Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The buzz surrounds them like a warm, tight hug. It’s in the air, embodied by the chatter of people around, falling from the speakers that run through the entire airport, and swirls and ghosts around the trio. 

Castiel, sitting in the leather chair with the metal armrests digging into his sides, observes those around him. Men sit in their own leather chairs, reading from newspapers, books, or phones with Hawaiian button ups. Most have a beautiful woman on their arm, dawning their own flowy, floral sundresses. 

A hand clamps down on Castiel’s shoulder, jolting him. 

“Anything wrong, Cas?” Sam asks. 

Castiel, sucking in a breath to calm from the spike of suddenness Sam gave him, shakes his head. “No,” he replies, then looks out the large floor-to-ceiling windows to peer out to the runway where their plane awaits. “I just find your form of transportation to be.. slow. I may never get used to it.”

Sam, laughing softly, shakes his head as well. A couple strands of his hair fall into his face, and he is quick to push them back into place. “Sounds like you and Dean are in the same boat, then.”

Castiel nods, agreeing with Sam, but is stopped when Sam adds, “Where is he, by the way?”

“At the bar,” Castiel replies.

“It’s a lounge , Chuckles,” Dean cuts in from behind. 

Both Sam and Cas twist in their seats to peer up at Dean as he rounds the set of black seats to get to them. “And boy,” Dean says as his head falls back. “Was it..” His head bounces back up and he shakes it vigorously. Castiel looks up at Dean, face twisted in confusement. It’s as though Dean had forgotten he was speaking at all, because he stood before the pair, swaying. He tucks his chin down and lets out a low, deep burp. Sam wrinkles his nose.

“Atrocious,” he says as he stands. He holds out an arm to help Dean into the chair beside his, but Dean is quick to swat away his help. He instead falls into the seat beside Cas, giving the man a small, tight smile. Castiel looks at him sideways. “How much did you have to drink?” Sam asks.

If Dean had heard Sam, he chose not to respond. From how pink and flushed his skin is, no one is sure Dean can hear anything other than the rush of blood in his head.

Castiel assesses Dean for a moment before saying, “Your tolerance to alcohol is extremely high for any other man. You must have consumed a lot to get to this point, Dean.”

Rolling his head to the side, Dean stares at Castiel through slitted eyes. “Was that a hard case to crack, Sherlock?”

Castiel narrows his eyes at him, looking unamused. 

Standing in front of the pair, Sam throws his hands into the air. “Dean, you could’ve just taken an, I don’t know, a- a sleeping pill, or something, to take the edge off. You didn’t need to go and get plastered!”

Pointing a finger up at Sam, Dean barks out, “You know I don’t do planes, man!”

Sam rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated breath. “You know, they may not even let you on in this state.”

Ignoring him, either on purpose or accident, Dean says, “I don’t know what that bottle blonde gave me but…” He trails off. He stares at the floor for a heartbeat, seemingly lost, before jolting back up as though he had remembered that he was supposed to be speaking. “It was good. It was..”

“Look, it’s fine,” Sam interjects. He’s talking down to Dean, but his words seem to be more self-assuring than anything. “It’s fine. If anyone asks, we’ll say you took that sleeping pill. And that’s why you’re…” Dean's head falls to the side, his temple hitting Castiel’s shoulder hard. As Castiel peers down at him, unmoving, he can feel the tips of Dean’s hair tickle at his cheek. “Drooling,” Sam finishes. 

Castiel flickers his eyes up to Sam, a look of unsureness crossing his face. “What should I do?”

Rolling his eyes and sitting back down, Sam shakes his head, saying, “Nothing, Cas. Just an awesome way to start our fresh start.” 

As his muscles begin to strain, Castiel realizes that he has been stiff. He looks down at Dean, although not getting a clear look of his face, he keeps his eyes trained on what he can see as he relaxes into the chair. He casts a look around to the people nearby, assessing where their attention is trained on. Books, flight logs, phones, anything other than on Castiel is fine. Once he is sure, he reaches out a hand to smooth out the wrinkles in Dean’s bright red Hawaiian shirt and to fix the floral lei necklace that had gotten wrapped around itself. He sits back in his chair and interlocks his fingers, contempt with himself. 

An announcement here and a line there later, and the three were comfortably sitting in their assigned seats with their luggage and carry-ons carefully stowed away. Sam pulls out a book he’s been reading recently and goes into his own little world. Dean stuffs his ears with his headphones and turns his rock music up loud enough that Castiel can hear it from beside him. His eyes are screwed shut, head thumping along to the beat. Lost in his own world as well.

Castiel’s eyes drift around the plane cabin. He watches as people shuffle past, looking bored and tired. Some with books like Sam, other’s with wires of music like Dean. The others like Cas, holding nothing to keep them company for this long plane ride over the ocean. 

He takes in the dull glow of the lighted signals above him. Some he can decipher using common sense, others he cannot. He has a sense of uneasiness knowing that he does not know everything. Every signal, beep, buzz, jolt, and command had Castiel shooting wary looks left and right. 

He leans over to Sam and says, “I have never been on a plane, you know.” He keeps his head straight, but his eyes dart around. “I can see why Dean is so afraid.”

Sam lets out a sigh. “Not you too,” he mumbles under his breath. The intercom kicks on and Castiel’s head snaps over. Sam’s eyes are rolling into the back of his head. “This is going to be a long flight.”

A long flight it was, indeed. Every second ticked by like an hour; every hour passed was a century. The passage of time didn’t go by any faster when Castiel was pulling out his phone to check the clock every other minute. It got to the point where his nerves were spiking Dean’s own anxiety, and the last time Castiel had pulled out his phone Dean ripped it out from his hands. He was over the ‘Sorry, Dean’ this and the ‘Sorry, Dean’ that. With the phone clamped in his hand, he took Castiel’s wrist and unclasped the watch before stuffing the two under his legs.

“No more,” Dean had said, his tone stone cold. 

Castiel had opened his mouth to say, ‘Sorry, Dean,’ but hesitated as he decided against it. He closed his mouth and stayed silent the rest of the flight. 

Sam stayed sucked into his book, completely disregarding the two. 

When the pilot’s voice crackled through the cabin, alerting the passengers that land was coming soon, Dean and Castiel shared a sigh of relief. 

“It wasn’t even that bad,” Dean says with a fake sense of pride as he walks out of the jetway and into the airport, the other two trailing him. He pauses and opens his arms out wide. “Goodbye, America. Hello, Hawaii!”

Sam’s shoulders drop and he, too, is stopping in his tracks. People still filter out of the plane, separating into two streams to get around the three. “Dude, seriously?” Sam asks, staring at Dean. 

With an innocent look, Dean shrugs, confused. “What?” He asks. Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head before walking off, his suitcase rolling over the tiles after him. Dean watches as Castiel moves to follow Sam. “I was totally joking, you know.” His walking pace is fast to catch up to the two. He catches Castiel’s eyes and leans over to him, whispering, “You know I was joking, right?” Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean only to then speed up to fully catch up with Sam. “Right!?”

Chapter Text

It’s early in the morning when Dean wakes up. It’s the clanging of metal on metal that jolts him from his blurry dreams and is what leads him out of the (mostly) unfurnished bedroom and down the stairs. He rounds the banister and enters the kitchen. Castiel, dressed in a loose t-shirt and jeans, is standing at the island counter taking pots and pans out of a glossy cardboard box with a picture of said kitchen items on the side.

Dean pauses at the base of the stairs. His eyes float around the kitchen and conjoined dining room, taking in everything. The warm morning sun washes in through the windows, embroidering strands of gold into the dark hardwood floors and even darker cabinets. Since the room is empty, devoid of all furniture that is not already built in, the beams cut through with ease and make the space feel bigger than it probably is. Makes it feel brighter. Feel happier. 

The house is devoid of all furniture, sure, but it is undeniable how full the house feels.

The sun lights up the side of Castiel’s face, giving a harsh outline to his profile as he inspects a shiny sauce pot. The door behind Castiel that connects to the side of the house is propped open with a brick, presumably found from outside, and a gentle breeze wafts into the house, carrying in the sea salt from the ocean and the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers. 

Castiel, who paused his movements at the sight of Dean, asks, “Good morning, Dean. How did you sleep?” But after observing Dean’s shining look, he adds with knitted eyebrows, “What?”

Dean walks further into the room with a small, closed-lipped smile and eyes that shine with the sunlight. “I’m just..” He says, his voice tight. He shakes his head and looks out the windows and sees the deep blue of the ocean in contrast with the bright blue skies. His chest constricts, but it’s different than how it used to. Fear, worry, stress - it all used to pull his sternum inwards like he was being folded in half. But now, as something swells in his chest, he realizes it’s not from any of that. Not anymore. 

The emotions stir in his lungs and rise up to his throat until he’s laughing it out. “Cas,” he breathes out, the smile stretching across his face now. He turns around to face him, the two meeting eyes. “Look! Look at us, man! We’ve- we’ve friggin’ made it!” He splays his arms out to gesture to the kitchen. “We have our own kitchen. And- and not like a bunker kitchen. But a house’s kitchen. We live in a friggin’ house !” Dean laughs, full and hearty. “Can you believe it? Because I barely can.” 

Castiel breaks away from Dean’s eyes and looks around the sun bathed kitchen himself. A soft smile dawns his face. “I know the feeling,” he shares. “Last night while you and Sam slept I walked around and…” Trailing off, Castiel stares outside for a moment. Dean follows his gaze to where the palm trees cast shadows on the sand and waves crash and curl. “I’m very happy as well.” 

Dean looks back at Castiel, and after a heartbeat, Cas turns his head and the two meet eyes. Castiel’s smile grows bigger. Dean can’t help but return the grin. It feels right, being here. The purchase of those three plane tickets were overwhelming and Dean was waiting for someone to snap their fingers and have their reality drip away before their eyes. But, they’re here now, standing in what was originally smears of painted dreams he chased in his sleep. He’s here. Sam’s here. Cas is here. 

And all feels right. 

“I just,” Dean says, but it comes out a whisper. The corners of his eyes prick and heat up and he knows he’s about to cry. Shrugging his shoulders, he looks away from Castiel and back out the windows to the ocean. He takes in a breath and swallows to ebb away the soreness forming in the skin of his throat. “What was all the ruckus about earlier?” 

Castiel clears his throat and looks down at the task at hand. He lifts up a smaller pot by its handle and twists it around. “Sam brought these over for us. These pots and pans. Said someone named.. ‘Amazon’ delivered them this morning.” He sets the pot down onto the counter, the metal dragging against the granite countertops. Dean narrows his eyes at Cas, confused. “What a generous man.”

At that, Dean barks out a laugh. “Oh, man, Cas,” he says. “You- you’re funny.”

At the same time, Sam passes through the open door carrying another box. Its weight is apparent by the way Sam struggles to keep a secure grip on it, so Dean jumps to help his brother lead the box to the countertop.

“Thanks,” Sam breathes out, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, why don’t we bring in the rest of the boxes then head to the beach? It’s a beautiful day out,” he proposes, eyebrows up. 

Dean claps his hands together. “Oh, hell yeah!” In his excitement, he pumps his fists into the air and turns to head for the stairs. “You two knuckleheads handle the boxes and I’ll get ready for the beach!” 

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean is already halfway up the stairs, so he closes it and shakes his head. Turning to Castiel, who just shrugs at Sam and says, “Let’s get those boxes, I suppose.” 

It takes the entire time that Dean is upstairs to carry the boxes from Sam’s front porch next door into the house. There were duplicates of almost everything, but due to the majority of the purchased items being inside identical boxes, the contents were a mystery until Castiel used a box cutter to slice the blue tape. He cut open the boxes and Sam organized it all into two separate piles, one for both houses.

Castiel had asked why this ‘Amazon’ guy was being so generous and Sam laughed. It took a couple minutes for Castiel to understand that it is not a person, but rather a service delivering these items Sam had purchased online. “Credit card scam?” Was the next follow up question.

“No.” Was the answer. “Good honest money. Dean never knew how much I had stashed and, well,” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I never realized how much I saved up before I got to counting.”

Soon enough, Dean came clamoring back down the stairs sporting bright blue swim trunks and the same red Hawaiian button up from the previous day. There was a bag slung over his shoulder, presumably filled with the proper beach supplies.

“Get your asses trotting,” Dean says as he passes by Sam out the door. “I’ll be waiting out here.”

Sam and Castiel exchange a certain glance. One that is amused. Refreshed. They both pause their unpacking to get ready and join Dean outside in the burning sun.

Crowley truly had an impeccable taste for views. Dean leans up against the side of the house staring to the right where the beach sits just under 150 feet away. Palm trees are scattered with no pattern across the stretch of beach, some in clusters while others stand alone. Within a particular cluster far down the beach, there is a mesh hammock strung up with rope and nails. Dean just knows he has to get his hands on one for himself. 

The ocean, though, is what Dean gives Crowley true props for. 

It’s hard to say but this has got to be the most blue the Winchesters have seen. All their lives it has been bleaky gray and stark black. The knives, the guns. The Impala and the suits. The dust and grime that was embedded into the groves of their skin for so long it seemed to seep into their bodies until it was all they could feel internally, too. The only other shade of color was the ruby red of blood that dribbled out of the people caught in the crossfire. 

But that damn ocean. The vastness of it. It’s the solid straight line that crosses over the horizon which breaks up the heavens and earth but never seems to blend that takes the breath from Dean. The far out ocean is calm and flat but grows to be rough and jagged as it reaches the shore, billowing out onto the sand in light blue hues and sea foam. 

With the sun beaming down onto Dean, it washes him in a warm glow. Though, when Castiel walks out that side door wearing a pair of Dean’s extra swim shorts, his smile grows brighter than anything the sun shines on. 

“Lookin’ good, Cas.”

Castiel looks at him sideways. “Thanks. Uh, you too,” he says quickly before walking down the paved sidewalk that connects to the front of the house.

“ Uh ?” Dean repeats. “You sound like you’re not even sure of yourself. Do I not look good to you?” He opens his arms and spins around, as if to refresh Castiel of his image. 

“Well, I mean,” Castiel stammers. “I just- I do think you look good. I-”

“Oh, save it.” Dean waves him off and joins him at the front of the house. The porch juts out behind them and is lined with big untrimmed bushes and vibrant flowers poking out from the mulch. There’s no driveway, as there is no garage so all there is to stand on is the stone path that would lead them to the wooden bridge (that is mostly just better looking pallet boards) that connects to the beach ahead. Standing next to Cas, Dean breaths in the warm, salty air. 

“I think blue might be my new favorite color.”

Castiel looks from the ocean to Dean. “Really?” He asks to which Dean gives him a sure nod. 

“Yeah. I’m sure.” 

The two meet eyes. Dean looks to Cas, smiling bright and Cas returns the same smile, his blue eyes shining.

Chapter Text

Three beach chairs and a cooler is what Dean had described as the perfect day years ago. Today, he sees that image come to life. Three beach chairs, but two men. Castiel had wandered away coming up on forty-five minutes ago. Dean, who was reclined with his feet buried under the sand, a warm beer in his hands and sunglasses on, didn't seem to notice. 

Sam was in the exact same position but unlike his brother, he is awake and not dozing off in the sun. He watches as the waves crash into the sand, sputtering up and up as far as they can reach before being dragged back down. When the waves recede, Sam observes how the ghost crabs shimmy their way through the sand. Relaxed is a severe understatement to the brothers current state.

Seconds, minutes, hours - it didn’t matter. This private shard of the beach felt like a hidden room, stored away from the effects of time. The crashing of the waves mixed in with the whistle of the gentle breeze and chirps of native birds above sent Dean and Sam into a moment of peace like no other. 

Dean brings the bottle to his lips, the glass warm from the sun. The heated beer slides onto his tongue and down his throat. At the same time, two women in bright bikini’s walk past down at the water’s edge. They both have lopsided smiles but only one waves at the boys. Dean holds his beer up.

“Isn’t it funny,” Sam starts, “that this is like, way better than our heaven?”

Dean snorts and shakes his head, drinking again. “Oh, it definitely is. It’s a real ‘suck it’ to those angel dicks up there.”

Sam shakes his head, smiling, but it disappears and he asks, “Speaking of angel’s, where’s ours?”

Dean holds up a hand. “Don’t know. Slightly don’t care. All I know is sand, beach, and beer.” He closes his eyes and settles further into the chair. Sam can only scoff. 

“Well, enjoy your ‘ sand, beach, and beer ’. I’m going to go find him.”

Dean shrugs and says, “Alright. Hey, and when you find Feathers, you need to make him try this relaxation thing for a change. Maybe it’s what will remove that stick up his ass.”

After a laugh, Sam walks away down the beach where he last saw Castiel. The zen returns to Dean, holding him in limbo while the world continues to revolve outside his perception. 

An outdoor bar is where Sam found himself five minutes later. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the total expectancy of a beach bar such as this one. A ring of wood completed with bamboo siding for the half walls and a straw roof, wooden posts to hold it all together is where Castiel was found. Lightbulbs are strung up around the circular bar, presumably for when the sun goes down, over the matching wood seats that cradle the bar. There’s a small crowd of people all getting their share of alcohol, talking and laughing and some drunkenly singing along to the music. That social buzz is what Sam enters when he cuts through a small group to get to Cas.

“Hey, man,” he says, joining Castiel at the bar table and taking up the empty seat next to him. Castiel swivels around in his seat, wobbly and unbalanced. “Cas,” Sam firmly says. Castiel drags his eyes up to him and grunts out a ‘hm.’ With a smile, an “Are you drunk?” is Sam’s next question. 

A hard ‘No’ was Cas’ first reply, but he swung his head and defeatedly admitted, ‘Yes’ a heartbeat later. “I came across this bar and this group of people were giving out free shots. One of my favorite things about Earth,” Cas brings the back of his hand up to his mouth, “is your alcohol.”

“Yeah, alright. I get that now.” Watching Cas flow through shot after shot got Sam laughing and soon ordering some of his own. Together, the two got lost in the buzz of laughing and drinking. It started off tame with single drinks, but after Sam got into Castiel’s groove he started having Cas try out different mixtures of alcohol and how fast he can down a line of shots. 

To make it fair, Cas bought a bottle from the bartender. “Chug,” was all he said before pushing it into Sam’s arms.

“Chug?” Sam’s head fell back as he laughed, struggling to keep a grip on the bottle. “You’re bringing me back to Stanford, man."

“Were you a big… partier in college?” Cas asks. Sam shakes his head and tears off the cap of the bottle. He shakes his head again, but this time to get his fallen hair out from his eyes. Cas repeats, “Chug it!”

With a fist in the air, Sam tips his head and the bottle back. His adam's apple bounces with every swallow and Castiel is laughing and hollering right beside him. Sam has gathered attention and a crowd is now circled around the two, cheering and chanting him on. The golden brown liquid streaks down Sam’s chin and neck, but he persists until the bottle is half empty and he’s spitting up. Even with the fail, the others (Castiel included) erupt in cheers and Sam puts the bottle down. Some younger, male voice asks if he could finish it off and Sam doesn’t give it a second thought before handing the bottle over. The crowd stays nearby, but the loud cheering seems to float after whoever is now chugging. 

“Impressive,” Cas says, nodding. Sam chuckles and thanks him. He looks around the place while wiping the sticky liquid off his chin and neck. “You’re thinking we should leave now,” Cas speaks again, as if trying to read Sam’s mind.

Again, another airy laugh comes from Sam and he shakes his head. “No, no. I just realized how this is totally Dean’s type of vibe. Now I’m kinda feeling bad for leaving him behind.”

Castiel nods and adds, “I think it’s time to go back, anyway. We’ve- Well, I’ve been gone for quite some time.”

After a moment, Sam sighs and agrees. They both slide off their chairs, but before walking off the wooden platform the bar sits upon, Cas tells Sam to wait. He wobbly walks back to the bar and finishes off someone’s forgotten shot glass, which has Sam red in the face from laughter. Together, with arms slung over each other's shoulders they figure out their way back home. 

Chapter Text

When the three beach chairs come back into view, they're all empty. Sam collapses into his chair, running a hand through his hair and heaving out a heavy sigh, then a giggle. Castiel, though, sways in place and looks around for Dean. 

Up near the houses, there is nothing. No sign of any sort of life. Down in the water is also nothing. There’s hundreds of divots in the sand, impossible to decipher which are Dean’s. 

Castiel opens his mouth to ask Sam where he thinks Dean may have gone, but the missing man is breaking through the water and pulling himself to shore. 

“Sammy! Cas! You’ve gotta get in!”

Sam has his hand clapped to his mouth, a short laugh falling from behind his fingers. He looks up at Cas before using that hand to wave him off. 

“Go,” he says. “I’m way, way, way way way waayyy-” Sam’s head bobs up and down - “too drunk to go swimming. Go. Go, go go.” He’s now waving both hands at Castiel. 

Castiel, not any less sober, grabs at the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and off his body. He aims it for his chair, but somehow he misses and the shirt lands in the sand near Sam’s feet. Sam giggles at him. 

“Oh, shut it, giant,” Cas snarks. Sam giggles harder. 

Castiel makes his way through the burning sand, as he had left his shoes with his shirt. Dean’s eyes are intently on him as he walks, and somehow, in some way, he missteps and trips over his own foot, stumbles, but quickly corrects himself and he’s back on his way and he’s at the ocean’s edge, the waves lapping at his feet. He blinks, and he’s waist high in the water. 

“What?” Dean is asking, as if Castiel’s loss of seconds goes unnoticed. “No Sam?”

“No,” Cas responds. “Nope. No.”

Dean blinks at him. 

Castiel shakes his head and puckers his lips. “Nooooo Sam.”

With a scrunched face, Dean asks, “Are you drunk ?”

Castiel bends his knees and sinks further into the blue waters. He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Dean echoes. Squinting, he looks up at where the beach chairs are set up, presumably looking at his brother. Castiel would follow his gaze, but with how unimaginably clear the waters are, he’s a little preoccupied. Dean clicks his tongue. “So, how many shots are we talking?”

“Yes. All.”

“God damn it.”

“ God damn it ,” Castiel repeats in a mocking tone, then cracks up. Although, he dips too far into the water and a rush of it enters his mouth, and he’s standing up quickly and spitting it out. 

“Oh!” Dean says, putting a hand to his ear and leaning into Cas. “What- what was that? What were you saying?”

Cas shoots a glare, using the back of his hand to wipe at his mouth, but Dean is floating away on his back, laughing towards the sky. 

He laughs and laughs, but then is suddenly curling his upper body inwards and coughing hard. Castiel had skimmed the surface of the water and splashed Dean. The last few drops rain into the ocean behind him as he barks, “Cas! You dick!”

He only laughs, and as he opens his mouth to continue mocking Dean, he’s interrupted by a hit of blue and white water to the face, which leaves him with a scrunched face and standing still. As if he could hear Dean’s grin, he cracks open an eye. 

“Who’s the dick now?” He asks and holds a flat palm to the surface of the water.

Dean sees it, and without taking his eyes off Cas’ hand, says, “Woah man. You friggin’ started it.”

“Start this .” Castiel throws water at Dean.

Dean uses his arms to cover his face, but after the initial spray he’s grabbing cupfulls to splash Cas’ way. Cas doesn’t even try to shield himself and like a toddler throwing a fit, he’s smacking at the surface of the water to fight back. 

From a distance, Sam watches as a cloud of white mist and droplets of water create a storm around the two. He cracks a smile.

“You forget,” Castiel manages out, now drenched completely, and through the constant harsh rainstorm of water being shot at his face, he says, “I can conjure up enough water to drown you as you stand, Dean.”

The rainstorm ceases. Dean stands a few feet away, also drenched. His eyes big. A smile ghosts his face. “Hey man,” he is saying and he puts his hands up in defeat. “You- you know I was just messing with you. Cut back on the angel mojo, yeah?” He chuckles softly, warily checking out the glowering stare on Cas’ face. “Come on, Cas. You know–”

With a twist of his hand, Castiel commands gallons of water to raise up and race towards Dean, hitting him square in the chest with enough force he’s being shot back a foot. He falls into the ocean and under the surface with a big whoosh. 

Pleased with himself, Castiel smiles and looks over his shoulder to Sam, who has his hands above his head and is clapping fanatically. 

Cas looks back to where Dean should be resurfacing, but he isn’t. A second passes. The surface doesn’t break. A couple more seconds. Panic rises in Castiel’s chest. 

He takes a step forward, his leg slicing through the water like a butter knife slicing the skin of a watermelon. 

As his next leg follows, he feels something cool and warm at the same time grazing his leg, only to latch on to both his calves. Becoming bound, he loses his balance and the water is rushing up quickly to his face and it’s only milliseconds he has to hold his breath. He’s engulfed in cool water and air escapes his mouth and a flutter of white bubbles surrounds his head. 

He and Dean break the surface together. While one is laughing, the other is spitting up water. 

Spit and water dribble out of Cas’ mouth and he’s saying, “Dean” in that cold, warning tone that cuts Dean’s laughter off. 

He’s watching Cas with caution. Dean’s eyes flicker between his hands and his face. A bubble of laughter erupts from him, unable to be contained. Through it, he manages, “Cas.”

Castiel cleans his face. As he’s deciding between sparing and drowning Dean, Sam makes both of their heads turn by calling to them from shore.

“What’s he want?” Dean mutters and wades closer. 

Sweat glistens on Sam’s forehead and from the ocean, he looks red in the face and as if he’s about to fall over. “Guys,” he says, strained. “I’m like, really damn hot and.. I feel sick and I- I’m hungry and,” he opens his arms only to let them fall at his sides, “I’m going inside.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Go inside. No one is holding you hostage out here.” He widens his eyes at Castiel, a silent mock to his brother. “Go. And take a shower.”

On any other day, Sam would have rolled his eyes and waved off his brother, but today, unsteady on his feet, he makes his way up the short hill to the houses. All the activity and the beating sun has finally caught up to Cas, and his head begins to swarm and he, too, is beginning to become unsteady.

Dean catches this, and reaches out to clap him on the shoulder. “You too? Alright, let’s go.” Dean leads Cas up and up. Each step and the water drops an inch until they’re out on the sand, their feet burning and getting coated. 

Using his fingertips, Dean urges Castiel to head on inside while he clears up their stuff. Swaying under the shade of a nearby palm tree, Cas asks, “You sure?” 

“Yes, buddy. I am sure. Inside,” Dean points to the house, “Now. Please.”

Castiel gives a half-hearted shrug and sways back and forth until he’s turned around and begins to head for the houses. Dean watches him carefully, up the sand, through the grass, across the bridge and up the pavement until he’s rounding the house and going inside. 

With the two in the safety of shade and air conditioner, Dean gets to work. He first lifts the warm beer bottle up and takes a sip, but is quick to grimace at the heated liquid and regrets drinking as it slips down his throat. He pours it out onto the sand, watching as it wettens and clumps up. 

He folds the chairs and gathers up the other beer bottles, it all clinking and bashing together as he holds it all in one hand and arm. The towels and shirt he throws over his shoulder and holds the cooler in his other hand before walking over the pallet and to home, where he discards all the outside items next to the house.

Walking through the side door with all the inside items, Dean blinks as his vision becomes blue-toned as it adjusts to the new lighting. He discards everything on the floor next to Sam and Castiel’s abandoned shoes, making a mental note to clean it all up soon. 

He straightens and turns around and there is Castiel in the kitchen. Though, his hands are clasped to the edge of the counter and he’s leaning forward, eyes screwed shut. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, quickly crossing the kitchen and grabbing his shoulder, feeling the heat radiate off it. “Hey? You good?” Dean scans his face. Then, a little lower.

“Yeah,” Cas breathes out. “Yes. No. I’m- I’m dizzy, that’s all.” His voice is strained. It takes a second, but he’s pulling himself up into a normal posture and blinking, hard.  

Dean retracts his hand. “Awesome,” he says. Then: “Sam upstairs showering?” But as he asks that, the pipes within the walls spring to life as water begins to rush through them. Castiel nods, even though Dean already knows the answer. 

As Castiel keeps his palms glued to the counter, rocking back and forth slightly, either consciously or subconsciously, Dean looks around the room. The house is still devoid of all furniture, as it’s still day two since moving in, and Dean puckers his lips as he thinks. 

An idea comes to him, and he’s patting Castiel on the back and telling him to hang tight before jumping up the stairs and rounding the banister to enter his bedroom. Crowley had the two houses gutted for everything of value and plus some, so all that is left is a mattress and a bedspring in each bedroom of the two houses. Thankfully, Sam and Castiel had hitched a cab into town the day previous and bought all the necessities: food, water, bedspreads, pillows . 

Dean hates to mess up his perfectly made bed, but he tears off his comforter (big, fluffy, and royal blue) and bundles it up in his arms before carefully walking back downstairs. Castiel is hunched over the items Dean had left by the door, and as Dean is walking to the center of the dining room/kitchen, he’s tugging his shirt on over his head. 

Dean grabs the edge of his comforter, throws it up, and lets it ride the air back down to the floor. Castiel walks up behind him and Dean, noticing his flushed face, helps him down onto the blanket. 

“Given that dumb and dumber decided to get shitfaced.. which,” Dean nods his head to the side, “Is one: something I never saw coming and two: rude of you not to invite me,” he sighs and looks down at Cas, “I’ll whip up our grub tonight, buddy.”

“Thank you, Dean.” 

“Don’t mention it.”

Twenty minutes later, Dean has all the new cooking utensils freshly washed and ready to use. It’s been a while since he’s been in the kitchen, but with what Sam brought home the night before Dean is sure he can make some spaghetti at the very least. Onions, tomatoes, and some fresh basil is what Dean’s currently chopping up while the noodles boil on the stovetop behind him. 

Castiel comes down from showering upstairs. Sam had left moments earlier to go to his own house next door to put his share of the amazon purchases away and change into new clothes. “Hey,” Dean says when he sees Castiel stumble back down into the kitchen. He chuckles and adds, “Still drunk?”

Cas rounds the island table to where Dean is standing chopping tomatoes saying, “Yes.”

Dean puckers his lips and nods, going back to focusing on his task at hand. He forgets about the man standing next to him until the scent from Castiel’s shampoo hits his nose and Dean feels Cas standing too close behind him. He opens his mouth to bark out ‘personal space,’ but his words tumble back down his throat when he feels it. Castiel tucks his arms under Dean’s and wraps them around his body, hugging him from behind. Dean stiffens as Castiel presses himself into his back. 

Frozen in place, the connections in Dean’s brain sputter and die. The systems in his body kick into overdrive and his heart pounds in his chest and warmth blooms all over. The muscles in his neck move as he chokes out, “Cas? Man…” His words get caught and his throat constricts, all of a sudden very dry. Instead of responding, Castiel turns his head over to lay a cheek on Dean’s shoulder blade. He breathes in and Dean can feel Cas’ chest expand against his back. 

While his eyes dart wildly around the room, Dean struggles to come up with something to say. His muscles start to strain at how stiff and still he has been. He swallows, thick and audible. “Cas. What are you…” 

He trials off when Castiel moves. One arm loosens its gentle hold on Dean’s stomach and a breath escapes Dean, but his inhale is forbidden when the loose hand slowly lifts up the hem of Dean’s shirt. At a crawling pace, Castiel’s palm slides up, his fingers grazing the leather belt before sliding over heated skin. 

With a hitched breath, Dean’s lips part. Castiel’s dry fingertips brush against his bare stomach, light enough to tickle if Dean weren’t so caught up with the feeling. Involuntary, his eyes flutter closed just as the wings of butterflies brush and sweep against the lining of his stomach. His mouth urges him to say something, but everything runs blank. His knuckles turn white around the handle of the knife. He’s tense, yet so weak under Castiel’s touch. 

Dean doesn’t know when it happened, but Castiel’s other hand is sliding up Dean’s side, underneath the shirt. His head jerks to the side. “Cas,” he breathes out. His voice is deep and hoarse. Castiel breathes in from behind him. “Cas. You- you- you’re drunk. Drunker than I thought you were. You don’t know what you’re doing, man.” 

Castiel’s hands pause. They’re hot on Dean’s skin. Within the second, Dean notices how cold the rest of his body is. Castiel picks his head up off Dean’s shoulder, and cool air bites him there as well. 

“I know exactly what I am doing, Dean.”

A heartbeat after the words settle into Dean’s ears, his body jolts with adrenaline. He drops the knife just as he flips around and it goes flying off the counter and clatters to the floor. Castiel, at the movement, is pushed back but Dean shoves his hands into Cas’ chest and Castiel’s body falters before he, too, falls to the floor. Dean stumbles back. Every inch of space is like another shield between himself and Castiel. Cas looks up at Dean, his hair falling into his eyes. There is a certain look etched into his face, one that Dean cannot decipher. His eyebrows are raised, mouth hangs open, and his eyes hold a deep hurt. 

“Dean–”

“ No! No! Just-!” Dean turns around, his heart pounding hard within his chest. He can hear it in his ears, feel it under his skin. He puts his hands to his heated face and presses hard. “Go away.” He stands still for a moment, but can still feel Castiel’s presence on the floor behind him. It’s smothering. Something rises inside Dean, hot and quick, and without any control he’s again yelling, “ Go away! ”

Dean doesn’t turn around until he is sure Castiel has left.

Chapter Text

Later that same night, after Dean had finished making dinner and left Sam’s bowl filled with spaghetti on the table, Sam says his goodnights to Cas and leaves out the front door to go to his own house. It’s been a number of hours since either of them have seen Dean. Castiel spun a story that Dean didn’t feel good and went upstairs to rest so Sam wouldn’t go around snooping. While Sam ate dinner and Castiel kept him company, they made plans to go shopping the next day for more household items. 

Locking the door behind Sam, Castiel leans his forehead against the cool wood, sighing deeply. He gives himself a moment before picking himself up to go to the kitchen, flipping off the lights of the main entry way as he leaves. He gathers up Dean’s forgotten comforter off the floor and walks to the base of the stairs and turns off the lights, the kitchen snapping into darkness. Light beams down from the upstairs hallway, giving Castiel a clear path of travel. 

And yet, he cannot move.

As if his feet are encased in cement, Castiel cannot move. He picks up a foot to begin his ascent upstairs, but when he looks down, he sees that they are both still planted on the floor. He holds the comforter a little closer to his chest. 

Just give it to Dean, then be on your way , he tells himself. 

A breath in. A breath out. Castiel climbs the stairs. 

He rounds the banister and stands in front of Dean’s door. Dread antagonizes him from under the surface of his skin. He again shifts the comforter in his hands, and wonders if it is best to leave it at the door and go away. 

Go away

The words have been on repeat in the interior of his skull all night. Castiel closes his eyes and gathers up the courage to face Dean. It’s crazy to think that he was once a warrior. An angel who led thousands and murdered even more. And to think knocking on a door is what will bring him to his knees. A man, a human. That is what will make Castiel kneel. 

Using his knuckles, he knocks. Soft, yet swift.

Silence. 

Castiel stands still to try and pick up on any signs of life from the other side of the door, yet there is none. He is inclined to knock again, but right as he decides to, through the door Dean says, “Come in.”

Thinking he must have hallucinated it, Castiel studies the patterns etched into the wooden door before realizing that he had in fact heard Dean’s voice. He still waits a heartbeat before reaching for the knob, twisting it slowly, and opening the door. 

The hallway light spills into the bedroom. Dean is sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows to his knees, and with something small in his hands. Castiel takes a step inside, but sticks close to the door. 

“Your comforter,” he says and holds it out for Dean to take. 

Dean, though, keeps his eyes on whatever he has in his hands. Castiel tries to get a glimpse of it, but in the low light, it’s difficult. It takes a moment to pass for him to realize Dean isn’t going to take the comforter from his hands.

“Well,” Castiel whispers, and places the comforter on the floor next to the door. He stands up straight before pausing. The silence wraps around them both, pulsating. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. Though, it’s not entirely directed at Dean. 

Plastic clicks against plastic as Dean shuffles the item around in his hands. He looks like he has something to say, but his jaw is set tight. 

Castiel nods his head, understanding. His fingers twitch at his sides before he turns to leave. 

“I just can’t,” comes Dean’s strained voice. Castiel doesn’t dare look at him. “I just can’t .”

Gripping the doorknob, Castiel shuts his eyes. He visibly cringes at Dean’s words. It doesn’t feel right to say anything, even if certain words hang inside Cas’ mouth. He swallows them instead. 

He steps out into the hallway and shuts the door behind him, sealing Dean in the dark room. 

The moon hung high in the sky for what felt like days. Castiel, an insomniac angel, roams the two houses left by Crowley. He snoops around in the basements, observing the ropes, knives, candles, and other occult items left by the demons that have surely once occupied these four walls. He tests the foundation for any remaining sigils or sulfur and destroys all that he finds. 

Sometime between one and three in the morning, when Castiel was deep in the basement of Sam’s house, he finds something strange. Behind a wooden bookshelf is a hole in the wall that is boarded up with plywood and bricks. Standing in the middle of the room thinking, he then vanishes with a flap of wings. Appearing in the basement of Dean’s house, he finds where the hole connects to. 

The moon inches across the sky. Castiel watches from the front porch of Sam’s house as the ocean becomes streaked with reds and oranges. He knows it’s just a matter of minutes until Sam is awake and walking outside with a cup of coffee.

Sure enough, right when the rising sun reaches above the horizon and the vibrant colors have melted into the blue water, Sam comes out onto the porch. 

“Cas,” He says, obviously surprised. He looks back inside, saying, “If I had known you were here, I would’ve gotten another cup. Want one?” 

Castiel shakes his head. “No, I’m good. There is something I would like to show you, though.”

Sam looks at him sideways, a concerned look dawning onto him. “What’s the matter? Should we get Dean?”

Castiel opens his mouth, but finds that he has no words. Taking in a breath and looking out to the ocean he tries again. “No. I believe he is still sleeping. And, it’s not serious.” 

Sam nods, saying, “Ah” as he follows Castiel back inside the house and down the stairs to the unfinished basement. A large floor to ceiling wooden bookshelf has been moved and behind it is a dark hole leading into the foundation of the house. Sam, with an eyebrow raised, asks “What’s that?”

“A hole connecting both houses. Presumably used by Crowley’s demons when they used this place,” Cas replies.

“Cool. Like Clue.” Sam takes a sip of his coffee. “Dean will love this,” he says, then pauses. “Wait. This wasn’t here last time I was down here. How’d you find out about this?”

Castiel sighs and motions around the room. “I don’t sleep. I need something to do to pass the time. Last night I busied myself with looking around the houses to see what had been left behind.”

“Oh,” Sam says shortly. “Well, more shipment of things should be coming in soon. I know our couches will be here within the week.” He turns around and starts back up the stairs, Castiel at his heels. “Once the Impala arrives we should take it into town and shop around for other things, like TV’s and such.”

The two weave throughout the house and back outside, as Sam had wanted to enjoy his coffee with the sunrise. In silence, the two listen to the birds, the breeze, and the distance crashes of the rolling waves. 

It’s a strange thing to enjoy life after such horrific events. To see red from a sunrise and force your mind to not think of blood or fiery graves. To pick up a bottle of kerosene and start not a fire to burn bones or a loved ones corpse, but to roast marshmallows and enjoy a night on the beach. 

After Bobby’s final death, one that left both Winchester’s with a grief so deep they still wake up empty most days, they were contacted by some bank in a state deep down south. After the news of Bobby’s death had reached this bank, a representative reached out with their condolences and a surprise. Apparently, Bobby and Mary had a couple accounts set up. Accounts no one knew about, not even John. 

To normal people's standards, the money was miniscule. But, to Sam and Dean, boys who have been living off scams and gambling since single digits, it was more than a fortune. Enough for three one way tickets to Hawaii, a splurge on Amazon, and much more. And, it greatly helps that the two houses had been completely paid off for years. 

Once Sam had finished off his coffee, he went inside to begin his day properly. Castiel, without anything better to do, goes back inside Dean’s house to change out of his nightly clothes that now had dust embedded into the fibers. 

While inside his bedroom, with the door open and before he’s got the chance to put on a shirt, Dean’s door swings open. Since the two rooms are directly across the hall from one another, it is not easy to dismiss each other. After pausing in his doorway, Dean nods his head to Cas and sends a ‘Morning’ his way before heading downstairs. Castiel looks to the ground and mumbles “Morning to you, too.” 

When Cas finished getting dressed and went downstairs, he expected to find Dean in the kitchen. But, he was not there. Nor was he in the living room, or in the downstairs bathroom, or outside the house. While standing on the front porch, Cas’ shoulders drop in disappointment and regret. 

What has he done?

Chapter Text

Castiel has spent the greater part of the morning floating aimlessly around the property. The move has left him without any purpose, any goals. There are no mass destruction weapons to find, no war (planetary or civil) to fight, no evil sons of bitches (as Dean would phrase it) to track down and kill.. nothing at all. Sam and Dean have no problem with spending their days on repeat, as if they’re figurines living in a snow globe, as if they’re to spend limitless days sitting on a shelf, untouched by time. 

Which is true for Castiel. But, oddly enough, he doesn’t feel the same.

So, what does Castiel do when there is no mission to accomplish? He helps. He would like to say he’s good at it, but given his track record, he can’t say it very proudly. 

He stands now in the large backyard of the two houses and makes his way to Sam’s front door. Due to the effects of the two houses sitting abandoned for who-knows-how-long, the lock is janky and rattles easily. It works, slightly, and Sam doesn’t bother to utilize it because with even the slightest pressure, the door is swinging open. 

Sam is sitting on the last few steps of his staircase on his laptop, eyes glued to the screen as he scrolls. His focus dissipates when Castiel closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” Sam says, one hand on the top of the laptop screen. 

“Hi,” Castiel responds. “What are you doing?”

Sam glances at his screen. “Oh, just.. shopping. House is falling apart at the seams, so..” He shrugs, then looks back at Cas. “What’s up?”

“I was looking for something to do. I was wondering if you needed help with anything.”

Looking around at the empty house, Sam sucks in a breath and shakes his head. “No, uh, not really, I don’t think.” He opens his mouth to continue, but hesitates, then asks, “Have you seen Dean around?”

Castiel straightens. “Dean? No. I, uh, have not seen Dean.”

“Oh,” says Sam. “Is he not back yet?”

Narrowing his eyes, Castiel asks, “Back? From where?”

“I don’t know. He said he was going on a walk.”

“How long ago?”

Sam looks up in thought. “Probably.. two.. three hours ago?”

Castiel opens his arms slightly. “Two, three hours? Don’t you think that’s a little long for a walk?”

Sam’s hands fly up, but his wrists stay connected to the keyboard. “Do I look like my brothers’ keeper? If Dean wants to go on a three hour long walk, so be it.”

“Well, no,” Castiel replies to Sam’s first comment. “Cain was older, so for it to make sense, Dean would be…” He trails off when he catches Sam’s expression, one that says he doesn’t really care. “Never mind,” he quickly pushes out. “I’m going to go find Dean.”

He turns around and leaves out the front door. But, as he’s thundering down the stairs, the hinges of the door squeal as Sam comes outside. His fingers are inside his shoe, trying to force his heel into it. “Wait, I’ll come with.”

Knowing that heading right will only result in a dead end in half a mile, as the shore becomes haphazardly rocky and the sand dunes pile up into unclimbable mountains, they head left down the beach. As the two basically retrace their steps from yesterday, the strange, out-of-body sense of déjà vu hits both Sam and Cas. 

Sam, knowing his brother, thinks that the bar would be a good place to begin. So, instead of turning for the market, they stay going straight until they enter the forest of umbrellas, beach chairs, and laid out towels. 

The outdoor bar from yesterday is in their sights, and it’s not long until it’s right before them. It’s more crowded, with people lingering both on and off the platform. Like magnets, the people around are drawn into groups where they sip on their drinks and laugh at each other’s jokes.

Like ducks paddling through a pond, Sam and Cas cut through the crowd and slot into a small space at the bar itself. Sam’s eyes scan the place, jumping from face to face to face, his head on a swivel. It’s cut short, though, when Castiel grabs his arm and Sam’s looking at him, but Cas is looking straight ahead. Following his gaze, Sam finds Dean.

He’s standing in front of the pair, hands on his hips and a goofy smile plasters his face. The bar separates them, and Sam is inclined to yell at his brother and ask what he thinks he is doing behind it, but he catches the black apron tied around Dean’s hips and the dirty white towel slung over his shoulder. 

“Dean,” he asks, “what are you doing?”

Dean approaches the two and places his palms on the smooth wood. “Fellas! Fancy seeing the two of you here,” he says, grinning. Then: “Well, you both ditched me yesterday, so I decided it was my turn,” he raises a hand and separates his pointer and middle finger, pointing at them, “to ditch you guys. Welcome on my first day of the job! What can I getcha?”

At the utter absurdity of what Sam is witnessing, he’s spitting out a laugh and holds the back of his hand to his mouth. “Dude, seriously?” He asks and Dean shrugs, that same grin on his face. “Wow. Gone for a couple hours and you already have a job. Some things just don’t change, do they?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean is saying, waving a hand at his brother. “But, really, are you going to order? ‘Cause I’ve got others to tend to.” He keeps his eyes on Sam, only sparing Castiel a short glance, and points behind him to the clusters of people. 

“No, I’m good,” Sam says, then looks at Castiel, who is quick to shake his head.

Clapping his hands together, Dean says, “Alright then! Feel free to stay a while. The drinks are good, the music’s good, and the ladies are even better.” He shoots a wink Sam’s way before turning around and walking off. 

As Sam is chuckling, Castiel is simmering. 

Something thick and heavy begins to fester deep within his chest, making him feel hot and gross. Every human sense about Castiel is waking up. It’s too hot outside, even from under the shade. It’s too crowded. The person standing next to him pushes into his arm and doesn’t apologize. Castiel thinks of smiting him. 

From another part of the bar, Sam catches a couple of open seats. He’s quick to grab Castiel by the elbow and maneuver the two of them through the people until they’re the ones claiming the chairs. Screwed high up into the post next to him, is a small white fan that’s pointed inside the bar. With enough focus, Castiel is turning it more and more until it’s angled at him instead. The cold air washes over him like a reassuring hug. 

It feels nice. It helps ebb away the stone in his chest. The air hits Sam’s hair and the ends are being pushed away from his face as he stares at a small television mounted in the corner of the ceiling. A silent basketball game is playing on the screen, and Sam leans over to Cas, saying, “You know, before I never really got the chance to sit and watch a game. Guess now is the best time to start, huh?”

Cas only glances at the screen. Sports never interested him. Not one of the hundreds of varieties throughout the thousands of years humans have been walking, sleeping, and shitting on this Earth. 

“Yeah,” he says, but it’s too soft and gets drowned in the restless chatter of the surrounding crowds. Sam doesn’t seem to notice.

Dean’s back catches Castiel’s eye. He’s pulling on the handle of tap beer, the golden liquid pouring and sloshing into a cup, white foam rising faster than the beer itself. Dean lets it sit on the table behind the bar for a moment as he collects cash someone had left. Castiel watches as Dean holds the tall glass to a lady in a bikini, watches as her pinky runs over Dean’s fingers as the glass transfers, watches as the two exchange smiles, watches as she holds out two fingers, some cash tucked tightly in them, as Dean goes to reach, as she pulls her hand back, teasing him.

He looks away, suddenly wishing he did ask for something to drink. 

The last of the remaining hour trickles by. Customers get called elsewhere, whether it be the beach or sand volleyball. They disperse out and away from the bar, only leaving the trio and a couple of stragglers sipping from nearly empty glasses and watching the game. 

Dean, after cleaning watery rings from the bar, comes sauntering over and leans against the wood. He looks at Sam, then follows where his attention is being held so captively. “Sammy into sports or something now?” He asks. 

Sam, without taking his eyes off the screen, shakes his head and says, “What? No, no.. I just- Whoo! ” He stands up from his seat, the legs of it scraping hard against the wooden platform. Others around the bar join in, bringing the cheering fans on screen to life. 

Dean slides his eyes to Castiel, giving him a look that says you seein’ what I’m seein’? , to which Castiel shares. Just as Sam is going to sit back down, he pauses and fishes his phone out of his pocket. It vibrates in his hand and he tells the two to give him a moment before he walks off the platform and into the sand. 

Without the buffer of Sam’s presence, Cas sits tall in his chair. He watches as two birds swoop down to the ground, picking at a discarded bag of Cheetos as if it is the most interesting and entertaining thing he has ever witnessed. 

It’s quiet between the two. Sam’s chatter comes from behind Cas, small and far away. The birds fly away. 

With nothing to distract himself, Castiel takes in a breath. The stone has reappeared in his stomach. 

Inside his mind, he argues with himself. He argues with Dean, with Sam. He argues with the birds, calling out and cursing them for not staying on the ground. Each word, both loud and quiet, small and big inside his head, he screams. He uses them as seconds, collecting and piling them together until he has a mountain and feels tall and brave enough to glide his eyes away from the sand and to Dean. 

And there he is, face turned so that Castiel only sees his profile. His eyes are trained on something far away, and when Castiel looks, there’s girls playing volleyball far down the beach. 

Castiel’s jaw tightens. 

He shifts his legs, about to excuse himself and walk back home, when Dean speaks up.

“You’re my best friend, Cas.”

The words, like an anchor to Castiel, halts him. He keeps his eyes trained on the surface before him. From his peripheral, he sees Dean stand up straight and move to be directly in front of him. 

“I mean it,” he continues. “You’re my best friend, man. And a good one at that.” Sucking on the inside of his cheek, Castiel waits a second before letting Dean catch his eye. “Hell, you’re probably the only best friend I’ve ever had. Well,” Dean nods his head to the side and mutters, “besides Benny.” He looks at Castiel in the eye. “And.. I love you, man-”

The rock falls, creating a black, bottomless pit inside Castiel’s stomach, to which he tumbles in. 

“-and I don’t want a future if you’re not in it. I- I don’t want nothing if you’re not there with me.”

Dean stops talking, but keeps his eyes on Castiel’s. He breathes in, deep, shaky. 

Castiel breathes in, deep, shaky. 

Castiel doesn’t know what sort of look is plastered to his face, and within the second he becomes fearful that everything he is feeling, every thought, and emotion is being transcribed on his face for Dean to read. 

Some sliver of him doesn’t want to, but he still tears his eyes away. He forces his face into relaxation. He’s too up in his head to really take in what he’s looking at, but all he knows is that he cannot be looking at Dean right now. Not with that solemn expression he wears. His mind swirls. His head throbs. His throat constricts with a new dryness. 

It isn’t until Sam is speaking that Castiel realizes he’s back.

“Am I..” Sam trails off, his eyes flickering between the two.

“No,” Dean is quick to say. 

With a single nod, Sam says, “Right,” slowly, and in the sort of tone that tells Dean that he doesn't believe him. “Anyway,” he says to Castiel, “our couches were delivered. Want to go back and put those together?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. He slides off the bar stool and walks off the platform, into the burning heat. He knows Sam is giving his brother a look, and he knows Dean is shrugging his shoulders, but he can’t bring himself to care. Dean’s words, his - I love you - pulsates through him like blood. It circulates through his liver, his stomach, his kidneys and lungs and brain, setting them all on fire before finally depositing into his heart, turning it warm and fuzzy and sickly hot. 

Sam’s voice slices through him, taking him out of his head and back into reality. He’s saying goodbye to Dean, and that they will see him after his shift. Castiel turns around and says goodbye to Dean in the only way he knows how: tense, prolonged eye contact. 

Chapter Text

When Sam and Castiel reach home, there is a large truck idling on the road nearby. Sam leaves Cas’ side and cuts across the grass to where the truck sits. The driver's door swings open and Castiel watches as Sam waves and the two exchange words. Sam is probably apologizing for not being home sooner, for making the man wait, and how the driver is smiling and waving Sam off, he’s probably being nice about it all.

Castiel jumps into action and runs up the stairs to Sam’s house, propping open the front door, and doing as much as he can to clear the way for the couches. When he goes back outside and to the back of the truck, where Sam and another delivery person stands, Castiel is expecting two, fully made couches to be sitting in the back of the truck. 

But, when the back gets rolled up, loud and thundering, there’s eight large boxes sitting inside. Castiel’s eyebrows knit into confusion. He looks over to Sam to see if he shares his confusion, but Sam is nodding at the boxes and signs an electronic pad the driver is holding. 

After the signature, the two workers begin their orchestrated number of retracting the ramp and climbing inside to roll out the dolly. Sam asks what he and Cas can do to help, and the driver says the best place for them to be is out of the way. Sam breathes out a laugh, hand rubbing the nape of his neck, embarrassed. 

In no time, the eight boxes are rolled out, down the sidewalk, and placed on Sam’s porch. There’s big, black markings on them to indicate which boxes go together. After a short conversation between Sam and the two workers, they’re off again. 

Luckily, the boxes are small enough that with enough push, they can fit through the front door. Unluckily, even between Sam and Castiel, arguably the two strongest, it still takes a lot of force, sweating, and straining to get all eight inside. 

They easily differentiate between which boxes are for Sam’s couch and which are for Dean and Castiel’s, and the latter’s boxes get pushed into the kitchen to wait. Sam and Castiel stand in the living room, hands on their hips, and Sam says, “This should only take an hour. Two, tops.”

The first hour tore by and left a mess of ripped plastic, loose bolts, and discarded cardboard all over the room. The frame of the couch was half finished, and Sam scoured the instructions for the third time, face scrunched in confusion. 

“I- I don’t get it,” he says, looking from the paper to Castiel, who's holding up the foundation of the couch. “It says here it should just slide in.”

“Well, obviously, it’s not,” Castiel says and drops it, letting it thunder against the floor. “You did something wrong.”

“ Me ?” Sam asks as Castiel sighs heavily and goes to the windows, unlocking and forcing them open.

“Yes, you .” He glides over and opens the next. A burst of cool air enters the room, rustling the paper in Sam’s hand. “You put the frame together.”

Sam clicks his tongue and drops the instructions, not caring how it gets swept up by the draft and glides across the room, settling between two large cardboard boxes. “Maybe you’re not pushing them in correctly.” He picks up what Castiel dropped and lifts it to where it needs to go. He pushes hard, and it slides in, locking into place. Sam, with a beaming grin, stands up and turns to face Castiel. “ Who did something wrong?” He asks with a fighting smile. 

Castiel, with a dropped face, looks from the frame of the couch to Sam. He rolls his eyes and walks to the last cardboard box. 

The last hour and thirty minutes pass easily. With the first half of the couch set up, it proves to be fairly simple to get the last of it finished. As Sam falls into the cushions, sweaty and exhausted, Castiel kneels on the ground and picks up all the trash they’ve left strewn around the room. 

“I’m starving,” Sam says, his head reclined back, his adam's apple bobbing. “Want to go to a diner with me? Maybe we can hit the market and pick some stuff up.”

As Castiel is balling the clear plastic up, he nods. Dean has been gone for quite some time and should be back soon, so Castiel will take any opportunity provided to be gone before he gets back. 

Sam lifts himself from the couch and goes upstairs to his bedroom to clean up. Downstairs, Castiel finishes picking up the living room. The space already looks twice as small with the new couch, and he wonders how everything else will fit. 

Eventually, the afternoon sun is hot on their backs as they walk down the sidewalk of the main road into town. It’s a long walk, but it’ll have to do without Baby. But the market is a cute area with live music, people selling hand-made jewelry, fresh fruits and vegetables, and it makes the walk worth it. 

Sam and Cas stroll through the flow of people until the stalls cut short and their surroundings are replaced by old, rowhouse brick buildings. Down the sidewalk is a diner on the corner, with a deep green awning that stretches over the front of it. Tables and chairs sit under the awning, most of them occupied by people. 

Castiel picks out a table and waits outside, enjoying the ebbs and flows of spring days, while Sam goes inside to order his late lunch. He watches the people sitting with him, how they have pleasant conversations with one another while they eat, and thinks of how nice their lives must be. Unaware, content. At least that is how Castiel paints them to be in his mind. 

He gets lost in his head, thinking about everything and nothing all at once. 

When Sam emerges from the diner, holding a box of food and a drink, it feels like it’s only been seconds since he first sat. Sam joins him at the table and begins to unbox his lunch. He doesn’t eat yet, but instead picks at his fries, eyes fixated elsewhere as he thinks. 

Castiel notices this, and asks, “What, Sam?”

Sam’s eyes flicker up, then back down. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. Castiel, his people skills well oiled up, picks up on Sam’s nervous demeanor. He narrows his eyes, confused. 

“So,” Sam starts, but it’s clear he hasn’t got a sentence formed. He chews down on a french fry, then breathes out a chuckle. “I guess.. I guess I’m curious about what’s going on between you and Dean.”

Castiel freezes. 

Continuing, Sam says, “I mean, I felt the tension between the two of you after I got off the phone. Did..” he shrugs his shoulders up, “something happen?” 

Castiel seals his lips closed. He looks away. He looks back at Sam. The rock has grown into a huge boulder and grows so hot it turns into molten lava.

“I.. don’t know what you mean,” he says finally. Sam scoffs. 

“Yeah, right,” he says. With the conversation started, he flows easily into his train of thought. “I know what I felt, Cas. I’m not an idiot. Did Dean say something stupid? I know he’s prone to being a dumbass.”

“No,” Castiel says curtly. He feels a roll begin inside him. He’s becoming defensive. “Dean didn’t say anything.. stupid, per se.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise. “But he did say.. something ?”

Castiel looks away and shifts in his seat. “No.”

Sam hums in response, a smile tugging at his lips. He bites into another fry and looks off into the distance. He purposely lets a moment of silence pass before speaking again. “Well, Cas, whatever is going on.. Whatever marital fight-” Castiel gives Sam a certain look “-it is this time, don’t let it get too big, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Castiel agrees, although he doesn’t really understand what Sam means. He and Dean have fought ever since they first met. It’s gotten big, it’s gotten explosive and bloody, but why is it different this time? Is it because they’re retired now? Castiel nods to himself. That must be the reason. 

Their conversation dies and the chatter amogst them fills their silence. While Sam eats his lunch, Castiel people-watches and thinks. Sam sits on his phone, periodically looking up and around, as if forgetting he was in public and has to gather his bearings again. 

After lunch, the two stroll back through the market. They pick out fresh eggs, jams, vegetables, and fruits to last them the rest of the week until the impala arrives and can get them to larger stores. The sun hangs low in the sky on their way back, drowning their vision with bright streaks of yellow. 

Dean had beat the two home. It wasn’t hard to guess, as each window was forced open and classic rock music pours outside. Castiel enters the house first and stands in the entry way. He looks right to the living room and finds a similar mess of when he and Sam had put the couches together hours prior. But, Dean is not there. He looks left into the kitchen and it’s also empty.

Sam pushes though the front door and slides behind Cas into the kitchen. “Dean!” He yells, but his voice gets taken away by the volume of the music. With the bags still in his hands, he leans over the first steps of the staircase and tries again. “Dean!”

Castiel puts his set of the mesh bags onto the island table and says, “I’ll go find him.” Sam’s eyebrows jump and saying something that Cas doesn’t quite catch. But, he’s beginning to unpack the groceries and Castiel doesn’t see the point in asking him to repeat. 

As Castiel climbs the stairs, the music streaming from the living room begins to soften. He finds Dean in his bedroom, shirtless and noddling along to the song, standing over his bed with a red, plastic case open. Metal tools catch the sunlight and shine inside. Dean is inspecting one, trying it out on a bolt he holds. 

Castiel clears his throat. 

Dean peers over his shoulder.

For a split second, his face changes. Then, he smiles. “Hey, Cas,” he says and turns back to the task at hand (literally). 

With Dean not facing him, Castiel finds it safe to run his eyes over the muscles of Dean’s bare back. As they’re trailing down, Dean turns to face him again, and Castiel doesn’t flicker his eyes back up quick enough. 

Whistling, Dean says, “Like what you see, big boy?”

Castiel doesn’t respond. 

Dean shrugs, and with the tools in hand, goes to leave the room. Though, Castiel stands in the doorway and watches as Dean approaches him. They’re inches apart and Dean looks up from his hands and at Cas in the face. 

“Can you.. please move aside, Cas?” He asks, his voice soft. His breath hits Castiel. 

After a heartbeat, Cas takes a sidestep and clears Dean’s path. 

Dean’s feet stay planted. He looks at Castiel for a second - no - a moment longer. During this time, Castiel’s eyes rage over Dean’s face. He looks for something in particular, yet doesn’t have a clue as to what he’s trying to find. In the last remaining time, he settles for looking at Dean in the eyes.

Dean nods once and heads downstairs, his chest just barely grazing Castiel’s. 

As Dean’s footsteps fall into the beat of the song, getting lost, Castiel stands in the bedroom for just a second longer. Long enough to gather himself, but not too long as to make it feel weird that he was upstairs for so long. 

When he’s walking back down the stairs, he catches Dean’s complaints about the food he and Sam had bought. “Oh yipee ,” he’s saying, rolling his eyes. “More bunny food. It looks like you only shopped for yourself, man.” He reaches out and flicks the head of lettuce Sam set on the table. It goes rolling. 

“Well,” says Sam, catching the head before it falls off the counter, “once the car comes in we can go shopping for real. We’ll get ‘Dean food’.” Dean throws a glare his brother’s way before heading into the living room. 

Castiel watches him leave and only returns his eyes to Sam when Dean had disappeared around the wall. 

“Here,” Sam says, motioning for Cas to join him behind the counter, “Lemme show you where everything goes. You.. Do you know where things go?”

“No, Sam,” Castiel replies, his tone flat and he gives Sam a look. “I do not.”

Sam’s face falls and he nods once. “Right,” he says, as if his question was dumb. “Lemme show you, then.”

It only takes a couple minutes for Sam to teach Castiel how to properly organize a fridge before he’s off to put his portion of the produce away and to do his own things. When Castiel inquired, Sam said: “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ll go read outside for a bit.”

Cas had seen no problem with this, but once the door shut behind Sam and he was alone in the kitchen, Sam leaving was suddenly a very big problem. Maybe joining him for a read outside doesn’t sound all that bad. But, Castiel looks into the cut of living room he can see (half of an open window) and the shadow of Dean’s head sweeps by. 

Upon seeing his shadow, the deep weight of dread begins to settle back inside Castiel. I love you pings through his head. I love you pings through his lungs. I love you pings through his heart. 

That read outside is beginning to sound really nice. 

Castiel shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hoping to shake the feeling - and the words - out. 

At the same time, Dean begins to sing softly along to the song playing. His voice is deep and sweet and smooth and glides with the draft from the windows and over the sickening dread inside Castiel’s stomach, smothering it. 

Castiel breathes in the fresh air that comes in from outside. It settles deep in his vessel and he feels it within each organ, each cell. It’s lightening.

That read with Sam can wait. 

From inside the kitchen and with enough focus, Castiel can twist the volume dial on Dean’s radio down and down and down until the music stops at the entryway of the living room.

“Hey! Was that you?” 

“No!” Castiel lies.

“Don’t you lie to me, you fucker!” 

“Not me!” He lies again. 

Dean’s music grows louder.

Chapter Text

Castiel leaves the cold grasp of the empty kitchen and walks to the warmth of the living room. Dean sits on his knees, his naked chest luminescent in the evening sun, with the sheet of instructions crumpled in his hard grasp. 

“Do you need help, Dean?"

Dean’s eyes snap up to where Castiel stands in the doorway. His lips part, hanging loose for a second, before he says, “Yeah, sure. Here,” he holds up the instructions, “read these and tell me if any of it makes sense.”

Castiel has to step over a cluster of bolts, which are strewn across the length of a couple feet to get to Dean. He grabs the paper, but doesn’t need to familiarize himself with what he already knows. 

“What step are you on?” Castiel asks, and with that the two are swept into the awkward, fumbled dance of constructing a couch together. Hovering in the back of his mind was the distant fear that their coexisting presences would be rough and uncomfortable, but with this project as the main focus, Cas had found it easy to exist with Dean. 

When he instructs, Dean listens. When he points, Dean grabs. When he shows what to do next, Dean stands close, arms crossed over his chest and his face set in obedient focus. 

Throughout the construction, Castiel had inched the dial more and more until the music reached all corners of the room, but not any further. Dean, his eyes scribbling all over the room for the next step, never seemed to notice. 

The sun marks its daily path across the living room, pulling the cookie-cutter rectangles of muted gold down the walls until they dissipate into the white wash of the evening light. The humid breeze still pulsates the thin screen inside the open windows, never turning cooler even with the sleepy sun. 

Castiel slides in the final piece of the couch right as a song begins. The acoustic guitar is sweet and soft and a light gasp escapes Dean. He bends over and twists the knob, hard, and the moonlit tune washes throughout the entire main floor of the house. He looks to Cas, his eyes gleaming, and says, “This song..” He pushes out a breath and turns his head, his expression showing what words cannot.

A small smile cracks Castiel’s lips and he sits on the couch upon Dean’s unspoken gesture. He watches as Dean leaves into the kitchen, only to come back moments later with two cold beers, the caps already screwed off. 

Dean hands the bottle to Cas, the chilled glass biting at his skin, and sits down next to him. “Oh,” he says, lifting the arm furthest from Castiel to drape across the back of the couch, “Sammy did good picking out this couch.” He tips his head back and rests it on the top of the cushions and nestles his beer between his thighs. 

Just then, his knee falls out and knocks against Castiel’s. It sits planted, secure. The firm contact of their knees burns Castiel’s skin, as if it is sinful and God is punishing their forbidden touch with hellfire. Out of the corner of his eye, Cas gages Dean to see if he shares the burning sensation. 

Dean, though, picks up his head and takes a sip of his beer, eyes trained deep in the kitchen and fingers dancing in the air along to the song.

Castiel does the same, pointing his eyes to the floor before them. 

The music swells and swirls all around them. Robert Plant’s high, bluesy voice fills Dean’s lungs, constricting them even when full. The drums come in, loud and fast, and the lyrics begin to pour out. Dean’s eyes are closed when Castiel looks again, and his head is softly bouncing along. 

Again, a smile cracks Cas’ lips. 

“ Your stairway lies on the whispering win… Oh.. ” Dean sings just above a whisper, his voice deep and smooth in comparison to Robert’s. 

Castiel’s eyes close involuntarily, hoping to have his ears be submerged in Dean’s cool voice, but instead the instrumentals of the song kick to life. He opens his eyes. Usually, music such as this would be tying its strings around his limbs, urging him to follow the beat, but in his disappointment he doesn’t feel the pull. 

Eventually, the song simmers into silence. Dean opens his eyes. He takes a long drink from his beer, and a sigh follows as liquid slips down his throat. “Good song,” he says, looking down at the glass in his hands. “ Great song.”

“Yeah,” Castiel agrees, then a question pops into his head. “Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Will you..” He begins to ask, but the next song overpowers his voice and his words become lost. He looks over to the radio and within the second, the dial is turning once again and the song gets sucked back into the constraints of the living room. Dean watches, his eyebrows up in a mixture of surprise and impressment. Castiel returns his gaze back to Dean. Then: “Will you ever get used to this life?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the radio and to Castiel. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Cas starts, a soft sigh slipping past, “doing nothing all day.”

A wary smile creeps up on Dean’s face. He says, “Cas, bud, we’re only day three into retirement. There’s no way you’re complaining already.” 

“I am not complaining,” Castiel defends, his eyes narrowing. “I am simply stating that I find it hard to stay.. stimulated,” he shrugs his shoulders up, “when all you and Sam want to do is lay out on the beach.”

Dean’s smile drops and his eyebrows pull down in confusion. “I thought angel’s didn’t get bored.”

“That’s true,” Cas remarks. “We don’t.”

“Then I’m confused,” Dean says. He looks straight ahead and tries to make sense of Castiel’s dilemma. “Isn’t this what we wanted since.. forever?” He shrugs and opens his hands. “To be able to sit and chill without worrying about who needs saving and who’s etching our names into a bullet?”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, Dean. It is nice to be retired. All I’m saying is I feel like I should be doing something with myself. But, all I end up doing is waiting. I wait for you and Sam to wake up, I wait for you to get off from work, I wait for Sam to come back from his runs..” He ends his rant with a heavy sigh. 

“So, you’re bored?”

Tightly, Cas says, “I’m not–” but then drops it and looks to Dean with a hard stare. Dean catches this and cracks into a short laugh. Castiel shakes his head and says, “I’m just tired of spending the majority of my days waiting.”

Dean lets the bubble of laughter die in his chest and looks away in thought. Sleep is a blink in time for him and Sam, the only hint of the passage of the moon is the breaks when they awake, only to turn in bed and go back to their dreams. He never really thought about what the reality of night is to Cas, who sits with each second, each minute. Dean digs the underneath of his fingernail into the soft curve of the opening of his bottle, thinking. 

“I know what you need,” he says after a moment of silence. He raises his hand and slaps it down onto Castiel’s thigh, “a hobby. Like.. like puzzles! I get the feeling you’d enjoy those. Or antiquing.”

Castiel’s face scrunches into confusion. “Antiquing?” He asks, his eyes dropping down to the hellfire that is Dean’s hand on his leg. A knot forms in his throat, but he knows if he doesn’t speak right now he’ll never speak again in this moment. “I- I do enjoy learning about human history. Although, I’ve been around for all of it.”

A fresh sheet of shock lays over Dean’s face and he leans back into the couch, retracting his hand. The old warmth on Cas’ leg chills over. “Right,” Dean pushes out. It’s clear he continually forgets how old Castiel really is. “Yeah, we’ll get you that puzzle.” 

As the sun dips farther down and takes its white wash of sunlight with it, Dean and Cas finish off their beers, listening to the music that pours softly out from the radio. The automatic lights out on the porch flicker on and illuminate the frames of the windows and the screens inside, but all else is draped in the cloak of night. A breeze pushes into the room, stripped entirely of its warmth. Dean shivers and when Castiel looks over, he sees in the faint light that goosebumps have grazed Dean’s arms. 

Castiel reaches out his hand to take Dean’s empty bottle, to which Dean passes over. They both stand up and shuffle to opposite sides of the room. Cas to the windows, shutting the three that line the wall and Dean to the radio, switching it off and pulling on the black cord that connects it to the wall. They silently follow each other into the kitchen where Castiel disposes of the beer bottles and Dean leaves the radio on the first step of the stairs. 

With one foot on the stairs and a hand on the railing, Dean looks at Castiel in the dark kitchen. Cas shuffles around, only making direct movements where the moonlight grazes, and Dean sees how Castiel looks back into the living room. Dean’s lips twist in disapproval. 

“Come get ready for bed with me?”

He sees how Castiel looks at him, even if both their bodies are only outlines in the dark. 

“Dean, I don’t sleep.”

Dean clicks his tongue and raises his hands, saying, “I know, I know. Just humor me, man,” before walking up the stairs, expecting to hear footsteps behind him. He does, and with his back turned, he smiles to himself. 

In the bright light of the bathroom, Dean brushes his teeth. Castiel leans against the back wall, careful to keep his eyes on only Dean’s face in the mirror and not on the bareness that lays so loudly below his neck. 

Above the scrubbing of bristles on teeth, Castiel asks, “Do you think we fight maritally?” 

Almost choking on his toothbrush, Dean has to take a moment to spit out the white foam and take a sip from the faucet to clear his mouth. He locks eyes with Castiel in the mirror. “What? W-Where are you getting that idea from?”

Castiel shrugs. “Sam said so.”

“Oh!” Dean says sarcastically. “‘Cause Sam said so.” In the mirror, Castiel catches Dean rolling his eyes while using the towel to clean his mouth. “No,” Dean says, placing the towel back, “we do not fight.. ‘maritally’.. whatever that means.” Dean slips out the bathroom door and Castiel follows him down the short cut of the hallway and into his bedroom. 

With the single large window in Dean’s room, it proves to be much brighter than it was downstairs with the multiple, smaller windows. Dean drags the shirt he discarded earlier in the day off his bed and walks to his walk-in closet, disappearing inside. 

With Dean now out of sight, Castiel says, “Men in your society do get married.”

Quickly, Dean pops back out of the closet still in his jeans and a fresh shirt just barely tugged on his body. The hem is rolled into itself, Dean’s midriff showing. “Yes?” He says, slow and confused. “And?”

Castiel watches as Dean walks to his bed, standing near the far wall. “It’s a fact,” he says.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re usually full of fun facts,” Dean says, and in the soft moonlight Castiel catches the narrowing of his eyes. “Anyway, Cas, I’m gonna hit the hay.” He sighs heavily, exhausted. “If you wanna go off and entertain yourself..” He waves a dismissive hand at Cas, who nods and turns for the door, about to say his goodnights when Dean continues with, “And I don’t mean with the pizza man.”

Castiel’s feet freeze from under him. His mind sputters and he turns his head to the side to regard Dean, not fully looking over his shoulder. “I- I uh, I wasn’t going to. My mind didn’t go.. there.” He turns around and faces Dean. “Why did yours?”

What was once a smear of a smile on Dean’s face gets wiped completely clean, and what is left is loose, parted lips. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and with a nervous, breathy chuckle, he says, “Well, I, uh, I was just, you know-”

“What’s wrong, Dean?” Castiel says. He takes a step closer. His eyebrows pull together and he tilts his head, saying, “Were you planning on having a night with the pizza man?"

Dean sputters out what may have been a laugh, but really sounded like a choke on air. “No- No, I.. No, I was just making fun-” His words halt on the back of his tongue. He tries to push them out, but they’ve cemented where they sit. Dean watches as Castiel takes another step closer. In his chest, his breath lightens. 

“Although,” Castiel says, his eyes glancing up in thought, “I have learned a lot from him and his companions.” 

At this, Dean snorts and shakes his head. His face softens with humor. He plays into it, asking, “Like what?”

With his chin tipped down, eyes on Dean’s, in a low voice Castiel says, “I could show you.”

Everything that makes Dean up freezes. The purest element of his body, his cells, his soul, stills. 

And yet, under Castiel’s intense stare, everything blazes with life.

He drags in a breath and the mechanisms that keep him breathing whirl alive again. Before he knows it, he’s sputtering out, “W-What?”

Castiel lifts his head, but not his gaze. “I said–”

“Oh, I know what you said.”

Dean watches as Castiel tilts his head to the side again, his eyes squinting. Castiel’s eyes jump around Dean’s face. The silence between them is like sand from an hourglass, pouring more and more, weighing heavier and heavier until–

“Is this a ‘no’?”

Now, Dean squints in confusion. “Is- is what a ‘ no ’?”

“You know,” Castiel says, nodding as if it is written out between them. 

“No,” Dean breathes out. His head shakes. The muscles that line his heart constrict tightly. “No, I don’t.”

Castiel’s lips purse. His eyes jump between Dean’s. “Yes, Dean. You know what I mean.”

“No, Cas. I really.. really.. don’t.” It comes out as a whisper. 

“You don’t ?” Castiel repeats, his voice raising. “You don’t ? Dean, I see the problem. How am I supposed to know what you want when you lie to me like this? When you mess with me like this?-” His stare simmers with passionate rage. “-You know what I mean .”

Under the already tight muscles, Dean’s heart thunders and pounds against his ribcage. He felt his heart stop before, felt it race as it got spiked with adrenaline and pure fear, felt it stutter and double beat and everything in between, but nothing, nothing , made his blood rush like this, like Cas’s stare and his rising voice and his hinting words. 

Hot static rises up from Dean’s stomach and into his throat, making him feel as though he may throw up. He swallows, hard, and between short, light breaths, asks, “And what is it you want, Cas?”

Grinding his teeth together, Castiel sucks in a sharp breath, smothering the inclination to yell. He looks up at the moonlight streaked ceiling, breathing in a more steady breath. He looks back down at Dean, whose face is slacked and pleading. 

“You know I am not good with words, Dean. You say references and I do not understand them. I am either too cryptic for you, or too blunt. You tell me to get to the point, then turn around and say I need to ease you into my words. ” Castiel takes one final step towards Dean, who stiffens, either voluntary or involuntary. “You tell me ‘no,’ and that ‘you can’t,’ but then you say–” He pauses. He pushes his jaw forward and swallows, thickly. “You say.. ‘ I love you. ’” Dean blinks, once, twice, and when he leans his head back, so slightly, the moonlight catches the mist that covers his eyes. “Dean,” Cas says, his voice low, his tone firm. “I was as blunt as I could’ve been with you down in the bunker.”

With a broken face and watery eyes, Dean shakes his head. He looks down and shakes his head. “ Don’t ,” he starts, but his voice cracks. Quickly, he uses a finger to wipe at an eye. He pleads, “Don’t bring that up.”

Castiel takes in Dean’s face and the pained expression he wears. There’s a pang of sharpness in his heart, but words swirl in his throat and he needs to speak them before he vomits them out. So, he continues, ignoring Dean’s plea. 

“I told you,” Castiel says slowly, “I told you exactly how I felt before The Empty took me, Dean. I told you. So, don’t lie to me when you say you ‘don’t know.’ Because I know you know.” He pauses and lifts his chin. Dean’s eyebrows twitch. “But, Dean, if you were to say ‘no’ to me right now,” he drags in a shaky breath, “I’ll respect it. I will. Because you’re my best friend too.”

Dean blinks, and becomes strangely aware about the darkness that fills the room. Even covered in both clothes and the night, he has never felt more naked, more vulnerable than under Castiel’s stare and with his second confession hanging in the air around them. 

Like the last time, there are so many things Dean wants to do, wants to say. 

Like the last time, his knees buckle, and if Castiel weren’t here, he’d fall against the wall behind him, slide to his knees, and pour his heart out through his eyes. 

But he stands. His knees do buckle, but he stands. He feels his face crumble further, fragments falling into the pool of lava that is his chest, his heart. 

He breathes in, in, in, in. Breathes out. In in in, out. In, in–

In a snap, Dean is realizing his mind hasn’t focused on what Castiel is waiting for. What is he waiting for? Oh, right. Dean’s head swirls. He’s confused, he thinks. He looks away and at the fuzzy darkness that is his bed. 

To Castiel, he takes Dean’s silence and his looking away as a sealed door. 

With his heart cradled in his chest, shattered, sick, and caving in on itself until it’s a dark, black hole that sucks in each organ, each cell, and each atom of Castiel’s being, he cries. 

Hot tears pool out from his eyes, blurring his vision until they’re slipping down his face. A sting is in his sinus, in his throat. 

He doesn’t feel himself talk, but he hears his voice say, “Very well,” in a sickly soft way. 

He goes to turn around, his feet jittering with anxiety to get far, far away, but his upper arm is caught in Dean’s hard grasp.

Words rise in his throat, but they’re immediately stopped when a firm pressure is placed on his lips. 

Dean is kissing him.

Chapter Text

Dean is kissing him. 

As the initial shockwave passes on, Castiel’s eyes are fluttering closed and he reciprocates the kiss. In his heart, a hot swelling is so much that he feels he may choke on the warmth that erupts in his chest, his throat. Dean tightens the hold he has on Castiel’s arm, as if he knew, and the touch helps ebb away the eruption. 

Then, Dean breaks away. Castiel suddenly feels so very empty and heavy nothingness is clipping onto his lips, laying flat like a second skin. 

Dean’s head stays close. 

They’re breathless. 

Not daring to look at each other. 

Castiel doesn’t feel it roll to life inside of him, but like two clasps snapping together, a wall of courage is erected from underneath his skin and he’s pushing his body against Dean’s, forcing him to the wall behind them and connecting their lips again. Hard, unforgiving. 

Dean pushes his mouth against Castiel’s with equivalent force. Ugly, sour thoughts paper inside his mind and only thicken at the shift of Castiel’s hips against his. He uses the push of his kiss and the soft opening of his mouth to quickly ripen those thoughts into sweet fruit. 

Fingers twitching, Castiel is pulled by the urge to feel the skin that lines Dean’s bones. Even though their kissing is anything but shy, his hands and his touch is. Slowly, he raises his fingers to gently, softly graze the bareness that is Dean’s wrist. 

At the tickle of Castiel’s tender touch, the fruit mold. The facade fractures, then shatters. 

Dean turns his head to the side. Castiel gets confused and brushes his lips against Dean’s hot cheek before pulling away himself. 

In a low, hurried voice, Castiel asks, “Dean?” His gaze finally snaps upwards. Though, before his eyes, the structure of Dean’s facial anatomy has changed. In the pale moonlight, it was as though Castiel was looking at him for the first time all over again.

Dean, though, forces a thick swallow through a cotton throat. A sting forms in the space between his eyes and in the front of his throat. Eyes beginning to water, he closes them and one tear after the other falls. 

“Dean,” Castiel is saying, his voice as soft and tender as his old touch. He lifts his hands and at the movement, Dean’s eyes widen. Castiel catches this look of - fear? - and freezes. 

With the same falling rapidness this all unfolded with, Dean is sidestepping around Cas and their shoulders knock hard together, leaving a pinprick of sharp pain as Dean rushes out of the bedroom. 

Becoming paralyzed, Castiel’s mind shifts to Medusa and how when a man dared to look her way, he became stone. A shuddering resemblance to those frightened statues washes into Castiel. 

A squeal of old hinges sound from downstairs, snapping Castiel back into that cold, empty, dark room. A door smashes against its frame. 

With overwhelming intensity, Castiel feels the weight of the room around him. Each corner stands like a tall presence, feeling as though they are merely inches away from the barrier of his skin. There is no hallway outside that door, no downstairs, and no outside. These four walls are what makes up Castiel’s everlasting existence. 

He doesn’t feel his arm lifting, but then the cold drywall is under his fingertips and there is a knot in his stomach and if it weren’t for this trance, he would hurl. 

His consciousness is clouded, wrapped in a thick blindfold, must be, because when his brain computes what he is seeing he realizes he has turned around and is facing the expanse of the bedroom, but has no memory of doing the action of turning around. The four walls are back in their positions; the corners stand at their normal heights. The moonlight is bright and stretches along the floor and into the hallway. 

There is no Dean. No nobody. 

The reality of Castiel existing alone in this room, this house, stands starkly in his mind. He feels every empty room as if it is an appendage protruding off his body. 

With the movement of stepping one foot in front of the other, he is snapped back into place in the anatomy of his being. 

He leaves the house, hearing the same squeal and smash of the front door. 

As he walks down the sidewalk, one foot pounding into the concrete after the other, watery images of him leaving the house trickle into his mind. He barely remembers it, only how the hallway doubled and that the staircase was a hamster wheel of steps. 

Along his walk, the spinning vortex of clouds and dreams that consumed his thoughts vanished, only to be replaced by a prickling sensation of paranoia. From above his head, the leaves shake with laughter. The waves meet up with the shore and their incessant whispering taunts Castiel from beyond the sidewalk. 

He cuts left to put his back to it all. But like cold pondweed, they snake around him and pry at his shoulders, tangle around his ankles, and hold him back in their perpetual taunting. Only entering the light and life of civilization does Castiel feel their dead hands slide off him. 

This late into the night, very few places are open. To find where the tourists spend their time like cash, where there are more lights than people, and more people than space, a car is needed to get that deep into the island. Here, where people come to gorge out on fresh fruit and roast in the sun, the options of Dean’s whereabouts are limited. 

The familiar deep green awning is passing Castiel on his right, where he and Sam had lunch a handful of hours prior. The chairs had been stacked inside the windows and a lone, buzzing light illuminates the stillness of the diner. 

Further down the road is a bustle of noise. Down it and around the corner stand two opposing bars on opposite sides of the street. On the same street side Castiel stands, two men share a cigarette under a fading lamppost outside the bar. They laugh about something together. 

Passing them and climbing the short stoop, what was once muffled noise becomes enveloping and clamorous when Castiel pushes the door from its frame. One step inside and the pungent odor of hard liquor, cigarette smoke, and sweat punches him in the face, making him crinkle his nose in disgust. The large crowd moves like a pulsating ocean under the neon lights, and together they make up the symphony of partying. 

Through the glaring colored lights, Castiel’s eyes search the large room from the platform of the front door. He scans the back of each head, each profile, and each face. None of which belong to Dean. His lips purse, and from underneath his skin he feels the raging roll of anger and annoyance. As he turns to leave, his eyes still jumping, he catches a glimpse of someone at the bar. 

A woman stands at the corner of the bar, her back to Castiel. She pushes her long black hair off her bronze shoulder, which catches the dim light that hangs above the bar, giving her a subtle glow. She reaches up a hand and places it lightly on Dean’s bicep. With no hesitation, Dean lays his hand on her side, right underneath the coconut-shell bra she wears. 

Dean, lost in the auburn liquid that is his whiskey, forces a smile as he lightly pushes this girl off him. She had tacked herself into his side since he sat down, which when Dean slides his eyes to his watch, has been just under five minutes ago. Her skin is hot under his touch and when he pulls his hand back, he wipes the slick sweat off on his jeans. She’s talking about something that happened to her - no, she’s talking about a friend she wants him to meet. Dean closes his eyes and shoots back the whiskey so he can order another. And another. And another and another and another. 

As he sets the glass back onto the counter, his eyes breeze over the girl and to the front door. 

Dean’s heart plummets. 

He freezes. 

Castiel. 

Cas. 

And from the blazing look he holds, he is not very happy. 

Dean blinks, and what he thought he saw is now gone; an empty front door remains. He thinks he must be hallucinating and searches the area and the faces around the door just to be sure. This whiskey must be stronger over here than on the mainland, he reasons with himself, and that he’s just not used to it. And with the addition of crumpled emotions, it’s really not a good mix. 

“Dean,” the woman says with a toying smile, “did you hear me?”

He spares her a quick glance, then returns to his search of the front door. He goes in for another drink, but realizes he’s already finished off his whiskey, and dismaidly pushes the cup away. “Sorry, lady,” he’s saying, fishing through his wallet for whatever cash his numb fingers can hold. “I gotta go.”

He leaves her alone at the bar. He hears her scoff as he maneuvers through the dense crowd and due to the deafening music, just misses the last thing she throws at his back. 

He climbs the platform, pushes open the door and as it hits its frame, he’s sucked from the living heat and spit out into the dead chill. Fresh air welcomes him, but he shakes it off and steps off the stoop. 

Calling out for Castiel feels the same as putting a gun to his head, so he bites his tongue and turns to walk down the sidewalk towards home. 

Not even making it a couple of feet from the entrance of the bar and Dean is being pulled from his upper arm into a space between two buildings. He’s thrown to the brick wall, the back of his head bouncing against it, and a flower of pain blooms where contact was made. 

Instinctively, he raises his arms in both offense and defense, preparing for the next blow. When none comes, and the stabbing pain in the back of his skull becomes bearable, he cracks open an eye. Once his focus drilled into the silhouette that stands before him, he knew exactly who it was. 

“Cas?”

Dean looks up at Castiel from his slumped position against the wall. With his head throbbing, he shuffles to stand straight, blurting out, “Cas, look–”

Castiel slaps him, hard. 

A spike of pain heats Dean’s cheek. 

Pushing his hand to the side of his face, he looks back at Castiel, bewildered. “W-what, are we in some chick-flick now?” He asks, then dips his head down and hisses out in pain. 

Castiel stands before him. He looks at Dean with a face set in intense, radiating anger. His gaze, fiery, burns Dean’s skin. When Dean looks back at Castiel, something deep inside of him stills. In the dark light of the alleyway, it’s easy to mistake how the shadows shape Castiel’s features. It’s easy to tunnel in on the simmering anger and think he’s standing before John, and not Cas. 

“Sometimes,” comes Castiel’s voice, “I tell myself I understand you, Dean. Sometimes I think we are on the same page, the same wavelength, and we just get each other. Then you turn around and do something I would have never predicted.”

Adolescent snarkiness fills Dean and he’s opening his mouth to bite back when Castiel winds his fist and makes contact with Dean’s jaw. His mouth clamps closed, teeth rattling together, and Dean is being swung back against the bricks once more. His gums burn, his teeth ache, his jaw stings. 

“I believe we are finally getting somewhere, but then I find you with that whore.”

Rolling his head back on the bricks, his chip tilted up, Dean spits out, “Yeah, Cas, tell me how you really feel about her.”

Castiel’s face sets once again. He lands a fist into Dean’s abdomen. Standing tall, he watches as Dean crumples to the dirt caked ground, holding his stomach. 

Slowly, Castiel says, “I have done so much for you, Dean. For years, I have stood and fought by your side. I have defended you to my enemies' faces. I have chosen you over my friends, my brethren. You , Dean. For years, my loyalty has stood with you. Everytime you call, everytime you need me, I drop everything to help you .” He kneels down by the fallen Dean, who is propping himself up with an arm. Castiel leans in close. “All I ask in return is an answer, Dean. A clear one.”

Dean’s face scrunches up and he throws out a fist, but with unwavering eye contact, Castiel is catching his arm and twisting it down and behind his back. Thrown off balance, Dean's other arm stumbles, and his chest is being pushed into the ground. Castiel raises Dean’s bent arm further up and pushes it into his spine, making Dean let out a high grunt. 

“Cas, Cas, Cas. Please, man. My- my arm, you’re gonna break it.”

With a tilt of his head, Castiel keeps his cold stare and the pressure still, and peers down at Dean. “I thought,” he begins, his voice calm; his voice cool. Dean stops squirming and cranes his neck to look up at Castiel, “that moving here was supposed to purify us. Be our fresh start as you and Sam said. So, why,” he shifts his weight to push down more on Dean’s arm, making him suck in a quick, sharp breath, “are you acting like we still have targets on our backs? Everyone believes us to be dead. Here you, Sam, and I are allowed to love and be loved freely.”

Castiel lets a moment pass them by, one more moment of holding Dean in place, one more moment of making him fear that he is one twist away from a broken arm, before he relinquishes Dean. Castiel stands up and steps away, giving Dean the space he needs to push himself into a sitting position and rub at his hurting arm. With his mouth slacked open, Dean tilts his head to the open sky and groans. 

His head still leaned up against the brick, Dean slits his eyes down to look at Castiel as he says, his voice rough, “A fresh start to be different people. No more hunter Dean or hunter Sam or Cas. No more killing people. And, more importantly, no more losing people.” He breathes heavily and moves his good hand to hold the strain in his shoulder. “I’m tired , Cas. I’ve been tired. All the- the stress and the killing and the tracking and the being killed , it’s turned me into a hateful, hateful person. I am not.. I’m not..” He looks away, his head still back against the brick. He swallows. “I just want to live a normal life, Cas. That’s all I want.”

“All you want?” Castiel repeats. “And- and this normal life entails whores in coconut bras?”

Against his better judgment, Dean rolls his eyes. His mistake burns him instantly, and to act like he didn’t just roll his eyes, he looks out to where the alleyway breaks and at the street beyond. Internally, he’s piecing together words to form a response, but the words keep fading out from his brain. 

In the silence, Castiel continues. “I’m starting to think we have two different interpretations of fresh start.”

The words crash through Dean like a tidal wave. He rolls his head to look up at Cas, to look him in the eye. Their gazes lock. Mounting guilt weighs heavily on Dean’s chest and even with the steady breaths, he can’t seem to shake it. Going from one eye to the other, Dean musters all the sincerity he feels to whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Castiel just shakes his head and looks away. As Dean is staring at him, through the cuts of light from the lampposts, Dean thinks he sees a heavy glint in Cas’ eyes. He tilts his head to get a better look, but Castiel turns his head further away and his face gets swept up by the darkness. 

Cas opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then opens it again, before eventually sealing his lips and swallowing everything he had on his chest. 

The urge to be Castiel’s friend pulls at Dean, tempting him to put on a new skin and be there for Castiel because Dean Winchester cannot. With different hands, he wants to piece back together the face that is crumbling. With a new voice, he wants to speak the words he himself is too ashamed, so scared to say. With different eyes, he wants to look at Cas with a gaze that’ll tell him everything will be okay.

But he is Dean Winchester. He has his hands, and his voice, and his eyes. 

Silently, Dean watches as Castiel turns and walks to the edge of the alleyway.

He has something to say. The words claw from inside his throat.

Dean blinks.

And Cas is gone.

Chapter Text

For the next several days, Dean became heavily acquainted with how the soles of his shoes had some resistance when he walked into the bars across the island. He drank more than he ate; fucked more women than he slept. Each clerk of each hotel/motel knew Dean and his routine by the end of the week. 

For the next several days, Castiel became a regular to the liquor stores and friends with the owners. What was once spending sleepless nights in a dark living room, alone, easily flipped into spending them on the cold beaches under the dim stars, using the raging campfires and alcohol and hanging out with other bodies to keep him warm. 

For the next several days, Sam was alone. 

Day one was spent in a frenzied panic. Calls went straight to voicemail and texts were left sometimes undelivered, all the time unread. He hailed cab after cab to cast him out all over the island, stopping people all around to see if they had seen either his brother or Castiel. When everyone shook their heads and enough gas was burned to turn the blue sky into black, Sam went home to do what he does best: research. 

It was easy to get access into the debit card transactions of the shared account. Scrolling through, Sam’s eyes tracked each ATM withdrawal across the island until the timestamps became more spaced out and eventually, Dean was lost to the wind. The location of his phone was only coming up as an error and Sam figured he either powered down his phone, broke it, or both. 

Castiel, though, did neither. The blue dot floated up and down beaches all day and night, periodically pausing for stretches of time. 

Knowing that the two were probably, most likely physically okay, Sam went to sleep late into the night on the couch of Dean’s living room. His rest was fitful and left him dazed and heavy in the morning. 

When he checked Castiel’s location, the angel was on the opposite side of the island, where the rocks grow into mountains and the waves thrash angrily, unforgivingly. Sam shrugged on a flannel and repeated his steps from yesterday: hailing a cab and burning gas to close the distance between his blue dot and Castiel’s.

The ocean water sprayed Sam in a cold mist as he carefully placed each step when crossing the crumple of rocks. Up on the incline, he caught a flash of stark white against the ragged dark gray that was this hillside. Sam passed by a green patch of wildflowers growing out from between two flat rocks, their petals a bright periwinkle. He stepped on a smaller rock and it got dislodged from its hole in the dirt, but Sam caught himself before he went tumbling down with it. The stone rolled over the wildflowers and pressed them into the ground, trampled, broken. He frowned at what he did, then continued on. 

“Cas?” Sam asked carefully, stepping over a particularly jagged rock to enter the small, flat clearing Castiel was sitting on. His knees were bent in front of his chest, elbows hooked around them and his hand clamping down onto his wrist. He glanced at Sam once, his eyes holding a distant look; twice, his eyes more clear. He returned his gaze back to the stretch of ocean before them. 

Castiel sat on a large, flat rock which protruded out from the side of the hill. A couple of paces out and below their feet was the sharp, vertical drop down to the rugged ocean. But, up where Castiel and Sam were, the hillside curved out in a safe bend, yet still rocky, still dangerous. 

Sitting beside him, Sam glanced at Castiel. He brought his hand up to his mouth to chew at the corner of his nails and watched the roll of the waves with Cas in tense silence. 

The time passed them by like broken glass, cutting at Sam every time he dared to shuffle or move. As Sam waited out the tension, he felt the atmosphere around the two become malleable until breathing in a deep breath didn’t feel as tortuous. He had relaxed and allowed the waves he watched to wash over him, his thoughts, his feelings until his mind was a blank slate and new things entered. Soon enough, the reason why he had joined Cas in the mangle of rocks had become a hazy afterthought, but with one glance over, it all came snapping back in. Sam went back to biting his nails, fighting for the right words to say. 

“Did you know,” came Castiel’s voice, deep and gruff, “Dean’s favorite color is blue?”

Sam retracted his nails from his teeth, rubbing his fingers against each other to rid of the layer of spit. “What’s going on?” He asked. “What happened between you and Dean?”

Castiel shook his head slowly.

Sam watched his face, waiting for Cas’ lips to part and for the explanation to fall out and onto their laps, but nothing ever came. Sam tried again: “Cas, man.. Come on . You and Dean can not go off in the middle of the night and not expect me to worry!” He ranted, feeling the rise of frustration from under his skin. “I- I just want to know what’s going on. I mean-” he huffed out “-was it something I did? Was it something that Dean did? Whatever it was, Cas, I- I can help. We can figure it out.”

“Nothing,” Castiel said sharply. His eyes were trained on the space between him and Sam. “There is nothing to be done. Nothing to be said. Dean made–” He pursed his lips, eyes steady before they snapped back up to the ocean. 

“Dean made what ?” Sam urged. He dropped a knee and turned to face Castiel fully. “Cas, please. Dean is missing, I don’t know where he is, and- and you’re perched here like some mountain goat. Just talk to me ,” he begged. 

Sam watched Castiel’s face, searching it for a twitch, a strain, a sign that would point him in the right direction. He watched as Castiel’s throat bobbed when he swallowed, how he turned his head away slightly so Sam could see less of his face, how his lips pursed into a slight frown. Otherwise, Cas showed no effect. 

In the hour Sam spent with Cas, he left feeling more confused and more blind about the situation than before. 

Castiel hadn’t given up any more words. With the wet mist from the crashing waves, Sam became frigid and forfeited his seat next to Castiel, but not leaving before he made it known that Cas was welcomed back home at any time. 

After a warm shower, Sam checked the transactions again for any sign of Dean. When he came up empty handed, he bit the inside of his cheek and went for his phone to check Castiel’s whereabouts. What came up was a spinning circle and Sam paced around, waiting for it to load, waiting to see if Castiel was where he left him or not. The circle died and an error code replaced it. 

In an instant, Sam brought his fists up to his head, sucking in a quick, sharp breath. The frustration and anger of it all bubbled deep and hot inside of him, surging through his veins and urging him to make all he felt known. 

He sucked in another breath, this one to still the simmering. He dropped his arms and haphazardly threw his phone onto the dining table, paced around, then grabbed his phone and left Dean’s house for his own.

The days dwindled by like a leaky faucet. 

Day three and four into the week of Dean and Castiel being missing, Sam spent hungover from being drunk off stress and worry. He had to keep busy to stop himself from draining his money on lifts to each bar, each diner, and each hotel across the island. 

Instead, he had spent his hangover outside in the cool spring air, fixing up the two houses. Some windows needed resealing, each door leading outside needed new locks, and so on. With tools in his hands and a task to focus on, he found it easy to ignore the thick web that clogged up his veins and airways. 

On day five, Sam seriously considered freezing Dean’s accounts and forcing him into submission, making him come back home. But, Sam knew his brother. He knew that if Dean wanted to stay gone, he would, no matter the circumstances. Besides, Sam would sleep better at night if he knew his brother had money for food and shelter. 

To shake the creeping feeling of dread and anxiety, Sam goes for a long run on day six. 

He keeps his mind still as he laced up his running shoes. He keeps his thoughts on the slow inhale and exhale of his lungs as he stretches. Standing at the beginning of the trail in some secluded park, Sam scrolls through his phone, trying and skipping songs until he finds the right one. Though, every intro strikes him wrong and every chorus sits awkwardly in his ears until he's pulling his headphones out and stuffing them into his pocket.

Fine. He will run in silence. 

The patterned thunder of his steps breaks through the midday quiet of the forested park. For the first mile, he balls every thought up and shoves it under his shoes so he could trample them. He focuses on his breathing, his pace, how the light shines through the trees, how the birds sing from beside him, anything other than his Dean/Castiel situation. 

Though, once he hits the second mile, his calves are on fire, his lungs claw from inside his chest, and his feet are becoming heavy as exhaustion catches up to him. He stops off the side of the trail, hunched over with his hands on his knees.

He drags in breath after breath; his heartbeat hot and fast inside his face. 

Without the run to focus on, each thought and each worry comes crashing back into Sam with the force of a tidal wave. He rocks against the motions before forcing himself up, placing his hands on the back of his head, still breathing hard.

Fine. He will think about it. 

After his body calmed down and the ache in his legs ebbed away, Sam starts back up again. This time, instead of balling up every thought, he smooths it out to read it clearly. 

There are a number of memories that stand starkly in Sam’s mind when he thinks about Dean and Castiel. He was never blind to the blatant flirting that would pass between the two in the early years of Castiel entering their lives. It was easy to brush it off as Dean’s way of getting under the angel’s skin, especially because Cas still held on strong to Heaven. But, one memory, Dean’s ‘not for nothing’ comment, is one that continually clogs Sam up in confusion. 

As the years rolled over and Castiel became a common factor in their conversations, the blatancy died down and became inconspicuous. Sometimes, little comments here and a subtle touch there would go unnoticed by Sam, but there were larger instances that makes him question. 

More than once, Dean would say goodnight only for Sam to be walking down the hallways hours later and overhear the soft passing of words between Dean and Castiel, deep in some nook of the bunker. He never tried to overhear their conversations, but once he had to pass by to get to where he was going. As he inched towards the open door, it wasn’t the words themselves, but rather the tender tone of them that stilled Sam. 

Remembering one of the times they truly thought they had lost Cas for good, Sam’s hands began to shake. He clenched and unclenched them, then shook them hard to fling the creeping dread off him. He ran faster, harder. Sam recalled seeing the flash of blue-white light expelling out of Castiel’s mouth and eyes before he noticed the tip of the angel blade protruding from his chest.

What struck Sam’s heart, though, was seeing the wash of utter relief on Dean’s face when they saw Cas had made it out. It had twisted Sam’s stomach up in knots to pull Dean away as he screamed Cas’ name to the portal, feeling the heavy weight that was not Castiel’s presence. 

Only to watch as all that joyfulness, that relief and hope and softness that Dean held when he looked at Cas in that moment to be taken away. To have fallen into a look of shock and fear; and in the days afterwards, one of utter despair. 

The path twists and curves into a steep hill, one that makes Sam direct his focus on his breathing to get over. His calves burn, thighs ache, and once the path flattens out Dean’s slacked, tear-stricken face flashes through his mind. 

For decades, the brothers have fought, killed, bled. For decades they lost people. People they cared for, people they loved, people they were just beginning to love. Each loss was another open wound on their mortal flesh, one they pressed down on to ignite the flame of anguish. 

But, losing Castiel to an angel blade, having to pull and carry his slacked body to bring him home, how Sam had watched Dean as he carefully wrapped the white cloth around his body, how Dean had laid him down with all the gentleness and tenderness, how his hands lingered on the cloth above Castiel’s unmoving chest - it was the hardest thing Sam had to watch his brother go through. The hardest thing.

Sam had felt the grief of losing Castiel, but Dean lived it. 

Then, they got Castiel back. And Sam had never, never seen his brother so giddy, so overjoyed, so light on his feet. It was as though Dean was rebirthed and all the weight of his previous life’s memories were washed away in the amniotic fluid. 

The connections between Dean and Castiel were always there, lying covered in dust in the back of Sam’s head. Something about the pounding of his heart and the thickness in his throat snap those connections tight inside his brain. He can feel the ropes thickening and pulling memories together, pulling faint thoughts and suspicions he once had into a one sharp and clear picture. 

His feet slow from under him until he is pausing on the trail, his chest heaving. 

Like a puzzle piece slotting in, Sam understands. 

Much like when The Empty took Castiel just a couple months ago, and when Dean had stumbled out of the bunker, Sam understood then that something had to have happened - something more than Castiel being taken. It was in Dean’s eyes, in the shake of his voice. 

Much like now, Sam knows something big must have happened between the two. 

Something scary, something real.

Chapter Text

The sun set the atmosphere ablaze with heat and humidity during the day, and stripped the Earth of it when it set. Chilled air fills Sam’s bedroom, pulsating the screens within the windows. 

Something - a noise - pulls Sam from his sleep. He picks up his head, and in doing so feels a faint wetness that coats his cheek. He puts his wrist to it and wipes, realizing he’s been drooling. Cleaning his cheek and the corner of his mouth, lazily, sleepily, he moves to turn back over in bed. 

Right as he snuggles back into his pillow, his dreams beginning to move and make noise behind the curtain of sleep, he hears a heavy thud come from outside his windows.

Sam’s eyes flash open. He moves them around the darkness of his room as he listens again. At first, he thinks being at the brink of sleep has brought on auditory hallucinations, but drifting from his window he can hear the mumbled rambling of a drunk Dean. 

Once his brain registers his brother's voice, he’s ripping off his blankets and moving for the stairs before his body even gets a chance to properly wake up. Although, after their line of work, Sam’s sleep is never all that deep anyway. 

He rips open his own front door and stumbles down the porch stairs, eyes on the faintly illuminated Dean, who’s hand loses its grip on the doorknob and, in quick slow motion, Dean tumbles into the door face first.

“God,” Sam mutters. He carefully climbs the steps behind Dean, seeing how he’s still fumbling for the knob, forehead now pressing against the door. “Dean,” he says, standing next to his brother. “Dude, where the— Oh, my God.” Sam presses the back of his wrist to his nose at the putrid odor coming off Dean. 

Dean’s lazy gaze slides over, and in his eyes Sam can see that he is just now registering Sam’s presence. He tips his head back, saying, “No, no, no no no .” He turns to the door and tries the knob again. Sam stands and watches, slightly amused, because even if he hadn’t changed the locks, Dean is still too inebriated to twist the doorknob fully to open the door. 

Glancing over to Sam once more, his “no, no, no,” pours out from his lips again, gripping the doorknob harder. 

In the fading light above the brothers, Sam catches the redness that brims Dean’s eyes. Sam can see the shine of sweat that coats his face, the blotchiness of flushed skin. It makes his mouth screw into a frown, and he wonders how Dean would look in proper lighting if he already looks this bad. 

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says. He turns to walk to where he keeps the extra key hidden (taped to the underpart of the outdoor chairs and table set that’s on the opposite side of the porch), and as he’s hunched over and peeling back the tape, he hears a swift, heavy thud against the door. Twisting around, he catches Dean’s leg reeling back for another kick. “Hey!” Dean looks over, his pulled back leg falling to the ground as he loses balance. “No!” Sam approaches him again, this time holding up the shiny key. “Stop acting like a toddler, Dean. I’ve got a key. Here-” he slots the key inside the lock- “inside we go.”

In the darkness of the empty house, Sam watches as his brother fumbles around on his route to the stairs. He was walking straight for a moment, but his ankle twisted under his weight and soon he began to veer towards the island counter. He stumbles into the bar chairs that are tucked under the spill of the counter and uses them to reorientate himself. From Sam’s perspective, it doesn’t look like Dean even notices the new furniture.

“Upstairs,” Sam directs. “Shower. Now.”

Mumbling back a response too incoherent, it’s only until Dean is walking up the stairs that Sam figures he understood. Sam sucks in a cold breath, slowly releasing it as he runs a hand through his hair. Seeing his brother for the first time in several days has the unresolved rage heating back up deep inside him, but at the state of Dean… Sam shakes his head. 

He’s beginning to work on a warm meal for his brother right when the pipes shake to life, water gushing through them. He works diligently on steaming frozen vegetables and reheating half of a grilled chicken breast while Dean takes a long shower. 

By the time Sam is placing the hot bowl of food and ice cold water on the dining room table, which is a new circular piece of polished wood with four matching chairs, rough blue cushions sewed into the seats, Dean is slowly walking back down the stairs. He wears fresh jeans and a tattered Led Zeppelin shirt Sam knows he’s had for decades. His face has lost the sweaty shine, but still holds the flush. 

Dean’s eyes screw shut and his head twists to the side, bringing his arm up to his face as he says, “Turn these damn lights off, will you?”

Sam moves to the wall near the front entrance and with a flick of a finger, the kitchen is snapping into darkness. Orange beams of light streak across the far side of the kitchen from the porch light outside; only dim moonlight casts shadows across the room. 

“Jeans? Really?” Sam asks as he walks back to where he first stood next to the dining table. 

“I’m not staying,” Dean mutters. He’s aiming for the front door, but Sam steps into his path. 

“Like hell you’re ‘ not staying .’ Sit, Dean, we need to talk.” Sam points to the dragged out chair in front of the bowl and water. 

Dean’s eyebrows pull down and he opens his mouth to complain, but annoyed rage is exploding up inside Sam, fast. “ Dean, sit! ” 

Clamping his mouth closed, Dean looks at his brother with wide eyes. He then looks down to the chair Sam is pointing at, and in turn at the table and food. With one quick glance to Sam, Dean is reluctantly sliding past him and falling into the chair. 

He pulls the bowl to him, hanging his head over it, and picks up the fork, beginning to shovel the food into his mouth. Sam stands behind another chair, fingers curled tightly around the curved wood as he watches Dean empty the bowl. 

“You gonna tell me where you’ve been all week?”

Sam’s words slice into Dean’s ears, cutting their way through his eardrums and into his brain. He picks up the cup of water and due to his loose grip and the slight condensation, the cup slides through his fingers. He quickly sets it down, takes a second, and tries again. The cold water washes over a dryness he didn’t know his mouth had until now, and deep inside his chest he can feel his esophagus chilling. He drinks until the ice rushes fast at his face and by the time he’s placing the cup back down, the throbbing in his head has subsided. 

Sam stands before the other chair, his arms now hugging each other. He juts his head forwards and asks, “Well?” 

Leaning back in his chair, Dean squints up at Sam. “Huh?”

“Dude—” Sam sighs. “Where have you been? You- You and Cas have been gone all week! He won’t tell me anything, so you-” He points at Dean- “you are.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and says, “I don’t gotta tell you anything.”

“Dean–” Sam starts, quickly. He brings his two pressed together hands up to the curve of his lips and takes a second before continuing. “Dean. I am being.. so very serious when I say I need to know what’s happening. You and Cas cannot just leave in the middle of the night and not tell me anything, alright? Not- not with what’s out there.”

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean says, “Everyone is fineee. We are fineee.”

“No, Dean, we are not ‘ fineee ’,” Sam mocks, making a face as he mimics Dean’s drunk slurring. 

Dean’s eyebrows jump up, then he turns his head and looks to the empty wall near the dining table. Sam waits a moment, thinking Dean might have something to say, but when no words come Sam flexes his fingers in silent rage, then grips the back of the chair again and leans forward.

“I’m not doing this silent treatment shit, alright? But, fine , if you won’t tell me what happened, you can at least tell me what I can do to fix it.” 

Dean keeps his eyes trained on the nearby wall. He breathes in and out, not saying a word. Sam reaches his hand towards Dean, pulling his fingers into one, sharp snap in front of his face. Dean’s head twists, his eyes narrowed. “ What ?” 

“Holy shit, Dean,” Sam says slowly. Deep in his core, he can feel his rope of patience unthreading and snapping. He holds his clasped hands out in front of him, shaking them as he says, “I could fucking choke you right now.”

“Please fucking do,” mutters Dean. He dips his chin and rolls his head to the side, his eyes on the floor ahead of his shoes. In this position, in the near dark lighting, he could’ve been mistaken for a life sized puppet. Or a dead man. Sam thinks Dean will be close to one if he doesn’t start talking. 

Pursing his lips together, Sam runs a hand quickly through his hair. He holds onto a breath, running the situation over in his head, before slowly letting it go through his nose. Sam pulls out the chair he had been holding onto, as if it was a leash for his anger, and sits down facing Dean. 

Sam wrings his hands together, eyes searching the dark floor as he practices his words again and again in his head. In silence, the two brothers sit. Dean shifts his bottom jaw from side to side, his lips never parting as he does so, though periodically his teeth knock together and Sam can hear the dull thuds. 

With the proper words ready, Sam pulls his clasped hands up the space between his legs as he sits up and back in his chair. He looks Dean in the eyes even if Dean’s gaze is stilled on the floor. “Look, man-” he pulls in a breath- “we’ve killed, burned, tortured.. We’ve made.. life altering mistakes. We- we’ve,” Sam dryly chuckles, “we’ve done some shitting things in the past, is what I’m trying to say. But, even after everything, you and I have walked away from it. There has not been one situation, ever , that you and I have not been able to walk away from.”

Sam pauses, his eyes searching Dean’s face. In the dim, moonlit kitchen, Sam catches the twitch of Dean’s eyebrow, the tensing of his lips. In a voice so tender, Sam says, “You’re my big brother, Dean. You will always be my big brother. And I love you, man, no matter what.”

The words fall around them like thrown paper, softly, noisily. Dean drags his gaze up to Sam’s. Through his eyes, his expression, Sam reads the naked vulnerability and desperation Dean bares. 

“You hear me?” Sam says to pound in the realness of his words. “I love you, no matter what.”

Dean’s lips open slightly and he softly shakes his head. His eyes glint in the dim wash of white light and Sam notices that those are tears brimming his eyes. “Sammy, I–” Dean begins, his voice as delicate as the swirl of emotions in his eyes. He rocks his head side to side as he whispers, “Sammy I’m so mean .”

“Dean, no,” Sam whispers back. He leans forward and catches Dean’s eyes again. “Why do you say that?”

Softly closing his eyes, Dean mouths the words his voice is too timid to speak. He seals his lips, breathes in, opens his eyes, and tries again. “I’m just so.. ” He breathes. “Cas doesn’t deserve the shit I put him through. I’m so mean to him, Sam, I–”

“We’re all a little mean to each other, Dean, that’s just how we are,” Sam says, his voice straining.

“No, Sammy,” Dean quickly says, “Not in the way I’m mean. Like, I know I’m mean. It’s just who I am, what I am.” Dean lifts his head slightly and lets it fall onto the back of the chair. His vision swarms and his head is without motion. The words fall from his mouth like a forgotten faucet and Dean is beginning to believe that it's the liquor doing to talking and not his consciousness. “I’m mean to you. I’m meaner to Cas. I’m the meanest with myself. Cas doesn’t– he doesn’t–” 

“Doesn’t what ?” Sam asks. “Doesn’t deserve you?” He carefully finishes, then watches as Dean’s eyebrows pull and he looks away. “Doesn’t…” He shakes his head, “doesn’t love you?” 

Dean stills. 

Sam bites his tongue, afraid that the road he’s paved with his words may be one in the horribly wrong direction. His heart beats fast in his chest as he attempts to predict each route of the forked road he stands before. 

The seconds of silence are mounting between them and Dean’s eyes are wildly bouncing around the room and under the weight of every passing moment Sam feels the heavy, thick pressure of needing to speak.

“B-because,” Sam stutters out. His volume is a little too high for the quiet room and Dean’s eyes are flying to his, erratically jumping around Sam’s face. “Because he- he does love you.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “What?” He asks, sitting up in his chair.

“Well, you know,” Sam starts, “Cas–”

“Did he tell you?” Dean asks. “Did he tell you about it?”

Sam’s eyebrows pull in and he’s saying, “What? No? Tell me about what exactly?”

Dean’s hand is spinning circles in the air, urging Sam to catch up, saying, “Tell you about–” The words catch in his throat. In his eyes, Sam can see how a realization has dawned on him. Dean’s eyes narrow and for a second, he slacks into his chair. 

About to urge Dean to continue on, Sam is cut off when his brother pushes himself out of his chair. Dean brings his hands to his face, then above his head as he paces into the kitchen. 

“Dean,” Sam says, getting up as well, “what? What did I say?”

“Did– How do you know?” Dean asks into the darkness of the kitchen, his back turned. 

“Know what?”

“That- that–” Dean turns and faces his brother. His face is tense, teeth clenched, eyes holding every fear, every worry. “That Cas–” He searches Sam’s face, then shakes his head and walks to the front door.

Sam, visibly confused, follows Dean to the front entryway asking, “Dude, what ? What do I not know? What–”

Dean pulls open the front door, walks into the chilled night air, and slams the door behind him.

With clenched fists, Sam lightly pounds against the closed door, sealing his hands and forehead against the coolness of it. From beyond, he can hear Dean’s footsteps pound against the old wood, the cement, then into nothingness.

Chapter Text

Hawai’i was supposed to be good for them. 

Back when the brothers, Castiel, and Jack were standing around the main table in the bunker, finalizing the details of their retirement plan, Dean was fucking elated. 

"Two Tickets to Paradise," Dean had said as he and Sam stood in the library, Jack and Cas speaking by the staircase as Jack made his leave, "By Eddie Money? That's my theme song. It's playing-" Dean swirled a finger around his head- "right now."

Tipsy on happiness, Dean blew off the dust of an old fantasy he once paraded around in his mind decades ago: retirement . Leaving the blood, the guts, the knives and guns and death behind to live out the last of their days under the hot sun, sitting on warm sand, swimming in cool waters and drinking even colder beer. 

In the week leading up to their departure, it was all Dean could think about. While Sam and Jody wove Dean and Castiel’s false(ish) deaths into the minds of other hunters, Dean talked on and on about what Hawai’i would be like, look like, sound and taste like. His suitcase sat by the bunker entrance for three days before they left, leaving Dean to wear the same red Hawaiian button up, but he didn’t care. His head was up in the wispy white clouds of daydreams.

Now, those clouds have turned thunderous. 

The sand he sits in is cold, the waves that lap up to the beach even colder. Dean’s face is hot, his eyes burn and his head pounds as the last ounce of liquor circulates through his blood. Hawai’i was supposed to be good for them, to them. Hawai’i was supposed to be their fresh start. To cleanse the palate of that sickly, rotten taste of their lives and fill it with sweet, fruity juice. 

Dean swallows, and the hint of mint from his toothpaste burns his esophagus. 

It’s unclear to him how he ended up here and not on some hard barstool, under bright neon lights with a glass in his hands. He sits in the soft cushion of the sand, looking at the emptiness his hands hold, and thinking about how he slammed the door in Sam’s face. 

Dean rubs at his forehead with the pads of his fingers. Why did he do that? Why did he run? Again ? Never in his life did Dean Winchester run from a fight. His arms would surge and his fingers would ache in excitement at the thought of one. Hitting something, punching someone, that’s what got him going. That is what pumped the adrenaline through his body. 

But now, the white-hot rush of adrenaline isn’t being triggered by a fight, no, instead Dean feels it circulate through his body at the idea of going up against Cas and Sam not with his fists, but rather his words, his emotions. 

Castiel. 

Cas. 

Dean rubs at his forehead again. 

Never would he have envisioned his new life crumbling around him only a meer ten days into it. It was as if God let Dean read the next chapter, become hopeful, excited, only to rip those pages out of the book and crumple them up. 

Dean laughs dryly, cold and devoid of any humor besides the faint amusement that his life is just one long, sick, running joke. The joke that he, Dean Winchester, could ever be happy. That he could end up living inside his fantasies. That he could get what he never thought was possible. 

A taste. A taste is all he got before fate– no, before he ripped it all away. It sits heavy in his mouth, taunting him, and Dean is fearful that if he were to move his tongue, he’d wash it away. 

Holding onto the watery memory of that night, back in his dark room, where the fantasy was far too real. Where Dean felt the strength in Castiel’s kiss, but not his words and what they mean. It was just far too real. 

And it scared Dean. Frightened him down to the biology that makes him up. 

Just thinking about it makes his muscles burn, his heart quicken. He sucks in a breath to steady the roll inside of him, and focuses on the crash of the waves just feet ahead. 

The water reflects back the moonlight that illuminates the surface, the streaks bobbing and breaking as the ocean lives. It must be peaceful to be water, Dean imagines. To float and wave and bob and sink; to have no thoughts, no feelings, no insecurities. How it’s warm and cold, deep and shallow, light and dark and no one comments at the hypocrisy of it. To exist with no consequences. 

A wave slips up and onto the damp sand, thinning out before being dragged back out to sea. It forces a thought into Dean’s mind, about how he let Castiel slip away, thin out, before being dragged back to the dark corners of Dean’s mind where all happy thoughts fall into decay. 

Dean inhales the thought of Cas, exhales with him, too. 

Cas, Cas, Cas. Dean tests the weight of the angel’s name inside his mind. Cas, Cas, Cas. 

What is happening to me?, he thinks, Where is my friend when I need you most?

Dean is no stranger to the rush of sweetness that pumps through his heart when he thinks about certain people. He felt it with a couple high school girlfriends, one or two special flings in his early 20s, it was there sometimes with Lisa, and sometimes with Benny. It was always a faint, warm rush. Something noticeable, but something Dean was always able to ignore. 

Although, when he thinks of Cas, it boils hot and spreads to more places than just his heart.

The blindfold of confusion had once snaked over his eyes, leaving him to stumble his way around his and Cas’ conversations and encounters, but it had been slipping with each and every year, each and every glance, each and every missed call and unread text and MIA situation.

Each and every one of Castiel’s deaths, no matter the length of days between then and resurrection, the blindfold fell and the confusion thinned until Dean was able to see clearly. To understand why the pit in his stomach caved everytime Cas didn’t return a call, why he got so angry when Cas went MIA on him, why every time Cas died, Dean died as well. 

Breathing in the light freshness the air holds, Dean tilts up his chin to gaze out at the dim twinkling stars. He sits still for a moment, letting the sound of the crashing waves ground him back to reality. His eyes settle on every faint dot in the sky. The obvious ones, the subtle ones, the ones that take a long stare to uncover in the blanket of night. 

Like a bug bite, Castiel itches inside Dean’s brain once again. He brings his hand up to rub through his hair, back and forth, as if he could scratch the thought from outside. Though, the itch continues to tingle and the image of Castiel persists. 

Dean tries to replace Cas’ face with another. He thinks of a girl he met yesterday with hair just as dark. Though, her long, angular face begins to shift until it’s Castiel under the black head of hair. 

Dean sucks in an irritated breath.

There was a blonde that took him by the collar back to her hotel room one night, with blue eyes that shimmered. Dean had bought her a drink because of the way her eyes shimmered, the way she looked up at him through her eyelashes, how familiar her eye color was to him. When he tries to paint her face in his brain, it’s not her blue eyes he looks into.

Letting out a low, annoyed groan, Dean brings his hands to his face. He rubs at his eyes, his hair, his cheeks and his mouth. Ignoring how his skin grows hot and a clamminess lines his palms, he keeps his hands pressed to his face. He uses them as a mask, as if he is hiding from the nakedness of shame that threatens to strip him down so all his secrets lay bare. 

“ God ,” Dean mutters, finally dropping his hands and letting the cool kiss of fresh air deplete the clammy heat, and rubs at his temples. 

This rut he put himself in is beginning to get uncomfortable. When he finally puts his head to rest after a long day of drinking, it’s throbbing and pounding. There’s a stitch of pain in his right hip and his esphogus is raw from all the liquor. He wonders how he’s going to climb himself out of this mess.

The dull ache of missing Sam knots inside his chest. Deep within the web, Dean feels Castiel’s presence weigh in as well. 

Dean looks out to the ocean. The peacefulness of it calls out to him, reaching a blue, watery hand out. Watching the moonlight break over the surface and seeing the absolute vastness of it brings a stilling sense of calm to Dean. 

He's left in the vacuum of his heart. 

How sweet would it be, to be nothing at all?

Chapter Text

Dean enters the crowd like a fish entering a stream. Smooth, seamless. He’s meant to be here. 

There are a couple of familiar faces under these cheap cowboy hats (people Dean has seen time and time again at bars), to which Dean nods his own hat at them. His snake-skinned boots wrap around his feet comfortably; the black button-up molds to his shoulders and biceps, but leaves enough room around his elbows and wrists. 

The actual colors of everyone’s costumes warp under the neon lights, the tones becoming darker, muddier. The surplus of bodies coming in for the themed night creates an ocean of dark, luminescent water, the seafoam of light cowboy hats floating on top the surface. Dean pushes through the waves to get to his favorite place: the bar. After ordering his usual, he leans back on the polished wood on his elbows and dances his eyes around the large room.

This particular bar is located deep into the island, nestled between hotels cut from marble with pools, and restaurants where the staff dress as nice as the guests. The bar is large, expanding to the size of a high-school gym, perfect to hold the tens of people stuffing themselves through the door every hour. Along the far wall a slightly raised platform juts out, big enough to scatter around tables and chairs and blue, round sofas. Near the back is another, taller platform - a stage. A live band is nestled into a corner of the stage, the members moving cords and checking microphones as they prepare. 

Mobs of people stand in the center, where the area has been cleared of extra tables and chairs, presumably to be used as a dance floor for tonight. Everyone is decked out in some sort of Western getup, some in just hats and boots, others (especially the men) in full costume with bandanas, vests, chaps, and the Cocky belt buckle. It all catches Dean’s eye. 

Dean gets his drink, thanking and paying the bartender. He sips on the cool liquor and settles his attention on a particular group huddled around each other across the room. They’re on the platform with the seating circling a table like vultures, pressed up against the railing like sardines. Dean angles his head from left to right, trying to see past the shoulders and cowboy hats that block the main entertainment. 

Dean slowly drains the ounces as he watches the group become more excited, more rowdy. Singles break off from the cluster periodically to join Dean at the bar, only to leave moments later with a tray of shots. It isn’t until a man shoots up from the crowd, taller than the rest (probably standing on a chair), with his arms splayed out to soak in the cheers of his audience that Dean realizes they’re having a competition of some sort. 

The man, his face hidden from his lopsided hat, gestures at someone in front of him before using the extended arms around as help to get off the object he was standing on. Dean, with his interest piqued, notes the man’s full costume: cowboy hat, bandana, vest, jeans, boots - Dean even thinks he caught a bolo tie that glinted in the light. 

Dean watches as the man dips down into the group of people once again, becoming lost, before twisting around in his own seat. Extending a finger, he inches the glass away from him before repeatedly knocking his knuckles on the surface, getting lost in his train of thought.

It wouldn’t be bad, would it?, Dean wonders, if he turned this night into a fantasy, a movie, and got lost between the lines of real and fake. 

To put on a face - a mask - and with the help of someone, perhaps that man over there, to clear up the last blurs of confusion Dean is experiencing. Or, maybe he isn’t experiencing.

Last night, knees digging into cold sand, Dean bent the night sky around himself until he sat inside a confessional, the moon as his priest.

Last night, Dean repeated the mantra that Castiel is his best friend. That Castiel means as much to him as Sam does, as Bobby does, as Jody and Claire and Alex. But, there was a certain pinch to the words, a certain weight that didn’t settle inside Dean’s mind the same when he listed off the other names. 

Last night, inside Dean’s mind, the truth about him and Cas stood behind a sporadic waterfall. The understanding Dean so desperately craved for was clear for milliseconds, then covered again by the watery blur. Clear, then blurry; clear, then blurry. Around and around Dean went like a mouse on a wheel. An invisible blockage stood between Dean and the rushing waterfall, keeping his hands pinned so he couldn’t part the water and see for himself. 

Last night, Dean admitted to the understanding that Castiel had a huge effect on him, much more of an effect than he would’ve liked to admit. He said to himself: Obviously, he’s my best friend. Though, much like before, the words were pinched with an underlying lie. The sentences came out cracked, jaded, because what they were, were falsities, warped truths, half-lies. 

Last night, Dean did some internal gravedigging to uncover thoughts and feelings he had been suppressing for so long. Thoughts he refused to come to light, feelings he refused to share. 

Nothing he admitted to himself centered around Castiel - no - he couldn’t. Can’t. The waterfall rushes too fast, the wall is too thick, and Dean has no choice but to step down off that ledge before he throws himself over it. 

Stepping away from that ledge allowed Dean’s consciousness to open up without the risk of splintering. To open up about what he does behind closed doors - who he does behind closed doors. The number is quite low, and repeated encounters with the same person is even lower. 

Dean rubs his face with his hand. He knocks back the last of his liquor, but then is hit with a wall of disappointment (and slight embarrassment) when only a droplet scurries its way down the interior of the cup. 

Even with the hot and muddy emotions thick inside him, a smile blooms onto his face. He dips his chin, shaking his head and smiling to himself because the same thing had happened to Benny the very first time he and Dean shared a drink together. Swiveling around in his chair to face the crowd, Dean is taking that embarrassment and morphing it into courage. 

With eyes on the group, Dean makes his way through the dance floor to the raised platform. He jumps up the few steps and cuts left, bee-lining it. He thinks (though not with a lot of strength) with enough of the right looks, enough soft nods, that he can pass the subtle message. 

As he stands behind the wall of people, he sees between heads as two men sit at a table, a line of shots in front of them. One has his face exposed to the neon lights, tousled hair emitting a green aura, face set in stone determination. The other, the one that caught Dean’s attention, has his face blocked by the brimmed cowboy hat he wears. The two seated men have their fingers pinched around the first shot, waiting in frenzied anticipation for the girl with braided hair to finish her countdown. 

Right as she slaps the table, the two are knocking back the liquor, and as Dean’s eyes shift from the first man to the second, a shoulder obstructs his view. Dean stands taller to catch the man's face, but he’s looking down again and all Dean can see is the indent of the straw hat. 

Relaxing into his posture, Dean sucks in his lips and turns to look out to the crowd beyond him. He catches cuts of faces, both men and women, and he thinks how easy it would be to find a pretty lady and let her take him home with her tonight. Though, from behind him, two separate people knock into his back as a rush of cheering pulsates through the crowd again. Dean turns back and the man with the covered face has his back to Dean, arms raised high above his head in proud victory. The other man, the one with the green aura, is slumping back into his chair and cleaning the dribble of liquor from his chin, one last shot still standing in front of him. 

Dean can find no reason for this pull, this attraction he has for this mystery man. Perhaps it’s the undefeated victory he wears proudly, or perhaps it’s the hidden identity. The latter is something Dean could use to his advantage for tonight, something to help keep his mask on. It would be simple to stuff themselves inside a bathroom stall where there is no room for names. 

As the pulse dies through the crowd, the woman with the braided hair dips her head towards the man, her plump lips moving as she asks him a question. He stills, listening to her, and Dean watches as his hat slides towards her ear to respond. 

She smiles, takes his hand, and yells out: “Meet your fifth-time winnnerrrr…”

Standing to join her, the man lifts his chin. A wash of neon yellow light hits his face, illuminating the bridge of his nose, the flatness of his lips, the blue of his eyes. 

Dean’s heart sinks. 

“...Caaaassss!”

As if someone has put him on pause, Dean watches with parted lips and a racing heart as Castiel beams and drags his eyes over the faces of his audience until they’re locking in with Dean’s. In a snap, the sweet smile drops off of Castiel’s face and the glint of happiness is blinked out from his eyes. 

Skin prickled from the aftershock of fear, Dean turns around to leave, but his hips press into the railing he has forgotten was there. He pounds a fist into it and his feet jolt from under him, desperate to make a quick getaway. 

Dean jumps down the few steps. The crowd is alive and moving with the music to the live band, and the flows and spinning and jumping forces Dean into submission, not allowing him an easy pass. A girl falls into his shoulder and Dean has to slow his pace to help her gain balance again. He sidesteps around backs, twists around shoulders, and when a taller man walks into his path, Dean is hissing out, “Fucking awesome.”

The singer is screeching into the microphone and an overhead light passes over Dean and shines into his eyes. The pit in his stomach has expanded and is eating at the walls of his skin, and he is fearful one wrong move and he’ll be slipping over the edge and into oblivion. His ears pound under the pressure of the speakers, his eyes sting from the lights. There’s a hand on his shoulder, and the familiar rustle of wings.

The next breath Dean inhales is one filled with seasalt. Crashing waves sooth the sharpness in his head. His boots sink into the sand. 

Dean doesn’t need to turn around to know who stands behind him. Castiel’s presence, Castiel’s stare, sits on his back like a ton of bricks. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes out into the midnight air. 

Turning his head, Dean watches as Cas walks to stand in front of him. The overhead moon washes over Castiel’s face, illuminating him in muted white. 

“Hello.. Dean.”

Now out of that crowded bar, Dean raises his chin and allows his eyes to roam over Castiel’s costume. It’s exactly something Dean would wear, which brings a pang of weirdness to his stomach. Cas always thought cowboy outfits were ridiculous.

“Nice getup, Ennis,” Dean snarks. 

Cas looks down at himself, his hat blocking his face once again. Dread rushes into Dean and he has to look away, pushing his original thoughts far, far into his mind. When he drank from an empty cup and thought of Benny, Dean wondered if finding a guy to sleep with tonight was a push in the right direction. But now, he sees that it was just another sick joke. 

“I don’t know who Ennis.. is..” Castiel slowly admits, bringing his head back up.

Gesturing to his clothing, Dean says, “You don’t like Western stuff. What’s up with.. this?”

Cas purses his lips and his eyes fall to the sand. “I thought..” he hesitates. His foot inches back and he chooses new words to say. “I thought it sounded like fun,” he lies. 

Dean stares at Castiel. His eyes rage over Castiel’s face and his downturned eyes, trying to uncover the truth because Dean knows when Cas is lying. He takes in the costume once again, then looks at his own clothing. Chewing at the inside of his cheek, the truth unravels inside his mind. 

“Were you looking for me?” Dean asks, looking at Cas. 

Sucking in his lips, Castiel turns his head to look away. Dean then nods, taking his silence as a yes. 

The two stand in each other's conflicted quiet. The passing seconds pile over them like a flipped hourglass, slowly creating a mountain of sand that fuddle their breathing and stances. During the slow burial, Dean had been staring at Castiel, assessing the man. When Dean looked off to the ocean, Castiel flitted his eyes to him, assessing him as well. 

The words that want to be spoken claw from behind Dean’s teeth enough to the point where he’s breathing in a heavy sigh and rubbing at his face. He feels Cas’ eyes on him as he lowers himself into the sand. 

“What are we doing, man?”

Dean watches as Cas shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Cas looks around at the empty beach and for a split second, Dean becomes afraid that Cas is thinking about leaving him here alone. Then, the fear washes away when Dean realizes it would be fair treatment if he walked away. 

Castiel walks over to Dean and lowers himself into the sand beside him. 

There are no words exchanged between the two. They just sit with their boots in the sand, backs stiff, and heads screwed on straight to watch the ocean. Their silence is like a blizzard of sharp glass. Their skin burns from the cold and neither one dares to shift in fear of getting cut. 

It could’ve been minutes or hours the two sat there, bearing the weight of each other’s presence. But, eventually, Castiel says, “Dean,” in a hoarse, pained voice. 

Dean’s head snaps over and his eyes roam over Castiel’s profile, scanning it for any physical sign for the pain in his voice. There is none, other than the deep longing that Cas holds in his stare when he locks eyes with Dean. 

“Dean,” he is saying again, his gaze falling to the space between. Slowly, he chokes out, “I.. understand if you say no… If I end up not being what.. you want.” To Castiel, each word is another inch added to the blade digging into his heart, each syllable acting like a twist for more hurt to seep in. He looks down at his hands in his lap, flexing his fingers, turning them around so he can scan the lines of his palms. He swallows through the thickness clogging his throat and breathes in a steady breath. 

“But,” he continues, his voice finding a new strength, “I am not one for playing games, Dean. Not anymore. I played for so long that.. I- I don’t know if I can handle this cat and mouse chase with you.” Castiel looks at Dean and finds him already looking at him. “So, please ..” He opens his palms up, begging. The end of his sentence gets lost to the crashing waves.

Dean’s heart sits heavy in the hole inside his chest, but Castiel’s words, his unspoken question, weighs even heavier on his skin. With an expression that holds every ounce of hurt and confusion that Dean has ever felt and is feeling, he bores into Cas’ eyes. He pushes words around inside his head, forcing them against the barrier of his skull as he tries to use his eyes to communicate what his mouth cannot. 

“I’m tired, Dean,” Cas says. He is looking out to the ocean, but in his eyes is a distance, a disconnect. “I want to enjoy our retirement just as much as you and Sam. But, I can’t if all we are going to do is fight. I can’t enjoy spending time with you and Sam if all I can think about is- is-”

“Cas,” Dean interjects quickly, his words tumbling over each other as he says, “I- I don’t know what you- you want from me.”

“Don’t know what I want?” Castiel shoots back. “I don’t know what you want!”

“I want us to be Cas and Dean! I want us to be like how we were, sitting on the beach, watching movies, cooking dinner together. I want peace, I want simplicity .”

Glaring at Dean, Cas asks, “And you don’t think I want that as well?”

“No,” Dean says, pointing at him, “you make shit complicated .”

“ I make it complicated ?” Cas turns to look at the ocean, his hands flopping onto his thighs. “Dean-” He starts, but his words get caught behind his teeth. Sucking in a quick breath that does nothing for the rising anger, Cas slowly says, “I do not make ‘shit’ -” he throws up a pair of air quotes- “ ‘complicated’ -” another set- “I make things very clear. I tell you how I.. how I feel , I tell you what I want from you, and all you do is run away. You ran away from me when–” Cas sucks in his lips, unable to paint out the night from the week prior. “You ran away from me just now.. in the bar.”

“I did not run away ,” Dean says, shaking his head. He says it even though he knows he’s wrong, and when he catches Cas’ glowering stare, he regrets it instantly. 

“Yes,” Castiel replies with cold sternness, “you did.”

Rubbing at the nape of his neck, Dean mumbles, “yeah, I did,” and looks away and down to the empty stretch of beach. Dean hears the sand shifting and when he looks, Castiel has dropped a knee and faces Dean a little more than before. 

“Why can’t it be simple?”

Softly shaking his head, Dean pushes his jaw to the side, eyes on the ocean. “What, Cas?” He asks. “Why can’t what be simple?”

“Us,” replies Cas in a near whisper. In a rush, he spews, “It’s always simple for you and women. I–” He stops, pausing. His eyes dart all around Dean’s face. “ I can be simple for you.”

At the pleading, Dean’s throat constricts. With eyes locked onto Cas’, Dean whispers, “Don’t say that. You..” He inhales, deep, “You are simple for me. You.. I..” Dean looks away, then back at Cas. He swallows through the sticky web inside his throat to allow for the eruption of words swirling around in his chest. “Cas, it- it was easy with- with women, and Ben-”

Dean seals his lips. A strike of fear seizes his body at the near tumble of the name. Dean opens his mouth, about to skip over the slip, but Castiel interrupts him with, “..And?”

Bringing a hand up to his face, Dean can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. One quick glance over and Dean understands by Cas’ knitted eyebrows that there is no turning back now. Sucking in a quick breath to sooth his rattling heart, Dean looks up and away as he spits out, “And- and Benny. It was easy with the women and.. Benny because- shit , because-”

God, Dean feels like he could be sick. 

His eyes dart down and he sees that he’s been wringing his hands together. 

There is a pinch of tightness in his chest, and everything feels as though it’s happening too quickly. Please, he pleads with Cas inside his head, please don’t ask for more. He can’t handle more. He can’t say what he’s been burying for so long. Dread tingles inside his stomach and climbs up his esophagus and one more confession and Dean will be throwing it up onto the beach. 

Then, Castiel asks, “Because?” and it’s like a bullet is piercing Dean’s fragile state. 

“ They weren’t you! ” Dean yells, his anger, his rage spiking his skin, jolting everything inside him. “Because they weren’t you, Cas!” He pushes two fingers hard into the side of Cas’ shoulder. “You are complicated to me, you make me feel..” Dean’s words slow down, then, breaking: “ complicated. ”

Dean pushes his hands to his face and curls his knees inwards. His chest is tight, his head pounds. Castiel’s gaze is like a flame on his skin, and how desperately does Dean want to blow it out. This conversation is too much for him. Too many confessions, too many truths. He isn’t ready, he isn’t ready, Dean doesn’t feel ready.

Removing his hands, Dean cranes his head all the way to the side so Cas has no chance in seeing the tears that prick at his eyes. He wipes at his cheek as a tear falls, and tries to play it off as him scratching an itch.

Though, Cas knows better. 

Castiel’s fingers form fists in the sand as he tries to ground himself underneath the weight of his guilt. He attempts at an inhale, but his chest is too heavy to hold the air. He watches as Dean again raises a finger to his cheek, but then quickly pulls it down to go back to wringing his hands. Castiel’s shoulders fall, the guilt tumbles all around him now. 

“Dean,” he says in a soft voice, devoid of all previous harshness, “Dean, I’m sorry.”

Cas pauses and waits for a response. Verbal or gestural, he doesn’t care. Just anything to make Dean look at him. When he refuses to turn his head, Cas continues. “I am sorry. I am. I didn’t realize that- that I’ve been pushing you. Dean–”

“Just-” Dean cuts, holding up a hand, face still turned away, “just stop, Cas.”

Slumping back into his posture, Cas sits in grating anticipation. He bites at his lip, darts his eyes from the ocean, to the beach, to Dean, and back to the ocean. Dean puts the two in limbo, in a purgatory of sharp silence. A moment passes. Two, three. 

Then, with a short sniffle, Dean rubs at his face once more and turns his head to look straight. Cas slightly angles his own head to get a better look at Dean’s face, only to be struck with burning sadness at the sight of Dean’s tear-stricken face, his red eyes. 

Against his better judgment, Dean glances at Castiel, the two locking eyes briefly. 

From the naked pain Castiel catches in Dean’s eyes, he guesses he is cursed to look into Dean’s eyes and think he’s already hurt. No matter what Dean has said, no matter what emotional turmoil Dean has put Cas through, all he can see is a man who's already hurt. A man who carries the pain of nearly four decades of torture, and Castiel feels cursed to think his pestering, his forcefulness has added to that. 

Licking his lips, Dean says, “Cas, look, I’m sorry, too, for putting you through the shit I’ve put you through.” Cas is opening his mouth, about to fight back, but Dean holds up his hand and in an instant, Castiel is silenced. “Let me finish,” Dean says, to which Cas dutifully nods. “I am. Sorry, for.. for that night in my room. I’m sorry for pretending what you said to me in–” Dean pauses to drag in a long sigh. The breath clears up some tension inside his chest, but not all. Not enough. 

“I’m sorry for pretending what you said to me in the bunker didn’t happen. I.. I was a dick, alright? I was. I am . I am a dick. But.. Cas, man..” Dean stares down at his hands as they lay open in his lap. “I- I stand by what I said that first night. I just.. I can’t , man. And, please, don’t ask why, because I don’t know why. I just know I can’t be what you want me to be. Not right now.”

Castiel stays silent. He feels if he is to say anything, it will be the wrong move. He wants to echo ‘not right now?’, but doing so would be just the same as stabbing Dean, and therefore be the same as stabbing himself. So, he seals his lips. He stays silent. 

Dean tilts his chin back and looks up at the stars. Castiel watches as Dean’s watery eyes dance around the night sky, then he turns his own head to do the same. In a sort of demented way, Castiel’s mind shifts the fragmented stars as a representation for his and Dean’s relationship. Broken, scattered, virtually impossible to piece back together. All because of him.

“I promise,” Dean says, but his words crack and he is quick to clear his throat. “I promise later on, I’ll give you an answer, alright?”

Castiel keeps his eyes on the stars. He cannot bear to return Dean’s gaze.

“Cas, you gotta respond to me, man. I need–”

“Alright,” Cas cuts in, sharp, cold. 

Dean’s eyes narrow. He angles his head, trying to catch Cas’ eye. “Hey,” he softly says, “not to sound like some girl, but you’re not mad at me, are you?”

At this, Castiel turns his head and locks eyes with Dean. He shakes his head, saying, “No, sorry. No. I’m..” he runs some words over in his head, “Disappointed.”

A flicker of hurt flashes behind Dean’s expression. “In me?”

“What? No,” Cas corrects quickly. “Not in you. Never in you, Dean. I’m disappointed in myself.”

“Why?”

Cas rolls his head to the side, slitting his eyes to Dean, saying, “After the conversation we just had, do I really need to explain myself?”

A dry snort comes from Dean and he’s looking back to the sand in front of him. “No, I guess not.” Then, he adds: “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Cas. His eyes move around the area as he thinks. Dean sits in Cas’ silence, head tipped back again to wonder at the stars. After a long moment, he slowly asks, “Where does this leave us?”

From his peripheral, Cas watches as Dean lowers his head. “I don’t know, Cas,” he admits softly. There’s a heartbeat of wait between them. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, eyes roaming the sand as he thinks. Then, he smacks his mouth and turns to Cas. “Wanna go home with me?”

Through narrow eyes, Cas feels the suspicion circle around in him. “You mean..” he starts, his eyes searching Dean’s face, “to go home with you, not go home with you..?”

“What?” Dean asks in genuine confusion, then his expression breaks as he realizes. “ Home , Cas,” he says, “I’m not asking– No, not in that way, dumbass. I’m throwing out the olive branch.” As Dean is pulling himself to his feet, he adds: “Take it.”

Cas nods, pulling himself to his feet as well, saying, “Taking it. I’m taking it.”

With the two now standing, Dean pulls in a large breath and says, “Good.” He dusts off whatever sand is clinging to his pants while Cas does the same. Dean begins to walk, not waiting for Cas to finish dusting himself, but he also doesn’t quicken his pace until Cas has fallen into step beside him. 

Above the shifting of sand, Cas looks at Dean through the corner of his eye, assessing him. Their conversation, at least for him, has lightened up enough that moving is like swimming. He wonders if throwing out another sentence would be like throwing a frisbee, one that Dean can catch, or throwing a boomerang, one that will smack Castiel back in the face. 

As their steps grow in number, he figures now would be best before it’s too far into their walk to continue the conversation. 

“Sorry for, you know,” Cas says, nodding his head to the side, “mistaking your offer back there.” His eyes slide over Dean for one last, quick assessment before he’s saying, “Can’t be too careful, considering how much of a slut you’ve been.”

Dean’s feet freeze from under him and he’s staring at Cas with his mouth agape. “A slut ?” He repeats before quickly breaking out into a fit of laughter. “Is that what I am to you?”

A relieved smile breaks out onto Cas’ face and he shrugs. “You’re many things to me.”

Falling back into step with one another, Dean asks, “And a friggin’ slut is one of them? Woooww.” He shakes his head, another bubble of light laughter coming out. “Wow!”

Like a million times before, Dean and Cas fall into the easy comfort of quiet company. The crashing of waves become distant and far behind their backs, and the shifting of sand turns to the chalky thuds of boots on concrete, until they’re creaking over the old wood of their house’s porch. 

Dean holds the door open for Cas, and with a light, easy breath, Castiel enters their home. To him, their relationship doesn’t feel as shattered and spread out as the stars - not anymore, but rather like the freckles that dot Dean’s face. Close, within reach. With enough time, Cas thinks he’ll be able to pull the shards of their relationship together.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Dean and Castiel’s house is full of life once again.

The bottom floor of the house is coated in a soft, muted white due to the thick cloud coverage. Instead of getting brighter as the hours tick by, the windows grow colder, the rooms darker as the thunderstorm looms over the ocean. 

Music plays from the radio hooked up on a ladder bookshelf in the living room (the bookshelf recently purchased and built by Sam) and pours into the kitchen like a lazy river. As Cas is grabbing out two plates for the people who do eat, Sam is turning on the stove burner and skating around a small wedge of yellow butter inside a pan. The coffee machine whirs and clicks from beside Cas. 

“Hey, Cas?” Sam asks as he goes to the sink where the package of bacon thaws inside a bath of warm water. “Mind waking Dean up? I’m almost done with breakfast.”

“Uh..” Cas starts, his eyes darting from Sam to the staircase, “why can’t you?”

Sam pushes his fallen hair back as he sets the bacon down onto the counter. “I mean, I could, but-” he gestures to the simmering butter, which has melted down and coats the surface of the pan in a yellow glaze- “a little busy here. Unless you wanna get started on the bacon?”

“No, no, that’s fine. I’ll..” Cas sets the plates down onto the island counter, pushing out a tight breath, “I’ll get him.”

The top floor of the house is considerably darker than the bottom floor. The small, three paneled window that sits above the staircase is like a white flame to a dark room for the hallway that connects the two bedrooms and bathroom. Cas uses his knuckles to knock softly on Dean’s bedroom door. 

“Dean,” he calls out, though much too soft to actually wake anyone up, as he is twisting the doorknob. The white candlelight follows Castiel into the dark room, where Dean has his blinds folded tightly into one another to block out the usual morning sun. There are two small, square windows cut into the wall on either side of the bed, and without fitted blinds they allow for some sweep of clouded sunlight. 

Cas stands at the corner of Dean’s bed, lips parted as he thinks of the best way to wake him up. Dean is an angry sleeper - like a bear to Cas, and no matter the length of the stick, he can never be too careful. Though, when Dean is like this, laying on his stomach with his arms tucked under the pillow, eyelids soft, breathing quietly, soundly - it brings a stillness to Cas. 

It’s something he can’t help. A sighting so rare that Castiel has no choice but to be a tourist, to stop and stare. He likes it when Dean sleeps, for he is so beautiful yet so unaware of it. 

He stands there for no longer than a minute before cracking through the silence with, “ Dean .”

The man jolts, startled, and he’s flying his hand to the bedside table drawer (where he stores a spare gun). He cracks his eyes open and with a scrunched face, he sees it’s just Cas, and lets his hand fall. “Oh,” Dean mumbles, laying back on his pillow. With the hand pinned under his cheek, Dean rubs his eyes, then looks around the dark room and asks, “The hell you waking me up for? What time is it?”

“It’s time for you to get out of bed,” Cas replies, flicking at Dean’s foot. “It’s almost nine. Sam has breakfast downstairs.”

Dean loudly groans and twists around in his bedsheets so he’s on his side, face half-hidden into the pillow again. “Tell Sammy I ain’t hungry. I refuse to be put on some bunny diet.”

“It’s not–” Cas starts, but he rolls his eyes around the room and says instead, “There’s bacon.”

Dean’s eyes open. He cranes his neck to look down at Cas. “Bacon?” He repeats, to which Cas nods his head. “Coffee?” Cas nods again. Without as much as a second thought, Dean is pushing himself out of bed and dragging his legs from under the sheets, saying, “Alright you got me.”

As Cas is walking back to the hallway, Dean stops him in the doorway by saying, “You know, I had a dream about you last night.” 

“Oh. Really?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, standing from his bed, “you were human. We were here, but it was also the bunker. We were eating dinner together. It was nice.” He walks over to Cas, who still stands in the doorway. Dean leans his head up against the frame and asks, “You ever think about that?”

“Think about what?”

“Becoming human.” Dean nods to the hallway and Castiel walks, the two beginning to go downstairs together. Slow, though, as to keep their conversation secluded. “Eating with Sam and I, going to sleep like us. You roaming the house at night like Chucky kinda gives me the creeps sometimes.”

“Would you rather me sit and wait?” Cas asks, hand on the railing as he lets Dean pass him. “Perhaps you can throw me a bone in the morning. Maybe I’ll wag my tail when you wake up.”

“Oh, can it, drama queen,” Dean snarks, though he has to hurry down the stairs so as to not let Cas hear his quiet fit of laughter. With his eyes on Sam’s back, he says with a smile, “Mornin’.”

When Sam turns around, Dean notices that he has his phone pressed up to his ear and he holds both a finger up as a signal to wait, and a knowing smile on his face. “Yeah, okay,” Sam is quickly saying. “Thank you. You, too.” Pulling his phone away, he hangs up and grins at Dean. “Guess what!”

With knitted eyebrows, Dean cautiously asks, “What?”

“The impala is here!”

Dean’s face lights up. “Baby?” He asks. “Baby? Oh, my God!” He turns on his heel and jumps back up the stairs, yelling down, “I’ll get ready!”

Sam can only chuckle at his brother, and turns back to the stove, using tongs to peel the crisp pieces of bacon from the pan. Cas, who had been watching Dean race upstairs, sees Sam motioning him over and joins him at the stove. “You,” Sam says, pushing the tongs into Cas’ hands, “are going to cook the rest of the bacon. Dean and I will–”

“But,” Cas interrupts, twisting over to follow Sam with his eyes as he goes to where he left his shoes, “I’ve never cooked before.”

“You’re an angel, you can,” Sam gestures to the pan, his wrist circling, “you know, figure it out. Just lay the strips I have there-” he points- “into the pan and when they’re cooked, you take them out. Use the three I made as a reference.”

As Cas is opening his mouth to interject, Dean is clamoring down the steps, now dressed in fresh clothes and a bright smile. “Ready?” He asks Sam, to which the man echoes, and Dean begins walking to follow him out the door, though the fresh bacon sitting on the island catches his attention. 

He grabs one, then all three, and glances up at Cas and catches his stare. “What?” He asks innocently. Castiel dips his chin, his stare turning into a glare. “Oh, don’t be so jealous.” Dean bites the end of one strip and goes to the front door, calling out, “We’ll be back!” 

The door slams shut behind him. 

Castiel sighs, deeply. He turns to face the bacon he doesn’t know how to cook. Holding up the tongs, he claps them once, twice, thrice. What could go wrong?

Outside, the brothers make their walk into town haste to beat the impending rain. Once safely settled inside a taxi, water begins to hit the windows, creating a light mist which, throughout their long drive, turns into running streams. Palm trees shake above their heads outside the cab windows, standing as dark, yet vivid beacons in contrast to the graying sky. 

Sam pays the driver and the cab is off before Sam and Dean get to the building, the tires kicking up gray rainwater. Inside the office building next to the docking station, where the impala presumably sits and Dean is angling his neck left and right trying to catch a glimpse, smells of hot printer paper and stale coffee, and is uncomfortably warm inside the tin walls. 

The whole ordeal of getting the impala back into their possession lasts less than 15 minutes: talking to someone, handing over their last name and ID, signing paperwork, and standing by the large front windows, peering out through the clouded, wet glass as someone else drives Baby off the loading dock and into the parking lot. 

The keys are exchanged from one hand to another, and Dean is whispering, “Baby, oh Baby, how I’ve missed you,” while checking over the polished black for any scuffs or scratches. 

“Dude,” Sam says, pulling on the locked door handle, “really? Unlock the damn door. You can play out your fantasy in bed later.”

“Gross,” Dean mutters, pushing the keys around between his fingers until he’s finding the right one. “He didn’t mean to objectify you,” he tells the car. 

Sam is scoffing and shaking his head, but pulls the door open and listens to the welcoming squeak of the hinges, the groan of the frame as he gets it. Slamming the door behind him, Dean holds the steering wheel with both hands, rubbing them up and down the tight leather. 

“Don’t kiss–..”

Dean dips his head to the top curve of the wheel and presses a kiss to it, pulling away grinning. With a curled upper lip, Sam says, “Gross, dude! You don’t know who’s been driving.”

“Don’t care! Baby will always be mine at the end of the day.” Dean starts up the car, hollering at the roaring purr of the engine. 

Sam reaches out and brushes the dashboard, saying, “He didn’t mean to objectify you.” He leans back into his seat, smirking, and when he catches Dean’s glare, it pulls into a full grin. 

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Going left would bring them home, so instead Dean turns the car right. Cruising down the smooth roads, Dean drives him and Sam into where the population is dense, the houses neighbor, streets split, and shopping is done inside stores rather than in outside stalls. The windshield wipers glide. The rain hits. The music pours. 

It isn’t long until Dean is pulling into the superstore’s parking lot, going over speed bumps and stopping for running pedestrians. Fortunately, the rain has kept people confined to their houses and the brothers got to park close enough that when they are walking through the sliding doors, they aren’t completely soaked. 

Sam grabs the first cart from the line and pushes it through the second set of automatic doors, going over everything they need in soft mutters. Dean, on the other hand, pats Sam twice on the shoulder and says, “You got all this? Great. I’ll see you later,” before detaching from the cart’s side and walking off.

“D-Dean!” Sam tries calling out after him, but quickly fails. Dean disappears around an aisle. Breathing out an annoyed scoff, Sam steers the cart with a broken wheel towards the produce section. 

It takes nearly forty minutes to weigh the cart down with enough food and household supplies to force the broken wheel into submission. Throughout his shopping, Sam only caught two glimpses of Dean walking past aisles, holding a couple items of his own. It isn’t until Sam is steering the cart towards check-out does Dean reappear. 

“Check me out,” Dean says, grinning, and holds up his two items. One, a large cardboard box with a beach scenery printed onto the front, the puzzle pieces shifting inside. The second, a long, thin, cylindrical tube wrapped in plastic, which the fluorescent lights glare off of. 

“What is that?” Sam asks and holds a hand out for the latter, and when he gets a closer look, he realizes it’s a Road House poster. 

“They had no frames for it,” Dean says, taking it back. “I gotta be careful putting it up.”

“Such a child,” Sam mutters, going off towards an open check out lane. 

Dean didn’t care for Sam’s comment then, inside the superstore, and not after they got their groceries and Sam commented on the volume of the music, and definitely not now, as Sam is telling Dean to watch out for that puddle there - and that branch here - as Dean slowly pulls the impala off the main roads and into the grass to park under a low hanging tree in Sam’s backyard. 

Together, they gather up the groceries onto their arms and hands and rush through the scatter of trees, the leaves doing nothing to slow the progression of the storm. Their clothes and hair get pummeled by the rain and it isn’t until they’re under the awning of Dean’s porch that they’re safe, although dripping. 

With the thin plastic straps of the bags digging red lines into their arms and fingers, Dean shoulders open the front door. The brothers tumble inside, tripping over each other’s feet as they both try and push through the door. 

“Watch it,” Dean hisses, but his anger is quickly dissipating when he smells the unmistakable choking scent of smoke. His head snaps to the kitchen, where a haze sits near the ceiling. “Cas!”

All the bags rush off his arms and from his hands, and he’s skidding into the kitchen where Cas is holding a pan over the trash can, scraping blackened char from the surface. His head snaps up to Dean, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Castiel spits out. “I don’t know how it happened,” he’s saying as Dean grabs the pan from him. Cas lets the handle go easily, eyes on his mistake, though his expression pinches when Dean grabs his wrist, turning it over. 

“Are you hurt? Burned?” Dean asks, then looks at the stove. He notes the lack of black wisps where a fire could’ve marked its path, and the lack of a fire extinguisher, or other nearby items that could’ve been used to smother a fire. 

“No,” Cas says, pulling his wrist away. “I can heal myself, anyway. I’m fine. The pan, though…”

“Forget about the pan,” Dean says. “Are you okay? Was there a fire?”

“No,” Cas repeats, watching from over Dean’s shoulder as Sam forces up the old windows to let the haze escape. The rain that beats against the side of the house hits the screen and dribbles into the seal. “No, I just burnt it all really badly. The bacon kept smoking, and..” He looks back at Dean. His eyebrows are drawn, lips parted, eyes steady on Cas’ - a face of concern. Cas’ own face softens and he tilts his head to the side. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” Dean says. Castiel watches as Dean’s eyes go from the stove to the pan, to the blackened char that sits in flakes inside the trash can. With confusion blocking inside Cas, he watches as Dean’s mouth perks into a smile, as that smile grows, and laughter begins to bubble out. 

“I- I don’t understand what’s there to laugh at,” Castiel says, his own eyes tracing the same steps as Dean’s.

“It’s- it’s funny!” Dean says, turning to Sam, whose eyebrows are up as he watches the haze fizzle out. Dean looks back at Cas, lightly smacking him on his shoulder. “You! An angel who’s led armies but can’t cook friggin’ bacon.” He laughs again. “Bacon!”

“It- it’s difficult!” Cas fights back. “First, it was too floppy. Then, it was too hard. Then…”

“Then you smoked it!” Dean turns to Sam. “And not the good kind, either.”

“It was an accident!”

“My accident, actually,” Sam interjects. “I shouldn’t have left someone who only knows how to make PB&J’s alone in the kitchen.”

Dean sharply laughs, clapping his hands together. “Good one,” he says over his shoulder to Sam. 

Castiel shoots a glare to Dean, then a harder one to Sam, before picking the blackened pan up to go back to scraping the surface. Dean walks back to where he dropped his groceries, realizing Sam had as well, and the two resling their hands around the thin straps. 

Throughout the time Sam and Dean put the groceries away, the acrid smell mixes with the dewy, earthy scent of rain until it is the only thing being inhaled. At that point, while Dean balls up the plastic bags, Sam shuts each window one by one. 

Castiel pulls the pan out from under the steaming water of the sink and twists the handle, inspecting the thorough clean. From behind him and across the island, Dean says, “Looks nice. A little more practice on the cooking though.”

Letting out a tight breath, Cas rolls his head back, then to Dean as he turns around. “Show me,” he demands, sliding the still wet pan onto the island. “Show me how to cook.”

Dean jumps his eyebrows up and throws the slow expanding ball of plastic onto the counter that holds all of the household supplies, which Sam is organizing and preparing to put away. “Fine,” he says, taking a clean towel. “First-” he holds the pan up- “you want it dry.”

While Dean and Cas are shuffling around the stove, Sam gathers up his own groceries and items to stock away inside his house. In the time he is gone, Dean shows Castiel how to make the perfect piece of bacon: one that stands on its own, is crispy, juicy, and doesn’t turn to ash. 

“I wanted you to have a nice breakfast,” Castiel admits tightly, his eyes turned down as he stares at Dean’s perfectly cooked bacon simmering inside the pan. “And look, it’s almost eleven-forty, and the rest of the food is cold, and–”

“Cas, please,” Dean cuts in, waving a dismissive hand, “that’s what microwaves are for.”

Tilting his head to the side, Cas looks at Dean. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. And I don’t care. It’s fine, trust me.”

Before Cas has the chance to respond, the front door is bouncing off the walls from being forced open. From around the corner of the kitchen doorway a very large, very long, and very drenched cardboard box drags against the floors as Sam pushes it inside. He moves to stand around it, his back curled as he attempts to dig his fingers underneath the box. A gust of wind pushes into the house through the open front door, which blows Sam’s hair into his face and rattles the door. It kicks into Sam’s foot. 

“Ow! A little help here?”

Dean picks up a piece of bacon that has been sitting off to the side cooling, bites into it and says, “Looks like you’ve got it,” as he leans against the counter to watch his brother struggle.

Through the curtain of his hair, Sam breathes out, “Assholes.”

Dean snorts, eats his bacon, and watches Sam slowly push the box into the living room while Castiel takes the bacon out of the pan. Through chews, Dean helps Cas plate the now lunch and microwave each meal until they come out hot and steaming. 

Sam comes out of the living room with his hair in disarray, chest heaving, and he snatches his plate from Dean’s hand. “You’re a jerk for not helping. That box was heavy.”

“Cry about it,” Dean says and hands his brother his drink. Sam takes it, and tells the two he’s going to eat outside and watch the storm from the safety of the porch. Dean waves him off. 

Without the lamps or the overhead lights, the living room looks how it does when the moon is out. Though, the room doesn’t hold that nighttime stillness. Back when Dean and Sam were unpacking the groceries, Cas had caught sight of the puzzle, which is what he is now smiling down at as he shimmes off the lid. 

“Thank you, Dean,” he says, pulling out the plastic bag that holds all of the loose pieces to inspect them.

“Not a problem,” replies Dean as he falls into the corner of the couch, careful to keep his plate steady. He props one leg onto the (new) coffee table and bends the other one so it fits into the back cushions. “Have at it.”

Cas leaves the box on the coffee table and goes to the doorway to flick on the overhead lights, the room snapping into brightness. Dean cringes at it. Rejoining him on the couch, Castiel wastes no time and rips into the plastic. 

Without any other entertainment, as the television is still in transit, Dean eats his lunch and watches as Castiel separates edge, corner, and inside pieces from one another. He thinks about this, thinks about that, then when a certain train of thought enters his head, Dean comments, “You know, you never answered my question this morning.”

With a palm filled with puzzle pieces, Cas turns his head to look at Dean. “What question?”

“When I asked you how you felt about becoming human. That question.”

Castiel’s eyes drop to the couch. He purses his lips, then turns his head back to his palm. There’s a heartbeat of silence. “What do you want me to say about it?”

“I want you to say what you think, Cas.”

“I don’t think anything of it.”

“So.. what? What does that mean?”

“It means,” Cas says sharply. He looks at Dean, his gaze cold, “becoming human is to lose my grace. I’d be tied to this vessel where I’d grow old, I’d be powerless, I’d be..” He trails off and looks to the walls behind Dean. He lets go of a breath and shrugs. “I’d be human.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Dean says with a teasing smile.

Cas glances at him, a playful look, and says, “It’s a bad thing when you’re without your powers.”

“We can handle ourselves without your mojo. We’ve got everything we need here to defend against an attack. Which,” Dean nods his head to the side, “is unlikely since everyone thinks we’re dust.”

There’s a moment of silence where Castiel searches Dean’s face, then the floor. The rainfall that comes in quick waves keeps Dean company while Cas thinks. “I know you’re right,” Cas says, “but.. I don’t know. I’m not comfortable with the idea of it.”

“Ah.” Dean points his fork at Cas. “So you do think something about it.” Castiel shoots him a look, making Dean smile. He says, “I’ll always be here if you need me while, you know,” he balls up his hand and mimics the gesture of cutting open a stomach, “play Operation on yourself.”

Castiel’s face softens when he looks at Dean just then. A small smile picks up at the corners of his mouth, and he’s about to say something, his lips slightly parting, but the front door swings open and Sam is coming inside. 

“Hey, uh,” he says as he shuts the door, “I started to get rained on, so..” He stands in the entryway, staring at Cas and Dean while they stare back, then points into the kitchen before silently excusing himself. 

“Anyway,” Dean says, looking from Sam to Cas, “if you want me there, I’m here. Sam, too.”

Castiel smiles softly. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean returns the smile and settles deeper into the couch. “Anytime, Cas.”

Just then, Sam comes back into the living room with an exacto knife. He throws it onto the cardboard box he had dragged in, but passes it by to go back to the radio perched on top of the ladder bookshelf. He takes out the CD, puts it back into its empty case, and puts in a new one. 

Music pumps through the living room, mixing in with the pounding rain. As Sam settles on the floor, he begins to slice into the cardboard box to assemble his new IKEA toy (a television stand, Dean and Cas found out). 

Finishing his lunch, Dean awkwardly bends his arm to go over and around his shoulder so he can set the plate down onto the side table. Castiel sits on the edge of the couch, immersed in his puzzle, so Dean easily fits his feet between Cas’ back and the cushions, crossing his arms and settling deeper into the softness of the sofa. 

Dull, low thunder rolls in the distance. The lull of the music and rain wraps around Dean while he watches both men work dutifully on their tasks, putting a heaviness into his breathing. As the song finishes and another begins, he feels the heaviness creep up to his eyelids. Turning his head to face the back of the couch, Dean lets sleep float him down the river of peace.

Chapter Text

Dean wakes up in dark silence. 

He shifts his head, but the sharp tenderness of muscle strain that throbs in his neck forces him to return to his position. To wake himself up he inhales deeply and slowly blinks at the blackness that is supposed to be couch cushions. As more parts of his brain awake, a light pressure that covers the length of Dean’s body registers. He shifts, and understands that someone has covered him with a blanket. 

Dean pushes himself through the hot strain of his neck as he sits himself up, the blanket pooling in his lap. He scans the dark living room, trying to make sense of the time of day (or night) from the dim moonlit windows. Though, something catches his eye - a mass at the end of the couch, its figure darker than the surrounding space - and Dean freezes, his heart dropping. 

Within the singular second - Dean is taken back into his mind. Into a place where he stands under four feet tall, where every corner holds evil, where every window is an eye. Every paranoid spike through him is another step towards Sammy, another wish for his mom.

Dean blinks, and he’s back inside the living room.

“Hi, Dean.”

“ Jesus , Cas,” Dean groans out. “You scared me, man.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

Dean holds a dismissive hand up to him, then uses it to rub his face. He smears away the rheum from the inner corners of his eyes, but pauses when his fingertips run over flaky crusts on his cheek. Scratching at his face, he realizes he had been drooling. Dean glances at Castiel quickly before asking, “How long was I out for?”

“Eight hours, 23 minutes, and–”

“ Okay ,” Dean cuts in, “I think I got it.” He drags his legs off the couch and to the floor, settling his elbows onto his knees. “Wait, really?” He asks again, the surprise a heavy factor in his tone. “I was out all day? You and Sam didn’t wake me up?”

“Well..” Cas begins, but hesitates. In the cloak of darkness, Dean can just barely make out Cas on the couch, and he thinks he can see the hesitation on his face, “we tried but you kept grumbling and never woke up. Besides, Dean,” Cas looks at him, “I think you deserve the rest. It’s not like you and Sam ever got your eight hours before.”

Rolling his eyes around the room, Dean replies, “True.” Between the heavy presence of sleep still in his lungs and eyes, and the pinching of his muscles, Dean feels the emptiness of hunger come to life in his stomach. He stands up from the couch and stretches his arms far above his head, groaning. 

Even through the shroud of night, Dean feels Cas’ eyes on him like a flame. The hem of his shirt tickles his side as it drags up, and the hellfire of Cas’ stare leaves burns as it drags down to the cut of visible skin. Dean takes in a deep inhale and leans away from the angel. More skin becomes exposed. His abdomen becomes aflame.

He flops his arms to his sides with a sigh. “Did Sam leave any dinner for me?”

Castiel clears his throat, looking away to the side. “Yeah, it’s in the fridge,” he replies. 

“Awesome.” As Dean moves around the coffee table, a long, bright strike of moonlight that glints off the surface catches his eye. Looking down, he tilts his head to see the finished product of Cas’ puzzle. “Woah, Cas! You finished this already?” Dean bends down to get a closer look. 

“Yeah,” Cas replies. “Sam helped here and there. There was really nothing else to do today with the storm.” He stands up and peers down at the puzzle, a soft smile on his face. “Thank you again, Dean. You were right, I did need a hobby.”

“It looks awesome. We’ll need to frame it,” Dean says, giving the puzzle one last glance before looking at Cas. When Castiel stood, he placed himself in the yellow cut from the porch lights outside. In the yellow wash, Dean sees clearly how Cas’ smile grows, how he reveals his teeth, how much softer, younger, Cas looks. Dean doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, but he stares. He takes in Cas’ smile, his happiness, like it’s a mirage in a heat-stricken desert. Softly, Dean says, “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll frame it. I was going to stop by the bar tomorrow, want to come with so we can run into town and get you another puzzle?”

Cas locks his eyes in with Dean’s. “I would like that.”

Nodding, Dean says, “Awesome,” before walking into the kitchen. It isn’t until he hits the entryway does he hear Castiel move to follow him. He opens the fridge door, the bright light aching his eyes, and grabs out the bowl of food. In the light, he sees it’s some sort of fancy mac-n-cheese with shredded cheese and herbs mixed in. He hums, happily surprised to not be eating some artificial Kraft noodles. 

He throws off the cling wrap, the plastic slightly sticking to his fingers, and pops the bowl into the microwave. The dull hum circles around Dean and Castiel in the otherwise quiet kitchen. 

“So,” Dean starts, leaning up against the counter, hands on the edge, “what do you even do all night?”

Standing in front of Dean next to the island counter, Cas shrugs. “I wait.”

Dean tilts his head a little, lips puckered as he thinks. “But, like, do you do anything? Do you read? Do you go outside?”

“Sometimes. I mostly just sit..” Castiel says, but as he begins to say his actions aloud, he slows, the understanding of how sad his predicament sounds dawning onto him. His eyes flicker around the room, “..and wait.” 

“Oh,” Dean says softly. The humming from the microwave cuts off and a loud, shrill beeping replaces it. He turns to take out his bowl, using the spoon he grabbed to stir it around, smothering the rising steam. “Yeah, we’re getting you more puzzles tomorrow.”

Dean eats his mac-n-cheese, eyes on the droplet covered windows outside. Palm trees shake in the sky, moonlight rolls over the ocean. Then, an idea strikes him. Through chewing, Dean offers, “Or, you could ditch the mojo.”

Castiel turns his head to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Dean, we talked about this.”

“I know,” he says, the spoon clinking against the bowl as he pauses in his eating. “I’m just throwing it out there again. It would fix your waiting problem.”

A tight sigh escapes Cas, and Dean amusedly watches as Cas’ lips thin, his head shakes, and he returns his gaze to outside. Under his breath, Cas mutters, “You know that’s not what I need.”

Dean pauses halfway through a chew. “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Jumping his eyebrows up, Dean mutters back, “Alright,” and quickly finishes the last of his dinner. He cleans the bowl, puts it in the dishwasher, and looks to Cas, nodding once. “Well,” he says, briskly flashing open his hands, “Goodnight, Cas.”

“You’re going back to sleep?” Cas asks, his eyebrows drawn in confusion as he flips around, following Dean with his eyes as the man walks to the base of the stairs.

“Yeah, I’m going back to sleep. It’s like..” He glances at the microwave, which has the time glowing in blocky, green lines, “basically ten. What else am I going to do?”

“Well, I thought we–” Cas starts, but he cuts himself off. His eyes are on the counter before him where he wants to lay out each offer, each idea - but he surrenders, laying them to rest inside his mind. “Never mind,” he says instead. “Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean is tapping the banister, eyes on Cas. He picks up on the shadow of words behind Cas’ ‘goodnight’. The feeling that something is missing - something unsaid - hangs heavily in the air and itches Dean. Though, he nods once, and says, “Goodnight, Cas,” before heading upstairs. 

As he climbs each step, though, Dean feels an intense, ghostly pull on his back. All he can think about, as one foot is placed in front of the other, is that he is leaving Cas downstairs, alone. He can only imagine how the angel is walking back to the dark living room to sit on the couch, and it brings a pang of hurt - guilt - to his heart. 

While Castiel is doing just that, walking back into the dark living room, only cuts of dim moonlight and memory to guide his way back to the couch, Dean has paused at the top of the stairs. With a hand on the banister, Dean thinks. He looks over his shoulder to peer down the steps. 

Downstairs, Castiel sits back on the couch. He replaces his hands onto each knee and settles into the cushions, ready to accompany each inch the moon makes across the sky. Though, like a phantom’s touch, the absence of Dean’s feet (that were once tucked between Cas’ back and the cushions) weighs heavily on his lower back. What was once warm is cold. What was once there is gone. His head pulls to the side, as if tied to a string, and the emptiness of the couch hits him like an unsuspecting blow to the face.

Time slips by Castiel like thick oil. He watches as the room turns from a seeping darkness, to a hazy gray, then finally as rectangles of orange and yellow cut across the carpeted floor. The sun is settled low in the sky when Sam thunders up the steps, unlocking the door, and allowing himself inside. 

His head is turned to the kitchen, scanning the empty room, then flips over to the living room, not holding an ounce of surprise when his eyes settle on Castiel waiting on the couch. “Morning,” Sam says as Cas stands up. “Sleep well?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, tired of the joke that got old a decade ago, and follows Sam into the warmly lit kitchen. Sam’s head is dipped as he digs around in the fridge for the ingredients to his morning smoothie and Castiel takes up sitting at one of the bar chairs tucked under the spill of the island counter. 

“Got anything planned for today?” Sam asks. 

“Yes. Dean and I are going into town to get me another puzzle.” Cas smiles. “I greatly enjoyed the other one. And, Dean wants to see if he still holds a job at the bar, given his…” He trails off, his eyes holding a distance, then sucks in a quick breath and looks at Sam. “..previous absence.”

Sam’s lips push up into a slight pout, and he’s nodding, eyes on the cutting board he’s using to chop up strawberries. “Yeah.. Yeah, good idea.” He glances up at Cas, eyebrows drawn in grim pity. Cas turns his head to look away, pretending he doesn’t catch the look. 

To shove away the topic, Sam clouds the conversation with his plans for the day. Resealing a leaking window here, fixing a deadbolt there, and figuring out where to purchase plywood to fix his aging porch. 

Sam angles the cutting board above the opening of the blender, using the blade of the knife to scrape the chopped fruit inside. Although, two slices stick to the board, to which Sam only notices once he’s set it back onto the counter. He pops one into his mouth and offers the other to Cas.

Remembering how his PB&J’s once tasted when he got his angelic grace circling through him again, Cas declines. Though, Sam urges, “It’s one small slice. How bad can it be?”

“Bad,” Cas replies, but he slides the red and white slice off the cutting board anyway. He looks at it with wariness and with a nod from Sam, Castiel eats it. He instantly begins to cringe as the taste of static and motion overwhelms him, coating his tongue in electricity. 

With a face fallen into disappointment, Sam asks, “Is it the–”

“–Molecules? Yes.” Cas’ face is scrunched to match the feel in his mouth as he finishes chewing. 

“Sorry,” Sam says and breathes out a chuckle. “Wanna try a banana?”

Castiel is inclined to decline, though the rush of curiosity makes him falter. He tilts his head as he thinks, eyes on the offering, then agrees. Sam’s eyebrows fly up in surprise and he says, “Oh, I wasn’t serious. But, sure, here.” 

Just as Sam is dropping the banana slice into Cas’ palm, Dean comes jumping down the steps. He catches the exchange, and while squinting, asks, “Cas, are you.. hungry?”

Castiel looks over with narrow eyes, looking at Dean as though he is stupid. “Of course not. I am just curious to see if everything tastes horrible.” He bites down on the banana, and on his face is conveyed what he tastes. Looking down at the counter, with a tone of slight disappointment, he says, “It does.”

“Nevermind him,” Sam says dismissively, regarding Cas, then looks at his brother, who is standing next to the island counter. “Dean, everything here is so fresh! It all tastes much better than back on the mainland.”

Dean rolls his eyes, exasperated, and snarks, “Awesome. You’re more coked out here than ever, Peter Rabbit.”

“I’m not–” Sam retaliates, but bites his words. “You’re just old and bitter, Mr. McGregor.”

“I am not,” Dean scoffs. 

“Are too.”

“Shut up, Sam,” he bites, then turns to Cas. “Are you ready to go? Let’s go.” Dean goes to where his shoes are carefully placed on a rack next to the side door, sitting on the stairsteps to pull them on. Cas, who was given no chance to voice his opinion, begrudgingly mimics Dean’s pattern to put on his shoes as well. 

Dean grabs the keys to the impala, which have found a home on a table in the front entryway, and stands by the door. Pulling it open, he whistles sharply into the kitchen. “Come on, Cas!”

Sam amusedly watches as Cas silently mocks Dean, his eyes rolling. Once his shoes are on, he nods to Sam, saying, “Bye, Sam. We’ll see you later.”

“Later.”

Outside, with the sun beaming down harsher than the days before, giving no break to the tight humidity that lingers still after the storm, Cas says, “I’m not a dog, Dean.” He follows Dean around the side of the house to the backyard, where the impala is snug between thick trunks, a blanket of leaves hanging above the hood. “You whistle to dogs, not others. It feels..” Cas nods his head from side to side as he thinks, “..dehumanizing, if I must say.”

Dean stops in his tracks so abruptly that Cas stutters into his back. He flips around, eyebrows up. “Dehumanizing?” He repeats. “You’re not even human, Cas. Things can’t be ‘dehumanizing’ to you.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dean looks at Cas in the eyes, giving him a look, before turning around and going to the driver’s side door. “Things can be dehumanizing if you want them to be,” he says, opening the door, loving the familiar creak of the hinges. “Just gotta ditch the mojo.”

Cas joins him in the car, his face set in cool annoyance as Dean turns the key, the engine roaring to life. One quick push of a knob and a No Quarter begins, its instrumental music sounding like rain on strummed chords. 

Dean puts his focus into backing out until the tires are hitting asphalt, the car bouncing over the curb. Once they are smooth sailing, Dean looks over at Cas and asks, “So?”

Cas, who keeps his eyes on the scenery outside, replies, “So what?”

“So.. would you?” Dean redirects his eyes to the road ahead. His hand burns on the steering wheel from the heat left by the sun. “Ditch the angel mojo.”

“No,” Cas replies, quick and firm. Then, after a heartbeat, his shoulders fall and his words are faltering as well. “I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Dean pushes.

“Yes,” Castiel bites. “I don’t know . You’re much acquainted with that feeling.”

Dean’s eyebrows fly up. He glances over at Cas once, twice. “Wanna repeat that?” Castiel sucks in his lips and looks back out his window, quiet. The song comes to an end. It is awkwardly silent in the car. 

There are words hurling themselves inside Dean’s mind, his mouth, but he keeps them tightly sealed inside. He instead drives his attention forward on the winding roads, on the new song, on the cooling wind blowing in from the rolled down windows. Although, the words still thrive with life inside him. He glances at Cas, who has his hands balled up in his lap, head facing the windshield though his gaze is casted down, and the arguments lay themselves to rest. 

“Cas,” Dean sighs. “Talk to me.”

Cas lifts his chin, his eyes flying up and around. He looks at Dean, studying the man's profile, before looking at the road. Dean looks at Cas, then the road. They miss eyes by a second. 

“I,” Castiel starts, then pauses. He thinks of what to say, but the words bubble up within his brain and scramble together until it is just nonsense up there. Before, it was like a snowglobe and everything was still and intact until Dean shook it up. “I don’t know how to explain it.” 

The hand on the steering wheel opens up briefly. “Try me, Cas. Let me at least attempt to understand.”

The two glance at each other, catching the other’s eye. The contact was meant to be brief, but once they had it, it was hard to let go of. It wasn’t until the fear of crashing pulled Dean’s attention away. 

The song ends, and it isn’t until a golden guitar rift pumps out from the speakers does Castiel attempt again. “I’m scared,” he tightly admits. 

“Scared?” Dean asks. “Of what? That it’ll hurt?”

Shaking his head, Cas says, “No. Well, it will hurt. Extremely. But no, that is not my exact fear.” He lets out a long breath and looks out the window, watching as the palm trees whiz past. “When Metatron took my grace and I was human for a short while, I did enjoy it. I grew a stronger appreciation for the little things. You know,” he waves a hand in the air, “all that.” Dean nods his head, following along. The car slows down before turning into a parking lot. 

Castiel waits until the car’s front hugs the curb. Without the wind, the heat becomes stifling. Cas shifts in his seat. “And I’ve died before. You have, too. So has Sam. Therefore I don’t believe it’s death I’m strictly afraid of.” 

Dean has his eyes set on the console as he intently listens. 

“Losing my powers would.. well, suck.” Dean smiles, his head tilting in silent agreement. “If I had to give you an answer, Dean, I would say it was everything. I’m scared of everything. It’s been a couple years since I was human, and while I do remember what it was like, I guess I’m still wary about it. I was powerless. I felt hunger, thirst, exhaustion..” Castiel sucks in a breath and looks out the window, “Pain. Emotion .” 

He’s silent for a second. 

“I’ve never aged before either, but now that I think about it, that is also particularly terrifying. And, I like my angel mojo. I like being able to rely on my powers when I need it.” Castiel turns his head to look at Dean, and finds that Dean is already staring at him. The two meet eyes. “I need to be able to protect you.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks off, confused. “Protect me?” He repeats, bringing his eyes back to Castiel’s.

Cas nods. “Yes. If something were to happen–”

“–Which it won’t –”

“–I still need to be able to protect you, Dean. You and Sam.”

Dean closes his eyes, shaking his head. “Look, I dig the whole ‘family protects family’ thing you’re on, but, Cas, buddy, we are fine .” He looks to Cas; Cas looks back, hard. “We’re fine, alright? I think it’s cute you want to protect me and Sammy, but,” Dean shrugs, his hands going up as well, “nothing is going to happen.” 

“You don’t know that, Dean!” Castiel snaps. “You don’t know that for sure. Anyone could find us. Hunters, demons, angels, monsters. There are things out there that want us dead. That want you dead. Considering who we are, what we’ve done–”

“Cas!”

He snaps his jaw shut, gluing his words to his tongue. He inhales deeply through his nose before reluctantly dragging his eyes over to Dean’s. Dean’s own eyes dart around as they search Castiel’s face, and Cas stays still, allowing him. 

Through the contact, the seering of pupils meeting, Castiel feels the worry begin to ebb away in his chest. One final breath out, and the sticky feeling is released into the air around them and swept out the window.

Dean holds his stare, beginning to nod slowly. 

“I get it, okay?” Dean says in a voice he only uses when he needs to send home a message. A voice that is soft, gentle, easy for tender moments. “I get it, man. And I’m sorry for pushing you. I should’ve realized that it isn’t that cut and dry.” He lowers his head slightly to catch Cas’ eyes once more. “But, for the record, you will always be you. Angel, human, it doesn't matter. Not to me. And, if you do decide to join me and Sam’s side of the court, we’ll be with you every step of the way.” Dean’s eyes shine. “I ain’t going anywhere.”

Castiel’s lips thin and he nods. “Thank you, Dean,” he says gratefully. Dean smiles back. He reaches out a hand to grip Cas’ shoulder.

“On the bright side, you’ll get a birthday!"

Castiel smiles, breathing out a chuckle. “Oh, great,” he says sarcastically. “Like you and Sam even celebrate yours.” 

Dean, leaned over ready to get out of the car, points his finger into Castiel’s face. “Oh, shut your pie-hole.” Dean swings open the door and under his breath he mutters, “We celebrate.” Castiel, hearing him, shakes his head and follows him out into the heat. 

The two go inside, the automatic doors squealing on its wheels. There is a white wired fan hooked in the upper corner that blows a cooling breeze. Dean, already being here previously, is quick to lead Castiel through the different aisles to where the puzzles and other board games lay. 

However, it proves to be a busy day to shop. Constantly are they pausing, waiting, and dodging the front of carts and the blind steps of other people. An elderly woman with white, roped braids longer than her dress pushes her cart into the path of the two, and Dean comes to a stuttering stop. He flashes her a tight, but polite smile and waits until she crosses. He then looks at Cas, eyes widening with annoyance, and takes Cas’ shoulder in his hand. Dean leads Cas this way and that, using his grip as the steering wheel. 

One more turn and they’re alone. Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder twice before removing his hand only to present it out. “Here we are,” he beams. “Go crazy.” Castiel, though, needs to take a second for himself to shrug off the warm, ghostly handprint on his shoulder. Only then does he put his attention to the rows of puzzles. 

It’s clear that the puzzles are organized by skill level, as the progression goes from kiddish images of princesses and robots, the pieces no more than 20, to images that are more intricate, more designed, and the pieces reach well into the thousands. Dean is checking out the puzzles of 500 pieces as that is where he places his own skill level. When he looks up he expects to see Cas close or at least nearby, but he’s taken aback to have realized Cas has found his way down to the other side of the aisle.

“Really?” He asks, catching Cas’ attention. “All the way down there? You sure you don’t want-” he waves a finger over the puzzles he stands before- “one of these guys?”

Castiel shrugs. “I like a challenge.”

As Cas goes back to inspecting the selection, Dean drops his hand and feels the rise of impressment in him. He puckers his lips and nods, slowly walking to join Cas, curiously looking at the images as he passes. There’s one that catches his eye: a collage puzzle featuring all the best rock bands from the 80s, and he holds it up for Cas to see.

“This one’s cool!” He says, smiling, and flips it around so he can get a closer look. “Look! They’ve got the Foo Fighters. Oh, and here! Red Hot Chili Peppers. And, oh..” He turns it around again, a finger tapping the upper left corner, “Guns N’ Roses.”

Cas looks at him with amusement, a matching smile on his face. “That is pretty cool, Dean,” he says, playing into Dean’s excitement. “We can do it together.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, his words light through his grin as he goes back to looking at the puzzle. Cas watches Dean for a second longer, a warmth blooming in his chest, before returning to choosing out his own.

There’s one that catches his eye, a circular box rather than rectangular, and Cas moves to pick it up off the shelf. The odd shape initially draws him to the puzzle, but the title ‘Bees & Honey’ is what sells it. He turns to Dean, presenting his findings, and says, “Dean, look! I’d like this one.” He holds it out in front of him again, looking down at it before lifting his gaze back to the shelves. Another puzzle, a rectangular box this time, catches his eye as well. He reaches for it, a puzzle of an organized collage of flower types, inspects it, and tucks it under his arm. 

Dean stands back, watching as Cas becomes buzzed with excitement at all the possible puzzles. The worry of affording more than two puzzles turns to dust inside his mind, because worry thrives in darkness, and when Dean looks at Cas all he can see is radiating light. 

And in that light, Dean’s eyes shine with more than just the reflection.

Chapter Text

Up where the wind has no bounds is where deep scarves of red are strewn, vibrant summer oranges are hung, and soft cotton candy pinks are torn intertwined with the clouds. Dean closes his eyes and breathes in deep, the mixture of salt from the ocean and the sour tang of strong liquor settling far up in his nose. He looks at Castiel, who sits with Sam on the other side of the bar, liking how the setting sun bathes Cas in glimmering gold. Dean smiles, his eyes grinning as well, and he thinks warmly that this is exactly how their lives should be. Washed in gold, the buzz of happiness keeping them awake instead of the zapping of fear. Cas flickers his eyes over, connecting with Dean’s. 

For the longest time, Dean thought it would be the weirdest thing to see Castiel dressed in anything other than his suit and trenchcoat. It had become such a solid simulacrum in his brain that if Dean saw anything else, all common knowledge of Castiel might threaten to crumble. When he voiced this weeks ago, Sam agreed. Now, two weeks into their new life, and seeing Cas dressed in common clothes is like seeing plates in a cupboard. 

Though, sometimes, much like right now, Dean’s brain forgets about Cas’ t-shirts and pants and expects to see that beige trenchcoat and blue tie. And when he doesn’t, he is pushed out of whatever dream-like state he was in and stumbles into hard reality. Their reality. A reality where Dean falls asleep feet from an open ocean. A reality where Sam doesn’t bleed everyday. A reality where Cas wears common clothes and smiles and laughs.  

“I will never get used to this,” Sam says, neck exposed as he leans back to take in the beauty miles above. He lowers his chin and his eyes become parallel to the sun, where it sits above the horizon in a perpetual cannon ball. He brings his glass cup up to his lips, pausing to shake his head and smile into his liquor before drinking. 

At the same time, Dean drags the rag that has found a home on his shoulder off to wipe away at the broken ring of liquid left by Sam’s glass. “I know!” Dean replies, grinning. He flips the rag back onto his shoulder before propping an elbow on the surface, leaning back. “It’s totally awesome.”

There’s a break in their slow conversation. Three pairs of eyes are on the ocean beyond, where the colors bleed out into the water, the waves making them come to life. Dean breathes out through his smile and says, “This makes it all worth it.” He looks over at Sam, at Cas. His smile radiates off his face. “Biggest win of our lives. The biggest. I am..” He shakes his head and returns his eyes to the horizon, “..forever in debt to that kid.”

“Right,” Sam breathes out, though he can never truly understand the depths of Dean’s earnesty in what he said. 

If it were to ever come to it, Dean would fold up this dream come true like it were a photograph and tuck it away. He would pull out his collection of hunter’s gear from the basement and reload Baby with it, ready to walk back into his past. All in a heartbeat. All for Jack.

Because what Jack did for Sam, for Dean, for Cas , that is something not even a sacrifice could repay. Retirement is already something Dean is enternally grateful for, but giving his baby brother the life he always deserved, the life Dean always wanted to give him, that’s another million years added to the streak.

But, what Jack did for Cas - for Dean, in turn - it moves Dean to tears if he lingers on it for too long. Never does Dean want to think of Cas as dead again. Never can Dean think of Cas as dead again. 

Sam’s glass is still in the air, clutched in a lazy hand. His smile is spread wide across his face, eyes gleaming in the sunlight. “I am really, really happy for us. Sometimes I still can’t believe we are actually retired. Sometimes,” he drags in a sigh, “I think I’m stuck up in Heaven, high off hallucinations or something.” He pauses, letting the easy silence creep back in. Then, he turns to Cas and asks, “Speaking of Jack, any word from him?”

“No,” Cas replies. His eyes shoot down as he lets out a saddened breath. “I do miss him. Though, I understand being the new God has it’s responsibilities and that is why he is unable to visit.”

“Shame,” Sam says between sips. 

Just then, Dean is being waved over by a patron, his empty glass glinting in the sunlight. Dean nods his head to his brother and Cas, then he’s off. 

People-watching is something Castiel has enjoyed for years. The way words flow out of a mouth and into a listening ear. How hands jerk with reaction, arms raise with the climax of stories, how chests squeeze with laughter. The intense train of eye contact, or instead, the gentle graze. All the little quirks of human interaction Castiel has picked up on, cateloged, and sometimes mimicked throughout the years. It’s something he draws enjoyment out of. 

Sam, on the other hand, people-watches out of boredom. His hands have grown accustomed to dashing over a keyboard, typing and scrolling and clicking for more facts, more information, more articles and websites and forums. Without this necessity, his fingers waver with jitteriness, his arms shuffle with restlessness. He drinks, sets it down, grows bored, takes another drink. 

Cas’ eyes graze like a cow in a field, slow and lazy over the faces of patrons. His eyes flit to Dean once, twice, four times, six times until he’s becoming fed up with the magnetic pull he can’t seem to run from. It’s completely unwilling, not an ounce in his control. He keeps getting pulled back, like a curious dog on a short leash. 

Dean pours tap beer and slides to over to a patient man. They exchange cash and quick casualites before he’s departing and disapearing back into the crowd, leaving a gaping hole at the bar in his wake. Though, it isn’t empty for long.

A girl - short, tanned, pretty - attaches herself to the bar’s edge. She runs a hand through her feathery white hair, the ends still damp with saltwater. Folding her arms under her chest, she leans onto the bar in front of Dean, looking up at him through carefully mascaraed eyelashes. 

“Hey you,” she says with an easy smile. “It’s been a while.”

From beside Cas, Sam chokes a laugh into his liquor. 

Castiel looks away, turning his head to act distracted, like something off in the distance has his attention in a sturdy hold. Though, he keeps an ear exposed, trained, picking up on the conversation like a professional spy. 

Dean continues to absentmidedly wipe at the rim of a glass with his rag, only sparing a short glance up to the girl. He puckers his lips and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, “I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

She tilts her head, though from the slight lift of her eyebrows it’s clear this wasn’t the response she was expecting. She shrugs and says, “Impossible,” then pushes out a cheap laugh. “I sure remember you. It’s hard to forget that night, ya know?”

“No,” Dean insists, “I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s Dean, right?” She tries, standing straight to fix the thick strap of her bikini top. 

“Nope. Sorry, miss.”

There’s a second of confusion flickering on her face, flickering on Cas’ face, on Sam’s, then she clears her throat and swiftly turns around, the ends of her hair whipping her back as she swims into the crowd. 

While her and Cas’ confusion lingers, Sam’s breaks as a realization dawns onto him. He looks at Cas, then at Dean, then looks at Cas looking at Dean. Sam smiles, bringing the glass back up to polish off the rest. 

At the same moment, a thud knocks into the legs of Sam’s barstool. The sip he holds in his mouth almost dribbles out past his lips, and he’s sucking the liquid back in, bringing the back of his hand up to his mouth. He peers over his seat, watching curiously as a volleyball comes rolling out from under his feet. As Castiel cranes his neck to curiously peek over as well, Sam slides off his seat and picks up the volleyball, the synthetic leather warm and soft. 

“ Sorry! ” yells a female voice from behind. 

Sam turns around and faces a girl jogging towards him, kicking up sand in her wake. She hops up the step and joins him on the platform, her pink and white face blotchy. Her beach waves are loosely tucked into two braids going down the side of her head, stopping just under her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she weezes out again. “My friend– she–” Her face pinches and she drags in a deep inhale. “God, I am out of breath.”

Sam chuckles and bounces the ball back and forth in his hands, a few grains of stuck sand falling to the ground. “It’s all good. Here,” he says, holding it out for her to take. 

She does, with a smile. “My friend thought it would be funny to see how hard she could kick it. I didn’t think she had much in her. Obviously,” she looks over her shoulder, and when Sam follows, he sees a spread out cluster of people standing separated by a tight net. Watching, waiting, “she proved me wrong.”

“Obviously,” Sam agrees. “Is it the one in the green shorts?”

She looks over her shoulder again and returns Sam’s gaze accompanied with a shocked expression.

“Yeah! How’d you know?”

Sam shrugs. “Call it a hunch.”

A pleasant grin spreads over her face. She angles herself to leave, lips parted for another ‘sorry, but goodbye now,’ though she hesitates. She looks at Sam and says, “Actually, a couple of my friends were leaving. Do you play? We could use the replacements.”

Sam looks at Cas, mouth agape as he tries to quickly grapple for a response. Cas only raises an eyebrow as if to ask, ‘well, do you play?’

“I– Sure. Yeah, I can play. Well– I mean, I’ve never played before, but..” Sam casts a desperate glace to Cas.

“I get you,” the girl replies. “It’s easy. As long as you aren’t afraid of things flying at your face.”

Sam laughs out, because no, he isn’t scared of things flying at his face. Unfortunately, he is very accustomed to things flying at his face. He doesn’t voice this, though, and the girl smiles, thinking he had laughed at her little joke. 

She plants one foot into the sand and balances the ball on her bent knee. She looks at Castiel and her eyebrows raise lightly. “Your friend can come along, too,” she says, eyes still on Cas.

“Want to?” Sam asks, then there are two pairs of eyes on Cas. 

Castiel shifts in his seat, turning the offer over in his head. “I don’t know how to play very well either,” he lies. He doesn’t know how to play at all. But he slides off his chair anyway, ready to follow this nameless girl with loose braids into a crowd of more nameless people to play a game he doesn’t know the first rule to. He’s excited, he thinks. Or maybe that’s nervousness he’s feeling buzzing around inside.

“That’s okay!” She cherrily says. Then, her grin picks up more on one side of her face and she says, “I can be your teacher. And maybe later you could teach me a few things too, cutie.”

Glasses clink together, thudding hard against the wooden surface of the bar. Sam and Cas look over their shoulders and there is Dean, hands placed flat on the bar, face set in cool stone. 

“What are you waiting for?” Dean asks, eyes on Cas. “Your teacher is waiting for you, cutie .” The once innocent nickname is twisted by Dean’s voice, dripped in venomous mockery. 

“I will,” Cas says. “I am. Going. Now.” 

“No one’s stopping you.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Dean bites. Then, boredly, “Have fun.”

He waves the trio off with a firm hand, turning his back to them as he returns his focus to the customers. He doesn’t catch the way Sam’s apprehensive eyes bounce between Cas and Dean, before eventually being torn away as he is led off the platform and into the warm sand. 

Dean cleans and washes and serves and pours and half-flirts the hour away. The cleaning and serving come easy, as it keeps his mind on one thing. The conversations between patron and bartender come even easier, especially if the person is just there for a drink. The flirtatious girls, on the other hand, is what makes the hour a barrier. For a reason Dean is unable to pinpoint, a brick wall erects everytime a girl gives him one of those smiles, one of those lines, one of those winks. What used to come so naturally to him is now dried up, leaving him with barren sand and dry, choppy conversations that make the flirtatious smiles turn pitiful. 

The smacks of skin against synthetic leather is like a ticking clock to Dean. It sits just above his hearing, loud enough to pick up on even in the close proximity of drunken chatter. It’s near impossible to drone out, to ignore. 

Volleyball is a stupid game, Dean thinks as he submerges glass cups in thick white bubbles, a glorified game of toss. 

He leaves his hot and sticky thoughts to marinate in the soapy sink, and when he returns to them, night has fallen. The sun has stripped the canvas sky of it’s vibrant colors, leaving a smear of dark blue hues and a speckled flick of dim stars. The bare lightbulbs that are strewn around the perimeter of the bar, tucked in the straw roof, have flashed on and douses the interior in brilliant, yellow-white light. 

Dean pulls out the glasses he had left in the soapy water, and in turn, the hot and sticky thoughts he left to drown. They are sodden and limp with water, and don’t hold the same bite when Dean thinks back to the glimpses of the game he caught between customers. If anything, he is left feeling guilty. 

As the sun had went to sleep, tucking itself under the covers of the horizon, Dean had pretended to fix a broken valve to look busy. In reality, his eyes were trained on the insult before him. Cas, standing in the sand, a sheepish smile on his face. The girl with the loose braids doubled over, hand on her stomach as she laughs and laughs and laughs over something Castiel had said. 

Something stupid, Dean betted. 

Another instance that left Dean rolling his eyes was when he caught the girl’s hands over Castiel’s, physically showing him how to properly serve the volleyball. Then, how to properly hit the volleyball with his forearms. Then, with the pads of his fingers. Eye roll, groan, eye roll, scoff. Dean found it to be absurd. Unneeded. All an act in hopes to get Cas to teach her a few things, too.

As Dean stacks the now clean cups away, the guilt stacks along with them. He should be happy for Cas to be fitting in with people. He is happy Cas is fitting in. Sam, too, because God knows how much Dean wanted to be the one to help integrate Sam into a life full of friends, socialization, laughing, fucking beach volleyball. If that is what it takes to help Sam call this new place home, then so be it. Dean just wishes he could have willed his facial muscles to form into anything other than cool anger in the past hour. 

The yellow-white lights seem to grow brighter when Castiel reclaims his abandoned stool. He sits with a drunken smile, inebriated off of fun. Dean is on the other side of the bar, taking back more cups as people begin to leave because the sun is no longer out and the beach will be closing soon. 

He notes Castiel’s return, though keeps himself preoccupied with cleaning. Some cups have lipstick stains or greasy smudges that need a little elbow grease to rub off. 

“Dean,” he hears Cas call out to him. He lets the surrounding chatter swallow up the words. He rubs harder, as this foggy white smear won’t budge. 

A heartbeat passes. Then, again: “Dean.” This time it comes out more stern, more demanding. 

Dean turns around and sees Castiel looking at him. He jumps his eyebrows up, face returning to its bored expression, though the flicker of anger still sits dully behind the forefront. 

“Where’s Sammy?”

“He told me to tell you he’s getting beers with a couple of them,” Castiel replies, nodding his head to where the tight net was once strung up. Now, darkness sits in replace. 

Dean gestures his arms open wide. “I have beers here,” he exasperates, eyes wide. 

Castiel’s lips part as he goes to respond, but he hesitates, his eyes squinting and head tilting. Instead, he says, “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean stands before Cas, teeth clenched, the sticky anger quickly reappearing back inside to web Dean’s thoughts. A chilled breeze whips past and flutters Dean’s shirt, reminding him to keep moving if he wants to stay warm. It’s one of the downfalls to this job, one of few Dean finds, that it can get quite cold after the sun sets. Sometimes, if the crowd proves to be rowdy enough, it’s easy to stay warm with constant movement. 

Dean drags the rag off his shoulder and scrubs at an imaginary stain on the counter away from Castiel. “Nothing’s wrong,” he replies. “Did you have fun?”

“I did, yes,” Cas says, his voice light. His eyes are on Dean’s profile, noting the absence of anything to clean. He nods his head to the side, giving Dean a certain look even if Dean is not looking to catch it. “Are you sure nothing is wrong?”

“I’m aces,” Dean says and he presents a smile onto his face, giving up on the fake stain. “Just glad you and Sammy had fun.”

“And that’s all?”

“That’s all,” Dean agrees. He crosses to the other side of the bar where he left the dirty glasses and brings them to the sink, carefully placing them one by one in the clean, soapy bath. “But,” Dean starts up again, “I’m surprised you didn’t go off with Braids. She seemed eager to be a good student for you, huh?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow and his lips purse. He holds a disdain in his eyes. “I never had any intention of.. doing what she had in mind.”

“Oh?” Dean mocks. He glances at Cas, saying, “You know, I–” But he cuts himself off at what he thought he saw: a hint of a smile. He looks again, and there it is, a small smile pulling at Cas’ lips. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Castiel shrugs. Another breeze zips past, one that flutters Castiel’s collar. Dean has to tear his eyes away so they don’t burn at the exposed collarbone or skin. 

“Nothin’,” Dean repeats with a dry laugh. “Alright.” 

At this, Castiel smiles fully. This time Dean catches it without the need for a second glance. “Okay, what? Seriously.”

A soft chuckle slips Cas and he’s looking at Dean with eyes that gleam under the yellow-white lights. “I just find it funny,” he says, “your obvious jealousy.”

“What?” Dean snaps, stunned. That sticky anger he was melting in earlier - that was anger, nothing more. Dean doesn’t get jealous. He is no teenage girl. When he voices this, Castiel’s eyebrow perks and he’s giving Dean a look that says, ‘you and I both know that isn’t true.’

Jealousy. Dean could laugh. He stares back at Cas, their pupils seering with contact. At first it’s easy, staring into Cas’ eyes, familiar, but in an instant Dean feels as though the pages of his subconscious are being peeled from each other, their lines of thoughts exposed for Castiel to read. Dean looks away. 

“I wasn’t jealous, Cas. I don’t get jealous.”

“Okay, Dean,” Castiel agrees, though a knowing smile plays with his lips.

Dean points a finger at him. “Wipe that damn smug look off your face before I do.”

“You’re really going to threaten me?” Castiel asks, his eyebrows up. He gestures to himself. “ Me ?”

Dean drops his hand, but not his ground. He allows those blue eyes to bore into his. He stands tall and desperately tries to cover the windows of his soul. Although eye contact is sometimes Castiel’s way of kicking Dean in the back of his knees to force him to kneel. 

Dean breathes out a scoff and turns to the sink. “This isn’t over,” he shoots.

Through a grin, Castiel replies, “It never is.”

Chapter Text

Dean shrugs on a light flannel to protect his bare arms from the constant shoves of the breeze. The warm and sunny weather from yesterday has been pushed away by the wind, creating a dismal atmosphere that coats the beach in thick gray clouds. So gray that the once bright blue ocean is turning over in its own dreary waves. 

There had been almost no one at the bar today. Only the few regulars that enjoy the comforts of nature, no matter the highs and lows of her mood swings. Dean had caught sight of even less people at the beach. A couple walking their dog, an elderly man strolling by with his toddler grandson who played happily in the rolling waves, a group of teenage girls dressed in sweats, their hair wavy from days in saltwater. 

Dean swirls the last ounce of brown liquor around in the cup (an awesome perk, the free drinks) and watches as a particularly stark white cloud drifts quite quickly over the ocean, hanging low. Due to the dip in patrons, Dean had turned up the volume of the television, which plays its usual round of sports. Today, a hockey match. There’s a light chatter amongst some of the patrons, one when accompanied with the soft clinking of glasses, the drone of the hockey announcer, and the dull lapping of waves, it morphs into a gentle hum of white noise to Dean. One that scrubs his mind until a tickling buzz is left, one that Dean gets easily swept up into. 

He thinks about this, about that, about the dinner he’s looking forward to cooking later, about Cas, Cas, Cas.

“Hey,” comes a voice and within the second, Dean is being snapped out of his head. A cloudy gray ocean sits before his eyes again.

He turns around to fully face his coworker. “Hey,” he quickly responds. Inching over to the sink, he tips back the glass to pour the last of the liquor down the drain. One or two drinks are allowed, and he’s seen his coworkers do it before, but drinking in front of them, especially the ones who've been here for years, brings on a certain uncomfortableness. 

“How’s it been?” She asks as she ties her apron around her waist. She’s a short, stocky woman who recently cut her graying hair into a bob, which curls inwards to kiss her jaw. Her back is to Dean as she presses her finger hard against the touch-screen computer to clock-in, which due to the protective covering, barely registers a touch.

“Slow,” replies Dean. He sets his cup onto the dirty rack, but then thinks he should clean it before he goes. “Chill, though.” 

By the time his coworker has gotten into the system, Dean is rinsing out his cup and leaving it to dry. Then, it was his turn to fight with the protective covering to clock out. “Have a goodnight, sweetheart,” she says to him, her fingertips light on his shoulder. Dean flashes her a small smile, though she doesn’t see it. 

He pulls his apron off his hips, messily folds it, and stuffs it into the bin full of other aprons. It’s easier to keep it there than to bring it home, he figures, and the five other employees do it as well. 

The walk home is quick. Dean thinks about the hamburgers he’s going to make from scratch. While at the store yesterday with Cas, he had purchased all the ingredients and more, particularly excited to try a new seasoning. His shoes sink into the cool sand, then thud against gray concrete, then cool sand once more until he’s crossing the green grass of the front lawns. 

Even from outside, Dean can pick up on the emptiness that seeps from the two houses. He climbs the steps of his porch, fights with the lock for a second, before sliding in through the front door. 

The creak of the floorboards beneath his feet and the shutting of the front door cut through the silence of the house. Dust hangs in the air, visible from the milky sunlight coming in from the windows. Living room: empty. Kitchen: Empty. Dean’s eyebrows knit.

As he wanders into the kitchen, his eyes are scanning his phone screen for a missed call, an unseen text. Nothing. He stands at the base of the stairs and calls out, “Cas?” His voice rings out, and heavy silence beats down on him. “Sam?”

Just then, a howl of wind slams into the house, screaming into the seams of the windows - the only response to his calls. Dean puckers his lips and places his hands on his hips, turning around to face the screaming wind, looking like he’s waiting for the two missing men to manifest at any moment. 

One part of Dean understands that Sam and Cas are not home, not in this house and not the one next door, and wants to pop in a tape and fill the rooms with music instead. To get a start on dinner and sing and dance around in the kitchen. 

The other part craves for that confirmation. No text and no call leads Dean to believe that maybe they are over at Sam’s home, even though the windows were just as cold and empty as Dean’s. 

He’s out of his house and over on Sam’s front porch within the minute. He messes with the lock, as he had put in the wrong key, but eventually the door is cracking open and Dean is slipping inside. Sam’s house has the same amount of bedrooms and bathrooms as Dean’s, though it is still considerably smaller. The front door opens into a hallway where the staircase sits, left is the living room, right is the kitchen. From where Dean stands, he can clearly see both are empty. 

Still, he tries: “Sammy? Cas?"

He stands waiting in the still silence that fills the house. After a rush of frustration consumes him, he’s closing and locking the front door to return to his own home. 

Dean gives into the beckoning of his other half. He cranks up the radio in the living room, nodding his head to the beat, and pulls out everything he needs for hamburgers. He sings along to the lyrics while he mashes the seasonings into the beef. Mimics guitar riffs as he smashes the beef into thick patties. 

He tells himself it doesn’t matter that he came home to an empty house. He tells himself it’s fine, awesome even, that Sam and Cas are out. Together? Maybe. If he had gotten a message, he would know. For a split second, in between waiting for the pan to heat up and pulling out the hamburger buns, a spike of fear stabs Dean as an image of a kidnapped Sam and Cas pops into his head. 

And how ironically sick would it be if he was here, stewing in his anger over them being gone, cooking hamburgers, if that were the case? Dean quickly cleans his hands of the grease and picks up his phone. He goes to call Sam, but remembers he has his brother's location. Two taps and there is the blue dot that shares Sam’s name, white waves pulsating from it. Zooming out, Dean can see Sam is at some house. Kidnapped? But, to a residential street? With a pool in the backyard? Improbable. Double the amount of taps and Dean sees that Castiel is at the same place. 

He is inclined to call, but pauses. When has his intuition ever steered him wrong? It’s alive like an angry wasp in his gut, but today, looking at the pulsating blue dots, the wasp is asleep. He throws his phone onto the counter. 

By the time the lettuce is washed, tomatoes are sliced, pickles are fished from the jar, and all the other toppings are laid out waiting, the clouds have broken and the sun fills up the space. The air feels softer to move around in and not like there's a wet coat sticking to Dean. The lyrics to the current song ends, but Dean still sings as he flips over the sizzling burger patty. 

Considering them done, he slides the two browned patties off the pan and onto the golden hamburger buns, to which he crisps up with butter before searing them to the hot pan. He still makes Sam’s burger to perfection just as he makes his own, although he couldn’t care less if it got cold in Sam’s absence. If Castiel ate, Dean would feel the same. 

With his dinner warm on the plate, Dean goes into the living room to shut off the music. Still with no television, he props up Sam’s laptop on the coffee table, next to Cas’ completed puzzle they still have yet to buy a proper frame for, and settles into the couch. Sam and Cas have left his mind, allowing in buzzing excitement for his homemade dinner. 

Just as the intro music to his show begins and Dean is angling the burger to his open mouth, muffled male chatter sounds nearby outside. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back, and lets out a low, annoyed groan. With a quick, sharp sigh, he’s pushing himself to his feet and going outside. 

Dean finds Sam at his front porch, phone pressed to his ear as he flips through keys to unlock his door, laughing until tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He sucks in a quick breath, exhaling another bubble of laughter. 

“Yeah, yeah, no,” he says into the phone and shoves the key into the lock. “We will definitely have to do that again sometime. And the way you– Yeah! Oh man, that was so fucking funny. Gosh–”

“Sam.”

At Dean’s voice, Sam turns around, lips parted. He glances at the phone before pulling it away and asking, “Yeah?”

The annoyance comes rushing back into Dean. He throws open his arms. “ Yeah ?” He repeats sharply, but then decides he doesn’t care. He drops his arms. “I made us dinner. Hamburgers. It’s inside.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding, then to the phone: “Sorry, what was that?”

Dean watches as Sam opens the door and slides inside, throwing up his index finger to Dean, silently saying ‘just a moment’ before closing the door, sealing Dean alone outside. 

“What the actual hell,” Dean mutters under his breath. He dramatically flaps his hands into the air, smacking them against his sides as he heads back for his own house. As he slams the door behind him, in his childish temper tantrum, the idea of locking Sam out and forbidding him of his dinner comes to mind. Though, the anger chills over slightly, and Dean leaves the locks alone. 

He sits back down in front of the laptop. He smashes the spacebar and the intro music starts back up again. Picking up his burger, he finds that it has grown cold. The hot urge to throw the damn thing at the wall courses down his arms and to his hands. 

White anger bubbles up inside his chest, leaving each cell aflame with adrenaline. His face sets and he lets the hamburger fall back onto the plate. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he leans back into the couch and focuses on his show instead. He chews on the inside of his lip, biting and grinding hard, trying to use that physical sensation as an effort to ebb the anger away. 

It isn’t until a faint taste of metallic iron runs over his tongue and his insides are cold does he realize that there isn’t much to be angry about. Sam and Cas had gone out, big deal. Dean had talked to Sam while he was on the phone, obviously he was going to get dismissed. 

Right as Dean is sucking in a breath, the anger turned to stone now, the front door is pushing open and Sam is walking inside. Dean leans his elbows on his knees. “So?” He asks. 

Sam looks at him with an expression of total expectation - like he knew this was coming. Like he knew walking inside would be walking into Dean’s anger. “So?” He echoes. 

“So,” Dean continues, “where have you been? Who was that on the phone? Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Most importantly: Where’s Cas?”

Sam folds his arms in front of his chest. “Cas and I were out. Remember the girl from yesterday? The one–”

“–You played volleyball with, yes.”

“Right. Cas and I were on the beach before it got cloudy and we ran into her and her friends. They invited us out, so we went out.”

“What- what does ‘out’ mean?”

“We swam,” Sam says with a shrug. “Played volleyball. Went back to one of the guys' house and met his dog.”

“Oh, so you ran into the Scooby Gang. Did you fight evil together? Unmask Mister Heckley from next door?”

A smile comes across Sam’s face, though it holds no amusement and he scoffs. His head rolls back and he’s turning to walk into the kitchen. “You said you made dinner?”

Dean stands up and crosses the living room to follow Sam. “You didn’t answer me,” he points out.

“I’m not doing this,” Sam says, his back turned as he inspects his cold burger. 

“Doing what?” Dean argues back. “What am I doing?”

“This!” Sam throws up an arm, as if to gesture to something obvious. He turns around, face in open annoyance. “Cas says you did this yesterday with him, too. I’m not playing into it Dean.”

“I’m not doing anything!” 

Sam clicks his tongue. “Right.” There’s a pickle that had fallen from the hamburger, and he picks it up off the plate and eats it. “The Scooby Gang ,” he mocks, “went out karaoking. I wasn’t feeling up to it so I came home. Cas should still be out with them, though.”

Dean laughs out. “Cas. Karaoking. Really?”

Sam nods. “Really.”

Dean is snapped out of his simmering anger, only to be placed in cold confusion. “ Really ?” He asks again, his tone reflecting what he is feeling. Sam nods again. “Huh.” Then: “What, so, Cas is out there doing his little song and dance with these.. these people ?”

“They’re not ‘ people ’ Dean, they’re our friends.”

“Oh, right!” Dean says in a voice as if he had forgotten, as if it was a fact he had known for years. “Friends. Of course!”

“Why are you so upset? I don’t get it.”

“ Don’t get it? ” Dean pulls out a hand, beginning to list everything Sam ‘doesn’t get.’ “Well, let’s see. I come home from work and no one is home. I don’t get a call or a damn text letting me know where you two went, only to come and find out you’ve got this whole friend group established!"

Bunching his shoulders up, Sam defensively says, “Well, what did you want us to do, Dean? You were at work! Do you just want Cas and I to sit on our asses, twiddling our thumbs waiting for you?”

“Well, no!”

“Then I don’t get why you’re so upset!"

Dean purses his lips. He is quiet for a second, long enough until Sam is flying his eyebrows up, silently asking for a response. Dean rolls his eyes and begins to head back to the living room. “Whatever. Glad you had your fun,” he says over his shoulder before muttering, “or whatever.”

From the kitchen, he can hear Sam scoff and his footsteps until he’s in the entryway just as Dean is falling back into the couch. Dean watches as Sam opens the front door without a word, plate in hand.

“Yeah!” Dean calls out. “Leave! Go back to your hobbit hole!” He flicks at Sam’s computer screen just as the door is shutting, though he still yells, “No laptop, no fun!”

Dean huffs out a breath, it hot with anger. He puts his eyes onto the show before him, though his brain processes nothing. He eats his burger in big, unsatisfying bites until it’s stuffed down into his stomach and his throat feels thick from it. 

When he doesn’t watch the show, his brain thinks of Castiel. Castiel in some bar, on some stage, repeating some lyrics off a screen and into a microphone. When he doesn’t want to think of Castiel, he watches his show. But the show is stupid and not what Dean wants right now. 

He thumbs the power off button and once the screen pinches into black, Dean is throwing the screen down. He picks his plate up off the coffee table and begins to head for the kitchen. Sam had left the lights on in his leave, so it’s brightly lit alongside the summer evening light that pours in from the windows. After leaving his plate in the sink for later cleaning, Dean goes to the windows, pushing back the curtains to get a better view outside.

Like every other evening the three have experienced on this island, it’s washed in gold and yellow and cream sunlight, glittering off the ocean and making Dean’s eyes sting and water from the brightness. He blinks, and his eyes feel fine again.

Chapter Text

Later on, Castiel is blinking to give relief to his dry eyes. 

The constant stream of weak alcohol he consumed has left his head throbbing and his eyes devoid of all moisture. As he walks down the sidewalk, using the umbrellas of yellow light from the dotted street lamps to illuminate his path, he can hear the distant roll of the ocean. A seabird cries from way above and when Castiel peers up at the sky, his head swarms. 

To get to the houses he is forced to leave the stability of the sidewalks. He steps into the grass, the dirt beneath hard and unstable on the soles of his shoes. It only takes a few minutes of letting the moonlight guide him to walk through the land, avoiding the shadows that make blemishes look like ankle-twisting holes. 

Soon enough, Cas sees the yellow porch lights before he sees the shadow of the houses. He beelines for them like a moth to a flame. He looks up at Sam’s house, pleased to see how the top windows are ignited in bright light. Crossing the yard, his pleased warmth dissipates at the sight of the cold windows of his and Dean’s house. His eyebrows knot. It isn’t possible that Dean is asleep already, is it? It’s barely even 9:30. 

He climbs the steps of the porch, carefully, slower than he needs to, to try and fend off the dizziness in front of his eyes. As he shoves his fingers into his jean pocket, swimming them around in search for a key, he catches a solid figure in his peripheral. 

He turns, curiously, and there Dean is, under the fading porch lights. He’s slumped back in the porch chair, arms crossed, legs stretched out, ankles overlapping, his head laid softly against the siding of the house. He sleeps peacefully, the unpracticed symphony of crickets and cicadas as his white noise. 

Cas’ shoulders relax. He abandons his search for the house key and steps further under the fading light, closer to Dean. He smiles slightly, the warmth of pleasure returning to him. 

The warmth turns hot, though, when the sight of Dean sleeping on the porch brings a thought to Cas. He doesn’t allow it to fully manifest, as he never allows these types of thoughts to. But, from the looks of it, it seems Dean has fallen asleep waiting for Castiel to return home. 

The smile grows. His face reflects the warm happiness he’s feeling. 

Before he is swept off his feet and sucked into the trance that is watching Dean sleep (always thinking back to Dean telling him to ‘stop doing that’), he reaches out a hand to shake him awake. Although, mere inches before contact, the connections between brain and hand sever. 

He’s pausing without meaning to. This sight of Dean takes Cas out of his physical body, out of reality. He’s seen Dean asleep numerous times. Curled up in bed with his face pushed into a pillow, leaned back in a couch, chin propped up in a fist while he snoozes in a chair. But this, now, with the rising of the natural symphony and the yellow wash of light that basically looks golden, it’s different. 

Dean just looks so peaceful. 

There had been so many instances where the boys had to search for rarities - Adam’s rib, the Black Grimoire, Phoenix ashes, just to name a few - but here, sleeping under a fading porch light is what Castiel deems the most rare find: A Winchester at peace. 

All the lines from years of terror fade away as the facial muscles go slack. There is no curl to his lips, no marker of sadness or anger or fear. Dean’s freckles are dark from the days out in the sun, his hair messy from a long shift. With Castiel standing at the angle he is at now, Dean could look almost a decade younger. 

For a reason Castiel cannot pinpoint, that thought strikes him hard in the gut. His shoulders sag and the thought blooms. Dean, and in turn Sam, should have been living this type of life all along. Freckles deepening in the sun. Joyous smiles creating lines, not fear, not worry. If only the world had stopped threatening to end. If only every bad guy - monster, angel, demon, God - decided to call it a day and go home. If only. Maybe then Sam and Dean could’ve had a more peaceful life earlier on. 

Cas’ lips thin. His eyes drop to the gray concrete ground, but only bounce back up to Dean’s golden-wash face. He understands that he has to understand there is no changing the past. The brothers lived fourteen years together after Dean had retrieved Sam from Stanford; several on the road, several in the bunker. Now, they get to live more than fourteen years retired. Together. It’s more than what Castiel can wish for. 

Together. Castiel smiles slightly to himself at that. The punch to the gut fades. 

Besides, Castiel figures, who knows what would have happened if The Empty kept its claws in him for a second time. Maybe Sam and Dean would have never retired. Maybe the brothers would still be hunting, still fighting, bleeding, hurting. All with no one to protect them. With no friend to call when they need. 

Or worse - Castiel begins to spiral - or worse could have happened. With him dead, there would have been no one to heal broken bones, internal wounds, stabs, gunshots, impalements. Maybe if Jack never went searching for Castiel, maybe if The Empty woke up again and refused to hand him over, something detrimental could’ve happened to Sam. To Dean. Maybe in another universe there is an ending where Dean is dead. Where Sam is dead. Where Castiel is dead. 

Just then, Dean’s chest flutters up with a deep inhale and he’s in front of Cas’ eyes once more. He’s golden, breathing, alive. Cas is standing in the golden light, breathing, alive. He feels his weight settle back into him as he comes back to reality. 

He should wake him up now, Cas figures. Watching for even a moment longer risks Dean waking up on his own. 

“Dean,” he says. He stands waiting, watching for movement, for a disruption in the breathing pattern, for a flicker of recognition. When there is nothing, Cas tries again. “Dean.” Louder, firmer. 

This time, Dean’s body jolts. His eyes fly open and a soft “huh?” escapes his lips. Pulling himself up, Dean blinks hard at the light. “Cas? Oh.” His voice is tight with sleep. “What time is it?”

Looking up in thought, Castiel guesses, “9:30.” He nods his head to the side before adding, “Ish.”

Dean scratches at the inner corner of his eye, still coming to. Castiel waits patiently as Dean takes a couple seconds. He cranes his neck up at Cas, his eyebrows now furrowed, eyes accusatory. The sour yellow light casts shadows on his face. 

“Where have you been?”

Castiel finds himself longing for the once peaceful Dean. He looks away, images of the sunny beach, swimming, a house, a dog, sitting on an uncomfortable leather couch watching people stumble over words to songs flashes in his mind. He opens his mouth to respond, yet the words that tumble out weren’t what he decided on. 

“Were you waiting for me?”

It’s clear on Dean’s face this wasn’t the response he was expecting. He looks down at the chair he’s sitting in as if he is just now realizing where he is. “No,” he scoffs. “No, I was…” His eyes dart around as though the excuse will show up any moment. When nothing is in his grasp, he glances up at Castiel. “Okay, fine, maybe,” he quickly admits. 

Pride fills Cas, pushing a delighted smile to his face. When Dean catches this, he rolls his eyes at it. 

“Where were you, man?” He asks, changing the subject. “Sam comes back home from Timbuktu and you’re not with him.” He widens his eyes, saying (near whining), “I was gonna make dinner for us!”

“I don’t eat dinner.”

“That’s not the point, Cas!”

Sighing, Castiel drags his gaze out to the front yard. The light barely breaks through the barrier of the porch and just about illuminates the curve of the plants under the railing. In the darkness, the tree that towers above the house stands like a shadowy figure, the moon giving the leaves a silver shine. 

He thinks back to the day he’s had. The conversations that didn’t feel awkward in the moment, the feeling only settling in when he caught the look on Sam’s face. Playing volleyball until the clouds came rolling in, people telling him he’s getting better with each round. Laughing with–

“Hello? Earth to Cas,” Dean says. 

“I liked you better when you were sleeping,” Castiel snarks. “You were quieter.”

Dean’s face falls flat. He looks up at Castiel with a cool expression. “I can give you quiet no problem.” 

A threat. One that holds weight and Castiel knows this as he is no stranger to the bitterness of Dean’s cold shoulder. On a better day, one where Cas is more sober or in a lighter mood, he would have folded. Not today, though. Not with the weak alcohol making his limbs feel bubbly and not with the unreasonable anger he’s coming home to. 

“You’re being unimaginably annoying tonight,” Castiel voices. “Much like yesterday, too.”

“Annoying?” Cas watches as Dean’s face twists into one of confusion, then anger. “You wanna talk annoying? What’s annoying is not having a clue as to where you and Sam ran off to. What’s annoying is coming home to an empty house when Sam knew I was going to make dinner. That’s annoying.”

“No,” Castiel argues back, “what’s annoying is coming home and being hounded upon.”

“Well sorry , Cas, that I like to know where people are. After our line of work, it’s not very comforting when people disappear.”

“Is this what this is about? Safety, not jealousy?”

Dean scoffs, his eyes rolling with the turning of his head. “I don’t–”

“–’get jealous,’ yeah. I remember.”

“Good,” Dean says. In a voice that is not as sturdy, he continues, “Then you’d know I was just worried.”

“About our safety?” Cas sounds unconvinced. 

Dean nods. “Yes,” he says too quickly. “About your safety.”

“And not that Sam and I were out with other people?”

Dean clicks his tongue in a tisk and folds his arms over his chest. “No,” he’s saying as he leans back in his chair. Although, his voice is high and shrill and indicates a lie. Castiel tilts his head to the side and gives Dean a knowing look. “No!” Dean pushes again, but it’s useless. Cas reads him like an open book, with or without the footnotes. 

“I understand feeling left out,” Castiel tries to reason. His palms open upwards as he talks. “You’re invited to come along any time.”

“I definitely don’t feel ‘ left out .’ And I definitely don’t need an invitation to your Breakfast Club.”

Castiel counters with, “It sounds like you do.”

“Well I don’t ,” argues Dean, which creates a ripple of frustration inside Castiel’s gut. “And- and you two don’t even need a stupid Breakfast Club. What ever happened to keeping a low profile like we agreed on before coming here? Sam said for at least a year-” Each word spitting from Dean’s mouth is a brick of growing frustration and annoyance inside Castiel. He tries to breathe through it, tries to shake his wrists to fling off the construction, but to no avail. “-we should lay low. Yet, here you are, going out with people. Going to their house. What’s next? Is- is Sammy going to hit another dog? Go off with–”

A bolt of electricity flies down Castiel’s arms. It’s as though he can feel the neurons spreading the message from his shoulders down his arms around his elbow to his wrists to his hands. Lurching forward, he grabs onto the armrests of the chair Dean sits in, pinning him, trapping him. The blindfold of hot annoyance allows Castiel to lean in close to Dean, their faces only inches apart, the tips of their noses even closer.

“ Cas ,” Dean says, his voice close to a whisper. His eyes are trained down, low on Cas’ face before darting up to meet his stare. Dean’s eyes are wide. Full of shock. A hint of fear. 

“This ends.” Castiel speaks slowly, cooly. “This ends now. This jealous temper tantrum you’re throwing is childish and unneeded.” He stares directly into Dean’s eyes, keeping his gaze steady while Dean’s bounces back and forth from one eye to the next. “You have no authority over Sam and I. If we want to make friends, we can. If you want to join, you can. There is no reason to spoil our fun for your selfish reasons. If you have a problem, talk to us. You’re an adult, Dean.”

Parting his lips, Dean looks like he’s about to speak up. Though, he takes in Castiel’s hard expression once more and his mouth is sealing shut again. They boil in Cas’ silence for a few long seconds. 

“Enough of this,” Castiel finishes. 

He’s said his piece and is inclined to push off the armrests and step away from where he stands around Dean’s knees. But, he finds it hard to deliver the strength it takes to do so. It’s as if his hands are welded to the chair, his forearms blocks of iron. In a choice that was not deliberately his, Castiel leans oh so slightly further on his hands. He can feel Dean’s shallow breath on his chin. 

Castiel watches as Dean’s eyes widen a little more. He notes the lack of movement from Dean. No cringing away, no getting closer. There’s a twitch of muscle from under Dean’s skin and as if that were the cue, Castiel is realizing there is no tickle of soft air on his chin. He looks down at Dean’s chest and finds it unmoving. He must be holding his breath. Or, at the very least, his breathing is extremely shallow. 

Castiel’s curiosity piques. 

In the face of fear, Castiel had always seen the Winchesters dragging in breath as if it were their strength. Chests heaving, mouths open. Never the opposite. Never this, especially from Dean, with his eyes flickering with the flame of panic, chest still, mouth sealed.

Castiel tilts his head to the side. On his forehead, his hair tickles the skin. His eyes are trained steady on Dean’s, and vice versa. 

“Are we clear?” He hears himself ask. 

Dean blinks. Once, twice, like a butterfly flapping its wings. Then, he nods. 

“Good.”

This is when Castiel takes a step back. This is when he should be taking that step back. Any moment now and he’ll feel his feet lift off the ground and plant a couple paces away. Yet, he doesn’t move. His feet stay. His hands stay. 

Castiel would blame an invisible barrier keeping his back from shifting, keeping his nose pushed an inch away from Dean’s, but that would be a lie. A lie because the force isn’t behind him, but rather in front. Sitting flush to a chair, fingers curled around where the front of the armrests connect to the seat, breath hitched, green eyes wide with apprehensiveness, with alarm, with curiosity, with an egging look, almost daring Castiel to do something. To make a move. 

Mistake number one was not leaving when he had the chance.

Castiel searches Dean’s face. His forehead, his cheeks, his eyes, his chin his lips his lips his eyes his lips. 

Mistake number two. 

Quickly, before Cas thinks Dean can catch onto where his gaze had drifted to, he looks back up into Dean’s eyes. Though, he’s met with slanted eyelids. He knows what Dean is looking at. He can feel it, almost, swears he can. The tingling, the sensation. It’s as though the nerves that live under the pink skin of his lips have eyes, and know they’re being stared at. 

Like a whirlpool, they’re sucked in. Each other’s faces flood the other's vision and it’s all they see, all they look at. Ears pick up on silence. Skin touches the emptiness of nothing. Outside their field of vision is the void because the atoms that build up the world exist only in the faces of Dean and Castiel. 

One breathes out, the other breathes him in. Holds him in.

As quickly as it all happened the whirlpool is spitting Castiel back out. Cicadas and crickets scream from the bushes that exist beyond the porch. The ocean roars as waves spill onto a beach thousands walk on. Golden light spills back onto Dean’s face and the hands that keep him pinned. 

The hands, his hands. Right. The magnetic pull has died. Castiel stands up. His palms feel heavy, a million little invisible strings connect him to the armrests in which he is pulling away from. When he steps back, his eyes are still on Dean long enough to catch the flash of - disappointment? - behind his face. Before Castiel can look, really look , Dean is dipping his chin and pulling himself up in the chair. 

They wait in each other’s silence for a word, a sentence, an apology. For what? Neither of them know. For what happened. For what didn’t happen. Dean thinks he should say something. Castiel knows he should say something. The crickets say what they cannot. 

Castiel steps backwards, beginning to enter where the light is the dimmest. “Goodnight, Dean,” he says. He turns for the front door, not waiting for a response. The hinges squeal, upset at the movement, or maybe upset at the ending. The door shuts and Dean stays in the silence Castiel had left. 

He stays sitting, unmoving, mind blank of words unless it’s repeating the dialogue. His body is heavy besides in the places he felt Castiel’s stare. He sits in silence, though it’s not really silence with nature’s symphony, until it actually is because the crickets hush and the cicadas stop and the ocean sleeps. 

When Dean lumbers himself inside, he’s delicate with the floorboards. Careful not to disrupt, though he isn’t sure what exactly. It’s not like Cas sleeps. It’s not like he’s expecting Dean to stay outside forever, either. But, he feels if his presence goes unnoticed, it’s for the best. For some reason the belief exists that if Dean were to make himself known, the tension would rise. And if the tension were to rise any higher, it would be like walking through walls. 

Upstairs, there is no ring of light outlining Castiel’s bedroom door. When Dean shuts his own door, he doesn’t ignite the ring of light, either. Instead, he changes in the moonlight, shuffles in the darkness of memory. He climbs into bed, slipping between cold sheets, and falls asleep thinking about what happened. What didn’t happen. What could have happened.

Chapter Text

The sun is blazing. The line is long. And Dean is horribly impatient.

His lips thin and he stands higher on his feet to look over the tens of shoulders and heads. “Who even goes to aquariums anymore?” He asks, peering at the blotches of families before them. Parents lean on the handles of their children’s strollers, pudgy little hands grasping out, begging to be free; grandparents with wide brimmed hats to block out the sun; younger kids antsy and straying away from their groups, or towards collections of taller kids, teenagers, who talk amongst themselves. 

“ You do ,” Sam snarks. “You go to aquariums, Dean. This was your idea.”

“Nu uh,” Dean argues. “Cas was the one who suggested it.”

Castiel, who was originally people-watching, slowly turns his head to look over at Dean, not at all pleased to hear his name being dragged through the mud of Sam’s sour mood. Dean catches this look from Castiel and quickly turns to divert his eyes elsewhere.

“ You ,” Castiel says, not willing to let Dean off, “were the one who wanted to do something today.”

Grappling for something to say while bobbing his head side to side, Dean realizes he has nothing worthy to defend himself with so he mutters, “shut up,” and looks away, not wanting to admit defeat.

Earlier in the day, when the sun was hanging in the sky for just an hour, Dean had come downstairs. “Today is my first day off in a week,” he said to no one in particular. “Let’s do something fun. Something other than hanging out on the beach or going to bars or watching TV.” 

Sam, who was huffing as he struggled to pick up the steaming waffle said, “Well– ow! Dean, we could.. go see a movie?” He suggested, but at Dean’s grimace, he tried again with, “Hiking? No? Okay, um, mini golf? No? Alright.. the zoo?”

“No, no, no !” Dean whined. “That’s all boring.”

From the living room, Castiel had shouted, “The aquarium?” 

Never having been to one before, the three thought it sounded like the best idea anyone had had since moving to Hawai’i. But, no matter how much Dean and Castiel were looking forward to going, long lines and unwavering heat has a special way of making all moods turn miserable. 

Eventually, whatever obstruction ahead has seemed to roll through, and Sam sends a quick thank you to the sky as Dean’s useless complaining is cut short and feet begin moving. At the ticket booth and under a high ceiling, they’re quickly spared from the heat. While Dean pays for everyone’s (apparent for Castiel) ages, a cooling breeze leaves a chilly kiss to their skin, and persists as they follow the leaking crowd under an arch featuring the curling tentacles of an octopus inside. 

Once passed through the front doors, a wave of chilled, dewy air hits them at full force. It holds a stench of fish and stale water and seems to cling to the walls and waft up through the carpet. Probably mold. Or mildew, from the tons of gallons of water being pumped throughout the large building. Sam wrinkles his nose at it. Dean pretends to not notice.

“Com’on,” Dean says, quickly steering himself around a large family of six, not waiting for the other two to catch up. He dips farther down a dimly lit hallway, eyes struggling to adjust to the drastic change in lighting. 

Outside, it seemed as though people doubled by the minute. Inside, with the multitude of children’s activities along far walls and hallways that branch off into other, less cool exhibits or demonstrations, the bodies disperse easily. While still busy, it is not as crowded and the three find it relatively simple to pass by others without needing to shrink or twist shoulders.

The first hallway is large and the walls are black, bringing out the squares of bright blue that showcase the smallest fish, tiniest shrimp, and little baby starfish. Dean smiles and points, saying, “Look at this one, Cas,” or laughing and urging Sam to come over because “This one looks just like you.”

Castiel is completely captivated by every small tank he passes by, giving each a solicitous moment. He doesn’t show any mind to the children that run up and down the hallway, pressing their hands and noses up close to the glass, not caring if one is already being viewed. It’s loud with their footfalls and shouts, but strangely at the same time, it can be peaceful. Maybe it’s the effect of ocean life. 

Down a turn of a hallway presents the much bigger tanks. Walls are still mostly black, though the twists of the winding corridor get broken up by larger squares and rectangles of bright, bright blue. Castiel departs from Dean’s side and slots himself amongst the onlookers. The bottom half of the first tank’s glass is smeared with white streaks from children, the transference from grimy little hands, but the top of the glass is clear and allows Castiel to peer in without disturbance. 

A large coral structure protrudes from the bottom, spirling branches shooting off every which way. It’s completely covered in bright oranges or neon yellows or a beautiful dark purple that almost glows. Castiel, entranced, is too busy memorizing the coral to pay attention to the darting fish. Dean comes up to him on one side, Sam the other, and the brothers point out one ‘fugly looking guy’ which tears Castiel’s eyes to. 

“He is not.. fugly ,” Castiel defends, watching as the black and white fish with the concave face darts left. 

“He so is,” Dean laughs and Sam nods his head, agreeing.

Castiel shakes his head and says, “Leave him alone,” before going back to watching. Black fish dart by. Purple fish glide by. Yellow and tan fish hide behind the coral and rock structures. Due to the thickness of the glass, it warps and bends the sea creatures in a way that makes eyes hurt. The farther down you look, the more 2D and squished the animals become. 

Even experiencing tunnel-vision, life from behind Castiel doesn’t quite fade away completely. He watches a particular fish cut through water, the brilliant lights glinting off its scales as it carelessly glides. Deep down in the hallway, a child’s shrieking laughter topples over the chatter, and with his eyes still on the fish, it strangely makes sense to Castiel to be listening to a child laugh and watching a fish swim. Strangely beautiful. To know he’s been alive long enough to watch the earliest forms of life merge with the latest. 

From the back of his legs, he feels a presence quickly rush past him. Kids running, he quickly finds out when he turns around. Looking up and he finds Sam and Dean standing around a glowing information board about the exhibited animals. Sam’s reading, and from the Dean’s body language and his smirk, Castiel knows that he just shot some dumb insult to the back of his brother’s head. Castiel is proven to be correct when Sam looks over, eyes sour.  

He moves to join them, but his feet stutter to a quick stop when a mother pushes her stroller in front of him. She passes him a secret, apologetic smile, to which Castiel easily returns. Her eyes flash with a look that says ‘kids, amiright?’ and Castiel nods his head to the side, eyes flashing up even though he cannot relate. She meanders further down the hallway, though Castiel stays standing, watching her leave with the smile still on his face. He becomes light inside at the small bond forged between two strangers. Not a word said but they still communicated, still laughed at a secret prod. Tearing his eyes away as the mother flickers in and out of other people, Castiel joins the brothers. 

With the echo of overlapping conversations, Castiel doesn’t quite catch the majority of the words passed between Sam and Dean until he’s right by Dean’s side, listening to him say, “Tone it down, man.” He has a hand flat out in front of him. “What’s gotten into you?”

Sam scoffs, shakes his head. “You ate my waffle, Dean.”

Dean looks upwards as he recalls this morning. “So?” He asks. “You should’ve just gotten another one.”

“It was the last one!”

Dean rolls his eyes, hard, not understanding, or maybe not caring, about the cause for Sam’s mood. He opens his mouth to shoot something back but never gets the chance when Castiel hisses, “ Guys .” He makes a gesture and a face to say ‘really, here ?’ 

Reality seems to snap back into the brothers. While Sam looks around, painfully insecure about their public spat about waffles, fidgeting with his collar, Dean is shaking his head and angling to leave. “Let’s keep going,” Castiel says, moving to lead them away. 

“Fine,” Dean mutters. 

“ Fine ,” Sam repeats, a little snappier. Dean looks over his shoulder with a glare. 

“Guys,” Castiel warns again. The two, after another quick glance at each other, drop it. 

The hallway slopes down and forks out into two directions. Left has a short set of stairs; right does not. The carpet to the left is illuminated by a dim cast of light, as if only a night-light is turned on down there, while around the corner to the right is seeping with bright blue. Dean, without discussion, goes right. 

Once passed under the entryway, their vision is engulfed in an expanse of brilliant blue. The tank lines the entire way down the corridor, curving up above heads, and down the next wall to create a tunnel. Even though the trio was quiet before, complete awe takes away their words. 

Sam walks ahead, chin tipped back as he looks up at the ceiling where a turtle passes by. He chuckles, a smile breaking his face. Dean and Castiel walk together to the side of the tunnel, mouths agape as they stare into the vast waters.

Much like all the other tanks, a big tree of coral stands stagnant in the miniature ocean, its branches reaching up and over the tunnel to connect with another wall of coral. Dean’s eyes quietly trail it. Castiel’s forehead inches closer to the glass as he tries to get the best look at a small shark drifting across the sand.

There seems to be an unspoken law to be quiet in the tunnel. The audible existence of children is now distant and echoes from far hallways. People move in silence, lowly whispering to each other. There is a trickling of water that can be heard anywhere one stands. 

Castiel means to look up over Dean’s head at a large fish that is swimming by, but as he turns his head he catches Dean’s stare. The two lock eyes. Dean is tightening his lips into what looks to be a smile, and he twists around and beelines it for Sam. Castiel, staying put, watches as Dean leaves.

Usually, Castiel would narrow his eyes and pick apart what that look Dean gave him could have meant. What was that? A smile? Whatever that was meant to be, it looked more pained than anything, and Castiel is too drawn to the sea creatures to truly care. 

He watches as two fish swim together. They move as one, as a reflection of each other, going up and left, down and right. They twist and are chasing the other’s tail, creating a perfect circle, a beautiful union. Cas smiles and with gleaming eyes, watches as the two fish go off again.

A guttural giggle from a baby sounds out, snapping Castiel’s attention to it. What he sees is the grin from the father and the adoration in his eyes as he bounces the child up and down, pointing to the fish on the other side of the glass. Although Castiel has the sensation of being an intruder on this father-baby moment, he can’t help but soften into a smile at the sight. He finds it warming, beautiful. Human connection is something so precious and delicate, Castiel is always weak to it.

At the same time, Sam is walking between Castiel and the father, severing his attention. Castiel sees Dean looking at him, a hand beckoning him to follow. With one last fleeting glance to the small shark that is nuzzling into the sand below, he moves to catch up with them.

Dean lingers back until Castiel is beside him again, then connects their shoulders and says, “Sam’s in a mood. Pissed ‘cause I ate his stupid waffle.”

Over his shoulder, Sam says, “I heard that, Dean.”

Dean makes a face, silently mocking his brother, and Castiel can’t help but crack a smile at it. On the surface, Castiel always showed a distaste for the brother’s banter or childish fighting, but deep down he was amused by it. It’s become another thing Castiel adores about humanity: the playfulness of people. In the millennium's Castiel has lived, never once was there banter or simplicity up in Heaven. 

The tunnel pours people into a dark, rectangular room. It is immediately noticeable as different, as there is no bright blue pouring out from any of the tanks. The light seems to stop with the glass, creating holes into different lives. Sam leaves Dean and Castiel for a large, illuminated half-circle in the middle of the room. Dean heads left for a cylindrical tank, Castiel following. 

Inky purple water looks endless and vast within the tube. Iridescent and translucent jellyfish bubble up and float around inside. Dean breathes out a light laugh and whispers, “Awesome.” 

Castiel would respond, but the air is whipped from him. 

The two stand before the tank, watching as the iridescent jellyfish swell and squeeze in captured silence. It could have been seconds or minutes the two stood standing, watching, staring, smiling. The awe at the simple beauty of it all is written on Dean’s face and reflects in his eyes, and while Castiel shares the feeling, his caves deep within him. 

He looks over his shoulder and around at everyone. Parents grinning, children laughing. Kids pulling at older people’s hands, urging them to look and see at this, at that, at everything. The older people smile and nod, playing into the child’s amazement even though it is just a seahorse or a snail. 

Friends point and tell their friends to stand and pose, before leaning back to capture a photo. Grandparents huddle their grandchildren around, and the grandchildren stand tall and smile and wait, wait, wait for grandma to get out of her contacts app and to the camera. 

Castiel finds it all to be so sweet, so beautiful. Only humans - humanity - could have this type of love for one another. A patient, tender, caring type of love that makes you pretend for a child’s amusement, or wait for a grandmother’s gratitude. It’s so beautiful that it fills every cell of Castiel’s being, as if it is lighting him on fire. 

A warmth swells up in his chest and rises to his throat, threatening to choke him and as he breathes in the damp air, the swelling becomes grander and he’s realizing it: he is in love.

He is in love with a child’s laughter and in love with a mother’s adoring smile and in love with a grandparents tender touch and in love with how people stop and stare at the simple things and in love with the light in Dean’s eyes and the look on his face and he’s in love with Dean. 

Castiel grins, wide and big. He could laugh if he wasn’t drowning. This, he realizes, this is what Hannah had warned him about all those years ago. This is what Anna fell for. This is what Daniel and Adina yearned for. 

Castiel looks at Dean and Dean turns and they catch eyes and Castiel feels as though he could kiss him. He could, and would, kiss him but they’re in public and Dean isn’t feeling what Cas is feeling. Dean grins back, and looks giddy like a kid who just heard the magical tune of the ice cream truck. 

Castiel breathes out, terribly in love with everyone and everything.

Chapter Text

The trip to the aquarium left the three thirsty for the ocean. After eating lunch in town, the trio went home only to stay outside under the blazing sun. They changed into their swim trunks and let the ocean waves engulf them, laughing and yelling out at each other as Dean wrestled them further into the water. 

In the company of each other, it was always easy to smile and relax, allowing real life to slip away for a moment. But now, with the weight of hunting off their shoulders it was like they became bubbles; bouncing around, floating on the surface of the ocean, gleaming, content, perfect. 

The sun moved its way across the sky, unbeknownst to the three who were too busy playing monkey-in-the-middle with an old tennis ball Sam had found in his yard the other day. Dean’s cheeks had begun to hurt from the constant stretch of a smile; smiling and laughing because Castiel couldn’t seem to get out from becoming the monkey. You’re too tall, Castiel had shot over to Sam, then looked at Dean, and you’re too competitive.

It isn’t until they are thoroughly drunk off seasalt and high off sunlight does Dean retire the tennis ball and drag himself out of the water, slightly chilled from being submerged for hours. Sand sticks to his feet and ankles as he makes his way back to their beach chairs, and he feels so lightheaded he isn’t quite sure he’s walking. This, to Dean, would be the perfect time for a cold beer and a shower. Though, he has other plans. 

Leaving Castiel and Sam to float around, their dark heads lazily bobbing above the dazzling surface, Dean drags a fire pit out from the side of Sam’s house - something he begged his brother to buy him during their first couple of days, and something they had yet to use.

He has to venture back out into their backyards, searching for dropped sticks suitable enough. He hisses and lowly grunts every time he steps on something small or sharp, jumping his bare foot back. 

Dean won’t like to admit how long it took him to start the fire. He’s set on doing it the old fashioned way: setting up a teepee of sticks and putting dry leaves in the center, which he lights with a lighter to watch it all go up in flames. What irks him is the leaves he picked were too crisp with fresh life or too damp from the recent rain. Soon enough, he begrudgingly brings down a canister of lighter fluid and trickles the liquid in before angrily throwing in a smoldering stick, which brings the fire pit to life with a raging woosh. 

Moments before Sam and Castiel drag themselves out of the ocean, Dean had created a lovely setup for them. Their beach chairs circling around the crackling fire, some Tesla song playing from his portable speaker (it amazes Castiel how many modes of music Dean seems to have), a six-pack of cool beer, one bottle already pulled out and carefully placed on both Sam and Castiel’s chairs, and an unopened bag of kettle cooked chips waiting for Sam next to his beer. 

“Oh, sweet,” Sam says, picking up the chips before sitting down himself. “Thanks.”

Dean, leaning back into his own chair, raises a hand to silence his brother. “Not a word..” he says, his eyes closed, “just..” He pinches his fingers together, as if to crush sentences before they have a chance to be spoken. 

Sam chuckles and shakes his head. Dean had found a new brand of beer to hyper-fixate over, one that infuses their drinks with fruity flavors: peach, raspberry, cream and cherry, etc, and unfortunately does not come with the easy twist-off caps Sam is so used to. Using the underpart of his beach chair, he squeezes the serrated edge of the cap against the white-rubber rimmed wires, and after a pull, the cap goes flying into the sand with a soft put. 

He sits back and drinks from his peach flavored beer, one he quite likes. Underneath the music playing in the background of everyone's attention, the trio sit in a comfortable, suitable silence long enough for skin to dry and sand to harden and flake off. 

Sam looks to the ocean, at the palm trees, takes a drink, flexes his feet, his hands, shifts, and looks back out to the ocean. Growing increasingly bored, he shoots a glance to his brother and stands up silently, respecting the not a word comment. Castiel turns his head, an eyebrow quirked. Sam raises a finger, signaling he’d be just a moment before quietly rounding the chairs and aiming for his front door. 

In the time that Sam is gone, Dean passes it by keeping the figure of a shirtless Castiel in his peripheral vision. A couple glances, or long looks, and Dean feels warm inside when he grants himself these. He blames the content of their lives; the golden cast of the sinking sun, the crackling fire, the good music and even better beer. How could he not steal a couple of prolonged glances when life is just so beautiful now? To Dean, everything deserves to be taken in as if seen for the first time. 

In the time Sam is gone, Castiel passes it by watching the orange flames curl and lick the small logs inside the fire pit. They never seem to change, no charring, no blackening, but when he looks out into the yard where other branches had fallen, there is a notable difference. He’s endlessly fascinated by the chemical change, and a small urge pulls at his hand to touch the flames. Feel them dance on his fingertips, kiss his nail beds, warm his knuckles. 

When Sam comes jumping back outside, he’s wearing a long sleeve shirt and carrying a thin book. Dean snorts at the sight and rolls his eyes, and Sam does not need a verbal confirmation to know what name is passing through his brother's head. He opens the book and with no bookmark as a guide, fingers through the pages, dry paper scraping against dry paper, until he finds the part he last left off. After a line or two is read, Sam is submerged into the clouded waters of muted words and vivid thoughts. 

A breeze pushes by, giving the palm tree leaves a slight shake a moment later. The fire ignites the skin of Castiel’s feet and knees, and the wind only has enough kindness for a chaste, cooling kiss. Not that he minds, entirely, because between the heat-stricken atmosphere and the lively sun, it is still quite warm outside. 

The sky is devoid of any clouds. Bright and blue and the type of vast that brings the looming thought of an everlasting universe beyond to mind. The ocean’s waves dazzle like flowing champagne. Birds sing. Bugs hum. The song Dean plays is not the worst, Castiel figures, and it’s all just so wonderfully perfect. 

A low grunt sounds from Dean and Castiel looks over, curious. He’s using his brother's technique of utilizing the bottom of the chair handle to screw off the cap, and he’s quickly successful, his hand already cupped around to slide the cap off. 

Watching him reminds Castiel of the beer he holds in his own hands. Looking down, he lifts a finger off the wet bottle and the air instantly attacks the water on his skin, chilling it. Beer doesn’t sound appetizing, so he resorts to drumming his fingers against the glass along to the beat of the song instead. The fire pops. The smoke is ashy in his lungs. 

While Sam reads and Dean looks happily out to the ocean, Castiel tips his head back. The bright blue sky takes up the entirety of his vision. It’s difficult to not allow his mind to take its natural progression to Jack, not when the sky is so clear it could nearly be a window. 

Could Castiel see Jack up in Heaven from down here? Could Jack see him? Is he watching?

If given the time, Cas will make himself go dizzy and tense from the hailstorm of questions. It’s never easy to put them to rest as parental worry has always and will always be at the forefront of his mind. Which is why it was so hard to surrender Jack to the path of his own life, a path that would lead him away from the trio. How far away? Castiel isn’t sure. It’s extremely likely, he thinks, that Jack’s in Heaven, working on creating new angels and working out certain quirks. It’s also just as likely that he’s deep within the universe, visiting other complex galaxies, planets, secret affair lifeforms Chuck had created. Hell, maybe he’s even in Ogallala. 

Castiel breathes in deeply because my God does he miss that kid. 

Rarely does Castiel allow his mind to wander to what it would have been like if Jack left with them for paradise. The extra laughter, the different adventures, the twist in conversations. It would’ve been nice, this Castiel knows, but understands it would not have worked out. Jack’s destiny just wasn’t going to be found in tiny seashells along the shore, or the golden crisp of a warmed marshmallow, even if Castiel desperately longs for that to be the case. Jack was made for more than that.

At the thought of Heaven, Castiel frowns at the image of his original home. Memories from years predating 2009 have become increasingly clouded and dull, as this decade with the Winchesters have been the most vibrant times of his whole existence. Heaven, though, of course, stands starkly against all other fading memories. 

Heaven as a place, a landmark. The angels, on the other hand, are just misty figures in his mind. It’s easier this way, to keep them from fully manifesting, better, too. To help keep them this way, Castiel had never once tuned into Angel Radio since he had been rescued from The Empty a month ago. 

A month ago! Castiel lets out a shallow sigh. Standing uneasily on his feet on that grated metal platform above the main room of the bunker felt like years ago; the memory light and dusty. 

It honestly baffles Castiel that news of his resurrection hadn’t circled back to any of the other angels. He wonders if they don’t wonder where he might be. There’s no way they believe that Jack had left him in The Empty, not after waking him up the first time. And without Castiel roaming Heaven, where do they think he is? Or perhaps they’re too busy to mingle around that idea. Or perhaps they just don’t care that he’s supposed to be dead. 

Supposed to be dead. The thought brings a stern stillness to Castiel. He shoots his eyes to the sand. Supposed to be dead. Supposed to be dead. Supposed to be dead. Supposed to be dead. The sentence cruelly repeats, hardening and ridgiding each muscle. Supposed to be dead. The hard reality of the thought makes Castiel feel as though the world had folded in on itself, and he’s hanging upside down from the seat of his beach chair. Shifting slightly, moving his feet and wiggling his fingers do very little for the altering sensation. 

Looking at Sam, Castiel is oddly struck at the pretty sight of an alive man. Strands of his hair float up and to the side in the gentle wind. His cheeks are flushed pink from the lack of sunscreen and the abundance of sun. His eyelashes tickle his eyebags when he blinks, his chest rises, he turns the page. Castiel isn’t sure why there was a hidden worm inside his head telling him to expect rot and decay, but he’s immensely grateful when there are no squirming maggots or gray skin.

Turning his head to look at Dean, the sideways striking is much duller, and the worm slinks away and disappears. Seeing Dean flushed with the liveliness of being alive swells that gratefulness into something so powerful inside Cas’ throat that he has to swallow and glance away for a second. 

Dean’s still lazily staring out into the ocean, head relaxed into the cradle of the back of the chair, arm stretched out to mess with the indented buttons of the portable speaker. Castiel relaxes himself by watching Dean. The rise and fall of his bare chest, golden and slightly splotched with a fresh sunburn, the soft blinking of his eyes, the gentle rapping of his fingers. A sight so simple it’s overwhelmingly beautiful. 

Just then, a certain chord becomes suddenly loud inside Castiel’s ears, as if his brain hit a button and everything is tuning back into real life. The chord, Castiel quickly realizes, is familiar, just as is the following lyrics. He sits taller in his chair and listens with intent, putting his gaze from Dean to the ocean beyond.

The song passes its halfway mark and it’s striking at Castiel again: hard realization that the reason why the song sits so familiarly with him, is because it’s been on repeat for who knows how long. He looks back over at Dean, and the connection strengthens when he again sees Dean’s fingertips hovering over the buttons, giving them chaste kisses with not enough pressure. 

Castiel sits with the song; the harsh strum of the instrumental and the power within the voice. The beat of the drums, the muffled talking in the background between lyrics. 

When the song fades out, the opening guitar chords hold the same grunge tune Castiel had just heard, and his theory is being proven correct. Dean pulls his hand back, rubs at an eye, tussles his hair, and resumes his hand on top of the speaker. At first glance, he looks easily relaxed, blinking almost tiredly at the ocean. Though, now as Castiel inspects him with more intent than before, he picks up on the swirl behind Dean’s eyes. The drumming of his fingers are out of beat to the song, and Castiel is understanding that the drumming is to the beat of his thoughts instead. 

His curiosity is piqued, though staring would only draw attention, and maybe even a weird look, so he pulls his eyes away and focuses on the song, just as Dean possibly is. 

The lyrics open up with a greeting. The same one Sam had echoed years ago in dismayed shock. Dean and I do share a more profound bond , Castiel had responded. Continuing, the man sings a confession about waiting, I’ve waited here for you. Everlong

The tempo is fast and hard to keep up with, though the male voice draws out the words before submerging them into a rapid current of guitar strums. 

Come down and waste away with me

Down with me

Dean looks over at Castiel, his lazy eyes burning. 

And: slow, how you wanted it to be

The only thing I’ll ever ask of you

You gotta promise not to stop when I say when 

Castiel inhales. It’s a sharp and strict breath that if he were human with human lungs and human biology, it would do nothing to replenish the blood. What would be the burning of desperate lungs is replaced by the festering hurt of wounded emotions. Curling up inside the hole of Castiel’s chest, accepting its fate of loneliness. 

If everything could ever be this real forever 

If anything could ever be this good again

Dean's eyes search the slanted profile of Castiel’s face, searching for if the man agrees with the words just as he does. If the words speak to Castiel just as they do Dean, if the rushed beating of guitar and drums could ever surmount to the rushing of emotions, feelings. 

And Castiel is agreeing, though he is so sucked up inside his own head that his face reveals nothing. The sureness the singer has in his words builds inside Castiel’s mind, the clarity so sweet.  

If Sam were mentally present, he would be agreeing, too. Though he’s in a dusty room with a hole in the wall, perfect for a bookshelf. 

But nevermind the bookshelf and never mind the song. And nevermind the stare Castiel feels so thickly on his face. He keeps his eyes on the ocean and thinks. Thinks and thinks and thinks.

The song ends. The song restarts. Sam’s book rustles as he flips pages. The song ends. The song restarts. Castiel thinks. He thinks harder. The fire begins to die down, the flames now clawing at the inside of the pit. Sam turns a page. The song ends.

Castiel looks at Dean.

They lock eyes instantly.

“I think.. I’d like to become human.”

Chapter Text

“Do we really think this is a good idea?” Sam asks. He’s holding his mug of coffee by his fingertips. Dean tilts his head back, letting out a long, theatrical groan. The careful expression on Sam’s face drops, and he looks to the side with an unamused smile. 

“What’s the problem?” Dean asks. “Why can’t Cas take the red pill?”

Sam places his mug down on the counter, a bright firework of morning sunlight catching it. “Dean, I just..” he trails off, watching his coffee slosh around. Dean can see the words working around in Sam’s mind behind his eyes. “I’m worried, you know? Won’t it be better for us to keep Cas’ grace until we know we’re safe? Like, safe -safe?”

“We are safe-safe!” Dean argues. “What is with you and Cas about this, huh? I know before we were always on guard and we never caught a break–”

“Never.”

“Yes, yeah. But, Sammy, come on,” Dean pleads. “People think we’re dead. You- you know how Cas got.. uh,” Dean waves a hand around in the air and Sam nods, understanding, “and that story I made up about me and that metal spike?” Dean laughs. “Good one, no?”

Sam looks away again, shaking his head. His expression is reeled back onto one of distant disdain. 

“Look man,” Dean tries to reason, “Jody’s been keeping our story straight with all the other hunters. Claire and Alex are old enough to know better than to tell. We can trust them! To everyone else, Cas is having his eternal beauty sleep, I got kabobed, and you, after our deaths, bailed and are living your mountain-man dreams in..?”

“Montana.”

Dean snaps his fingers. “Right, yes. Montana.” Then, with a light chuckle: “Pretty believable, with your whole getup.”

Not even a flicker of amusement twitches Sam’s face. “I’m laughing on the inside.”

“Bitch,” Dean mutters, then shifts his rising frustration into careful silence as Sam looks out the kitchen windows. The morning sun is hidden by the bright green mountain range, standing tall on the other side of the island. A stagnant haze floats above the grass, slowly breaking as the heat climbs. Dean watches as the gears shift and turn behind his brother’s eyes. 

Finally, Sam says, “I still don’t know,” and Dean loudly groans. 

Their attention is cut when there’s a shifting on the porch, the click of the lock, the swinging of the front door. Castiel is stepping into the house, netted bags stretching from his hooked fingers. Dean catches the vibrant colors of bare fruits straining inside: greens, yellows, oranges and reds. Shooting Sam a look to say this isn’t over yet , he moves to grab a couple of the bags and close the door. 

“How was it?” Sam asks. “First time shopping alone.”

“Fine,” Castiel replies, setting the netted bags down onto the island counter. A mango falls out, a rolling blur of red and green. Dean quickly steps forward and catches it before it can fall. “I’ve shopped alone before,” Castiel continues, “so I knew not to do anything weird as one may put it.” His eyes dart up and down Dean’s figure. 

“Cas,” Dean says without looking up from where he’s pulling out fruits, “you know I say that from a place of love, buddy. You can be friggin’ weird sometimes, alright?” He shrugs. “Sorry not sorry.”

Sam chuckles, and Castiel is flitting his eyes up to the ceiling in a half-hearted eye roll. “Now,” Castiel continues. From inside a mesh bag he holds, he digs out a plastic container, the sharp corners getting caught on the diamonds of empty space. He holds it out for Dean to take while asking Sam, “is there a reason that you’re having me complete these tasks, Sam? Yesterday was–”

“Pie? Cas, you got me pie?”

“Yes,” Cas says dismissively, eyes still on Sam, mouth posed to finish his question, though Dean interrupts with, “Oh, Cas, I could–” 

kiss you halts behind Dean’s teeth. The anticipation for the rest of Dean’s sentence holds the air in a rising silence, one that Dean shifts his eyes around in. He swallows, holds the container tighter in his hands. Sam has a smile pushed back, lips thinning as he tries (and fails) to suppress the growing bubble of amusement. 

“Never mind,” Dean pushes out, and quickly pulls open the nearest drawer to grab a fork before swiftly leaving for the living room.

Castiel, painfully unaware of the words left unspoken, turns back to Sam, who is coughing out a strained laugh. “Anyway, yesterday was yardwork. The day before that I helped you clean the house. And today? Grocery shopping? I just don’t see the correlation.”

Sam folds his arms. He shrugs his shoulders up and says, “These are chores you’re helping me with, Cas. Human stuff. Domestic things. I’m just trying to prepare you, I guess.”

Castiel pauses, stacking the fruits into a dark stained wooden bowl Dean had purchased that sits decoratively in the center of the island counter. “And picking up sticks outside is supposed to prepare me?”

From the living room comes a light laugh. Sam shoots a soft glare through the walls to Dean. “It doesn’t sound all that well thought out when you put it like that,” Sam says, folding in his arms tighter. 

“Sam,” Castiel says, putting a stop to his slow stacking to look Sam in the eyes, “I appreciate it, I do. But I-I’ve been human once before. I know what it’s like, what to expect.” Then: “You’re being nice. I can see that. But, I assure you, I’ll be able to handle it.”

“I-I’m not saying you won’t be able to handle it,” Sam argues. “I just think.. it's been a couple years since you’ve been human and you may not remember what it’s like. Getting sick, being hungry, thirsty… I mean, you don’t even get hot or cold.”

Castiel tries to grapple for words to say, and while he mouths his stutter, Sam continues, “I’m not trying to put you down or anything, Cas. You know that being in a vessel dulls all the emotions you feel, so becoming human is just gonna..” He fireworks his hands, emulating a silent explosion. 

Screwing his mouth to the side, Castiel nods his head solemnly. “I know, I know,” he says, then rolls his shoulders back and looks Sam in the face. “I’ve prepared myself, though. You’re underestimating me, Sam.”

“I- I am not underestimating you. I am just trying.. to..” Sam bobs his head from side to side, eyes up as he tries to fish for the right words. 

“Underestimate me,” Castiel finishes. “Why are you apprehensive? Why, if I want to become human, can’t I? Dean thinks it’s a great idea.”

From the living room comes a sharp, “I do!”

“Dean,” Sam says sternly, eyes narrowed to the far wall, “is living in a fantasy world. I just don’t think now is the right time. We should lay low for a little while longer.” He looks Castiel in the eyes, chin dipped, eyebrows softened. It’s that simple, pleading, puppy dog look Sam could give anyone to make them sway into giving in. Castiel purses his lips, because it works on him just as easily. 

“Fine,” Castiel pushes out. “How much longer?”

A small hint of a pleased smile picks up the corner of Sam’s lips. He looks away, shrugs, and says, “I don’t know. Just until we all feel one hundred percent safe.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, and Dean doesn’t have a snarky comment to yell from the living room. So, Sam and Castiel finish stacking away the fruits and vegetables the latter had purchased when from the basement comes the singing ring of the washer signaling its finished cycle. 

“I’ll get it,” Castiel says, throwing the netted bag to the far countertops and leaving Sam in the kitchen. As he walks through the living room to the basement stairs, Dean flits his eyes up in a shy, hesitant way, body ridged and posed away as Castiel moves past. 

His footsteps descend down the stairs, and Sam comes inching into the living room, curiously looking to the basement doorway. 

“You upset him,” Dean says, the last forkful of pie paused before his mouth. “He’s pouting. Like a baby.”

“Shut up,” Sam breathes out. “It’s for the best.”

Dean jumps his eyebrows up and sucks on his fork. Throwing the empty plastic container onto the coffee table, he says, “Worst pie I’ve ever had. Never trust that vegan shit.”

“Vegan food is not that bad,” Sam defends, jumping from one foot to the other. 

“Oh, yes,” Dean says, eyebrows up and nodding, “it is. Something is just wrong with you.”

“Shut up,” Sam repeats. “Why’d you eat it all anyway?”

Shrugging, Dean casually says, “‘Cause Cas bought it.”

“Right.” Sam stands before the coffee table, looking down and rubbing his knuckles together. For a short moment, neither brother says anything. Sam’s hesitant eyes jump from the floor to Dean, and his mouth stutters as he says, “Hey, I gotta ask you something.” He keeps his voice low, casts a look to the basement, then rounds the coffee table and stands inches from Dean’s knees. 

“What?” Dean asks, apprehensive, looking up at his brother. 

“It’s nothing bad,” Sam says, “just that.. I wanted to ask..” He shrugs his shoulders up. “You know, after our last talk two weeks ago–”

“No,” Dean says sternly, understanding the direction of Sam’s train of thought. His expression hardens and he shakes his head, looking straight ahead. “Nope. Not talking about that.”

“Yes, you are,” Sam pushes. “I have a right to know!”

“A right to know what, exactly?” Dean asks. “What even is there to know?”

“Where you two are at with each other,” says Sam, “Like, are you guys.. good?”

“We look good, don’t we?”

“Well, yeah.” Sam takes in a breath. “What I meant was how good.”

“Sammy,” Dean says plainly. His eyes are closed, one hand reached up to put a pause on Sam’s words. “Cas– Cas and I– We-we’re..” He pauses and rubs at his eyes. “We’re friends , alright?”

“ I- I- We- I- ,” Sam excessively mocks, to which Dean narrows his eyes into a pointed glare up at his brother. “Dude, do you hear yourself?"

Lifting himself up off the couch, Dean points his index finger up and says, “I am not doing this,” and side steps around his brother. 

“Dude,” Sam continues, making Dean pause in front of the television with his hands on his hips. “I’m not asking you to get down on one knee or–”

“WOAH!” Dean spins around, eyes wide in frantic panic, which then quickly darts to the basement stairs. He moves closer to his brother and in a lower voice, stresses, “No one– I’m not– Hey .” He points a finger at Sam. “No one is getting on any knees.”

Sam chokes out a laugh, which quickly dissolves into a full bubble of laughter. Dean stares his brother down in a stone cool expression. Sam has his eyes squeezed shut as he giggles, blissfully unaware of the backwards wind of Dean’s closed fist. 

He lunges his arm forward, his hard knuckles falling short of Sam’s face by inches. “Pow,” Dean breathes out. He throws out his other fist, reeling back the first. “Pow, pow, pow,” he says as he throws air punches at Sam’s face.

From beyond Dean’s fists, Sam is rolling his eyes. “Dude, really?” 

Dean hooks his arm into an air-sucker punch. “Puh-Powwww.”

Sam snorts out another breathy chuckle, and stands watching his brother with mild amusement. Then, without even a twitch of muscle to indicate, Sam throws his forearm underneath Dean’s outstretched one and twists it around. Sam rushes his body into his brother’s just as he loops his foot behind Dean’s ankles, knocking off the man’s balance. 

Dean quickly tries to fold inward, like a chair, to keep himself from tipping over but with Sam’s foot locked behind his, Dean trips and goes crashing to the rug below. A loud thud rocks the ground, the television vibrates from its stand, and for a short moment the house is eerily still. A long, pained groan from Dean breaks the silence. Standing above him, Sam sniggers.

Dean bends then shoots his leg out, the soles of his foot aimed directly for the hard bone of Sam’s leg. At the contact, Sam’s amusement cracks, and his face is twisting into one of hurt as his hands reach down to soothe the pain. While he is bent at the waist, Dean takes this as a chance to swing both legs up and lock them around his brother’s head, using his weight to bring him down to the floor with him. Another thud reverberates the floor, though no stillness stalks it like a shadow as the two brother’s begin to wrestle each other. 

Fistfulls of shirts are grabbed. Legs are swung around in attempts to throw the other off. Dean grunts out commands like stop that stop that stop to which Sam laughs and wrestles harder. Sam easily rolls them over and is clashing his hands and arms with Dean, attempting to restrain him, just as the floorboards of the basement stairs creak and Castiel rounds the corner, face already set in apprehensive confusion. 

The brothers pause, Sam on top with his arm straight and palm pushing into the soft skin of Dean’s cheek, and peer over. Castiel holds the laundry basket in front of him. His mouth hands open, eyebrows knitted, and a wavering silence passes by before he starts to ask, “What is go–”

“ He started it ,” they say in unison. From under Sam’s sweaty palm, Dean shoots a hard glare, and Sam says again, “We were just having a chat about your– Oh, fuck! ” He scampers off of Dean, hands rushing up to hold the side of his chest, bewildered. “Low! That was fucking low, Dean!”

Tipping his head back, Dean laughs before rolling around to pick himself up, saying, “God, I haven’t purple nurpled someone in years.” 

“What?” Castiel asks. 

“You– Um, nothing,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Sam’s just being a bitch again, ain’t that right?” He turns and looks at his brother, still curled up against the couch, and gives him a certain, hard look. 

Sam, catching this, rolls his eyes and nods along. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” He gets up off the ground, face as sour as his mood, and heads for the kitchen. Just as he passes by Dean, he picks up his palm and delivers a sharp slap to the back of his head. 

Sam jolts off, a flurry of laughter trailing him, and Dean’s body moves to follow though he stutters and stays where he is. He throws open the door and perches himself against the edge of it. Castiel, eyes darting between the brothers, seals his lips. 

“Right..” Castiel mutters, then swings the laundry basket to his hip as he begins to walk away deep into the kitchen. 

Sam gives him a tight smile as he passes, waits a moment, then looks to Dean. He opens his eyes wide and nods to Castiel in the kitchen. Dean shakes his head furiously. 

“ Talk about it with him ,” Sam whispers, then darts his eyes to the kitchen behind him. 

“ No! ” Dean mouths back.

“ Yes! Do it! ”

In a wave of brittle annoyance, Dean begins to move towards his brother. A laugh erupts out of Sam and he easily slips outside, swinging the door closed behind him to seal himself outside. Going to the window, Dean watches as Sam walks back to his own house, throwing out a series of facial expressions and gestures to say You’re going to talk to him? Yeah? Oh great!

“Bitch,” Dean mutters under his breath, throwing the curtain back in place.

Just as he’s stepping away from the window, Castiel is calling “Hey Dean?” from the kitchen.

A knot tightens itself in Dean’s stomach, because the heavy sound of Cas’ voice was the setting stone of hard reality. He swallows through the cold dread and walks into the kitchen, legs feeling as though he’s treading through water. “Yeah Cas?”

Castiel stands at the dining table, folded clothes spread out in systematic piles. Dean pauses a ways away and folds his arms, body still thick and ridged with dread coursing through him. 

“Sam doesn’t seem as on board as you are with me becoming human,” he says, throwing a messily folded shirt onto a small tower of colors. “I don’t understand why I have to go through the Counsel of Sam.”

Dean snorts out a laugh, one that dissolves the sick feeling. He shrugs and says, “He’s just worried. Like how you were when I first brought it up.” Dean throws up a hand and walks closer, gripping the back of a chair and leaning on it. “It’s not that big of a deal. He’ll come around, trust me.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He will,” Dean assures. His eyes study the piles before him, only to snap up, face lightening, when an idea comes to him. “Hey, why don’t we have dinner here tonight with all of us? Yeah?” He grins. “Like a family. We can talk about it then and get Sammy on board.”

Castiel pushes a breath out. “Alright.”

Dean hitches up an eyebrow. “What? You don’t like?”

“No, it’s- it’s a fair plan,” he replies. “I just don’t understand what there is to talk about. I want to become human.. I become human. It’s simple.”

“Well,” Dean says, exasperated, “it wasn’t that simple when I first offered it.”

“I’ve thought it through now. I have a plan. Ideas.”

Clapping his hands together, the grin slides itself back onto Dean’s face. “Perfect! You can share them at dinner.” He pushes himself off the back of the chair and points to a pile. “These mine?”

Castiel nods and Dean gathers them up, adding a ball of socks after a second of considering if they are indeed his or not. He begins to move towards the stairs and Castiel twists around, pushing out, “But, Dean–”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Dean says, forming his hands into two unsteady thumbs-ups as he climbs the stairs. Castiel’s mouth screws into a frown and he leans back onto the table. He looks down at the task, face fallen with dull disappointment.

Chapter Text

The evening sun sits in the middle of the sky, bright and dazzling on the surface of the ocean. Palm leaves are still from where they droop off their trunks, heavy from the thick and sticky humidity that Sam now walks through. 

He jumps up the porch steps of the other house, excited at the prospect of a family dinner together. Between Dean’s shifts and meandering around the island, their dining tables have been routinely empty, save for whatever junk gets thrown onto it. Breakfast is the only meal they sit down and eat together, even if it doesn’t feel complete with Castiel’s lack of appetite. A homemade meal that doesn’t consist of eggs or bread or bacon has Sam in high spirits. 

Letting himself into the house Sam breathes in fresh air, exhales, and the next breath in is mixed with the pungent smell of cooked onions and garlic. With his hands full he kicks back the door and cringes as it slams into the frame, but smoothly greets the two. Holding up what he brought, a bottle of red wine and three wine glasses (knowing Dean has none) he dances them in the air. 

“Table Pinot Noir.” Sam puts on his best voice to mimic a high-end restaurant waiter, holding the bottle like a trophy. 

Dean looks up through his eyebrows from where he stands behind the island counter, arranging the meals. “Expensive?” 

“Thirty bucks.”

“Oh,” Dean laughs. “That’s expensive enough to me.”

Breathing out his own chuckle, Sam sets his gift down on the partially set dining table. Napkins lay smooth and folded, glimmering utensils weighing them down. “This all feels so.. proper,” Sam comments, taking it in. He turns to look at his brother, his eyes amused question marks. “What’s the big news?”

Dean freezes, then slowly drops his arms to the counter and stares up at his brother, face stoic. The stare is hard and long enough that the bubbles of amusement are popping at a quick rate inside Sam, forcing him into a freefall of disappointment. 

“No?” asks Sam. 

“No,” Dean cooly replies. 

“No?” Castiel asks, turning from where he was loading the dishwasher to bounce his gaze between the two. “No what?”

“No nothing,” says Dean without sparing a glance. “Right Sam?”

With his grin now in a tight frown, Sam echoes “Right.” He pulls out a chair to sit, not bothering to move a hand to push away his fallen hair that acts like a curtain to block his face from Dean’s persistent stare. 

“Right…” Castiel says slowly, giving each brother one more lost look before finishing loading the dishwasher. As he seals the steel door and the satisfying click sounds, Dean is casting him a quick look before he grabs the two plates and brings them to the table. 

The arrangement of seasoned grilled chicken and roasted peppers dripping with juice summons a wash of saliva in Sam’s mouth. “This looks amazing guys,” he says, fork and knife already in hand as if impatient to dig in. 

“Cas made it,” Dean says, standing tall. An easy grin comes up on his face, bright with pride. “All by himself.”

“No,” Castiel fights back. He tips the bottle until it’s straight, the last wine glass only with a splash of red. “Not all by myself.”

Dean half-shrugs. “Mostly by himself,” he tells Sam.

“Wrong again.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine. It was fifty-fifty.”

Castiel nods. “Better.” 

As Dean mouths whatever , Castiel forces the corkscrew back into the mouth of the bottle, then carefully collects the three glasses of wine into his hands. Fingers sprayed out long and wide to keep the bowls steady. Sam is grimacing watching him slide the glasses off the counter, eyes on the cups, feet moving slow and methodically. 

Just as Castiel reaches the halfway point, Dean turns around. “Dude! No!” Two large steps and he’s carefully grabbing two of the stems and pulls them away from the bouquet. “You could’ve dropped them and stained the rug, man!”

Castiel slides his eyes into an annoyed glare. “I would not have,” he bites back. 

“No, it was scaring me, too,” Sam adds. 

With a heated sigh, Castiel mutters, “You two need to learn to trust me.”

“Buddy,” Dean says sitting down, leaning back in the chair after he slid Sam his glass, “we do trust you. Now,” he motions to the last renaming chair. After a side-glare, Castiel sits down, pinching and rolling the stem of the wine glass. 

Quickly, Dean becomes distracted. Urging his brother to try it, try the food , Sam bites into the chicken and peppers while Dean sits in anticipation. Once Sam’s head bobs up and down Dean pumps a fist in the air. 

“I suppose I don’t need a day to learn how to cook then, do I?” Castiel asks with a drop of poison. 

Sam’s chewing slows, eyes big and confused. He flickers them to Dean, then back to Castiel. Realization flickers on his face and with a full mouth says, “Ohhh. Right.” He shrugs, finishes his bite, and says breathily, “Guess not.” His hand is fast to bring the wine glass to his lips, eyes diverted. 

“Alright, alright,” Dean says, hands up, “Sammy, what Cas here is trying to say–”

“Your chores are dumb,” Castiel says. A second of consideration passes on his face, and with a nod adds, “And stupid.”

“Dumb and stupid mean the same thing,” Sam says. “There’s no point in–”

“God, you two,” Dean groans. “Cut it out.” Two pointed fingers push at the soft skin of his temples, creating tiny folds. “Cas, play nice, alright? Be a big boy and tell Sam what you want using your words.”

Castiel squints at Dean. “I am using my words.”

“Use nice words. Jesus.” Dean takes a drink of his wine. Which easily slips into three.

Castiel side-glances at Sam, then turns fully in his chair to face him. During the night when the brothers are asleep, the long hours provide little company to Castiel. Between binge-watching television shows and curiously going outside to observe the nocturnal animals come alive, his mind wandered great distances. It always plagued him - the idea of becoming human. The fantasy orbited Castiel like a comet; coming around periodically to taunt him before getting shot far out into space, only to return at a later date. Over and over and over. Only in the early millenniums of his existence did the game bother him. When his missions were situated on Earth the game became familiar, comforting. Sometimes he even found himself calling out to the comet, changing its path to arrive at him sooner. Though, the goodbye never changed. 

Now, everything is different. Everything is better.

In moonlit living rooms or cold beaches, the orbit of the fantasy became shorter and shorter until it was persistent like cicadas in the summertime. As days passed by (ones filled with domestic duties and open windows to allow in warm, fresh air, and easy laughter, light lilts, comfortable and inviting glows from lamps in corners of rooms) the idea of becoming human felt real to Castiel. It felt achievable, inevitable, like it was a date to mark down on his calendar. Going to the aquarium only elucidated that longing. 

In the few days since that trip, Castiel used the long nights to ponder a way to get around Sam’s blockage. The hesitation watered down the becoming-human-fantasy, but the flow of ideas that only sprung on him late into the night was like a sponge in his mind. 

“Sam,” Castiel starts. The other man sits stiffly in his chair, one arm stretched out onto the table where his thumb nail picks at the edge of the dinner plate. “I want to know what your biggest concern is in regards to me becoming human. What is holding you back?”

Sam casts his eyes to the floor. The hand in his lap finds its way up to his mouth, thumb angled to bare the nail to his teeth, but he hesitates and drops it back into his lap. “I-I… Well, what if people come for us? That’s all I can think about, you know? You lose your powers, arguably the one thing keeping us safe, then what? We-we just die?”

“No, we don’t just die ,” Dean interjects. “We fight. Like we always have been.”

“Who’s to say anyone will come after us?” Castiel adds. “Everyone believes Dean and I to be dead.”

Sam folds in his arms. “You never know.”

“I don’t–” Castiel begins, though snaps his sharp tone off with a thin inhale. His shoulders falter and he tries again, softer, “I don’t understand wallowing in your fears. Yes,” he agrees, “you never know. Although I think it’s useless to be sitting around waiting for something to happen that will make us know.”

“I’m just trying to be rational here,” Sam says. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“I don’t see the rationalization of wasting our time worrying about our past.” 

“I’m not worrying. I’m taking learned experiences of our past and applying it to the future. It’s different.”

Dean’s shoulder’s bounce in a half-shrug. “Sounds like worrying to me,” he says to Castiel who nods.

“It’s not! It’s different.”

“Worrying or not,” Castiel says, “I have an idea that might help with your hesitation.”

Fliting his eyes to Dean briefly, Sam shifts his weight before nodding. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

Let’s hear it turn the gears inside Castiel, revving him up in smoking excitement. His voice teeter-totters between steady and eager as he outlines the idea he’s had brewing for the past couple of nights. 

He finds it to be beyond simple. It baffles him slightly that Sam, the smart one, hadn’t thought about it before. Angelic grace can be stored anywhere - capsules, necklaces, trees, mason jars! Which is the main component to Castiel’s plan. A mason jar is the perfect receptacle for his grace, and if placed strategically inside the house, one of the three could reach it if needed. It would be best, Castiel knows, to keep it out of plain sight. It wouldn’t be smart to have it as mantel decor. But tucked away inside a drawer or under the couch would do. 

While Castiel talks, Dean watches his brother’s face. Sam’s muscles move together, shifting in the same way as the moon’s phases glide through a month. His expression starts as a full moon of denial. A flicker of the eyes. A sliver of Sam’s face holds understanding: the waxing gibbous. In the silence after Castiel’s explanation, his words hanging like burning stars of desire in the air, Sam’s mouth twitches in uncertainty, his thoughts becoming divided on his face.

“And this is what you want?”

Castiel nods. 

Sam pushes a loud flow of air out of his nose. Castiel’s eagerness to be filled with humanness seeps out of him and wets the corners of Sam. His reluctance waxes off of his face, but a crescent of worry still latches on. “If this is what you want.”

A loud, sharp noise startles Sam and Castiel and when their heads snap over to Dean, they find his hands pressed together, the aftermath of his clap still ringing in their ears. “That is the sound of sweet victory, Cas.”

“That’s the sound of hearing loss,” Sam mutters, his pinky outstretched to rub at his ear. “When are you thinking of doing this?”

Without missing a beat, Castiel says, “Today.”

Eyebrows fly up in bewilderment, and Sam is quick to look at Dean for backup. “T-today?” he sputters out. “Today as in, like, to-day?”

“Unless humans have made up another definition for today,” Castiel says, “then yes, to-day.” With a dramatic, annoyed eye roll, he adds:“What’s the problem?”

“I mean,” Sam breathes out, “isn’t that a little soon?”

Getting up from the table, Castiel shrugs. “I’m not getting any older.” 

“Sammy,” Dean says, copying Cas’ movements, “don’t fight it, alright? It’s Cas’ life. And, plus, I think he gave you a pretty awesome compromise.”

Eyes narrow, looking up at the ceiling in thought, Sam mutters, “I don’t think…” He trails off, his thought only meeting an end inside his head. 

Castiel is behind the island counter rummaging through cabinets until he pulls out a clear mason jar, only to reach back in for its missing tin hat. Dean, with a little pep in his step, disappears around the doorway into the living room. Sam places himself by the side door, chin dipped in inconsolable worry. When a knife is pulled out from its wooden block, a high-pitched woosh follows its unsheathing, Sam’s eyebrows jump as he tenses up. 

Dean comes back into the kitchen and raises a thin, white, rectangular paper between two fingers. A band-aid pulled out from the first-aid kit inside the small closet at the top of the basement stairs. Castiel narrows his eyebrows, shakes his head. “Dean, I don’t need–”

“You’re gonna be human. Humans bleed. You’ll bleed.”

There is no specific reason as to why the transition is happening outside, but when Castiel pauses in the middle of the yard, standing on kaleidoscope shadows and looking up at the cotton candy sky that quite sharply cuts off into shades of light blues and deep grays, it feels right. To be surrounded by the chirps of birds and the rustling of squirrels and not holed up inside (even though he finds the house to be a cute piece of architecture). 

He passes the jar to Sam who still holds onto that crescent moon of worry, but he dutifully unscrews it and holds the lid and screw-band in one hand, jar in the other. Dean, with the band-aid and a damp washcloth, asks, “Ready?”

Castiel mimics an ocean’s wave with his fingers around the handle of the knife. He’s nervous, he can feel the humming buzz of it, but instead he says, “Yes.”

The humidity wraps around them even thicker than before as Castiel raises the blade to his throat, creating a soft divot in his skin. Sam jumps his weight from one foot to the other, then quickly blurts, “You-you’re sure you know how to do this?”

Through slitted eyes, Castiel looks at him. “Yes.” He lowers the knife slightly. 

“Okay,” mutters Sam. He takes a step back.

Castiel keeps his eyes on Sam for a second longer, then tilts his neck back and returns the position of the knife. He squeezes his eyes closed, the soft skin around wrinkling. 

“Just–” Dean now cuts in. Castiel drops both his head and the knife. “-don’t cut too deep, yeah?”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel asks, “Do you think I was planning to?” Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Castiel interrupts with, “You’re not supposed to answer that. Just..” He spreads out both hands in front of him, palms down, “let me do what I need to do.”

With a clarifying breath, Castiel creates the divot in his neck again. A soft breeze drifts by, relinquishing the hold the heat had on their skin. Internally, he counts to three. 

There is no prick of pain. No heat rises. Not even the brothers can point out the moment when the knife slid across Castiel’s bare neck. One moment Castiel is screwing his eyes shut, his body tensing, and the next there is a high pitched ringing in the air and a rip of blue is creeping out from the cut. 

Castiel’s lips peel open as he lowly grunts. It takes a second for Sam to get kicked from his trance, but once the angelic grace begins its slow-motion descent down, he’s skittishly jumping the mason jar towards Cas’ neck. The grace easily falls into the waiting jar, whorling about, and Sam keeps it steady until its tail slips in as well. Quickly, he snaps the lid onto the jar and seals the grace and the high ringing inside. He turns away and screws the lid on as tight as he can muster. 

Dean’s eyes are locked onto Castiel’s face and the strict red line on his neck, searching for anything. He reaches out, forgetting about his role, and gently grabs Castiel’s arm. “Cas?” He asks, voice tight in worry. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”

Castiel looks at him through slitted eyes, his mouth gently agape. His head rolls forward and his knees buckle underneath him but it’s his feet that are the cause for his fall because it was them who went numb. The earthy ground bites at the bareness of his knees, flaring his skin red. Dean is getting on his own hands and knees to be in the grass with him, his hand planted on Cas’ back.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he’s saying, getting his face close to measure the amount of discomfort or pain Castiel is displaying on his face. Sam is kneeling next to Dean and taking the band-aid and the cloth from him before pushing the latter to Cas’ thin wound. 

The cool dampness on Castiel’s clammy skin helps pull him back to reality; helps ground him. But only for a moment. As he revels in the feeling of the washcloth, he picks up on Dean’s secure touch on his back and, as if that was Castiel’s life source, instantly gets soothed. His body relaxes and his heart rate slows. He puts all his focus onto the weight of Dean’s hand. 

Then, the coolness leaves his neck.

Dean retracts his hand. 

Castiel is suddenly and intensely noticing the clamminess of his skin and the uncomfortable, but subtle itch of his clothes. The squawks of the birds are loud in his ears and ground into his senses and nerves, irritating them both. The cut on his neck sharply stings. His chest is heavy. 

He lifts his head and through the brightness of the outdoors, he’s peering up at a blurry Sam and Dean, his eyes watery. He catches the worried look both brothers hold for him and the weight of the guilt for being the cause crashes into him like a rogue wave. He hangs his head again and the cut burns as it gets folded between rolls of skin. 

“Cas,” comes Dean’s voice, “are you okay?”

“I’m..” he begins, but he’s cut off from the dull burn of his lungs. He sucks in a breath, then another, and another. He drags air in just as he’s dragging his hands through the dirt because it’s all mounting inside of him: guilt, fear, sadness, anticipation, grief.

With the same dimness of the stars in the night sky, there’s also a streak of happiness, a blindfold of confusion, the nakedness of shame, and the hot light of love. 

He looks up at Dean and takes in one final breath. Just like that night from nearly a month ago, Dean’s anatomical structure shifts before his eyes. He beholds Dean in a new light, in a new way. His eyes flit over to Sam and with a pang of strangeness, he looks different to Castiel as well. Are they strangers who live in the faces of his friends, or do his friends live in the masks of strangers?

He blinks, and again they are Sam and Dean Winchester.

In a thick and coarse voice, Castiel whispers, “I’m devastated.”

Chapter Text

Devastated. Deva-stated. De-va-sta-ted. 

Dean has been so sucked into his own head all morning that he doesn’t notice the metal barrel until his cart is colliding into it, creating an awkwardly loud clashing noise of metal against metal. Looking over his shoulder, the empty aisle releases him from the embarrassment. 

“ What was that? ” Sam asks from the other side of the phone. 

“Nothin’,” Dean lies, rerouting the cart, reality cemented back in front of his eyes. “What were you saying?”

“ Asking when you’d be back. I have a feeling Cas would respond to you. ”

“Keep trying,” Dean says. “He’s probably just sleeping. Cas being.. human.. is something we haven’t dealt with before. We just gotta be patient with him."

“It’s four in the afternoon, Dean. He’s been in his room since yesterday. We’re coming up on nearly a day of him not eating, dude.” Another tight exhale. “I’m worried."

“Then knock down the door if you’re so damn worried.” A vision of Sam’s face pinching in annoyance flashes in Dean’s mind. He chuckles, tilting the phone away from his cheek so as to not let Sam catch his light laugh. “Sammy,” he continues, “I’ll be home soon. Just keep trying to talk to him. Anyone would respond just for you to quit your jabbering.”

“ Whatever, dude ,” Sam hisses. “ I’m making those steaks tonight, so don’t forget to– ”

“Yeah, yeah. You told me before I left for work.”

“ And the– ”

In a swift motion Dean drops the back of his hand to the bar of the cart and ends the call, loosening his fingers for his phone to drop into the basket. 

Devastated. Deva-stated. De-va-sta-ted. 

Dean knows all too well how that emotion makes you feel. Skipping dinner, sleeping for extended periods of time, even not conjuring up enough energy to respond to someone from the other side of a locked bedroom door adds up. It’s not unusual. Especially in the scenario they are in. 

Still, the word repeats obsessively inside Dean’s mind. Devastated. Castiel didn’t sound all that devastated over their text messages earlier that morning. Pausing near the bottles of seasoning in a near empty aisle, Dean lifts up his phone again. Deva-stated. The conversation was short. It fills the whole screen; no need for scrolling. De-va-sta-ted. 

Morning Cas. You doing alright?

Hi Dean. I am thirsty and tired.

And more, but I don’t know how 

to explain it. 

Need me to come home?

You’re not home?

No dummy, I’m at work. Sam should be there. Have him make you lunch.

I’ll be back in a couple hours.

Dean reads and rereads. Then reads again, just because he’s finding a slight sense of rising enjoyment out of revisiting his conversations with Castiel. When the texts were being exchanged earlier that morning when Dean was busy at work, Dean had thought the and more… comment was harmless. That it went no deeper than Castiel losing the words for simple muscle aches and pains. 

He looks up, recalling how distracted he was with the shipment that morning. Reading the incoming texts while unpacking the wine bottles from their wooden crate; responding with one hand while the other made room for the Tito’s. Nodding his head to the side, Dean relents his previous position and begins to understand why Sam branched off into a forest of worry. 

An urge to text Castiel pulls at Dean, but he moves his feet swiftly over the reflective tiled floor to wrap up his shopping trip. There are vines that wrap loosely around his gut, but he knows that the questions he has for Cas’ well-being are best asked in-person. Just a few more home items, the ingredients Sam asked for, a bag or two of chips Dean thinks Castiel would like, and maybe another puzzle before he’s carrying the reusable bags Sam makes him use out to Baby. 

Dean finds it to be unfortunate that his most prized possession – the impala – has to be parked outside, under a dense collection of low-hanging leaves just because the houses have no attached garage. Even the bunker had a garage. In a way, one that Dean doesn’t contemplate on, it detaches the feeling of home from the houses. 

When he was younger, back when there was still a little flame of hope in his tiny chest that John would come to his senses and move them into a proper home, he had always imagined the stereotypical American suburban house. Especially the ones seen on Desperate Housewives, a show preteen Dean watched as if he was watching something pornographic. Thumb stationed on the channel button while he got lost in the plot. 

Houses with long, wide driveways (preferably one with a basketball hoop so he, Sam, and John could play together). A large dining table for him and Sammy to do their homework on. Bunk-beds. Kitchen that never goes cold. A garden, one that Mary would tend to (a vaporized imaginary Mary. One that made the flowers grow tall with vibrance. But then Dean would blink, and the garden would go brown. Die and decay with his fantasy). 

His senses get pulled back into him and the green backyard is before his eyes, simmering in the heat beyond the windshield. He twists the keys out of the ignition and exits the car, the door groaning. He catches sight of Sam crossing the lawn, pace set in a swift determination. 

When Sam gets close enough, he asks, “So, what’s the plan?”

Dean pulls out the lumps of reusable bags out from the trunk. “Huh?” He swings the heaviest bag to Sam, who catches it and holds it to his chest. “We have a plan?”

“For Cas,” Sam explains. “What do you think we should do?”

“I dunno,” Dean says. He begins to walk towards the houses and Sam jumps to follow him. “Do we really need a plan? Is it really that serious?”

Sam stutters on a letter, then scoffs, face blown in bewilderment. “Wow. I was expecting you to be more…”

“..More what?” Dean side-eyes his brother. Sam pauses, dropping the bag that was cradled in his arms to his side, fingers curled around the strap. Dean suppresses a sigh and stops as well, a twig breaking under his shoe with a satisfying snap.

“More worried.” 

Dean shakes his head, twisting on his heel to continue to Sam’s deck. “Cas? He’s going to be fine. We’ve been through worse,” he calls out over his shoulder. Sparing a quick glance, he makes sure Sam is following. “There is no way this is what brings him down.”

As they wrestle the bags inside and onto the counter, Sam has the grim look he always wears when Dean’s logic overpowers his own. An expression of stubborn reluctance. “Fine,” he mutters, and that short word brings about that older-sibling-proves-to-be-right-once-again flame of superiority in Dean. It shows on his face. He can feel the way his facial muscles pull upwards, the slight smirk showing through. 

Catching this, Sam’s face falls flat. “You’re such a dick.”

“Wrong!” Dean says, pushing the bag that is filled with Sam’s request. “How can I be a dick when I buy all your favorite things, huh?” The smirk grows while he watches Sam use his pointer finger to lift up the sagging canvas to peer at the contents. 

Sam pulls out a book, his fingertips making a chalky noise as they run across the soft cover. A small, partially amused smile comes up on his face as he reads the cover. “Dude, why the hell did you get me Diary of a Wimpy Kid?”

Dean shrugs, his smile giddily growing. “Thought you’d relate to h–” 

His words get abruptly cut off, his body kicking into a hard flinch when Sam’s arm swiftly raises the book over his shoulder, threatening to throw it. 

“Yo, dude, chill out,” Dean says, slowly relaxing his jolted body. He inches towards the open back door, eyes cautiously on his brother. “It was either between that or Dork Diaries–”

The book hurls towards Dean, whooshing past his ear and splattering across the floor behind him. Laughter bubbles out of him and he skids towards the outdoors. Paranoia that Sam would throw something else to hit his target seers his back, only melting away once he’s safely halfway towards his own house. 

He sneaks inside through the side door. Setting the last two bags onto the kitchen counter, Dean’s eyes curiously walk up the stairs to the second level. The house is still and quiet, the only signal Dean needed to know that Castiel still had not breached his bedroom door. Grabbing the bag that holds the puzzle, Dean follows his gaze up the steps. 

“Cas,” Dean says, eyes on his feet as they carry him up, “I get that this has gotta be hard on you, but if there is anything I can…” As the second floor inches into his field of vision, so do two white socked feet. Looking up, Dean meets eyes with Castiel. A surprised “oh” falls from his mouth. Then: “Hey, buddy. How are you feeling?”

The caught off guard look on Castiel’s face flickers away. It slides into one of guiltiness, eyes still blown wide as he looks down at what he holds in his hands. Dean follows his gaze downwards. Castiel fumbles with a small cassette tape in his hands. 

“Awesome. Which tape is that one?” Dean curiously asks as he climbs the last two steps, joining Castiel in front of his bedroom door. He throws the straps of the bag around the banister, leaving the puzzle to hang. Before Castiel can respond, before he can flinch the tape away, Dean plucks it out of his hands. 

With a hammering heart, he watches Dean’s eyes scan the words. The recognition registers as he reads his own handwriting. Dean stills. 

“I, uh,” Castiel says. “I went looking for you after I woke up.” He jumps his weight from one foot to the other. Dean stays still and silent. His eyes glued to the tape in his hand. “Found.. that.. on your bedside table.”

Dean runs a thumb over the dried ink. For Cas. “Did you listen to it?” His gaze races up to Castiel’s, then at the contact, shies away. 

“No,” Castiel lies. “ Yes .” He drums his fingertips against his thigh in rhythm to his heartbeat. “Yes, I listened to it.”

Dean doesn’t respond. A whiteness spreads over his pink knuckles as he holds onto the cassette tape tighter. The entire house has an eerie silence to it, as if each room is holding its breath. Castiel, still agitated with anxiety, races through what he could possibly do next. Say next. 

Dean twists and walks away from Castiel, heading for his bedroom. Released from the suffocating grip of anticipation, Castiel’s feet stutter before he too is entering Dean’s room. An apology skims his tongue, wanting to jump out. But, the events from weeks prior unfold before his eyes.

Minty fresh breath. Moonlit carpet. The wafting detergent from a clean shirt. A soft, hesitant kiss. 

The apology disappears. Castiel stands in the doorway of the room. He watches Dean toss the cassette tape onto the bedside table, the plastic skidding across the surface before smacking into the lamp. The longer Dean keeps his back to Castiel, the higher his frustration rises.

“Care to explain,” he snaps, “what that meant?”

Nothing , Dean wants to breathe out. Nothing , he wants to say. Nothing because saying nothing feels easier than saying the truth. The truth. What is the truth? 

That cassette tape. That’s the truth. 

Castiel. He listened to it. He stands behind Dean now, demanding the truth. 

Dean opens his mouth to respond, yet finds less than a squeak coming out. He forces himself to laugh. It comes out bitter and hollow. But at least it relinquishes him from the stilling fear. 

“It- It meant, uh,” Dean stutters. Nothing. “It was, uh.”

The swishing of clothes against clothes comes up behind Dean. Castiel is leaning over to snatch the cassette tape off the table and stands facing Dean’s hunched shoulder. 

“This,” Castiel hisses. He points the tape at Dean’s profile. “Explain this.”

Explain this. Explain that? How!? Dean wants to yell. The tape was supposed to be the explanation. You cannot explain the explanation. 

“I can’t,” Dean whispers. “It’s all said–”

“ Can’t ?” Castiel echoes. He lets out an exasperated breath. “Still? You still can’t.” With his eyes trained on Dean’s profile, he slowly begins to shake his head. “Can’t,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “Still can’t. Of course.” 

He looks down at the cassette in his hands. For Cas blares up at him. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Castiel mutters, his head still shaking. 

Dean huffs out a short, tight breath. He slowly cranes his neck to peer down at the cassette tape as well. His fingers twitch at the urge to grab it back, burning at the need to feel the plastic ridges under his fingertips, but he holds back. Not wanting to get too close.

Nausea curls up in his stomach. The plan of saying nothing crushes down onto him, the silence between Castiel’s voice becoming unbearable. All that races through his mind is what will happen next. 

Castiel could leave angry. He could continue to ramble, his voice like bricks on Dean’s shoulders. It would serve as a just punishment, Dean thinks, so maybe as a consequence he should force himself to sit through Castiel’s pain and feel that same pain himself. But the silence is feeling watery. Castiel is looking away, as if he’s getting ready to leave. Leave Dean in the wake of his anger.

“It was supposed to be a gift,” Dean starts. He keeps his eyes on the tape in Cas’ hand. The bunker cements itself around him. The fading desk lamp. The cool concrete under his feet. His headphones tight against his ears. The ache in his chest. 

“Two years ago.. everything was going to shit. Everything. And.. and every time we got close to winning, something eventually dragged us back down.” 

The bunker flickers. The stone walls turn into a cooler gray. Fluorescent lights buzz from above his head. Or was it from within his head? There is a solid object in his hand, scratching another line into the stone, marking yet another day detained in the secret service prison. The lack of communication becoming unbearable. 

Then, they were freed. Hopes became lifted. Life seemed to be picking up. Until Castiel killed Billie, and it all came crashing down again. Another fear, another stressor.

Back then, Dean was still severely apprehensive about the birth of Jack. And Kelly’s labor was on the horizon. With every passing day, it seemed more and more like the end of the world. The end of the world and Dean didn’t know where Castiel was in it. 

“It all,” Dean continues, voice weak, “just kept piling higher and higher. More and more. It was never-fucking-ending.”

The Brits. Mary’s questionable faith. 

“I started to get sick from the stress. Like, actually sick. But I couldn’t take a sick day. Hunters don’t get that. Especially not with the shit Sam and I were dealing with.”

A blank cassette tape. A list of songs. 

“I needed a way to release some of the pent up emotions. I wanted to talk to Mary. I tried. I called, texted..” Dean shakes his head. “When that didn’t work, I needed another outlet.”

The carefully chosen lyrics. The crafted meaning. 

Castiel runs his thumb over his own inked name. “Why didn’t you give it to me?”

“I gave you the other one. The Led Zeppelin one.”

“But,” Castiel pushes, “why not this one?”

Dean is quiet for a moment. Castiel has no hesitation in staring at Dean’s downturned face.

“I was going to. I had a plan and everything,” he confesses. “I was waiting for the right time. Like before the final battle. Either the night before when everyone was together, or just before. But, either you weren’t there or I was too distracted. Or on the off chance you were around and I did remember, my gut was telling me to wait.. But..” He shrugs. “I made the Zepp one at the same time I made this one, and it felt easier giving it to you. It wasn’t as…”

“Straightforward?”

Dean purses his lips. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Exactly that.”

Castiel plays with the cassette tape. The fragile plastic grates against itself. “Did I..” he begins, then pauses. “Did I.. understand it correctly?” He asks, poising the tape up between his fingers. “What you are trying to communicate?”

Dean tries to slowly breathe through the hot nausea creeping up his torso. The gradual evolution of the conversation ebbs the fear only slightly. Yet, the end of each sentence leaves space for the spiking anticipation of another gentle, needed, push.

Chapter Text

Being in love with Dean Winchester is sweet misery.

And, oh , what a terrible feeling, Castiel concludes, to be filled to the brim with hot emotions; full in your chest, bubbling in your toes, catching and drowning your breath until it feels like suffocation. A suffocation that fuzzes up the head, muffling the thoughts, the actions, the words, the feelings. Is that heat rising, building, towering in his chest something to cling on to, or something to fall from? Down to the deepest pits of his stomach. 

When he had woken up that first morning, freshly human, his eyes were caked with crust. The sunlight beaming in from the bare window was bright in his eyes, flooding his vision with harsh yellowy-white, which made it easy for him to twist around in his jumbled sheets and go back to sleep in the darkness of his pillow. 

Waking up again, a stretch of itchiness expanding across his back from his sunlight-heated shirt brought him back outside under the kaleidoscope leaves, where the humidity was heavy and the sticks were sharp in his skin, and the tree was smooth, but when Castiel opened his eyes it was not a trunk but rather the bedside table his knuckles were grazing. 

A bedside table that was empty, save for the lamp and his cell phone. No glass of ice water. Nothing to slide over his dry mouth and cotton tongue. In his deliriousness of sleep, a type of bewitchment that forever has the eyes unfocused and the thoughts confused, Castiel had sent out a thought to Dean. Praying to and asking for him to bring up cold water, but the request just barely exited his mind before it was submerged once again.  

Movement from the floor below pulled Castiel out of his lapping dreams. The window he turned towards framed a deliciously bright blue sky outside. Was that Dean downstairs? The thought was so bleak and mild it had gone underwater for an immeasurable amount of time, taken up by the passing current of wispy dreams. Dean’s blurry face behind his eyes snapped him back to reality and once again, with more strength, he thought: Dean?

The pull of emotion inside his chest at that name had brought about enough awakeness to leave his eyes open, slowly blinking at the still room. After moments of fleeting, empty thoughts and a gradual awareness being settled back into his body, limb by limb, does Castiel turn his head to where his phone laid. 

Dean had texted first just an hour prior, and when Castiel’s thumbs dully tapped out a response, it was only seconds later he was reading another incoming text.

Talking to Dean brought about a sense of calm, like a gentle hand evening out a crumpled paper. The scattering of nerves high in his chest were soothed, and even with the new information of Dean not being home, just being in contact with him was enough. Enough for Castiel to throw off the twisted tornado of sheets and hobble his way out of his locked bedroom, legs and ankles stiff from long sleep. 

Standing at the top of the stairs, Castiel’s still sleep-fogged eyes curiously watched as the dust bites lounged in the air, illuminated by the incoming sunlight. It was just so apparent, so there , that it caught him in a way he had never expected himself to be. The fine particles made up of their dead skin cells, hair, clothing fibers. With a hand on the banister, Castiel thought, is this Dean’s he’s inhaling? Miniature aspects of him that will always be around, floating in midday sunlight, even though he is not?

In the kitchen with a glass of ice water in his hand, Castiel stood leaning against the counter feeling the absolute stillness of the house. He gulped the water down, moved for a refill, and continued the pattern until he felt sick with the liquid. Leaving the cup to stand alone in the sink, Castiel walked through the stale air into the living room where he found nothing else but himself and the beauty of natural light. 

The sun-washed couches called out to him, but Castiel turned on his heel and made his way up the stairs. He was aiming for his bedroom, his cellphone in mind, though once on the second floor he threw an easy glance over his shoulder, wondrous eyes wandering around. The sight of Dean’s bedroom door slightly ajar with the column of wall so bright caught his attention. He rounded the banister and walked closer, using his knuckles to push the door open further. 

Castiel, the black sheep of an angel, had always had a fascination for Earth’s natural beauties. It was the other angels who were entranced with space and time, fabrics of the universe and the ultimate, flowing fountain of knowledge. But it was Castiel who liked to be in the presence of the oceans, the microscopic beginnings of life. As the Earth revolved around the sun, as the years stretched on and on, as oceans receded and mountains rose, he was continuously and utterly infatuated. To him, it was near impossible to put the Earth’s wonders on a scale. 

Yet, as he stood in the doorway of Dean’s bedroom, he was proved to be so, so wrong. 

The sight was so average, it made it all that more stunning to Castiel. Squares of yellow-gold light cascaded in through the windows, the curtains carelessly pushed back. For a second, Dean vaporized into the air and Castiel watched as he, still in his pajamas and ruffled hair, sleepily moved the curtains aside before he got ready for his day. 

As Castiel stood there staring, it felt just so correct to be there. Like a cup being set into a cupboard, or a period at the end of a sentence. There was no sense of outsiderness. He was not the visitor inside the museum looking at all the displayed paintings, but rather what the artist had brushed in. 

Castiel meandered through. He walked past the dresser which sat all Dean’s favorite CD’s and cassettes, a couple stacked on top of the radio. A shirt left hanging from the doorknob of the closet. The pair of slippers set carefully on the floor at the end of the bed. Castiel’s fingertips gently brushed across the ripple of bedsheets. His eyes skimmed across the fluffed pillows, smiling softly at the mental image of Dean taking time out of his busy morning to do so. He stood lingering in the area between the bed and the wall. It felt so comforting to be in Dean’s space, to be surrounded by his items and his clothing and the ghostly trace of his actions. Would it be strange, Castiel thought, to stay here all day until he came back?

Maybe a little, he concluded. Especially considering that now he was human, the muscles in his legs wear out, his body becomes tired in the passing hours. He glanced at the side table before moving to leave, though something so horribly familiar made him stutter to a stop. Did he read that right? He took a closer look at what he thought he saw. 

A cassette tape sat in the center of the bedside table. On the thin white band sat six bold, capital letters. 

FOR CAS

He narrowed his eyes. Sliding it off of the table, he held the sun-warmed tape up to his face. He tilted his chin, looked up and around at the room as he tried to conjure up a memory of what this tape could be. He has no birthday; he has no anniversary to celebrate. There are no holidays around the corner. 

Could it be just because? 

A memory melted into place around him. A cold underground room; gray bricks lining the walls. Dean standing in front of him under the bunker hallway lights, just barely catching up to Castiel before he departed on another angelic mission. He wore a hesitant smile, shy eyes. A cassette tape fiddling between nervous fingers. 

“You said you liked one of the songs,” Dean had said, “when we were driving around in Baby together.” He held out the gift for Castiel to take. “These are my favorite thirteen tracks.”

A gift just because. And another - an old cassette tape player that the brothers used to wrestle each other for when they were kids. Due to the severe lack of personal items, Castiel had no problem finding it pushed into the back of a drawer inside his own bedroom. 

He sat back on his heels fiddling with the thing. After two years, the knowledge on how to use it slowly seeped from the inner workings of his brain down to his fingers until the headphones began softly whispering into the carpet. With sore ankles, Castiel rounded his legs to be sitting criss-cross. The wires clicked softly against the plastic as he strapped the headphones around his head.

The introductory guitar, loud and fast, sounded like spinning on a carnival ride. Bright tears of reds, yellows, greens, and blues streaking vision as the machine went round and round. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement of the music, but once the lyrics came in, Castiel knew that this was no second Led Zeppelin tape. The song felt familiar; easily recognizable. Not enough to name it or the singer, but enough to recall that late summer day. 

Sam was off with Jody and Claire, taking care of a particularly nasty vampire nest in Sioux Falls. Dean had stayed behind to finish whatever it was he had been working on. Castiel was left clueless to the details, as that was during one of their more muddier periods, and whenever he had inquired he got a lousy half-shrug or cold, narrowed eyes in response. 

Which is why when those cold eyes warmed up late into the afternoon, and the shoulders remained stable as Dean asked Castiel a question, it all came as an oddly satisfying surprise. It was Castiel who gave Dean a lousy half-shrug and narrowed eyes when he agreed to the spontaneous car ride. 

Driving down the dirt and gravel roads, a cloud of dust kicked up behind Baby, and the hot breeze billowing into Castiel’s sleeves is where he had first heard the song.

The music exchanged the words they did not. Castiel remembered never saying a word. Their journey had the underlying discomfort of tension, as there was so much going on at the time. Too many secrets, too many false promises. Too many invaded questions and not enough answers. If one were to open his mouth and voice his opinions, it was silently understood it would have been the spark that ignited the flame leading to the arson of their damaged bridge. 

Sitting in his room, Castiel inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. He could nearly picture that day. The sun streaming in from his windows felt eerily similar to how the dimming sun shone on his face. In the red of his eyelids came the rolling green hills, faint with a light haze, rushing trees and still, distant houses. 

Out of the twenty-some songs they listened to together, the song with carnival light guitar riffs and late summer evening lyrics was the only one Castiel remembered listening to. Out of the twenty-some songs, the hour they sat with one another, it was the only one Dean had mumbled along to. The only one Castiel had paid attention to. 

The song ended with Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed and head softly bobbing along to the beat. The music quieted until it had faded out of the headphones and down the wires. A low strum started up, gaining volume as the strings bounced. It didn’t take long for Castiel’s feet to tingle with the ghostly memory of wet sand sticking to them. He could feel the skin of his upper back recoil in the scared hesitation for another warm drip of salt water from the ends of his hair. If he looked to his left he would see Dean from just a few days prior, staring out into the ocean and replaying Everlong over and over and over. 

Four days ago all Castiel could think about was how in love he was with laughter and smiles and love; he didn’t have enough room in his head to fill it with the repetition of lyrics. But, as he sat in his bedroom with music so loud it was the only thing in his body, all his mind could do was repeat lyrics. 

With a dull sense of growing discomfort in the center of his chest, Castiel leaned his elbows on the apexes of his knees and rested the curves of his thumbs against the underneath of his eyebrows and felt the music to its entirety. 

As the drums beat on and the guitar carried the deepness of the words, the discomfort stretched out to spread across Castiel’s entire chest, its fingers gripping onto the sides of his body, the arms reaching up to form a fist in his throat. The pressure made it hard to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He could nearly smell the acrid smoke stinging his nose. If he opened his eyes, part of him was convinced he would see sand beneath his beach chair, Sam reading on his right, and Dean staring at him with eyes full of reserved longing on his left. 

The last string reverberated in his ears and when it went silent Castiel, for the first time, heard how restricted his breathing had become. 

The sound of his inhale was overtaken by the next song. The words echoed within his head not due to anything but familiarity. That dullness in his chest exploded with the music and the fist tickled the space behind his nose and eyes, creating the ache of a sting. 

In the space between the lyrics, where the violin was deep and pricks of strings were high, Castiel’s brain unraveled days and weeks and months and years – a decade of thoughts and feelings and actions that led to faces of confusion but eyes full of dangerous love. 

As the drums and guitar beat along to the hammering of his heart, as the violin pulled a wetness from the ache in his eyes, Castiel’s brain ran through Dean. The complexity of his actions because he didn’t want the world to see him. The methods of his thinking, as he didn’t think anyone would understand. The logic behind his words, like hieroglyphs to anyone who wasn’t fluent, but like kindergarten reading to Castiel because Dean just wanted him to know who he was. 

The end of the song dwindled on. 

The fourth and final song took Castiel’s inhale away. He sat with his head hung feeling all his feelings deep in his heart, high in his chest, fizzling down the veins in his legs to his knees and toes. His fingertips twitched with dull ache. His shoulders weighed with the heaviness of longing and terrible realization. 

A singer’s voice starting off as soft and careful, almost hesitant to confess, soon grew confident with soul and passion. It was the slow press of piano keys Castiel picked up on behind the tremble of violin and begging lyrics that, for some reason, brought the tears to spill out of his locked eyelashes and fall to the carpet below. 

It was between the cries of trying to be with someone, but ending up just losing a friend, the goosebumps that chilled Castiel even as he sat in the sun, and the hot tears that wet his eyes and filled his nose that he thought the one thing he had never allowed himself to think.

Dean Winchester was in love with him, too.

Chapter Text

Castiel stands on fuzzy feet. How had he never seen it before? Was fear really that blinding, that warping? So much so that Castiel managed to convince himself of a platonic undertone to all of their long looks, last minute touches, and angry why-weren’t-you-more-careful arguments?

Dean is in love with him. The idea of it blooms a sickly sweet warmth in his body, but it does nothing for the hammering of his too human heart; nothing for the jitteriness he can feel in the tips of his fingers as he holds the so so heavy cassette. 

Even with the newly understood information so stabally cemented in his brain, a seed of doubt is sowed deep underneath. That seed cracks and unfurls a wiry, sprailing stock to create a break for Castiel to trip over and think: has he misconstrued it all?

No, Castiel thinks, that cannot be true. 

That cannot be true because what would his You’re my best friend, Cas speech mean, then? What would his silent actions of gentle caring mean? Like when Castiel would come stumbling into the bunker after being injured, and once Dean had jumped up to help and get his pain down from burning to aching, only to quietly wrap a blanket around his shoulders. Or ask if he wanted anything to eat, even though every chew tasted like crunching through static. What would Dean’s unwavering trust have meant even after Castiel was proved to be a liar? The prolonged eye contact? The excessive worry; the picked fights because if they weren’t arguing then they weren’t speaking at all? What would the Led Zeppelin tape have meant? What about this one? 

What would Dean’s I love you have meant?

What about Castiel’s?

And Castiel knows Dean. Better than anyone else, he may argue. Better than Sam or Bobby because who was it that rescued him from Hell? Who listened to the desperate cries for help, Dean’s voice raw and broken, eyes full of tears and pleading? Who did Dean cling onto as he was saved? 

Castiel. 

It was Castiel who bore witness to it all. Him who diligently and adoringly put Dean Winchester back together. Him who spoke to Dean first the day he broke out of the dry dirt, confused and shocked, but safe at last. In all of the instances when people would shake their heads and peer over at Dean with eyes full of distaste, it was Castiel Dean would see still standing at his side, head nodding with a look of grounded approval.

Which is why Castiel picks himself up from the trip and takes his heel to the stock, grinding it into the ground. Because Castiel knows Dean, and he knows that there is no mistake. 

“Did I?” He asks again. He pauses in his sentence to swallow. “Did I understand it correctly?”

He wants to hear Dean say it; needs to hear Dean say it.

“Did I, Dean?”

Dean’s mouth opens fast, quick, but nothing more than a strained breath comes out. His hand raises as well, but it falters, stutters, and looks horribly weak as it falls back to his side. Even with his face turned down and away, Castiel can see the wetness layering his eyes glinting in the sun as his stare darts all around the floor. 

A tiny, frail hand comes slithering up Castiel's spine to cup his ear and whisper accusations. Accusations to make him back down, to make him say no, Dean, it’s fine, I don’t need to know, you don’t have to tell me. The hand pinches the soft part of Castiel’s ear, digs claws into his shoulder, attempting to subdue him into submission.

But all Castiel can think about is the past. The relieved sighs when Dean saw he was still standing. Staying silent during  phone calls - stretches of listening to each other breathe because hanging up felt too difficult to do. The darting eyes around a room, only laying to rest when they land on a beige trenchcoat. The trenchcoat Dean had kept after the Leviathans. 

There is nothing in the world that can change Castiel’s mind, not now, not ever. His humanity has made his stomach cave inward with hunger, starving for the truth. He knows he’s closer than where he started. While hanging by this moment with Dean, he’s absolutely desperate for change.

“And don’t you dare say that you don’t know.” Castiel watches as Dean blinks fast and hard, craning his neck to further hide his face. “Because this,” he holds the tape up, “says otherwise.”

“Well,” comes Dean’s fragile voice. He clears his throat, circles his neck to be peering up at the ceiling as he says, “you weren’t exactly supposed to find it.” His eyes slide over to Castiel’s edge, not being able to stomach fully taking him into his field of vision.

“Well, I did. What now, hm?” Castiel squeezes his fingers around the tape. Ivory seeps into his knuckles. “Are you going to continue to string me along? Play with me more?”

Dean closes his eyes, the soft surrounding skin wrinkling. “ Damn it, Cas ,” he stresses, close to being breathless. “You know that’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“Then what !” Castiel nearly yells, eyes wide and boring into Dean’s. “ What are you trying to do? Tell me, Dean, tell me and I can give you what you want.” The too human of a heart rattles incessantly behind his ribs, the ribs that give no room to his lungs, making them feel perpetually squashed and cursed to only take in short, hot amounts of air. “It is not just you who feels things. It’s not just you who is hurting.”

“I know that, Cas..”

“It’s not just you who wants."

“I know , Cas–”

“–No. I don’t think you do, Dean. You forget to let people in. You’re so consumed with your own emotions that you forget to let me in.” Dean opens his mouth again to defend himself, to argue that no Cas, that isn’t true, but Castiel continues: “You’re so worried about what this-” he motions between the two of them- “means for yourself to even begin to understand what it may mean for me.”

“You’ve told me,” Dean hurriedly butts in, “what it means for you.” His eyes are timid, desperate. He’s looking at Castiel as if they are back in that basement room of the bunker; the door being pounded in, death only mere seconds away. 

“That is not what I’m referring to.” Again, with his eyes steady on Dean’s, he holds up the cassette tape. “I’m talking about what it means for me to know you feel the same.” 

“ Know ?” comes spilling out from Dean’s throat. The constriction that wraps around his chest, like a meaty fist of a child holding a doll, squeezes the rest of the sentence out, “know how I feel?” He breathes; in and out like the hurried flap of bats wings. “What do you mean you know?”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, and it’s another stone in Dean’s stomach. The sound of his name in the deep tone of Castiel’s voice usually puts a stilling to his wavering emotions, but it feels more like someone skipping rocks on the already raging waters of his mind, where the stone hits a rogue wave and sinks down to the muddy bottom. “You can’t think of me as stupid. I listened to the songs. I understood the words.” He presents the tape, his pointer finger anxiously rapping against the For Cas. “I once thought that the one thing, Dean.. the one thing I wanted, I couldn’t have.” He shakily breathes in through his mouth. “But now.. with this? It feels possible.”

“Well, I’m just not..” Dean tries to begin, but finds that his mouth has suddenly run dry and his words get stuck in the sands of his desert throat. He swallows, but it’s thick and he nearly suffocates. The waters rise up in his chest, mixing with the sands of his esophagus and creating a dense mud. “Cas,” he can only say; it’s the only thing in his mind, the only thing he feels. His heart thuds rapidly from underneath its muddy encasement. “ Please. ”

Castiel’s lips thin. There’s a swirling flurry of tells behind his eyes: the whorling storm of desperation, a crave for hearing Dean say the truth, needing to feel the light sense of relief. The rain of Castiel’s internal storm beats down on Dean, making him lower his gaze to the floor, unable to bear the harsh pelting. 

“I am not leaving here without an answer,” Castiel says. He speaks slowly, but his words are hot from his anger, burning Dean’s already blistering skin. “Without some form of an answer.”

Dean flips his weight from one foot to the other. There is a pit within him that craves so horribly for Castiel to turn around and leave, to just leave , so that Dean can wallow in his self-hatred alone. The promise, or more like the threat, that Castiel isn’t leaving without torturing Dean first puts an unsteadiness to his knees, making them feel one wrong move away from buckling and bringing him to the floor. 

The untouched bedding that lies only inches away calls out to him. So, slowly, and after a second of consideration and flickering, nervous eyes, Dean lowers himself onto the bed. Moving while underneath Castiel’s hard, unwavering stare festers a deep sense of pure uncomfortableness, one that makes it feel as though he is attempting to push his way through two large balloons. Once he is sat, though, the pitter-patter of static in his knees calms and the sense of walking on a tightrope fades from the soles of his feet. 

Castiel’s unfocused frame stands at the edge of his peripheral. Darting his eyes up, he stares at Castiel’s knees. “What– What kind of an answer do you want?” 

“I want to know anything.” Then: “Everything.”

“I– Cas, I don’t even know where to start..” Dean drags his hands up his thighs, resting them under the bend of his hips, twisting his fingers inward so his elbows point out. His mind chops up half-formed sentences, measly excuses, beginning to prevaricate. Inside, he feels his guard building up, his senses shutting down. 

“The songs,” Castiel says. “Start there. Why these four?”

A whirlpool of thoughts form inside Dean’s mind, centering in on the contents of the mixtape. Sitting on the bed, he can feel the phantom imprint of the headphones squeezing his ears and the top of his head as, two years ago, he had shut his eyes and allowed himself to melt into the music. The music that Dean had imagined would never see the light of day. 

But now they stare at each other like a pusher to a shover, like a secret to a cover, like a lover to a lover. In the neediness of Castiel’s gaze Dean can see the importance of his words. With the light cascading in from the windows, holding Castiel in a bright yellow haze, Dean feels a horribly impossible depth within, one that strings him over and makes him feel indelibly devoted and sickeningly in love. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts off. “Cas, I swear…” Dean breathes in deeply to lay the jitteriness flat. He looks up at Castiel, because this is it. This is it. This is it and this is how it is going to be. 

“Angel. By– by Aerosmith.” That wall that he uses to protect himself strengths, he can feel it cementing in his chest, in his brain, but Dean recalls the lyrics by heart. At one point, back when the pressure was mounting, he had been vulnerable enough, his soul becoming bare, his insides turning out, that he had wanted the walls to come down between him and Castiel. He had wanted, craved, longed, for his best friend to look at him with soft eyes, and to look at him back the same. He was desperate enough to put away his pride. That feeling is being summoned now, because enough’s enough.

“I– I think the lyrics are pretty specific,” Dean laughs, though it’s dry and hollow and louder than he meant it to be. Swallowing his cringe, he continues, “ You’re the reason I live, you’re the reason I die ,” he rushes through, swatting a hand in the air as if the quoted lyrics are a pesky fly, “You’re my best friend, Cas. Everytime you.. y’know, got ganked I couldn’t – didn’t – deal with it. I didn’t, um, realize it then–shit.” He drags in another breath. “I didn’t realize that um, I got so fucked up over your death was because of, um, you know..” He sucks in his lips and looks to Castiel, begging him to finish the sentence. But, all he does is quirk an eyebrow and wait. “You’re really being a little shit about this, aren’t you?” Castiel nods. Dean sighs.

He pauses for a moment, eyes on the illuminated wall next to Castiel as he attempts to get his thoughts and words in order. Castiel remains silent, his hands slack at his sides, eyes softly searching Dean’s body. 

“Everlong,” Dean says, “Just–um–you know. It’s a good song.”

Castiel’s eyes flash up in an eye roll. “Seriously, Dean? Now?”

“Right,” Dean drily laughs again. “Bad timing. Not right now. Right.” His head bounces in a long nod, eyes diverted again as he reels back inside his mind. “It’s not a bad song, though.”

“I’m aware. I listened to it.” Then, after a short moment where Dean’s gaze bounced from floor to wall to floor to ceiling and Castiel weighed his options and memories: “It’s the song you played over and over again that day on the beach. After the aquarium and when I decided to become human.”

Dean’s flickering eyes pause, then dart up to Castiel. “You clocked that?” Castiel nods. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I uh, was thinking about some things.”

“Some things?” Castiel elicits.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees with a half-hearted shrug. “Some things.”

“This isn’t the time to be a smartass, Dean. What were your-” Castiel throws up a pair of air quotes- “ some things. ”

“My-” Dean raises his hands to mock Castiel’s movements, “ some things were you , you little shit. Jesus. Can you not read context clues?”

“Oh, I can.” Castiel nods his head to the side. “Now, at least. I just want to hear you say it.”

Dean shakes his head, his lips pursed to hide the conflict of the rising amusement, but he doubts his eyes are keeping his secret. From the way the edge of Castiel’s mouth twitches, Dean is led to believe that Castiel is going through the same war. “Little shit,” Dean whispers. Castiel turns his head to the side, his lips pulling into a secret smile. 

“Everlong had this one line. I– I’m not remembering it now, but it was something about not stopping. When I was making the tape, I didn’t–um–fully understand what I was feeling. Like, I did? But I also didn’t. I don’t know. But, anyway, yeah. This one line. I didn’t want you to, I dunno, reel back once I was ready. I guess in a selfish way I wanted you to always be.. ready and waiting for me.”

Dean pauses for Castiel to fill in. To speak his opinion, to voice his thoughts. But the birds from outside sing in their silence, the air conditioner hums in their wake. Dean rubs at his eyebrows, then pushes his hand through his hair. 

“Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls was ‘cause, again, the lyrics.” Something rolls to life inside Dean, something hot and cold at the same time. “I feel like a broken record. Fuck, Cas, you listened to the damn thing. You know what the words said. Why do I have to explain them?”

A shift occurs behind Castiel’s face. His eyebrows narrow, just slightly; his lips harden into a line. “Because it’s what I deserve, Dean. I deserve an explanation.”

“The tape was the explanation!”

“Does it look like I care?”

That hot/coldness inside Dean collapses, and he drops his forehead into his propped up palm. “Jesus, fuck,” he mutters under his breath. His fingers probe the skin of his forehead, trying to massage the forming headache away. 

“Iris almost didn’t make the cut. Only because it was a pretty popular song at the time, and I didn’t want to be cliché. But, I kept it because I really love the instrumental. Now, it’s no Led Zeppelin, but damn. It’s pretty good. Plus,” Dean nods his head to the side, eyes focused on his hands in his lap, “The whole wanting you to know who I am part.”

“And I don’t want the world to see me,” Castiel begins, eyes flitted up to the ceiling as he recalls, “because I don’t think that they’d understand?”

“Come on, man,” Dean whines, face scrunched. “You know how I feel about chick-flick moments. That was horrible.”

“No,” Castiel disagrees. “I could have sang it. Like in Mamma Mia .”

“Oh, God,” Dean groans. “Thank fuck I’ve never seen Mamma Mia . I don’t think I’d be able to stomach that.” 

“You have to give it credit. It’s not a bad movie.”

“I’d rather gut myself before I watch a musical. Was this Sam’s doing?”

“Maybe,” Castiel says with a brimming grin. Then: “Yes, it was.”

“Knew it. When’d you guys watch it?”

Castiel opens his mouth, eyes up and light as his mind wanders back, but he stutters, pauses, and the light goes cold. “Oh, I see what you are trying to do.” Castiel clicks his tongue. “The fourth song. What about that one?” A guttural groan rumbles from the back of Dean’s throat as he tips his chin back. Before he could say anything, Castiel interrupts with the demand of a parent, “It’s the last one.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbles with the controlled annoyance of a child. “My Never by Blue October. That’s the last song. It was in competition with another, but it obviously wasn’t that good if I can’t remember it.” Dean sucks in his lips, eyes thinking. “ I saw forever in my never; it was never my luck; I tend to push them yadda yadda yadda. You get the idea.”

“Dean,” Castiel says in a near begging tone. “Why can’t you be serious with this?”

“Cas,” he mimics, eyes wide with his hand curled against his chest, “why can’t you see how difficult this is for me to admit. You’re torturing me here.”

“Torturing? That’s how this is for you?”

“Yes–no. No, it’s not–fuck–Cas.” Dean sighs, deep and fast. “You’re making me twist my words here.”

“Well maybe if you were open ,” Castiel exasperates with his hands splayed out to his sides, “and honest more of the time then maybe this wouldn’t be so torturous .”

“Cas, please. I didn’t mean it like that. Come on, man, have some empathy.”

“Empathy?” Castiel’s eyes are wide, unbelieving. “ Me ?”

“Sympathy! I meant sympathy!” Then, after a groan: “Just work with me here. That’s what I’m trying to ask of you.”

Castiel turns his head to the ajar bedroom door, eyes curious. Dean looks over as well and in the slit, he sees nothing. Continuing, Dean says, “This is pretty on the spot, don’t you think? It’s not like I was given any warning to write the perfect soliloquy for you.”

“I understand that it’s hard,” Castiel says. Dean notes the drop in volume of his voice; he’s relieved by it, like a parent coming down from their anger high, “especially for someone with the likes of you, Dean, but if you could avoid using descriptives that make it sound like I’ve got you at gun-point, that’d be great.” Then, with a stutter and wave of his arms: “This– this is a scenario I only allowed to play in my fantasies. I never expected, never thought, that you could…” Castiel inhales, looking like he is at a sudden loss for words. 

Then, Dean picks up on it. The shuffling from downstairs. His heart races up into his throat, nerve endings freezing. His eyes are on the sliver of floor stretching out into the hallway. 

“Guys?” Comes Sam’s voice, floating up from the base of the stairs. “You guys up there? Dinner’s ready.”

Dean’s shoulders slump, a wave of soothing relief washing out nearly all the sickening, sticky, uncomfortable feelings clogging up his body. He’s been rescued from a conversation he never wanted to have, and from the light lilt of Sam’s tone, it sounds like their words were kept in the confines of his bedroom. Springing up from the bed, Dean is about to rush out of the room and jump down the steps until the expression on Castiel’s face makes him pause. 

“Dean,” Castiel whispers. His eyebrows are high and pinched, his hand wrapped protectively around the tape. “This conversation isn’t over. What does this mean? What does this mean at all? For you, for me, for us?”

Chapter Text

Castiel was created with love in his heart. Sometimes, in the past, he believed it was a defect he had somehow tricked God into giving him by mistake. It must have been his own fault he felt so deeply, so horribly, because the God Castiel was hardwired to know, to be devoted to, to follow, would have never had set him up like this, would never have drilled a rusty bolt into a sturdy bridge. 

And that explanation made sense. It held him over, soothing the drops of sour doubts that festered his brain throughout the millenniums. Each command that made Castiel quirk a vessel’s eyebrow was followed with the mantra that made the facial muscles relax: it was him. It was him who played God’s hands like a puppet suspended on strings to create him incorrectly. Him who took things more personally than the other angels. Him who couldn’t separate work from pleasure. It was him who cursed himself. 

His punishment? To feel. Feel things so expansively that they stretch on forever beyond his being, muddling the border between himself and the ocean. He swears that sometimes, when the waters are horrifically dark, giving only a hint to the vastness that drops beneath him, he’s tricked into thinking that it is his own body that is being stretched on forever. It isn’t until he grazes his palm over his arm that he is reminded of the edge of his skin. 

Even after he had learned of God’s – or rather, Chuck’s – authenticity, Castiel’s own blindfold was wrapped so tight around his eyes he had become accustomed to seeing the darkness. 

And now, as he lies in bed late into the night, the sheets only a jumbled nuisance around him, and the moonlight so dim he becomes lost in the same, deep darkness, he loses the sense of his own being. As his gaze darts back and forth on the black ceiling, he cannot decipher if his eyes are open or closed. He tries to put his attention on the fullness of his stomach from Sam’s steak dinner, though the sensation only pushes him farther out into the ocean, like a floaty getting caught in the current. 

Love. He’s horribly sick with it and stupidly sick of it. It seeps cold water from his heart, creating a vastness larger than his blanket. It drips from his bed and pools onto the floor, moving in gentle waves, rocking him to sleep. 

In the morning, the walls erect themselves back to where they have always been. Castiel returns to his body, feeling the edge of his skin, the length of his limbs, and the blankets wrapped securely around him. Twisting over, with a suddenness he didn’t feel creeping, comes a dense wave of extreme longing. One that ties his stomach up in suspended knots and fills his heart so much so that he can feel the dead weight of it in his chest. Turning his head, he peers at his door, which, beyond it, Dean’s own bedroom door manifests. And alongside that, all of their possibilities. 

Downstairs, the kitchen is empty. The late morning light spills in through the windows, making the bottom floor feel light and airy. Castiel finds it simple to ghost around, discovering the living room to be quiet, the basement quieter. Feeling the stillness of the house, he opens the front door and steps into the prickly fresh air, hinted with dew and laced with salt, and crosses the lawn over to Sam’s house. 

Through the solid wood of the front door, Castiel can hear the muffled conversation of the brothers. Sam says something, his voice high and words quick, and Dean’s sharp, barking laugh follows immediately afterward. The sound of Dean’s laugh, his voice, lights an uneasy anger inside Castiel. It feels adolescent and petty and it urges Castiel’s feet to stomp away like a toddler, to brood in his own muddled emotions, but instead he is opening the door and stepping inside. 

The warm smell of doughy pancakes and sweet maple syrup wraps around Castiel, leading him into the kitchen where the two men are. Dean stands stiffly to the left of the island counter, one hand on his hip, the other flat on the surface, while Sam leans against the counter next to the stove. Their conversation snaps shut upon Castiel's entrance. 

“Morning, Cas,” Sam says, lifting the spatula he holds. “Pancakes before we go?”

“Sure,” he replies. “Thank you.” Casting a morbidly curious glance over to Dean, who has his eyes trained on the countertop before him, Castiel decides to stay where he is in the center of the small kitchen. 

“Of course,” Sam whistles out, beginning to plate the white-rimmed golden pancakes. With a nod of his head, he gestures to where the syrup is, where the fruits are, and, if Castiel’s feeling frisky, there’s powdered sugar in the lazy suzan. 

“Y’know,” Dean says so suddenly he cuts off the tail-end of Sam’s explanation. The other two glide their eyes over to him, puzzled. “I’m gonna head back and get ready.” His eyes are on Sam, whose eyebrows draw in dismally. “Get a move on our day,” Dean continues. 

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

“Right,” Dean echoes. He nods his head once, taps the counter twice, and breezes past Castiel without so much as a jump of his eyebrows. The front door slams into its frame louder than anticipated, leaving the kitchen in a perplexing quiet. 

Swallowing his questions, Castiel slowly turns his head to look at Sam. He can feel the tenseness of his facial muscles, pulling tight to say more than Castiel means to. Sam only pushes out a tight sigh through his nose and mutters, “Strange,” under his breath. “Well,” he continues in a normal voice, “eat up, Cas. You’re gonna need it for what I have planned.”

“And what do you have planned?”

“That, my friend,” he says while pushing the plate across the counter, “is my secret.”

A secret he held as close to his chest as he did the keys to Baby the following hour. It had stirred an argument when Dean had questioned where the keys were, only to see them in his little brother’s hand; his authority challenged and the billowing refusal to be kept in the dark about Sam’s plans. He had received a face scrunched in absurdity, which then quickly melted into amusement, Sam tilting his head and raising an eyebrow, a twinkle of secret information in his eyes. 

Dean stammered, his jaw clenching shut and eyes aflame with contained annoyance. With the temperament of a tamed toddler, he rounded Baby and slumped into the passenger seat. Sam proudly took up the drivers and Castiel easily slid into the back, eyebrows up as he curiously assessed the difference in spirits. 

“Driver picks the music?” Sam now attempts, a wistful smile on his face. When Dean slowly turns his head to jab a warning glare, the smile only grows and Sam giddily chuckles at himself. 

As Castiel smiles along with Sam, partly in amusement to the brother and partly in defiance to the other, the trunk moves and jostles with their supplies for the day. Castiel hears the spill of bags as the car turns and feels the objects pile as they begin to incline up a steep hill. One that has Dean pressed into the seat, hands sprawled out to frantically clutch onto anything because, “Come on, Sam, really? Baby is a princess. You don’t treat her this way.”

“You drive like this all the time,” Sam argues. He lifts a hand off the wheel to gesture at the road ahead, to which Dean barks at him for. 

“Both hands on the wheel, mister. This is already careless enough.”

Sam shakes his head and breathes out a chuckle as he twists the wheel, pulling the car up and over a curve and into a desolate parking lot. “Dude, chill out. We’re here.”

“Here?” Castiel slowly asks, dipping his head to peer out the windshield at the tall, thick trees lining the perimeter of the lot. The unkempt grass of the forest has him reeling back into his seat, a face tense with apprehension. 

“Yes.” Sam swings open the door, barely casting a look to either man as he bends out of the car. “Here.”

“I know you’re not taking us hiking,” Dean mutters as he gets out of the car, turning around to take in the depth of the trees, the length of the wild growth. His face scrunches further when Sam laughs at him and says, “Dean, if I was taking you hiking, why would I tell you to wear your swimsuit?”

“‘Cause you’re Sam and you ask me to do weird things–I don’t know!”

Sam only nods his head to the side, opens the trunk, and begins to push bags into unsuspecting arms. He locks the impala up and throws the keys into the air, snatching them with a satisfying snap of the metal, and begins to bubble towards a hole in the treeline. Dean and Castiel tumble after him, keeping their further questions to themselves. Instead, they listen with silent diligence when Sam tells them to watch for a fallen log here, that hidden hole there. 

Castiel easily gets wrapped up in the beauty of nature, his vision overwhelmed with the intensity of the greenery and the brightness of the sky. Unlike the displeased man ahead of him, he doesn’t mind the low-hanging leaves tickling his shoulder, nor does he lift his knees higher than needed when Sam steers them off the trail and into the thick foliage. 

Dean looks back at Castiel and says, “Where the fuck is Bigfoot taking us? Back to his secret lair to eat our guts?”

“I doubt it,” Castiel replies, refusing to fall into the game of Dean’s bitter jokes. Then, after stretching his legs to be walking next to Dean, making the man stutter in his pace and slow, and connecting their gazes: “Don’t be so scared of an adventure.” He strains his eyes to pour all he has into the contact, his tone radiating the same intensity. 

Dean’s feet pause from under him, his expression slightly pinched from the jab, which then quickly falls. He allows Castiel to move in front of him and walk away, chin pointed up as he casually peers at the canopy above. 

“Little shit,” he mutters, pushing out a sharp breath before beginning to follow again. 

The trail becomes lost behind them. Sam, yards ahead, marches forward with pride. Dean, yards behind, stamps on green plants with disdain. Castiel, in the middle, is the first to hear it. Underneath the wish-whooshing of the light breeze, the squall of birds, and the crunching of Earth beneath their shoes, is the faint cascading sound of rushing water. The sound ghosts through the forest, getting louder with each tree they pass. Sam gets giddier and jumps ahead, bounding through the thinning trunks. 

He stands on a ledge, the lime green grass long and glossy, combed over by the breeze. As the two emerge from the treeline, the undisturbed sun hits their faces, overpowering their vision and blinding them. The spray of falling water is vicious in their ears and, if paid close enough attention, a dusting of mist settles on their bare arms.  

“No way,” Dean breathes out, stepping forward to share the ledge with his brother. Castiel raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and in the shade does he see it. Across the way and above, water comes gushing out from an elevated part of the mountain. Droplets free-fall, seemingly frozen in time, before crashing into the pool below, the aquamarine surface rippling and bubbling. “A waterfall? This is fucking awesome.”

“Wow,” Castiel shares, his mouth agape. He dares a step forward to peer down at the drop, and when his stomach freezes up and his knees feel like static, he backs away until the ground feels stable again. 

“Can we jump?” Dean asks excitedly. “You jump.” He pushes his fingertips into Sam’s shoulder, who turns around with his face twisted up in absurdity. 

“No, you .”

“Oh hell no,” Dean argues. “You found the place, so you go first.”

“Oldest first.”

Dean’s face lights up, much to Sam’s confusement, and when he says, “Oh, perfect! Cas, the stage is yours,” with his arms out to present the awaiting ledge, Sam’s face falls and he turns, rolling his eyes. 

“Can we jump?” Castiel echoes Dean’s first question. “Is it even deep enough?”

“Yeah, it is,” says Sam. “I found this place a couple of weeks ago when a horde of teenagers blocked up my trail. Cleaned up their.. beer cans and shit. Swam a little. It’s actually a lot deeper than it looks.”

“But you haven’t jumped yet?” Dean asks, and when he’s met with a shake of a head, he clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“I think Sam should go first,” Castiel says, amused. “You did find this.”

“Hey, don’t gang up on me!”

“Oh, we’re ganging up on you,” Dean says. “Jump!”

Scoffing, Sam faces the open, empty air. There’s a look of consideration behind his searching eyes, and after a long second, his hands are reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Fine,” he says, a defiant smile beginning to brew. “Only because you two are wussies.”

Dean clicks his tongue, a dramatic, fake laugh following after. “Yeah right. We,” he turns to Castiel, “are not.”

“You’re our test dummy,” Castiel chimes in.

“It’s deep enough! I said so!”

“But we don’t know that,” Dean says with a condescending tilt of his head. 

Balling up his shirt and throwing it to where their other belongings lay discarded, Sam kicks off his sandals, stressing out an annoyed, “Fine. I’ll show you.” He stands before the drop, bouncing on his feet, strands falling to curtain the apprehension on his face.

Dean steps back to stand with Castiel, the former with his arms crossed boldly over his chest and the latter with his hands tucked shyly in his swimsuit pockets. They watch patiently, eyes wide with curiosity as Sam flings the creeping anxiety off of his hands.

“Are you gonna do it?” Dean urges, that older brotherly infliction of game in his voice. 

“Yes!” Sam snaps back. “Just give me a second.” His chest expands with a gathering breath and with rising amusement, Dean and Castiel watch as Sam leans back on his heels, posing, before shooting into a dart towards the empty air. He jumps, a fearful shout explodes from him, but it becomes drained by the rushing water and falls with him. 

Dean whispers a swear and goes for the edge, peering over just as Sam emerges from the bubbling surface, shaking his hair like a dog. His minimized body kicks up to float on his back, the clear waters lapping up on the edge of his skin. 

“Alright, Cas,” Dean says, eyes still on his brother, or rather, the impossibly far jump, “you go now.”

“ Me ?” 

“Yes, you .” Dean turns around and, jarringly, becomes stilled by a shirtless Castiel, throwing his own balled up clothing on top of Sam’s. He recovers quickly, absentmindedly wiping at his mouth to hide his face. 

Castiel meets his eye. “You scared?”

Dean breathes out a chuckle. “No,” he says, shaking his head. 

“You know, I can tell when you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying . In fact, I never lie!”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow, giving him a certain look. Even though Dean sees this and understands that Castiel doesn’t believe him in the slightest, he doesn’t relent. He just shrugs and moves to stand behind the man, nodding his head towards the waiting cliff. 

“You’re scared,” Castiel says, speaking as if he is naming the color of the sky. Dean snorts, though doesn’t voice an argument. Sentences brew within Castiel and a quiet urge to say everything he is thinking pulls at him. He wishes to release himself from the loose knitting of words and tell Dean that he notices. After a decade of knowing each other, both at a distance and intimately, as close of friends two can be without crossing the boundary of lovers, Castiel notices things he believes even Sam doesn’t pick up on. Sometimes it takes a while of deciphering, little things piling up more and more until the picture is clear.

And it’s clear now. “You don’t have to be so afraid,” Castiel says. Dean’s face shifts, hardening into an expression of contempt because he understands that Castiel is referencing more than just the cliff. Dean goes to say something, but stops, stalls, and seals his lips. 

Castiel wants to say more, but Sam hollers up at them, his voice a faraway cry, muffled by the raining waterfall. The sunlight streams down on them in buttery gold. A small, white butterfly flaps its wings hurriedly behind Dean’s head, zipping about, its path indecipherable. With the gentle breeze billowing the leaves and combing over the grass, it all feels so deeply peaceful. Romantic, even. Castiel keeps his words to himself, though his eyes glitter and gleam, his expression soft and high in adoration when he looks at Dean. What he wants to say whispers behind his face, and from the way Dean stands there, staring back at him, it looks as though he is listening.

Chapter Text

After a short moment Dean mutters, “Fine.” 

“I could jump with you.”

Dean laughs. “This ain’t no rom-com.” He approaches the edge, the drop looming horribly far below him. Sam sees him and raises an arm to wave. A warm wind gusts past and Dean realizes he is still dressed. Discarding his t-shirt and shoes towards the growing pile, he wiggles his toes, the grass glossy under his bare feet.

“You’ve got this,” Castiel says supportively from behind him, though it only causes Dean to roll his eyes. 

“I’ve jumped out of windows, alright? I know I’ve got this.”

Castiel hums. It’s high and almost sounds condescending, as if he has a retaliation to say. Taking in a calming breath, the air fresh in his chest, Dean bounces on his feet before leaning back on his leg. He pounces for the open air, the loss of ground beneath his feet is dramatic and exemplifying. The spray of water is harsher, pelting his face and arms as they windmill about while he falls and falls and falls. 

The cold consumption is shocking, prickling his entire body with an electric shock before soothing into a comfortable warmth. Resurfacing, Dean chokes out a strangled laugh, water high in his nose and creating a horrible stinging in his sinuses. He hears Sam talking, but cannot understand a single word. Then, with clarity: “Here comes Cas!” 

Without even a moment to twist around in the blanket of water, a loud splash from their left deafens them, blitzing them with hard raindrops. He hears his brother laugh, and between the rolling lumps of small waves and the damp mist Dean sees Castiel’s head bobbing above the glittering surface, a bright smile on his face. 

“Fuck,” Dean nearly yells. “That was friggin’ awesome.” He laughs and shakes his head dramatically, the wet from his hair flinging around like the swift blades of a helicopter. 

Dean begins to swim for the shore and finds that the muddy, silky bottom of the pool comes up quick and fast. Dragging himself out, he turns to peer up from where the trio once stood, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. From down below, the drop looks dramatically smaller and he feels a little foolish for being so scared.

Sam and Castiel come up out of the water, laughing between themselves about one thing or another. The light shines down on them, illuminating their smiles to be grander and their happiness more lucid than reality. Dean, watching them approach, feels the corners of his mouth twitch in a pure smile. A lovebug nestles in his heart, expanding its wings and blooming. 

The luck Dean has felt in the past month or so has been so unreal it nearly feels magical. Like drinking for the first time underage without your parents knowing. It feels freeing and dangerous and you never want it to end, want the night to expand on forever past the horizon. Though, the feeling of being caught lurks around each corner. Like the fun is about to be busted. 

Nevermind all that, Dean thinks. All that is in his eyes in the softening face of Castiel when he smiles. 

The trio hike up to the top of the cliff again, finding it to be fairly easy besides one steep part near the top. The previous parties of people who’ve had their fun at the same cliff have paved a desire path, little pockets of dirt peeking out from the grass. It’s only the two brothers who jumped again, as Castiel decided to take their belongings back down the trail and to the shore of the bubbling pool. 

Sam and Dean had their childish fun. They ran and jumped off the cliff; pushed one another off, one acting as though a great betrayal had just been committed; tried to reach the rush of the waterfall and plummet with the spray, to which only Sam had succeeded, his long body disappearing within the white mist, Dean doubling over in laughter as he did so; all the while Castiel swam around the pool to greet the brothers after they resurfaced and watched the fun.

Sam, pulling himself out from under the harsh pelting of the waterfall after jumping into it, his hair plastered to his face, his mouth hung open to take in heaves of air, droplets falling off the tip of his nose and streaking down his skin, used his hands to clear his face of his hair and water, and while doing so remembered he had forgotten the most important thing in the car: lunch.

As he was digging around in his clothes on the beach, Castiel swam a little closer to ask what he was doing. Sam explained, and Castiel got out of the water to offer his help. “I’ll go get it,” he said, his hand out and expecting. Sam only shrugged and dropped the found keys into the awaiting palm. 

Now, as Sam sits on the beach towels he had laid out, he watches as Dean waves down at him from the cliff. The sun now hangs in the sky, no longer above them like a glittering disco ball. The heat has relented its hold on the earth and now warms Sam nicely like a cozy fire. Dean jumps, cannonball-style, and a firecracker of an explosion erupts from the surface. Sam claps and cheers his brother on from where he sits, his legs stretched out and arms behind him, bent at the wrists. 

When Dean realizes that his brother isn’t joining him again in the water or to the cliff, he flings the water out of his hair and falls onto the towel to Sam’s right. He sits with his knees and elbows hinged, his arms wrapped around his bent legs, loosely holding his own wrist. 

“Should’ve brought my speaker,” Dean says, looking around. “Next time.”

“No,” Sam disagrees. “Listen to the birds for once in your life.”

Dean makes a noise of disgust. “Little shits woke me up this morning. And last morning. If I remembered where I stored my bullets, I might go hunting.”

Sam is quiet for a second. Then: “Isn’t it crazy that my brain went to actual hunting for a second there? Like, animal hunting. Not monster hunting.”

“Did it?” Dean looks over at his brother.

“Yeah. But, only for a second.”

Dean hums. A small smile is on his face, though lacks the excitement one would expect to see. “Where’d Cas go off to?”

“I forgot the lunch in the car. I had it in the back with him because the cooler didn’t fit in the trunk. Probably why I forgot it.” Dean doesn’t respond, only nods his head and puckers his lips as he does so. The rushing of the waterfall breaks through their silence, as do the gusts of the warm breeze and the sunshine singsong of the birds.

Sam rocks his weight from one side of himself to the other as he thinks. Wanting to speak before their quiet stretches on until Castiel’s return, Sam shifts to a new position and asks: “Wanna finish our conversation?”

He hears Dean draw in a long breath, releasing it short and fast through his nostrils. He’s looking away, eyes fixated on the buttery leaves as they billow with the wind. Sam waits patiently as Dean feels his own patience being tampered with; pushed and prodded by one too many people. Although, at his age his walls aren’t as strong and his wit isn’t as agile. Strong and swift enough to keep things at bay, but with enough hounding and persistence at just the right angle, the cracks are found and the weaknesses shine through. 

“I’m getting real sick of these conversations,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam scoffs. “Imagine how we feel.”

“What were we even talking about earlier? I don’t remember,” Dean lies. 

Sam clocks it instantly. “You’re so full of shit, Dean. You know exactly what we were talking about.”

Another second goes by. Dean feels his humility and lets his forehead fall to his knee before picking it back up again. “Fine,” he relents. “Fine. What do you wanna talk about then?”

Sam thinks, his eyes on the grassy sand between them. “I think I was trying to give you advice on how to talk to Cas.” He thinks for a moment longer. “It’s going to keep getting worse if you don’t.”

“I know,” Dean says, nearly a whisper. 

“Cas isn’t an experiment, either. You can’t play with his boundaries.” Dean doesn’t say anything, but his look of raw hurt says enough. A pang of guilt washes over Sam, but he decides that if needed, he’ll apologize later. “The two of you just need to be honest. Like, really really honest. No more bullshit, no more lies, and no more excuses. It made sense in the past, you know, but now? Why keep pushing it away?”

“I,” Dean starts, but he cuts himself off, at a loss for words. He stares at the lumpy surface of the water, grappling for his footing. “I don’t know why.” He bows his head and inhales deeply, slowly. “I don’t know why, Sammy.”

“Are you scared? Worried? That you’d.. fuck it up or something?”

Dean shrugs, picking up his chin and looking back at the waters. “Well, that’s what I do, don’t I?”

Sam’s face falls into one of boredom, tired of hearing the same self-pitying lines. “Get over yourself, man,” Sam says, scoffing. “You know that’s not true. Everyone says so. And if you still believe it, then I don’t know what to tell you. Go to therapy.” He waves a dismissive hand in Dean’s direction. 

His brother is silent for a second, and there is that seed of guilt once more, but it’s broken up by Dean’s stifled laughter. “What the fuck,” he chokes out between chuckles. When Sam turns to look, he sees Dean’s head bowed as he laughs, the soft skin of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Harsh, Sammy. Harsh.”

“Well,” Sam says with a shrug and a smile. “It’s time to get over all that. We’re supposed to be happy now, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“But, seriously though,” Sam says, picking up their conversation again as Dean’s chuckles die down, “I bet in another universe Dean, Cas never came back and you never got out of that bunker. But you did. . We did. This is our second chance, man, you know we don’t get many of those.” Sam looks his brother in his eyes. “Don’t fuck this one up.”

“Actually, Sammy,” Dean says, looking away, “I think we get too many second chances.”

“Well– Sure, maybe. But for the sake of this argument, pretend we don’t.” 

“For the sake of this argument, I’m ending it.”

“What?” Sam says, blindsighted. “Why?”

“Because I’m over it.”

“Well I’m not.”

“Well I am.”

“But I’m not!”

“But I am!”

“ Boo-hoo ,” Sam says, flicking out his wrist to slap Dean on the bicep. “Talk to Cas. Talk to him,” he begins, starting to lightly slap his brother repeatedly. “Talk to him and tell him everything.”

“Stop,” Dean says, leaning away. 

“Talk to him and tell him everything you’ve been meaning to say. Be honest–”

“Stop, Sammy.”

“–and open and then after everything–”

“Dude, seriously.”

“–is out, you guys can figure out how you want to go from there.”

“ Dude! ” Dean snaps, and Sam retracts his hand. “ Really? What are we, five?”

Sam shrugs, a boyish smile on his face. “Had to go back to the basics if heart-to-hearts won’t work.”

“They will .” Dean raises a hand, as if he’s about to deliver a sharp slap to Sam’s arm or thigh, any open skin his palm can find, but he hesitates and his hand stutters. “You just gotta give me a minute to figure out how.”

“I just told you how.”

“You told me to talk to him .”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “That’s how.”

Dean’s eyes flash up into an eyeroll and he drops his head into his hands. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, man,” he mutters, rubbing the pads of his fingertips deep into his skin. Sam starts to laugh, horribly amused and pleased with himself, and just as he is tipping his head back Castiel is seen coming down the desire path towards them. 

“Oh good,” Dean says, relieved. “Finally here.”

Sam leans in to whisper, “Cas or the lunch?”

Dean’s face falls and he turns his head to stare at his brother. Sam reels back, laughing delightedly at himself. When Castiel gets closer, there’s a curious, confused smile shy on his face. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Dean is quick to answer. 

Sam says between his giggles, “So much.”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow and looks to Dean for clarification, but finds a face refusing to look at him. He drops the cooler before the two brothers and kneels down with it, and the two others twist positions to dig around for their lunches. 

“No beer?” Dean asks. The look on his face is one of pure disbelief. “Really?”

“I forgot,” Sam says innocently. “But I brought smoothies.”

“ Smoothies ?” Dean clicks his tongue. Then, quietly and mostly to himself: “ Really?"

Castiel has to stifle his amused chuckle, and to hide it he moves to the beach towel Sam had laid out to his left. He sits with his legs stretched out, much like how Sam sits, and the three begin to unwrap their sandwiches, light conversation filtering between bites. 

It’s when the droplets have fully evaporated off their skin, which now feels tight and hot from the sun, that Dean gasps. Both Castiel and Sam look over at him and see he’s already looking in their direction, but over their heads. “No fucking way,” he laughs, getting to his feet. The two curiously and silently watch as he crosses the small beach towards the treeline, drawling out, “Hooly shiitt.”

He walks up a small incline, about two feet in height, and reaches up behind a tree. He pulls back with a rope connected to his hand, which in turn is connected to a branch that hangs over the water. Sam, eyebrows pinched, can’t figure out how Dean had seen the rope, but his confusion dissipates and he’s getting to his feet excitedly. 

“Don’t tell me that’s..”

“A rope swing?” Dean finishes, a bright, overjoyed smile on his face. “Oh hell yeah it is!”

“What?” Castiel asks, standing. “What’s that..?”

Dean barks out a laugh and whips the rope hard to disconnect it from where it’s stuck to. It frees itself and limps into a smile. He steps back and pulls it taut, positions himself, runs and jumps, clinging onto the rope as he laughs out, shouting as he drops himself into the waters. 

“Oh!” Castiel delightedly says. “I get it now.”

The rope swings back and forth, its tail jumpy with every motion until Castiel walks over and grabs a hold of it. Dean shouts encouragingly from the water, waving a hand urgently. Castiel smiles, brimming with excitement and joy, and mimics Dean’s movements. He’s a little awkward with the jump, not using full force, and his grip is weak so he moreso falls from the rope than letting go of it. Sam doubles over with laughter, it bending his waist to release itself in billows. Dean’s head tips back as he cackles alongside his brother. When Castiel reemerges and is met with hyenic laughter, an awkward and sheepish smile summons onto his face, but he feels no sense of embarrassment. 

Sam, who stood in the sandy grass near Castiel before he had jumped, now fetches the swinging rope. He easily catapults himself, flying over Castiel and Dean’s heads, and hitting the water with a spray dangerously close to where Dean treds. “Watch it,” he spits when Sam breaks through the surface. 

Overhead, the sun continues its slow descent in the blazing blue sky. The cicadas buzz louder as the evening draws nearer. The water no longer gives them relief from the sun, but rather is the source of their uncomfortable chill. Sam walks out of the pool, dripping and cold, just as Dean lets go of the rope one last time, pelting Castiel, who turns his head to shield his face. 

Standing on the beach, Sam can properly feel how worn out his body has become. While packing up, the exhaustion is evident on Dean’s face and visible in Castiel’s posture. With the pulsating buzzing and waterfall loud in their ears, the trio leaves their hidden patch of jubilation and hikes back through slanted golden rays of sunlight to the impala. 

After a drive silent with their weariness, the bags are dispersed and Sam heads straight for his house, a long yawn and a nod as his goodbye. Together, with heads light and airy from their day, Dean and Castiel walk over their lawn towards their own home. 

Inside, the evening sun spills enough white light to keep the overhead bulbs dark. Dean dumps the bags by the side door with the intent to clean later when his body rejuvenates and his eyelids awaken. 

“Hungry?” he asks Castiel, his voice coming out unexpectedly gruff. 

“Yes, a little.”

“‘Kay. Go clean yourself up. I’ll whip us up some grub.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Castiel nods and begins to head for the staircase. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean hums in response, too tired to summon a verbal response. Leaning against the corner of the fridge, he tears open the door and peers inside, ready to milk his creativity for an idea.

As the pipes hum with the gushing of water, Dean decides on baked potatoes and the new episode of a show he and Castiel have been watching as their dinner. While the two potatoes, poked and wrapped in silver tinfoil, boil in the oven, Dean has cooked and is now dicing two long stripes of bacon as the garnish. 

The water had shut off moments ago and Dean can hear Castiel’s bedroom door open once more. As the man lumbers down the stairs, Dean flickers his eyes up, and jarringly, suddenly, he’s hit with the warping sense of deja vu. Castiel moves further into the kitchen and Dean hears himself say, “Hey,” as if he’s reading from a script.

Though, Castiel doesn’t follow the scene. Instead of rounding the island counter, he stands behind the stools and looks curiously around the kitchen. “Potatoes?” Dean nods. 

“Baked.” Castiel nods approvingly. He crosses his arms over his chest and that is when Dean notices it. “You’re sunburnt.” Castiel’s tired eyes meet Dean’s, a pull of confusion in them, and a small chuckle comes out of Dean. “You’re sunburnt!”

Castiel looks around the kitchen for a reflective surface, quizzical, before walking over to the windows where he peers at the faded crescent moon of his face. Dean leaves his work to follow, staring at the pinkish hue that dusts his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

“I’ve never been sunburnt before,” Castiel says, his voice holding a distant echo of disbelief. 

Laughing again, Dean points out his finger and uses it to drag up the sleeve of Castiel’s t-shirt to get a peek at his shoulder. As the clothing rides up, so does the intensity of the color. 

“Oh, man,” Dean says sympathetically. “You’re gonna be hurting for a while.”

“Is it bad?” Castiel asks, craning his neck to look at his shoulder, but Dean has already dropped the sleeve. Dean shrugs up one shoulder and says, “Nah. It could be worse. But it’s definitely going to suck for you.” Leaving Castiel’s side, he returns to his cutting board but not before glancing into the oven’s window. “We’ll have to pick up some aloe vera.” Then, after a second of thinking: “And more sunscreen.”

“Well, where’s your sunburn?” Castiel asks as he moves to stand behind the stools.

“Me?” Dean quirks an eyebrow. “No, I don’t get sunburnt. I’m just that awesome.”

“Well, what about bug bites?”

“ Bug bites ?” Dean repeats. He pauses, eyes searching as he goes back into his memory. “Now that I think about it, I haven’t gotten a bug bite in a while.” Nodding his head to the side, he smiles to himself and whispers, “I’m just that awesome.”

Castiel lifts a leg and props it up onto a stool, grabbing the meaty part of his calf and squeezing it, bending down to peer closer at it. Dean, eyebrows raised, says plainly, “The hell are you doing?”

Castiel rotates his ankle in response, showing Dean what he was inspecting. “Is this a bad one?” A small, inflamed circle of blush red surrounds a white, raised bump. It’s blotchy and welting. 

Dean hisses through his teeth and reels back, saying, “Gotta add itch cream to the list, too.”

Castiel scrapes his blunt fingernails against the spot as he drops his leg. Without the buffer of music, the kitchen fills with the busy noises of the oven’s timer going off, the clattering of metal against metal, drawers opening and closing, and the rustling of Dean preparing their plates. 

“Living room or here?”

“Living room,” Castiel responds, taking his plate from Dean. 

They shuffle across the house and into the white-blue light that streams in from outside. Setting their dishes onto the coffee table, Dean allows himself to fall into the plush couch and feel his knees and joints burn with the release of tension. He settles into the couch with his eyes closed as Castiel pulls up their episode. 

The drone of scripted conversations fills their easy silence. Without the lamps on, the leaving sun drains of the living room of life, leaving it chilled and dimmed. The walls around the television flicker with the pale flame of changing scenes. If it weren’t for the swimsuit and t-shirt Dean still wears, he’d easily fall into a light slumber, stomach full and body heavenly warmed by Castiel’s closeness. 

And he nearly dozes off. Cozy in the cushions, knees spread and one resting against Castiel’s, he feels himself getting pulled under the blankets of sleep, only waking when his head rolls. An inch or so further and he’d be snoring on Castiel’s shoulder. In his blurry state, the imagery doesn’t sound all that bad to him. 

“I think,” Castiel begins, breaking into Dean’s watery dreams about the edge of Castiel’s skin, “it’s time for bed.”

“Yeah. Yup.” Dean blinks himself out of his lull and stands up, groaning against the burn of his muscles. Castiel collects the dishes, face pinched as he does so, and stands, straining his neck one way and another while waiting for Dean as he stretches his arms up over his head. Collapsing them, he watches as Castiel’s face twists into one of discomfort and he balances the plates in one hand so the other can rub at the back of his neck. 

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Castiel replies, bowing his chin and digging his fingers deeper into the nape of his neck, “all good.”

“You sure?”

Castiel makes a face. “I’ve just got a small knot here, but I’ve almost got it.” He sighs heavily through his nose. “I don’t remember having to deal with all this.”

Dean stands and watches as Castiel struggles against his own flexibility to twist his arm and massage at his lower back. Lazily rolling his eyes, Dean motions for Castiel to stop. “Just.. c’mere.” Castiel pauses, looking at Dean curiously, and sets the dishes back onto the coffee table before moving to stand in front of Dean, who quirks an eyebrow and looks back expectantly. When Castiel doesn’t move, lips parted slightly in confusion, Dean flashes his eyes open and says, “Turn around, dumbass.”

“Right,” Castiel whispers and follows instructions. 

He stands dumbly in the dim living room, eyes fixated on the show that still plays quietly in the corner of the room. He rolls his shoulders back to stand taller, the known presence of Dean behind him sending him into a funny sense of unease, one that is horribly familiar yet nevertheless confusing. 

The time for a string of conversation between two characters passes before Castiel feels Dean’s shy hands on his lower back. They flutter into their position, tentatively kneading soft circles. Castiel can feel Dean shift his weight, and his knuckles press deeper into the tense muscle. 

At first, the massage does virtually nothing. Castiel is too caught up in the sensation of Dean’s hands on him to say anything, not considering the fact a part of him is nervous to speak up, as voicing his dissatisfaction would cause Dean to stop, grumbling his excuse of not being a trained masseuse. 

Then, without much of a warning, Dean’s spindly fingers wrap around the curve of Castiel’s waist, anchoring to dig his thumbs into the tightness. As he holds Castiel in place, all that passes through his mind are the hopes and wishes that Dean cannot feel his pounding heart. 

“This good?”

“What?” Castiel asks, surprised at the stability of his voice. 

“I asked if this feels good.”

“Oh, yes, it does.” Then, after a short moment and with newfound courage: “Could you go a little higher?” Dean releases the hold he had on Castiel’s waist, and there’s a dip of disappointment within him, but it’s smoothed over when Dean’s hands ghost up his spine, his thumbs digging moats up alongside his vertebrae. 

His muscles scream with hot fire, the sensation feeling close to ticklish, and his voice gets stuck behind his hitched breath. Dean works his way up Castiel’s back, his body slightly rocking with the force, up until they’re kneading into the tightness of his shoulders. His back feels like the disturbed path that follows a boat; a sweet release of tension leaving him craving more. 

His voice builds up behind his breath, and when Dean pushes deep into a particularly tight muscle, he unwillingly lets it go with a soft groan. The hands that rest on his shoulders stutter, faltering for a split second, but quickly go back to their work. Dean focuses on the tightness of Castiel’s neck, letting his fingertips dig softly around his shoulders as he prods using his thumbs. It nearly hurts Castiel, the pinching and straining of hot muscle forcing his breath to hitch again, though he stands still and tries not to let any sign of discomfort show. Dean digs deep into a ball of tension and bowing his head, Castiel, a little more willingly this time, breathes out another groan. 

From behind him, he hears Dean inhale. A moment later, he squeezes Castiel’s shoulders and the absence of his hands leave his shoulders raw to the chill. “There,” Dean says, his voice tight. Castiel can hear him move away. 

Turning around, his back feels incredibly light and fluid. “Thanks,” he says, bringing up a hand to rub at his neck once more. Dean just nods and bends to pick up the dishes. 

“Yup,” Dean says and begins to walk towards the kitchen. “Turn off that TV, will you?”

Castiel mutters, “Yeah,” far too quiet to be heard. Quickly, he grapples for the remote to thumb the power button, his feet urging to catch up to Dean. The kitchen is illuminated softly by the silver moonlight, in which Dean uses to move around in. Castiel stands dumbly in the kitchen, fingers fidgeting at his sides as he thinks of something to say.

Dean moves away from the dishwasher, the door being shut with a satisfying dull click, and says, “Goodnight, Cas,” as he goes for the stairs.

Castiel’s hand pathetically jumps into a messy wave. “Goodnight, Dean.”

Chapter Text

Like the moonlight on his wall, sharp and stretched, the imagery of a daydream—not fully controlled by Dean—plays on fluidly in his mind. Ever since he had bidded goodnight to Castiel and fallen into bed, the events from downstairs stick around in his brain with the pesterance of a leaky ceiling, dropping droplets that disturb his sleep. 

After a passage of time in which Dean does not feel slip by, he blinks at the ceiling and realizes the glow of the moon has dripped down his walls, leaving a milky mess. Castiel crowds into his mind. Scenes flash—Castiel in the backseat of Baby, absentmindedly peering out the window, oblivious to the glances Dean has been stealing—them standing alone together on the apex of the cliff, a warm breeze curling over his hair, the sunshine heavenly on his face—Castiel coming out of the water—sunbathing; content and ablaze in the buttery yellow light—their knees resting against one another as they ate dinner and watched their show, it being dizzyingly evident to Dean when neither of them shifted away—the feel of his body under Dean’s hands—his hitched breath—his airy groans.

The flush of blood leaves him feeling white-hot and light, as if he is drunk off cheap wine. The bed feels like a memory, fuzzy in his peripheral and like static underneath him, only taking shape when he throws the sheets off of himself. He stands without the intent of even getting out of bed in the first place; a pure unintentional force driving him to leave his room and go for Castiel’s.

The cheap wine feeling is heavy in his brain, making it difficult to stop his actions before they are already in motion. He’s inside Castiel’s bedroom, the space well-lit due to the uncovered windows. Castiel slowly props himself onto an elbow, the other hand rubbing at his face as he asks, his voice thick with sleep, “Dean? What?”

Dean stands there dumbly, not a trace of a thought passing through. All he feels is the deep roll of regret. Before he could sputter out a nonsensical excuse, Castiel swings his legs over the edge of his bed and stands. With a sleepy gait, he walks over to Dean, his eyes squinted in confusion. “What is it?”

Like a fish out of water Dean opens his mouth, only the absence of words coming out, nods to the door and motions with his hands—a confused mess. He doesn’t even know what it is . The regret of barging in with no plan arouses inside him, boiling hot and thick. He wants to speak, wills himself to, but cannot physically bring himself to do so. A strange sensation of a barrier on his mouth that leaves him in the beginning phases of overwhelm. 

To ground himself, he stares back at Castiel. Then, looks down his face. 

Dean knows Castiel caught where his gaze fell to. It’s a gut feeling he has. With a sure move, Castiel’s hand flutters up and grabs Dean’s elbow, his fingertips deliciously warm on his frightened skin.

“Dean,” he breathes out and when Dean’s eyes flicker up, he stares into slanted eyelids, “is there something you want?”

Although scared at the hint in Castiel’s tone, Dean is consumed with what’s to transpire.

“Just tell me,” he says, his grip tightening slightly, his touch still gentle and sincere. “Tell me what to do.” Both of their eyes dart up, making contact. Castiel looks at Dean with a tender gaze, patiently waiting for his response, although a flame of excited anticipation is alight behind his face. He looks down at Dean’s lips again, his head closer than it was a moment before and repeats, “Tell me what to do.”

And there is so much Dean wants him to do. He wants Castiel to move his head away and tell Dean to go back to sleep, to ease the stress of tension between them; he wants Castiel to move on yet to never love another; he wants to be comfortable around Castiel again and be released from his bundle of anxiety and soaring heart every time Castiel is mentioned or walks into the room; to go back to how it was before; but most desirably, he wants Cas to lean in. 

And he does. Slowly, slightly. He looks up hesitantly, a question in his eyes, and says, “Tell me what you want me to do, Dean.” But, with a short breath hot and high in his chest, he cannot bring himself to do anything other than to stare down at Castiel’s mouth and desire. “You know, Dean,” Castiel begins again, eyes falling down once more, “I’ll do,” he breathes out, his breath warm on Dean’s face, “anything,” his head tilts, their noses bumping, “for you.”

Anything? Dean wants to whisper, but that barrier on his mouth is replaced by a pressure. A familiar sensation of being kissed, although an inch of space sits between their faces. Ignoring the fuzzy confusion, Dean wants to close his eyes and get swept up and away in the blooming feeling, but the room behind Castiel is terribly dark and unfamiliar. A surface manifests itself against Dean’s back, a plush and soft area, and it isn’t until he blinks and jerks his arms that he realizes he is laying in his own bed in his own room, watching the memory of Castiel’s face fade from his mind. 

His heartbeat beats within his chest and butterflies flitter in his stomach, their wings brushing up and making him feel sick. Turning his head, he looks at his closed bedroom door and with soothing reassurance, imagines Castiel’s securely closed bedroom door beyond his own. As the butterflies calm, Dean is left empty with only a haunting sense of disappointment to comfort him. 

“Fuck,” he whispers to the dark room, bringing his hands up to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes, “ Fuck .”

When the moonlight brightens and the birds sing outside Dean’s window, he twists in his sheets to finally fall asleep in the darkness of his pillows, as he had not gotten a wink throughout the night. 

The sun stretches overhead and it’s around noon Dean opens his eyes, still feeling terribly tired and drained, but fights through it to get ready for his late day. 

As he leans against the counter in the bathroom scrubbing his teeth, he thinks about all the activities he can do in the seclusion of his bedroom. Cleaning his guns is always something he found to be therapeutic, and it would give him a chance to find his misplaced bullets. Laundry is piling up and with a sigh through his nose, he knows it needs to get done.

From beyond the bathroom door and above the noise of bristles moving against teeth, Dean hears Sam calling his name. Tipping his head back to groan at his misfortune, the toothbrush slips past his lips and shoots down his throat. Dean jerks his head down and gags the toothbrush out, the sensitive skin in the back of his throat stinging. A perverted thought barges into his mind, one about him and Castiel and throats, and Dean stands frozen still from shock, staring dumbly into the sink. 

“ Dean !”

Snapping out of it, Dean yells back, “ What !”

“It’s past noon, man, where have you been?”

“ Sleeping !” Then, to himself: “What the fuck else? Jesus.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, rather finishes up and loudly goes back into his room, making an effort to have his door shutting be heard.

Downstairs, Sam gives Castiel a quizzical look, to which the man jumps his eyebrows up and shrugs. “Dean hasn’t slept past noon in..” Sam pauses, thinking, “I don’t even know how long.”

“Long,” Castiel says, nodding his head to the side. “Do you think he feels okay? I could go and check on him.”

“Maybe,” Sam says, hand still on the banister. Then, as Castiel begins to move forward, Sam’s face lights up with a thought and he’s saying, “Actually, on second thought, I can,” as he’s inching up the steps. He throws up a gesture to say wait a moment before jumping up the stairs. 

He invites himself into Dean’s bedroom without bothering a knock. His brother is hidden by the walls of his closet, but the yellow light pours out of it and hangers clatter against hangers. “What, Sammy?” comes from inside the closet. 

“You feeling okay?”

“Yeah. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Sam pauses. “ You ?” He stresses, confused. “Didn’t get much sleep?”

Dean emerges from the closet, his full hamper hanging loosely in front of himself. “Yeah,” he replies, bunching his shoulders up. “What about it?”

“Nothing,” Sam breathes out, shaking his head. He pauses and looks at his brother under drawn eyebrows. “You sure you’re okay?”

Dean, startled, his eyes flashing open with a spark of fear and standing up straighter, asks, “Does it look like I’m not?” 

“No, not that. It’s just that you sleep like a bear. And you can only not sleep when something’s bothering you.”

Dean blows a raspberry. “That’s not true.”

“You’re grumpy in the mornings and you used to never sleep when we were dealing with a lot.”

Dean blows another raspberry, lifting the fingers of a hand that is still securely wrapped around the handle of the hamper to wave his brother off. 

“Something you want to talk about?” Sam tries, although he knows it’s useless. He’s proven correct when Dean slides his eyes to him in a disinterested way and walks to the bed, setting the hamper on top of it. “Right,” Sam breathes out. “Whatever. It’s a nice day and I’m going to go for a walk. Wanna come with?”

Dean thinks for a second. He’s inclined to go as compensation for starting his day so late, but with a spread of uneasiness, thinks, Is Cas going? He glances at his brother who gives him no direction. He would outright ask, but his answer would oppose the response and it would give Sam something to think about, which is not what Dean wants to happen. So, he shrugs and replies with, “Nah. I’ve got my own things to do today.”

“Alright,” Sam says plainly, turning around for the door. “See’ya later.”

Dean bids his brother goodbye. He waits for the footsteps to leave the house and for the main floor to become still with quiet once again. Believing to be in the clear, Dean grabs his laundry basket and heads down the stairs.

The low grumbling of the dishwasher drawers on its old tracks makes him pause in the middle of the staircase, his gaze darting up to see Castiel’s turned back. He squeezes his eyes closed and tips his head back, reeling in his misfortune, before letting it go of his unwilling grasp. He stutters as his brain bounces between two ideas: go downstairs or sneak back up.

“Goodmorning, Dean,” Castiel says with a light lilt. Dean’s decision is made for him. Grumpily, he walks down to the kitchen floor that’s washed in the afternoon sun. 

“Morning,” Dean replies. He aims for the living room, desperate to get away from the uneasy feeling between him and Castiel. But, Castiel sets down the cup he was drying and follows. Dean, much to his dismay, catches this. “Didn’t go with Sam, huh?”

“No,” Castiel replies and Dean pauses before the basement, turning and leaning against the doorway. “I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Dean jumps his eyebrows up and rolls his shoulder around the corner, beginning to bounce down the stairs. This time, Castiel does not follow. 

As he is piling his laundry into the washer, he listens to the distant clattering of ceramics and the high chiming of utensils. He starts the washer and leans against the machine, feeling it begin to whirl and rumble as he thinks. To go upstairs is to ambush himself, but he cannot sit in the basement until the clothes are freshly tumbled and warm. 

Just as he is about to surrender to the staircase, a dark hole in the wall catches his eye. With drawn eyebrows and piqued curiosity, he slowly moves around a shelf scattered with the old trinkets of Crowley and stares into the hallway. Just beyond is a room similar to the one he stands in, illuminated by dim, dusty sunlight. Dean tilts his head, trying to get a better look at what he has discovered from where he stands when he spots a laundry basket, a copy of his own, filled with flannels and t-shirts. Sam’s clothes. His rising curiosity plateaus and excitement takes over. “ Score !” he loudly whispers to himself and bumbles into Sam’s basement thinking about Clue! .

Sam’s house doesn’t deviate from Dean and Castiel’s very much. The only difference is that it’s smaller. The basement stairs sit below the ones that lead to the second level, only a railing and a pillar to separate from the hallway. 

Neither Cas nor Dean go inside Sam’s house very often as there is never really a reason to. So, Dean ghosts around the place, peering around corners and sweeping through rooms with interest. He opens a few drawers, finding them to be mostly empty or filled with miscellaneous items, and pushes them closed again with a tip of a finger. 

Growing increasingly bored, Dean looks at the time on the microwave and finds he’s only been inside for ten minutes. With puckered lips, he places his hands on his hips and swivels around the kitchen, thinking about something to do. 

His train of thought leads him outside where he discovers Sam to be correct about the weather. The sun has lessened its strain and it’s pleasantly warm. A breeze lazily drifts by, not caring to rustle the spiked leaves of the palm trees above Dean’s head. A ways down the long stretch of beach and Dean sees small figures in the water, bouncing over waves and running across the sand. 

He smiles, filled with pure happiness over what he is lucky enough to experience and sends his daily thank you upstairs to Jack. The moment the phrase leaves his lips, the sun feels just a little warmer on his skin. Pleased with himself, he quickly glances down the beach once more, and a cluster of trees catch his eye. A mesh hammock limps between two thick trunks and with another smile, Dean knows what he’s to do today. 

He goes inside his own home through the front door without fear, as his mind is focused on getting his keys and wallet. Walking into the kitchen, his feet are stuttering to a pause when he finds Castiel, strangely surprised as he had forgotten the reason for his own avoidance. 

“Where’d you go?” he asks, more innocently confused than tempered. “You went to do laundry and never came upstairs.”

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” Dean replies dismissively, moving to head for the staircase. “Didn’t know about the secret passage way down there.”

“Oh, Sam never told you?” Dean’s lack of response answers his question and he watches as Dean disappears upstairs. It’s only a moment later his footsteps return, his hands hastily shoving his phone and wallet into his back pockets as he comes down the stairs. “Where are you going?”

“The store.”

“Oh. Let me get my shoes, then.”

Dean slows to a stop in the doorway of the kitchen, a heavy sigh filling his chest. “Cas,” he begins, his voice low and tone sympathetic, and Castiel pauses as he knows his name in that note all too well. 

“What?” he asks, already disappointed. 

Dean turns, although not fully. “It’ll be a quick run. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“You don’t want me to go with you?”

“You make me sound like a dick when you put it that way.”

“If the boot fits.”

“Shoe,” Dean says, eyes closed. “If the shoe fits. Also.. rude !” 

“You want me to stay here? Alone?”

“Well,” Dean exasperates, his hands partially flying up, “you could’ve gone with Sam, so.. yes.”

“ No !” 

Dean’s face falls flat and he stares away into a corner. In his peripheral, he sees Castiel cross his arms over his chest. Not feeling up for an argument, Dean throws his hand up into a bratty wave and walks towards the door. “I’ll be back soon.” He shuts the front door behind him and steps into the now lukewarm sun. 

Dean likes to proclaim himself as truthful, but that in itself is a lie. And his deceitfulness is proven again when he fails to upkeep his statement of returning soon. He spends his time walking down aisles of a furniture store he found deep in town and talks with associates about hammock sizes and capabilities. After an exchange of money and a long, heavy box balanced on his shoulder, Dean checks the time and notices it’s nearly an hour later. 

Arriving home, he’s waived of Castiel and Sam’s presence. Recently he’s found their company to carry the same annoyance of a housefly. Always around, always buzzing. There’s a part of himself that feels badly about it, almost guilty, because he understands the fault is not on them. But, even so, he enjoys his time alone out in the sun. 

Down By the Seaside plays from his portable speaker. Plant’s soothing hum mixes well with the high roar of the ocean; the low bang of the drums and bouncing of guitar strings has him shimmying his shoulders as he unboxes his new hammock between two trees that are far enough to be secluded but still nearby and visible. 

He works diligently, only pausing under the shade to figure out which way the clips must go. Halfway through Tea for One and above the shrill guitar riff, he hears the familiar noise of ice clinking against glass. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Castiel approaching, both arms bent as he carries two cups. 

“This is what you left me for?” He asks, eyeing the mess of mesh laying in the grassy sand, only half strung up.

“You’ll learn to appreciate me one day,” Dean says, standing and clapping the sand off his hands. “For me?”

Castiel hands over a glass. Condensation has already built up and there’s a cut of lemon hanging from the rim. Dean smiles at it and takes a sip. “It’s raspberry iced tea,” Castiel tells him. “I got into a conversation with this fascinating woman at the market—that’s where Sam and I went when he got back—and she gave me her recipe. Said it’s been in her family for generations.”

“Mom used to say the same thing, then pull out Julia Child.”

“I don’t…” Castiel begins and Dean rolls his eyes and waves his hand, muttering, “Yeah, yeah.” Then: “Didn’t, uh.. Metatron give you like, the Holy Grail of knowledge?"

Castiel says, “I believe it left when he died,” then takes a sip. “Or I’ve forgotten everything.” 

Humming in response, Dean looks back down at his task. He kneels and digs the butt of the glass into the sand to make a pocket for it to sit. Returning to untangling the webbing from itself, he fully expects Castiel to grow bored and leave. Though, his presence stands tall and daunting behind Dean’s back. He turns to look and sees that Castiel has made himself comfortable, leaning against the prickled trunk and staring at the ocean. 

Dean stands again, only a foot of space to separate them. Castiel looks over and they lock eyes. Within his mind, scenes from his dream flash and, jarringly, Dean is overcome with the haunting desire to make his dream come true. Castiel stares back at him, naive to Dean’s temptations. 

“I’ve gotta, uh,” Dean says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “change over my laundry.” He starts to walk away and over his shoulder says, “You can keep my drink there. I’ll be right back.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, watching Dean leave. “Okay.”

In the chilled basement, Dean leans a hip against the washer as he pulls out each article of clothing one by one by one. He unrolls his socks, untangles sleeves, and flips shirts right-side out before chucking them into the dryer. Starting it and going back outside into the pleasantly warm air, he’s guiltily delighted to see the space between the two trees empty. 

When he returns to his work, though, the guilt rises in him and the delight dies. In his absence, Castiel had dragged down the side table from their porch and placed Dean’s speaker and iced tea in the center, a damp towel clinging to the rim to keep sand and bugs away. 

Sighing, Dean rubs his forehead, reeling in his muddled emotions. He’s upset with himself, and upset with Castiel for making him upset with himself. 

Later in the day, when the sun lays over its waterbed and bleeds its draining life out into the blues of the ocean and sky, Sam and Castiel sit on the porch of the latters house. The atmosphere clings onto its warmth still, the type of day one walks around in and thinks this is what Heaven must feel like. 

They eat their dinner around their pockets of conversation. As Castiel scrapes the last of his food onto his fork, he pauses and looks out. Turning to Sam, he voices a thought he’s been pondering on for hours. “Has Dean seemed… distant lately?”

“Yes!” Sam says around a mouthful of food. Bringing a bent finger to his lips, he finishes his bite and repeats, “Yes, thank you . I knew you’d pick up on it.” Then, after turning to face Castiel more properly: “Get this: I asked him what he wanted to eat for dinner, and he said he wasn’t hungry. Can you believe that? I said, not hungry my ass and he just,” Sam throws up a hand, “walked away from me.”

“Walked away?” Castiel asks, eyes squinting as he thinks. 

Sam nods. “Yeah. I just don’t get him sometimes. He pouts and acts like a toddler.”

Castiel smiles amusedly. When a thought pops into his head, he scratches behind his ear and says, “I’ll be right back,” before standing. Sam curiously watches as he goes inside. 

Depositing his dishes by the sink, Castiel walks up the stairs. Dean’s bedroom door is shut and it's quiet inside. Castiel knocks gently. “Dean?” he asks into the wood.

“Yeah?” 

Taking that as his signal to enter, he opens the door and stands under the frame, keeping a hand on the cool knob. Dean lays against his pillows, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, reading a book. Castiel raises a confused eyebrow. “I thought you hated reading.”

Dean shrugs and folds the book over his thumb. “I’ve got nothing else to keep me busy.”

“Come outside with Sam and I then.”

Dean makes a sour face. “I’ve been outside all day, man. Lemme take my break.”

Castiel’s mouth bunches to the side. He searches Dean’s face, who opens his book again. In the past when Castiel would pick up on the fact something is bothering Dean, he would try and catch his eye to show Dean that he cares, that he can open up. But, today, Dean has been refusing to make that contact. Even going as far to avoid being in the same area as Castiel for long. Tired of keeping his thoughts internal, Castiel says, “I feel like you’ve been taking a break from me.”

Dean’s eyes snap over. His face theatrically scrunches as if to say how absurd! “That’s not true,” he voices, bending a knee and resting his elbow on it. “I’ve just been busy today. It’s nothing personal.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Castiel looks up to the ceiling and begins to recount his experiences with Dean’s demeanor that morning and the awfully obvious resistance of Castiel tagging along to any of his tasks. “Usually, Dean, even when busy you still want me around.” He shifts his weight and tilts his head, staring at the man. “Did I do something wrong?”

Dean sighs heavily. His face has fallen into a melancholy look, eyes drifting to the pink window outside. “Alright,” he breathes out, closing his eyes. “I know I’ve been a dick, but you didn’t do anything.”

“If I did something wrong, you’d tell me.”

“Yes,” Dean agrees, “and I’m telling you, you’re fine . I– I just..” Dean pauses, pursing his lips, sealing the last of the sentence inside. 

Castiel quirks an eyebrow. “I just…?”

Flickering his eyes over, Dean shifts uncomfortably. He opens a hand as he says, “I just had an off dream last night, alright? And I didn’t get much sleep because of it.”

“A bad dream?” Castiel asks, concerned.

“No, no.. not exactly.”

“So,” Castiel drawls out, “a good dream?”

Dean’s lips peel back in a slight grimace, his thoughts divided on his face. “I.. it–it was just weird.” Then: “Drop it, Cas. It’s just a dream anyway.”

Disregarding him, Castiel tips and leans against the doorframe, eyes up and scouring the ceiling as he thinks. He’s greedy for more information to keep lying down tracks for his train of thought. A scene is constructing within his imagination and he’s too intrigued to let it turn to dust. 

“Does it have anything to do with me?”

Dean closes his eyes. “Let me read my book, will you?”

Castiel smiles. “Is that a yes?” Dean doesn’t respond, verbally nor with a gesture, and instead goes back to staring at the pages. Although, his eyes don’t skim. Castiel taps a finger against his chin. His mind is devoted to scanning Dean’s behavior throughout the day and he notes, “You’ve been flustered all day.” His observation is innocent, the connections not yet coming together. Dean’s eyes snap up and he stares shocked at the opposite side of the room. “What happened in your dream, Dean?”

“Nothin’,” he chokes out.

Castiel squints at him. He knows very well when Dean is being deceitful. It’s in his tone, in the avoidance of eye contact. He returns his gaze to the ceiling and thinks, what could have happened to have Dean so flustered? There are only so many avenues his brain can travel down.

The room is quiet for a long moment. Dean steals fearful glances and the sight of Castiel thinking has his stomach in knots. He tries to read, tries to get lost in the fantasy world, but it’s impossible to with Castiel’s presence. One more glance and startlingly, Dean sees a tiny, knowing smile pull at Castiel’s mouth.

The smirk has Dean throwing his book down next to him and standing from the bed. The closer he gets to Castiel, the more the man backs up into the hallway, his eyes alight with secret knowledge. 

“Night,” Dean says and shuts his bedroom door.

“But it’s only seven!”

“I said goodnight !”

Castiel stands outside of Dean’s sealed bedroom door and in his lonesome, the smile blooms unapologetically onto his face. He walks back outside to join Sam with a sense of egotistical pride, fantasizing about Dean and the contents of his dream.

Chapter Text

Dean walks along the beach, heading home after his long shift at the bar. The beautiful weather from the previous day has stuck around, although the blue skies are disturbed with wisps of clouds. 

A coworker who is notorious for being unreliable had called in sick to the opening shift. Dean, who would have come in just a couple hours later, had no problem heading down early. He finds that the area puts a sense of ease to him. Wiping the polished wood until it shines, cleaning glasses until they gleam the sunlight, the feel of the tap beer cooling the glass—he loves it. Sometimes he forgets he’s a registered employee because it feels so much like a hobby. 

It fills the empty pockets of time and gives him that distance he sometimes needs. Helps him reset himself—come home refreshed. Because while at home, it’s near impossible to keep his bubble intact. Not with Castiel’s lacking sense of personal space. Just that morning in the early hours, he had stood barely a foot away while they brushed their teeth together. 

“Your sink is down there, buddy,” Dean had said around a mouthful of spit and foam. 

“You have the toothpaste, though.”

Dean looked at him sideways with sharp eyes before leaving the bathroom, toothbrush still clamped between his lips. When he had walked away, the heavy weight of Castiel’s closeness dripped off of him, leaving him chilled with both the sensation of dying, fizzling static and the lack of warmth. 

As he walks down the beach, a knot forms behind his ribcage. He thinks of him and Castiel in the bathroom, his attention on the empty space between them that, to him, felt alive. He remembers staring at the inches between their arms in the mirror and with a dreadful sensation, hoping that their elbows would never knock together. He relaxes into the idea of forgetting the warmth of Castiel’s skin—of being left in the cold, no matter how much it stings. 

When the shape of the two houses take form in the peripheral of Dean’s eyes, his gaze snaps up, leaving his clouded thoughts to turn to mist within his mind. Jarringly, Dean spots a person in his hammock. He’s instantly angered, an intrusive thought barging into his mind at the idea of a stranger welcoming themselves to his hammock. Although, as he paces forward, the grown out brown hair looks more familiar. 

“Sammy,” Dean says as he approaches. 

His brother looks up from his book, his face brightening in familiarity. “Dean! How was work?”

“You’re in my hammock.”

Sam’s face falters. “Yeah, so?”

“So,” Dean drags out, motioning with his hands. “Get out of it.”

“ Get out ?”

“Yeah, get out . I bought it, I put it up, it’s mine.”

Sam stares up, his eyes calculating the seriousness of Dean’s demeanor. When he doesn’t relent, Sam pushes out a breathy scoff. “Unbelievable.” He folds the pages of his book onto his finger and stands. Dean falls into the stretch of empty webbing as Sam says, “You’re such a child.”

Dean only closes his eyes and wiggles his fingers at his brother dismissively. His expression snaps, though, when he feels a sharp knock against his ankle. “ Oh !” he shrieks as Sam begins to walk away. “ I’m the childish one?”

Sam shakes his book into the air as he calls over his shoulder, “You know it!”

Rolling his eyes, Dean drops his head. The stress of the customers begins to seep away with the rolling crash of the waves, the brightness of the sun. He relaxes into the cradle of the mesh until a thought pops into his head. 

“ Sam, wait !”

The man, now a distance away, pauses and turns around. “Gimme a beer, will you?” With his neck turned at a painful angle, Dean watches for as long as he can as Sam walks inside his own house, wondering if he will get what he asked for. 

One thing that Dean fails to remember is how relaxing hammocks can be. They hold you in all the right places and the gentle rock leaves you feeling like you’re back in maternal arms. The sun is too bright to keep his eyes open, although it is the distant roll of the ocean and the warm breeze that takes him under. 

His sleep is light and plain. There is a faint awareness of the redness of his eyelids and a too-nearby bird squawks, dully bringing him out. As his consciousness lies behind his closed eyelids, he feels the familiar sensation of no longer being alone.

He blinks against the quiet; the pull of the hammock materializing beneath him, swaying slightly. Castiel stands before him, not moving, although there is a flicker of hesitation behind his face. 

Dean closes his eyes and sighs through his nose. “Will you ever stop?”

“I was just about to wake you,” Castiel replies, his tone soft but firm—sincere. 

“Yeah, sure you were.” Dean raises a hand to pinch out the strain in his eyes. Then, with a grunt, moves to be sitting in the hammock rather than laying. His feet touch the solid sand and the hammock mounts back by an inch or two. He glances up at Castiel, a reeled back expression that makes it known he is not thrilled about being interrupted. “What’d you want?”

Castiel doesn’t reply. Instead, he steps forwards and takes a seat. Feeling his dismay, Dean rolls his eyes and shifts into the corner of the hammock, being intentional about the space between. It isn’t until his attention is caught by Castiel offering a chilled bottle of beer, one Dean plucks out of his hands. Biting the inner-part of his cheek, he shakes his head slightly to himself as he should have known he gave Sam the materials to set up the perfect trap. 

“So, Dean,” Castiel speaks into the warm air. His hands are politely balled into his lap and his chin is raised. “I’m curious about your dream, still.”

Dean sucks on his tongue, then makes a snapping noise. Gesturing aimlessly, he says, “Whatever happened to asking how my day is? How work went?”

“Alright,” Castiel says, his tone soft. “Hi, Dean. How are you? Good? I’m happy to hear that. By the way, tell me about your dream.” He looks over with the smallest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. He looks delighted, as if he is expecting Dean to laugh. Even when the man frowns, Castiel’s light expression doesn’t falter. 

“Work was actually pretty stressful . But,” Dean waves a hand in the air, “whatever.”

“I don’t mean for you to think I don’t care,” Castiel says. He stares at his feet and curiously plants them into the sand. When he does so, the hammock moves back. He lifts his feet and the hammock swings slightly forward. “By all means,” he says and opens his hands.

Dean screws off the cap of his beer and takes a sip. “If you’re offering,” he says and after shifting to get comfortable, dives into the details. With the rising heat and the days ticking into the summer months, the beaches become more crowded and the bar more popular. Gone are the relaxing days of watching silent sports with customers. After his retelling, he asks, “You?”

“My day was fine,” Castiel says, pushing off once more, harder this time to see how far the hammock will swing. “Sam recommended a book for me to read. Daisy Jones and The Six . I think you’d really enjoy it. It’s about a rock band.”

“Yeah, I know all about that one. Sam talked my ear off about it.”

“It deserves its praise.”

“Sam sure thinks so.”

“You don’t agree?” Castiel looks over at Dean, planting his feet and bringing the hammock to a stall. 

Dean nods his head to the side. “Not a big reader.”

“You sure were yesterday.”

“I was bored yesterday.”

Castiel hums and looks to the ocean. “Well, if you hadn’t been avoiding me, you probably wouldn’t have been so bored.”

Dean tips his head back and theatrically groans. “For the last time, I wasn’t avoiding you, man.”

“Is that so?” 

Dean nods. “Very so.”

“Your avoidant behavior had nothing to do with a certain dream?”

Dean’s body stills. His eyes stay trained on his lap. “Nope,” he says, popping the p .

Castiel hums again, high and condescending. “Then I assume you’d have no trouble in telling me what it was about?” He turns to look at Dean and finds his chin to be dipped and him absentmindedly playing with the mouldings of his beer bottle. When he fails to respond, Castiel looks pleased with himself. “That’s what I thought.”

“You don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t?”

“No,” Dean snarks. “What’s this obsession with my dream? It’s a dream —nothing special. I barely even remember it, man.”

“Unlikely,” Castiel replies, and goes no further. Dean’s face twists up and he shoots a sharp look over, but Castiel’s eyes are on the ocean ahead. He remains quiet and unmoving, besides for the silent rise and fall of his chest and the rocking of his legs to swing the hammock. In the beginning seconds of their silence, Dean’s eyes flicker to him, the guarded expression on his face breaking and becoming replaced with an apprehensive curiosity. 

Just as it begins to feel uncomfortable, the silence mounting and the seconds everlasting, Castiel speaks up. “This one is,” he says, his voice wistful. “This one is special. It affected you in a profound way.” He pauses, his eyes still on the current. “I’ve never dreamt before. Angels, as you know, don’t sleep. When I was human, I was never asleep for long or hard enough to dream.”

Dean considers this, his gaze thoughtful before snapping to Castiel’s profile as he asks: “Well, what about now?” He bunches his shoulders into a lousy shrug. “You’ve been human for—what—four, five days now?”

Castiel lifts a shoulder. “I have yet to.” He looks at Dean and their eyes connect. “Which is why I’m so intrigued about your dream, Dean. I…” He breaks their contact, his jaw working but no words spilling out. Looking to the ocean, he says again, “I want to experience humanity to its fullest. I’m done with being blocked out. I want to,” he looks down at his hands and turns the palms heavenwards, grasping at nothing, “feel everything one can. I won’t let my grace—or you—hinder me. And, for humans, dreams hold such mystery and I want to experience that enigma.” Then, after a non-committal nod of his head: “Although, I am aware that dreams aren’t what cultures have made them out to be. They are only the brain working while the body sleeps.”

With his eyebrows pulled in, Dean mutters, “Oh.” After a beat of thoughtful silence, he asks, “Wait, so, they’re not about our, like, secret desires or anything?”

“Well, I never said that .”

“Oh.”

Castiel looks at Dean; after a second, Dean looks back. “Any reason you ask?”

Dean scoffs. “ No .”

“Your pants are on fire.”

Dean’s face scrunches into confusion and, instinctively, his gaze darts down. “What—Oh.” As his expression falls into one of pure unamusement, Castiel snickers to himself. “It wasn’t that funny.”

A full bubble of laughter comes out of Castiel, light and airy and deliciously happy. “I thought it was funny.”

Dean just shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer to hide his hinting smile. 

In the aftermath of Castiel’s laughter, the two sit in one anothers easy silence. The clouds have convoluted along the horizon, thick and full and fluffy, standing tall to graze against the thin layers of the atmosphere. The ocean dazzles with the sun’s exit, and the swaying hammock brings about a relaxing lull, making the tension between them malleable enough for Dean to glance over—once, twice—until he’s freely searching Castiel’s profile. 

Just as he becomes timid with his staring and looks away, Castiel turns to look at him. “Was I in your dream?”

Dean’s expression sours. 

He leans in closer to Dean—who can feel the inches shrinking—and asks, “Was it a good dream?”

Dean slides his eyes over to Castiel in an uneasy glance. 

“Ah,” Castiel says and leans back into his position with a delighted smile on his face. “So it was good.”

“I never said that.” Dean tries to bite with his words, but the tailend falls limp.

“You didn’t have to.” Castiel squints at Dean. He has an expression on his face that holds a sort of enjoyment, and it makes Dean antsy under his stare. “Was it realistic?”

Dean’s eyes flicker away, confused. “What’d’ya mean?”

“I mean,” Castiel refreames, “was it… Has it happened before?”

Dean brings the beer to his mouth, the liquid sloshing inside. He puts it down, only to bring it back up and empty half the bottle in three large gulps, his throat working. His face pinches as he sets the bottle in his lap, exhaling through his teeth. Castiel watches, calm and patient. 

In Dean’s silence, Castiel knows the answer. It couldn’t be more obvious. It lies in Dean’s darting eyes, his sealed lips, in the way he keeps the border of himself within imaginary confines. But, Castiel waits in his silence for a verbal answer. 

After counting the divots on the far side of the beach, an area no travelers go down as it eventually gets swarmed by jungle and the tide reaches up higher, Dean sighs heavily and turns to face the ocean. Quietly, he says under his breath, “Yeah.”

“So, it was a memory?”

Dean grimaces. “Not exactly,” he says, then pauses. His face is divided, two roads of conversation visibly forking. “It wasn’t the same.”

“A dream of a memory, then,” Castiel chimes.

“Sure,” Dean says, perturbed. “Whatever you want to call it.”

“Was Sam there?”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. A moment passes them. “No,” he slowly admits. 

“Sam wasn’t there,” Castiel begins, slowly drawing out each word as if he were writing it, “it was between you and me.” He smiles, just slightly. “And it was a memory?”

Dean’s breath is tight in his chest. The eyes on him—Castiel’s eyes—are hot and heavy and grating into his skin. Without conscious thought, he hears himself say, “you know,” and his hand is on his knee and he feels himself standing. The bottle of beer feels incredibly light between his fingers, yet so heavy he fears it might slip. 

“Sit down, Dean.”

The command in his tone has Dean stilling. He twists around and meets Castiel’s unwavering gaze. He attempts to challenge it, though Castiel dips his chin, slightly, and it makes Dean falter. The hammock wilts again with his returning weight. The two sit closer, yet not touching. 

Castiel watches as Dean grows uncomfortable under his gaze. How he keeps his eyes trained elsewhere, his posture rigid, his thumb grazing the outline of his knee. 

“You do remember your dream.”

Pushing out a tight sigh through his nose, Dean dips his chin and begins to dig his crescent fingernails into the grooves of the bottle. Seconds pass them by and when Dean’s head lifts, Castiel feels a sense of satisfaction warming him because he sees Dean beginning to relent his secrets. 

“Fine,” Dean snarks. “Yes.”

Adopting a gentler tone, Castiel asks, “Why won’t you tell me about it then?” He isn’t trying to pry the truth away from Dean, but rather loosen his fingers a bit.

“Because,” Dean bites, then stalls. His mouth moves as he tries to manifest the words. 

When Castiel notices an I don’t know forming, he softly prods with, “Embarrassing?” Dean shakes his head and Castiel thinks. “Shameful?”

With a breath expanding his chest, Dean’s gaze flutters to the sky. The popcorn clouds block the beaming sun, and its capture is evident in the clouds' silver lining. The sky above them is empty and dimming, an early twilight beginning to take over. 

“Not really,” Dean slowly admits. He hesitates, his eyes flickering around, then says: “Maybe…Maybe a couple of years ago—sure—but…” He purses his lips. “I—I think I’m fine with it. I—I still don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Dean glances over and meets with eyes that are kind, gentle. He swallows, finding his throat to be restricted, and nods. “Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s annoying, trust me, I know. Imagine how I feel when I can’t even bring myself to think about it most days.” He laughs bitterly. “What sucks ass the most is that it was easier with—with—”

“With Benny,” Castiel finishes. After a beat, Dean nods. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “With Benny.” Then: “Now, I’m not saying it wasn’t hard with him. It was definitely weird as shit, but…” He shrugs. “It’s—It’s different. With you. Harder.”

Castiel remains quiet. He cannot peel his eyes away from Dean’s face. The microexpressions he presents with every question, every thought, every answer—it’s something Castiel can not get enough of. 

The blue toned atmosphere soaks Dean, bringing out the darker hues of his shirt and complimenting the golden tan of his skin, bringing out the lightness of his eyes, the darkness of his freckles. Castiel, like he always had and always will, adores viewing Dean. Watching how his eyes flicker, the tip of his tongue juts out to wet his lips, the subtle way his eyelashes move, his chest swelling with air, the way his mouth twists, either it be from a smile or a frown—Castiel doesn’t care, as long as he can see it happen. 

“Why do you think it’ll be hard?” He asks at last.

Even as Dean’s lips screw into a frown, Castiel finds it difficult to look away. 

“You’re my best friend, Cas,” Dean says, then closes his eyes as he drives in: “You really, really are.” His hesitant gaze flickers over, but similarly to a candle light, it wavers and he looks away. “I—I don’t know what I would do if our friendship got fucked up because I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be.”

Immediately, Castiel replies with, “Whose saying you aren’t already?”

This raises a bitter laugh out of Dean. He looks over, his eyebrows bunched and expression raw. He says, his voice tender, “Because of that damn side table you brought down.” 

Castiel stills, confused. Then, erupts with laughter. 

The aching and begging in Dean’s face snaps away with the realization of what he had said. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head, pouting. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Laugh all you want.”

“Oh, I will,” Castiel giggles. “A side table!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It was the meaning behind it, smartass.”

It takes a moment more for Castiel to retain his laughter. After a breath and with a shaky smile, he says, “Okay. Tell me the meaning behind it, then.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Dean says playfully. “Not if you’re gonna laugh at me.”

“No promises.”

“Hey!” Dean’s face scrunches. “You were supposed to say, No, Dean, I would never .”

Castiel laughs again. Dean’s expression sours, but there’s a hint of sweetness behind it. 

Once Castiel quiets, an easy smile on his face, Dean sighs and takes a sip of his beer. He waits for the moment to calm before speaking. “What I was trying to say—”

“—Sorry, Dean—”

“—was that it was because you brought the side table down. There was no problem to be fixed—my stuff was perfectly fine where it was. But, you still did. Went out of your way to make my life a little bit easier. Because you’re.. sweet like that.” Dean stares out at the ocean, terribly aware of the soft look Castiel is giving him. It burns on the side of his face like a raging fire, one he cannot face without risking hurting his eyes. “I wouldn’t do that for no one. Not because I’m a dick— well, I am , but, it would be because I just wouldn’t think to, you know? I guess… I guess what I’m trying to say is that.. I wouldn’t be…” He opens his hands in his lap and stares down at them. He lifts his palms as if he is showing Castiel all he has to offer, which, to him, is an amount so small it fits in the cups of his hands. “A nice… partner.”

It’s still around them. Dean drops his hands into his lap. His ears sear from the silence. 

The hellfire on the side of his face cools, and after a long moment, he dares a glance and finds Castiel no longer looking at him. Dean’s lips thin and he, too, looks out to the ocean. 

The clouds have darkened, beginning to seep into the horizon until they fizzle into one, seamless, twilight blue. A breeze picks up around them, now slightly chilled from the lack of sunlight to warm the atmosphere. Dean shifts, although terribly aware of his body and his movements, forces himself to settle into whatever position he was last in, no matter how uncomfortable. He glances at Castiel.

There is a creeping sense within him that decides it hates the silence Castiel is giving them. Dean wants to fill the space—make it softer, make it malleable—but cannot seem to find a set of words that fit into the empty air around them. He glances at Castiel, taking a second to search his profile. 

He stands teetering on the edge of his confession, wobbling back and forth with no idea of which way he’s to fall. His heart beats rapidly behind his ribcage. As he sits curled into his spine, tension knotting itself in pockets around his body, he comes lucidly—disgustingly—aware of the expression he must be holding on his face. He feels the tightness between his eyebrows, the desperation in his eyes.

A bird sings in the trees above them. Light, peaceful.

Dean searches Castiel’s body. His posture—relaxed; his hands—still; his feet—swaying the hammock, as if he is the only one there; his face—calm and collected and it is what brings Dean to a crushing realization, one that has his whole body in anguish: that if Castiel were to agree—agree that Dean will not be a good partner—and leave, he would be devastated. Heartbroken. Because, unbeknownst to himself, he and Castiel had been longing for the same thing. 

Just as his frightening realization begins to chill his core, Castiel’s voice cutting into the silence jolts Dean.

“You brought me your comforter down when I was too drunk to go up the stairs. You waited for me to return home when I stayed out late.” Dean’s eyes dart to Castiel, who remains staring at the ocean. He isn’t looking up to scour his brain, but instead is talking as if he is speaking about simple things. “You make me dinner. You do puzzles with me when I know they are not your favorite. You buy me puzzles, even without me having to ask. You insist on staying up to watch another episode when I want to, even though I can tell you’re falling asleep.” When Castiel turns his head, he finds that Dean is already staring. “Yes, you get unreasonably angry and avoidant, but I think that’s just the natural outcome of your hard life. It isn’t something that makes you bad, Dean, or unfit. I can handle myself perfectly fine around you. Is it unfair sometimes? Sure, but you always come around.” He ends his tangent with a smile—soft and adoring—and it lights his eyes up with something that brings an indescribable sensation to swell within Dean. 

And he stares back, his eyes bouncing between Castiel’s. He feels almost silly—pathetic, even—for how his face must look. Cut open and raw for all Castiel to see, and it brings Dean a feeling of what he can only assume is emotional relief to know that Castiel isn’t looking away. 

“You care for me just as much as I care for you, Dean. You may not be able to see it, but I do.”

The weight of Castiel’s words press down onto Dean—each one cutting deeper, stinging harsher, weighing heavier—until it begins to unravel all the tightly knotted fears he’s been holding onto for so long. It’s not just that Castiel speaking his truth is what undid the gnarl, but it’s the way he said it. With that gentle certainty, as if he had always known, as if it’s something so obvious it never needed to be spoken about in the first place. But there is no snarking, no condescending tone of disbelief. 

Dean blinks, and only then does he realize how long he’d been staring for. Looking away, the tightness in his throat—in his chest—in his back and his legs and his arms—makes itself known. He can feel a certain heat rising underneath the skin of his face and there is that desperate urge to pull away dripping from his limbs, but his body betrays him. He stays rooted, vulnerable and exposed. 

Castiel’s gaze never falters, and Dean knows—knows with a sickening clarity—that everything Castiel just said is true. All the little things he’s done for Castiel, all the ways he’s shown care, are somehow more than just duty, more than just friendship. He’s been investing into something deeper than he’s willing to admit, and it terrifies him to think that Castiel might be seeing that with a clarity Dean can’t afford to acknowledge. It’s something he doesn’t want to face, but knows he can’t ignore anymore.

You care for me just as much as I care for you, Dean. You may not be able to see it, but I do.

It’s as if the words themselves are a force, pushing him to the edge of something too big to ignore. "Cas," Dean whispers, the sound barely more than a breath. He lifts his hand, but it hovers between them, unsure, as if he's reaching for something he can’t name. “What—what do you want to do?” 

Castiel perks up—a flame ignites behind his expression. A flame of hope. It resides internally, though, and doesn’t leak out when he says, “Whatever you want to do, Dean.”

Dean laughs, but it’s hollow.  “You won’t like my answer, buddy,” he says, looking over. “So I suggest you give me something to work with.”

Castiel bounces his gaze around Dean’s face as he thinks. The flame within him begins to spark, emitting spouts of fizzing light. He tries to breathe and use the incoming air to smoke it out, but, truthfully, his attempts are weak. His internal body is so full of haze from putting out the fire over and over and over. Staring into Dean’s eyes and he knows he’d rather go up into flames than smolder. 

“We could,” Castiel begins, slow and hesitant, fearful to say the wrong thing, “go slow with it. I won’t force anything.” He hopes his eyes don’t bore the same desperation his voice holds. “We can let it come naturally.” 

There’s a large dip of disappointment within him when Dean looks away. He curls his hands into themselves in his lap, pushing down on his fingers to release the tension he feels webbing in his chest. A short moment passes, and with desperation, adds, “It might be easier than pretending it doesn’t exist.”

This, Castiel sees, lightens the strain in Dean’s face. 

He watches as Dean stares at the edge of his skin out of the corner of his eye. He takes a long moment to think, one that feels strained so much so that it is difficult to swallow in. 

Then, Dean whispers: “Yeah—Okay.” Again, with a little more strength: “I can do that.”

“You can?” Castiel asks, his voice no longer devoid of excitement. “You—Really?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Sure you can’t act a little more surprised?”

“I just—I—” A bubble of rubbery laughter comes out of him. “Sorry, Dean, I’m—I guess I’m just—” He seals his lips and sinks deeper into the hammock, looking away. He begins to slowly nod his head and with a new voice, says, “Cool. Totally… cool.”

A beat of silence skips over them. Then, Dean’s boyish laughter comes. Castiel snaps his attention over and asks, “What’s so funny?”

“ Totally.. cool? ” Dean mocks, eyebrows raised. 

“I—Well—What else am I supposed to say?”

“Anything other than totally cool .”

Castiel purses his lips together and drops his gaze, feeling the hot creeping sensation of what he can only categorize as embarrassment. It’s unstable, though, as the happiness is too grand within him.

“Oh, Cas, don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Flickering his eyes up, Castiel’s gaze connects with a smiling Dean. His temperament changes in an instant and he, too, is finding a grin on his face. 

They both look away. Castiel to the ocean; Dean to his lap, a hand coming to rub at his face. 

“Totally.. cool,” Dean says, before snorting into a flurry of laughter. Castiel shakes his head, trying to fight his own (and failing).

When Castiel had looked away, he—jarringly—realized how dark it had become outside. He looks around at the dark sands and the no longer visible ocean, now only known by the rolling crushing of waves behind a navy curtain. Dean, too, has taken notice. He tilts his head back and peers up at the dimly gleaming stars. 

“We should probably head inside, huh?” Dean asks, although makes no effort to move.

“Probably,” Castiel agrees.

He continues to swing the hammock gently. Dean settles into the webbing, looking a little more relaxed than before. They sit with each other in their quiet, listening to the gurgle of the ocean, watching the faintness of the stars. 

It isn’t until Dean’s body begins to ache that he pulls himself up to stand. “Aright, for real now,” he says and turns to face Castiel. “And I’m getting cold. You coming?”

Castiel peers up at Dean, only faintly illuminated by the brightness of the houses behind his back. Dean looks back patiently, although shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I think I’ll stay out here for a little bit longer.”

Dean nods, his eyebrows pinches. “Alright,” he says, but stands to consider Castiel for a second longer. “Alright,” he repeats, this time with a sure nod of his head. “Don’t stay out too long. I haven’t bought any itch cream yet.” 

Castiel nods and expects Dean to move, but he doesn’t. They retain eye contact, both expecting the other to do something.

Finally, it’s Dean who darts his gaze down to the sand. “Alright. Goodnight.”

Castiel jumps his hand into a wave. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Goodnight, Cas.”

As Castiel watches Dean turn and walk back up to the houses, all he can think is: finally.

Chapter Text

Dean isn’t sure where along the line their drinking habits switched. To him, it feels like a Freaky Friday situation, because it is just that unusual to come home after his long shift and find Sam and Castiel sitting on the couch of the former’s house, Sam’s arms shaking with laughter as he pours more of the amber liquid into the glass Castiel holds. He stands unnoticed in the entryway of the living room, noting the flushness of Sam’s face and the feeble, limping way Castiel moves his head. It’s painfully obvious they’ve been at this for a while. How long?, Dean isn’t sure, and he thinks this with a note of sourness—of jealousy. 

Maybe his little brother is trying to get a grasp on what was once ripped away from him, Dean reasons with himself. That must be it, because what other reason do they have for drinking like this?

He walks to stand in front of them—the coffee table as a barrier—and only then do the two take notice of him. “Dean!” Castiel happily exclaims. Dean looks down at him and sees the unrestrained delight in his eyes, the grin breaking out on his face. “What took you so long getting home?”

“It’s only 8:15,” he replies, looking further down to inspect the glass bottle they had just been passing. “Miss me?”

Castiel’s smile retains and his eyes soften, and Dean has to divert his gaze to his brother to keep the internal balloon-like swelling of warmth at its baseline. He knows that look on Castiel. It means, without verbally speaking, yes. 

“Dean, Dean,” Sam is now saying, stretching out a raised arm to regard him, yet does nothing with his hand besides gesture around as he says, “Cas and I were just drinking to—yeah, sorry,” he quickly says, interrupting himself when Dean’s questioning eyes flicker between the alcohol and the glass cups, “got a little carried away, didn’t we?” he asks Castiel with a laugh.

Castiel smiles again and says, “I did only say one drink, but Sam has a—”

“ But Sam ?” Sam echoes, his face slack with a theatrical performance of mocked shock. “Sam didn’t do anything!”

“Well it certainly wasn’t me who kept filling the cups.”

“Says the guy who—who,” he laughs, full and hearty—and drunk, “who kept offering me his glass.”

Castiel looks at Dean and shakes his head, his nose wrinkled and eyes gleaming as though he and Dean are a part of an inside joke against Sam, who sees this trade and reaches out to lightly slap Castiel’s arm. “Stop that!”

“I’m not doing anything,” Castiel defends, his voice rising high in his gleeful delight. 

“Oh, please—”

“Oh, please, me ,” Dean interrupts. “Jesus. The squabbling ‘bout gave me an aneurysm.”

Sam says, raising his glass in a toast, “Now you see how I feel.”

“Shut up,” Dean groans with a jerk of his head. “Was your plan to drink without me the whole night?”

“Not particularly,” Castiel says just as Sam teases, “ We’ve been caught! ” He reaches out and plucks the full glass out of the other man’s hand—much to his dismay—and holds it up for his brother. “Here, Dean. Only choice now is to catch up.”

“That was mine,” Castiel says, his voice soft with a hitch of a whine, but Sam dismissively waves him off. Dean connects his eyes with his and laughs mockingly in his face before taking a drink. 

His own face pinches and he exhales through his teeth. “What is this?” He sniffs at the amber liquid. “Is that—green apple?”

Sam leans over his knees to the coffee table. Picking up a thick glass bottle, he reads the label aloud. “Crown Royal regal apple.”

Nodding his head, satisfied and approving of the choice, he says, “Awesome. How much?” He takes the bottle from his brother and tests the weight of it in his hand. “Looks pricey for this big ol’ thing.”

Sam shrugs up a shoulder, casual and non-committal. “Enough,” he replies. Then: “About seventy.”

“ Seventy? ” Dean repeats, his eyes wide. “Jesus, dude. What are you trying to butter Cas and I up for?”

“I’d rather,” Castiel begins, talking slowly with his eyebrows knitted, “not be buttered up.”

Dean barks out a laugh, which quickly turns deliciously giddy. 

“Cas, trust me,” Sam says as he attempts to constrain his expression into one of solemnness, but his eyebrows twitch, the corners of his mouth pick up. “I am not the one who wants to do that sort of thing with you.” Dean chokes on his laughter, it turning sour in his throat. “But, anyway, I do have something to say.”

He stands from the couch and takes the bottle back. With a proud face, Sam says, “Guys—brother, friend.” He gestures to each respectively. “Get this: today is the official one month mark of us being here. So—”

“No shit,” Dean breathes out. He folds his arms over his chest and teeters back onto his heels. “Already?”

“Feels like longer,” Castiel says. 

“Really? I was gonna say shorter.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side, eyebrows up in a knowing look. “Well,” he says, but doesn’t go any further. Dean catches this, then purses his lips, shy eyes falling to the ground. 

“— So ,” Sam continues, picking up the threads of his interrupted sentence, “I bought this and a bottle of Jack as a celebration. Can’t let a month pass us by.”

“I would never let an excuse to drink pass me by,” Dean laughs and heads into the kitchen. The distance turns Sam and Castiel’s chatter into an indecipherable hum; a tune that fills Dean with settled warmth. He stands at the counter for a moment, staring out the window that sits above the sink and at the darkness ahead. The milky moonlight mixes with the lemonade lamp light spilling in from the living room, creating a conflict of shades on the floor. 

Dean breathes in and as he raises the glass to his lips, he finds himself smiling. He’s content, this he knows. He knew it the second their plane landed (although, that could have just been the fear subsiding). But, this, now: their own homes; a job that pays; a job where the stickiness on his skin isn’t from blood or goop or anything in between, but from beer; Sam, happy; Castiel, alive, happy. He raises his glass in the air, whispering to the dark sky outside, “Thanks, kid,” because it’s everything he’s ever wanted and more.

Yet, when he returns to the living room and finds Castiel’s head tipped back, laughing to the ceiling, washed in the soft glow of the lamp, Dean feels as if something internal is misplaced. He knows it’s there inside—he can feel it—yet the place it should be is empty, cold. He relaxes into the armchair next to the couch and sips on his drink, experimenting to see if the stinging wash of whisky will fill the hole. 

“Guys—guys, guys,” Sam says, looking from Castiel to his brother. His eyes are wide and sparked with excitement, hands out as if he is trying to tame a circling pack of lions. “You know what sounds like fun?”

“Hm?” Dean asks, drinking. 

“ Pool .”

“Like,” Castiel starts, inquisitive, “swimming?”

“No, no no.” Sam turns to face him fully. “Like, pool. You know?” With a full glass still in hand, he positions his arms to mimic holding a cue stick parallel to an invisible surface. 

“Ah,” he says, eyes lightening with understanding. “Then let’s go.”

“Let’s—what?” Dean starts, sitting up. “Come on,” he whines. “I just got home.”

Sam stands, tapping a pointer finger in Castiel’s direction, “I think that’s a great idea!” Then, to his brother: “Oh, chill out. It’s an anniversary!”

“We can celebrate here,” Dean argues, gesturing to the kitchen. “You bought Jacks!”

Sam shrugs, looking bored with the tiff and leaving for the entryway. “Stay home, then. Cas and I will go out.”

Dean’s gaze flutters over to Castiel, and finds that he is already looking at him. The playfulness that lit up Castiel’s face falters then, slightly, and he asks, “Are you coming?”

Dean grunts. “Of course I’m coming.”

“Good,” Castiel says, smiling, before leaving to follow Sam. And then, Dean realizes, the alcohol did not do anything to minimize the chilled emptiness he had been feeling. 

After shrugging on jackets, stamping heels into shoes, and a bicker about drunk driving (“I’m not getting into a car with you,” Sam had said as he sat on the last stair step, fingers forgotten in the mouth of his shoe as he tried to put it on. “Huh?” Dean asked, eyes narrowed. “You’re drunk!” “Are not.” “Are too!” Then, after clicking his tongue: “Sammy, you’re not one to school me on drunk driving.” “That was years ago!” “Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” Castiel then said, as if it added any revelation, “I’ve never driven drunk before,” to which Dean turned and looked at him and said, “Yeah, well, Feathers, you’ve flown drunk, so don’t think you’re so innocent, either.”), the trio settled into Baby, listening to a cassette Sam had dug out from the back of the glovebox. 

“Velvet Revolver?” Dean’s incredulous question comes when the hard riff of a guitar blared into the car. “Jesus. I haven’t listened to this one in ages.”

“Reminds me of our early days,” Sam says in a light voice, a short laugh soon following. “Fuck those days.” To which Dean shared. “Yeah, fuck ‘em.”

In town, where the populous buzzes alive and young, is where Dean steers the impala into an opening alongside the road. It’s a crowded night. People walk up and down the sidewalks, slipping in and out of bars and restaurants where the lights are bright and the music is loud. A grin is plastered to Sam’s face as they make their way up the block to their destination: a hideaway bar tucked between two larger lounges, its heavily stickered door an easy miss between the sets of outdoor seating.

Inside the building, however, the noise to the outside world gets cut off. The lighting is low, the music soft yet surrounding, and the hard clacking of cue balls mixes in with the chatter of others. 

“This,” Dean says, rubbing his hands together, “is my Heaven.”

“You’re not too far off,” Castiel remarks, looking around. “Although, your Heaven was much less crowded.”

“Eh,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Heaven’s Heaven was shit anyway.”

They don’t bother with the booths, and instead gun for an empty pool table. While Sam and Castiel stay behind to set up the game, Dean aims for the bar. The bartender, a big bald-headed man with a surprisingly calm grin, chats easily with Dean while he fixes the three ordered drinks. 

“Your brothers?” he asks, nodding his head to where Dean had left Castiel and Sam.

He laughs and quickly shakes his head. “No, only one of them. The other is a.. is a friend.”

“Ah,” he says. “Hello, friend!” And the confusion that solidifies in Dean only lasts a second, because Castiel comes up beside him and nods to the bartender. 

“Hello.. friend,” he replies, lost but not unkind. Then, to Dean: “I thought you’d want some help.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Yeah. Sure.”

On their walk back, Dean steals a sip from Sam’s whiskey and Castiel chuckles to himself. “Don’t you say a word,” he warns.

“Never,” Castiel replies. He begins to slow, though, and beckons for the glass. Dean hands it over and casts a wary, yet amused look over his shoulder at his brother, who is chalking his stick as he stares intently at the table, cueing up a plan in his head. Castiel tastes the drink, nodding as he gives it back. “Not bad,” he says and Dean smiles, agreeing. 

The first round played is a practice round, as Castiel had never played before. “Absolutely abhorrent,” Sam had rebuked when the man had voiced his deficiency. And the second round was a follow-up to the first, because Castiel pointed out a fault and Sam had pinned the blame onto his brother. The third relapsed into another practice, and when the fourth commenced, Castiel sputtering out, “Just one more easy round, then I’ll get it,” is when Dean threw his hands into the air and commanded for Castiel to either team with him or start watching from the sidelines. 

“Let’s bet on this one,” Sam offers, but his fingers are already thumbing out the cash from his wallet. 

“Why? Because you don’t have someone slowing you down?” Castiel chided, a cool glare sliding to Dean, who bounced his head to the side in a noncommittal nod. “It comes from a place of love, Cas.”

“Cas,” Sam says, interrupting Castiel’s quip, “will you get me a refill? Please?”

Dean offers his empty glass. “Me, too.”

Castiel’s lips thin and his eyes flash to the ceiling, but he obliges. “Fine,” he grumbles and takes the three cups into his hands. As he’s walking away, Dean leans his cheek against a fist wrapped around the cue stick and laughs softly to himself, because he doesn’t know why, but he’s sure Castiel will be stealing a sip out of both of their drinks.

Dean stares at his brother from under his eyebrows, who’s contemplating the table. Instead of tugging at the curl of impatience that usually sits in his stomach, Dean chuckles at his brother’s focused expression. The one where his eyebrows pinch, his lips bunch and all Dean sees is his baby brother working on homework, or a crossword puzzle, or reading a book. He plays his move, slowly and with careful intent, and the billiard balls clack loudly against one another as they race around the table. 

When Castiel returns with their next round of drinks, Dean instructs a couple paces away on what to do. He critiques Castiel’s form, the way his hand holds the stick. “You’re too low, man. Are you gonna pounce on it? Come on.”

“This is..” Castiel begins, but restrains his frustration, “stupid.”

“The way you’re playing is stupid.” He then, after setting his cup and cue stick down, moves to stand at the corner of Castiel. He’s aware of Castiel’s eyes on him—he feels it like a bag of sand on his shoulders—and due to it, he keeps the inches between them apparent. Their clothes breeze against one another, the heat from their bodies a faint flame. He has to fight against the urge to feather his hand over Castiel’s, because if his hand is as warm and solid as it was in his God forsaken dream, Dean isn’t sure how his body would react. Will his heart stammer, will his throat close up, will other parts of him come alive, burning with white-hot warmth? He isn’t sure what the outcome will be, but he knows enough not to trust the road. “You gotta—no—wait, yeah, just like that. Keep that stance,” he says, reaching out to steady the stick. “Now, you’re going to want to hit the ball with the tip. But gently, ‘cause we don’t want it to bounce. You’re not at that skill level yet.”

As Castiel begins to draw the stick back, Dean absentmindedly glances up at Sam and finds his face buried in his hand, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Just then, he drags his hand down his face and Dean can clearly see the tears stinging his eyes, the blushed red of his face. What are you giggling about , Dean wants to bitch, but he knows exactly what Sam finds to be so hysterical. 

So, instead, he downcasts his gaze and watches as Castiel makes the shot. The ball lurches forward and commits to the plan Dean had for it, and when it knocks into the socket, he cheers. “What’d I tell you, Cas?” He claps his hands, the excitement loud and proud in his chest. “That’s it!”

“He only made one shot,” Sam snides, near whining.

“And he’s about to make another. Right, Cas?”

“Right.”

Dean laughs softly and leans against the table as he watches Castiel mimic his own previous movements. When he pockets another, Dean proudly claps once and nods approvingly. “Knew you could do it.” Then, turning to look at his brother from over his shoulder: “Didn’t I say I knew he could do it?”

“Mh-hm,” Sam hums, high and squeaky as if his voice is still clotted with suppressed laughter. 

During Sam’s turns, in which some were long and grueling due to his persistence on thinking of the perfect strategy, Dean taught Castiel all the in-and-out’s of pool. Their heads were inclined into one another's, Dean speaking lowly as to not be overheard while he gestured around the table, Castiel’s eyes dutifully following. Throughout his explanation, Dean would glance up and Castiel’s profile would fill his view. From the lack of personal space, Dean can clearly see the wrinkles of age dully crease the soft skin around his eyes, on his forehead. His stubble is growing out a little—reminding Dean to either buy him a razor or teach him how to shave (which he doubts he needs to do). 

“Understand?” he asks at the end of his semi-distracted spiel.

“..No.”

Dean groans. “Really, Cas?”

The man uselessly frowns. “You said I wasn’t skilled enough, then started talking about strategies I am obviously not equipped for. What did you think I would understand?”

“At least some of it!”

Castiel flirts his eyes to Dean. “You’re just not a very good teacher.”

Scrunching his nose, Dean snaps, “You sure didn’t think so at the beginning of the game.”

“I was led astray,” he replies plainly.

“Led astray my ass. I’m a great teacher. I taught Sammy all he knows.”

“And the pupil succeeded the master.”

“Yeah, well, with that attitude you ain’t succeeding no one.”

“Guys,” Sam interrupts. “You done?”

“No,” Dean objects, just as Castiel says, “Yes.”

A smile cracks onto Sam’s face. “Good,” he nods. “‘Cause I just won.”

“Bullshit,” Dean mutters and assesses the game, noting the lack of striped billiard balls around the table. “Damn it, Sammy.” Then, quickly: “ Damn it, Cas . If you weren’t bitching then we would’ve—”

“What good would that have done?” Castiel argues. “He was going to win no ma—”

“No, if we were present, we—”

“Admit you’re not as good as you think you are.”

“I am as good as I think I am.”

“Sam has won four times out of the four—”

“No,” Dean says quickly, raising a finger. With a sly smile, “I won the second match.”

“No,” Sam now says from the other side of the table, “you won on a technicality. Which technically means you didn’t win.” He grins. “ I did .”

“Bullshit,” Dean whines. 

“Bullshit all you want,” his brother replies, then swoops around the table to snatch the money Dean had thrown down. “Bullshitting isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“It got you far enough in life,” Dean bites back, but Sam only laughs. 

Castiel lays a hand on the edge of the table and downs his drink in one gulp. After noisily setting it back onto the edge, he says, “Okay. I think I understand now.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs. “No.”

Castiel’s expression falls and when he looks to Sam for back-up, only to see the man swing his head back and forth, it hardens into one of dismay. So, Castiel continues to play on Dean’s team, the two switching off every other turn. In the end, even after all of Dean’s pointers and encouraging words (although laced with threat), the two were thirty-five dollars less, Dean even more when he closed out the tab. 

Back in the impala, Sam’s breathy laughter and Castiel’s mouth, close to Dean’s ear as the man leans over the bench seat to be a part of the conversation, is thick with the sharp and musky scent of dark alcohol. Dean isn’t sure how or when the windows got rolled down, but he doesn’t feel a thing towards it as the cool, wet ocean air whips into the car, hitting their faces in hard strokes. And it’s obvious that the two others don’t mind, either. The music is loud in the car, the guitar spiked and reverberating, and Dean hammers his hands into the wheel in synchronized pounds to the drums. Sam’s head bounces along to the beat, to the words, wobbling between both, as he drunkenly belts out the pieces of lyrics he can recall. 

“Sing it, Sam,” Castiel says, his head still peaking out from over the edge of the bench, and Sam’s words get caught in his throat, overtaken by a reeling laugh, which makes Castiel laugh, the man finally falling back into his seat. 

“Jesus,” Dean says, smiling. He glances at his brother, then in the rear-view mirror. “You guys are so fucked.”

“The only thing that is fucked,” Castiel begins, but his voice is shallow against the music and Dean must strain his ears to hear him, “is Sam’s singing.” Dean laughs then, joyous and giddy and full, and Sam continues to belt out the lyrics—oblivious to the hit just taken to him. 

With the windows filled with negative space, the crashing roll of the ocean is defined, and even more so when the trio fumbles out of the car. There is a noticeable dip within Dean when they arrive home: the conscious feeling of disappointment. To him, there is no evidence to suggest that the night sky couldn’t stretch on forever. The sun is a distant memory, the daytime a watery dream. The night is where life buzzes. Fireflies flicker on the edge of their property, the stars gleam and glow from above. Baby’s polished black sides reflect the yellow glow from the street lamps in long brushstrokes, and the air that fills Dean’s lungs is fresh and exemplifying. So when Sam leads them not to his back porch but past their houses, down where the dirt falls away to sand and the grass thins out, Dean feels the dip rise up into excitement.

“Where you taking us?” he asks, his attention divided between his foot placement and where Sam marches ahead. But his brother fails to respond, and from the lack of proper lighting and the surrounding rush of the ocean, Dean misses to pinpoint where the edge of the ocean lies until his shoe sinks into wet sand—then water. 

Sam shouts something, although his words become a mess of syllables from the ocean. Then, laughter. In the horribly dim glow of the moon, Dean can just about make out the dark outline of his brother as he opens his arms and wades further into the water. 

“Sam!” Dean calls out, his voice a warning call, but a wave laps up and barely caresses higher than his ankle, and he instantly feels silly for being so protective. He’s been in these waters before. He knows just how far one must go for even hips to be submerged. “Fuck,” he then mutters. “My shoes!”

“Sam,” Castiel echoes, his call in a sing-song tone. He sloshes through the water past Dean and towards the man lost to the ocean. “Sam, it’s cold!”

“Yeah, yeah,” his voice comes. “I was just— Oh !” He yelps. “ Fuck !” 

“ What ?” Dean and Castiel both call back in unison, the two lurching through the water just as Sam comes stumbling back to shore. “What, Sammy, what?” Dean asks, watching as his brother limps to where the sand is dry, bending over and grasping at his shin. 

“My—fuck, ow! My leg.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Castiel reach out, then falter. And without implication Dean can sense his hand was intuitively poised to heal. Sam straightens, his knee bending with him. “I think the sniper got me.”

“ Sniper ?” Castiel echoes in disbelief. “What? Where?”

A burst of hysterical laughter comes from Dean. “No,” he says to Castiel, whose face is pulled into one of deep concern. “No, no. Oh, damn it, Sammy. You actually scared me.”

“The sniper!” Sam yells. “He got me! After all these years!”

The second cycle of laughter hits Dean so hard he bends at the waist, heaving his breathy giggles to the sand. “Stop, Sam, please.”

Sam whines to the houses and begins to hop along the shore, his hair and the edge of his body outlined in the silver of the moon. Dean regains control of himself and chases to keep up, Castiel on their heels. 

“I feel like I’m missing something here,” Castiel notes.

“Oh, boy, Cas,” Dean says as Sam rights himself, dipping down once more to feather a hand to his shin before walking properly. “Years and years ago, way before we met you—”

“Dean was drunk off his rocker, Cas,” Sam interrupts. “Absolutely wasted.” And Castiel peels his eyes to Dean for confirmation, and the man only shrugs up a bashful shoulder. “And we are—we were walking back to the motel after dinner, right?”

“And all of a sudden,” Dean says, taking the story by its reins, “I feel this sharp, horrible pain in my leg.”

“And,” Sam laughs, “and he falls to the ground, grabbing at his leg yelling, ‘ I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot! ’” Dean then laughs, high and bubbly as Sam continues, “and I turn around and—get this: I’m drunk, too, so I start looking for the gunman or a sniper.”

“He’s—he’s,” Dean tries to say, but his laughter gets in the way of his words. Then, after a breath: “As I was laying on the ground, I see Sam running around looking at all of the rooftops, the windows. Oh—!” He buries his face into his hands. “ God . One of the funniest nights of my life.”

“You forgot the best part,” Sam points out. “Where I nearly got ran over.”

“Ran over?” Castiel repeats, aghast. 

“Ran over,” Dean confirms with a nod. His voice then turns wistful when he asks, “Wanna take a guess at who was in the car?"

“No. Who?”

“Dad,” Sam says plainly, and doesn’t go any further. By this point, they are climbing the stairs to Sam’s porch, all of the outdoor lights turned on and embracing the trio in its harsh glow. The brothers' faces can be seen clearly now. The tightness of their brows, the mystical look to their eyes. 

“Yeah,” Dean says shortly. “Wasn’t so fun after that.”

Sam reels. “Yeah, maybe that wasn’t the best part of the story,” he sighs, then turns to unlock his door. “But, damn. Never did catch that sniper, did we?”

A soft chuckle leaves Dean and he shakes his head, agreeing. “Maybe next time. You almost had him out there.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes out, “right.” The front door swings open into a hallway of dark and he raises a hand to the two. “Anyway. Goodnight, you guys.”

Dean and Castiel bid him the same, then turn to lumber down the stairs, their shoes squeaking with water as the door clicks shut behind them. They cross the short lawn to their own home, Castiel taking off his wet shoes as instructed while Dean unlocks and pushes open the door. He follows him inside momentarily after, after stepping out of his own soaked shoes. 

Within the darkness of their house, they move around in light, dutiful silence. Castiel shrugging off his jacket, Dean depositing the keys to the impala in the ceramic bowl that sits on a console table parallel to the front door. The night finally feels as though it’s coming to a close. Dean’s bed calls for him, sleep pulls at his eyelids, and each breath that leaves his lungs is thinner and deeper than the last.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Castiel asks him, and Dean gets pulled from within his head. 

“Yeah. You?”

Without seeing, Dean knows Castiel is smiling. “Yes,” he says, and the proof lies in his words. 

“Good.” And the conversation falls flat. It is not awkward, nor is it uncommon. The two shrug through the kitchen and up the stairs, Castiel’s warmth a stable presence behind him, something that feels expected. Something that feels right. And suddenly—jarringly—the memory of the night before materializes into his brain. The conversation had, the compromise made. Dean stutters at the top of the stairs, but he pulls his body back into motion before Castiel could fumble into him.

In the bathroom, they brush their teeth side-by-side. Castiel scrubs with his gaze downturned, lost to the mystery of his thoughts. Dean watches him intently from under his brows in the mirror, brushing lazily, his thoughts distracted. It’s known that Dean has always had difficulty naming his emotions. He ticks off the main ones with his fingers: anger, sadness, frustration, boredom, and hunger. Oh—he lifts his second thumb—and happiness. 

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, words muffled around the toothbrush. 

Dean crumples his fingers, glancing quickly at the man, who looks at him with an inquisitive stare. “Nothin’.” 

Castiel hums. He spits his toothpaste, rinses his mouth, and as he is dragging the corner of a towel against his lips, says, “You know what I was thinking about earlier?”

“Hm?” Dean grunts, then mimics Castiel’s actions. He is half-present, still lost in the cloud of his head as he ascertains when it could have started. Was it back in the bunker? That place felt like home, no? Sometimes, Dean thinks. Sometimes it did. When did it not?

“Earlier. In the bar,” Castiel continues, oblivious to Dean’s distraction. He steps closer and leans a hip against the countertop, invading Dean’s space. Even with the overlying scent of mint radiating off of him, Dean can still pick up on the pungent undertone of alcohol. Castiel tilts his head and looks Dean in the eyes. “The bartender called me your brother.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, trying to wane the rising pitch out of his voice. “What about it?”

“It always amused me.” Castiel’s eyes flicker off to the side. His head dips lower towards his shoulder, bunched up due to his palm resting on the counter. “When people refer to us as having a brotherly relationship."

“And why’s that?” 

“Because,” he says, and Dean’s heart begins to hammer behind his chest. In the beat between his words, Dean watches as Castiel looks back at him, his eyes alight with tease, with wanting. He watches as Castiel inches forward. Dean is then brought back into his physical self—horribly aware of his actions, and disgustingly surprised to find himself unmoving, “nothing I feel towards you is brotherly.”

Dean’s breathing deepens—shallows. He blinks, and realizes he has been staring down at Castiel’s mouth. Moving his eyes up, he mutters a feeble, “Oh.” If it weren’t for his drumming heart, so thick and loud he can feel it in other places of his body, he’d feel silly for such a boyish reply. 

The corner of his lips picks up in an awkward smile; he can feel a muscle tremor in his cheek. He tries to form a sentence, then a word, but nothing more than a breathless sigh comes out. Castiel’s eyes dip down, down to Dean’s lips, and he watches with the sensation of mockery when the smallest hint of a smirk pulls at Castiel’s mouth. 

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he then asks, and Dean shakes his head. 

“No,” he replies. “No.”

“Good.” Castiel lifts his chin, yet his eyes stay downturned. “Good.” A beat passes. Castiel’s eyes flicker up, their stares connecting. “I can tell as such,” he says, and the confining tightening of Dean’s pants suddenly becomes terribly noticeable, as if a spotlight of attention had just been centered on it. He slowly pushes his hips into the counter, horribly insecure—an emotion he had never once felt (not since he was a teenager) in sexual situations. 

Dean looks down at the sink. “Get out of here, Cas,” he says breathlessly, his voice much more hoarse than he anticipated. “You’re—” But he stops himself, unable to trust his voice to finish.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he repeats himself. 

Dean is quiet for a second. Then, lowly: “I already answered that.” 

He can feel Castiel smile rather than see it. “Then I’m not sorry,” he says, and just as Dean had once theorized would happen, happens. His heart stammers, the skin within his throat swells, and in his lower abdomen he can feel that pooling sensation of white-hot burning. Castiel’s hand is hot on the small of his back, and if it weren’t for the clamminess of his shirt, Dean wouldn’t be able to tell if Castiel’s touch was over or under the fabric. “Not sorry at all,” he says in a whisper to Dean’s ear, and just as fast as the heat was placed, it’s gone. 

Castiel leaves the bathroom. Dean heaves his exhales into the sink. With a skittish heartbeat and sweaty palms, Dean curses under his breath, then to his reflection. He curses because he is uncomfortable. Not because of Castiel, no, but rather what Castiel had left him with. And he will remain uncomfortable and hard, because he will not allow himself to submit to himself tonight. Not to the thought of Cas, not with the phantom trace of his hand still on his lower back, and not with or to the memory of his lips on his. 

Chapter Text

It had come to Dean when he was cleaning up from breakfast that morning. 

While he was whisking the eggs, he allowed his mind to lead him astray into the dense forest of memories and daydreams. It began with Mrs. Butters and that special way she made her breakfasts that Dean quickly adopted, although his eggs never turned out as fluffy and moist as hers once had. Then trailed off to Jack, and as Dean turned the stove’s flame low, he wondered what the kid was up to at that moment. Where he was. If he was enjoying his otherworldly duties. 

His brother’s presence ghosted into his mind, too, as he was setting Castiel’s plate down next to him on the coffee table, wondering how hard the hangover must be hitting Sam for it to be nine-thirty and no sign of him. Castiel was limp on the couch, a protective arm cast over his eyes to blot out the morning sunlight sharp in the living room. Dean was unsure if he was asleep or not, his chest softly rising and falling in an uninterrupted pattern. And when he was setting down the mug of coffee, steam rising out of the cup and hotly dampening his palm, his movements slowed as his eyes trailed up and down Castiel’s splayed out body. 

After a month, it shouldn’t take him aback anymore. And yet sometimes, seemingly at random, Castiel would come down the stairs or enter a room or round into Dean’s vision and he would be momentarily paused, dumbfounded into a daze over the casualness of his clothes. Seeing Castiel in anything other than his suit and trench coat (of which the latter hangs slack against the inside of Castiel’s closet door) brings a fuzzy feeling to the underside of his ribcage. At the beginning of the summer when Hawaii was intoxicatingly new and the two houses were just empty rooms full of marvelous wonder, Dean had blended that feeling with all the other new things happening around them. But now, after normalcy had been moved in, he wondered, with his hand still on the coffee cup and his eyes on Castiel’s hidden face, why he still felt that fuzzy feeling. 

He had brought that thought with him back into the kitchen. He knew with certainty that before they moved, in the rare moments he would see Castiel in only his white-button up and slacks, his body would freeze as if scared, yet none of the prickling sensations of fear or panic would overtake. Instead, it was a birth of flurries in his stomach. Again, he chalked it up to simply not expecting it. A measly surprise. Meaningless shock.

The distraction from last night had come to pester him once more. Sam’s plate of food sat hot on the island counter while Dean cleaned up, thinking of everything he listed out yesterday. Then, it came to him. Maybe this misplacement he had been noticing isn’t from a forgotten emotion, or anything missing at all. Perhaps it's from something new, something that he had yet to tag a name onto. What is it?, he thought. What is it that he had been feeling? What is that hole in his chest, deep and concave, full of nothing by emptiness? Sometimes filling gets sprinkled into it when he sees Castiel, like dirt getting tossed into a grave. When he sees him in normal clothing, when he sees him eating, when he sees him laughing, when he sees him watching television, his head slightly inclined to the side in undisturbed focus. 

Dean is well aware of what a crush feels like. It feels like childish excitement, warm and ever-blooming in your stomach and in your chest. Your mind races like a speedtrack around their face, around their name, around daydream thoughts of them like: What are they doing right now? Are they with someone else? Are they thinking of me? You feel filled, yet forever unfulfilled. And Dean can presume that, yes, what he is feeling is a cousin to that. But not exactly. And the desire to know dangles in front of him like a carrot on a stick, bouncing out of his every grasp. And, like most unwanted things, it frustrates him. 

Love is supposed to make you feel complete. Like two arms wrapping around you, holding you in close as a promise to never let go. It’s supposed to feel like a book that so very perfectly slides into a slot on a shelf. So why when he whispered the word into the back chambers of his mind, small and feeble, as if the volume of which it is thought would disregard the intention behind it, did it not become the puzzle piece to connect all of his free floating islands?

He leaned away from the sink and peered around the entryways to Castiel in the living room, still in the same position, and dug his fingers into that hole, probing it like a sore bruise. What is missing?, he wondered, hissing the thought to himself.

While he scrubbed the grease from the pan, moving his arm back and forth for longer and harder than necessary, lost in the thoughts fueled by his frustration, it had come to him. It didn’t hit him like a train. It didn’t smack him like a slap. It instead creeped in like a stalking cat. Sat in the line of his chopped thoughts, patient, its tail flickering up and down as it awaited its turn. And when all the other thoughts before it passed under Dean’s focus, it slank into the spotlight and allowed itself to be observed. 

Dean paused, the handle of the pan going slack in his loose grip and the dish limping into the sink. What he needed, he realized, was sentiment; connection. A connection to what, to who? Sam was an obvious answer. They’re bonded for life: by blood, by experiences, by devotion. Cas, maybe?, he thought. But the two were already friends. Best of friends. And what he was feeling couldn't be explained by a need for physical connection. Arousal and need feels nothing like having a hole carved out of your chest, like a bottomless pit in your stomach. 

So, Dean concluded, almost smugly, feeling victorious, that what he was feeling had nothing to do with Cas. 

So what connection was missing? Was it the island, he wondered? He wasn’t sure when the bunker began to feel like home to him; maybe it was a month there as well. Could that be it? His body picked up the sensation that it feels out of place in this new location before he subconsciously knew. Is he missing home? Is he missing Jody and the girls, Donna, Garth, Kansas?

He has Baby. He has all of his cassettes. He has Sam. He has Cas. Hell, he even has John's journal. 

But he quickly realized it wasn’t a possession he was missing. The mystery laid within home. Or, more so, what felt like home to him.

First and most obvious: his childhood home. With its pale green siding and warm oak door. His young brain imprinted the long hallways with soft, warm daylight coming in. Music loud from John’s radio; the pungent smells of dinner wafting from the kitchen; Sammy’s infant noises from his crib in the living room.

Baby was a close second. On the days Dean was feeling less nostalgic, the impala would easily top the chart. 

Bobby’s house was a simple third. Before an association between the house and hunting formed within Dean’s brain, going to Bobby’s was the equivalent to when the other kids—classmates, television show characters, Little Red Riding Hood—would speak about going to Grandma’s house.

The bunker, but only because of the duration spent. Outside of Baby, the bunker was his and Sam’s longest running home to date.

And Sam. His sweet, sweet baby brother. With or without John, with or without the impala, without money, food, whatever. As long as he had Sam, he was fine. 

Dean, now sitting at dinner, looks down at his right thumb, it raised dumbly against its collapsed mates. He has the first five, so why does it feel as though he is missing a sixth? Childhood home, Baby, Bobby’s, the bunker, Sammy. Dean scratches at the back of his head, staring down at his thumb, terribly confused and annoyingly frustrated.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Castiel asks him, and when Dean looks up and sees a smile on his face, he realizes he is joking with him.

“No,” Dean says, not feeling the mood to play into the joke, to give Castiel even a little laugh. “Just thinkin’.”

“About?” Castiel probes, drinking from his straw.

Dean leans back into the wooden chair with a forced exhale. He stretches his legs out underneath the small table the two share, his foot resting comfortably aside Castiel’s. “Oh, you know,” he begins, then pauses. He stares down at his half-eaten burger, his picked at fries. His hand urges to reach for his glass, but he had already finished his drink early into the dinner and now whenever he tries the straw all that gets sucked up is the melt from the ice with a bare hint of soda. When his mind summons nothing, he turns sour and grumbles, “I don’t know.”

Castiel smiles to himself, obviously amused with whatever thought passed through his mind. “Do you have anything inside that head of yours?” In response, Dean knocks his foot hard into Castiel’s, to which the man’s expression falls, him looking plainly at Dean. “Was that really necessary?”

“Was your comment?”

Castiel throws Dean a half-hearted glare, the sharpness of it dulled by his amused smile. The touch and warmth of his foot then leaves Dean’s as he moves his legs away. “I wasn’t all that curious, anyway.”

“Good,” Dean shoots back, trying to use the tone of his words as a dart, but it fails. The outdoor restaurant they are at is full and buzzing with life. A live band plays loudly on the stage across the way; the sunlight is droopy and golden like honey; and the naked chatter of others surrounds them. There is no space where they are for harshness. Even in their little bubble—a small table near a towering palm tree, its spiked, plump trunk used as a pole to string bare bulbs overhead—is warm and cozy and settled. “I wasn’t planning on sharing with the class, anyway.”

“Oh,” Castiel quips sarcastically, “I didn’t know that was something you were capable of.”

When Dean’s foot swings into air and nothing more, Castiel smiles, visibly satisfied and pleased with himself. “Oh, bite me,” Dean says, and this evokes a light laugh from Castiel.

“Seriously, though.” He nods to Dean’s half-eaten plate. “Is there something?”

Absurdity rises into Dean’s chest. “What are you trying to say? Just because I don’t finish my plate, something’s amiss?”

Castiel looks up and away, thinking. Then, with a casual half-shrug: “Essentially, yes.”

Dean laughs, once and sharp. “Oh, please.” He settles into the silence that follows, and after a comfortable moment, looks up and sees that Castiel is still expecting an answer. The harmonious tone of the evening swoops into him and he flashes his hands open, relenting. “I guess I just feel a little off. That’s all.”

“Off?” Castiel asks, quirking an eyebrow. “How so?” 

“I dunno.” Dean uselessly shrugs. He stares at his plate of food, feeling a deep unsettled sense of dissatisfaction with it all.

“Are you coming down with something?” Castiel asks and Dean snorts. “No,” he replies. “I—I don’t think so, at least. I’m nowhere near the state of Sam.”

Sam, who, earlier that morning, dragged himself into the duo’s house looking pale in the face yet flushed in the cheeks. “Morning, Sunshine,” Dean had said to him and slid his then cold plate of breakfast over just as Sam took a seat at the island counter. He ignored the plate, however, and laid his forehead flat against the surface. “Your old age catching up to you yet?” Dean asked, and as a reply, Sam groaned, small and feeble. He was only able to stomach a bite of egg and a sip of lukewarm coffee before looking sick and muttering he needed to go back home. 

“And spare me the ‘ then what is it?’ ” Dean says, inflicting a gruffness to his voice to mock Castiel’s, to which the man smiles, a slight, bouncing laugh slipping out. “Because I haven’t figured it out yet. But.” He bounces a finger in Castiel’s direction. “Once I do, you’re the first to know.”

“Is that a promise?” 

Dean flashes open his hands, uncaring. “Sure. Why the hell not?”

Castiel then leans forward and props an elbow onto the table, presenting Dean his outstretched pinky. Dean looks at the offer, then at the awaiting face behind it. Castiel, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and dark wash jeans, looks so bright against the blue-toned world behind him. The lights strung overhead softens Castiel’s edges, making him look relaxed, loose, handsome, even, and Dean feels the warmth of the evening seep into him once more. He laughs, the entertainment rippling through him. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“It’s customary,” Castiel replies, “when you make a promise.”

“Yeah, if you’re in primary school.”

“Just make the promise, Dean.” Castiel lifts his eyebrows. “Humor me?”

Letting out a soft exhale, Dean playfully rolls his eyes and lifts himself from the chair’s cradle. “Fine,” he concedes, yet there is a tone of enjoyment underneath his words. He loops his pinky with Castiel’s and gives it a single, tight squeeze. “Happy?”

Castiel smiles. “Yes, actually.”

Dean looks away and shakes his head, trying to smother the rising smile on his face. A string of conversation comes to him just then, but as he begins to gesture he’s interrupted by their waitress swooping by the table. She gives the two a polite smile, a quiet apology, before setting a short, glass vase between them. Inside, the soft flame of a lone tea candle juts violently, its white wax base resting atop foggy pebbles. As quickly as she came in, she leaves, repeating the process on adjoining tables. 

Blinking up at Castiel, Dean’s first instinct is to gauge his reaction. Castiel’s eyes are on the candle, his face blank with light surprise. Then, his eyes connect with Dean’s. 

Without meaning to, without the thought caressing his mind, Dean blurts out, “Does this feel like a date to you?”

Castiel’s eyes squint, just the slightest bit, and Dean knows he is being assessed as well. He doesn’t reply right away and after a short moment of quiet, one that is filled primarily by the guitarist’s sharp manipulation of his instrument, Castiel asks, “Do you consider it to be?”

Dean mirrors Castiel. He, too, squints, assesses, lets a moment pass before deflecting, “Do you ?”

“I asked you first,” Castiel carefully says.

“No,” Dean draws out, voice high with prolepsis. “I asked you first.”

Castiel’s gaze falls down. His lips purse, he shifts in his chair. “I.. uh.” He hesitates. “The candle really sets the tone.”

Dean looks down at it, too, and laughs, saying. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.” Then, looking around and crossing his arms: “I didn’t realize this restaurant was so… you know.” He pauses. “Nice.”

Nodding, Castiel shares Dean’s sentiment, his eyes curiously gazing around as well. “But I..” he hesitates again, jaw working but mouth silent, and the two connect eyes once more. There’s a certain light behind Castiel’s eyes, one that is both brave and feeble. Then: “I like it.”

Dean breaks their contact, his eyes getting small from his rising closed-lipped grin. He nods, slow and affirming, because his original question got answered. “Me, too,” he says softly. He waits a short second, then flickers his eyes back to Castiel. Taking in the blue that stares back at him, he feels a warm, static-like sensation in his chest, buzzing and fizzing like a shaken up bottle of soda. 

Before their silence could stretch on for too long, the live band starts up again and the song strumming through the speakers, the drums heavy and the guitar rich, is giddily familiar. An excited smile breaks out over Dean’s face and he hurriedly says, “I know this song. I love this song!”

The lead singer hums into the mic, looking around over the crowd with absentminded eyes. Dean leans back into his chair, straining his neck to get a clear line of sight of the stage as a straight-backed brunette bobbing her head along to the music is in his way. 

During the second verse, Dean’s foot is tapping along to the beat. Into the third and he’s bouncing his head. It’s the fourth that he begins to sing along, voice deeper than usual and face pinched, theatrically getting into the music. In his peripheral, he sees Castiel’s mouth break into an amused grin, watches without full focus as he leans slightly over the table. 

“And I’m burnin’, I’m burnin’, I’m burnin’ for you,” he sings, his voice mixing in with Dean’s. The latter laughs and picks himself up from his chair, inclining over the edge of the table to meet Castiel in the middle, singing together, “I’m burnin’, I’m burnin’, I’m burnin’ for you.”

Castiel’s chin dips as he softly laughs, and there’s a whiny feeling of disappointment when Dean watches him sit fully back into his chair. Knowing that’s all Castiel was willing to give, he juts his bottom lip out in a slight pout. “That’s all you got?”

“That’s all I know ,” Castiel laughs. 

Dean clicks his tongue and detaches from the table’s edge. “Whatever,” he jokes, feigning sourness. Then: “I really didn’t take you for the karaoke type.”

Castiel shrugs in a detached way. His attention is on the band as he says, “I’m really not.”

Dean’s eyebrows jump. He reaches for his cup. “You were once,” he notes, trying to sound casual.

He preoccupies himself with drinking the melt in his cup, because he knows Castiel is giving him a soft glare. He avoids the man’s gaze until he drawls out, his voice teasing, “Are you jealous, Dean?”

“ No ,” he combats, face scrunching. “ No ,” he says again, but he cannot hide the obvious lie. A smile slides up onto Castiel’s face, sly and knowing, and Dean self-consciously folds his arms over his chest. “Stop that,” he says and Castiel quirks an eyebrow.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Dean shifts in his seat, tightens his arms. “You know what.”

Castiel hums, low and slow, like honey falling from a spoon. He trails his gaze up and down Dean's upper body, and when Dean begins to look how he feels internally—bashful and flustered—Castiel chuckles to himself, looking more than amused with the result.

Later on and right before their world fully plunges into moonlight, Dean pays for their meal and the two begin the walk back to the impala. Dean had purposefully parked a ways away, his reasoning for getting the chance to stroll past the street-facing stores and restaurants, to see the interior of these buildings illuminated greatly against the darkness of night while they navigate themselves around groups of people and the outdoor patio furniture spilling out into the sidewalk. 

Soon into their walk, Castiel interrupts himself with audible delighted shock. His hand feathers up against Dean’s bicep, urging him to redirect his attention up ahead to where a large, white compartment is stationed, cartoon depictions of ice cream with grins and excited eyes painted onto the side, with a useless red-and-white umbrella billowed out to shade a sun that is no longer in the sky. It’s obvious the owner is packing up and getting ready to depart, but Dean and Castiel are quick to intercept.

Thankfully, the man was grateful to get two last minute customers. The transaction was simple and easy, and Dean and Castiel walk away with two sticks of gelato in their hands. Dean with an oreo flavor, Castiel with a passionfruit. 

Colored, patterned banners are strung up over the street, zig-zagging from one building to another, and Dean watches as they flap and resist against a high-up breeze. That invisible force fails to touch them, though, and as they walk down the sidewalk tasting their gelato, it fuels him with a powerful sensation: one that feels tough and prideful, one that brings him up without the worry of falling. It makes him look at Castiel, look at his surroundings, feel the lightweightness of the night and the choreographed sway of the crowd, and think: life is alright. Dare he say it—life is good.

Castiel removes him from his thoughts, though, by offering his ice cream. Dean, understanding the trade, swaps his for Castiel’s and in dutiful silence, they taste each other's choice. “Not bad,” Dean says as he gives Castiel his ice cream back, and takes his as well. 

Castiel nods, agreeing, and tongues his cupid’s bow in an attempt to clean off a dollop of ice cream. Dean, who had caught this, finds it to be stupidly funny and it throws him into a senseless fit of giggles. He doesn’t see Castiel fling an arm out to hit him—only feels the slap against his bicep. He laughs again, and during his hysterics he realizes the cause for his earlier thought. This whole ordeal has felt like a date because it definitely is one. And in his high, Dean finds himself not minding.

That feeling happily clings to him as they slide into the impala. No, he doesn’t mind that they have ice cream inside of Baby. No, he doesn’t mind when Castiel accidentally dropped a sticky popsicle stick onto the floor. No, he doesn’t mind the idea Castiel offered him when they arrived home: “Want to watch a movie?”

“Depends on which,” he replies, but the answer was never going to be no.

Castiel’s lips thin as he thinks, and Dean leaves him in the living room with the task to scour the television for a movie. His trip around the house is brief. Upstairs to change into something more comfortable, a quick stop in the bathroom, and while he’s in the kitchen throwing a bag of popcorn into the microwave, Castiel passes by on his way up the stairs. 

Dean is in the living room with the steaming bowl of popcorn and a soft blanket when Castiel returns, dressed in his own choice of pajamas. He easily falls into the cushions right next to Dean, close enough to share the blanket. 

“Ready?” Dean asks and when Castiel nods, reaching for the bowl on the coffee table, he begins the movie. 

Castiel had chosen out a horror movie and Dean, recognizing the title, voices his approval. Years ago, he had watched the first in the series with Sam when it originally came out, and he’s been meaning to watch the second installment for a number of years. He settles into the couch, head laid back and feet propped up, and easily gets swept up into the moving scenes. 

It’s halfway through the movie when Dean gets suddenly pulled from his trance. He had blinked, and instead of on the set of the movie watching the characters converse, he is back within his body, sitting on the couch in his own living room. It may have been the wild winds pushing up against the house outside that brought him back to life. Or it may have been from Castiel’s movement, the man shifting to be more limp against the cushions, head angled towards Dean’s shoulder. Or, as it surprises Dean, it could also be due to the fact he no longer feels the pulsating, desperate hole within. 

Without moving, he glides his attention around the room, illuminated only by the flickering light from the television. Has it finally settled?, he wonders, the commitment to this house, this island, this life? Was it the night out with Cas that did it, that dragged the puzzle piece from its dark and dusty hiding spot and slotted it into place?

But all those trains of thoughts don’t sit right with him. His nose scrunches in annoyance—he refuses to go back down that path again. Walking down the sidewalks with Castiel had felt astonishingly elating, filling him up with so much satisfaction that he could not fathom the idea of doing anything that would result in any other feeling.

He moves his head, first to lean it towards Castiel, then again to face him properly. From their nearness, Dean is able to focus clearly on the individual hairs curling from Castiel’s scalp, them brightened by the screen. Looking a little bit farther down, and the soft curve of his eyelashes are washed away, the tips barely visible against the television’s glow. 

As he stares over at Castiel, the man’s cheek just a short lean away, a passing thought comes to him, one that tells him how easy it would be to sit up, lean over, and gently kiss Cas. 

And it’s that thought that gives rise to Dean’s full understanding. It was never about a forgotten emotion. It was never about being in undeniable love. It was never about the lust, the attraction, the arousal. It was about feeling at peace. Feeling calm, content—domestic, even. 

It was about feeling at home. And he now knows he’s staring right at it.

Chapter Text

When Dean wakes up, there’s a tight crick in his neck. He distantly understands he is not laying in bed like his subconscious had led him to believe, but rather still sitting on the couch. A far-off rumble reverberates, sounding similar to a hungry stomach, but pitches deeper and thousands of feet away. Then, as he shifts his head off of the mass it was resting upon, his cheek still fuzzy from the warmth, he hears it: the sheets of rain washing over the house. 

He blinks at the dark living room. The television had faded into a muted gray, asleep but never properly turned off, and the porch light fails to go any further than the window frames behind him. Sleep is still heavy in his body—his mind, his lungs, his eyes—and it is that reason why he takes a moment to register the delicious heat warming the side of his body. 

Looking down, he sees the familiar outline of Cas. He had slumped to the side slightly, his temple a now growing weight on Dean’s shoulder, with one foot propped onto the coffee table and the other stretched out. Dean’s muscles freeze up, his heart sick in his throat. His mind races as fast as his eyes jut around, and it’s then he feels the bodily heat hot on his hand. Looking down, he sees where his fingers had crept while he and Cas slept. It almost looks casual, careless, the way his hand lays low on Castiel’s thigh near the knee, his fingertips grazing the inner part. 

With a sharp inhale of determination, Dean slowly raises his hand into the air. Further and further until their contact is nothing more than a hazy emission of body heat radiating off of Castiel’s leg. Once his limbs are in the confines of his bodily boundary, he anxiously runs his palms down his legs while he contemplates how to slide himself out from under Castiel’s resting head. 

The living room ignites in a white flutter of light. A splitting grumble of thunder follows, deep and powerful. On his side, Dean can feel Castiel stir, his body tightening with lucidity. Uncertain, Dean stills and sucks in his lips as his gaze darts around the room, scared by the anticipation. 

It takes five seconds—this Dean knows, because he counted—for Castiel to wake up and lift his head from his shoulder, the area becoming prickled with chill once Castiel’s warmth left it. Seizing the opportunity, Dean stands, his knees horribly weak from being bent for so long. In the wake of his movement a confused and breathy grunt leaves Castiel. 

“You’re awake?” he asks, blinking up at Dean. “What time is it?”

Dean rubs at a tired eye, then runs his hand down his face. “Just woke up,” he sighs. “So I dunno.” He watches with a tilted head as Castiel slowly regains his awareness: rubbing weakly at his own face, his head limp as it swivels around to take in his surroundings. Even in the dimness of the living room, Dean picks up on the shift in Castiel. His wandering eyes pause on the area of the couch Dean had been sitting on, then as his expression rolls into one of consideration as he squints at his thigh. 

“Anyway,” Dean absentmindedly mumbles, turning away to switch off the television and grab the popcorn bowl. He strides into the kitchen and from behind, can hear the soft shifting as Castiel tiredly ambles after him. In a night-vision green, the time on the microwave glares 1:53 .

The wind and rain washing over the house drums into an obscured white-noise that follows the two as they climb up the stairs and into the bathroom. Dean feels far too lazy to brush his teeth, but he graciously opts for drowning his warm face in a flush of cold water from the sink, cleaning away the thin layer of sebum. Castiel, however, stands with an arm crossed over his chest as he brushes his teeth. 

Patting away the dribbles of water with a fluffy hand towel, Dean watches Castiel with hesitant eyes. The next step would be to go to bed and put a formal end to their day, but the act of detaching himself from Castiel’s side feels dissatisfying. Their overlap simply feels too brief for Dean’s liking, so as he slowly folds his hand towel he asks, “Do’ya know how long this storms’upposed to last?”

Castiel looks over at him in the mirror. With his toothbrush stuck between his lips, he shakes his head.

Dean grunts. He throws his towel over the rung, his perfect folds slopping. A second passes. “You going back to bed?”

This time, when Dean looks at Castiel in the mirror, the man does not look back. He nods, and Dean hums, hoping the tone of it didn’t sound as disappointed as he thought it did. He stands at the counter for a moment longer listening to the scrubbing of bristles and the thunderstorm outside. But, without more of a reason to stick around, Dean says goodnight—Castiel trying to bid him one as well, but the word comes out muffled from around his toothbrush—and leaves for his bedroom. As he crosses the short cut of hallway to his door, that swollen feeling of desperation becomes pronounced in his chest once more. And Dean feels the rise of frustration sicken him, because he thought he ridded himself of it.

He gets into bed. He stares at the ceiling. He strains his ears to listen to the last few noises of Castiel in the bathroom: the light dink as he replaces his toothbrush, the gushing of the faucet, the flick of the lightswitch, his departing footsteps. It isn’t until Castiel’s bedroom door clicks shut does the agitation within him sleep. 

Although, he does not. 

The nap from the couch keeps his eyes open and mind awake. He lays lifeless in bed, both hands politely on his chest, fingers threaded through fingers as he stares at the rain-swept window. His consciousness lies with him like a sleepy cat, the two blind to the passage of time and free of restlessness. 

It’s difficult to gauge how long he lays there for. The thunderstorm holds; the lightning sharp and bright, the thunder so furious one particular clap reverberated the walls and shook the foundation. At first he didn’t mind laying in the dark, thinking of nothing, doing nothing, but now his long lasting patience is reaching its frayed ends. Turning to his side, he reaches for his phone, but his eyes seer into a dull pain when the home-screen flashes brightly. He snuffs it out, but not before catching the time— 3:13.

Knowing he had laid in bed for an hour with no promise of sleep, an irritation awakens inside of him. His limbs pout with a fidgety desperation and now that he’s been pulled from his languid state, the ache in his chest throbs. Frustrated, he sharply sighs into the darkness of his room before kicking off his sheets and rolling out of bed. He aims for his bedroom door with the living room in mind, thinking a monotonous show would bore him to sleep. 

Although, he pauses when he opens his door. Across the way, a ring of light outlines Castiel’s own bedroom door. A sickly sweet spike shoots up his spine, reaching his heart and spreading an excited grin across his face. It bubbles within him and has him bounding across the hallway, but once the cold wood is in front of his eyes, the bubbles pop and the excitement freezes. The idea of knocking felt a lot more confident in theory, actually doing it, however, instills a jitteriness in him.

A thought passes through his mind, one that tells him to go downstairs anyway. He nearly does, too, because for a fleeting second the door before him feels untouchable, exclusive. But the ache in his chest persists, a reminder of what he had told himself earlier: to avoid feeling unsatisfied again.

He drums his fingernails against the wood. “Cas?” he softly asks into the yellow crack before tentatively twisting the doorknob. 

Castiel sits in his bed, peering at Dean with a look of stricken confusion. “Dean? I didn’t know you were still awake.”

Leaning against the frame, Dean gestures at him. “I could say the same.”

Castiel’s lips thin in a sheepish half-smile. “Couldn’t sleep,” he explains, then raises the book he’s reading slightly into the air and gives it a small shake. 

“Ah.” Dean nods. “Neither could I.” He takes Castiel’s gesture as an offer and silently slips in front of the door and leans against it, the knob gently clicking into its lock. “What’re you reading?”

A short silence occurs. Castiel squints at Dean, a brief moment of examination, before he replies saying, “The Glass Castle.”

“Awesome.” He lifts his chin to look better at Castiel’s lap. “What’s it about?”

Castiel’s squint becomes quizzical. He tilts his head and openly mulls over Dean, to which the man shifts his weight, diverts his eyes. “Did you need something?” Castiel asks into the awkward air between them. 

“What?” Dean chides, folding his arms over his chest. “Can a guy not ask about books anymore?” Before Castiel can answer, he continues, “You reading something dirty, Cas? Is that it?” A sly grin picks up the corners of his mouth, teasing. 

“No,” Castiel pushes out, his gaze beginning to flicker. “I don’t indulge in the same weird practices you do.”

Dean snorts, defensive. “It’s not weird . It’s natural, you know, everyone does it.”

“That’s not what I’m referring to,” Castiel responds, his attention diverting back down to his stretched out book. “I meant what you do.”

“What I—?” Then Dean remembers his more unique choice in pornography. “Oh.” He pushes out a tight exhale and bunches up his shoulders, feeling the hot burn of shame. “More for me then.”

“Yes,” Castiel chuckles. “Definitely more for you.” He looks over at Dean, then nods to the lightswitch beside him. “Can you turn off the lights, please?” he asks as he dips his hand underneath the lampshade on his side table. 

Dean complies, and just as he flicks off the main light, the lamp clicks on and washes the room in a cozy, warm glow. He continues to stand by the door, though, unsure on what to do. Just as his mind begins to teeter to the previous idea of going downstairs, Castiel pats the empty space beside him on the bed. Dean looks at him, a question in his eyes, but Castiel simply returns to reading his book.

Okay , Dean thinks meekly, alright , as he crosses over the plush carpet. He’s doubtful still when he sits on the bed, hesitant as he leans against the pillows. He analyzes Castiel’s demeanor from the corner of his eye as he refolds his fingers over his stomach. 

“I meant to ask you,” Castiel begins, his eyes still skimming the page but his voice does not relay the same casualness he is presenting. He sounds reluctant, and to Dean’s growing confusion, nervous. “Earlier, you mentioned feeling off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I was thinking.”

“Uh-huh.”

Castiel pauses. “If last night is what made you feel this way, I’d like to apologize.” Dean’s full attention is hooked now, and he turns his head to regard Castiel fully. However, the man does not return the gesture. His gaze studies the page before him as he says, “Being drunk makes me… brazen.. to say the least.” 

At this, Dean laughs out, once and sharp. Then, after a short hiccup of silence, laughs more. “God, Cas, that’s definitely one way to put it.”

He can see an embarrassed smile push up onto Castiel’s face, even when he looks away to hide it. “You weren’t supposed to laugh,” he says, his smile turning into an unashamed grin. “I’m trying to apologize to you.”

Dean knocks a playful elbow into his arm. “You don’t need to apologize, Cas. Trust me when I say I am well versed in drunk flirting. A professional, even.”

“I’ve seen you at work,” Castiel says, nodding his head. “But I wouldn’t call you a professional.”

“Hey!” Dean stares at Castiel’s profile, an exaggerated look of offence on his face. “Like you’re any better. I’ve seen you get all,” he waves a hand, “flustered when a woman even looks at you.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, “but I’ve rendered you speechless, so I believe—what’s the phrase?” He looks up at the ceiling as he thinks. “I’ve got you beat?”

“You’ve got me beat ?” Dean repeats, a small bubble of laughter escaping with his words. “I feel like I’m being challenged.”

Castiel shrugs, looking down at his book. “Maybe you are,” he says.

“Maybe I am,” Dean concurs, trying to keep down his smile. In the silence Castiel does not fill, Dean hums and looks away, cozying into the mattress. 

Their quiet lapses for a few more seconds before Castiel says, “You’re allowed to get under.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. “Under the sheets?”

“What else would I mean?”

Dean stills, falling quiet as a different interpretation crosses his mind. “Right,” he says shortly, then moves to pull out the taut sheets from underneath him. “Aw, Cas, are we having a sleepover?”

A breathy snort of light laughter leaves Castiel. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Too late,” Dean grins, melting into the mattress. “ Damn . Is this memory foam? You’ve got it nice over here.”

“I do,” Castiel says, sounding almost triumphant. “Aw, Dean,” he then says in a playfully mocking tone, “are we going to have more sleepovers in the future?”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “Read your dumb book.”

“It’s not dumb,” Castiel says as Dean props a bent arm underneath his head. He closes his eyes, reveling in the doughy mattress. “It’s about a family who is.. extremely dysfunctional. To say the least.”

Dean snorts. “Any more dysfunctional than ours?”

“Dysfunctional in another way,” he replies. “Jeannette’s childhood is traumatic and broken, yet…” He pauses.

“Yet?” Dean opens his eyes. He cranes his neck to look up at Castiel, who, finally, connects their stares. 

Castiel looks down at him, his cheek pressed up against his shoulder. For a short, quiet moment, his gaze circles around Dean’s face. Then: “Yet beautiful.”

While staring into Castiel’s eyes, Dean feels his heartbeat strength behind his ribs, his breathing become light in his chest. “You don’t say,” he whispers. 

“I do,” Castiel replies, also in a near whisper. It’s brief, a split-second, but Dean noticed the quick diversion of Castiel’s attention. 

Dean purses his lips, his erratic heart in his fingertips. He continues to stare back as the hot fear of anticipation liquifies his muscles. Hauntingly, Dean feels himself pick up his chin, look down at Castiel’s lips. 

Dean watches as he speaks: “And the Glass Castle is something her father has been promising his family he’d build for them,” Castiel continues, his voice slowly building back up to normal. He looks back at his book, leaving Dean with a cold feeling of disappointment. “Although, I think it’s obvious it’ll never happen.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out. “Right.” He swallows thickly and forces himself to inhale, to bounce back. “Like, as a house?” he asks, turning his head so he can stare at the ceiling. “What is this, Wizard of Oz?”

Smiling, Castiel nods his head to the side. “Something like that, yes.”

“Huh.” Then: “What a place to live in.”

“I agree,” Castiel says. “But, I like our house. I don’t think I’d like living in a glass castle very much.”

Dean exhales out a laugh. “True that,” he says softly, and as the words cascade to the golden-yellow ceiling, he knows this is the end of their conversation.

An easy silence follows. Dean shuts his eyes and settles deeper into the pillows as the light scraping of paper sounds beside him—Castiel going back to reading. Rain thrums against the house at a softer rate, the raindrops becoming more intermittent between each hit. The wind is calmer now, too. Sleep laps on the edge of Dean’s subconscious and distantly, he thinks about the logistics of sleeping in Cas’ bed. He would have imagined himself feeling weird about it, feeling unsettled by the prospect, but instead he finds himself feeling serene, tranquil, as if he was gently rocking back and forth in his hammock. And it’s nice, he knows. 

The talk of the glass castle summons a memory from earlier that day, the promise Dean made to Castiel. He slowly cracks open a sly eye, trying to carefully peer past the fuzzy golden glare from the lamp to Castiel. He catches a quick look at him, the man still quietly reading. 

Maybe not right now, he decides. Not with their silence so liquid between them, not with how peaceful the rain sounds pelting the window. Tomorrow, maybe, he thinks. Tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Dean wakes up delirious with confusion the next morning. Bleary and squinting, his eyes slip around as his brain attempts to reconfigure the jigsaw-like pieces of memory into the evocation of his bedroom’s appearance. It isn’t until he turns his head and sees the sheets does he understand it isn’t his bed he is in. 

Each upstairs room is full of the thunderous gray-white from the previous day. Dean finds it to be a little uneasy seeing the house in such a dismal way, the storm raging outside like a wronged, vivacious toddler. The bunker echoes within his mind, being called back by the pearly gleam of the carpets, the silver tinge on the walls. As he pushes his lips together and hides his vision with his palms, rubbing the sleep away, he knows today will carry the feeling of being disgruntled and awkward.

When he sees Castiel, however, casually leaning a hip against the counter as he prudently examines a pan on the stove, minute relief eases into him. He walks down the remaining stairs and moseys into the comfortingly warm aroma of strong coffee and cooked bacon. His presence is noticed and Castiel’s attention darts over, a flame of elation passing over his expression. 

“Good morning, Dean,” he sings, lowering the heat and quickly gliding to the edge of the island counter, pressing his hands onto the surface as Dean sits down. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, adding inches to his height when he leans down on his wrists. 

“Nu-uh,” Dean groans with a grumpy, pinched face. He shifts on the stool, his back curved and his neck hanging. “Too early,” he lowly says as he motions around. “Too chipper.” He points at Castiel, then drops his finger as if he is lowering a volume scale. 

Castiel merely smiles a closed-lipped smile. He reaches down the length of the counter and pulls over a mug, the ceramic dully scraping. Dean blinks down at it, then up at Castiel. 

“Better?”

When he cuddles the mug, Dean finds it to be sweetly warm against his hands. He shoots a skeptical glance over, but after taking an obedient sip realizes that it is made just the way he likes it. “Much,” he says gratefully, the doubt quickly waning off his face. 

“Good,” Castiel says with a grin, then unsuctions himself from the counter and returns to the stove. Curious, Dean lengthens his spine to peer around the man. It doesn’t take long—only a few hearty sips of coffee—for Castiel to face Dean again and slide him his breakfast: a small plate stacked with golden-brown curls of crisp bacon. 

Dean raises his eyebrows absurdly. “Is this all for me?” Even though he had an inkling, he’s still surprised to be proven correct when Castiel says, “You don’t see me eating it,” as he breezes to the sink, gnashing the teeth of the tongs playfully at Dean from over his shoulder. 

With his face crumbling in idiotic amusement, Dean breathes out a tough laugh. He uses a finger to pull the plate closer, saying, “The fit Sam would throw if he saw this. Me, eating a whole plate of bacon.” He laughs again, more full. 

Castiel turns on the faucet and says, “I think Sam is facing bigger problems right now.”

Popping a pulled-off chunk of bacon into his mouth, Dean shortly grunts a nonverbal question.

“He’s still sick,” Castiel explains. He turns around and leans back against the counter and lets the warm water run over the dishes. “Well,” he then corrects, tilting his head, “that is what I assume since I have yet to see him.”

“Ah,” Dean says, nodding. He jerks his chin up at Castiel. “And what’s with you?” he asks, to which Castiel curiously narrows his eyes. “Up early cooking a breakfast you aren’t eating.” Then, with a suspicious squint: “And your happy-go-lucky attitude.”

Castiel’s lips peel back in a mirthful grin. “Is my happy-go-luckiness bothering you?”

Dean shrugs up a deferential shoulder. “No,” he replies. “I mean—I like it, don’t get me wrong. I’m just lost on where it’s coming from.”

Castiel’s grin seals closed, the ends picking up in a smirk. His eyes fall from Dean and drift to the dull floor, becoming clouded over in visible memory. Dean turns his head slightly, eyes on Castiel as he begins to feel dumb with confusion. “ What ?” he asks, his desperate curiosity sharpening his command. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, eyes flickering up to the ceiling. He tilts his head, indifferent, and rotates back to the sink. “Nothing.”

“Hey,” Dean laughs out. “ No ! You can’t do that!” He waves a piece of bacon back and forth. “Can’t cheat yourself out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Castiel replies simply.

Dean snorts, big and unbelieving. Ripping the body off the strip, he drops the rest onto the plate and slides off the chair, speaking around his chew as he moves to stand next to Castiel. “Well, I know what I saw.” He leans his lower back against the counter and smiles at Cas. “Tell me.”

“Tell you?” Castiel muses and glimpses over his shoulder. “And why would I do that?”

“Because,” Dean grins, his eyes glimmering, “I asked so nicely.”

A smile pushes up onto Castiel’s face and Dean feels the proud touch of victory. “Well,” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice, “what’s in it for me?”

Looking away, Dean hums out through a thoughtful exhale. “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” Castiel repeats. He sounds almost surprised, but the undivided attention on cleaning the dishes makes Dean nearly second-guess himself. 

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice wispy. “Sure. Why not?”

Castiel turns his head and regards Dean with one eyebrow subtly arched. From under his lingering gaze, Dean feels the swimming heat of being stripped bare. He refrains from shifting weight, refuses to tighten his crossed arms. He keeps his attention on Castiel long enough to see a scintilla of a coquettish gleam behind his eyes, the break of a small smirk. Catching this makes Dean raise an eyebrow as well, the corner of his mouth getting pulled up into a coy smile. 

Low thunder rumbles from outside. Dean keeps his chin dipped slightly, his amused eyes on Castiel’s, watching as they falter down his face. Knowing where Castiel’s attention has fallen to emboldens his smile, licks a flame of valiance in his gut. The rain pelting the windows fuzzes out when Castiel moves closer, his hip grazing along the counter. 

Into the inch between them, Castiel says lowly, “I want you, Dean.” And like a suction cup in his lungs, Dean is unable to breathe. His mouth hangs dumbly open. He computes nothing but the mounting white-hot feeling in his abdomen. A smug smile spreads over Castiel’s face. “To watch another episode of our show with me.”

Dean blinks. A moment of silence passes. Then, breathily: “Huh?”

“We’re nearly done with the season,” Castiel continues, tilting his head. He stays where he stands for a second longer before falling back to the sink, his eyes lagging behind. “And with the weather, well…” He huffs out a quick breath and regards the gray windows. 

With more strength, Dean says, “Huh?”

Castiel lolls his head over and looks at Dean with a plain expression, one meant to provoke, to tease. “Our show?”

At that, a sharp sting of clarity hits Dean, bringing the world back to a point. A pained laugh strangles out of him, shrill and acidic, as he brings a hand to pinch his eyes. It quickly flattens over his face just as the second is brought up to do the same. “Oh,” he laughs out, sounding no more secure than before. “Oh, my fucking—Jesus fucking Christ, Cas.”

A quick, delighted laugh hiccups out of Castiel.

“No,” Dean barks out, but his hands dull the sharpness. “No. Fuck you. It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” Castiel muses. 

“No, it’s not, damn it.” Dean drops his hands and turns his head away, feeling a hot flush creep up his neck. “Fuck you, Cas. Truly. Fuck you.”

“Yeah?” He can hear Castiel’s cocky smile.

“Yeah,” Dean stonily replies as he pushes off the counter. His skittish legs take control carrying him out and away, not a clear destination in sight, just the primal need to escape. The curious silence he leaves behind questions him, but it goes unanswered. 

/

The main hallway in Sam’s house is full of clouded sunlight. Dean cuts through it and jumps into the doorway of each main-level room—kitchen, living room, the spare bedroom Sam has future plans of making into a library—and finds the same empty stillness in all. He jumps the stairs two at a time and targets Sam’s bedroom door, laughing stupidly at himself for not going there first as Sam is known to strictly quarantine when horribly ill. 

“Sam,” he says into the wood. “Sam, I’m coming in.”

The inky darkness of the bedroom is barely punctured by the thin white light outlining the windows, the curtains dutifully blocking out the dreary weather. A weak groan sounds from the bed and Dean offers a lame apology, knowing he just woke his brother up.

“Just coming in to check in on ‘ya.” Dean stops short of the bed and rocks back on his heels. “You hungry?” he asks and bounces on his toes. “Need anything?”

“I need you to leave,” Sam groans, voice muffled by the arm cuddled around his head. 

“Not possible, I’m afraid.” Moving closer, Dean squints at the side table to assess the remnants of Sam’s sickness. He’s dissatisfied to see the lack of water cups and food, remembering seeing no trace of the same down in the kitchen. “Whatcha sick with?”

“ You . Get out.”

Dean clicks his tongue. “You’re always so mean when you’re sick. Bobby used to say you’d grow out of it, yet here we are.”

“Get out please .”

“Nicer,” Dean notes. “But no.”

Sam huffs out an irritated breath. “What will it take for you to leave?” he asks, shifting his head to be heard clearer. 

Dean hums thoughtfully, performatively tapping a finger against his chin as he strides over to the window. “Why don’t I whip you up that soup I used to sometimes make you, huh?” he suggests and grabs a fistfull of curtain, ignoring Sam’s hurried pleas for him to stop. Ripping them open, the bedroom soaks with color, dully stinging Dean’s eyes and revealing Sam now propped up on an arm as he holds his other hand over his eyes. 

“No— Dean .”

“Hey,” Dean says defensively, turning around. “Someone once told me sunlight cures.”

“Sunlight helps . I said sunlight helps , idiot.”

“Potato-potato,” Dean concedes and pulls one curtain towards himself, shrouding Sam in shadows once more. “Do you want water, too? Tea, maybe? Or do you want me to take a crack at making you your weird protein shake thing?” he says as he circles a hand in the air. He thinks for a second, eyes high on the wall before saying, “Well, that maybe won’t go with the soup.”

“Dean. Your soup sucked.”

Ludicrousy flashes hot in his chest. “My— what — no !” Then: “It did not!”

“Big time,” Sam sighs, rolling onto his back.

Pursing his lip and looking down at the carpet, Dean levels out the absurdity gurgling within him. “Fine,” he yields, although not willingly. “No soup—whatever. What’d you want, then? Some, what, fruit ?” he asks as he crosses the milky sunlit path to the bedside table again. He spots a Kleenex box, the plastic flaps devoid of white tissues. “More of these bad boys?” He shakes the box, dropping it when he realizes it’s been repurposed to house the used ones. “Medicine? Maybe something a little stronger?”

“Uh-uh,” Sam quickly pushes out. 

“Uh-uh? Come on, Sammy, use your words.”

After a hearty sigh, Sam says, “Get me whatever it’ll take for you to leave me alone.”

Dean flashes his eyes in an exasperated eye roll. “A man can only take so much abuse,” he childishly whines and rocks himself around, aiming for the door. “I’ll be back up. Don’t fall asleep.” Sam grumbles something in response, but Dean is already loosely pulling the door behind himself. 

Downstairs, the mumbled lyrics to a fast-paced song keeps Dean company. He becomes completely engrossed in the tempo, the rhythm, the imaginary chords strumming in his head. “ Photograph ,” he mumble-sings as he dices the kiwi. “ Photograph, I don’t want your ,” as he grips an apple, pulling the knife towards his thumb in chunky sections. He uncaps a honey bottle and dramatically spins the bowl, whisper-belting and nodding his head along as he drizzles the honey in big, cursive loops as the bowl goes round and round. 

When he returns, he hums still while he waits for Sam to heave himself up. He gently places the bowl in Sam’s lap, holds out the medicine cupped underneath, and uses the butt of the water cup to kick away a used tissue. “Here we are,” he says with a twitch of pride. “Some things never change.”

“Yeah,” Sam absentmindedly says. Then, with a hint of gratitude: “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Sammy.” He flashes his brother a smile, then turns his head to look at the side table. He grabs the tissue box and begins flicking the used ones in, holding a curl of grimace in his mouth as he does so. “You got any Clorox here? Should I disinfect the place?”

“Dean. It’s fine.”

“Can’t get any better if you’re swimming in a septic pool,” Dean notes with a sparked, convinced look. “Are they under the sink?”

“No. Can you leave now?” Sam asks, his raw throat tenderizing his voice. 

“Come on, man, don’t treat me like this.” Then, with a teasing smile: “I didn’t make you my soup.”

“Thankfully.” Sam pushes a hand through his hair, digs the ball of his palm into an eye. “I’m tired, dude. And the last thing I need is dealing with you and you—”

“Alright, alright,” Dean interrupts with a showy wave of both hands. “You’re really kicking me out?”

“Begging you, actually.”

/

A bare bulb flickers from above Dean, blinking the basement in and out of darkness. He stands before the stairs, staring up at them, the soft gray sunlight cascading down. The gentle pitter-patter of the rain outside is too dim to overpower the heave of the couch as Castiel sits down, the static hum of the television as it turns on. 

Dean places a foot on the first step but goes no further. It feels like dead weight and stakes him to where he stands, but betrayingly his other foot jives with excited nerves, eager to jump up and race into the living room. He curses it, then himself. 

In the few moments Dean has had with himself that morning—his external body busy and sensitive; eyes darting and feet gliding—his mind had involuntarily been instilling previous interactions with Castiel. Each memory charged and reactive enough to momentarily pause his gaze, stutter his walk. And with his hammock promise, Dean is both begrudging and rouse to know Castiel will not stop. The idea electrifies him. 

He sucks in a breath. He climbs the stairs. 

When he rounds the narrow doorway from the basement to the living room, he is unsurprised but still jazzed with a low volt of shock to see Castiel sitting on the couch with the remote aimed at the television. The corner of Castiel’s mouth picks up in the barest hint of a smile. 

“Cas,” Dean regards, stalling in the entryway.

“Dean,” he muses, his attention rapt to the screen. “You’re just in time.”

Dean sighs, but not unkindly. “Boy, oh boy,” he says, being thoughtful to snake some amusement in. He unsticks his feet from the ground and crosses the living room, awkwardly fumbling around the coffee table—pressing the pads of his fingers onto the surface—before settling into the couch. 

“I was beginning to think you’d spend the day with Sam instead.”

“No,” Dean says, prolonging the O and kicking a leg up onto the table. “He’s sick as a dog.”

“And why is the dog sick?” Castiel asks, serious about his query. “I’ve always wondered that.”

Dean snorts, then laughs. “You make a good point.” He reaches over to knock a playful elbow into Cas’ arm. “Another thing to Google and tell me about later.”

Castiel nods, agreeing. After his questions towards basic human phrases and similes and metaphors became too pestering to Dean in the infancy of their time together, “I don’t know. Google it,” became Dean’s go-to response. When Castiel nodded then, too, and came back later to regurgitate the information, Dean had stared at him with a pinched expression, exasperated as to why Castiel had taken his joke seriously. But after the third or fifth time, it bloomed into just another habit between the two.

With a deep, settling sigh, Dean comforts himself into the cushions and stares ahead as Castiel thumbs the play button. The previous episode’s summary plays, and Castiel is quick to skip. As the scenes open up, however, Dean’s gaze becomes stilled on a point away from the screen as he retreats into his mind. 

There’s no way, he thinks, that they are going to breeze over what happened in the kitchen. Simply recalling it brings a hot swell to his chest, to his abdomen, and he needs to shift about to become comfortable again. With Castiel sitting nonchalant next to him, the inches between casual, Dean feels as though they are playing a prolonged game of gay chicken. 

Then, it hits him. With a swollen sensation of victory, Dean’s eyes scatter to the ceiling above him as he revels silently in his realization. That’s it—gay chicken! He could slap his palm to his forehead with how silly he feels. Fluster has always been his weakness when flirted with, no matter how touched and flattered he’s to receive it. And reciprocating has always been his strength with women. It’s about time—as certain parts of him may agree—to join the team and play the game. Especially if the other player is already points ahead. 

Dean shifts once more, this time to heighten himself as he ponders up his first course of action. 

Half-way into the episode, Dean is sure Castiel’s attention had been lost on him for long enough. The nerves have caught back up, but with each confident inhale and replay of perceived events in his head, they lack the seizing fear they once had. Dean lengthens the arm between him and Castiel, rubs annoyingly at the elbow. Shifting to be leaning deeper in the corner of the couch, Dean raises and drapes his arm against the back of it, his forearm lightly brushing against Castiel’s shoulders. From out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees how the man sits a little taller, the slight shift of his jaw.

But immediately it feels wrong. His arm is a touch too high for his shoulder, Castiel an inch too tall. Just as the muscles sting with strain, he removes his arm from the back of the couch and folds it back into his person.

Castiel stifles a laugh.

“Shut up,” Dean bites. 

“Sorry,” Castiel breathes through a smile. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings.”

Dean bunches up his lips, feeling the flame of ugly insecurity. “Worse,” he says. “You’ve bruised my ego.” And when Castiel laughs fully, his chin dipping, it eases away at the soreness. 

/ 

The storm breaks nearly two hours later. Stepping out from the steamy bathroom and into the chilled hallway, Dean is delighted to find blocks of orange light cutting in through the window. Finally receiving what he had been missing that morning brings a vague soothe to the adolescent anxiety rattling his heart. Tightening his hold on the dry towel wrapped around his hips, he determinedly walks down the hallway towards Castiel’s bedroom. 

With the door already ajar, Dean uses his knuckles to push it open and finds Castiel in the same position as the previous night, a book stretched out in his lap. Castiel absentmindedly glances over. His gaze then glitches, becoming rapt onto Dean with a visible interest in his eyes. 

“Just wondering,” Dean says with a polite diversion of his gaze, looking towards the warm windows, “if the weather clears up, you’d want to come with me tomorrow to get a fishing license.”

Castiel blinks dumbly at him. “Oh,” he says, his voice stunted. “Sure.”

“Awesome,” Dean says with a grin. He looks down at Castiel, an inflating balloon of confidence expanding his chest. “You want one, too?” he asks. “Was gonna get one for Sam as well. He won’t use it but maybe I can guilt him into fishing with me.”

“I’d uh,” Castiel says. His eyes move away, then quickly back, “I’d hate to waste money. Is it possible for Sam and I to share one?”

Dean hums, genuinely curious over the idea. “Maybe,” he says. “I honestly don’t think we even need a license, really. No one really comes down here. But, you know.” He opens an indifferent hand in the air. “Dotting I’s and crossing T’s, or whatever.”

“Right,” comes Castiel’s short reply. Before he turns to look down at the awaiting pages, Dean just catches the brisk drop of his gaze. “Anything more?”

Puckering his lips, Dean leans his head against the frame as he pretends to rack his brain. “Oh!” he says, voice high with forced surprise. The next practiced line builds up in his mouth and instead of finding the strong wall of confidence he had imagined himself to have, it’s replaced by a joyous clot in his throat. Still, he persists. “I meant to also ask what you were feeling for dinner.” As his play carries on, his amusement surges in his chest and he needs to roll his head away, a horrible try at hiding his beefy smile. “Something,” he says in a boyishly shrill voice. He controls his hilarity with a deep inhale and faces Castiel once more, but keeps his gleaming eyes on the carpet. In a rehearsed fashion, he loosens his fingers so the towel hangs more casually around his waist, “meaty.” Instantly, he hinges forward with a controlling clap of hysterical laughter.

As Dean pulls himself up, his eyes wet with hysterical tears, he sees through fuzzy vision as Castiel lifts his head from its bowing position, a hand rubbing at his eyes. “That was horrible,” he says, his glee evident. “Horrible. You’re horrible at this, Dean.” With bright eyes and a stupid grin, he nods to the towel. “Was this all a part of a plan? Is that your costume?”

“Yes,” Dean says, unembarrassed and proud. “I thought of it while in the shower.”

Castiel closes his grin, his sly smile beaming through his eyes. In an incredulous voice bordering on teasing, he asks, “You think of me while in the shower?”

Dean’s fun falters, his expression trips. “Well,” he starts. “Well—I—”

A snort of laughter cuts him off and Castiel shakes his head, waving Dean’s fumble off. “Anything is fine with me,” he says as he returns to his book.

“Anything?” Dean asks with a growing hint.

“Maybe something vegetarian.” Castiel glances at Dean’s face and when he catches the ambivalent look, crossed between humor and wound, he laughs once and sharp with his own self-amusement.

/

The thunderstorm has left the air charged and heavily damp. Dean sits outside on the porch with a leg bent over his knee, an arm dangling loosely off as he rolls ice around in a short glass. A continuous breeze sweeps rain off the nearby tree, the impact sounding like a bored drum of fingers on the roof above him. The front door inhales, the wood unsuctioning from the frame, and when Dean looks over he sees Castiel step out into the ocher sunlight. 

He smiles at him, gestures to the second chair. 

“I Googled it,” Castiel begins as he takes a seat. He squints into the horizon and leans into the cradle of the chair, saying, “Zoonoses.”

Dean looks away, at a loss. “What?”

Castiel looks at him through the corner of his eye. “Zoonoses. Zoonotic diseases.” And when Dean’s confusion persists, Castiel smiles lightly and says, “Sick animals. They were very common in the eighteenth century.”

Dean’s eyes flutter wide, his confusion snapping. “Why didn’t you just say that? You sounded like Sam with all that mumble-jumble,” he says as he places the cup between them. He inches it towards Castiel with the point of his finger. 

Castiel picks it up, the trade familiar but not without gratitude. “Whoops,” he jokes. “But, that’s just a theory. There is no actual known origin.”

“Weren’t you there for all that?” Dean asks with a sarcastic spike. “Shouldn’t you know this stuff?”

Smiling against the rim, Castiel says, “I was,” his voice a hollow echo inside the glass. He takes a small sip and places it back onto the table. “My duties were tied to Heaven. It was rare that I came down to Earth.”

“Right,” he nods. Then, with a quick laugh: “And look where that got ‘ya.”

Castiel shares his amusement, laughing softly as well. “Indeed, yes.” He turns to look at Dean, his eyes a squinting smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“ Oh ,” Dean breathes out through a fighting grin. “Never said I was, either.” He glances at Castiel, their eyes connecting for a brief, happy second before Dean lifts his chin and regards the sunset again. 

Thinning gray and white clouds lazily drift after the heart of the storm, and behind a brilliant orange sky cracking like a glowstick. Knowledge inherited through years of quiet, purposeful observation, Dean knows, to get more comfortable, Castiel is lightly picking up his thighs and tilting his chin at a gentle angle. And when he glances over, he smiles proudly to himself for being correct.

An unseen flock of small birds sing melodiously, their tune a distant, triumphant song for surviving the storm. Low, faraway thunder grumbles sorely. Dean steals another quick glance, his eyes flickering unsurely before returning to the bright horizon. Treating the glass cup like a ferris wheel—pinching opposite sides of the rim and letting it swing loosely but firmly—Dean tips the bourbon back into his mouth. As he moves to place it back, however, Castiel lifts his arm to rest it gently on the surface and his knuckles brush hotly along the back of Dean’s hand. Looking curiously over, Dean keeps his fingertips latched as he considers the sight before him. 

Life, to Dean, has recently become reduced down to current moments and feelings. Tickling sensations of the wind through his hair, the cool ocean under his feet, the sun warm on his bare back. He’s found himself lingering in these quiet times: the caved out space he and Cas have made in their living room, comfortable with dim, warm lighting and easy air; their private gravitational pulls in which they share small smiles and gleaming gazes; shared breaths and jokes and glances. Long gone are the intensive schemes and future steps. Dean’s whole existence is now defined by his field of vision; an almost strange reversion back to childhood, where each plan is something mystical and each day lasts eccentrically long. This curiously new way of living encloses Dean in a snowglobe life, filled with sea salt and sand. 

So when Dean snakes his hand down Castiel’s wrist, it isn’t in fear of their snowglobe being shaken; nor, when he slowly slides their palms together, is it because he’s been swept in by the moment. Gently interlocking their fingers together until they web, Dean softly drags his thumb down the exterior of Cas’ forefinger in adoration of their determination and commitment to own a snowglobe. And, purely out of his vengeful curiosity. 

Becoming easily satisfied by knowing the texture of Castiel’s warm, dry skin, he removes his hand and instead quickly finishes off his drink. Castiel dazily rotates his hand, flattening his palm to the table. A short time passes, one filled to the brim in silence, before Castiel says in a thin voice, “Was there a reason for that?”

Dean connects his chin to his clavicle, testing the strength of his vocal cords. “Just curious.”

Castiel is quiet for a second. “Right. Of course.”

Nodding once and standing, Dean exhales to taste the bourbon on his breath before twisting around. When he looks down at Castiel, however, he finds an old friend instead: the virgin angel with a scared, apprehensive look plastered to his face and a rigid spine, burning a nervous stare into Dean’s encouraging wink. He had thought the pink and blue lights mixing into a purple luster would melt Cas’ fear away as it once did his, but only as they exited the brothel, giddy with laughter, did Dean notice it was gone. He looks away from Castiel’s shocked eyes and smiles smugly at the knowing of his doing. 

He playfully knocks his foot into the side of Cas’ as he passes. “Still in the mood for vegetarian?”

/ 

One bird jaws feverishly outside, its harmonies ugly and loud against the classic rock playing from the radio in the living room. Dean braves the steam hot enough to singe and scoops the ladle out of the soup, cautiously inching it towards his mouth before taking a hesitant sip. 

“I don’t think,” comes Castiel’s toying voice from the stairs, and when Dean looks over his shoulder he catches Cas’ sweet smile and teasing, pointed eyes, “the chef is supposed to do that.” Dean quirks a bemused eyebrow and he clarifies with, “Health code violation.”

“Ah,” Dean says, watching Castiel breeze through the kitchen to lean back on the center counter. His socked feet cross over one another, inching into Dean’s personal space. “Good thing you want my cooties,” he jokingly jabs as he turns to the stove again. 

“You’re sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.” He shrugs up a quick shoulder and shoots an even quicker glance over it. “Call it a gut feeling.”

“And what if your gut is wrong?”

“My gut is never wrong.”

“It might be now.”

“It isn’t now.”

“That’s why,” Castiel says, his smile in his tease, “I said might be .”

Dean breathes out a dry laugh. “Make yourself useful—” He nods his head to the cabinets— “and pull out some bowls, will ‘ya?” Hearing the fabric swish of pants, Dean assumes Castiel is doing as asked, but Dean’s heart painfully romps high in the center of his chest when Cas’ presence fuzzes into his back. A second ticks past before Dean’s body registers the touch of Cas’ chest warmly flushed to his shoulder blades, his knotted throat on Dean’s shoulder. 

Castiel hums highly, his voice only a vibration against Dean’s neck. “Looks good,” he says before falling away, leaving Dean perplexedly aware of the cold air behind him and the pleasure hot in his abdomen. Castiel continues to the cabinet and clatters out the ceramic dishes and silverware, emitting a casualness he keeps throughout dinner until he is picking up the same bowls, now flecked with dried rivers of soup and loose herbs, and carrying them to the sink. 

“Ever since turning human,” Castiel says as Dean leans his head back, reveling in the cozy comfort warm food often gives, “dreary weather makes me so unusually tired."

“Glad you came out normal.”

Castiel breathes out a soft laugh. “I’m trying to let you down gently, Dean,” he says, making the man twist around to shoot him a confused look, “and tell you I’m too tired to watch an episode.”

“ No ,” Dean gasps out in a near, unbelievable whine. 

“But since you want to be a butthead about—”

“ A butthead ?” Dean echoes with a ridiculous pitch.

“Yes.”

“Oh, and I’m the child? Alright.” Then, moving to be hugging the back of the chair: “Come on, man, we’re almost done. Just one more?” he asks, watching as Castiel approaches. 

“Sorry,” he replies with an indifferent, convenient yawn. “Tired,” he says, pointing to his face. “Bed.” He gestures to the ceiling in the direction of his room. “Me. Goodnight.” He offers Dean a smile, small and slightly apologetic, before reaching out to give his shoulder a final, loving squeeze. He walks to the staircase and Dean pushes out a soft, defeated sigh through his nose, leaning to absentmindedly rest his cheek against his shoulder. 

“Night,” he mumbles to the floor. His thoughts begin to take him away, but his attention moves up to Castiel, the man just about to disappear behind the edge of the ceiling. Their eyes briefly connect, and it is then Dean is reminded of his self-promise. It doesn’t wash into him in an overpowering wave of dread, but rather grudgingly pokes at him, just as reluctant as he.

Hanging his head, Dean slowly closes his eyes and listens to the comforting noises of Castiel moving around upstairs. He enjoys it—this second form of music, playing constantly in the background of his life. He lets out a long, purposeful sigh, dragging it out until his lungs suffocate before swinging himself off the chair and heading for the staircase. 

“Cas,” he distractedly says as he climbs the last stair, the name slipping out in familiar repetition. Castiel’s bedroom door is warmly open, and Dean keeps his eyes on the floor as he steps under the frame, leaning to press a shoulder into the wood. He crosses his arms, preoccupied with articulating his thoughts, and unsurely starts, “I just wanted to say…” He bunches his mouth to the side and looks up at Castiel through his eyebrows.

The man stands in front of his accordion-folded closet doors, jumping a shirt around in his hands in search of the hem while peering expectantly and patiently at Dean. “Oh, come on,” Dean dryly laughs with a ridiculous roll of his eyes. “This is—this is just dumb.” He butts his forehead against the frame, an absurd smile rounding his cheeks. 

“You are aware it’s you who walked in here, correct?”

“Just put the damn shirt on.”

He shakes his head at Castiel’s light laugh; only opens his eyes after the cotton rustle of him changing and his footsteps as he comes closer. Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, his knees a welcoming angle apart as he looks anticipatedly up at Dean. “What is it you wanted to say?”

Dean sucks in a deep breath, flutters his eyes to the ceiling and steps away from the door. “I wanted to say,” he says on his exhale and stops short of Castiel, staring up at the ceiling in thought. “Hang on.” He cracks a tentative smile and holds up a pointed finger. “It’ll come to me.”

Castiel wisps out a breath through a smile. He leans back on both hands and lazily nods to the second set of pillows. “Come make yourself comfortable while you think.”

“No—I, uh,” Dean says, distracted. He looks down at Castiel and catches onto the new glimpse of subtle confusion, then quickly adds, “I’m just gonna say it.”

“Say what?”

“You remember how,” he begins, tightening his crossed arms, “back at the restaurant the other day, I felt—off, or whatever.”

“Ohh,” Castiel replies, clarity breaking over his face with understanding. Then: “Sure I do.”

“Right. And we, you know—” Dean nods to Castiel, a gesture to figuratively connect them— “made that promise.”

A small smile is cracked over Castiel’s face. “I see now,” he muses, tilting his head to rest a cheek against his raised shoulder. “And this is you fulfilling that promise.” Dean nods. Castiel wiggles his fingers, motioning for him to continue. “Go on, then.”

Dean pushes out a quick, reading breath. “Okay,” he says with a sure buck of his head. His mouth then clams, he sucks in his lips. Dragging his eyes down to think, he mutters, “Give me a minute.”

“I wasn’t taking any away.”

Dean shoots over a sharp look, but faces his smile to the wall. “Bear with me, alright?” he asks. 

“Alright,” Cas replies kindly.

Sighing out a soft, contemplative “Um,” Dean dips his chin and rubs at the nape of his neck. “Because we’ve been friends for so long now,” he begins slowly, keeping his fingers latched, “we’re obviously comfortable with each other.”

“Of course,” he agrees. 

“Right. And, like—” He flashes his hand open, lifts his shoulders a bit— “you’re, like, my rock, right? My best friend—so is Sam, obviously. But you’re a little different.” 

Castiel smiles, slightly dazed, a little confused, but mostly sweet. “Same goes for you,” he says with heart. 

“So, in my—” Dean skirts, then pushes out a quick, grateful exhale. “Thanks,” he quickly corrects before continuing. “So, in my opinion, I think it’s totally normal for us to feel… you know.” He sucks in his lips and looks nervously down at Castiel, who peers unsurely back up. “ You know ?” Dean tries again, this time with a performative bounce in his knees and an open swing of his hands. 

“No,” Castiel says slowly, now completely confused. His eyes hold a hint of restrained eagerness that turns his squint playful. “I do not know.”

Groaning softly, Dean defeatedly lolls his head around on his neck, it bouncing chin to chest before he stands straight. “Okay,” he sharply says and presses his palms together, lightly kissing his fingertips to his lips. “We’re friends,” he begins again, this time with pace. “And friends feel comfortable with one another—that’s normal. And friends who’ve been through the wringer as many times as us might feel, like, y’know.” He thoughtfully pauses. “Comfort in, like, each other. Well—not in , but— you know — in .”

Castiel snorts out a laugh and brings the back of his fingers to cover his blooming smile. “Sorry,” he says, nodding reassuringly. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.”

“You do?” Dean breathes his question out, his shoulders limping. 

“Of course I do.”

“Okay, good,” Dean whispers to himself with a soothing nod. “Yeah. Good ‘cause, you know—the same goes for Sammy, too, of course. I’d say he’s also like a home to me.” Dean, looking down for approval, catches the tailend of Castiel’s grin mushing, his eyes shifting into a loving gleam. “Y’know?” Dean teases, grinning stupidly into Castiel’s gaze. 

“Yes,” he laughs out. “Yes, I know.” Then, speaking over Dean’s self-encouraging awesome , he says in a joking voice edged with tease: “However, I’ll remind you that I’m not your brother.”

“How about,” Dean says with a slight, pained pinch in his face, “we don’t bring Sam up right now.”

Castiel laughs out a scoff. “You brought him up first.”

“Oh,” Dean waves a dismissive hand, “never mind that. All I’m saying is your point has been made—loud and clear.”

Loosely grinning up at him, Castiel tests, “Maybe not clear enough.”

Dean’s eyes amusedly flicker off to the side, his own grin unashamed. “Fuck you,” he breathes out. Then, looking down at Castiel, he gently shakes his head: “Fuck it.”—an absentminded whisper before he takes that step closer and bends down to kiss Cas. 

A soft, surprised grunt whines from Castiel’s throat, but easily are his hands in Dean’s hair to pull him closer. Dean hums a moan and glides in, the movement of Castiel’s mouth on his making his voice box weak. He drifts his grasp from either side of Cas’ jaw to his throat, holding it gently before stretching out a thumb to softly push it into the underside of Cas’ chin. The man makes a feeble noise, small and from the back of his throat, and threads his fingers deeper along Dean’s scalp. 

Heat pools faster and thicker in Dean’s abdomen. Every desperate kiss feeds it, each breathy groan enrages it. When he pushes into Castiel’s mouth to hear another, the man gets knocked back onto his elbows and the kiss breaks. Dean breathes fast and heavy into the muddled inch between them, his eyes lidded. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Okay, okay.” Castiel touches their foreheads together in a loose chase for Dean’s mouth, but he inches away and repeats himself. 

Another dazed exchange of breath and Dean pulls away. 

“I’m going,” he says as he pulls his bent knee off the bed—not something he knowingly did, “to go to bed—like—now.” 

Castiel nods with him, a stunned sort of amazement in his gaze. He picks himself up off his elbow, chest heaving. 

Dean skims a thumb softly against his own lower lip. “Cas,” he breathes out in a strained voice. 

“Yeah?” he asks, breathless.

“We’re in Hawaii now. There’s no reason why your lips should still be chapped.”