to the table. “Hang on. Got something for you.” 

Cas tilted his head, curious, as Dean picked up the bee he had left on the shelf that morning.  

“Found this at the market today. Scrap glass wings, old bolts for the body. Thought it fit. Figured the guy who gives speeches about bees every other week oughta have one sitting on his shelf.” 

Cas took it carefully, turning it in his hands. The fractured glass caught the lamplight, scattering tiny prisms across the room. Castiel smiled as he studied it. “It is remarkable.” He looked back at Dean, blue eyes warmer than the city glow. “You thought of me when you saw this?” 

“Course I did,” Dean said without hesitation, stepping closer. “You’re in my head, Cas. Pretty much all the time these days.” 

Something unguarded flickered across Cas’s expression. He set the sculpture on the windowsill where the light glinted off its wings, then turned back, his voice softer now. “Where has my shy boy gone?” 

Dean looped his arms around Cas’s neck, smiling against the words. “He’s still here,” he murmured. “But only you get to see the real me.” 

Cas’s breath caught, his hands sliding firm around Dean’s waist. For a heartbeat, he just looked at him — steady, intense, moved in a way Dean rarely saw. Then he bent, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was slow and sure, reverent in a way that made Dean’s chest ache. 

When they broke apart, Dean chuckled softly, forehead pressed to Cas’s. “Bet your board doesn’t get that side of you.” 

“They do not,” Cas agreed. “It is only for you.” 

Dean kissed him again, quick and playful, grinning against his lips. “Glad to hear it, Daddy.” 

The sound Cas made — half groan, half laugh — had Dean laughing too, the gift’s glass wings scattering light around them like sparks. 

Dinner went cold on the counter. They’d meant to eat — Cas had even opened the wine, Dean had pulled out two glasses — but the pull between them kept snapping tight until neither of them could pretend anymore. 

Dean barely remembered how they moved from the kitchen to the bedroom. Just that at some point, Cas’s suit jacket was shrugged off, his tie hanging loose, and Dean was pressed against the wall, breathing him in like oxygen. 

“Cas—” His name left Dean’s mouth like it had been waiting years, half-breath, half-prayer. 

Castiel’s hands framed his face, eyes burning blue. “Dean. Are you certain?” 

Dean grinned, breathless, tugging him closer by the shirtfront. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.” 

The first kiss was sweet. The second wasn’t. 

It turned hungry fast, laughter breaking against lips, hands tugging, fumbling, undoing. Dean felt every brush of fingertips like sparks, every slip of fabric against his skin like a revelation. They left a trail of clothes behind them — his shirt half-buttoned, Cas’s cufflinks clattering somewhere on the floor — but none of it mattered. 

What mattered was the way Cas touched him: not just with hunger, but with care. Slow enough to steady Dean, sure enough to keep him grounded. Every stroke of fingers, every press of lips felt like a vow. 

Dean broke on a laugh that hitched into a gasp, forehead pressed to Cas’s. “God, you’re killing me here.” 

“I don’t wish to kill you,” Cas said, deadpan even now, voice gravel-low. “I wish to make you feel everything you deserve.” 

Dean shivered, clutching at his shoulders, his bravado peeling back into something rawer. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s what I want. That’s all I want.” 

Time blurred. It wasn’t rushed — though there were moments where Dean lost patience, pulling, demanding more, only to be slowed again by Cas’s steady hands. It wasn’t timid either. It was fierce in its own way, like neither could hold back anymore. 

Dean thought maybe he’d remember every piece of it forever — the way Cas murmured beautiful against his skin, the way Dean’s own voice cracked when he whispered please. 

And when it finally came together, when all that heat and want and care wound tight into something inevitable, Dean clung to him like he was the only solid thing in the world. “Don’t stop,” he begged, voice rough, his head tipping back. “I want this, I want you—” 

“You have me,” Cas answered, sure as the sun rising in the morning, sealing the words with a kiss that left Dean trembling. 

Later, Dean lay tangled in the sheets, his cheek pressed to Cas’s chest. The steady heartbeat beneath his ear felt like the only rhythm that mattered. Cas’s arm was heavy across his shoulders, anchoring him close, his thumb tracing lazy circles along Dean’s skin. 

Dean hummed, boneless, lips brushing against Cas’s collarbone. “Guess I really am yours now, huh?” 

Cas pressed a kiss into his hair, voice low. “You always were.” 

Dean smiled, small but certain, eyes fluttering shut. For the first time in years, maybe ever, he felt entirely at peace. 

-0- 

Dean’s phone buzzed across the coffee table, interrupting the low drone of the documentary he and Cas had put on. The name flashing across the screen made his stomach clench. 

Sam. 

Cas shifted forward instantly, ready to step in the way he had the last time. But Dean held up a hand. “No,” he said quietly. “I got this.” 

Cas studied him for a beat, then inclined his head. His hand stayed close, resting against Dean’s thigh, solid and supportive. 

Dean swiped to answer. “Sammy?” 

There was a pause, then Sam’s voice, softer than Dean remembered. “Hey, Dean.” 

Dean’s chest tightened. “What’s going on?” 

Another pause, longer this time. Then Sam let out a breath. “I’m… not at Yale anymore.” 

“What?” 

“I transferred,” Sam hurried on. “To a smaller school, still law, but somewhere I could start over. Took out a loan. Got a job. Jess came with me.” His voice wavered but steadied again. “She said I was a fool. For how I treated you. For how Mom treated both of us. She… she opened my eyes, Dean. She’s been pushing me to do better. And I’m trying.” 

Dean stared at the far wall, words caught in his throat. Sam rushed ahead, as if afraid to stop. 

“I’ve been in therapy. And I’m not… I’m not ready to say sorry yet. Not because I don’t feel it, but because I want it to mean something when I do. I don’t want it to be easy words. I want you to believe me when I say it.” 

Dean let out a slow breath, his heart twisting. For once, Sam didn’t sound entitled or above it all. He sounded like the kid Dean remembered. 

“Sammy,” Dean said finally, voice rough but steady. “That’s… a hell of a step. I’m proud of you.” 

The line was quiet for a long beat. Then Sam’s voice dropped. “I like him, Dean. Cas. I can hear it in the way you talk now — you sound different. Lighter. He’s good for you. I like him.” 

Dean’s gaze slid to Cas, sitting beside him with that still, watchful presence. His Alpha hadn’t said a word, but his hand tightened gently over Dean’s, anchoring him. 

“Yeah. He is.” 

Sam drew a shaky breath. “I love you, Dean.” 

Dean closed his eyes, smiling faintly through the sting there. “Love you too, Sammy. Always.” 

When the call ended, Dean set the phone down, his hand still wrapped in Cas’s. 

Cas’s voice was quiet, but sure. “Perhaps he is growing up.” 

Dean leaned back against him, exhaling. “Yeah,” he said, a little smile breaking through. “Maybe he is.” 

One Year and five months later. 

The reception hall was bright with strings of golden lights, laughter echoing off the walls, and glasses raised high on every table. Ellen and Jo were already crying into their napkins, Balthazar had delivered one shamelessly irreverent toast, and now it was Castiel’s turn. 

The room hushed as he rose, glass in hand. His suit was immaculate, but there was something unguarded in his face as his eyes found Dean across the table. 

“I first saw Dean in Ellen Harvelle’s bar,” Castiel began. “He was sitting in a booth, and the light caught in his hair. He looked… different from everyone else in the room. Handsome, yes, striking — but more than that. There was a quiet strength about him, even in stillness. I couldn’t look away.” 

A ripple of laughter and whistles moved through the crowd. Jo let out a loud woo! and Dean flushed pink, ducking his head with a grin. 

Cas laughed, waiting for the noise to fade before continuing. 

“But that was not the moment I fell in love,” he said, his voice softening. “That came later — still that same night, when we stepped outside. Dean began to tell me about fireflies. Their Latin name, the way their light works, and how he’d always loved them since he was a boy. And as he spoke…” Cas paused, his gaze fixed tenderly on Dean. “His whole face changed. His eyes lit brighter than the fireflies themselves. His hands moved as if he were painting their glow in the air. And in that moment, I thought — here is a man who carries wonder inside him. Here is someone who sees beauty where others overlook it. That was the moment I knew I would never look away again.” 

The hall erupted — whistles, applause, the stamping of feet. Ellen hollered loud enough to rattle the glasses, Jo dabbed at her eyes, and Dean laughed helplessly, hiding his face in his hands. 

Cas waited, patient until the cheers softened again. Then he lowered his glass, speaking not just to the room but to the man beside him. 

“Dean, you are my light. My partner. My home. From that first night until this one, and for every day after, I will treasure the fire you carry. I promise, for as long as I live, to protect it — and to love you with everything I am.” 

The room thundered with applause, cheers so loud they shook the walls. But Castiel didn’t notice. He only had eyes for Dean, and when Dean reached for his hand across the table, Cas took it like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. 

The applause was deafening, cheers echoing against the high ceiling, whistles shrill from the back of the hall. Ellen hollered something half-inappropriate that made Jo bury her face in her hands. But none of it reached Dean. 

All Dean saw was Cas, standing there with that steady fire in his eyes, hand wrapped tight around his own. 

Dean rose without thinking, tugging Cas closer by the front of his suit. The crowd whooped louder, stomping feet in rhythm now, egging him on. 

Dean grinned, eyes shining. “Y’know, you could’ve just said I looked good in that booth, and I was yours from the start,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Laughter rolled through the room. 

Then his voice softened, dropping even for Cas, although the microphone still carried it. “But damn, Cas… you got me good with that speech. Fireflies and all.” 

He didn’t give Cas a chance to answer before pulling him down into a kiss. Not a chaste peck — a real kiss, slow and sure, meant for his husband even as the crowd went wild. Whistles hit a fever pitch, glasses clinked, and someone banged a spoon against a glass in rhythm. 

Dean finally broke the kiss, breathless, still grinning like an idiot. “Guess you’re stuck with me now, Novak.” 

Cas brushed his thumb along Dean’s jaw, blue eyes soft but blazing all at once. “Gladly.” 

The hall erupted again, but Dean only heard the sound of his own heart and the voice of the man he’d just promised forever to.