Archive of Our Own ^beta

The kettle whistles shrilly to let Castiel know the water’s boiled. He pours from it generously over the loose leaf tea that’s nestled in the mesh sieve atop his mug and waits for it to steep, determining that exactly 3 minutes, 26 seconds is the optimal brewing time.

As he waits, he settles at the table and pulls up the Reddit app Sam helped him download to his phone, promising endless hours of mindless searching, looking for interesting topics to whittle away the time. Before long, he stumbles across an entry titled, ‘Things that should be on every kid’s bucket list’. Intrigued, Cas clicks on it and reads through the plentiful list of activities and experiences purported to be an essential part of every kid’s childhood. As he makes his way to the bottom of the list, he can’t recall from any of Dean's memories a single thing among them that he’s done. No lemonade stands, out-of-control pillow fights or friend sleepovers. Anger flares suddenly and passionately towards Sam and Dean’s father, John Winchester, the man responsible for depriving his boys of their chance to grow up normal and safe. And while Sam at least got out for a time and lived his life on his own terms, Dean was the one who stayed, who did his dad’s bidding, unquestioningly, even when the price for his unwavering obedience was too great. And left him with too little. Saddened by this fact, an idea begins to take root in Cas’ brain.

Cas grabs a notepad and pen and starts a list of his own while sipping absently at his tea. He’s so engrossed in his task that he doesn’t even notice Dean saunter - because that’s the only way his confident sure movements, all hips and swagger, can realistically be described - into the kitchen.

“Morning, angel. Sleep okay?” Dean steers his body toward the half-full coffee pot and promptly drains it into his mug, which he then hugs between both hands and lifts to his nose. He inhales deeply, eyes closed to better allow his sense of smell to deliver the aroma directly to his brain unobstructed. This is his ritual. Every day.

Castiel has been living in the Winchester’s underground bunker for going on three weeks now, having lost a good portion of his grace and, not unhappily, becoming human incrementally with each passing day. And he’s found the joy and wonder in it to be a true awakening of sorts, a rare jewel for an otherworldly being that has roamed the earth and heavens for millenia. The kind that leaves him enchanted to explore each new random undiscovered adventure. Who knew that waking up with morning breath would be so delightful. That taking a shower, standing bravely under the beating hot stream of water, loosening muscles that have never felt tight before, would charm his senses. Or looking upon the face of the man you’ve loved from the instant you ‘met’ him more than a decade ago, even settling for the aching, unrequited love just to be near him, would nourish your ‘soul’. 

Cas rips the paper away from the adhesive strip at the top of the pad, folds it and tucks it discreetly into the pocket of his robe. “Good morning, Dean. Yes, I did. How ‘bout you?” Cas thinks this might just be his favourite part of the day, the casual, easy morning routine between the two of them. Alone. Before Sam returns from his daily run.

“Hmmm…” is all Dean can manage before the caffeine brings him back on-line.

Knowing the hunter's ritual by heart, Cas waits until Dean has finished at least half of the contents in his mug before asking, “Dean, do you have any plans today?” Castiel figures now is as good a time as any to start making things right.

“I was thinking of washing and waxing Baby. But, she doesn't really need it. Why? Do you have a better idea?”

“Hang on.” Cas rushes out of the kitchen, up the bunker stairs and out the door, leaving a still bleary-eyed, and now bewildered, Dean staring after him.

When he returns moments later, the angel is all mischievous smiles and bubbly energy as he announces, “Yes, I do!”

Dean wonders curiously what Cas is up to but, as he’s not quite a functioning member of the living yet, he simply smiles a goofy caffeine smile at him.

As Cas formulates a plan in his head, he asks, “Can I borrow your car, Dean? I require a couple of items.”

“Uh…yeah, sure. Want me to come with?” Hopeful. 

“Nope. I'll be back in a jiffy.”

Disappointed, but teasing, Dean says, “No one says jiffy, man.”

Shortly thereafter, Cas returns to find Dean still in the kitchen, finishing off another cup of coffee and tidying his breakfast dishes away. He’s carrying a giant bag which immediately catches Dean's attention, hoping to get a glimpse of its hidden contents. Cas swats his hand away gently. “You’ll have to wait, Dean. Now go get dressed. I’ll meet you in the field out back in 10.” Dean huffs softly, but does as he’s told. Cas has that power over him.

Cas is already outside waiting when Dean walks up to join him, having thrown on a threadbare Metallica t-shirt and ass-hugging jeans that do naughty things to the angel. 

“Okay, what’re we doing here, buddy?” Dean’s tongue slips from his mouth to coat his bottom lip and it’s more than a little distracting. With great effort, Cas tears his eyes away and proceeds to remove the items from the bag to reveal two kites: one blue and one green. He offers both to the hunter. “Which one would you like, Dean?”

“Um…the blue one. It's my favourite colour.” If it just happens to match the angel’s ocean blue eyes that’s not his fault.

“Good choice. I'm very partial to the colour green myself.” His eyes pierce into Dean's. Huh?

“You want to fly kites, Cas?” Dean asks, as he sits down to assemble both kites for them, enjoying the opportunity to be useful and thankful for the diversion.

“The outdoor conditions are perfect to fly a kite, Dean.” Cas answers simply, as if it should be obvious.

“Is that why you ran outside this morning?” The words form around a smile that’s taking shape automatically across Dean’s face.

“Yes, I had to make sure the wind strength and direction would produce the best results.” 

Dean grins bigger so that it makes its way to his eyes.

Once they’re ready, Dean hands the green kite to Cas and readies his own blue one. 

“Ready?” 

They grip the bridle of their respective kites, release a little slack on the lines and let the wind catch the brightly coloured fabric. Sweet gasps of surprise and delight escape their lips as the kites begin to climb in the sky, side-by-side, into the beautiful blue expanse. Dean turns his head to glance at Cas, once again reminded of how happy he is that the angel is his best friend.

For the next hour, the pair watch the kites dip and sway in the gentle breeze, occasionally knocking together, before separating and continuing on their own course. Suddenly, the wind picks up and the kites clash together, tangling their lines in the process.

“I think we’re standing too close, Cas,” Dean notes as their shoulders knock together - again - in their very close proximity to each other.

“You’re probably correct, Dean.” But neither man makes a move to add space between their bodies, neither one makes an attempt to step apart.

The kites are hopelessly connected as they draw them down to the ground. Dean attempts to untangle the lines, but quickly decides that it’s pointless, the kites are all but fused together, unable to see where one starts and the other ends.

“Sorry, Cas. I can’t fix them. Looks like our kite flying days are over.” Dean plops down to the ground landing gracefully onto his back. Cas follows.

“That was fun. Thanks, buddy. Didn’t know that was something I needed.” He swings his head to look at Cas. Smiles with his whole face and lets himself bathe in the warmth of the sun’s rays and the angel's company. Content at having nowhere else to be but here. With Cas.

Several quiet minutes pass, the only sound the faint buzzing of bees gathering nectar in the fields beyond them. Cas suddenly remembers another item from his checklist and decides it provides the perfect excuse to spend more time together.

“Look at the duck in the sky,” Cas proclaims, one arm extended to point at a cloud far in the distance.

“Huh?,” Dean glances at Cas before following the direction of his outstretched hand.

“Nah, that’s clearly a rabbit, Cas.” And so starts a game of finding shapes hidden in the clouds, and ‘arguing’ over who is right. “The ears are just pointing behind its head.”

“Those ‘ears’,” Cas jests good-naturedly, “are its beak, Dean. See?” And he takes Dean’s hand to draw the path of the duck's beak/rabbit’s ears. The touch is nice, and for a brief second, Cas loses track of his point, preferring to sink into the delicious feel of the hunter’s grip in his own.

By the end, both men are grasping tightly to their stomachs, their laughs finally spent, leaving behind a pleasant ache in their cheeks and sides. 

The air coasts lightly across Dean’s skin, causing the hairs on his arms to lift up as though to greet it. He's content. He shields his eyes with one arm, rests the other gently across his stomach just below where his shirt has ridden up to reveal bare skin. Closes his eyes, breathes in long and deep. Imagines filling up with peace and light.

Cas gazes at him, sketches his profile in his mind. The angle of his nose, the sharp contour of his stubbled jaw, the delicate hair of his eyelashes as they brush subtly against each other.

Dean dozes. Murmurs softly before he completely drifts away, “S’nice, Cas.”

The angel watches the easy rise and fall of his breath, tracking it as his hand lifts and lowers against his stomach. Listens as soft snores sneak slyly past Dean's lips. 

Soon Cas is lulled into sleep, too, resting his head heavy on his arm before his eyelids lose their fight with gravity and slip gratefully into slumber, carrying the image of Dean with him to his dreams.

Dean wakes some time later, rolls soundlessly to his side. And is struck by the sight of the sleeping angel, the relaxed tranquillity in his features, the soft edges of his face as it's pressed into his arm. Regards the way the sun has kissed his nose and cheeks, leaving behind evidence of its presence with faint pink love markings. It's absurd, but Dean might actually be jealous of the sun.

He spends time to look at Cas’ face, really look at it, the hastily stolen peeks he usually sneaks not giving the hunter nearly enough time to appreciate him the way he deserves. Dean does it now; studies Cas’ face, compares each feature now to the angel of the lord he met long ago one fateful night in a nondescript barn. His eyes were sharp, intense then, having none of the warmth and softness they possess today, having allowed humanity’s influence, Dean’s influence, to change them. His mouth, once stern and unwavering in its dogged commitment to obedience and command, has given way to easy smirks, half-grins and full-blown ear-to-ear smiles that light up everything lucky enough to be in its orbit. That hair, oh god, that hair. Dark, haphazard and messy in its initial style has since been toned down to a more presentable, pedestrian look. And while it suits him, Dean might actually suggest that Cas go back to those early years. Infinitely more hair ruffling, fist-grabbing worthy than his current tame look. Oh shit! Cease and desist, Dean. 

Without realizing it, Dean’s hand reaches out tentatively to stroke Cas’ cheek, longing to touch the places where the sun did, caress the smooth skin where it was exposed to the golden rays. Suddenly, Cas’ eyes float open and Dean quickly yanks his hand back guiltily, aware of how close he came to getting lost in Cas, knowing he can’t allow that. Afraid of what it could do to their friendship. The truth is, Dean can't risk his friendship with Cas, keenly aware of his terrible track record of screwing relationships up. Unwilling to lose Cas’ friendship, even if it’s not enough. Hoping his movement appears natural, Dean combs his fingers through his sun-touched hair and strives to quiet his battering heartbeat.

“Hi, Dean. Guess we both fell asleep.” Cas lazily rubs the sleep from his eyes, noting at the same time the way the sun has lowered in the sky, marking the passage of at least a couple of hours. “‘S’pose we should head back to the bunker.”

“Right, Cas. I should probably get dinner prepped. Sam’s a total disaster in the kitchen!” Dean doesn’t mind; feeding his family is one of the most honest ways he knows to express his love.

Cas gazes at him then, head tilted to the side, face unreadable, despite the softness of it. “You’re a very loving man, Dean. I hope you know that.”

“Ah, shucks, Cas. You’re going to make me blush.” Too late; the blush creeps slowly across his face and down his neck. Thankfully, he neither denies it nor looks away. 

Enjoying a rare reprieve from hunting, most notably because the monsters have either been banished temporarily, courtesy of the Winchesters and their gangly group of misfits (a witch, the king of hell and an angel, oh my! ), or are hanging low to strategize and regroup, Castiel continues putting his plan into action. The pair embark on the following activities: blowing bubbles through tiny hand-held wands, running shirt less through the water sprinkler, engaging in a rather intense, no holds barred, water balloon fight, constructing an elaborate blanket fort in the Dean cave and feeding the quacking persistent ducks, and a rather bossy lone goose, at a nearby pond. To date, they average about one activity every day or two.

And after each adventure - Dean’s not ‘complaining’ about the childishness of them anymore - the two get closer. It quickly becomes something Dean both looks forward to and expects. Cas for his part, is delighted at the hunter’s willingness to try each new activity, knowing that at his core, Dean is just a little kid at heart. 

So it's a thrill when he catches the angel flitting about one morning meticulously organizing what appears to be the makings of a camping trip.

He hangs back, since Cas hasn't noticed his presence yet, to marvel at how effortlessly he's seemed to fit into the role of a human. And Dean's suddenly struck with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude that he's a part of the hunter's life. Hiding just under the surface, too, is love. Not the love of a friend or brother but something deeper, more powerful, profound. But it's not ready to be revealed. Dean's not ready to reveal it. For now, it's enough that it's inching its way to the top.

"Going somewhere, Cas?" Dean asks cheekily, as he strolls into the library.

Cas brightens instantly at Dean's approach. "I was thinking, since things are uncharacteristically quiet, we might steal away to go camping. I've secured a campsite not far from here." He hopes desperately that the prospect of the two of them alone together overnight won't scare the hunter off the idea. "I can cancel it, though," sensing Dean's apprehension in his delay to answer.

"Uh…no. Sounds like fun, Cas. Is…um, Sam coming?" Dean's not sure if he wants the answer to be yes or no.

Anticipating this question, Cas might have (definitely) strongly encouraged Eileen to make plans with Sam, highlighting the relative lull in hunting duties as of late.

"He and Eileen have made plans for the weekend, I believe." Cas waits nervously for Dean to voice an excuse. And is surprised when it doesn't come.

"Okay. Cool. I'll just go, uh, pack a bag." Flustered, Dean leaves Cas to speculate whether it means anything.

They pack the trunk with the camping gear, which includes: a 6-person tent, a propane stove, two camp chairs, an axe, Dean's vintage green cooler, among other assorted necessities, before piling themselves into the Impala. A quick detour to the grocery store to pick up enough food and drinks to feed a small army, and a half hour later they're off. The drive to the campground is about two hours away and the friends easily pass the time with music, conversation and laughter. They're happy and it shows.

When they pull up to the campground, Dean is both relieved and concerned that their site is isolated from the rest of the campers, sitting as it is next to a lake and situated beside a small grove of wispy birch trees. It’s actually quite picturesque. On the plus side, they don't have to worry about the loudness of their music (which Dean insists is a must) or their conversation, which will undoubtedly revolve around their supernatural extra-curriculars. 

On the other hand, there's no buffer between him and Cas. And while he's not sure why a buffer might be necessary, he feels a strange knot forming in his belly nonetheless.

So instead of dwelling on it, and in favour of pushing his feelings down so he can ignore them, Dean reaches into Baby’s trunk to start unloading their gear and begin the tiresome task of setting up camp. They divide the duties. Dean assembles the tent while Cas organizes the food, gathers wood and cleans out the fire pit. They work in amiable silence, occasionally stopping to rest, grab a cold drink and share shy smiles at how seamlessly they work as a team. 

Anticipating the tent to take roughly 20 minutes to set up, Dean becomes increasingly frustrated when the poles fail to slide easily through the pockets for which they’re designed (are they even the right size?, he curses) or the pegs to hammer neatly into the packed soil. He’s convinced that erecting a tent would make even the meekest, most pious God-fearing nun swear like a demon-possessed red-neck trucker at the seeming futility of it all. 

Eventually, having taken three times longer than should be necessary, Dean stands back to admire his work. It’s then that he consults the bag that the folded-up tent came in. Surely, this can’t be a six person tent he worries; it looks like it will barely fit two grown men, the king size air mattress (the only one left on the shelf at the camping supply store) and their duffel bags. Gulp. Dean’s mind starts to spiral.

In that moment, Cas appears at this side, lays a comforting hand to Dean’s forearm gingerly and says simply, “It will be alright, Dean.” And, as if by some magical intercession, he relaxes. 

Dinner consists of hot dogs and corn on the cob roasted over a roaring campfire. After they finish, the two men settle back contentedly in their chairs, nursing a second beer and bask in the quiet, slow pace of the day. 

“This was a great idea, Cas. I've always wanted to camp just for the sake of camping.” At Cas' quizzical look, Dean continues. “Dad took me and Sammy to the woods a few times, but it was primarily for a hunt, never got to just enjoy it, ya know? This, here, this is how I pictured it should be.” Dean rubs his hand roughly down his face to hide the emotion that's bubbling to the surface. How is it that Cas gets it when his own dad missed the mark time and time again? 

“You should have had the chance, Dean. I'm sorry that you didn't.”

“You're making up for it, Cas. Thanks.”

The tears well up unbidden, but Dean doesn't care, choosing to blame the booze instead of his complicated feelings.  Besides, Castiel deserves to know that he's appreciated. 

Cas is humbled into silence, but manages a soft, “You're welcome, Dean.” And it's enough. The look of relief on Dean's face says everything.

While Dean adds another piece of wood to the fire, Cas sneaks into the tent, coming out before the hunter even has a chance to note his absence. 

“Have room for dessert, Dean?” Cas is hiding chocolate squares, graham crackers and jumbo marshmallows behind his back.

“You brought pie?” His enthusiasm whenever pie is the topic is infectious. Cas hopes he won’t be disappointed.

"S’mores!” And he holds out his hands with a flourish. 

“Hell, ya!” The desire for pie quickly forgotten. 

After finding suitable roasting sticks, the men assemble the squares of chocolate onto graham crackers and wait for the marshmallows to reach the perfect meltiness (Dean’s word) before sandwiching them between a second graham cracker. They press the treat together and laugh at the way the white sugary treat spills out the sides before popping them into their mouths in one giant bite. They’re messy and heavenly. The gooey marshmallow makes their fingers stick together, but it doesn’t deter them from making a second and third one. 

“Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any better… Dean trails off as he shoves another s'more into his mouth. Grins widely around the chocolate and marshmallow that coats his teeth. Cas is transfixed at how young and innocent he looks in this moment. And his heart is filled to overflowing. 

“S’mores just might be the perfect treat, Cas. But, I’ll deny it if anyone asks,” he jokes, as he sucks a finger lazily into his mouth to lick the remnants of the sticky white goo off. Cas has to look away.

Neither of them are tired yet, despite having had a full day. Instead, they talk. Cas is the only person that Dean can let his guard down around, lift the tough-guy persona he wears like a protective cloak, so it’s nice. Personal and real.

“What would you do if you retired from hunting?” Cas is curious. He’s only ever known Dean as a hunter. Dean’s only ever known hunting, his chaotic years after four bleeding one into another until his only solid memory is being on the road, stumbling from one motel to the next in strange towns trying desperately to keep his little brother safe, sufficiently fed and, most importantly, alive. Years of being with family, but somehow still painfully alone.

Dean ponders for a couple of minutes, getting lost in the mesmerizing flames licking greedily at the wood, as he contemplates how honest he dares to be. He’s thought about it, sure, but it’s never been anything but a pipe dream. A dream he’s never given himself permission to hope for.

“I'd like to settle down with someone special, do the boring 9-5 shit, have dinners together, go garage-saling on weekends. Lame stuff.” This admission shouldn’t embarrass him, but it does. A little. Dean’s not good with being vulnerable. Cas helps, though.

“Sounds ideal to me.”

Dean continues, “Except, who would I do that with? Not exactly attracting the right partner in my, uh…specialized line of work, ya know.” He doesn’t let himself dwell on the possibility. He learned long ago not to wish for normal, for what other people get to have and then have the audacity to complain about. He knows that the grass isn’t greener on the other side (despite the saying to the contrary), but in this case, he’s pretty sure it is.

“I don't know. You've met plenty of women who know what you do. Are you telling me there's not one of them you'd consider settling down with?” It pains Cas to ask it.

“Uh…they're not really my type.” The booze is loosening Dean’s tongue, weakening his defenses. In the stark light of day he may regret admitting it, but he's not thinking that far ahead right now.

“What? Smart, funny, beautiful women aren't Dean Winchester's type,?” Cas quips.

“Uh…no." The silence hangs awkwardly in the air. "Can't see myself with any one of them. They're great, don't get me wrong, but there's things, there's people, feelings that I-I want to experience differently than I did before, or maybe even for the first time.” Dean tucks his head to hide the blush creeping onto his face.

He reaches into the cooler that's positioned between their camp chairs, acting as a makeshift table, to retrieve two beers. Passes one to Cas, artfully avoiding his gaze, and takes a long, steadying pull of his. He needs the distraction.

Determined to take the focus off of him, Dean asks, “What about you, Cas? Any interest in dating, sex, whatever? Anyone special on your radar?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. There is someone special, but it will never work out I'm afraid.”

“Don't be like that, pal. You're one hot, interesting, strangely endearing mother fucker!” Even in his joking manner, Dean means it. He’s felt it since the day they met; a constant indistinguishable something that he can’t quite put his finger on. Whatever it is about Cas, it’s comforting, like a well-worn blanket, favourite song or soothing touch that smoothes the hurt away.

“Hmph …” Cas chuckles. “Maybe one day, Dean. I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed.”

The two men sit with their own thoughts for a time.

They end up talking late into the night and finally call it when neither of them can keep their eyes open, exhausted and a little drunk, not bothering to care that their shoulders and hips touch in the darkness, and slip off to a blissful dreamless sleep.

When he wakes the next morning, to the annoying caterwauling of a bird somewhere in the tree overhead and bright sunlight nudging persistently into the tent, Dean finds that Cas has rolled over onto his side, his arm now draped casually across Dean's waist. It’s warm and strangely familiar, so he allows himself to welcome the closeness and remains still until Cas starts to slowly stir awake.

To Dean's disappointment, he wakes fully a few minutes later. “Oh, I'm sorry, Dean.” Cas startles back on the mattress, his face ashen, until half of his body is hanging off it and resting uncomfortably on the hard ground.

“No worries, man. Even in my sleep, I'm damn hard to resist,” Dean chides.

Cas only swallows thickly and forces a weak smile.

Lifting himself clumsily off the mattress, Dean says, “I'll go get the coffee started. Oh, and I was hoping we could go for a hike before heading home.”

“I'd like that Dean.” And just like that, everything's back to normal.

Walking along a well-worn path that runs parallel to the spring fed lake, Dean and Cas fall into a comfortable pace and natural rhythm of conversation. It’s so nice that Cas makes a suggestion. “You know, Dean. Our campsite isn’t booked until tomorrow. We could stay another day.” 

“Why not? Let’s do it!” Dean answers enthusiastically, basking in the knowledge that there’s absolutely nowhere they have to be.

The friends spend the day swimming, napping and playing card games. As night nears, and they’ve cleared the last vestiges of dinner away, they lay across the hood of the Impala, propped with their arms pillowing their heads, to stare at the constellations as they twinkle to life one star at a time, full and brilliant in the pollution-free skies that can only be appreciated this far from the city. They don’t speak, instead settling into the quiet calm of nature and their own easiness together. When the fire starts to dwindle, Dean hops off to add another log. Cas follows and they plunk themselves down around the dancing flames, the orange-yellow glow bouncing off their faces, adding to the eeriness of the inky shadows that envelopes everything around them. The only sound the haunting warble of an owl, or maybe it's a wolf baying forlornly at the full moon. It gives Cas a spectacular idea, one he'd forgotten from his list.

“Let’s tell scary ghost stories!”

"Are you serious? My whole life is a freaking ghost story," chuckles Dean, with a fond look at Cas, his head cocked slightly to one side. Unconsciously to both men, over their years together, each had started to pick up some of the others’ mannerisms, similar to how spouses naturally fall into sync with one another, finishing the other's sentence or understanding exactly what a particular look means so no words are even necessary. Much like how Castiel has adopted Dean's habit of running his fingers through his hair when he’s nervous, or how he sometimes bites his lower lip when he’s deep in concentration (or to charm information out of someone). Hell, it’s even worked on the angel more times than he cares to admit, so he knows the power of the move.

“Okay, point taken.” Thinking again of his list Cas says, “How about a laugh-off?”

“A what now?”

“We take turns telling a joke or silly story. The other person tries not to laugh. Whoever makes them do so first is the winner.” 

“You’re on! You’re so going to lose bad, pal,” teases Dean.

A confused look stares back at him.

In answer, “You’re not funny, Cas. Sorry to break it to you. And I’m freaking hilarious!” All cocky and confident. “I'll even let you go first, give you a fighting chance,” Dean needles shamelessly.

“I'd be careful if I were you, Dean. I can be very competitive when I choose to be,” Cas warns with a sly grin.

“Bring it, angel.”

After an agreement on the rules, they begin, Cas graciously allowing Dean to go first.

Dean: What did the horse say after it tripped?
Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t giddy up!

Cas refrains from laughing, but does offer a dramatic eye roll. 

Cas: What did the drummer name his twin daughters?
Anna 1 Anna 2

"Ugh…you gonna have to do better than that, Cas."

Dean: I wanted to buy some camo pants, but I couldn't find any.

This joke lands like a lead balloon. So far, neither is winning. Or both are.

Cas: I was going to tell a time traveling joke, but you didn't like it.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Dean throws his head back and releases a deep hearty laugh straight from his belly, tears springing to his eyes. And Cas is stuck on the way his Adam’s apple bobs, longs to run his finger over it as it moves. It’s the most delicious sound and sight he thinks he’s ever seen.

Dean finally gets a reluctant chuckle from Cas with a story about pink satin panties that he kinda liked. The visual imagery that pops to his mind making the angel both giggle and blush.

They continue to try to one-up the other until they run out of jokes and agree to call it a draw. It’s well past midnight when the pair drag themselves into the tent to prepare for bed, both men concluding that an extra day was a tremendously good decision.

Dean is relaxed and high on endorphins and beer so he doesn’t catch himself before he lets slip, "God, I love you.” And if it weren't for the way he punctuated the word 'god', he might have gotten away with claiming it to be a light-hearted joke. But he did and he can't.

What the fuck! There’s a sudden thick heaviness permeating the darkness around them. 

“Uh, excuse me.” Dean bolts out of the tent, jogs to an open space with a fallen tree. Throws himself down, not caring how a knot digs painfully into his thigh. What the fuck, dude? He chastises himself. You’re going to fuck everything up with Cas if you say shit like that. Even though he longs to be honest, Dean is a realist. Castiel is his friend. He’s never had one before, not really, and not someone who’s stuck around through the shit times too, including Dean being the royalest of shitheads. Cas has always been there, ready and willing to forgive. He’s a better person than Dean deserves to have. Don't ruin it, Dean!

He starts back, throws on his best ‘everything’s cool, I’m cool’ attitude, like a costume he wears to hide his true nature, afraid that others will call him out for the fraud he is. Wishes briefly that the night would swallow him up so he didn't have to face the angel, fearing he's damaged their friendship. 

“Everything alright, Dean?” Cas asks tentatively, cautiously. 

“Oh, uh…yeah. Fine. Time for bed?” Dean’s really regretting the single mattress now.

They ready themselves for bed without speaking. Removing jeans to replace them with light-weight pj bottoms and stripping layers off until they are in t-shirts. Both crawl onto the mattress from opposite sides. 

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“‘Night, Cas.”

The night is dense and oppressive around Dean. The weight of it continues to press in on him as he prays for sleep to claim him.

Then…

“I’d have to consult the rule book, but I think I won,” pokes Cas. And mercifully it breaks the tension as they both dissolve into laughter until the elephant in the room has been pushed out of the zippered tent door.

Dean wakes early, 6:12 by the glow of his bedside alarm clock, full of anticipation. Cas has been shamelessly showering him with experiences he’s never tried before. And while Dean was initially embarrassed at accepting all the wonderfully thoughtful, and somehow on-the-nose, surprises - not used to being the recipient of no-strings attached attention and affection - he finds himself waking each morning with hopeful expectation. Being with Cas might also be a compelling factor, he concedes.

He strolls casually, with a great deal of effort to keep it that way despite his nerves, into the kitchen where he’s greeted by the angel, steaming cup of coffee in hand. As he passes it to Dean, who grunts with something approximating thanks, he smiles in a way that only he can, all gracious and pleasant, and says, “Morning, Dean.” And if he wasn’t in love with Cas before - he was - Dean definitely is now; hook, line and sinker. And if feels good.

There’s something different this morning, though.  Whether it's a hold over from his diminishing angelic grace or just because he knows Dean so well, Cas senses it immediately.

“Hmmm…” Cas ponders fondly, his eyes squinting slightly, as if this action will deliver the answer he can’t readily discern, “you seem different, relaxed, but nervous too.”

“Oh, um…yeah, I guess I am,” Dean responds, a bit flustered by Cas’ spot-on assessment of him.  

Cas merely looks at him with a pensive look on his face, waiting. The way that look makes Dean’s insides feel all squishy and weird does something to him that he tries weakly to intercept while he struggles to gather words. 

“Just wondering what you have planned for us today,” quickly supplying, in case his good fortune has run out, and praying that he voice doesn’t crack, “that’s if you have something planned for us, maybe, no worries of course.” The worry that the outings with Cas have come to an abrupt end. That’s okay, he scolds himself. Think of all the time you had, the memories made that you can hold onto, when it's just you, alone - again. His internal monologue, which always seeks to undermine him, remind him that he doesn’t get to have nice things, is back. Self-sabotage at its best. The Dean Winchester special.

"Of course, Dean,” is all Cas says, with a sweet smile spreading slow and sure across his lips. Dean is momentarily frozen, convinced that there’s nothing, in this world or any other one, that compares with that smile.

An audible sigh of relief issues from the hunter’s mouth. Cas pretends not to notice, but his smile widens traitorously to envelope his eyes, making them sparkle a brand new shade of blue Dean’s never witnessed before. 

They settle at the table, matching mugs in hand, sipping contentedly for a few precious moments, not speaking while they let the hot liquid flow through their veins, waking each limb up on its journey. Until Dean can’t stand it anymore. “So, what’s on board for today?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that, Dean. Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.” At this teaser of information, Cas winks at Dean, barely suppressing a knowing grin.

“Be ready to leave in 45 minutes.” Cas lays a hand overtop of Dean’s and caresses his knuckles lightly before standing and turning to leave. “Oh, and dress in comfortable clothes…and bring a ball cap.”

Dean sits glued to his spot for several unblinking minutes, staring blankly at the place where Cas’ hand intentionally brushed against his, willing his brain to cement the feel of the angel's touch into it.

Freshly showered and dressed in long grey shorts, a black v-neck tee and crisp white sneakers, Dean breezes into the library to wait for Cas. Needing something to do with his hands, and therefore occupy his overactive brain, Dean slips the Family Business Brewing Company ball cap on his head. It’s his new favourite watering hole, deciding that on the other side of forty gives him permission to drink better beer than the crap he so often opted for in his younger, broker years. 

His back is to Cas when he enters. Gasp. The angel pauses to stare at Dean, drinking in the relaxed, tension-free stance as he leans languidly against the table, strumming his fingers lightly on the wood surface to a tune that he hums softly under his breath. As if he can sense the angel’s approach, Dean turns and the two men lock eyes, both briefly stunned by the other. 

The two unlikely friends climb into Dean’s ‘67 Impala. Dean pivots his head to look at Cas and asks cheerfully, “Where to boss?”  

Cas pulls out his cellphone, types in the address on Google Maps (all while angling the screen away from prying eyes). “Come on, Cas. I wasn’t going to look. I swear.” The obvious smirk on his face betrays his true intentions and he silently wishes he had Sam’s stupid puppy dog eyes.

“Deeean.” The mildly mocking warning brooks no further discussion on the topic.

“Ya, ya, okay. At least tell me how long I’m going to be sitting in this car. You know my knees start to ache after a couple hours.” Dean whines, just a little. Maybe guilt will work, he reasons.

“According to the Global Positioning System,” Cas begins…

“You can just say GPS,” teases Dean.

“...of course,” Cas corrects “according to GPS, it should take 4 hours 15 minutes allowing for current traffic conditions and expected weather patterns. And following the posted speed limit.” A quiet preemptive rebuke levelled at the hunter who has been known to open Baby up on long stretches of open road.

“Ugh…” grouches Dean. He remembers when he didn’t think twice about a drive two or three times as long. 

“I could take the pain away, you know. For the drive anyway. Unfortunately, years of body bruising work has made a permanent fix impossible.” Cas is apologetic as he delivers this news, wanting desperately to remove all pain, physical and emotional, from Dean. 

“Nah, that’s okay, buddy. Don’t want you wasting your last bit of grace on me. Save it for something important,” Dean scoffs, even as he hates when he drops back into self-deprecating talk. But he’s trying. 

Cas lays a hand to Dean’s leg, squeezes gently. His eyes are soft, non-judgemental and kind. His silence tells Dean that, while he doesn’t agree with him, he also knows he’s working hard to improve his opinion of himself.

“You are important, Dean. To me.”

Dean’s chest is flooded with emotion, making it hard for him to respond. Instead, he stares straight ahead, unable to look at Cas for fear of letting the tears, that are pooling in his eyes, fall. To himself he utters, Same, Cas, same.

A short time later, music selected, snacks organized, the pair set out on their latest adventure, with the angel excited to see Dean’s reaction and Dean equally excited - if not more - to see what Cas has in store. Both happy to be with the other. 

At a break in the conversation, Dean presses Cas to slip up and reveal the surprise. “Is it something I’m gonna like?” He feels like a little kid, hoping to sneak an answer out of unsuspecting parents.

“Yes, Dean.” Cas fakes exasperation at the hunter’s needling questions. Continues, “I think I know what you like by now, Dean. Contrary to how you think you present yourself, you’re actually quite open with your likes and dislikes.”  

Only Cas doesn’t know what Dean likes, at least not all the things, the desires and wants he hides deep, sometimes so deep that even he forgets where he buried them. Things like how he’d like to hold hands with Cas under the blanket when they’re watching a scary movie in the Dean cave, or how Dean longs to brush the hair out of Cas’ eyes when it slides down his forehead as he concentrates intensely on one thing or another, too absorbed to swipe it away himself. Or how he aches to brush his lips lightly against Cas’ neck, just below his ear, to see if he shivers at the sensation. Maybe to whisper softly, Be mine, angel. 

Cas doesn’t know all the things that Dean likes...or wants. 

The minutes pass and the mile markers fade away as they travel east to cross the Kansas state border into Missouri. Dean glances over at Cas, who sits quietly staring out the window. Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Dean asks, “Can you at least give me a hint about where we're going, buddy?,” his curiosity getting the best of him.

“If you can’t be patient,” Cas teases with a twinkle in his gorgeous blue eyes, “then I’ll ask you to pull over at the next exit and find a place to park.” 

Dean is beyond intrigued now and immediately crosses over three lanes of traffic to take the next exit ramp, turning into the nearest gas station. At the same time that he cuts the engine, all enthusiasm and anticipation colliding together, he asks, “Okay, what it is?”

Wordlessly, Cas reaches behind the driver’s seat, picks something up off the floor and hands it to Dean. He stares at it, confused and uncertain. In his hand sits a new, perfectly worn-in, baseball glove. It’s a rich tobacco coloured brown with crisp black leather stitching and laces. Dean tries it on, still not saying anything, the words hopelessly trapped in his throat and marvels at how well it molds to his hand. 

Dean is transported back in time, his memories conflicted as he reminisces fondly of the time that Bobby, charged with taking care of him and teaching Dean the hunting ropes, decided instead to take the older boy to the park to toss a ball around. He remembers the heat of the sun on his face, the sound of laughter as parents and children played, dogs chasing after frisbees to trot unhurriedly back to their owners to drop it at their feet for more, ordinary people taking advantage of the summer day and the smile, kind and sincere, on Bobby’s face as he gently instructed Dean on how to throw and catch.

When John discovered that Bobby had expressly gone against his wishes, he yelled at him, furious that he would compromise Dean’s instruction for something as trifling as a game of catch. The old curmudgeon barked something back about how the boy needed to just be a boy for once in his goddamn life! No one had ever stood up for him before and it was in that moment that Dean promised his undying devotion to Bobby, a man magnitudes better a father than his own.

Dean returns from his reverie and somehow finds his voice, manages to squeak out a timid, “Thank you, Cas.”

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

It’s several minutes before Dean can speak again. He sits with his head hanging down, eyes fixed unblinkingly to the glove that rests cradled in his hands, the importance attached to it hitting hard. Cas doesn’t rush him; he knows a little of the pain and joy this gift brings. He’ll wait.

“Um…we’re travelling four hours to toss a ball around?” Dean has no idea and it’s all Cas can do to keep the surprise from spilling out of his mouth.

“Keep driving, Dean. We don’t want to miss the start.”

Slowly, the traffic signs start to provide Dean with clues. First, the final exit off the freeway is lined with signs proclaiming their arrival in Kansas City, MO and Home of the Kansas City Royals and soon after, a marker for Kauffman Stadium comes into view. His voice shakes a little, raspy with emotion hovering somewhere between disbelief and awe, as he turns to Cas, almost completely sure he’s in a dream that he’ll wake from at the exact moment when it gets to the good part, and asks, “Is that where we’re going?”

The angel answers simply, “Yes."

Dean’s never been to a professional baseball game before, his dreams of going to one with his dad as a youngster were fanciful and out of reach. Not worth the tears he wasted on them. So it’s no surprise that he can barely keep it together, the shakiness in his voice extending to encompass his entire body, hands quivering, breath coming in irregular and shallow puffs - lacking the bandwidth to control any of it - as he lets the reality sink in. And if it weren’t for the dawning look of absolute pleasure that takes over each of his features, Cas might be utterly destroyed at how much this mere act of kindness means to his best friend. Once again, he feels a deep-seated loathing for John.

They arrive at the entrance to the parking lot and Cas leans nonchalantly across Dean’s lap - causing him definite distress at the areas where their bodies touch -  to pay the parking attendant, playfully pushing Dean’s hand away as he argues that “it’s the least I can do,” suddenly uncomfortable with the enormity of Cas’ gift. “This is my treat, Dean. Just let me do this for you. Please.” Dean flushes brightly, but allows it. 

He’s dreaming as he parks Baby and gets out of the driver’s side, clutching his baseball mitt the whole time, and lets Cas lead him to the front gates, where the sign reads: Toronto Blue Jays at Kansas City Royals. Castiel flips open the app on his phone for the attendant to scan their tickets. As they make their way to their seats, Dean is in a daze at all the sights along the way: shops selling baseball merchandise, stands for popcorn, hot dogs and cold refreshing beer, among a dozen other things. And he’s happy, impossibly happy. Dean can hardly believe it as they approach their seats that sit along the third base line, and stares open mouth at Cas who remarks, “Perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to catch a foul ball.”

In fact, Cas had researched the most optimal spot in the stands to catch an errant baseball, should it happen.

“Haha…that would be a long shot, Cas.”

“Never say never, Dean.” There’s something about the way he says it that makes Dean wonder. 

After they settle into their seats, which has Dean sweeping his head in all directions as he takes in the wide unobstructed view of the whole diamond, Cas waves a teenager over and orders: two tall boys, a large popcorn and two salted soft pretzels, not even bothering to ask Dean if he wants any of it. Because, of course he does, and if Dean were able to speak, he might actually profess his undying love and commitment to the angel right then and there on the spot. Instead, he claps a hand to Cas’ shoulder, nods and blinks a few times in quick succession, hopeful that it’s enough to prevent the water from coming to the surface.

The game is everything and more than Dean dared to imagine: the loud crack of the bat as it connects with the ball, the raucous cheers of the fans as their team scores an RBI on a single or the sound of Cas’ confused laughter as Dean tries to explain the rules to him. In a word, it’s perfect.

And then it happens, the middle of the fifth inning, the Royals are up to bat and a foul ball sails directly at them. On instinct, and because years of hunting have honed lightening-like reflexes into him, Dean has his glove ready. The ball lands solidly in the pocket as though it was on a collision course with it all along. The unparalleled look of joy on Dean’s face makes Cas’ celestial intervention more than worth it. Aside from healing Dean’s minor injuries, Cas had decided that the use of his twiddling grace for this purely trivial reason is an excellent idea. When Dean registers the catch, suspecting that Cas had no small role in the ‘chance’ occurrence, he turns to him with a look that the angel can’t quite get a read on. If he could translate the look into words, and if he weren’t a complete ass chicken, Dean would say, ‘I love you’. But for now, his expression will have to speak for him.

Dean practically jumps out of his seat when he hears the music intro at the end of the sixth inning, all bouncy energy at getting to do the seventh inning stretch. He turns to look at Cas, his smile beaming from ear to ear. Cas beams back at him. And then it starts, the words streaming across the giant screen that surrounds the stadium.

And Dean belts them out with the rest of the crowd, clumsily performs the accompanying actions. It's nothing short of absolute purity and beauty, Cas concludes. He was present for the creation of the highest mountain peaks and vast, limitless oceans, witness to the planets and stars assuming their rightful place among the spacious voids in the darkest of skies and a humble observant to the birth of countless lifeforms, from the tiniest microorganisms to the colossal largesse of the woolly mammoth and its comparatively smaller cousin, the mastodon. And still, this moment is arguably the most treasured of the angel's whole existence.

He watches, entranced as Dean sings at the top of his lungs,

You’ve got a diamond
You’ve got 9 men
You’ve got a hat, a bat and that’s not all
You got the bleachers, got ‘em from spring ‘till fall
You got a dog, and a drink, and an umpire’s call
What do you want?
Let’s play ball

Cas regards Dean’s profile. If he squints his eyes just so, the man beside him transforms into a young ten year old boy, face glowing with reckless abandon and innocence. And that’s when, in that precise instant, Cas knows why he’s doing this. If he can give Dean even a small glimmer of joy that he was denied as a child, he may actually redeem himself in the hunter’s eyes, and heart.

(Lyrics continue)

"Sing it with me, Cas," Dean beckons and his enthusiasm is contagious. The once fearsome warrior angel succumbs again - willingly - to Dean Winchester's charm and joins him in singing the chorus: 

Ok (Ok) Royals (Royals)
Let’s (Let’s) Play (Play) Ball (Ball)

Later on in the game, Dean is so enthralled with the spectacle that he doesn’t notice two very important details: 1) Cas is staring at him, a hopeless look of longing and love on his face, and 2) the Kiss Cam is currently zeroed in on them both (most likely brought on by detail #1). It’s like the stadium is collectively holding its breath, willing the two men to spot themselves. And kiss.

Soon enough, Cas sees their faces projected on the jumbo screen and without thinking delivers a chaste, very shy, kiss to Dean’s cheek. Boisterous cheers ring out from the crowd. It takes Dean a few seconds to register it all. 

And then…

Fuck it!

Dean shifts his body, cups Cas’ face between his hands and plants a slow, tender kiss to Cas’ lips. The stadium erupts into even louder hoots and hollers as the hunter flushes brightly at his sudden uncharacteristic display of public affection. Is this what it feels like to be in love? All giddy and stupid and punch-drunk?

Quietly, “What was that for, Dean?,” Cas asks apprehensively.

(Out loud) “I'm happy, Cas. Really happy.” (In his head) You. You make me happy. 

At this, he throws his arm over the seat back and lays it casually across Cas' shoulder. Draws him close and doesn’t even bother to notice, or care, whether people are still watching them.

As they walk back to the car at the end of the game, Cas notes how relaxed and introspective Dean is and says, “Throw me the keys, Dean. I’ll drive.”

“Are you sure, Cas?” But he smiles as he tosses the car keys at him anyway, a thankful expression on his face.

After negotiating their way out of the parking lot with the hordes of other people, Dean props his baseball mitt against the window to rest his head, fist clutching possessively - reverentially even - to his baseball. Soon the drone of Baby’s engine and the rhythmic pulse of the tires on the pavement lull Dean to sleep. In his last moments of wakefulness, Cas can hear him softly mutter the words to Take me out to the ballgame.

Later, once they are back at the bunker, tired and worn out by the sun and fresh air, and having had a thoroughly enjoyable day in each other’s company, Dean musters the nerve to ask Cas a question that’s been brewing since the angel started doing all of this for him. “Cas, can I ask you something?” Tentative and shy, but not enough to make him reconsider.

“Of course, Dean.”

“Why have you been doing all these things for me? It’s not my birthday, ya know.”

“I know when your birthday is, Dean. And don’t think I won’t make a big deal out of it this year,” he teases.

“Ya, okay. No argument from me.” Dean beams under Cas’ attention. “But, seriously. Why?”

“I should think it’s fairly obvious, Dean.” It’s not. Dean only stares at him, a look of bewilderment replacing his usually strong composed features. Adorable as ever in his confusion that Cas aches to touch him, kiss him. Again. In private.

“Dean, you mean more to me than I think you can fathom.” He continues. “I know how much you missed growing up, how many rites of passage you weren't given, experiences that weren't yours. I know how much you sacrificed, how those sacrifices shaped you. They made you strong, resilient, responsible. But it also wasn't fair. You should never have been deprived of the simple pleasures of childhood. I wanted to give you a chance to experience some of the things you missed growing up. I only hope my feeble attempts to recreate those experiences made up for it, if even in a small measure. I wanted to see you smile, make you happy.” Cas has a watery half-frown, half-smile. “I know I can’t give you back the childhood you deserved, but I hope it fills in some of the holes and replaces them with new memories, hopefully ones you can cherish. I know I will.”

Dean is rendered speechless. Overwhelmed by the angel. Overwhelmed with love.

Seeing the hunter's expression, Cas supplies, simply, "Dean, you deserve for good things to happen to you." Cas places one hand over Dean’s heart as he proclaims, “Your love knows no bounds; it’s about time it was repaid to you.” Dean blushes under the compliment, but doesn’t deny it. He’s learning how to accept them. Instead, he lays both hands overtop of Cas’ and lets them rest there, no words needed. This is where he belongs.

Reluctantly, Cas removes his hands and gets up to leave. “Good night, Dean. I had a really nice time today.”

“G'night, Cas.” He can’t help but immediately miss Cas’ touch.

Cas stops at the doorframe leading out of the kitchen, leaning into it as though gathering strength from its solidity, and without turning around says, "Oh, and I guess I should add that I'm head over heels in love with you." He continues to walk to his room leaving Dean to pick his jaw up off the floor, stunned into immobility.

Wait! What?!

Dean goes racing after him. Catches up with him just as he reaches his bedroom door.

"Hey, man." Grabs Cas gently by the shoulders, momentarily stuck on how broad and muscular they are. "You can't just drop that truth bomb on me and then walk away."

By this point, Dean has turned Cas around so that they're facing each other. And doesn't the angel have the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. "Oh, was it something I sa… the words suddenly clipped off as Dean presses his lips, desperate and soft all at once, to Cas'. 

He pulls away, his own mouth plastered with a deliciously happy grin to rival Cas'. "As a matter of fact, it is."

"And, by the way, I love you, too."

The End