Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Now, all I have to do is find this ‘Yoda’... if he even—”

The electronic shriek of an alarm rips through the TV room and Dean jumps violently, a wave of popcorn leaping from the bowl in his lap to shower the couch in greasy, buttery kernels. 

“Shit, Dean, chill out! It’s just my phone,” Sam laughs, pulling said phone out of his pocket and silencing the alarm. Cas pauses the movie, grinning the whole time. Dean scowls and tries to shove Sam off the couch.

“What, you never heard of Do Not Disturb? Go check your messages and then turn the damn thing off. Bitch.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, ya jerk.” Sam gets to his feet, snickering, and heads out into the hall. Cas is still watching Dean with a twinkle of mirth in his eyes, so Dean elbows him and grabs some popcorn.

“Well, start it back up. It’s not our fault Sam’s the most popular girl in school.”

Cas obliges with a quiet huff of laughter, settling further back into the cushions and reaching over to grab his own handful of what little popcorn is left in the bowl. Dean sneaks a glance at him as Yoda starts messing with Luke, smiling at the child-like wonder that’s crept back onto his face as he watches the movie. 

It doesn’t get much better than this, does it?

Cas has been living with them for about a month and a half, now, and so far it’s been… really nice. It took them a minute to get used to it, sure, but for the most part it’s been smooth sailing. Cas fits seamlessly into their little family, better than any of them could’ve guessed. 

Only… well.

Dean is also going, for lack of a better phrase, completely. Batshit. Crazy. 

See, Cas is definitely mojo-ed back up to almost a hundred percent: wings, halo, the whole nine yards. No question. But he doesn’t act very much like an angel anymore, and that’s where the problems started. It had gotten to the point where Sam and Dean had both been worried it was some sort of issue with Cas’ Grace that was forcing him to sleep and eat, but that wasn't it at all: he’d explained everything one morning when they’d finally cornered him and demanded he tell them what was wrong. As it turned out, Cas just… liked some stuff about being human. Food, showers, exercise. That sorta thing. (Dean doesn’t get that last one, but hey. To each his own.)

Of course, if Cas was interested in exploring his humanity, they sure as hell weren’t gonna let him keep livin’ off the meager supplies he had left over from when he was sleeping in the back of a Gas N’ Sip. The guilt Dean feels for dumping him out on his own like that is still sitting heavily in his stomach, even though Cas has told him more than once that he’s forgiven, that he understands what a difficult position Dean was in. And he says it so earnestly, so gently, that Dean almost believes him. 

But then he’ll do something innocent that hits Dean like a gut punch and reminds him how little he deserves that forgiveness. Like how on the way back from a quick hunt last weekend, Dean had watched in the rearview mirror as a dozing Cas had reached out and wrapped a protective hand tightly around the strap of Sam’s bag, tugging it close to his side. 

It had taken him a second to put two and two together, but then he’d realized it was a reflex. To keep anyone from stealing his stuff while he was sleeping. He couldn’t tell whether he felt more like throwing up, crying, or stopping the car and giving the guy a hug. 

(He’d given Cas all the cash he could scrounge up before he left, like less than two hundred dollars was gonna make the whole thing better. Cas had been human for less than a week, he was confused, tired, and struggling, and Dean had kicked him out as soon as he got back to the Bunker with enough for a few nights in a shitty motel and maybe, maybe a week of food. Fuck, what is wrong with him?)

So yeah. Off they’d gone to Target, to outfit Cas with all the necessary bits and pieces of humanity, and a fair number of the unnecessary ones, too. Three hours later they’d walked out of that store with a fuckton of new clothes, a good mattress topper for Cas’ bed, and even a couple knick-knacks he’d liked from the home decor section. Sam had kept looking at Dean like he was waiting for him to bitch about all the shopping, but Dean just pushed the cart and let Cas get what he wanted. Because guilt notwithstanding, Dean got it. Being human definitely has its perks, and if Cas wanted to try out the nicer parts of it, Dean wasn’t gonna stop him. God knows he’d seen enough of the shitty stuff already.

Although it turned out that Dean wasn’t at all prepared for the reality of having Cas-the-kind-of-human living in the Bunker. It hit him like a goddamn truck, and someone, somewhere was definitely laughing at him.

Dean realized how much he’d underestimated the situation the first time Sam and Cas caught him in the kitchen after a morning run. He’d looked up blearily, about to grunt a hello, and almost spewed his coffee across the table. Because Cas had been sweaty and grinning and fucking radiant, laughing at something Sam had said as they grabbed glasses of water from the sink. He’d asked Dean if everything was alright; Dean had waved him off and thought to himself, shit.

Then there were the clothes. He’d given Cas a couple of his old band tees to augment his growing wardrobe, ones he didn’t wear very often. Unluckily for Dean, his brain hadn’t really connected giving the tees to Cas with him actually wearing them. No surprise, he did. A lot. And to add insult to injury? He looked really, unfairly good in them. (How had Dean never noticed how jacked Cas was? His shoulders are broad, broader than Dean’d expected, and his arms. Shit. Then there are the jeans they’d gotten him. The slacks he used to wear did absolutely nothing for his legs, and even less for his— NOPE shut up shut the fuck up, Winchester.) 

Even food isn’t safe. Watching Cas try the apple pie Dean had made one afternoon, still warm from the oven? The guy acted like he was having a fuckin’ divine revelation. He’d showered Dean with praise, and Dean hadn’t had the first clue how to deal with that beyond going beet red and forgetting how to talk.

All of that has been making it real hard not to get too, uh… familiar. That unsaid thing that’s always loomed between him and Cas has been getting harder and harder for him to keep a handle on the longer Cas sticks around. Dean hasn’t quite been able to pretend it doesn’t exist since Purgatory happened, and now… well. He’s not sure (read: terrified of) what he might do when it finally gets to be too much. Not that his stupid, traitorous brain hasn’t supplied him with some ideas. Running into Cas coming back from a shower that one time sent it careening straight into hormonal teen overdrive. That was... an interesting few days.

So Cas is back, and it’s stupid good, and now Dean is constantly fighting the urge to just grab him and… and... 

The point is, he’s struggling. In an effort to take his mind off it, Dean’s chosen Harrison Ford movies the past couple times they’ve had a movie night and started re-watching Dr. Sexy. Ordinarily, the combination of Indiana Jones, Han Solo, and The Boots™ would be doing the job just fine, but all it’s doing now is making Sam threaten to revoke all of Dean’s movie choosing privileges. Although, he muses thoughtfully, that might have something to do with the fact that Cas is usually sitting next to him when the distracting’s supposed to be happening, his leg pressed warmly up against Dean’s. And unfortunately, that tends to cancel out the effect of whatever’s on screen at the time.

Luke follows Yoda into the swamp, still unaware that he’s being pranked by the little old guy himself, when Sam comes back in. “Hey, guys. We’ve got a problem.”

Cas hits pause on the movie for the second time in five minutes, and the two of them turn around to look at Sam over the back of the couch. Dean frowns.  

“What’s up?”

Sam grimaces, holding up his phone so they can see. “That was the new program I set up to scan for possible cases. It hit on something.” He shrugs. “I’m not sure what it is. But if I had to guess… I’d say witches.”

Dean groans, thumping his head back onto the back of the couch. “Is nothing sacred anymore? Not even goddamn movie night?” He rubs a hand over his face, then sighs in resignation. “I’ll go make sure the car’s ready. Is tonight gonna be enough time to do all the research you need to?”

“Yeah, I’ll be good as long as Cas gives me a hand.” 

“Of course.”

Dean sets the popcorn aside and pats Cas’ shoulder. “Sorry, man. Looks like Luke’ll have to cool his jets for a couple days.”

Cas’ mouth twitches up at the corner, and he gives Dean a side-eye. “Perhaps he’ll have realized he’s being played by then.” Then he hauls himself up off the couch, leaving Dean’s leg cold in his absence as he and Sam head off to the library. 

Dean watches them leave and sits for a moment more in the empty room, eyes unfocused. Then he lets out another put-upon sigh and reluctantly gets up to start sweeping the spilled popcorn back into the bowl. 

Fucking witches. Dean knew there was a good reason he hates them.

Chapter Text

When they first got into town, it seemed like a simple enough case. Two deaths over the past week, apparently unrelated except for the MO: both vics had soup for brains, and their hearts had been carefully removed. Not as gross as witches usually are, true, but way too clean to be a werewolf, or some other creature in the habit of chowing down on internal organs. 

Things went steadily downhill from there. Dean and Cas went to investigate the crime scenes while Sam interrogated the coroner, and guess what they found. Take a wild fuckin’ guess. 

Two identical hex bags, one at each scene. 

Dean might’ve bitched about it. A lot. 

They’d found out pretty quickly that both vics were regulars at a shop in town that sold hippie, pseudo-supernatural shit. The working theory had been, simply, that the owner was packing a real punch and chose a couple of easy, accessible targets. 

That turned out to be a complete bust. Sam checked her out (heh) while Dean and Cas surreptitiously searched the store for clues, and as far as they could tell she was just a normal, middle-aged businesswoman who wasn’t nearly as exotic as her name suggested. And although she might be annoyingly superior for someone selling packs of tarot cards and advertising the services of “soul guides”, she wasn’t witchy in the least. (She was wearing cheap costume jewelry and a muumuu, and her affected accent slipped towards something decidedly midwestern when she wasn’t paying attention.) So now they’re three days in, and all they’ve got are two dead people and some novelty cleansing crystals.

Cas and Dean are on research duty while Sam is out getting dinner, sitting in the motel room and scouring records, autopsy reports, and local news stories for any other connections between the vics. And as far as Dean can see, they’ve still got zilch.

He sighs, tossing the folder he’d been skimming onto the table. Cas tilts his head quizzically. “You’ve had no luck?”

Dean gets up to grab a beer from the mini fridge, shaking his head. “It’s useless. The only thing connecting those two is the damn hippie store, but we’ve already checked that out and decided it’s a dead end.” He takes a swig of beer and shrugs. “I dunno, man. We don’t have any other leads. Maybe we should take another look.”

Cas’ gaze drifts off into the distance, more than a little consternation invading his expression. “Perhaps. But I sensed nothing from Madame Ayad. No power whatsoever.”

Sam interrupts Cas’ concern as he walks in the door, back from the dinner run. Dean grabs his bag, yes, burger, and plops down on the bed. Sam dumps his and Cas’ stuff carelessly onto the table, immediately going for his computer with a weird, constipated look on his face. Cas reaches over and snags one of Dean’s fries, ignoring the ensuing death-glare that Dean gives him on principle more than anything else, and starts reading his file again. He doesn’t get much further though, because after half a minute of furious typing Sam swings his laptop around.

“You see this, Cas?”

Dean looks between the two of them, slightly worried now, because apparently Sam’s constipation-face is infectious. “What? You find something?”

Cas scrolls down, reading intently. “The cycle of the Egyptian lunar calendar begins again tomorrow night. Such an event is fairly rare.”

Sam takes his laptop back. “Yeah. Like, once every twenty-five years.” He leans back in his chair and he’s grimacing, like, Damn it, I hate being right. “I saw Madame Ayad leaving the butcher shop in town, and it was weird; she came out from the back carrying a milk jug. So I went in and asked what she bought, and you want to know what it was?” Please not more hearts, please not more hearts— “Lamb’s blood. A whole gallon of it.”

Dean spares his burger a last, longing glance before sighing and tossing it petulantly back into the bag. “So what, someone’s taking notes from Moses?”

 Cas looks worried. “Not quite. Madame Ayad’s shop was filled with artifacts claiming to be from around the world, but the majority of them were supposedly Egyptian. A few were even authentic, and she herself was wearing various Egyptian symbols about her person. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now…”

They sit there for a minute, absorbing what that means. Dean voices it first, counting points on his fingers as he goes. 

“So basically what you’re saying is, we’ve got a fangirl witch on our hands who’s gearing up for some ancient Egyptian ritual. One that calls for human hearts as a main ingredient, which is never good. Oh, and not only is she a witch, she’s powerful and smart enough to stay under your radar, Cas.”

“...yes. Basically.”

“Well, crap.”

— - —

Word of the third death comes in on the police scanner not long after that, and after quickly swinging by the scene, they’re sure. The dead woman had held the door for them when they left the shop the other day. There’s a gaping, bloody hole in her chest.

It’s go time. A witch is still a witch, so good ol’ bullets are gonna do the job just fine. Cas insists on extra protection just in case things get hairy, laying so many wards over the two of ‘em that Dean can feel it. It’s like an electric buzz humming over his skin, and he swears he and Sam give off a faint glow when Cas is finished. 

The shop is dark when they pull up, giving off some distinctly bad vibes and the odour of stale patchouli (although they’re kinda the same thing, in Dean’s book). Cas takes point, his sword dropping into his free hand as he presses the other against the door, willing the lock open with a muted click. Sam and Dean bring up the rear, scanning the upstairs windows for any sign of movement and grabbing some extra ammo from the trunk. 

Cas waits until they’re ready, answering their nods of confirmation with a solemn one of his own. Slowly, he turns the doorknob, and one by one they slip inside.

It’s weirdly quiet, the way that makes Dean’s hackles go up. The further they move into the store, avoiding the rock salt lamps and the bead curtain, the more muffled everything sounds. Dean’s not imagining it either, because when he whispers about it to Sam he has to repeat himself twice. He doubts they’d have been able to make it this far without Cas’ warding. 

They walk through the aisles, past crystal balls, incense holders, and books for the trendy occultist. The pressure on Dean’s ears increases as they move towards the back of the shop, like the air is solidifying around them, and Cas’ sword gleams dully in the fading light seeping in through the front window.

Finally they reach the back, where there’s nothing but a couple crates of candles and a broom closet tucked up against a bookshelf. Except there’s a squiggly set of symbols in the middle of the wooden door, pulsing with an eerie purple glow. 

Protection hieroglyphs, Sam mouths, and Cas nods in agreement. His hand sends white sparks flying off the door handle when he grabs it, his Grace reacting with whatever the hell this is. After a few tense seconds, the purple light dims, and Cas pushes the door open. 

Stepping through the door throws Dean off for a second, because whatever spell or magical spillover was screwing with the air pressure in the shop ends there. Everything is suddenly, painfully sharp, from the swish of Cas’ coat to the creak of the floorboards to the pounding of his own heart. He stumbles a little and Cas immediately has a steadying hand on his elbow, eyes searching Dean’s face until he’s sure nothing’s wrong. Sam follows with barely a blink of surprise. Dickhead. 

Cas’ eyebrows draw together. “I can feel her magic now,” he says lowly. “She is extremely skilled at concealing her true nature.”

“Even from you, though? You’ve got to admit that’s worrying, Cas,” Sam murmurs.

Dean frowns. This doesn’t feel good. “Well. We can’t turn back now.” He stews for a minute before admitting what they all know in a tense whisper. “Cas, you better go first. You’re the best equipped to deal with any weird shit she tries. Okay?”

Cas nods, and they slowly start down the cramped hallway they’ve walked into, their footsteps light and careful. The door at the end of the hall is ajar, leaking the flickering orange of firelight, and as they approach they can hear a low chant in a language that sounds old the same way Enochian does: an odd mixture of harsh, almost guttural noises punctuated by smooth, rounded vowel tones. Gives Dean the heebie-jeebies. 

It’s not a good avenue of approach, but there’s nothing they can do about it, so they line up against the wall right next to the door: Cas first, Dean behind him, and Sam bringing up the rear. Cas adjusts his grip on his sword and holds up a hand for the countdown.

Three.

Two.

One.

They rush through the door, weapons up, and Cas goes straight for the witch. But she’s not even surprised, and before Cas can even get two feet into the room she throws up a hand, yelling something incomprehensible at him with a manic light dancing in her eyes. Cas is slammed backwards and Dean barely manages to get out of the way, his gun nearly flying out of his hands as he lunges aside. Sam isn’t as lucky and gets taken down by Cas, the two of them crashing back out into the hallway. The door slams shut behind them.

Dean starts firing, but somehow none of the shots hit her, and the witch laughs at the shocked expression on his face. She flicks a hand to the side, ripping his gun violently out of his hands to clatter against the wall, and Dean suddenly finds himself straining against an invisible wall of force. His feet slide back across the worn floorboards, and it’s all he can do to keep upright. 

The witch shuffles through a stack of recipe cards while Dean fights to stand his ground, her multitude of rings and bangles clinking dully together. Dean can hear Sam and Cas yelling his name and pounding on the door. “Nice try, pretty boy. You’re an annoying interruption, but you obviously have no idea what I’m capable of.” She finds the card she’s looking for, squinting at it and sprinkling a pinch of something into the brass bowl of lamb’s blood on the table in front of her. 

She looks like some kind of sick Martha Stewart, if Martha Stewart wore tie dye and way too much makeup. Dean grunts, sliding back a few more inches. 

Three shots ring out, and the witch jumps a little as the door vibrates. But it holds, and she turns her attention back to Dean with a satisfied look on her face. “How did you manage to bind it, by the way? That little pet of yours that you tried to set on me, I mean. I’d have thought something that powerful would kill anyone who tried to take it’s freedom.” She smiles sweetly at Dean, the flames from the braziers on either side of the table turning her into a cartoon villain. “Spill, dearie, what is it?”

Dean just growls at her and digs his feet in, pushing harder at the invisible wall of force. “Fuck. You. Bitch.”

She pouts. “Now, that’s not very nice. Ah well, I’ll find out either way.” She snaps her fingers, and just like that Dean’s ramming his entire body weight against nothing at all. He falls flat, smacking his chin painfully against the wood floor, and out of the corner of his eye he sees blue-white light leaking into the room from under the door to the hallway. He blinks, but the light’s still there. He’s not seeing things. The witch picks up another one of her recipe cards and grins evilly. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to test this one out. Toodles, handsome.”

Dean doesn’t think, just rolls to his feet and runs towards her. ‘Cause if he’s goin’ out, the least he can do is buy Cas enough time to finish whatever he’s doing. 

“NO!”

Or that’s what he meant to do, until Cas blows the door clean off its hinges with a blast of Grace and hurtles into his side like a freight train, shoving him bodily out of the line of fire. Dean tumbles to the floor, skidding back on his ass as the witch shrieks the spell in a voice gone squeaky with shock. 

It hits Cas point-blank, colliding with his chest before he has time to react. His arms fly out to the sides and his head snaps back, his body outlined in a starburst of green fire.

Then he explodes, a wave of crackling energy bursting out from where he stood. It sends Dean flying a second time, punching the air from his lungs as he screams Cas’ name. He struggles to his feet as fast as he can, snarling at the stunned-looking witch and lunging forward. But Sam is already darting past him to take advantage of her momentary lapse in control, slamming Cas’ blade into her chest with a ragged yell. 

The witch gasps, staring down at the handle in disbelief. “How…” Sam steps back, pulling the blade out in one smooth movement, and she falls to her knees. She looks up at them in utter shock, choking on her own blood.

Dean lurches over, dropping to the ground and grabbing the front of her muumuu. Her blood has already soaked the front of it, and it squishes through his fingers, slick and warm. “What did you do to him?” He yells, shaking her. “What did you do?”

She bares her teeth in a savage, red-stained approximation of a smile and gives a hacking, gurgling laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then she slumps in his grip as her last breath leaves her body.

Dean lets her body fall to the ground and stands up, shaking with rage and grief. There’s no other body. Not even a trench coat this time. Nothing. 

Cas is just… gone.

Dean whirls away from Sam and pounds his fist into the wall, biting his cheek to hold back the sobs crawling up his throat.

He can’t do this again. He’s lost Cas too many times already. 

He can’t… he never got to... 

The room is silent. Dean struggles to hold it together, squeezing his eyes closed against the hot burn of tears. 

Fuck. Cas.

But then a thought strikes him like a bolt of lightning. There's no other body. 

There’s an awful surge of hope in his gut as he spins back around, latching onto Sam’s shoulders like a drowning man. “Sam, Cas isn’t here.” Sam looks at him blankly, eyes shiny. “There’s nothing— no ashy wings, no body, no guts. Nothing.”

Understanding dawns slowly on Sam’s face. “You think that spell might’ve worked like a banishing sigil.”

Dean nods once, heart in his throat. “Exactly. She didn’t know what he was, and that spell was meant for me, anyways. Maybe he just got catapulted a couple miles outta town, y’know?” He casts around for an idea, shaking Sam a little when one hits. “Could we, I dunno, track him somehow?”

Sam’s eyes light up and he holds up the bloody angel blade. “His sword. It’s manifested out of his Grace, it’s literally a part of him. It’ll take a while, but I think I could do it.”

Dean takes a shuddering breath and squeezes Sam’s shoulder, desperate determination sending a rush of adrenaline coursing through him. “Then let’s find him.”

Chapter Text

They finally get the tracking spell working around 2 AM, a pinpoint of light glowing to life on the map as Dean crowds Sam into the table they’ve been working at. They disposed of the bowl of lamb’s blood and heart chunks carefully, but it looks like the witch had only just started her ritual, so there’s no more harm done than there already was. According to the fucking recipe card she’d been looking at, it was a ritual to extend life. So take that, bitch. Karma can really come back to bite you in the ass. 

Dean’s already grabbed the books and shit that looked important as well as loaded the witch’s body into the trunk to burn later, so as soon as they’ve got the location they’re running for the car. They’d been hoping that Cas would reappear at some point, but he never did; Dean doesn’t wanna think about what that says about his condition, and floors the gas. 

He and Sam don’t speak. He’s too worried, and Sam’s too busy figuring out a counterspell from the witch’s flowy cursive notes to make small talk. There’s no telling what that spell might have done to an angel, because the original was meant to basically rip a human apart at the cellular level. Sam thinks something could’ve happened to Cas’ vessel, which means they might have to deal with the whole Chrysler-building-sized wavelength of celestial intent that’s normally squashed inside. 

Yeah. Not good. 

Thankfully there’s a back road that passes by not too far from the spot on the map, a single lane that snakes a winding path through the forest. Soon they’re rocketing down the strip of crumbling asphalt, gravel pinging off the front of the car, and Dean’s keeping a sharp eye out for dark-haired guys stumbling into the road. 

Then Sam sucks in a sharp breath, and Dean immediately tenses up. “What? What is it?”

Sam swallows, staring out the windshield. “That light pollution up ahead isn’t from a town, Dean. I think I saw a wing.”

Dean curses under his breath, pushing Baby even faster down the dark road. So Cas doesn’t have a body right now. Crap. At the very least, it’s not gonna kill them to look at him, as Sam accidentally proved. But that doesn’t make Dean feel a whole lot better. 

He pulls Baby off to the side of the road at Sam’s terse direction, tires squealing. They slam the doors behind them, pulling out their flashlights and moving quickly through the dark trees. As they make their way deeper into the forest, they start coming across thick tree trunks snapped like toothpicks, smoking underbrush, deep scars in the ground. Sam shoots Dean a worried glance. They move faster. 

Soon they start seeing light through the trees up ahead, getting brighter and brighter until they don’t even need their flashlights anymore. Finally, they push through a last clump of bushes, and there he is.

He’s magnificent.

The first thing Dean notices is the wings. There are at least six of them, powerful, dark things that flap frantically, sending a gale-force wind whipping through the clearing that stings Dean’s face and blows Sam’s hair everywhere. They both bring hands up to shield their eyes, squinting against the light that’s bursting out from the centre of the clearing like a supernova. 

Dean remembers what Cas has always told them about how badly humans and angels without vessels tend to mix. Hell, he’s seen the effects himself; but Sam had been fine earlier. And Dean’s too damn curious not to look at least once. So he slowly lowers his hand, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and—

Castiel is an alien jumble of faces and hands and claws and eyes, feathers and fur and teeth. He’s like an Escher drawing, one of those pictures that bends your brain into knots, multiplied by a thousand and twisted through too many dimensions. It’s too much, and not enough, and Dean can’t look away for the life of him.

Sam pushes his hair out of his face, eyes wide in awe. “That’s gotta be him… no wonder half the forest was decimated, that thing’s massive. I had no idea that a spell could even—”

“He ain’t a thing, Sam,” Dean interrupts sharply. “He’s Cas. Let’s just get him back into his body, okay?” He looks back towards the flailing wings and wide eyes. “Slap one of those protective thingies on me. I have to try an’ calm him down.”

Even though Sam’s mouth thins out into a frustrated, worried line, he does it anyway. A ring of faintly glowing runes hovers over Dean’s outstretched hands when he’s done, a heavy-duty Enochian protection spell they uncovered from the bowels of the library a couple weeks ago. Turning back to Cas, Dean takes a fortifying breath.

Sam catches his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. “Dean, are you sure about this? He might not know you, he might…”

Dean shakes his head. “Just don’t quit chanting that spell, Sammy. I trust him.”

That’s a little too much of an admission for Dean’s liking, though, so he turns firmly away and starts walking forward as Sam takes up the chant behind him, buffeted by the gusts of wind from Cas’ huge wings.

He walks up until he’s almost right under Cas, craning his neck to look up at the spectacle with his hands still held out in front of him like an offering. This close the air crackles with ozone, that thunderstorm smell that hangs around Cas whenever he teleports in, and it tingles in Dean’s nose. He can feel the eyes on him, and he’s sure they’re all locked on his face despite the twisting and churning of Cas’ form.

“Hey, buddy. Look at you.” He means to stop there, he does, but the words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You’re beautiful.”

The sickening, panicked tilt-a-whirl of movement slows ever so slightly, and encouraged, Dean tries again. “But please, Cas... I need you to come back now. It’s time to go home.” The harsh light blasting out from Cas’ form softens slightly, the screaming wind dying down to a stiff breeze. “Let me help you come home.”

For a second, everything is going okay, and Dean makes the mistake of thinking, Hey. This might actually go off without a hitch.

Yeah, right. When has it ever?

Cas shrieks, a horrible, reverberating noise that could be because of the spell taking effect or something else entirely. And before Dean can even think of beating a hasty retreat, a huge, clawed foot swoops down and snatches him up into the air.

Dean’s sure he hears something creak ominously in his chest, and he bites down on his tongue to keep from crying out in pain, hard enough that he tastes the coppery tang of his own blood. He thinks he might hear Sam yell his name, and hopes the idiot picks up the chant again before they lose their shot. The snarling maw of a lion roars into his face, all sharp teeth and curled lips composed of shifting blue light. 

“Easy, big guy, easy!”

The head rears away from him, but the beating of Cas’ wings intensifies again. He must start trying to talk, shit, because that high-pitched tone is suddenly blasting all around Dean at full volume. He can feel something warm dripping down from his ears as he grits his teeth against the scream trying to rip it’s way out of his throat.

He manages to work an arm free of Cas’ grasp, squinting against the light. “Damn it, Cas, I know you’re in there.” He can’t hear himself talking, only knows he’s making any sound at all because he can feel his vocal cords vibrating in his throat. Forcing his eyes open and looking into the nearest face, he begs. “Please. Trust me.” 

Slowly, he reaches out and presses one trembling hand to a furred limb sparking with ripples of pure energy. And he prays.

Cas screams, every head thrown back in unison, his hundreds of eyes clamped shut, and Dean’s shoulder lights up with blinding, searing pain.

Then in the space of a breath, the light is gone. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing back a mouthful of bile as he cradles the clammy body of his best friend in the middle of the churned-up clearing, damp grass soaking the knees of his jeans. Cas is naked and shivering, his cheek pressed against Dean’s stomach, but he’s solid, and he’s breathing. Slowly, his hands come up to fist weakly at Dean’s sides, and Dean forces himself to hold on a lot less tightly than he’d like to.

“Dean! Is he…” Sam peters off uncertainly.

Dean doesn’t move. “Go get the car. Bring it as close as you can so we don’t have to carry him too far.”

“But—”

“Please, Sammy.” 

He can hear Sam hovering, unwilling to leave him and Cas alone. He doesn’t move a muscle. Eventually Sam sighs, taking the keys from Dean’s outstretched hand and jogging back to the treeline. 

Dean gently dislodges Cas’ fists from his jacket, shrugging it off before he drags Cas up to rest more comfortably against him. Then he spreads the jacket over Cas’ back and puts his arms around him, dipping his head until his nose is brushing the shell of Cas’s ear.

“You dramatic son of a bitch… your ass better be all the way back in there.”

And even though there’s a tinny ringing in his ears and he hurts all over, he smiles at the tired mumble he gets in response as Cas’ arms tighten weakly around his waist. 

“H’lo, Dean.”

— - —

By the time Sam gets back, a pair of musty jeans in hand, Cas is completely out. Getting him dressed and over to the car is an exercise in stoicism for Dean: his left shoulder hurts like a bitch, but there’s no way he’s gonna let Sam know that when they’ve got Cas to worry about. They end up carrying Cas to the car in a couple of hops, because he’s limp and unwieldy and a fuckton heavier than he looks, and the ground is all torn up and slippery with dew. 

Dean sits in the back with Cas while Sam drives, holding the unconscious angel securely against his side so he doesn’t go sliding all over the seat. Cas’ head rests in the crook of Dean’s neck, his breath puffing softly against Dean’s collarbone. Dean tugs his coat further over Cas’ shoulder and pretends he doesn't notice Sam glancing back at them in the rearview as they rumble towards home.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon when they get back, and Dean’s shoulder has faded to enough of a dull throb that he and Sam manage to get Cas to his bed in one go. Sam offers to go unpack the car and prep for the salt n’ burn if Dean’ll stay and keep watch; Dean just shrugs and agrees, like that wasn’t what he was planning on doing anyways. As soon as Sam’s gone, he gingerly takes a seat on the edge of Cas’ bed.

Cas is lying almost completely still under the covers, the minute rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he’s alive. After a moment of hesitation, Dean sends up a quiet thank you for that. Y’know. Just in case anyone happens to be listening. 

And with that line crossed, he smoothes back Cas’ wild, sweat-stiffened hair, too, because damn it. He can let himself have this for a little while. 

Then Cas twitches, his face creasing in pain. Dean’s hand settles on his cheek, and he whispers, “Cas?”

Cas’ eyes fly wide open, a solid, glowing blue, and his back arches up off the bed in a violent convulsion. Dean claps both hands to Cas’ shoulders with a shout of surprise, trying to keep him from flailing off the bed. But then Cas lurches upwards, and Dean has to throw his hands up in front of his face as a pair of huge black wings explode out of Cas’ back in a blinding flash of light. 

Cas slumps forward into a hunch, breathing like he’s just run a marathon and digging his fingers into the covers. Carefully, Dean lowers his hands. “Jesus fuck, Cas.”

Cas looks up, bleary-eyed and dazed. “Dean?”

Hands settling on either side of Cas’ neck, Dean lets out a breathless huff of laughter. “Gave me a damn heart attack, man.” Cas grins tiredly, and Dean’s eyes are glued to his face, drinking in the aliveness of it as bone-deep relief courses through him.

The moment stretches on for what feels like an eternity, until it occurs to Dean that he’s way into Cas’ personal space. Hastily withdrawing the contact to a single hand on Cas’ shoulder, he smiles shakily. “Welcome back, buddy. You had us worried for a minute, there.”

“I’m sorry.” Cas glances from side to side at the wings hanging off the bed. “I… for these, too.”

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t be. You got whammied pretty hard, Sam said you might be a little glitchy for a bit.” But the relieved grin fades from his face as he remembers why they were worried in the first place. “Why the hell would you do something like that, you idiot? She coulda killed you.”

Cas frowns. “I did it for you, Dean. You would certainly have died if that spell hit you. I couldn’t allow that.”

Dean ducks his head. “Damn it, Cas, I can’t…” He shakes his head, pulling his hands away completely. “It doesn’t matter right now. You need to rest. How, uh. How do you feel?”

Cas makes that really cute, scrunchy, frustrated face. “I’m tired.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, I bet. All that thrashing around you were doing in the woods back there probably took a lot outta you.”

Cas’ head snaps up, his eyes wide as he plasters himself against the headboard, as far from Dean as he can get. He looks like he’s gonna puke. “You shouldn’t have seen that. I’m so sorry, Dean, you must be terrified—”

Dean catches Cas’ wrist, gently tugging him back in. “Hey, hey. It’s alright, man. I’m fine.” Cas raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and Dean dares to swipe his thumb soothingly over Cas’ pulse point a couple times to drive his point home. “Look, Feathers. I don’t care how many heads or tails you’re wearing. It’s still you.” 

Still, Dean can tell he’s not convinced. So ignoring the pounding of his heart and the alarm bells going off in his head, he steels himself and says what Cas needs to hear. 

“The only terrifying thing about that was how close we— how close I came to losing you,” he amends softly. “‘Kay?”

Cas goes completely still, staring at Dean with an intense kind of awe. Dean swallows and forces himself to hold eye contact, mouth dry as a bone.

“Dean, I—”

“Everything okay?”

Dean snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, whipping around to face the doorway. Sam’s head pokes around the doorframe, concern etched over his features. “I heard someone yell.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re good. Cas just, uh, he’s having problems with his wings. He can’t put ‘em away.”

Sam nods. “I’ll start doing some research tomorrow, see if there’s anything out there to help you. Good to have you back, man.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

Sam smiles. “Either of you hungry? I was gonna go make some coffee and toast.”

They both agree, and Sam finally takes his big stupid forehead and leaves. Goddamn Sasquatch. Dean should probably be glad he showed up, though, because if he hadn’t… no, better not even think about it. Nuh-uh.

“Dean?” Dean looks up, Cas’ voice pulling him out of his head.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

Cas runs the edge of the sheets between his fingers, sounding almost wary. “Would you sit with me for a while?” Dean stares at him, and Cas shrinks into himself. “I still feel… strange. Insubstantial. You’re very solid.”

Dean’s brain skips like a scratched record. Fuck, get a hold of yourself. He nods. “Yeah, no, sure thing. Where should I…”

Cas scoots over and tucks one wing in close with a little wince, freeing up the right side of the bed. He smiles hopefully, and after a moment of mild panic Dean moves into the space and swings his legs up onto the bed. He’s fine with this, yep. Peachy. What are friends for, right?

To cover his embarrassment he shoves at Cas’ shoulder. “C’mon, lean forward so I can fix your pillow. Squashing your wings up against the headboard can’t be comfortable.” Cas obeys, and Dean sets both pillows upright to cushion Cas’ wings and back, punching and fluffing them until they’re where he wants ‘em. Cas sits back again when Dean finally gets out of the way, settling against the pillows with a small sigh. Then he leans into Dean, pressing their shoulders together, and Dean can actually feel him start to relax. 

And damn if that doesn’t make him feel pretty good. 

They sit like that for a while, in a peaceful little bubble. It’s nice: the slight rise and fall of Cas’ shoulder with his breathing, the soft yellow light of the lamp, the occasional brush of feathers against his neck. 

Cas nudges Dean gently with his shoulder, and Dean opens one eye. “What?”

Cas is squinting contemplatively at him. “When you saw me in the forest, you truly weren’t afraid?”

A smile pulls at Dean’s mouth. “Hell no. I was way too relieved, man. We thought you were dead . I was just happy to see you were still kickin’.” And for whatever reason, Dean keeps talking. “We had no idea if that counterspell was gonna work.”

Cas nods, but he still looks kinda down. So Dean slings an arm around his shoulders, jostling him gently, and grins. “Besides, that was the most badass shit I’ve ever seen! Whadda you have, like, six wings? A jillion eyes? Four heads? You could take on Godzilla, man. You’re freakin’ awesome!”

There it is, that’s what finally makes Cas smile. He shakes his head and ducks his chin, and Dean might be wrong, but he’s pretty sure that’s a blush. Cas eyes him knowingly, his smile going soft and earnest. “I… thank you, Dean. That’s very kind.”

Dean smiles back, wide and happy, and almost without meaning to his gaze drifts down to the curve of Cas’ mouth. His smile fades, and Cas’ fingers twitch against his thigh.

Of course, that’s exactly when Sam busts back into the room bearing a tray full of toast, fruit, and coffee. “Here we go. It’s not pancakes, but it’s also not burnt. And Dean, eat something that’s not brown, okay?”

Dean doesn’t know whether he wants to thank Sam for his timing or pummel him, and it’s only very reluctantly that he moves to put an acceptable amount of distance between him and Cas. Cas doesn’t seem to notice, too distracted by his peanut butter toast and pineapple chunks to care about much else. Or that’s what Dean assumes, until the wing closest to him unfolds a bit to brush reassuringly against his shoulder. Cas glances over, eyes crinkling in a small smile when he catches Dean’s gaze. Dean flushes and takes a gulp of coffee. 

Fuck, he thinks. I’m so in love. 

Chapter Text

What the fuck. What the fuck was that. 

Dean’s back in his room, having shoved enough toast into his mouth to placate Sam and then run into the wall on his way out of Cas’ room. Not his best moment, sure, but he’d been about to freak the hell out. As soon as he’d closed the door of his room behind him, his composure had crumbled and it’d hit him. 

He’s in love. With Cas.

And sure, he guesses he’s kinda known for a long time, but there’s a fucking good reason why he’s never let himself face it head-on like that before.

Dean ends up on the floor next to his bed, his knees pulled up to his chest and the heels of his hands pressing into his eye sockets. It’s not true, he’s not… he can’t...

Then the sickening, heart-clenching, throat-closing panic finally overwhelms him, and he loses all semblance of coherent thought.

— - —

Sam and Cas stare at the door in silence, forks and mugs halfway to their mouths. Sam looks at Cas, and sees his own confusion reflected back at him. He closes his mouth. “Uh. What just happened?”

A line appears between Cas’ eyebrows. “I have no idea.”

Sam puts his toast down, wondering if he should go after Dean. He’d been holding himself weirdly when they were trying to get Cas into the car; maybe he’s hurt? But he’s been sitting here for almost forty-five minutes now, plus the two and a half hour car ride back. If something had been that badly up, then it would’ve made itself known before now, even factoring Dean’s stubbornness in.

Then Sam remembers how Dean had almost hit the roof in his attempt to get away from Cas when he had first poked his head in, and he thinks, oh.

Sam’s far from oblivious; he knows Dean and Cas have something going on between them, has known for years. He’s had to suffer through too much goddamn eye-fucking to be anything less than absolutely certain about that. But he also knows Dean: he avoids talking, thinking about, or even acknowledging that he has difficult emotions like the plague if he can get away with it. Which, based on how touchy he generally still is about Cas, means that so far he’s been successful.

Up until right goddamn now, apparently. Which is probably why he just jumped up off the bed, stammered like a toddler with a speech impediment for half a minute, crammed a piece of toast into his mouth, and ran into the wall beside the door before fleeing Cas’ room like a bat outta Hell.

Sam turns back to Cas and tries to smile encouragingly. “It’s probably nothing. Tonight was stressful, and you know how well Dean processes stuff like that. He just needs to pass out for a couple hours and then he’ll be fine.”

Cas nods, but he doesn’t look too convinced. Which… yeah, fair enough. Sam’s not either. “Yes. I’m sure you’re right, Sam.” He looks down at his plate for a minute, and then sets it aside.

Sam pulls out his phone. “Well, uh, hey. I didn’t get a chance to listen to the newest episode of Critical Role yesterday. You want to listen with me?”

Cas smiles faintly. “You’ll have to catch me up. I think I missed last week.”

Sam grins back and settles back into his chair, taking a sip of coffee before launching into a recap of last week’s episode. “Okay. So the party was in Kraghammer for a bit, but then Caleb went off on his own…”

And privately, he decides he’s gonna keep a bit of a closer eye on Dean for the next little while. Because if Dean tries to pull one of his usual routines, or just keeps acting like an emotionally-stunted idiot, well…

Sam’s gonna intervene. And Dean’s not gonna like it.

— - —

Later, when he finally starts to calm down, Dean notices his knees are aching in tandem with his ribs. 

Ow.  

Goddamn age. Driving more than twelve hours fucks up his back, getting tossed into walls isn’t somethin’ he can just shake off anymore, and now he can’t even have a fuckin’ panic attack in peace. Awesome.

But his breathing’s calmed down, and he can actually string together enough complete thoughts to bitch at his traitor of a body, so he runs his hands through his hair and pulls himself to his feet. 

God. Nothing’s ever easy for them, is it?

He sits on his bed and pinches the bridge of his nose. Stifles the tiny flicker of hope that’s trying to flare up in his heart.

This can’t happen. He's not stupid, he knows that leaning into… into this thing between him and Cas would be the most colossally bad idea he’s ever had. And that’s saying something. He’s been lucky so far, with both Cas and Sam, but the fact is that the people who care about him end up dead. Maybe sooner, maybe later, but they always die. Painfully. And it might be too late, but he’s not willing to risk tainting Cas with that tendency any more than he already has. 

Not to mention, Dean is a supremely fucked-up individual. He’s under no illusions. Even if therapy wasn’t an express ticket to a padded room, he doubts there’s a shrink out there who’d last more than five minutes in his head without proclaiming him a lost cause or just going fucking insane themselves.

Hell. Sometimes he can’t stand it in here. 

The point is, he’s a mess. Cas deserves literally anything better than the sad, broken excuse for a human being that is Dean Winchester, with all his daddy issues and his anger management problems and everything the fuck else wrong with him. It’s the least Dean can do to keep him at arm’s length and tell himself that being Cas’ friend is enough. 

Fuck. Even that’s a goddamn joke. 

Cas’ friend? All he’s ever done is hurt Cas. He’s Fallen, died, been mind-controlled, tortured, left high and dry when he needed help, and now he’s exiled to Earth. Dean can’t go so far as to claim that all of that is his fault, but…

Well. He’s done enough. 

Besides, he tells himself in an attempt to beat back the foul slick of self-loathing creeping under his skin, he wouldn’t have the first idea how to come at it if they were, uh. Together. The flings he had in his twenties are a far cry from whatever this is. Sorry, Lee.

Plus, it’s... it’s Cas.

Dean shakes his head, trying his best to put it out of his mind. It's not happening, he tells himself firmly as he gets up, pulling off his shirt while he walks over to his dresser. There's no point wallowing in it when it’s literally impossible in every way Dean can think of. 

Then he looks into the mirror, and swears. 

Because, y’know. It’s pretty damn hard to remember that this can’t go anywhere when he’s staring straight at proof that he and Cas are connected on a level he’ll never be with anyone else. 

The handprint on his shoulder is back. While the bruising on Dean’s torso is pretty horrific, it’s nothing compared to the bright red brand standing out on the skin of his left shoulder, still swollen and tingly. 

The physical mark has been gone for years, completely healed by Cas himself a while after he’d gotten Dean out of Hell. Still, there’d always been something that’d stuck around. Something soul-deep, as cheesy as that sounds; permanent. Profound. 

He’d been able to feel it every time Cas had put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. (Always that one, too. Never the other side.) He’d even started to look forward to the little jolt of connection that flared up at Cas’ touch, one of the few indulgences he allowed himself. At least back then he could ignore everything it meant when Cas wasn’t physically touching him. Now, he thinks in dismay as he stares at it in the mirror, not so much. 

He reaches across his body and prods the edge of the burn, grimacing slightly. It feels tight and hot, but strangely enough, it’s not really all that painful anymore. On a whim he fits his hand to the print, equal parts weirded out and fascinated by the fact that he has it again. 

A pleasant shiver of not-quite-pain ripples down his spine when his palm connects, flooding him with warmth. He blinks in surprise, going still at the sensation. 

Swallowing hard, he drops his hand back to his side. He quickly glances away from the mirror too, because he catches a glimpse of the expression in his own eyes, and he really doesn’t wanna go there. So he walks over to his bed with measured paces, puts on his pyjamas, and very deliberately turns out the light so he can go to sleep.

His dreams are full of wings and eyes and light, and a low, rumbling voice that croons his name into the spaces between his breaths.

Chapter Text

Dean’s… 

Dean’s staying out of Cas’ way. Or at least, he’s trying to.

For the first few days, he and Sam split their time keeping Cas company; the guy can barely even get outta bed, so they move the TV setup into his room and hang out with him. They play cards, watch documentaries, read. Whatever Cas wants while he gets better.

But in his off-time, Dean stays busy. He doesn’t stick around like he might have before, and when he’s there, he doesn’t let himself slip. He can’t. He pulls the chair out from the desk and sits in that instead of taking the side of Cas’ bed that’s still helpfully empty, and injects some of the detached, unflappable agent into his demeanour. Dean can tell that Cas is confused by it, and he feels like a jerk, but… he doesn’t trust himself enough not to do something stupid, like— hell, he doesn’t even know what. Something he can’t come back from. 

Sam had wandered in at one point to drop off a book Cas wanted, eyes flitting sharply around the room, and later he corners Dean to ask him if something’s up. Damn it, Dean knew he’d noticed.

“Uh, no? Why, did Cas say somethin’?”

Sam levels him with a shrewd, searching look. “No. I thought something seemed off between you two, that’s all.”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno what to tell you, man. We’re fine.”

Sam shakes his head and backs off. “Okay, Dean. Whatever you say.” I know you’re bullshitting me, his skeptically arched eyebrow says. 

“Right. Good talk,” Dean replies, and slaps Sam’s shoulder a little harder than is strictly friendly before walking away.

There’s the problem of the wings, too, which becomes a whole lot more of an issue from the third day onward. Cas hasn’t been able to tuck them back into the alternate plane where they usually reside, so shirts are a no go, and as a result Dean’s nerves are well and truly fried. Because now that Cas is strong enough to be up and about, Dean keeps getting unexpectedly confronted with almost six feet of tanned, muscular, bare-chested angel sporting a magnificent pair of feathery monstrosities whenever he's in the common areas of the Bunker.

Which, unfortunately, he finds absurdly hot. 

It’s bad. His brain is absolutely shameless about bringing the memories back to the surface at every possible opportunity and speculating about what, exactly, those wings feel like. He does his best to squash them down into the box where he keeps every other definitely-more-than-friendly thought he’s had about Cas for the last five years, but he’s met with minimal success. (It’s not like he’s exactly surprised, though. Honestly, it’s less of a box and more of a half-heartedly cordoned off corner of his subconscious these days.)

He hates that it’s suddenly such a problem; it’s not like he hasn’t seen most of it before. He and Cas have had to patch each other up more times than Dean can count, and it’s not like he’s gotten caught ogling the guy’s abs when he’s supposed to be putting in some stitches or cleaning a wound. 

Although now that he thinks about it, the lack of mortal wounds might actually be a pretty heavy contributing factor. 

So Dean’s been making quick exits, stuttering out lame excuses, and getting snappy to distract from his stupid firetruck-red blush every goddamn time Cas gets within five feet of him. He and Cas haven’t hung out like they normally do since before that hunt, have barely seen each other outside of meals. And Dean feels terrible about it, but there’s nothing he can do that doesn’t include explaining why this is an issue at all.

Anyways. The one bonus is that he’s not wanting for busywork to distract him. Once he started looking, he realized there was a shit ton of stuff in the Bunker that could take up his time pretty effectively. Baby had been due for an oil change, there’d been some shit to sort out in the vault, and Sam is the worst at deep-cleaning his weapons. Seriously, he doesn’t even wanna think about how long that ectoplasm has been in there.

Today’s project is the spare room, which hasn’t been cleaned in a while. And last time he’d talked to Charlie she’d mentioned swinging by in the next little while. So the way he sees it, giving the room a full once-over is completely justified. No ulterior motives whatsoever. 

He spends the whole morning in there, vacuuming, wielding his Swiffer with extreme prejudice, and humming sporadically to himself. Once everything is dust-free, he completely strips the bed and puts a new set of sheets on, folding some damn nice hospital corners to boot. He stands back and surveys his work with a small grin. There’s definitely something satisfying about a nice, clean room; Sam can shove all his jokes about Dean being a neat-freak right up his ass. The guy thinks leaving dirty socks on the floor is an okay thing to do.

“Are we expecting a guest?”

Dean turns around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash, hand flying to his hip.

“Jesus, Cas,” he chokes out, his heart pounding. Cas just tilts his head at Dean from his spot in the doorway, and Dean can feel himself flush as he sighs and runs a hand over his forehead. “No, it’s just… Charlie had said she might come by.” He makes an effort to slow his breathing back to normal and smoothes out one last wrinkle in the blanket, tugging the pillow half an inch to the left. “You haven’t met her, have you? She’s great, you’ll love her.”

Cas smiles. “She must be a remarkable person. There aren’t many people you talk about with the same affection you do for her.”

Dean grins back tightly, purposefully not looking at Cas’ bare torso, and turns away to gather the dirty sheets into his arms. He walks past Cas into the hallway. “Yeah, she’s somethin’, alright. Like the little sister I never had.”

Cas’ footsteps follow Dean down the hall to the laundry room, his feathers whispering together as he walks. Dean busies himself dumping the sheets into a washer, adjusting the temperature dials and adding some detergent while Cas jumps up onto an empty machine, holding his wings up high to keep from sitting on them. Finally, Dean doesn’t have anything left to occupy his hands, so he closes the lid of the washer and stabs the start button. A series of gentle thumps in his periphery tell him Cas is swinging his feet, heels bumping off the metal. 

At that point the desire to look is too strong to ignore, so he gives in despite feeling like he definitely shouldn’t. He can’t help but smile a little at the picture that greets him: Cas, with his wings folded neatly behind him and his hands curled over the edge of the dryer as he stares thoughtfully down at his bare feet. 

Then Cas looks up, catching Dean’s eye, and Dean develops a sudden, laser-focused interest in the label of the Tide Pod container. Let’s see, we’ve got alcohol ethi... ethoxylate? Sounds, uh. Tasty. Teenagers were eating these a while ago, weren’t they? Yeah. Weirdos. 

“Is everything alright, Dean?”

Dean tries to shrug nonchalantly. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Cas lets out a short huff of frustration. “Because you’re avoiding me. I’ve been cursed, Dean, not blinded. I noticed. If my true form was more difficult for you to process than you led me to believe, I want to know. I can help.”

Dean’s head jerks up. “No! No, I wasn’t lying.” Cas’ idea of helping probably consists of erasing the memory completely, which is a hard no. Dean doesn’t ever want to forget that. He can’t justify himself like that, though, so he goes vague and hopes Cas’ll be satisfied. “It’s something else. Don’t worry about it.”

He tries to book it at that point, but Cas doesn’t let him get far. He hops down off the dryer and plants himself in front of Dean, pressing a hand flat against Dean’s sternum to hold him back. 

And Dean stops, fuck, he stops so fast. Because Cas is way too close, looking up at Dean with a pissy, determined spark in his eye, and there’s so much skin. A smooth, tanned expanse of it that ripples over muscles and tendons as Cas’ wings flare slightly behind him. Dean gulps audibly, transfixed by those narrowed blue eyes. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, Dean.”

If his brain hadn’t just blown every fuse in the box in a dramatic shower of sparks, Dean might’ve been able to sell some bullshit about still being bothered by the witch or something. As it is, he blurts out the first thing that pops into his head without a second thought. “The mark on my shoulder’s back.”

Cas hand drops from Dean’s chest, and Dean barely manages to keep from tipping forward to chase the warm pressure. Then he realizes what he just said, and clenches his jaw in annoyance. “Fuck. Ignore that. It’s fine.”

Cas shakes his head, alarm in his face. “Let me see it. I need to make sure…” he trails off. Still, it’s clear he’s not gonna let this drop.

They stare each other down until Dean rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Fine.” Cas takes a step back as Dean pulls off his flannel and tugs up the sleeve of his t-shirt in sharp, reluctant movements. He turns so Cas can see the burn in all it’s red, obnoxious glory, and is so busy being annoyed that he doesn’t even notice Cas reaching out to touch it. 

Cas’ fingers connect with Dean’s skin, and the mark is suddenly blazing with feeling, the nerve endings lighting up like a Christmas tree. Dean yelps and flinches away, glaring at Cas despite the racing of his heart and the warm tingle rolling through him. Cas is frozen, hand still outstretched, watching Dean like a hawk. 

Dean swallows uncomfortably, desperately picturing Sam in a skirt and remembering that time he walked in on Bobby in the can. He is not going to pop a boner right now. “Don’t touch it. It’s, um. Sensitive.” C’mon, c’mon. Dead puppies. Gross gas station coffee.

Cas slowly lowers his hand, and Dean hesitantly shuffles back towards him. Cas stares intently at the burn for a minute, and Dean’s sure he sees his eyes flash blue-white. Eventually he pulls back. 

“I can’t find anything wrong. I believe it reappeared because you were exposed to so much of my true form.” Cas’ wings flutter uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’ll heal it for you.”

But Dean dances back out of the way again and Cas falters, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion and a fair bit of hurt. Dean deliberately pulls his shirtsleeve back down and shrugs his flannel back on, not quite making eye contact. 

“Don’t apologize, Cas. You’re still healing, I don’t want you wasting your mojo on a stupid burn. I’m fine, I promise.” His voice is forced and fake-sounding, even to his own ears, and he smothers the urge to cringe at it. He cuts Cas off as he opens his mouth to protest. “Leave it. It’s not hurting me.”

The angel stares at him, long and hard. Dean slaps on his ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ face to cover his embarrassment and lifts his chin, daring Cas to call him out on that piss-poor excuse. Neither of them move a muscle. 

Finally, Cas’ jaw tightens minutely and he steps back, leaving the path to the door open. Dean takes the opportunity and flees.

He can feel Cas’ eyes on him all the way out the door.

— - —

“Dean, wait up.”

Dean sighs, closing his eyes and tightening his hand around his keys as he comes to a reluctant stop. He was so close. “Yeah, Sam?”

“Where’re you heading?”

Dean looks down at Sam’s upturned face and shrugs. “I’m going for a drive. Is that a crime?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Jeez, no need to bite my head off. But, uh, Cas and I had a breakthrough earlier. We found a ritual on file that looks like it’ll help, and we’re gonna be able do it in the next couple days. Janet from town owed me a favour.”

Dean forces a grin. “Good to hear. That all?”

Sam looks confused. “Yeah, sure.” Dean takes that as his cue to go, thank god, but Sam can’t help himself. “Hey, is everything all right?”

“Sam, just put away the fucking Dr. Phil routine for once, will ya? I'm fine,” Dean grits out. He ignores his brother’s insufferable face, slams the heavy metal door behind him, and gets the hell outta dodge.

Soon he’s cruising along the nearest stretch of asphalt, Led Zeppelin blasting and the windows rolled down so the wind whips his face. Driving like this is usually great for quieting his thoughts when they swirl around inside his head and make him all twitchy; it's easy to get lost in the rush of movement. It’s one of the few simple pleasures he’s always been able to count on, right up there with cold beer and diner food. 

It’s not working, though. The A side’s not even done, and he’s still as pissed off at himself as he was when he set out. 

Since he’s not really in the mood to get drunk right now… well. Occasionally, Sam’s preoccupation with talking about shit isn’t a terrible idea. He pulls to the side of the road, forces himself to take a few deep breaths, and calls Charlie.

She picks up on the third ring, and Dean grins wanly. “Hey there, Charlie.”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my faithful handmaiden.” Some rustling and clicking filters through the speaker. “You’ve got scary good timing, y’know that? I just took a break from a Warcraft quest to eat. What’s up?”

Dean makes a face. “What, I can’t call you just because I feel like it?”

“Well, yeah. But this isn’t one of those, is it?”

Dean thinks about lying for a second. Then he sighs, picking at a thread on the seam of his jeans. “No.”

He can practically hear Charlie’s triumphant fist pump. “Hell yeah, I’m a psychic. So c’mon, spill. Wait, is this about,” she pauses for effect, “the gay thing? ”

Dean rubs his eyes with one hand. “Damn it, Charlie, I told you not to call it that.”

She’s trying not to laugh. Asshole. “Right. Because that’s not what it is.”

“This was a bad idea. Maybe I’ll just hang up.”

Charlie does laugh this time. She drops the teasing tone when she replies, though. “Fine, I’ll stop. But is that what this is about?”

Dean fiddles with the steering wheel. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

Charlie hums. “Well, I know you don’t really like to do specifics on this, so, like. Gimme the bare bones of your totally-not-gay panic and I’ll see if I can help.”

Dean licks his lips, staring off up the road. “So. Uh, there’s this, uh. Guy.”

Charlie’s silent for a second. “Okay. Good. I’m gonna need a little bit more to work with, but I guess that’s a start.”

Dean snorts weakly and taps the steering wheel. “I think we’ve got a thing.”

“You think?”

“Okay, I’m ninety percent sure we’ve got a thing. I,” he swallows convulsively, “I like him. A lot.”

“Better. Go on.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Shit, this is… son of a bitch.” Charlie waits patiently while he works himself up to it. “I want him, I want… I want everything, y’know? I want the couple stuff and the sappy hand-holding shit too, just… all of it. He’s… he’s great.”

“Wait. Do you… do you love him?”

Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times. “I…”

After an excruciating, empty silence that Dean can't manage to fill, Charlie takes it back. Her voice is soft and knowing. “Never mind. Sorry, pretend I didn’t say anything. Keep going whenever you feel like it.”

Dean leans his head back on the seat for a minute, eyes closed. 

“It’s not like it matters, anyway. I can’t let it happen, Charlie. I won’t drag him down with all my bullshit.”

Dean listens to Charlie’s breathing though the speaker. “Okay, sure. We’ll talk about that in a second. Just, to clarify… you mean ‘bullshit’ as in hunter bullshit? Or ‘bullshit’ as in your completely understandable issues?” She tries to inject some levity back into things. “Which is bullshit, by the way. You’re awesome.”

Dean stares unseeingly out through the windshield. “He’s in the life. He’s my… he’s my friend. Has been for a long time.” My best friend.

“So you do mean the second one,” Charlie sighs. She’s talking through a mouthful of food when she continues. “Sorry, Dean, but that’s bullshit. If this guy’s been around so long that you managed to get over your issues enough to acknowledge that you like him, he definitely knows what you’re like. And I bet it doesn’t bother him anywhere near as much as you think.”

Dean smacks the steering wheel. “That’s not the point, Charlie. He deserves better. I’m a mess, he shouldn’t want me.”

The clinking of cutlery stops. “Dean. I love you, but you are a big dumb idiot.”

“Uh. What?”

Charlie’s voice is fondly exasperated. “Don’t you think you should let him decide what he wants? You’ve gone ahead and assumed you know best. You respect him and consider him a good friend, yeah? You trust him?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“Then don’t make important decisions for him, you muggle.”

“But what if he does choose—” Dean cuts himself off, can’t bring himself to say it out loud. “He almost died a few days ago, Charlie. And y’know why? He was trying to save me.”

“So what, you’ve never risked your life to save him? Or me, or Sam, or any of the people you guys help? You’ve actually died for people before, Dean.” She hums. “It sounds like you already know how you feel. You’ve made your choice. So let him make his.”

Dean sits in silence, jaw clenched, holding the phone to his ear. Damn it.

She’s fucking right. 

He can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound pathetically defensive. She’s trying (and failing) not to sound like the cat that got the cream when she says, “My work here is done. You’re welcome.” There’s a clink of dishes being put into a sink, and then the squeak of a chair. “Well, I’ve gotta get back to my party. They’re kind of lost without me.” She pauses, and when she continues she sounds more than a little anxious. “Wait, did this help at all? Or are you just mad at me now? I know this is weird for you.”

Dean’s mouth twitches up at the corner despite his furrowed brow. “No, it— it did.” A beat. “Thanks, Charlie. Come and visit soon, I’ve got your room ready.”

“You can count on it. Now go get him, tiger.”

— - —

Dean drives around for another hour or so after Charlie hangs up, her advice echoing in his ears. 

He still doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do with it. 

Charlie made him face the music; there’s no way things can go back to how they were. He can’t go back to pretending he doesn’t know why he could just look at Cas forever, why he feels like there’s a bungee cord hooked behind his belly button that pulls taut whenever one of them gets too far away. Why he feels like the world is ending every time Cas has a brush with death. Worse still, he doesn’t want to. 

But as if that wasn’t scary enough on its own, he also knows exactly what’ll happen if he does what she says and lays everything out for him. Because god, they’ve been dancing around this for years, and every time it’s mattered? Every time, they’ve chosen each other. Every single time.

And that is more fucking terrifying than any monster he’s ever faced.

Cas is sitting in the library with some huge dusty tome spread out on the table in front of him when Dean gets back, and he raises his head as Dean comes down the stairs. Dean pockets his keys, pausing beside the map table. They lock eyes.

Dean fishes for something to say. “We’re gonna have burgers for dinner.”

Cas doesn’t respond. He just keeps staring at Dean, his expression inscrutable. 

Whatever. Dean scowls and walks away, heading for the kitchen. If Cas wants to be pissy, fine. That’s on him. 

The burgers prove to be a good enough distraction that Dean’s mostly chill again by the time Sam shows up, following the rich, meaty smell of the cooking patties like a big shaggy bloodhound. Dean puts him to work slicing tomatoes and onions while he finishes up, and seeing as they didn’t have any of those freezer fries left, well. Dean grudgingly allows a salad. 

The one good thing about today is that he and Sam are pretty much back to normal again by now: they bicker like usual and even manage to laugh a little, and it’s good. He gets the feeling that they’ve both had it with the emotional spillover from last week’s hunt, and they do that awesome thing they sometimes manage to do and just let it go.  

Dean’s so relieved he almost gets mushy. He manages to stow it, although the presence of the salad is telling. Sam knows.

Cas doesn’t show until dinner’s just about ready. The now-familiar swish of his feathers brushing against each other makes both Dean and Sam turn around, and Cas stops in the doorway. There’s an awkward pause where Cas and Dean stare at each other and Sam stares at both of them. Then Dean clears his throat.

“You mind setting the table?”

Cas looks at him, still as coolly aloof as he was earlier. “No problem.”

Sam tosses a discarded bit of onion at Dean to get his attention once Cas has turned away. You have to talk to him.

Dean tears his eyes away from Cas’ back, raising his eyebrows in mocking disbelief. Oh yeah? Right now? He shakes his head sharply, throwing in a dirty look for emphasis. No.

Sam makes an extravagant bitchface. Not right now, Dean. Later.

Dean pouts and huffs out a bitchy little breath. Maybe you should mind your own damn business.

Sam glowers at him. It is my business, jerk. I live here too. Then his expression softens slightly in understanding. I know you hate talking about stuff. But that’s the only way this is gonna get better.

Dean looks at Cas, sees the high, protective hunch of his wings. At the way his eyes slide right over Dean like he’s not there.

Dean rolls his eyes and flicks the piece of onion back at Sam. Fine, bitch. I’ll do it.

Chapter Text

Dinner is excruciating. 

Sam’s attempts at conversation fizzle out almost before they get started, stifled by the thick, funky cloud of unfinished something between Dean and Cas. Even when Dean tries to talk to Cas directly, following an indiscreet kick under the table from Sam, Cas only responds in chilly, monosyllabic answers that are nothing like his usual self. 

Dean hates it. 

Cas disappears as soon as his burger’s finished, clearing his dishes from the table and replacing his backwards-facing chair without a word. (Wings again. They make sitting normally difficult.) Dean tries not to be too obvious about watching him go, but he feels real damn guilty. He was a first-class dick when Cas cornered him in the laundry room earlier, he knows that. And he’s definitely a good four days past the point where acting like everything’s fine and bringing Cas an apology beer is gonna fix things. 

He’s staring down at his burger (which he’s not even that hungry for anymore, jesus) and trying to figure out what his next move is when Sam fake-coughs. Dean scowls up at him in annoyance. “What?”

Sam cocks a meaningful eyebrow. “You know what. Stop procrastinating, Dean. I’m not gonna let you two self-destruct, especially not now that we’re finally done with all the apocalypse crap. We’ve fought too hard for this.”

“Shut up. You’re gonna jinx us or somethin’.” 

“No, Dean, I’m not gonna shut up,” Sam admonishes. “Because if I let this go, it’ll just keep festering until one or both of you blow up again, and then you’ll both be even more miserable than you already are. And if you're not already too stubborn to apologize, you will be by then.” 

Dean pokes sullenly at the lettuce Sam dumped on his plate when he wasn’t paying attention, ignoring his harpy of a brother and trying to think of a way to make all of this better that doesn’t involve spilling his guts to Cas. He’s not having any luck. 

Of course not, prods a voice in his head that sounds a hell of a lot like Charlie’s. Because Sam’s right. There’s pretty much only one way out of this, kid, and it’s not gonna be easy. The only thing you can do now is bite the bullet and hope for the best.

“Story of my life,” Dean mutters.

Sam’s other eyebrow joins the first. “I mean, yeah, but I’m kinda surprised you’re agreeing with me.”

“No, not you, I was just—” Dean sighs. “Just leave me alone and do the dishes.” And before he can think too much about why this is a terrible idea, he pushes away from the table and walks out of the kitchen.

He hums Metallica under his breath as he walks towards Cas’ room, his fingers tapping an urgent beat on his thigh. Damn it, he hates this: he sucks at apologizing. The words never come out right, and whatever he does manage to say always feels inadequate.

He rounds the final corner, still fighting his flight response with everything he’s got, and stops in his tracks. 

Cas freezes, his eyes wide in an echo of Dean’s own surprise. He and Dean stare at each other for a second, at opposite ends of the hallway. Then his expression shutters and he quickly steps inside his room, that big book from earlier cradled in his free arm. 

“Cas, wait!” Dean lunges forward, just managing to shove his foot into the rapidly closing gap between Cas’ bedroom door and the jamb before it disappears completely. He spits out a curse and grabs the door, trying in vain to relieve the pressure on his foot. Son of a bitch, that hurts.

A pair of cold blue eyes peer at him through the gap. “Move your foot.”

“Not unless you’re gonna let me in,” Dean tosses back mulishly. Cas doesn’t budge a millimeter, though, so Dean huffs in frustration. Just… fuck it. He might as well start now. “I was an asshole earlier, okay? I get why you’re pissed. I just— I can explain. I want to. And I’m…” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “I’m sorry.”

Cas squints distrustfully at him. Dean meets his gaze determinedly and renews his assault on the door. 

With a growl, Cas lets go of the handle and stalks into his room.

Limping a little, Dean follows him in. Cas smacks the book down on his bedside table, then turns back to Dean and crosses his arms tightly. His feathers are all puffed up in agitation, making him look even bigger and more intimidating than normal.

Shit. This is worse than Dean thought. He rubs his neck nervously, not quite meeting Cas’ eyes. He’s got that thundercloud expression suffusing his face, like he’s one wrong word from blowin’ outta here and never looking back. And for one insane, delirious moment, Dean imagines making him do it. He knows, almost intuitively, exactly what he’d have to say to seal the deal.

(Jesus, what kind of sick bastard thinks shit like that?)

Hurriedly banishing the intrusive thought with a shake of his head, he spreads his hands. “Look. I… I meant it about earlier, man. I overreacted, big-time. And this week, I’ve just…” Fuck, try again. “The point is, I’ve got some other stuff goin’ on right now that I’m… that I’m tryin’ to deal with. But I took it out on you, and that wasn’t fair.”

Cas’ face is stony. “No, it wasn’t. And I find that interesting, Dean, because you said you were fine.”

Dean manages a grim sort of smile. “You’re telling me you honestly believed that?”

Cas pauses. “No,” he eventually admits. “But that meant you were lying. Pretending you were fine when you weren’t.” A bitter kind of fondness seeps into his voice. “You do that often, you know. It’s infuriating, and it’s bad for you.”

A sour taste fills Dean’s mouth. He ducks his head. “Yeah. I know.”

Cas’ voice is a soft, wounded thing when he speaks again. “You wouldn’t even let me touch you, Dean. You couldn’t stand being near me.”

And hearing him say it, Dean suddenly understands what it must’ve looked like. God, what it must’ve felt like. Jesus. Why does he always have to be such a blind, insensitive asshole? 

“I… I didn’t realize.” His shoulders slump, his hands hanging open and empty at his sides. “Cas, I... I swear this isn’t your fault. I’m serious. This is on me.” 

Cas looks at him for a long minute, face expressionless. Then he shakes his head, exhaling quietly through his nose. “I believe you.” But his brows furrow again, and his arms are still stubbornly crossed. “But if this isn’t about my true form, then what is it? Tell me.”

Goddamn it, Cas— “Y’know, it’s just… stuff.”

“Dean.”

Shit. “Uh.”

Cas tilts his head, a thread of grudging concern leaking into his expression. His wings twitch. Great job, Winchester. Way to play it cool. “Tell me what’s going on. You’re only ever this nonchalant when you’ve been horribly cursed or you’ve made a stupid bargain.”

Fuck, the guy’s not gonna leave him alone until he says something. “First of all, not true. I’m usually pretty good about mortal wounds, too. Second of all, fuck. Fine. You’re a pushy asshole when you’re mad, y’know that?” He swallows nervously. “The truth is, um. I got— I got scared.”

Cas’ eyebrows threaten to recede into his hairline. “Uh. Scared?”

Dean grits his teeth, because fuck this sucks. “Yeah, Cas. I was scared. Happy now?”

Cas doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move. Just waits in expectant silence once his initial surprise passes. Dean closes his eyes and sighs. 

“I thought you were dead. I can’t deal with that again. Every time it fucking happens, I just— and then you weren’t dead, but neither Sam or I knew if that spell was gonna work, and on top of all that shit, I had to go and realize that I—”

The blood drains from Dean’s face as he barely manages to stop those last two words from slipping out. They’re right there, pressing up behind his firmly shut lips, balanced precariously on the very tip of his tongue. He clears his throat. “That, that I… that the, um. The burn was back.”

Coward. He’s such a goddamn coward. 

Cas nods once. His face is doing something weird, like— fuck, did he figure it out? Does he know? Oh shit, oh fuck—

“Thank you for telling me, Dean.” 

No, there’s no way he knows. He can’t, he’s not psychic. He can’t. Dean waves him off, adrenaline fizzing through his veins. “Nah, I owed it to ya. Are we... are we good now? Can we be okay? ‘Cause this has been shitty.”

Cas offers him a small, slightly reluctant smile. “Yes, it has.” Then, slowly, he uncrosses his arms. “Alright. We can be ‘good’.”

Thank god. Taken aback by the strength of the relief running through him, Dean offers Cas a faint smile in return. “Good. I’m glad. Well, I think I’m gonna hit the sack, so. Uh, night, Cas.” 

“Goodnight.”

He’s already halfway out the door when Cas speaks again.

“You know, you were a large part of what brought me back that night.”

Dean stops. 

He turns back around, pulling a face. “C’mon, that’s not true. I was distracting you while Sam did the heavy lifting.”

Cas doesn’t back down. “No. The chant was important, but you helped me focus. You were my reference point, my anchor. Just like you have always been. And I’m grateful for that.”

Oh, come on. “That’s… I mean, I’m flattered, but you don’t have to thank me for that, y’know I’d do—”

Cas interrupts him by striding forward and wrapping his arms around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him down into a hug. And Dean can’t do a damn thing except hug him back. 

One hand sinks into the dark feathers near the base of Cas’ wings and the other comes to rest against his lower back, and Dean’s so thrown off it doesn’t even occur to him to ask what the hell this is for. Cas’ skin is warm under his hands, and he’s a solid, reassuring bulk in Dean’s arms. God, Dean thinks as his eyes flutter shut. He’s missed this. 

“I know. But please just do me a favour and accept my thanks, Dean.” Cas’ voice is low, almost teasing, and his breath is warm on Dean’s neck. Dean suppresses a shiver, his head dipping towards Cas’ shoulder. 

This, this is… they don’t do this. Hugs are for when one of them’s almost died and the starkness of mortality sweeps away any awkwardness. So what is Cas doing? 

Fuck, what is he doing? Dean’s eyes fly open and he rears away from Cas, internally cursing his own stupid, touch-starved ass.

Cas blinks at him, his gaze unwavering. Dean’s face is on fire. “Yeah, you’re, uh… you’re welcome. I’ve, uh. I should go. Y’know, you should rest, you’ve got… reading. Things to do. Haveagoodnight,” he blurts, and then he’s outta there as fast as he can.

Crap. So much for keeping his distance.

— - —

The next two days suck major ass. Simple as that.

Dean’s in an awkward spot. He can’t go back to lurking in remote corners of the Bunker since he realized Cas thought it was somehow his fault Dean was staying away. That’s just… that’s not an option anymore. But on the other hand, being in Cas’ presence is even more nerve-wracking than it was before. Because not only is Cas still frustratingly attractive, but Dean also feels like he has to be on high alert all the time now, monitoring himself for accidental admissions, slips of the tongue (not that way, goddamnit), and the desire to be touching Cas all the freakin’ time. So they’re stuck in a weird, polite sort of limbo that’s just… all kinds of wrong, and it’s driving Dean crazy.

It’s just… he’s constantly paranoid that somehow, Cas is just gonna be able to tell. And because it’s Cas, he’d probably come right out and say it with one of those cute-ass fucking head tilts and everything.

Being in love with your best friend is the worst.

He tries to be normal. He knows he’s not exactly successful, though, because he catches both Sam and Cas givin’ him these looks, like, what the hell is up with you? But he’s— he’s trying. That’s gotta count for something, right?

They sit down to finish Empire Strikes Back after dinner on the second day, and Dean has a disorienting case of déjà vu as he’s sandwiched between Cas and Sam on the couch. He sits stiffly throughout the whole movie, paying absolutely no attention to the story in favour of obsessing over how much contact with Cas is appropriate in this situation. (That’s fucking weird. He’s never tried to be appropriate on purpose in his whole damn life.) But he’s overthinking it because of the extra appendages, so he obviously screws the pooch real hard, and it’s just awkward as hell. He ends up accidentally ruffling Cas’ feathers more than once – literally. His wings are fuckin’ huge. Cas just looks uncomfortable and mildly flustered. 

The credits are rolling before he knows it; when the fuck had that happened? Last thing Dean remembers, Han and Leia were kissing in the bowels of the Falcon, and all he’d been able to think about was how much he wanted Cas to be doing that to him right then.

He tries not to bolt up off the couch at the first opportunity, but Sam’s expression tells him he’s still acting like a chihuahua on speed. So Dean forces himself to relax and turns to Cas. “You mind helping me clean up?”

Cas gets up and grabs the empty beer bottles, a cautious smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. “No. It’s no trouble.”

Dean ignores Sam’s eye-rolling in the background and heads off towards the kitchen, Cas following behind him.

They move in each other’s orbit, never quite meeting, dancing carefully around each other as Dean dumps the unpopped popcorn kernels into the garbage and Cas puts the empty bottles into the recycling bin. It’s as weird as it is normal, because Dean’s pretty sure Cas is making a concerted effort to leave space between them that isn’t usually there when neither of them are really paying attention to it, maybe in an attempt to give Dean some breathing room or something. And Dean’s in tune enough with how they normally interact that he notices that kind of thing. He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

They end up standing alongside the counter, facing each other, a couple feet apart. Just looking.

When Dean speaks, his voice is soft. “So. The ritual’s tomorrow.”

Cas smiles slightly. “Yes. Sam is going to collect the final few ingredients in the morning, and then we’ll be able to complete the spell.”

His wings shift, and Dean grins sheepishly. “You must be excited to get those things outta the way again. They make things complicated, don’t they?”

“They are somewhat unwieldy.” Cas makes a face. “I have to sleep on my stomach.”

Dean laughs in spite of himself. “My god, that’s terrible. How do you cope?”

Cas’ mouth pulls into a half-smile, and he shakes his head fondly. “It's a trial, but I manage. Thank you for your concern.”

Dean snorts, and in that moment, they really are okay.

Then Cas frowns a little, leaning against the counter. “Dean… you’ll be there tomorrow, won’t you?”

Dean swallows. “I… yeah, Cas. I’m gonna be there.”

Cas considers that, looking at Dean with his blue, blue eyes. “Good. Because after that, I want to talk.”

And there it is, that’s exactly what Dean didn’t wanna hear. “What? Why? I thought we were good.” He crosses his arms. “Look, I’m… I’m trying. It’s kinda shit, I know that, but I’m doing my best. Isn’t that enough?”

Cas mouth flattens into a line. “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. I realize that you’re trying. But there are things I need to say to you.”

Which sounds… fuck, it sounds serious. And even though Charlie’s still right, like she’s usually right, Dean can’t… he’s not ready for this. “No, you don’t—” he bites off, frustrated. “Just work with me, here. I’m tryin’ to protect you, you stubborn son of a bitch.”

Cas gives him an incredulous, scathing look. “Protect me from what, exactly? Need I remind you that I’m still an angel of the Lord, or didn’t the wings clue you in?”

Dean just bites his tongue and looks away, shaking his head. Fuck, he knew something like this was gonna happen. Cas has always been too close, too intense, too tuned in to Dean to let things go. Dean’s an idiot for hoping that this time, just this once, he’d let him off the hook.

Cas steps forward, his voice rising with anger. “No. You don’t get to blow me off, Dean, that’s all you’ve been doing lately. Why are you so afraid? What could I possibly say that terrifies you so much?”

Oh, you fucker.

Dean feels his expression go cold and blank. Cas’ face falls, and his hands twitch like he wants to snatch his words back. Like he wants to reach out for Dean. A painful, empty pause strings itself out between them, and how was it less than five minutes ago that they were laughing about Cas’ fucking wings?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“No, you did. And you’re right. Night, Cas. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dean walks past him, staring straight ahead.

The scant few inches between them as he passes might as well be a chasm.

Chapter Text

That night, Dean barely sleeps at all. He can’t stop thinking long enough for that to be an option.

Instead, he paces. Paces, and stares off into space, and drains the flask he keeps in the back of his closet for emergencies. (Why the hell did he think replacing his bottle of Jim Beam with a fuckin’ flask was a good idea? Screw kicking his borderline alcohol dependency, he just wants to get drunk. But he doesn’t dare leave his room to get a bottle from the kitchen: he can’t risk running into... anyone.)

He’d even thrown one of his boots at the wall at one point. Which had, disappointingly, only felt good for about half a second. 

But no matter what he did, nothing stopped what Cas had said from being one hundred percent true.

Everything Dean’s done since that goddamn hunt (seriously, fuck that witch), since he realized how he felt, has been an attempt to preserve his and Cas’ friendship. And sure, maybe it made him distant, but as far as he was concerned that was a fuckton better than the alternative. Cas didn’t understand, still doesn’t, but that was the point. That was the desired outcome. So if Cas wants to be angry at Dean for not being attached to his hip twenty-four fuckin’ seven, that’s gotta be better than him knowing that Dean’s in love with him.

Doesn’t it?

Dean had been so sure he was doing the right thing. He’s not so sure anymore.

(How did we get here? He asks himself much, much later, hit by a sudden, painful wave of whiskey-fueled despair. Why does it always fall apart right when it’s getting good?

The only answer he can come up with is the poisonous mixture of masochism and self-sabotage he seems to like so much. 

And plain old fear. But that goes without saying.)

When morning finally rolls around, Dean briefly considers not showing up to the ritual. All it means is facing Cas again, which is almost a guarantee for another fight.

But he said he’d be there. So he goes anyway.

They’re doing it in the library in the interest of space, because Cas needs to extend his wings all the way. Dean shows up with one of his old shirts in hand, doubtful that Sam or Cas thought of that; he’s right. He tosses it onto the table, awkwardly meeting Cas’ eyes. “That’s for you. For after.”

The worried lines in Cas’ forehead soften somewhat, and he smiles hesitantly. “Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem,” Dean mumbles.

Sam looks like he’s trying really hard to maintain the bland, neutral expression plastered over his face. “Alright. You good to go, Cas?”

“Yes. I’m ready.”

Dean puts his hands in his pockets as Sam gets to work, mixing up some goopy brown gunk that he uses to draw a symbol in the middle of Cas’ chest. Once that’s done he backs up, giving Cas the room to extend his wings to their full span. Dean’s breath catches a little at the sight, because… it’s really something. Sue him. 

Sam combines more ingredients in a bowl, muttering incantations over it the whole time. Finally, he lights a match and looks up at Cas. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

He drops the match into the bowl, and with a crackling, popping noise and the overpowering smell of burnt lemongrass, Cas’ wings flash out of sight.

Of course, he passes out immediately afterwards.

Sam makes it to him an instant before Dean does, narrowly preventing the back of his head from smacking into a bookshelf. They lower him gently to the ground, and Sam patiently pats Cas’ cheek, saying his name. 

Dean just keeps holding onto him. His eyes are locked on Cas’ face.

He starts to breathe again when Cas’ eyes flicker open, focusing first on Dean and then on Sam. 

Cas groans. “Ugh.”

Dean lets out a shaky laugh, and Sam joins in with a snort and a lopsided grin. “And here I was thinking Dean was the dramatic one. You guys should take up community theatre together.”

“Shut up, asshat.”

Cas’ mouth has a wry twist to it by the time they get him into a sitting position, and he puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m alright. It was just a little shock.”

They get him up into a chair, and Dean sits down next to him while Sam heads back over to clean up his equipment and ingredients. Dean clenches his own hands to stop himself from reaching out and taking Cas’. 

“You… you sure you’re good?”

Cas tilts his head, and Dean almost pulls back when he realizes how far he’s leaning towards Cas’ chair. He should.

He doesn’t.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

Dean looks away, down at his lap. He picks absently at a thumbnail. “Good.”

Cas fidgets. “Dean, about last night… I am sorry.”

Sam’s up and left; slippery bastard. Dean didn’t even notice him go. He still doesn’t meet Cas’ eyes. “Thanks. I… me too.” 

“I don’t exactly… regret what I said. But I do regret the way I said it.”

And that’s such a quintessentially Cas thing to say that Dean can’t help but smile weakly at it. He looks back up. “Yeah. I got that, actually.” He hesitates. “I just… I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says delicately. He has to be very, very careful about how he says this. “I don’t want you to get hurt because you’re too close. To me, I mean. People always do, and you’re… you mean a lot. Which is why I need you to be okay.” Dean lets out a breath, sitting back in his chair. That’s the closest he’s gotten to admitting how important Cas is to him in a long time, and he feels kinda like he does whenever he’s had to get on a plane. Clammy, nauseous, filled with foreboding.

At the same time, though, he’s actually a little proud of himself. He feels… lighter. 

Cas is just looking at him. On second thought, maybe that wasn’t as coherent as it was in Dean’s head.

“I see.” Cas reaches out and rests a hesitant hand on Dean’s arm. Dean goes still. 

“But l disagree,” he says firmly. “I have been getting hurt for much longer than you can attempt to imagine, Dean, and a good deal of it has been my fault. You can’t blame yourself for the decisions I’ve made. You can be angry at me, you can be worried, but those decisions were mine alone to make. And the responsibility for any consequences of those decisions rests on me.”

“Oh,” Dean says, in an unintentionally small voice. 

Cas just… reiterated what Charlie had been bashing him over the head with the other day. Like, he’d known she was right, but…

Damn. She was right. 

He knows that the sinking feeling that he’s the reason for all the suffering that goes on around him isn’t going away anytime soon. But maybe… maybe the point isn’t that it has to. 

Maybe the point is just that he has to re-evaluate how much credit he can take for what happens. Fuck’s sakes, it’s not like he’s the only active participant in a world full of passive, wilting daisies. Cas, especially, isn’t anything close to passive or weak-willed. Far from it. His decisions factor into what goes down as much as Dean’s do.

Which, duh. 

But, oh.

Cas has gotten up to go put on the shirt by the time Dean zones back in. Still reeling slightly from his revelation, he rises and drifts over to one of the pillars, leaning back against it and crossing his arms. 

“Dean.” Dean blinks, focusing back on Cas. It’s almost weird to see him in a shirt again. He gives Dean a meaningful look. “I didn’t get to say everything I wanted to.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but then he stops. How bad could it really be? They’re already halfway into this conversation, so they might as well finish it. He shrugs. “Sure, dude, go to town. What else?”

“I love you.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s no big fucking deal, like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on the floor between them. Dean’s eyes go wide, and he opens and shuts his mouth a few times. 

Cas just stands there.

“You…” Dean scrambles for something to say, his heart going a million miles a minute; whether from terror or euphoria, he has no friggin’ clue. “Yeah, yeah right, me n’ Sam feel the same. Hundred percent. You’re family, dude, it’s… you’re the closest thing to another brother we’ve got.”

Jesus christ. 

He just “no homo”-ed Cas.

Cas raises an eyebrow, and Dean realizes the son of a bitch looks almost amused . Which is not fair, because Dean feels like he’s about to have a goddamn fucking stroke . (And how did he manage to choose the only t-shirt he’s got with a rainbow on it for Cas to wear? Fucking Pink Floyd, what the fuck .) 

“While… I do appreciate that sentiment, Dean, I hope you know that my feelings towards Sam are extremely different from my feelings towards you.”

Dean’s just… frozen. He can’t move, can’t think. 

This must be what a deer in the headlights feels like, he thinks a little hysterically. Right before it gets creamed by the eighteen-wheeler coming down the highway at eighty-five miles an hour.

But y’know, that’s actually sounding pretty good right now.

“I don’t expect anything from you.” Damn it, Cas’ voice is so fucking gentle.

Dean wheezes something incomprehensible. He tries again. “Then why?”

“Why?” Cas is serious now, his eyes practically pinning Dean to the spot. They’re like fucking floodlights, illuminating every dark corner and broken shard and time-worn hurt inside of him with blazing clarity, and Dean has never felt so mortifyingly, intimately seen in his whole goddamn life. “Because if this experience has proven anything to me, it is that I am just as fragile as you or Sam. You were right to be angry; I could very well have died that night. And you would never have known how I felt. So I’m telling you now while I have the chance.

“I love you, Dean; I loved you before I knew what love was. I loved you through the end of the world and out the other side, through every mistake and bad deal I’ve ever made. And I’ve made many. I’ve loved you without knowing who you were. I’ve loved you in Heaven, and in Hell, and everywhere in between. I love you when you’re saving the world and when you’re doing dishes in the kitchen, and I will love you until death or oblivion takes me for good. And even then, I believe there will still be something that remains.”

Cas’ eyes are shiny, and there’s a delicate waver in his voice. “You have changed me irrevocably, Dean. For the better, I think. And even if this makes you hate me, if I have to leave because I told you this, I won’t regret it. I will do what you ask of me and love you all the same.” Finally, he cracks a small, sad smile. “Do you understand?”

Fuck.

Dean buries his face in his hands, desperately trying to hang onto the infinitesimally tiny finger-tip hold he’s still got on his composure. He feels like he’s teetering on the edge of an abyss. He screws up his mouth, fighting the tears he can feel welling up under his hands.

He forces himself to take slow, measured breaths. In, out.

In, out. 

He loves Cas.

In, out.

Cas loves him.

In, out.

“Yeah,” he croaks hoarsely. “Kinda.”

The soft pad of Cas’ footsteps advances towards him over the hardwood floor. They stop in front of him, and Dean knows that if he reached out, Cas’d be right there.

“Are you alright?”

Dean can’t hold back the single, percussive “Ha,” that bursts out of his mouth, part laugh, part sob. He tries to focus on the pillar digging into his back, the press of his fingers against his eyes, anything but the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions ripping through him. Fuck, Cas has no idea what he’s done. This, this’ll end up killing them both. How can he just— just declare his love and expect everything to be rainbows and butterflies, just fucking a-okay —

Then there’s a touch on Dean’s arm, just above his bent elbow; a scant brush of fingers, so faint it’s barely there at all. But Dean shudders at it, violently, and he knows with sudden clarity how utterly, completely fucked he is in every conceivable way.

He hauls Cas in, crushing him as close as he can. The tears he’d been furiously keeping in check spill over, and he twists his fingers into the back of Cas’ shirt. Cas’ arms close around him, just as tightly, and Dean’s shoulders shake with the force of his emotion.

“Fuck, Cas,” he says brokenly. “I— you better not fuckin’ leave, not now. Not ever. Don’t you dare leave me, Cas. I could never hate you, you asshole, I—”

He drops his head onto Cas’ shoulder and squeezes him tighter. He grimaces, and pushes the words out against everything in him that’s screaming not to. 

“I love you too,” he breathes into Cas’ neck. 

— - —

Dean doesn’t really know how long he stands there, crying like a baby into Cas’ shoulder. A long time. Long enough that eventually, the shock abates, and he slowly starts to get embarrassed. Because of course he does. 

He unwinds his fingers from Cas’ shirt, pulling back slightly. He stares at the huge wet spot on Cas’ shoulder instead of looking him in the eyes.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice is startlingly rough to his own ears. “Didn’t mean to slobber all over you.”

Cas’ hands come to rest on Dean’s waist, his cheek bumping against Dean’s. “I don’t mind. I did the same to you, so I think that means we’re even.”

Dean butts his temple up against Cas’, closing his eyes again and fighting a smile. “Well, I guess that’s fair.”

They stand like that for a while, just breathing the same air. Cas starts running his thumbs up and down on Dean’s sides, a soothing rhythm that grounds him a million times better than the sharp corner of the pillar did.

It takes a little while, but he finally manages to gather the courage to put a little more space between them so he can look at Cas properly. His hands slide up to rest on either side of Cas’ neck, and he just lets his gaze wander – over the sweep of his brow bone, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the curve of his cheek. It’s easier than talking; always has been.

Cas watches him carefully. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yeah, I… yeah.”

“Good.”

Dean swallows. “Cas, I… I dunno if, if I’m gonna be able to say... what I said, again. But I meant it, alright? I meant it.”

Cas just smiles. “I know, Dean.”

Although Dean’s stomach squirms uncomfortably at that, because does he? Does he really? Dean’s been pretty shit at showing it thus far.

But… he doesn’t have to be. 

Not anymore.

So haltingly, cautiously, he tilts his head, leans in… 

And he kisses Cas. Easy as pie, sweet as a summer breeze. Just like he’s wanted to do, for—

For too damn long.

And god, it’s… he’s an idiot. A real, bona-fide idiot. They coulda been doing this for years.

Fuck, he is not gonna start crying again. Cas kisses him like he’s something precious, something important, and it almost does him in. So in response (or retaliation, he’s not sure) he pours everything he can’t say into it, everything he’s got bottled up inside him, all the “I love you”s and the “I want you”s and the “thank fucking god you’re alright”s he’s never been able to say. And judging by the way Cas is looking at him when they break apart again, he gets it. Somehow, he gets it.

Dean loves that about him.

Cas rests his forehead against Dean’s. “Just to be clear,” he says with a note of amusement in his voice, “this is what you were… ‘dealing with’, so badly?”

Dean groans, burying his face in Cas’ neck again. Just kidding about the whole love thing. He takes it all back. “Goddamn it, I knew you’d guessed. What gave it away?”

Cas hums, his hands flattening against Dean’s lower back. “You turned an interesting shade of grey during our conversation the other night. I was able to put it together soon after that.”

“Fuck.”

The bastard suppresses a laugh. “I think it turned out alright, though, didn’t it?”

Dean sighs. “Yes,” he says, his admission muffled somewhere near Cas’ collarbone. 

But then he freezes. Because Cas’ throat just jumped under his mouth, and Dean’s pressed close enough that he feels the heartbeat next to his kick up a significant notch. 

After a long moment where neither of them move or even breathe, Dean very carefully straightens up and steps out of Cas’ embrace. They lock eyes.

Oh. Uh, wow. Cas is lookin' at him, like… huh. Interesting. They're... they're should come back to this.

For now, though…

… he deliberately reaches out, and grabs Cas’ hand. “You wanna go get some coffee?”

Cas squeezes his hand once, firmly. It feels like a promise. “Yes. Coffee would be good.”

Oh yeah. They’re definitely gonna come back to this.

But first, coffee.

Chapter Text

Dean stares down at the table in awe, where Cas’ hand is wrapped around his own. It’s so weird. Good, but weird. Just yesterday he was freaking out about accidentally brushing Cas’ wings, and now they’re holding hands in the kitchen like a couple of nervous teenagers.

Cas gives his fingers a squeeze, and Dean looks up guiltily, caught mid-reverie. But Cas just smiles at him, and Dean has to hide a stupid, giddy grin behind the lip of his mug.

He’s still… he can’t believe this is happening. That this is real. Cas… Cas loves him. Fuck. Cas loves him.

On the way to the kitchen, he hadn’t been sure they’d even get around to the coffee; Cas’ hand in his had been a constant reminder of everything else that had just goddamn happened. How the skin of Cas’ throat had felt under his mouth, the hard planes of muscle now covered by one of Dean’s own shirts, that kiss. (Cas kisses like a fucking champ, by the way, and boy does Dean wanna find out what that’s like when they’re not both kinda crying.) Anyways, bypassing the kitchen and heading straight for the closest bedroom had been starting to sound pretty freakin’ good.

But then Dean had smelled the coffee, and he’d remembered, very suddenly, what a shitty night he had last night. Which meant that unless he wanted to pass out on Cas’ shoulder halfway through a makeout session, he needed some fuel in the tank.

(Maybe also a bagel. And possibly some fruit. He might need his energy later.)

(God. He hopes he will.)

He’s just about to ask Cas if he’s got any particular feelings about food when he hears Sam’s tread making its way down the hall, approaching the kitchen. Dean stiffens a little, and almost without thinking about it he pulls his hand out of Cas’.

Then he realizes how that probably comes across, and shoots Cas an apologetic glance. It’s not that he doesn’t want Sam to know, it’s just… it’s too soon. For just a little bit longer, he wants this to stay between him and Cas. He feels oddly protective of it, like it might evaporate if he lets anyone else look too closely.

Cas just gives him a tiny nod, though. Dean thinks he gets it.

Of course he does.

Sam wanders in, smiling. “Hey guys. All good?”

Dean grins back, and it feels more genuine than anything has all week. “Yeah. Right, Cas?”

Cas hides a small, secretive smile with a sip of coffee. “Right.”

Sam’s shoulders drop a whole inch as he relaxes, and Dean rolls his eyes. Drama queen. 

Unfortunately though, he doesn’t just grab a banana and leave: he heads over to the coffee pot and starts pouring himself a cup. Dean suppresses a sigh and gets up, resigning himself to the fact that he and Cas aren’t gonna be alone again for the foreseeable future. 

“Alright, breakfast it is. Who wants eggs?”

— - —

Dean’s standing at the sink, rinsing out the pan so he doesn’t have to deal with stuck-on bits of egg later, when a pair of hands slide around his waist and a chin comes to rest on his shoulder. 

“Before you ask, Sam is gone. He said he was going to do some laundry.”

Dean pretends that wasn’t the first thing that popped into his head. “Fucking finally. I thought he’d never leave.”

Cas snorts softly, and Dean does his best to ignore the warm, solid line of the body pressed up against his back. He finishes with the pan and sets it down in the bottom of the sink, letting it fill up with water before turning off the tap. He rests his hands on the counter, and after a moment’s internal debate tilts his head away from Cas, baring his neck in a silent request. Just to see what happens.

Well, what happens is that, cautiously, Cas takes the opening and puts his mouth right where Dean wants it. An involuntary noise trickles out of his throat at the feeling, and it’s almost enough to make him straighten up again.

But then Cas would stop the kisses he’s currently peppering over the exposed curve of Dean’s neck. Which would be a war crime. So Dean stays.

When Cas finally breaks away, Dean’s so blissed out he barely reacts except to make an absolutely shameless noise of disappointment. Then Cas laughs, and he comes back to himself enough to turn around to face the motherfucker in question, attempting an imperious eyebrow raise and probably failing spectacularly, judging by the twinkle in Cas’ eye. “Hey. What gives? I was enjoying that.”

Cas’ expression gets a little smirky. “Yes, I could tell. My apologies, I simply wanted to ascertain your feelings on hickeys before a situation developed.”

“Damn, I didn’t even think you knew what those were.” Dean makes a show of thinking about it to disguise the rush of heat that tears through him at the thought. “I mean, maybe not on my neck. Kinda obvious.” Nevermind that Cas could just heal any damage he does with barely a thought. That’s no fun.

Two can play at this game, though. Cas tilts his head and does that impression of innocence he’s so good at, which somehow manages to land despite the fact that he’s got Dean caged up against the fucking kitchen counter. “You have a point. Is there somewhere else you would prefer?”

Which… god damn, Cas. Fuck. Dean swallows. “I— I can think of a few places. Yeah.” But then he pauses, putting a restraining hand on Cas’ chest. “Just… you know what you’re doing, right? You know where this is going? You’re… you’re sure?”

Cas smiles softly at him. “Yes, Dean. I am.” Then he drops the smile, looking seriously at Dean. “And you? You’re sure, as well? Because it’s alright if you’re not. You aren’t obligated to do anything unless you’re comfortable.”

Which… yeah, Dean thinks he needed to hear Cas say that. But nevertheless, he is 100% goddamn certain he isn’t leaning into this just because he thinks he has to. His thundering heartbeat and the all-consuming desire to touch Cas right goddamn now are evidence enough of that.

He grins slowly. “Yeah. I know. Want to, though.”

Cas’ eyes get all intense and laser-focused at that, and Dean’s so mesmerized he doesn’t even notice Cas’ hand skating up his arm.

He sure as hell notices when Cas brushes over his shoulder, though, because even through both of his shirts, Cas’ touch sends a bolt of heat zapping through him as soon as he touches the handprint. Dean gasps, hands flying up to grab the front of Cas’ shirt, and Cas starts. 

They stop there for a second, and Dean watches understanding dawn in Cas’ eyes. Then he puts his hand deliberately onto Dean’s shoulder, and Dean stifles what would have been an embarrassingly loud noise. Cas lets out a breath.

“I suggest we relocate to somewhere more comfortable. Your room?”

Stomach fluttering, Dean laughs and pushes Cas towards the hall. “God, I thought you’d never ask.”

— - —

One week later...

Dean winces at the sputtering cough Charlie’s Gremlin makes as she parks it out in front of the Bunker. He’s gonna have to take a look at that later. But then Charlie’s bright red bob pops up from behind the far side, and he can’t help but grin.

“What’s up, bitches?!” She crows as she bounces around the car, tackling Sam and then Dean in hugs.

“Hey, kiddo. Missed you,” Dean laughs, the top of her head just brushing his chin. 

“Ugh, same. I need to come bother you more often.” Charlie breaks away, patting Dean’s chest with a sunny grin before turning to Cas and giving him a once-over she doesn’t even try to be subtle about. “And who’s your cute friend, huh?”

Sam snorts, and Dean rolls his eyes. “Charlie, this is Cas. Cas, Charlie.”

Charlie’s eyes go wide as she looks between the two of them. “Wait. Cas like, Castiel? The angel?”

Cas looks faintly bemused. “Yes. That is me.”

Charlie takes another look at him. “Wow. It’s really nice to meet you.” A line appears in her forehead. “But... I thought you’d be shorter.”

Cas tilts his head in confusion, and Dean intervenes before Charlie can expose him. “Oh, give him a break, Charles. Bags in the trunk?”

Charlie gives Dean a shrewd kind of look he doesn’t like, but nods. “Yep, I’ve only got the two. Thanks.”

Then she puts an arm through Cas’ and launches into a conversation, dragging him along towards the door. Dean stares after them as he empties the trunk, shouldering one of Charlie’s bags. Sam comes over and takes the other one, a knowing smile playing around his lips. “You gonna tell her?”

Dean gives him a look and shuts the trunk. “What did I say when I told you, huh? I said we weren’t gonna talk about it. This does actually count as talking about it, in case you were confused.”

Sam just laughs, and they follow the others inside.

Charlie’s sitting next to Cas at the map table, laughing at something he’s said. She swings around in the chair as Sam and Dean come down the stairs, raising an eyebrow and smiling like she knows something. Dean eyes her warily as he and Sam set her bags down.

She doesn’t say anything, though. She just looks at Dean. He shifts uncomfortably, eyes flicking briefly to Cas. He seems just as confused as Dean is. 

“What, did your face get stuck like that? Blink twice if you need help.”

Charlie’s smile grows. “Well?”

Dean narrows his eyes, feeling like he’s missing something. “Well… what?”

Charlie leans back, practically in Cheshire Cat territory by now. “Well,” she says breezily, “did you take my excellent advice, confess your feelings, and then have lots of gross, emotional man-sex?”

Sam makes a choking noise, and Dean feels his face go bright red. Charlie looks extremely pleased with herself. “Because if not, then I obviously haven’t properly fulfilled my sworn duties as your best friend.”

“Charlie, what the fuck,” Dean yelps, scandalized, elbowing Sam ineffectually. But before he can give her a piece of his mind, Cas smiles.

“Yes. He did,” he says smugly, and Charlie turns to him in delight. Sam dissolves into a fit of mildly horrified laughter, and Dean starts spluttering worse than Charlie’s car. Charlie bounces in her seat and offers Cas a high five, which he happily returns.

“Yes! I knew it! I’m so happy for you guys!” She squeals.

But despite Sam’s continued impression of a squeaky toy and Dean’s red-hot embarrassment, a warm, contented feeling still rises up to suffuse his chest when Cas catches his eye, his expression gone soft and tender. 

“Yes,” he says. “I am very lucky.”

And Dean has to agree with him.

They are.