Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean walks through the house, his arms full of washing baskets as he gently kicks at the closed door. 

“Ben, I’m doin’ laundry, if you’re clothes ain’t in the wash room, they ain’t being washed,” he yells over the sound of what some would call eardrum bursting heavy metal coming from Ben's room. Dean shakes his head, smirking slightly as he listens to the muffled drums and screeching guitars blasting through the door. "Kid’s got taste," he mutters with a chuckle, but the smirk quickly fades when he notices a few abandoned socks lying on the floor in the hallway. He sighs, bending down to scoop them up with one hand, balancing the laundry baskets on his hip with practiced ease.

A moment later, Ben’s door flies open, and he steps out, looking mildly irritated but holding a bundle of clothes. “Didn’t hear you over Trenched Grave ,” he says, shrugging.

Dean raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Yeah, well, maybe turn it down, huh? I’m not trying to go deaf.”

Ben shrugs, handing over the clothes and glancing at the pile of laundry Dean’s already juggling. “Need a hand or?”

“Hey, now we’re talking. Get the rest of this and follow me,” Dean replies, shifting the load onto Ben, who barely manages to get his arms around the stack without dropping anything. They make their way to the laundry room, Dean chuckling as Ben tries to keep up, looking every bit like he’s about to tip over at any moment.

“Don’t just dump it, man,” Dean says, steadying the pile as Ben reaches the laundry room. “Separate colors. Whites go here, darks go there.”

Ben gives him a look, smirking. “Seriously? I’m not a kid. I know how to do laundry.”

“Yeah, well, last time you ‘knew how,’ my favorite shirt came out pink. Not making that mistake again,” Dean says with a grin, nudging him in the side. Ben rolls his eyes, but as they work together, there’s an easy rhythm between them, the kind that only comes from countless afternoons just like this one.

Ben is one of Dean’s five adopted children and the house is usually buzzing with activity. Between the mountain of laundry, endless snack runs, and the sounds of bickering over the remote, Dean often feels like he’s living in a whirlwind. But he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Each of his kids, Ben included, has carved out their own little niche in the family. They all bring something unique to the table and keep him on his toes in their own way.

There’s Claire, the oldest, who at sixteen has a knack for both organizing chaos and causing it. She’s fiercely protective over her siblings and quick to jump in as a peacekeeper when things get heated. She’s also taken over the kitchen more times than Dean can count, experimenting with new recipes and forcing them all to try her latest creations. Not that he minds because Claire has become quite the chef. Her latest creations range from savory pasta dishes to elaborate desserts that leave everyone eagerly awaiting her next experiment. Dean never knows what he’ll come home to—sometimes it’s a perfectly cooked lasagna, and other times, it’s a tower of cupcakes with experimental flavors like lavender and lemon. She’s even started watching cooking shows and trying out her own versions of the dishes she sees, constantly surprising the family with her culinary creativity.

Claire’s natural leadership makes her a bit of a mother hen, especially when it comes to the younger kids. Whether she’s helping Alicia with homework or teaching Max how to make scrambled eggs (and cleaning up his mess afterward), Claire has a way of making everyone feel looked after. But she’s also known for her stubborn streak, and when she sets her mind on something, it’s nearly impossible to dissuade her.

Dean has had more than a few tense talks with her about her late-night excursions to meet up with friends or her habit of “borrowing” his car keys without asking. She’s got a fire in her that’s impossible to ignore, and even though it sometimes lands her in trouble, Dean knows it’s the same fire that makes her an amazing big sister and a natural leader.

Max on the other hand, is a bundle of energy and is the biggest prankster. At five, he’s always bouncing between one interest and another, and Dean never knows what new hobby Max will pick up next. Just last month, he was obsessed with magic tricks, popping up behind doors with a deck of cards or trying to make Dean’s coffee cup “disappear.” Despite the chaos Max brings, his boundless enthusiasm and mischievous spirit light up the entire house.

His twin sister Alicia is the quieter half of the duo, but her presence is just as strong in her own way. While Max is off concocting his latest prank or hobby, Alicia is usually found with her nose buried in one of the many picture books that adorn her bookshelf or meticulously organizing her rock and mineral collection that somehow keeps growing, which she proudly displays on her bedroom shelves. Alicia has a calm, steady demeanor that often balances out Max's wild energy, though she’s no stranger to joining in on the fun when the mood strikes her.

Then there’s Jack, a quiet but intense kid with an incredible gift for drawing. Dean often finds him tucked away in the room he shares with the twins, sketching with laser focus. His side of the room is a mini-gallery at this point, walls covered in everything from lifelike portraits to wild, imaginative creatures. Jack doesn’t usually say much, but when he does, he always sounds older than his eleven years. 

And finally, there’s Ben, the metalhead with a not-so-hidden soft side. Ben can be stubborn, but he's got a big heart, especially when it comes to his younger siblings. Even though he’d rather listen to heavy guitar riffs than chat about feelings, Dean has seen him quietly comforting Jack after a tough day at school or letting Max trail behind him, even if it means putting up with the boy’s endless questions, and gossiping with Alicia on the back porch when they finish their homework. 

He reminds Dean of a younger version of himself actually, with that same guarded exterior and the need to act tough even when he’s feeling anything but. Dean recognizes the way Ben holds people at arm’s length sometimes, as if to test if they’re really going to stay. 

Dean understands that fully. He knows what it’s like to be shipped from foster home to foster home, hoping to find your forever place and bracing for the inevitable moment when it all falls apart. Dean remembers those days vividly; the way hope feels like a fragile thing, too easily shattered, and how it’s easier to build walls than risk getting hurt again. 

Until he was placed with Bobby and Ellen Singer, who became the family he never thought he’d have. They weren’t perfect, but they were constant, and that was what mattered most. Bobby’s gruff exterior hid a heart as big as any father’s, and Ellen’s fierce kindness could hold together even the most fractured soul. They taught him that home wasn’t a place but a feeling, one that is stitched together with loyalty, laughter, and the acceptance of every imperfect part of who you were. 

As long as you feel love, you feel like you are home.

Dean carried that lesson with him. He has been fostering for the last ten years, but the five kids in his house now are his. Once he had these children in his care, there was no way that he would have been able to let them go back into the system. After an uphill battle (turns out that Texas doesn’t like single gay men adopting children, who knew?) Dean managed to get a judge to sign off on the adoption.

There was no moment more overwhelming than when the gavel struck, sealing the promise he had made in his heart long before the paperwork even began. The journey was fraught with setbacks, scrutiny, and doubt, but that single sound of the gavel dropping marked the start of something indelible: a family that was wholly and completely his.

All Dean wants now, is someone to share that with. But living where he does, it's hard to find someone that understands the complexity of who he is; a father, a protector, and a man who has fought battles in his life that no one should ever have to face. 

But there’s another side, a softer, more vulnerable part of him that craves trust and love.

It’s a side he rarely reveals, kept safely behind the walls built by years of survival and responsibility. He wants a love that feels as steady and affirming as the home he’s built for his kids, one where he can lay down the burdens he carries, if only for a while, and be wholly seen.

Until then, he pours everything into the life he’s created; the kids who rely on him, and the promise he made when he got those pieces of papers in his hands. For now, that has to be enough, but Dean still hopes, deep down inside, that somewhere out there, someone might see all the different parts of him and accept him, as imperfect as he is.

❇️

Since Castiel Milton got honorably discharged from the army, he’s moved back to Kansas and taken a job at his brother’s bar, hoping to find some sense of normalcy after the years of chaos of combat. 

He has woken up many times since his return, reaching for a gun that is no longer stashed under his pillow, only to find the cold, empty space beside him. It was a jarring reminder that the war was over, that he was no longer a soldier living in the shadows of conflict, but living in his brother’s spare room and working at the bar that he owns. 

Castiel knows he is still adjusting to civilian life, but even out of the army, it is still ingrained into him to get up at 0500, put in an hour of exercise, then hit the showers before making his bed with the tight corners that had become second nature to him. 

After his morning routine, he would head downstairs, the faint scent of coffee brewing in the air guiding him to his brother’s kitchen. His brother, Gabriel, is usually there, brewing a fresh pot and prepping for the day ahead. They then share a quick breakfast, their conversations easy but often tinged with an underlying tension that Castiel knows is there, one that Gabriel dutifully ignores, before they each head their separate ways.

Each day is the same monotonous routine, but Castiel clings to it, unsure whether it is holding him steady or trapping him in place.

He wipes his hands on the dish towel hanging from his hip, before pushing the tray of glasses into the dishwasher. He then grabs a rag and starts wiping down the bar, grimacing at how sticky it had become during the night. He misses the moment that Gabriel steps behind the bar, a bottle of whiskey in hand, and pours himself a shot. “You look lost in thought. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking,” Castiel replies and Gabriel looks at him over the rim of his glass.  

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately. You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I’m sure,” he insists, the lie tasting sour on his tongue. Gabriel takes a drink before looking at Castiel.

“When was the last time you… you know? Got off?” Gabriel asks and Castiel shoots him a look. Gabriel smirks and shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t act dumb, little brother. You know, had sex?”

“I refuse to talk about my sex life with you, Gabriel.” Castiel crosses his arms as Gabriel rolls his eyes and sets the glass down with a deliberate clink.

“Look, bro, you need to shake that stick loose from your regimented ass.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, but the hint of a smile betrays him. “I’m perfectly fine with my regimented ass, thank you very much,” he shoots back,

Gabriel leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Cas. You’re so deep in your routines that I’m surprised you don’t march in formation down the street.”

Castiel’s jaw clenches, his knuckles whitening as he tightens his hold on the rag. “Don’t presume to know what’s inside me, Gabriel,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual steel.

“Oh, I’m not presuming, Cas,” Gabriel states as he refills his glass with whiskey before lifting it to his mouth, swallowing the liquid in one easy mouthful then looking at Castiel. “I know that you army douches are sticklers for that sort of shit, but you’re a civvie now. You can’t keep living like you’re still serving.”

Castiel flattens his palms on the bar and pauses for a moment, eyes flickering to the amber liquid in Gabriel's glass before tracing the smooth wood grain beneath his hands. The air hums with the quiet whirring from the dishwasher, a steady, grounding noise in the otherwise silent bar. 

Gabriel walks around the bar, rinsing it before adding it to the next rack of dishes Castiel has prepared. He just knows his brother is about to say something that will possibly not sit well with him.  “Look, Cassie, I know that the transition hasn’t been easy for you, but you have to do something. You can’t just spend all your time here with me, you have to do something else with your time.”

Castiel remains silent as Gabriel stares him down while he is waiting for him to answer. He exhales slowly through his nose, his fingers flexing against the polished wood. He doesn't look at Gabriel, not yet. Instead, his gaze lingers on the glass, focusing on the way the amber liquid clings to the sides before settling at the bottom. 

“I am doing something,” Castiel says finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m here.”

Gabriel lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as he dries his hands on a rag. “Yeah, no kidding. You’re here all the time, Cassie. You’re haunting this place like a particularly mopey ghost.” He nudges Castiel’s arm with his elbow, trying to lighten the mood, but Castiel doesn’t smile.

Silence stretches between them, filled only by the hum of the dishwasher and the clinking of glasses in the drying rack. Castiel shifts his weight, staring down at his hands as if the answers might be written in the fine lines of his palms. He knows Gabriel isn’t wrong. He also knows that he doesn’t have an answer that will satisfy his brother.

“I don’t know what else to do,” he admits, finally meeting Gabriel’s gaze.

Gabriel sighs, setting the rag down with a decisive thump. “Well, admitting it is a start.” He leans on the counter, tilting his head. “How about something simple? A hobby, maybe? You used to like—” He pauses, frowning. “Actually, I have no idea what you used to like. Do you even have hobbies?”

Castiel considers this. He used to have purpose. He used to have a duty. But not now. 

Gabriel must see the answer in his expression because he groans dramatically, rubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. We’re gonna fix this. You, my dear tragic brother, are getting a life.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

Gabriel looks dumbly at him until his face lights up with what would surely be a bad idea. “Look, I know a guy. Foster parent. Single. Gay.”

Castiel blinks, his expression unreadable, though something flickers behind his eyes. “That is… a lot of adjectives.”

Gabriel grins. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d stack the deck in your favor. Dude’s solid. Good guy. Not a serial killer. And let’s be real, you need to talk to someone who isn’t me or an inebriated bar patron.”

“I talk to people,” Castiel argues, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Gabriel levels him with a look. “Cas, the last conversation you had outside of this bar was with a damn pigeon on the fire escape.”

Castiel crosses his arms. “He was injured.”

“My point exactly.” Gabriel claps his hands together. “So, anyway, I know of this guy. Dude’s got his hands full with like a bajillion kids, pretty sure he could use some help around the house….”

Castiel frowns, tilting his head. “You’re suggesting I become a babysitter?”

His brother shrugs. “More like a handyman, or whatever… I know better than to let you babysit.”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “And why is that?”

Gabriel snorts. “Dude, you stare at people like you’re trying to read their souls. You think a five-year-old is gonna handle that well?” He throws up his hands. “I can already hear the crying.”

Castiel huffs, crossing his arms. “I would not make a child cry.”

Gabriel gives him a look. “Cas. You once told a man his ‘existence was an anomaly in the grand scheme of the universe’ because he cut in front of you at the grocery store.”

“He was rude,” Castiel says stiffly.

“My point exactly.” Gabriel grins. “But this is perfect! Dean’s got a house that’s falling apart, a bunch of kids running around, and not enough hands to fix it all. You like fixing things, right?”

Castiel considers this. Fixing things. That, at least, is something he understands.

Gabriel sees the shift and pounces. “Look, just go over there, see what needs doing. Worst case scenario, you hate it and flee back here to haunt my bar forever.”

Castiel sighs, knowing there’s no real way out of this. “Fine.”

Gabriel grins. “Knew you’d see reason.” He claps Castiel on the shoulder and hands him a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it. “Winchester Manor awaits.”

Castiel stares down at the messy writing, something heavy and unfamiliar settling in his chest.

Dean Winchester.

Somehow, it feels like a name that he’s going to know extremely well.

Chapter Text

Trying to get five children ready for school isn’t easy, yet between him, Claire and Ben, they have it down to a clunky but well-oiled machine. Each morning runs nearly like clockwork, with Claire taking care of breakfast, making sure each child has something nutritious, while he double-checks backpacks, ensuring lunches are packed and no one forgets their homework. Ben helps by keeping the younger ones focused, shepherding them to brush their teeth and put on their shoes without too much fuss.

They have a rhythm; Dean starts waking everyone up at 6:30, moving from room to room in a practiced flow. By 6:45, the kids are at the table, still bleary-eyed, but awake enough to eat. Ben, already showered and dressed, manages to wrangle his two youngest siblings into their clothes by 7:00, and by 7:30, they’re all lined up by the door, shoes on with their bags in hand. There's always a final headcount, and inevitably, someone forgets something—a lunchbox, a book bag—but with Dean and his two eldest, they make a quick recovery every time. Finally, by 7:40, they’re out the door, waiting for the bus that goes to the elementary school for Max and Alicia, before Ben and Claire catch a ride with one of Claire’s friends to the high school.

Dean walks back up the driveway and closes the front door, then leans against it. He lets out a deep breath, feeling the quiet settle over the house like a warm blanket. For a moment, he just stands there, leaning against the door, his eyes closed as he savors the silence. The hum of early morning activity has faded, replaced by the soft ticking of the kitchen clock and the faint scent of coffee still lingering in the air.

He walks into the kitchen and starts cleaning up the morning mess. Rinsing the dishes, he fills the dishwasher and wipes down the counters with a practiced hand, moving methodically through the tasks. He straightens out the kitchen table, and moves back to the cupboard to grab the crock pot. Placing it down on the bench, Dean takes a moment to look out the window above the sink, the early morning sun casting long shadows across the backyard. 

It’s become a habit of his—preparing a meal in the morning, when the house is calm, so that by dinnertime, all he has to do is set the table and serve. He dumps the chopped vegetables into the crockpot, the scent of onions and garlic already starting to fill the air. Next, he adds the chicken, seasoning it with a careful hand, and sets the slow cooker to simmer, knowing that in a few hours, the house will smell like dinner, and the kids will be hungry and eager to sit down to a warm meal.

Dean decides then that, since it’s a beautiful day, he would work outside in the garden. He needs to get a vegetable garden ready for the winter, so he heads upstairs to change into some comfortable jeans and a hooded jumper, before pulling on his well worn boots. 

Walking through the laundry, Dean pulls out his worn-out work gloves and heads outside. The crisp air feels refreshing against his face, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the kitchen, and he takes a moment to stretch his back, appreciating the peace of the yard. 

The house isn’t exactly a palace; Dean knows that it could use some work, but between raising five kids and keeping everything running smoothly, home repairs tend to fall to the bottom of the list. He moves toward the vegetable garden, kneeling in the dirt as he starts pulling out the remnants of summer’s harvest. The tomato plants are withered, their vines tangled, and the last of the peppers have gone soft on the stem. With steady hands, he clears the beds, shaking loose the dirt from the roots before tossing the plants onto the compost pile.

Dean makes a note to himself to go to the hardware store to get some new soil and winter vegetables as he washed his hands under the garden tap. He wipes his hands on the back of his jeans before heading towards the house. 

The smell of dinner cooking in the crockpot fills the house and Dean lifts the lid, giving it a quick stir before he takes a deep breath, inhaling the rich scent and the sound of the sauce gently bubbling makes him smile, his stomach already grumbling in anticipation. He pulls a spoon from the drawer and tastes a small bit, nodding in approval. "Perfect," he mutters to himself.

He makes his way around the house, picking up the various toys and random items that the kids have scattered around. Tossing them into the baskets, he makes his way to the laundry, grabbing the empty baskets that have each kid’s name on the front and takes them back to the living room. 

Dean dumps the laundry baskets onto the couch and begins the rhythmic motion of folding and sorting it into the baskets in front of him. He doesn’t mind it, though. It’s kind of peaceful, in its own way. He picks up a shirt with a superhero logo on it and smirks, tossing it into the right pile.

A stray sock lands on the floor, and he reaches down to grab it, wondering how on earth socks always seem to go rogue. As he continues folding, he notices a few toys mixed in with the laundry—legos, a small action figure, a rubber ball. He tosses them into the toy basket with a grunt. "Seriously, you guys are impossible," he mutters under his breath, though it’s more fond than frustrated.

He finishes filling the baskets, stacks them and heads up the stairs, depositing the baskets in the kids room, making their beds and laying out fresh pajamas before heading back downstairs. Dean checks the crock pot again and then his phone rings in his pocket. Pulling it out, he smiles when he sees his brother’s name on the screen.

Swiping his finger across the screen, his brother’s face fills his screen. “Sammy!” He states in lieu of a greeting, and props the phone up against the counter so he can talk hands-free.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam greets, his voice warm but carrying that familiar edge of exhaustion. “How’s it going?”

Dean leans against the kitchen counter, glancing at the slow cooker as the scent of stew fills the air. “Oh, you know. Livin’ the dream. Up to my ears in laundry, dinner, wrangling rogue socks… So y’know, the usual.”

Sam huffs a quiet laugh. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Yeah, well, not everyone can be out saving the world, college boy.” Dean smirks, but there’s no real bite to it. Just the easy teasing they’ve always shared.

Sam shifts on the screen, the background behind him unfamiliar. A library, maybe? Coffee shop? Dean can’t tell. “I just wanted to check in,” Sam says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s been a while.”

Dean exhales, glancing toward the staircase. The house is quiet for now, but he knows it won’t last. “Yeah. It has.” He clears his throat, shifting topics. “You eating okay? Sleeping?”

Sam gives him a look, one eyebrow raised. “Are you?”

Dean snorts. “Touché.”

“Hey, uh—did you think any more about what we talked about?” Sam asks. 

Dean pauses, frowning. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Sammy. We talk about a lot of things. Like how you’re a nerd, for example.”

Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t take the bait. “I mean getting some help around the house. You’ve got your hands full, Dean. You don’t have to do it all alone.”

Dean huffs, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, Sam, I’ve got it under control.”

“Do you?” Sam challenges, his voice gentle but firm. “I know you, Dean. You’ll run yourself into the ground before you admit you need help. Dude, the last phone call we had, one of the banisters on the front porch broke off…”

Dean opens his mouth to argue but something outside catches his eye. He turns toward the window and feels his stomach drop a little when he sees the yellow school bus pulling up to the curb. Already? He barely had time to get through half the things he planned for the day, and now the kids were home?

He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I appreciate your concern, Sammy, but I’ve got it. The kids, the house, everything—I got it.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced. “Just… think about it, okay? A babysitter, a housekeeper or gardener, hell, even a handyman or something—just someone, okay?”

Dean watches as the bus doors swing open and little feet hit the pavement, voices already carrying through the air. He presses his lips together, not quite ready to agree, but also not outright dismissing it.

“Yeah. Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Sam nods, obviously satisfied for now. “Go get your kids.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head as he ends the call. He barely has time to shove his phone back in his pocket before the front door bursts open, and the house is instantly filled with chaos. The twins throw their bags down in the entryway before running to Dean and wrapping their arms around his legs. Chuckling, Dean pats them gently on the head before he notices Jack walking slowly up the front stairs, a solemn look on his face. 

“Hey buddy, how was school? Dean asks as Jack slides his bag off and hangs it on the hook. 

“Fine,” he murmurs and Dean looks down at Alicia and Max. 

“Go ahead and eat, guys. I need to talk to your brother for a minute.”

The little ones run off and Dean exhales sharply before steering Jack into the living room and gesturing to the couch. “Alright, spill it,” Dean says, sitting beside him. “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

Jack hesitates, then looks up at Dean with those big, innocent eyes. “Why don’t I have a mommy?”

Dean feels his chest tighten. He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You did, buddy. Her name was Kelly. And she loved you a lot.” He paused, searching for the right words. “She’s just… she’s in Heaven now.”

Jack nods slowly, like he was trying to piece it all together. “Did she want to leave me?”

Dean swallows hard. “No, kid. She did everything she could to make sure you were safe. She wanted you to have a good life.”

Jack is quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands. “Some kids at school… they said I’m weird ‘cause I don’t have a mom. They laughed at me.”

Dean sighs, giving him a gentle nudge. “Some families don't have mommies or daddies, Jack. Family don't end in blood, but it doesn't start there either. Family cares about you. Family is there for the good, bad, all of it. They got your back, even when it hurts. That's family. That’s me, Claire, Ben, Max, and Alicia, buddy. We got you. ”

Jack looks up at him, his lip wobbling slightly. “You promise?”

Dean squeezes his shoulder before pulling him into a hug and resting his cheek on the top of Jack’s head. “I promise.”

Jack clings to Dean for a moment, his small hands gripping the fabric of Dean’s flannel. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds on tells Dean everything he needs to know. The kid has been carrying this for a while, and it’s been eating at him.

He lets him stay there as long as he needs, resting a steady hand on Jack’s back. When Jack finally pulls away, he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, sniffling quietly.

Dean ruffles his hair. “You good?”

Jack nods, but there was still hesitation in his expression. “What if they don’t stop?” he asked softly.

Dean leans back against the couch, exhaling through his nose. “Lemme tell you something about bullies. They’re usually just miserable little punks who think making other people feel bad is the only way to feel better about themselves.”

Jack frowns. “So… they’re hurting too?”

Dean huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You got a big heart, kid, but that doesn’t mean you gotta let ‘em walk all over you.” He glanced at Jack seriously. “You tell a teacher if they’re messing with you. And if they don’t listen? You tell me. Or Ben. Or Claire. We’ll figure it out.”

Jack’s lips pressed together like he was thinking it over. Then, after a pause, he whispered, “I wish I could talk to her.”

Dean’s chest ached at that. “I know, buddy,” he murmured. “But you can. She might not be here, but she’s listenin’. Always.”

Jack looked up at him, and for the first time that night, there was a little bit of peace in his expression. “Okay.”

Dean gave him a final pat on the shoulder before standing up. “Alright, come on. Before your siblings eat all the good snacks.”

❇️

Once all the children are in bed, Dean showers and throws on a pair of boxers before settling into bed. He exhales slowly as he sinks into the mattress, his body aching from the nonstop pace of the day. He should be out cold, but instead, his mind keeps turning over Sam’s words.

You don’t have to do it all alone.

Dean scoffs quietly to himself. He’s not drowning. He’s got the inside of the house under control—laundry, dishes, cooking, keeping the kids alive and in one piece. It’s a damn miracle sometimes, but he makes it work. The problem is everything else.

The gutters are full and in serious need of repair, the lawn needs mowing, and the damn porch banister is still broken—he keeps meaning to fix it, but when? Between the school runs, meal prep, and breaking up sibling squabbles, there’s never a spare second for Dean to be able to do anything. And that’s not even with touching the bigger projects. The fence needs repairing before it gets worse. The car could use an oil change, and a good detailing and the main shed is a disaster zone.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. It’s not that he can’t do it all. It’s just… when? He keeps thinking he’ll get around to it, but the list keeps growing, and by the time the kids are in bed, he barely has enough energy left to drag himself to the shower, let alone start fixing crap outside.

Would it really be so bad to have someone help out? Not inside—he’s got that handled. But maybe someone to tackle the yard work, or fix the things he never gets to.

He lets out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling. It feels weird to even consider it, like admitting he can’t keep up. But at the same time… maybe Sam has a point.

Dean rolls onto his side, shutting his eyes. He’ll think about it tomorrow. Right now, all he can do is rest, because morning will come fast, and that to-do list of his isn’t getting any shorter.

Chapter Text

Castiel doesn’t sleep well. 

The nightmares are vivid; the smell of the gunpowder, the shouting, the sounds of men screaming, echoing through his mind as if he were still there. Castiel bolts upright, breathing heavily, his chest tight as the remnants of the dreams cling to him like cobwebs. He runs a shaky hand over his face, the rough scrape of his palm grounding him for a moment.

He closes his eyes, willing himself to breathe slowly, but the memories won't relent. It’s always the same: the chaos of battle, the sight of fallen comrades, the blinding flashes that left him disoriented. Even here, far from that place, it all comes back with painful clarity.

The room is dark and silent, an empty contrast to the scenes he had just left in his dreams. Castiel’s gaze drifts to the window, where a thin sliver of moonlight casts pale shadows across the floor from where it peeks through the curtain. He can still smell the blood, still hear the voices.

But here he is— alive, safe . He repeats the words in his head like a prayer. The war is over, but the ghosts linger, refusing to let him find peace.

Knowing that sleep wasn’t going to happen, he slides out of bed and changes into his running gear. Leaving his sneakers off, he makes his way down the stairs, and quietly opens the front door, careful not to disturb the silence of the early morning. The world outside is still cloaked in darkness, only a faint hint of dawn on the horizon. The air’s crisp, tinged with a slight chill that makes his skin prickle as he steps onto the porch.

He slips on his sneakers and begins to stretch, feeling the tension in his muscles ease slightly. Running is the only thing that seems to clear his mind on nights like this. The steady rhythm of his feet pounding against the pavement, the sound of his own breath filling his ears—it’s a way to silence everything else, if only for a little while.

He starts at a slow pace, his body waking up with each step. As he reaches the end of his street and turns onto the familiar path through the park, he begins to pick up speed. The shadows and trees blurs as he runs, but he welcomes the solitude. The only sounds around him now are the slapping of his feet on the pavement, the steady rhythm of his breath, and the faint rustling of leaves in the early morning breeze. The world’s hushed, still half-asleep, and for a moment, it feels like he was the only person alive. The usual heaviness in his chest begins to lighten, loosened by the sheer simplicity of movement and the quiet, empty space around him.

Castiel focuses on the rhythm, counting his steps in time with his breaths, letting his mind slip into the familiar cadence. It’s meditative, almost like a trance. The park is a place he’d come to know extremely well, he can round each bend and climb each incline virtually with his eyes closed. 

As he reaches the far edge of the park, he breaks into a sprint, pushing his body harder, testing his limits. His muscles burn, his lungs are tight, and his heart pounds in his chest, but he welcomes the ache. The ache is grounding, a reminder that this pain is within his control. This pain is real, something he can choose, something he could endure on his own terms. Unlike the chaos that plagues his nights, this ache is simple, almost comforting—a quiet proof of his resilience. 

Here, he isn’t helpless. Here, he isn’t trapped in memories he can’t change. Here, he can just be.

The sun is now poking its head over the horizon and Castiel turns back the way he came, beginning the slow jog back home. As he moves, Castiel notices the smallest detail he’s missed in the dark—the dewdrops on blades of grass, the faint chirping of birds announcing the new day, the golden light filtering through the leaves, and the sounds of the world waking up. 

By the time he reaches his street, Castiel is soaked in sweat as he climbs the steps to Gabriel’s house and before his hand even touches the door, it swings open. Gabriel stands there, mug in hand, eyebrows raised in slight amusement as he takes in Castiel’s sweat-soaked, disheveled state.

"Morning, Casikins," Gabriel says with a smirk, stepping aside to let him in. "Rough night?"

Castiel manages a tired smile, brushing past his brother and breathing in the familiar scent of fresh coffee. "Something like that," he replies, his voice low but steady. “Coffee?”

“Yours is on the bench,” Gabriel replies as he steps outside, leaving Castiel to find his way to the kitchen. Castiel spots his mug on the counter, steaming and ready, just the way Gabriel always prepares it for him on mornings like these. Reaching up, Castiel grabs the honey from the cupboard and drizzles a bit into his coffee.

After a moment, he steps outside to join Gabriel, mug in hand. Gabriel is leaning on the porch railing, cigarette hanging from one hand while his coffee is resting on the rail, a thin trail of smoke curling up from the cigarette as it smolders between Gabriel's fingers. Castiel takes a place beside him, breathing in the crisp morning air mixed with the faint scent of tobacco and coffee. He’s never been a fan of Gabriel’s smoking, but somehow, in moments like these, it just fits—a part of Gabriel as familiar as the honey in his coffee.

They stand together in silence, watching the morning light spill across the yard, the colors shifting from deep gold to a soft, warm glow. The quiet stretches on, comfortable and unhurried, as if both of them are savoring this rare moment of stillness.

Gabriel takes a long drag, then blows the smoke out slowly, watching it dissipate into the morning air. "So," he says finally, his voice low and rough, softened by the early hour. "Nightmare?"

Castiel nods, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Yeah. But it’s better now," he replies, lifting his coffee in a slight toast. “Thanks for... this.”

Gabriel shrugs, as if it’s nothing, but the hint of a soft smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t mention it. Figured you were due home soon, anyway.”

They stand there quietly, the sound of the morning surrounding them, punctuated by the occasional that comes from Gabriel smoking his cigarette and the soft clink of Castiel’s mug as he sets it down on the railing. Stubbing his finished cigarette in the ashtray, Gabriel steps back and stretches. “I’m going to go start breakfast. Pancakes or waffles?” 

Castiel considers the question for a moment, before answering. “Waffles,” he replies. “You make those better than pancakes, anyway.”

Gabriel snorts, an exaggerated look of mock offense crossing his face. “Excuse you. My pancakes are legendary. ” But his smirk betrays him, and he doesn’t argue further. “Waffles it is, then. You better not skip the syrup this time, though. That’s a crime against breakfast.”

“I’ll consider it,” Castiel replies dryly, taking another sip of his coffee as Gabriel shakes his head and heads toward the door.

“Consider nothing, you heathen,” Gabriel calls over his shoulder as he steps inside, the screen door creaking and slamming shut behind him. Setting his mug down, he leans on the railing for a moment longer, closing his eyes and letting the calm of the morning soak in before following Gabriel inside.

The smell of coffee mingles with the faint aroma of the batter heating on the griddle as Castiel steps into the kitchen. He watches as Gabriel moves about with practiced ease, humming a tune he doesn’t recognize, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the heaviness in Castiel’s chest isn’t so crushing. It’s still there, but the edges feel softer, slowly fading into the background, replaced by the warmth of the present moment. The rhythmic clatter of Gabriel’s movements feel grounding, like a melody of ordinary life that he didn’t realize he needed.

Gabriel glances over his shoulder, catching Castiel watching him. “You planning to help, or just gonna stand there like a creep?”

A faint smile tugs at Castiel’s lips. “You seem to have it under control.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes dramatically but doesn’t argue, turning back to flip a perfectly golden waffle onto a waiting plate. “Damn right I do. You’d just slow me down anyway.”

“Orange juice or coffee with waffles?” Gabriel asks, holding up a carton in one hand and a mug in the other.

“Coffee,” Castiel replies. “Always coffee.”

Gabriel nods approvingly, setting the juice down and handing over a second steaming mug before plating the waffles with a flourish. He sets the plate in front of Castiel with an exaggerated bow. “Breakfast is served, your moody highness.”

“Thanks, Gabe,” Castiel says, his voice quiet but sincere. He picks up his fork and knife, cutting into the waffle. The first bite is warm, sweet, and comforting in a way he hadn’t expected.

For a while, they eat in companionable silence, the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty. Gabriel occasionally mutters something about his technique or the lack of maple syrup, but Castiel doesn’t mind. He lets everything settle into his soul, the ordinary peace of it filling the cracks the night had left behind.

“You gonna head over to the place I told ya about today?” Gabriel asks as he picks up the now-empty breakfast dishes. 

“I can’t just arrive at a stranger’s doorstep and ask them if they need help, Gabriel,” Castiel says as he lifts his coffee cup.    

Closing the dishwasher, Gabriel turns and looks at him. ‘It’s called cold calling, little brother. You show up, you charm them with your grumpy but secretly soft demeanor, and bam—gainful employment or at least some sense of purpose that doesn’t involve me and my bar.”

Castiel exhales, setting his coffee down. “That’s not how it works.”

Gabriel leans against the counter on his elbows, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Sure it is, bucko. People love a guy who looks like he wandered straight out of a Victorian novel, all broody as shit and looks like you. You’ll be fine.”

Castiel shakes his head, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. He knows Gabriel means well. He always does, in his own frustrating way. And maybe—just maybe—he has a point.

Still, the idea of arriving at places unannounced, of selling himself to someone who has no reason to trust him, feels virtually impossible. Castiel has spent so long adrift since he’s returned, trying and failing to find something solid to hold onto, and now the thought of actively reaching for it feels… foreign. What if he fails? Worse, what if they say yes, and he realizes he isn’t enough?

He turns the coffee cup in his hands, watching the steam curl into the air. “I don’t know if I can.” The words are quiet, but they hang heavy between them.

Gabriel doesn’t tease this time. He just sighs, grabbing his own mug and sliding into the chair across from him. “You just have to try, Cassie.”

Castiel meets his brother’s gaze. For all his bluster, Gabriel has always been able to see through him. It’s both a comfort and a curse.

“Besides,” Gabriel adds, nudging Castiel’s foot under the table, “if you don’t go, I’ll just have to start leaving classified ads under your pillow. ‘Mysterious man seeks life purpose. Must love waffles and coffee.’”

Castiel huffs out something that could almost be a laugh. Almost.

Maybe Gabriel is right. Maybe it’s time to try.

❇️

“DAAAAAAAD!”

Dean bolts up from his bed and sprints downstairs, nearly wiping out as he skids to a stop in the kitchen—only to crash straight into Claire, who’s absolutely soaked , water pooling around her feet from where it dripped off her clothes.

“What the fuck?” Dean exclaims, stepping back and eyeing the mess. “Claire, what… Why are you—?” He trails off, following her glare toward the sink.

The faucet is still running, except instead of water flowing from the tap like a normal, non-demonic household fixture, it’s spraying from every possible opening—out the top, the sides, even the damn handle. The kitchen is quickly turning into a flood zone.

Dean heads over to the sink, trying to survey the damage without getting sprayed with water when Claire throws her arms up, flinging water everywhere. 

“I just wanted a damn coffee! I turned on the tap, and then—” she gestures at the disaster, “—Niagara-freaking-Falls happened!”

Dean groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “Of course it did.”

Claire scowls at him. “This is your fault.”

“My fault? How is this —” Dean cuts himself off when a sudden spurt of water hits him square in the chest. He exhales sharply, closes his eyes for a second, then grumbles, “I hate this house.”

“Are you going to do something or just stand there?” Claire snaps, wringing out her sleeves with a dramatic huff.

Dean glares at her before stomping toward the sink, dodging another rogue spray of water. “Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on,” he mutters. He reaches for the faucet handle, but the moment he touches it, another burst of water shoots straight up, smacking him in the face.

Claire claps a hand over her mouth, but her barely-contained snicker still slips through.

Dean wipes his face with an exhausted sigh. “You think this is funny?”

Claire shrugs. “A little.”

Dean grits his teeth, twisting the faucet handle with more force. The spray sputters, hisses, and then— bam —the entire thing pops off, sending a jet of water shooting into the ceiling.

Claire yelps and jumps back. “Oh, awesome. Now we have indoor rain.”

Dean just stands there, absolutely drenched, shoulders slumped. “I really hate this house.” 

Making his way through the kitchen and out the back door, Dean basically bolts down the side of the house to the water meter, muttering a string of curses under his breath. His socks are soaked, his shirt is clinging to him, and the last thing he wanted to do this morning was play plumber.

Reaching the water meter, Dean drops to his knees in the mud, yanks open the cover, and starts twisting the shut-off valve. It’s stuck. Because of course it fucking is.

“Come on, you piece of—” He grits his teeth, using both hands now, putting all his weight into it. The valve finally gives , but not before his hand slips, and he smacks his knuckles against the metal.

“Son of a—”

“Are you dead yet?” Claire calls from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, still dripping.

Dean glares at her, shaking out his stinging hand. “Just give me a damn second.” He gives the valve one last turn, and finally, the water stops.

Claire pokes her head inside the kitchen. “Hey, congrats. No more indoor rain.”

Dean drags a hand down his face, smearing mud across his cheek. “Great. Now, let’s see how bad the damage is.”

Claire raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean besides the flooded floor, the busted faucet, and the fact that neither of us have had coffee yet?”

Dean scowls at her, and she just grins, completely unbothered. 

"Look on the bright side," Claire says, wringing out the hem of her shirt. "At least we know the water pressure’s good."

Dean huffs, running a hand through his soaked hair. "Oh yeah, fantastic. Maybe next time, the house can just electrocute me instead—really complete the experience."

Claire snickers. "Don’t jinx it, old man. This place seems like the type to take suggestions."

Dean groans and stomps back toward the kitchen, peeling off his wet flannel as he surveys the absolute disaster that used to be his floor. Water is everywhere . The ceiling is still dripping. The broken faucet sits uselessly in the sink like a crime scene prop.

"Alright," he says, rolling his shoulders like he's preparing for battle. "Let’s clean most of this water up, wake the others, then head into town to get some supplies.”

“And coffee?” Claire asks, hopefully.

Dean sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yes, and coffee."

Claire grins. "Cool. Then I guess this morning isn’t a total disaster."

Dean glances at the puddles, the dripping ceiling, and the busted faucet, then shoots her a look.

Claire shrugs. "Okay, mostly a disaster."

Dean just mutters under his breath as he grabs a mop. "I really hate this house."

Chapter Text

After dragging the other kids out of bed and changing into clothes that aren’t soaked or muddy, Dean piles everyone into the truck and heads into town, still grumbling under his breath about stupid faucets and cursed plumbing.

“This is exciting,” Jack says brightly. “An adventure!” 

Dean snorts as he wrangles Alicia and Max into the cart. “Yeah, real thrilling. Nothing like fixing a busted sink to start your day off right. Jack, hold your sister’s hand… Where’s Ben?” 

Claire, already half-draped over the side of the cart, jerks her thumb toward the entrance. “He already went inside. Said something about checking out the power tools.”

Dean groans. “Of course he did.”

He steers the cart through the automatic doors, scanning the aisles until he spots Ben a few rows down, running his hands over a drill set like it’s the Holy Grail.

“Ben!” Dean calls.

Ben jumps, shoving his hands into his pockets like he’s been caught doing something illegal. “What?”

Dean gives him a look. “Don’t what me, kid. Get over here.”

Ben trudges over, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “I was just looking , Dad,” he mutters.

Dean doesn’t even bother responding, just jerks his head toward the cart. Ben sighs and falls in line with the rest of the group as they weave through the aisles.

Jack, still holding Claire’s hand like he’s on a mission, grins at the shelves full of tools. “There’s so much cool stuff here!”

Claire snorts. “Don’t encourage them. Last thing we need is Dad deciding to build a treehouse or something.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad idea.” Instead of waiting for Claire’s undoubtedly smart ass retort, he steers the cart toward the plumbing section and starts grabbing what they need; replacement faucet, plumber’s tape, wrench, a new mop (because Claire wouldn’t shut up about it), and a few extra things that might come in handy.

Max reaches out from the cart and grabs a pack of zip ties again. “Can we get these?”

Dean plucks them from his hands and puts them back without looking. “No.”

Max frowns. “But why?”

Claire leans on the cart, smirking. “Because he knows you will immediately try to tie Ben to a chair.”

Max grins like that was exactly the plan.

Ben eyes them suspiciously. “I don’t like that you assumed it would be me .”

Dean shakes his head, already steering them toward checkout. “Because it would be you.”

They check out, load the truck, and head to the diner, squeezing into a too-small booth. The waitress comes over and takes their order; two coffees, three hot chocolates, pancakes with both fruit preserve and syrup with whipped cream on the side , a stack of bacon, and an absurd amount of toast.

Dean leans back against the booth with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, while we wait, let’s go over the plan.”

Claire raises an eyebrow. “The plan?”

Dean gestures vaguely. “You know, fixing the sink so my house doesn’t turn into a damn water park again.”

Ben smirks. “Step one: Don’t let Claire touch anything.”

Claire glares at him. “Step two: Make Ben do all the work.”

Dean sighs. “Step three: Shut up and listen before I make you both dig a well in the backyard.”

Jack perks up. “That sounds fun.”

Claire and Ben share a look. “Of course you think that,” Claire mutters.

Before Dean can redirect the conversation back to not manual labor, the waitress returns with their drinks. Claire immediately grabs her coffee like it’s a lifeline, taking a long sip.

“Okay,” she says, setting it down. “Now we can talk about boring home repairs.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for the permission.”

Alicia, who has been very focused on stirring whipped cream into her hot chocolate, looks up. “So, who’s actually fixing the sink?”

Dean exhales heavily. “Me.”

Ben snorts. “This is gonna go great .”

Dean points at him. “You’re holding the flashlight.”

Ben groans. “That’s, like, the worst job.”

“Exactly.”

Their food arrives before Ben can argue, and for a few minutes, the table falls into the comfortable silence of people who are too hungry to bicker. Eventually, Jack wipes his mouth and beams.

“This has been a really great morning,” he says.

Dean shakes his head with a chuckle. “You say that now. Wait until we actually have to fix the sink.”

❇️

Castiel notices the piece of paper on the kitchen bench when he comes back in from watering the flowers in the back garden. 

546 Sycamore Avenue.

Just give it a go.

Castiel frowns at the note, turning it over in his fingers as if expecting more explanation to appear. He sighs, setting the paper down, and glances toward the back door, toward the small garden he’s been tending. It’s peaceful here, predictable. But something about the note tugs at him. Just give it a go.

After a moment, he grabs his coat and heads out.

The air is crisp as Castiel steps onto the sidewalk, the quiet hum of the town settling around him. His shoes scuff lightly against the pavement as he walks, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. The streets are calm this time of morning—an occasional car rolling past, a distant murmur of conversation drifting from a café, the rhythmic squeak of a bicycle as a paperboy makes his rounds.

He doesn’t rush.

Gabriel has always been unpredictable, his antics toeing the line between frustrating and strangely well-intentioned. Castiel isn’t sure which category this falls into yet, but something about the note lingers in his mind, like a thread waiting to be pulled.

As he walks, he watches the town wake up around him. A woman sweeps her porch, pausing to wave at a neighbor walking her dog. The scent of fresh bread drifts from a bakery as a man carries in a crate of flour. Two children race each other down the sidewalk, backpacks bouncing against their shoulders, their laughter ringing out into the morning air.

When he finally turns onto Sycamore Avenue, the houses shift into something quieter, homier. The yards are full of signs of life—gardens in various states of care, bicycles tipped over in driveways, wind chimes swaying in the breeze. It’s the kind of neighborhood that feels lived in , steady in a way he hasn’t experienced in a long time.

Then he sees it. 

546 Sycamore Avenue.

It’s an older house, worn and in need of some repair. A truck sits in the driveway, the porch railing slightly crooked with another one broken off completely. But before he can think too much about it, his attention is drawn to the front yard.

Three children are playing, their laughter carrying across the lawn. Two of them chase each other through the grass, their feet kicking up small patches of dirt as they dodge and weave around an old oak tree. A third child sits on the porch steps, carefully stacking twigs into a small structure, brows furrowed in concentration.

They don’t seem to notice him at first, too caught up in their game.

Castiel hesitates at the edge of the sidewalk. He doesn’t know these children. He doesn’t even know why he’s here.

But then, the boy on the steps looks up. Blonde hair, bright eyes, an open sort of curiosity in his expression. He tilts his head, studying Castiel for a moment before calling out.

“Hi!”

Castiel blinks, caught off guard. “Hello.”

“Who are you?” The little boy asks Castiel as he walks over towards him.

“Should you be talking to strangers?” Castiel enquires and the boy shrugs. 

“Probably not. But you don’t look like a bad guy.”

Castiel isn’t sure how to respond to that. He’s not sure what he looks like to a child—tired, maybe. Out of place. Definitely not someone who belongs here. 

The other two children pause their game, turning to look at him now. One of them, a girl with dark curls, whispers something to the boy beside her before they both come closer.

“You looking for someone, Mister?” the girl asks, her tone a little more cautious than the boy’s.

Castiel hesitates. He isn’t sure.

“I... don’t know,” he admits, and that seems to be the wrong answer because the girl frowns, and the boy tilts his head again like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“Are you lost?” the boy on the steps asks.

“I don’t believe so?” Castiel replies, and then the door swings open and Castiel’s breath catches in his throat. 

A man leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can I help you?” he asks, his voice low and rough around the edges, like whiskey and honey all at once.

And for a moment, Castiel forgets how to speak.

The man is like an Adonis, all broad shoulders and easy confidence, framed by the dim glow of the porch light. He steps forward and his green eyes flick over Castiel, sharp and assessing, but there’s something warm there too.

He’s handsome in a way that feels effortless, like he doesn’t even realize it. Freckles dust his sun-kissed skin, and his hair is tousled, as if he’s just run a hand through it. There’s a smudge of grease on his forearm, his jeans and faded t-shirt covered in wet patches like he’s just washed up but didn’t bother changing. There’s an ease to him, a casual confidence that suggests he belongs here, like the house and the land and even the fading evening light are all just extensions of him.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he studies Castiel, like he’s trying to place him. There’s a wariness there, a quiet protectiveness that makes sense given the children in the yard. But beneath it, there’s something else—curiosity threaded through his guarded expression.

"Well?" he prompts, crossing his arms, the muscles in his forearms flexing slightly. "You gonna tell me what you’re doing here, or are we just gonna stare at each other all night?"

Castiel exhales, only now realizing he’s been holding his breath.

“Uh, m-my brother gave me your address,” Castiel stammers out, shifting awkwardly under the man’s scrutinizing gaze. “He, uh—he said I should try… cold calling?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Cold calling,” he repeats, like he’s testing the words out for himself.

“Yes,” Castiel says quickly, nodding. “It’s—um. A business thing. Apparently. You see, I’m supposed to—well, my brother said it would be a good idea to—” He stops, wincing at himself. “I got distracted.”

That earns him a smirk, slow and amused. “Yeah, I got that.”

Castiel clears his throat, forcing himself to regroup. “What I meant to say is that I—”

But the man holds up a hand, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Alright, alright. Do yourself a favor—take a breath and start from the beginning.”

Castiel stares at him for a beat, then exhales again, feeling a little ridiculous.

The man’s smirk softens into something friendlier, something patient. “There you go,” he says. “Now—who are you, and what the hell are you doing on my porch?”

Castiel nods, determined to get the words out in the right order this time. “My name is Castiel,” he says, trying to sound more composed. “My brother, Gabriel, gave me your address. He—he said I should practice cold calling to improve my business skills. I sell—” Castiel hesitates, then sighs, shoulders slumping. “I don’t actually sell anything.”

The man huffs out a short laugh, shaking his head. “So you’re telling me you showed up at my house, uninvited, to… not sell me something?”

“…Yes.”

For a second, there’s silence. Then the man laughs, full and warm, like this might be the best thing to happen to him all day. Castiel isn’t sure if he should feel embarrassed or relieved.

“Damn,” the man says, still grinning. “That’s got to be the worst sales pitch I’ve ever heard.”

Castiel scowls, though there’s no real heat behind it. “It’s not a sales pitch.”

“Well, that’s good, ‘cause if it was, you’d be out of a job.” The man shifts his weight, still leaning against the doorframe, looking Castiel over like he’s some kind of puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. “So, what? You just knock on random doors and hope for the best?”

“No. I—” Castiel exhales again. “I was trying to follow my brother’s advice, but I don’t think this is the right approach.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” The man smirks but then tilts his head, something thoughtful flickering across his expression. “You always do what your brother tells you?”

Castiel frowns at that. “Not always.”

The man hums like he’s not entirely convinced, but he pushes off the doorframe, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Well, Castiel, since you went through all this trouble to knock on my door and not sell me anything, you want a beer?”

Castiel blinks. “What?”

“A beer.” The man gestures inside. “You look like you need one after all that stammering.”

“I wasn’t—” Castiel stops himself. He was absolutely stammering. He clears his throat. “That… would be acceptable.”

The man grins like he’s just won something, then steps back, holding the door open. “Alright then, come on in.”

Chapter Text

Dean regrets asking Castiel into the house for a beer; the kitchen is still a mess from the broken pipe, the freshly washed clothes sit in baskets in the living room, and he’s pretty sure there’s a half-eaten sandwich still on the coffee table from lunch. Not exactly the vibe he means to give off when inviting a stranger inside—especially not one who looks like he might alphabetize his spice rack for fun.

Dean glances at Castiel out of the corner of his eye as he leads him through the front door. The guy doesn’t seem bothered, though. He steps inside quietly, taking in the clutter with a kind of polite curiosity, as if he’s observing a museum exhibit on “Bachelor Life: Mild Chaos Edition.”

“Sorry about the mess,” Dean mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kitchen’s halfway through being un-flooded, laundry’s uh… doing its best to fold itself but that ain’t happening, and I didn’t exactly expect any company today.”

Castiel turns toward him with a slight tilt of his head. “I don’t mind,” he says simply.

That catches Dean off guard a little. No judgment, no passive-aggressive smile, no polite-but-forced offer to help clean up. Just… sincerity.

Dean clears his throat and nods toward the kitchen. “Beer’s in the fridge—if you don’t mind stepping over a wrench or two.”

Castiel follows him in, carefully stepping around a bucket and a towel laid out to catch the last of the drips. “You’ve been repairing the pipe yourself?” he asks, eyeing the open cabinet under the sink and the exposed bit of copper piping.

“Trying to,” Dean mutters, grabbing two beers from the fridge and cracking one open before handing the other to Castiel. “It’s uh, a work in progress.”

Castiel takes the bottle, inspecting it like he’s not entirely sure what to do with it. Then he takes a sip, gives a small nod, and looks back at Dean. “It’s admirable. Most people would’ve called a plumber by now.”

Dean snorts. “Most people don’t have five kids and a house that likes draining their bank account.”

That seems to catch Castiel’s attention. His eyes flick toward the front windows, where the sound of children’s laughter still drifts in from outside. “They’re yours?”

Dean glances toward the yard and smiles without thinking. “Yeah. Mine. All chaos, all the time.”

Castiel nods slowly, like he’s adding another piece to a puzzle he hasn’t realized he’s putting together. “You’re a single father?”

Dean looks back at him, one eyebrow raising. “You always ask this many questions when someone offers you a beer?”

Castiel doesn’t miss a beat. “Only when the beer comes with plumbing tools and children.”

Dean laughs as he leans against the sink, the edge digging lightly into his lower back. “Yeah, well… that’s the deluxe package. Comes with noise, mess, and the occasional glitter explosion.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Glitter?”

“Don’t ask,” Dean says, shaking his head. “There was a birthday party. Balloons were involved. I’m still finding the stuff in the vents.”

Castiel smiles, just a faint pull at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there. “Sounds like you have your hands full.”

“Always,” Dean replies, taking a long sip of his beer. “But I wouldn’t trade it. Chaos and all.”

There’s a pause, a comfortable one, while the sound of laughter outside shifts into a round of shouts, probably a disagreement over whose turn it is with the soccer ball.

Castiel glances toward the window again. “They seem happy.”

“They are,” Dean says. “Even when they’re arguing, they’re still good kids.”

Castiel nods slowly. “You’re doing well, then.”

Dean glances over at him, a little surprised by how genuine that sounds. “Thanks,” he says, quieter now. “I try.”

Dean notices Castiel looking around the house. It’s a subtle movement, but he catches it—how Castiel’s eyes drift over the half-finished drywall patch in the hallway, the shoes piled near the door, the crayon drawing taped to the fridge that proudly reads “DAD IS THE BOSS (SOMETIMES).”

“You casing the place or just silently judging my disaster zone?” Dean asks, a half-smile tugging at his mouth as he takes a swig of beer.

Castiel doesn’t answer right away. He takes a slow sip of his own, gaze settling on the exposed pipe under the sink and the uneven shelves in the corner of the kitchen. “There’s a lot of work to be done,” he says eventually, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink. “But it feels like a home.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, caught a little off guard by the honesty in that. “You say that like you know something about fixer-uppers.”

Castiel glances at him, deadpan. “I do. Carpentry, minor plumbing, some electrical work. I’ve picked up a few things.”

Dean blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

Castiel nods. “There’s a certain satisfaction in building something with your hands. Repairing what’s broken.”

Dean huffs a laugh, leaning back against the sink again. “And here I thought I was impressing you with my very professional bucket-and-towel water collection system.”

“It’s… functional,” Castiel says carefully, though the tiniest hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “But if you want help fixing that pipe, I could take a look.”

Dean looks at him for a second, like he’s trying to decide if he’s serious. “You offering to help me with plumbing? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Castiel says. “Just the beer.”

Dean grins. “Man, if that’s all it takes, I’ve got a whole six-pack with your name on it.”

Castiel arches an eyebrow. “Then consider me hired.”

Dean chuckles and pushes off the sink. “Alright, Mr. Handy. Pipe’s down here.” He crouches and opens the cabinet, revealing the tangle of copper, a questionable patch job with plumber’s tape, and a wrench that’s clearly been dropped more than once.

Castiel kneels beside him without hesitation, peering into the cabinet like he’s already assessing the damage. “You weren’t joking. This is a work in progress.”

“I prefer the term ‘creative problem-solving,’” Dean says, handing over the wrench.

Castiel takes it, rolls it in his palm like he’s weighing it, then immediately starts loosening a fitting Dean had been too afraid to touch.

“You actually know what you’re doing,” Dean mutters, watching as Castiel works methodically, sleeves pushed up and movements precise.

Castiel glances at him. “Did you think I was bluffing?”

“A little,” Dean admits. “Most people who look like they iron their socks aren’t exactly DIY types.”

“I don’t iron my socks,” Castiel says, expression completely serious. “Only my shirts.”

Dean snorts. “That’s somehow not better.”

They work in tandem for a few minutes, the quiet punctuated by the sound of shifting tools and the occasional drip from the pipe. It’s… comfortable. Which surprises Dean, if he’s being honest. He’s not used to having another adult in the house—especially not one who fits in this easily.

“Here,” Castiel says, holding out a part. “This piece is cracked. You’ll need a replacement.”

Dean squints at it. “Great. Add it to the list.”

“I can pick one up tomorrow,” Castiel offers without hesitation.

Dean blinks. “You mean, like… come back?”

Castiel meets his eyes. “If you want help.”

Dean hesitates, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

There’s a beat of silence, something soft settling between them.

Then, right on cue, the front door bursts open and a whirlwind of noise crashes through the house.

“Dad! Max tied Jack to the tree again!” a girl shouts as she comes running inside, sneakers thudding against the hardwood.

Dean sighs deeply and doesn’t even look up from the pipe. “Did he at least use the good rope this time?”

“The neon one,” she replies, like that somehow makes it better.

Dean points toward the back door without missing a beat. “Tell Max I said to untie his brother before I come out there and tie him to the tree instead.”

The girl huffs but turns around and runs back out, yelling something halfway between a threat and a tattletale warning.

Castiel watches her go, eyebrows raised. “Is that… normal?”

“Completely,” Dean says, sitting back on his heels. “At this point, I just measure a good day by whether or not anyone ends up in the ER.”

Castiel nods slowly. “And yet, this still feels more peaceful than most places I’ve been.”

Dean gives him a look. “You seriously think this is peaceful?”

Dean stands up, stretching his back, still holding the beer in one hand. As he turns toward the door to check on the kids, he notices the look on Castiel’s face. It's subtle, but the shift is there—like something dark flickers behind his eyes, something that doesn’t belong in the otherwise calm, straightforward gaze. For a split second, it's almost haunting—something heavy, something painful, like he’s seeing a memory that’s not his own.

But just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. Castiel blinks, and his expression smooths over and for a second. There’s a stretch of silence between them, heavy and thick with unspoken things. Then the sound of the kids arguing outside cuts through, pulling Dean’s attention away.

“You’re sure about coming back tomorrow, right?” Dean asks, his tone lighter, trying to break the tension.

Castiel gives a small nod, but there’s something guarded in the way his eyes flicker to the door, like he’s still not entirely present. “I’ll be here.”

❇️

After Castiel leaves, Dean stands in the doorway for a moment, watching him walk back down the sidewalk, still a little stunned by the whole thing. The guy showed up out of nowhere, talked about cold calling like it was some sacred rite, barely made it through a sentence without tripping over his own words—and somehow, he made Dean laugh. Like, really laugh. That’s rare these days.

He closes the door slowly, leaning back against it with a low whistle. “Well, that was... weird,” he mutters. Weird, but not in a bad way.

The house is quiet now, aside from the occasional drip from the busted kitchen pipe and the distant sounds of the kids still playing in the yard. Dean takes another sip of his beer, still cold in his hand, and wanders back into the living room, eyeing the overflowing laundry baskets like maybe if he ignores them hard enough, they’ll handle themselves.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the guy with the librarian voice and apocalypse-level awkwardness. The one who asked real questions, not just the surface-level crap most people toss out. The one who somehow made Dean’s cluttered, half-broken life feel… fine. Like it wasn’t something to apologize for.

He drops onto the couch, the half-eaten sandwich still on the coffee table, and rubs a hand over his jaw with a faint, crooked grin.

“Castiel,” he says aloud, just to hear the name again. 

Dean leans back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it might have an answer for why some random dude in a buttoned-up coat and awkward charm just offered to help fix his plumbing.

And why he kind of wants him to.

Not just for the help—though, yeah, having someone around who apparently knows what copper piping should look like wouldn’t hurt—but there was something else. A calm, quiet kind of energy Castiel brought with him. Weirdly grounding. Like he didn’t mind the mess, or the chaos, or the three kids running around screaming about lava monsters.

Dean finishes his beer and sets the bottle on the coffee table next to the forgotten sandwich.

Maybe it’s just been a long time since someone offered help without expecting something in return. No strings. No favors owed. Just a quiet, sincere offer. 

He glances toward the front door again, then down at his phone on the arm of the couch. He doesn’t have Castiel’s number. Doesn’t even know his last name.

But if the guy really does show up tomorrow… Dean figures he might clear off a chair at the table. Maybe even toss the sandwich, and another beer…

He scoffs at himself, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth that won’t quite go away. It’s stupid, probably. Letting a stranger into his house, into his mess. But there’s something about Castiel that makes it feel less risky than it should. Like the guy’s already seen the worst of it—leaky pipes, laundry piles, feral kids—and still thought it was worth coming back.

Dean runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and finally pushes himself off the couch.

Fine. He’ll toss the sandwich. Maybe scrub the kitchen counter. Not for Castiel, he tells himself. Just… because.

But when he catches himself opening the fridge to check if he’s got more beer, he doesn’t even bother lying about it.

Yeah. He hopes the guy shows up.

Chapter Text

The next day, Dean’s barely finished brewing a pot of coffee when he hears the knock at the door. For a second, he freezes, unsure if it’s actually happening—maybe he imagined it, or maybe he’s just hoping for company to break up the monotony of the day.

But sure enough, when he opens the door, there’s Castiel standing on the other side, looking just as awkward and earnest as he did yesterday, except this time, he’s holding a toolbox.

"Hey," Castiel says, with that quiet confidence that’s so out of place for someone who stumbled over his words the first time they met. "You, uh… still need help with the pipe?"

What Dean doesn’t mention is the fact that he stayed up late the night before cleaning the house from top to bottom, fueled by a weird mix of nerves, curiosity, and—yeah—maybe a little need to impress. He’d folded every piece of laundry, picked up the kids’ toys, even vacuumed the rug in the living room like it made a damn difference.

Not because he had to. But because Castiel said he’d come back. And for some reason, that mattered to Dean.

As Castiel steps inside, his eyes sweep over the room, and he pauses, just briefly, taking in the clear floor, the mostly-organized chaos, the subtle signs of effort. “You have children,” Castiel states, setting his toolbox down on the coffee table. “If your house doesn’t look lived in, you’re parenting wrong.” 

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Glad to know I’ve been doing at least one thing right.”

He watches as Castiel shrugs off his coat—carefully, like the thing’s made of glass—and drapes it over the back of a chair before kneeling next to the toolbox. Dean watches him for another beat, then pushes off the wall and walks toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s fresh. You want some before you go full Home Depot on me?”

Castiel doesn’t look up. “Yes, please.”

Dean makes his way to the kitchen and pulls an extra cup from the cupboard above his head. He hears the sounds of soft footsteps upstairs—boards creaking, a door clicking shut—and he huffs quietly to himself.

Claire. Has to be. Because he knows that Ben wouldn’t be up this early if the house was on fire.

Dean pours the coffee, the familiar scent filling the space, and glances toward the ceiling like he can see right through it. Claire must’ve woken up when she heard voices. Probably pretending she’s not eavesdropping from the hallway right now.

He smirks and grabs both mugs, heading back into the living room.

“Fair warning,” he says, handing a cup to Castiel, “we’ve got a teenager on the premises. She’s quiet, but lethal. If you hear footsteps behind you, don’t panic—just roll with it.”

Castiel takes the mug with both hands, nodding solemnly. “I’ll stay alert.”

Dean chuckles. “Good man.” He jerks his thumb back toward the kitchen. “I better get started on their breakfast before the kitchen becomes a no-go zone.”

He heads back through the archway, already rummaging through cabinets for cereal and clean bowls. From the corner of his eye, he sees Castiel crouch again by the sink, setting his coffee carefully beside the toolbox like it’s part of the plan.

Dean cracks a couple of eggs into a pan, glancing toward the hallway. Claire still hasn’t made her grand appearance yet, but he knows it’s coming. The moment food hits the pan, she’ll materialize like a ninja with bedhead.

He flips the stove on and calls over his shoulder, “You got any food allergies I should know about? 'Cause around here, if you don’t speak up, you end up with mystery toast and a side of judgment.”

“I’m not allergic to anything,” Castiel replies, voice muffled slightly from under the sink. “Though I prefer not to eat grapefruit. It’s… aggressive.”

Dean snorts. “Aggressive grapefruit. Got it. You’re safe here, man—we’re a bacon and sarcasm household.”

“Good. I’m more comfortable with those.”

Dean just grins to himself and starts frying, and true to his prediction, the sound and smell of sizzling bacon works like a summoning spell.

Claire appears in the doorway a moment later, hoodie pulled over her head, sleeves covering her hands, and a look on her face that says she’s trying real hard not to look like she cares about anything.

“Mornin’,” she mutters, eyes flicking toward Dean, then landing on Castiel—still half under the sink with his sleeves rolled up and a wrench in hand.

She blinks. “Uh… new guy?”

Dean flips a strip of bacon and gestures with the spatula. “This is Castiel. He came back to fix the pipe. Because he’s either very kind or very confused.”

Castiel straightens up slightly, peering over the edge of the counter with a faint, polite nod. “Hello.”

Claire narrows her eyes, clearly sizing him up like she does with anyone new. “You a plumber?”

“No,” Castiel says calmly, “but I’m good with my hands.”

Dean chokes on a laugh and turns away, pretending to be deeply focused on scrambling the eggs. Claire raises an eyebrow at Castiel, unimpressed but intrigued.

“Well,” she says, heading for the fridge and grabbing the milk, “good luck with the sink. It’s cursed.”

“I suspected as much,” Castiel replies.

Dean glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. “Told you. Quiet but lethal.”

Claire just smirks, like she’s won the first round of whatever this is. “Any coffee left, old man?” she asks, already heading toward the counter like she knows the answer.

Dean doesn’t even look up from the eggs. “There’s always coffee, smartass. Whether you deserve it is a different story.”

Claire pours herself a cup anyway, adding enough sugar to make Castiel pause in his work and glance back at her with a faintly horrified expression.

“That’s… a lot of sugar,” he says.

She shrugs, taking a sip, and turns to sit back down at the table. She tucks one leg under herself, eyes flicking toward Castiel as he works beneath the sink, but she doesn’t say a word to him. Just watches for a beat, like she’s sizing up a new piece on the board, then turns her attention squarely back to Dean.

“You really let a total stranger back in the house?” she asks, not bothering to lower her voice. “Kinda bold move for someone who double-checks if the oven’s off six times before we leave.”

Dean snorts, flipping another pancake onto the growing stack. “He’s not a total stranger. He was here yesterday. And he brought his own tools. That’s practically a background check.”

Claire raises a brow, unimpressed. “So if some guy shows up with a wrench and a coffee addiction, you just let him in?”

“Worked out so far,” Dean says with a shrug, setting down the spatula. “Besides, I needed the help. Unless you wanna learn how to fix a busted pipe?”

She scrunches her nose. “Nope. I don’t do anything that involves touching the underside of a sink. Or… plumbing sounds.”

“Didn’t think so.” Dean smirks, pouring syrup over her plate. “Then hush and eat.”

Claire takes a bite without argument, the comfortable silence settling in around them, punctuated only by the occasional clang of tools from the kitchen. She doesn’t look Castiel’s way again—not directly. But Dean catches the way her eyes flick back every now and then, just to check. Not curious anymore. Just… keeping tabs. The way she always does when something unfamiliar enters their world.

Dean doesn’t say anything. He just keeps cooking.

Soon, he hears the telltale creak of the stairs—heavy, uneven footsteps—and sure enough, a moment later Jack shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with one fist and dragging his favorite stuffed raccoon by the tail in the other.

He’s still in his dinosaur pajamas—the blue ones with the faded stegosaurus on the front—and Dean knows damn well he hasn’t thrown them in the wash yet.

“Morning, bud,” Dean says, not even trying to hide the smile that tugs at his mouth.

Jack blinks up at him, then points vaguely at the counter. “Is it pancake day?”

Claire answers before Dean can. “It is now. You woke up at the right time, miracle child.”

Jack climbs up into the chair next to hers and immediately slumps forward like his bones are still deciding if they want to be awake or not.

Dean sets a plate in front of him, cutting the pancakes into smaller pieces before handing over the syrup. “There you go, sleepyhead.”

Jack grins and starts pouring syrup like he’s making a waterfall. Claire grabs the bottle halfway through. “That’s enough to put a horse in a coma, Jack.”

“Your children like sugar,” Castiel mentions as he rises from the floor, wiping his hands on a rag.

Claire shoots him a look, one eyebrow arched in a way that makes it clear she’s about to say something sarcastic. Dean, however, beats her to it, knowing exactly what’s coming.

“Alright, kid, before you start,” he interjects, tossing a glance her way. “How about you go wake up the others before you unleash your caffeine-fueled wrath on the entire kitchen?”

Claire gives him an exaggerated roll of the eyes but gets up anyway, pushing her chair back with a squeak. “Fine. I’ll go make sure Ben hasn’t turned into a pancake himself. But if I’m making all the noise, you owe me.”

Dean smirks. “Deal. Just don’t get too carried away. He’s a bear when you wake him up.”

As Claire heads toward the stairs, Dean grabs the skillet and plates up a serving of eggs, sliding the plate in front of Castiel with a half smile. “Figured you might want something more than caffeine to get you through the day.”

Castiel glances at the eggs and then up at Dean, nodding with a small smile. “Thank you. This is appreciated.”

Dean shrugs, making himself busy with the dishes. “No problem. Can’t let you work for nothin’”

Dean watches as Castiel finishes the plate of eggs, his movements deliberate, efficient. He doesn't linger over the food, doesn't make a show of savoring it—just eats, quickly and quietly, as if he's used to moving on to the next thing without delay.

Dean's eyes flicker over the way Castiel holds his fork, the almost military precision with which he eats, and it stands out in stark contrast to how the kids usually eat—messily, with too much talking between bites, asking for seconds before the first round is even finished.

The speed catches Dean off guard. He’s used to the chaotic, sometimes awkward rhythm of family meals, where someone is always talking over someone else, or asking for ketchup, or trying to steal the last pancake. But Castiel? It’s as though he’s just checking off a task.

Castiel finishes the last bite and sets the empty plate down on the counter with quiet precision. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t make a comment or lean back in his chair to stretch. He simply stands, brushes his hands together as if to dust them off, and heads straight back to the sink.

Dean watches as Castiel resumes his work, shifting seamlessly back into whatever task he had been focused on before. It’s almost like the meal didn’t even happen—like it was just a brief interruption in the flow of his day.

The difference is noticeable, and Dean finds himself studying it for a second longer than he probably should. He’s used to more of a break between tasks, some sign of taking a moment to breathe, but with Castiel, it’s like time just keeps moving, like he’s always in motion.

Shaking his head, Dean turns back to the stove and starts cooking another stack of pancakes. The quiet hum of the kitchen fills the air, but that’s soon interrupted by the unmistakable sound of yelling coming from upstairs.

Dean doesn’t even need to look up. He knows exactly what’s going on. Claire must have gone up to wake Ben, and now it’s probably full-on chaos in the upstairs hall.

"Claire’s gonna be the death of him," he mutters to himself, flipping a pancake with a practiced motion.

The yelling intensifies, followed by the unmistakable sound of feet stomping down the hallway, and Dean can’t help but chuckle under his breath. Sure enough, a few seconds later, Ben comes thundering down the stairs in his usual half-conscious, grumpy state, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Morning, Ben,” Dean calls over his shoulder, flipping another pancake. “Sleep well?”

Ben just grunts in response, glaring at his sister, who’s now standing at the foot of the stairs, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Dean rolls his eyes and serves up a plate for Ben, knowing full well he’s going to get an earful in about ten seconds. The sound of Claire’s triumphant grin echoes from behind him, but he doesn’t even have to turn around to know what it looks like.

Max and Alicia practically skip into the kitchen, their energy contagious, before they freeze in the doorway when they spot Castiel’s legs poking out from under the sink. They both glance at each other, then back at the strange man working quietly under the counter.

Alicia, ever the observant one, subtly moves behind her brother, peeking around him as if trying to figure out who this new presence in their kitchen is. Max, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward with his usual boldness, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Who’s the guy?” Max asks, his voice a mix of intrigue and innocence as he stares at Castiel’s legs.

Alicia nudges him, her tone much quieter, as if trying to avoid being too obvious. “Max, don’t stare.”

But it’s too late. Max is already leaning in closer, crouching just slightly like he’s about to get down on the floor and conduct a full investigation. He squints toward the open cabinet beneath the sink, clearly more interested in the situation than he probably should be at this hour.

Alicia reaches out and grabs his arm, trying to pull him back with a sharp whisper of his name, but Max just shrugs her off like an annoying fly.

“Relax,” he mutters. “I’m just looking.”

Dean glances over from the stove, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t say anything right away—he’s kind of curious to see how this plays out. Castiel, seemingly unbothered, continues working, though there’s the slightest pause in his movement, like he’s aware of the small audience now observing him.

Max leans in even more, lowering his head to the side like he might spot something critical from a new angle. “Is he fixing the leak?” he asks aloud, mostly to himself.

Dean chuckles as Castiel jumps a little from under the sink, the unexpected presence of a pint-sized audience clearly catching him off guard by the closeness of the voice. He notices the quick glance Castiel sends toward Max—more startled than annoyed, but definitely surprised.

Dean’s about to call Max out for creeping up on the poor guy like some kind of kitchen goblin, but before he can say a word, Castiel shifts slightly and speaks, voice calm but clipped with focus.

“Not so much a leak,” he says, his head still half under the cabinet, “but a complete split. You can look under here if you like?”

Max lights up immediately, his earlier caution completely forgotten. He drops to his knees without hesitation, practically nose-to-pipe as he peers into the space beside Castiel. “Whoa,” he says, eyes wide. “That’s busted.”

“Yes, indeed,” Castiel replies, his voice calm and precise. “So now, I am working on taking this piece here out, then I am going to replace it with the parts that I bought.”

He gestures toward the section of pipe with his wrench, careful not to bump Max in the process. Max nods along like he’s receiving sacred knowledge, his face scrunched up in concentration.

Dean leans on the counter, arms crossed, watching the unlikely little scene unfold. Castiel explaining plumbing to a five-year-old like he’s giving a lecture at MIT wasn’t on the bingo card this morning, but here they are.

“Y’know,” Dean calls over, “you keep talking like that, he’s gonna think fixing stuff is fun.”

Castiel doesn’t look up, but there’s the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “It can be satisfying,” he says. “Especially when things are broken and you make them work again.”

Max glances back at Dean, eyes still wide. “Can I help?”

“That’s up to Cas,” Dean says, setting a fresh plate of pancakes on the table and sliding a glass of juice over beside it. “But breakfast first, yeah? Even plumbers need fuel.”

Max hesitates, clearly torn between food and the thrilling allure of pipe repair, but his stomach growls loud enough to make the decision for him. He scrambles to his feet and bolts to the table, grabbing his fork like he’s about to win a race.

Castiel, still under the sink, watches him go with a small, amused smile. “When you’ve finished eating,” he says, voice calm but genuine, “I’ll show you how to install the new section.”

Max stops mid-chew, eyes lighting up again as he nods enthusiastically. He’s suddenly laser-focused on finishing his breakfast, shoveling food into his mouth like it’s a timed competition.

Dean chuckles under his breath, glancing over at Castiel. “You just made his whole week, man.”

Castiel, still focused on the pipe, replies evenly, “If children are curious, it’s only right to show them something useful.”

Dean watches him for a beat, something about the calm in Castiel’s tone sticking with him. No big speech, no fuss—just a quiet certainty. Like it’s not even a question worth asking.

He turns back to the stove, flipping the last pancake onto a plate, as the kitchen hums with soft movement: forks clinking, water running, the low buzz of a house and for once, there’s no chaos, no yelling—just a strange, easy kind of peace.

Once breakfast is finished, the children start peeling off in different directions like it’s a well-rehearsed routine. Claire heads back upstairs without a word, coffee in hand and earbuds already back in place. Ben disappears into the living room with a book tucked under his arm, probably claiming the couch before anyone else can. Jack trails after him, still in his dino pajamas, clutching a half-eaten pancake like a treasure.

Max rushes back upstairs, yelling at Castiel to wait for him over his shoulder like Castiel might vanish if he doesn’t move fast enough. Castiel just nods and stays where he is, patiently setting his tools out in a neat line along the edge of the counter.

Alicia lingers by the kitchen doorway, chewing on her lip for a moment before glancing at Dean.

“What’s up, pumpkin?” he asks, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he leans against the counter.

She shrugs, casual but a little hesitant. “Would he… uh, mind if I watched? Y’know, while he’s fixing the rest of it with Max?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “You wanna watch?”

Alicia rolls her eyes. “Yep, if that’s okay?”

Dean tries to hide his grin. “Pretty sure he wouldn’t mind. You can ask.”

Alicia shifts her weight, then turns to Castiel. “Hey… would it be okay if I watched too?”

Castiel looks at her, then nods once. “Of course. Just mind the tools.”

She nods and slips inside the kitchen, quieter now, settling near the cabinets but keeping a respectful distance. Dean watches the whole exchange, and there’s something in his chest that feels a little warm and a little weird—like maybe this morning's turning out better than he expected.

❇️

Dean comes in from the laundry with a basket full of clean clothes, and he glances toward the sink where Castiel is already wiping his hands on a rag, the new pipe in place and everything looking… surprisingly solid.

“Looks like you survived,” Dean says, nodding toward the sink as he sets the basket down on the counter.

Castiel straightens up, his toolbox already in hand, his tone casual. “Max is a wonderful helper,” he states, almost matter-of-factly. “And Alicia asks very mindful questions.”

Dean snorts, a half-grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, you wouldn’t guess it, but she’s got a knack for that.”

Castiel looks over at him, meeting his eyes for a second before focusing back on the tools. “She seems interested in more than just the project. She listens.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, a little surprised by the observation. “You don’t miss much, huh?”

“It’s hard not to,” Castiel replies simply, his voice even, as he gathers up his tools.

Dean pauses, watching him for a second longer. There’s something in Castiel’s tone that doesn’t quite add up—like he’s seen things, lived through things that make him notice the smallest details. And for a second, Dean wonders what else is lurking behind that calm exterior.

Castiel doesn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he focuses on the toolbox in his hands, his fingers brushing over the tools like he’s thinking about something else entirely. "It was... part of what I did. Back before..." He trails off, the words hanging there, unspoken but heavy.

Dean’s curiosity piques, but he doesn’t push. He knows better than to press someone when they’ve got that far-off look. “Well, you’re good at it,” he says, his voice light, as if trying to anchor the conversation back to something safe. “I’d call you again if something breaks around here.”

Castiel’s lips twitch, just a flicker of a smile. “Thank you. But I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Dean puts the laundry basket down, then gestures to the house. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place tends to break itself in new and creative ways every couple of weeks.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Castiel. “Here, gimme your number, in case I need to call in the backup again.”

Castiel looks at the phone for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if considering the request. “It’ll also get your brother off your back,” Dean mentions, hand still outstretched. Dean smiles as Castiel takes the device with a nod and begins typing in his number, his fingers moving efficiently over the screen.

“Look, I’m gonna make a start on dinner soon,” Dean states, and Castiel looks at him weirdly as he hands the phone back and heads back to the kitchen. He starts pulling ingredients from the fridge, the scent of lingering breakfast still hanging in the air and sets the crock pot up on the bench, before grabbing the insert and putting it next to his chopping board.

“You’re already making dinner?” Castiel asks and Dean glances over, grinning as he grabs a cutting board. 

“Five kids, man. Feeding them is a full-time job. Gotta stay ahead of the hunger panic.”

Castiel shakes his head slightly, still smiling. “Efficient.”

“Survival,” Dean corrects with a chuckle. Then, as he starts chopping, he pauses. “You sticking around? I can make enough for you too.”

“I hadn’t planned to stay that long,” Castiel replies, then adds, “but… I wouldn’t say no.”

Dean smirks. “Didn’t think you would,” he says, scraping the vegetables into the pot. 

He notices the way that Castiel lingers in the doorway, his eyes flicking around the room. “Is there anything else that needs fixing while I’m here?”

Dean closes the fridge with a soft thud. “Dude, you don’t have to keep working. You could just… chill for a bit, y’know?” But Castiel shakes his head gently. 

“I’d rather be useful. I can look around, make a list of things that might need attention.”

Dean watches him for a beat, then nods slowly. “Alright, knock yourself out. Just don’t make me look too bad when you see how long some of it’s been broken.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches with the hint of a smile. “No promises.”

Dean huffs a laugh and turns back to the counter, grabbing a knife and slicing into a bell pepper. “Figures. I let you in for one busted pipe, and now you’re running a full inspection.”

Castiel steps back from the kitchen, already scanning the room with a quiet sort of focus. “Consider it a professional courtesy.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, half to himself, “most professionals don’t work for coffee and a plate of whatever I’m throwing together.

Castiel pauses near the hallway, glancing over his shoulder. “Lucky for you, I’m not a professional.” 

Dean chuckles, the sound warm and a little amused as he waves the knife in Castiel’s direction. “Alright, alright—get on with it, Inspector. Just don’t start writing up a report or anything.” He turns back to the cutting board, still grinning. “God knows this place wouldn’t pass.”

Chapter Text

Dinner winds down slowly, the hum of conversation softening as plates empty and forks clatter against ceramic. Castiel sits at the far end of the table, hands resting in his lap, a folded piece of paper tucked neatly into the pocket of his coat. He’s been aware of it all evening—the weight of it more mental than physical. A modest checklist of creaks and leaks, of hinges that stick and steps that wobble. None of it urgent, but all of it persistent.

He glances across the table where Dean is lazily swirling the last of his beer in the bottle, leaning back in his chair like a man who’s run this routine a thousand times. The kids have mostly scattered, leaving their messes in varying degrees of completion. It feels… settled. In a way that Castiel hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’ve got a list,” he says, quietly.

Dean lifts an eyebrow, smirking. “Of course you do.”

Castiel shifts slightly in his seat, his eyes briefly flickering to the window, where the fading light casts shadows over the backyard. “I noticed a few things outside,” he begins. “The garden beds could use some work—especially around the edges, they need some new wood. And the fence along the back is in need of repairs; there are a few spots where the wood’s starting to warp.” He pauses, then looks back at Dean. “The yard can wait for now. But inside… the damage in the hallway is more pressing.”

He gestures toward the narrow space, where the worn wood floorboards meet the cracked baseboards. “There’s water damage near the floor. It’s been seeping under the trim for a while, and if it’s not fixed soon, it could spread further.”

Dean follows his gaze, his expression softening with a hint of resignation. “Sounds like a lot of fucking work.”

Castiel’s eyes flick to the spot again. “I’ll take care of it. It’s just a matter of replacing the baseboards, cleaning up the wood underneath, and sealing the area.”

Dean exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s not sure whether to be annoyed or grateful. “You make it sound easy.”

Castiel shrugs, just a little. “It’s manageable. Just takes time.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, glancing down the hallway again. “Yeah, well… time’s not exactly something I’ve got a lot of most days.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “So if you’re actually serious about helping, I’m not gonna stop you.”

Castiel stands from his chair and pulls his coat from where it’s draped over the back, sliding it on with practiced ease. “I’ll bring the tools I need,” he adds, his voice calm, steady—like this is just another job, no big deal.

Dean watches him, still leaning on the counter, arms loosely crossed. “Are you always this damn helpful, or is this just a special occasion?”

Castiel glances back over his shoulder, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I like fixing things.”

Dean huffs a short laugh. “Yeah? Well… guess that makes one of us.” Quickly moving around the kitchen, Dean pulls a container from the cupboard and scoops in some of the leftovers before closing the lid and offering it to Castiel. “Here. Take this with you.”

Castiel blinks, caught slightly off guard, but accepts the container without hesitation. “Thank you.”

Dean shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his tone is softer now. “I figure it’s the least I can do for now. But since you’re about to play handyman for a house that never stops falling apart, we just need to sort out some sort of payment for ya, man. ”

Castiel looks down at the container in his hands, then back up at Dean. “It’s appreciated.”

“Don’t go getting all formal on me,” Dean mutters, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re part of the chaos now.”

❇️

When Castiel gets back to Gabriel’s place, it’s still dark. The porch lights off, no glow from the kitchen window, and the usual flicker of the TV behind the blinds is missing.

He lets himself in. The door clicks softly shut behind him, and the familiar stillness of the place greets him like an old habit. Not quiet in a peaceful way—just… empty. The kind of silence that settles in places people pass through but don’t really stay in. He toes off his boots by the door and makes a brief stop in the kitchen to put away what little he’d brought back with him.

Then he heads for the bathroom, the hallway dim and cool under his feet.

The shower is quick, just enough hot water to ease the soreness in his back from a day bent at an awkward angle to fix the pipe under Dean’s sink. He lets the water run over his face a little longer than necessary, not thinking too hard. Just letting it all go quiet for a bit.

When he steps out, he throws on an old shirt and a pair of sweats, padding softly into the bedroom. The sheets are still a little cold when he slides in. He lays flat on his back and stares at the ceiling, body still but mind slowly winding itself up again.

He thinks about the afternoon, particularly about Max and Alicia. They’d hovered nearby like two tiny satellites, five-year-old eyes wide and shining, full of a thousand questions. What’s that tool called? Why does the water go through there? Can I hold the flashlight?

Castiel hadn’t minded. There was something oddly comforting in explaining things. Simple, straightforward. He showed them the basics, let them help where they could, and tried not to smile too much when Alicia announced she was going to be a “pipe doctor” when she grew up.

It had been a good day. Not exciting. Not world-changing. But good.

He thinks about that moment—kneeling under the sink, Max holding the flashlight with serious concentration, Alicia asking if she could turn the water back on—and there it is again. That feeling.

Warm. Steady. Like a weight shifting inside him, just a little. Not exactly joy. Not exactly pride. Something in between.

He isn’t sure what to do with it. It’s not something he was trained to hold.

He shifts onto his side, exhaling slowly. Maybe it was just the simplicity of it all. A problem, a solution, a couple of kids curious about how the world works.

Maybe that’s all it was.

Still, something in his chest tugs. A quiet thread of connection. Of purpose.

He reminds himself to keep it simple. Keep it practical. He was helping out. That’s all.

No need to make it anything more.

But even as he closes his eyes, the feeling lingers—warm, patient, and quietly refusing to leave.

Chapter Text

Castiel wakes up the next morning full of focus. He forgoes his usual morning run, trading the rhythm of pavement and breath for the quiet anticipation that hums beneath his skin. Today is about purpose—about work, about fixing something tangible with his hands. That, at least, he understands.

The sky is just beginning to lighten as he moves through Gabriel’s garage, collecting what he needs. Measuring tape, level, a notebook already half-filled with scribbled observations from the day before. He loads his tools into the back of the truck that Gabriel never uses with practiced efficiency, every movement deliberate.

On the road, the streets are still sleepy, bathed in that soft, early light that makes everything feel a little more possible. As he nears Sycamore Avenue, his stomach gives a low grumble—and that’s when he thinks of the household waiting inside. Five kids. Dean. Likely a kitchen already gearing up for chaos, and Castiel veers off course and pulls into a drive-through.

He orders with precision. Breakfast sandwiches, a stack of pancakes in a box, hash browns, juice boxes, black coffee for himself, and something with too much cream and sugar for Dean—just a hunch, but it feels right.

The paper bags are warm on the seat beside him as he turns back toward the house. He sees that there’s already a light on in the front window, a soft glow cutting through the early morning quiet. Dean, most likely—Castiel gets the sense the man’s been up since before the sun even thought about rising.

He parks at the curb, careful not to slam the door as he steps out. The bags rustle in his hands, the scent of bacon and syrup curling up into the cool air. The neighborhood is still, just the occasional bird and the low hum of a distant engine. Castiel moves up the path toward the front door, boots quiet on the concrete, and knocks—just once, soft but sure.

The door swings open a moment later, and Ben stands there, hair a mess, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He blinks blearily at Castiel, then looks down at the bags in his hands. There’s a brief pause, a flash of recognition—or maybe just appreciation—before Ben wordlessly steps back and opens the door wider.

“Dad,” he calls over his shoulder, his voice low but carrying through the hallway.

Dean pokes his head out of the doorway of the kitchen and gives Castiel a smile. “Morning, Cas,” he states quickly before poking his head back into the kitchen. 

Making his way down the hallway, Castiel follows the faint sounds of rustling plastic and muffled conversation until he steps into the kitchen. The space is bright with morning light and absolute chaos.

Lunchboxes are scattered across the counter—some open, some closed, all surrounded by piles of sandwich bags, fruit, granola bars, and half-cut vegetables. Dean is standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, spreading peanut butter onto slices of bread with impressive speed. Claire is beside him, sealing sandwich bags and tossing them into the appropriate boxes with the efficiency of someone who’s done this routine a hundred times.

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought breakfast for everyone,” Castiel states as he places the bag down in a spare space on the bench. 

Dean’s face lights up, the smile genuine and easy, his hands pausing mid-motion with a smear of peanut butter across his palm. “Dude, you’re a lifesaver.” He wipes his hands on a nearby dish towel before reaching for one of the bags. “You didn’t have to, but I’m not gonna complain.”

Claire looks up from her task, her expression shifting from focused to surprised for a split second before she shrugs. “Breakfast sounds good.” She continues packing the lunches without missing a beat, tossing in a few more snacks. She looks over at Ben. “Make yourself useful and go see if the others are up.” 

Ben groans but doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, yeah.” He grabs his own sandwich bag and stands, giving Castiel a brief look before heading toward the stairs. “Don’t eat all the pancakes,” he calls over his shoulder.

“There’s plenty for everyone,” Castiel replies, and Dean chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he zips up the last of the bags. “Pack these,” he says to Claire as he makes his way to the takeout bags that Castiel brought. 

Claire lets out a mock salute before scooping up the lunch bags and stuffing them into the right backpacks scattered around the hallway. Castiel watches her for a moment, still quietly impressed by how smoothly the chaos operates under Dean’s watch, just like the previous morning.

Dean peeks into one of the takeout bags, pulling out a couple more wrapped sandwiches and passing them out. “See? Cas didn’t skimp. Everybody’s fed, nobody’s cranky—well, mostly nobody.” He smirks as he says it, tossing a pointed look toward the stairs where Ben had disappeared.

Castiel just shakes his head slightly, a soft huff escaping him. “Feeding an army isn’t unfamiliar to me.”

After making their way into the kitchen, Max, Alicia, and Jack all grab their breakfasts, gathering around the table without much fuss. Max tears into his sandwich like he hasn't eaten in days, while Alicia daintily picks at hers, eyeing her brothers with a smirk. Jack, still half-asleep, mumbles a thanks to Castiel around a mouthful of food. Ben grabs his silently, giving a sideways glance at Castiel before taking a bite. 

“Might wanna hurry up,” Dean jokes. “Bus’ll be here any minute, and no, I’m not writing any notes about ‘died from eating too fast.’”

“It’s yummy,” Alicia states around her mouthful and Max nods in agreement, and Dean looks at his watch. 

“Alright terrors, I’ll walk you to the stop.” 

Max and Alicia both groan but don’t argue, stuffing the last bites of their food into their mouths as they scramble to gather their bags. Jack lingers a second longer, carefully folding his wrapper before tossing it in the trash and slipping on his backpack.

Dean ruffles Jack’s hair as he passes, earning a grumbled, half-hearted protest. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s move.”

He throws Castiel a quick, grateful glance on his way out. “Back in a minute. Try not to rebuild the whole house before I get back, Cas.”

Castiel watches as the small horde leaves through the front door, and he waits a beat before he follows, intent on grabbing his toolbox. He then steps out into the soft morning light, the chill of the air brushing against his skin as he crosses the driveway toward the truck. He pulls the tailgate down and grabs his toolbox, but something makes him pause before heading back inside.

From where he stands, he can clearly see Dean a few houses down, walking alongside the kids toward the small bus stop. Jack is holding tightly onto Dean’s hand, and the older kids fan out around them, laughing and nudging each other as they go. Dean glances down at Jack every so often, giving his hand a small squeeze or murmuring something that makes the boy smile.

Castiel leans lightly against the truck for a moment, watching the simple scene unfold — something steady, something normal. His grip tightens slightly on the handle of the toolbox, a faint, contented smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he finally pushes off the truck and heads back toward the house, ready to get to work.

❇️

Dean makes his way back after he waves the bus off. He walks into his house and he shrugs out of his jacket as he steps inside, the house feeling a little too quiet now without the usual morning chaos. He runs a hand through his hair and notices that Castiel is already hard at work, crouched low near the baseboards, tape measure stretched out, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbles something into that beat-up little notebook. There’s already a couple of small piles started: tools lined up neatly, scrap wood pulled aside, a clear plan forming right there on Dean’s worn floor.

Dean leans a shoulder against the wall, watching him for a beat before speaking. “You weren’t kidding when you said you’d get started right away, huh?”

Castiel doesn’t look up right away, finishing a line in his notebook before glancing over at Dean with that calm, steady look of his. “It’s easier to work when there’s no one underfoot.”

Dean huffs a short laugh. “Trust me, give it a few hours. This place’ll be a zoo again.” He pushes off the wall and strolls closer, peeking down at the notes Castiel’s made. “You finding anything worse than what we already knew about?”

Castiel tilts his head slightly, considering. “Nothing catastrophic yet. But there are signs of long-term water settlement in a few places.” He taps the end of the pencil against the page. “I’ll show you once I have the boards up.”

Dean raises a brow, half-grinning. “You’re really takin’ this whole ‘fix the place up’ thing personally, aren’t ya?”

“I said I would help,” Castiel replies simply, as if that explains everything. And maybe, Dean thinks, it kinda does.

He claps his hands together once, rubbing them like he’s psyching himself up. “Alright, then, boss-man, tell me what you need.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “For now? Just space to work.”

Dean steps back with a mock salute. “You got it.” He lingers another second, though, just watching as Castiel crouches down again, completely focused, like this broken little house of his is somehow worth that kind of care. He watches as Castiel runs a hand along the damaged baseboard, tracing the cracks with careful fingers like he’s reading a story written there. His brow furrows in thought, then he measures again, double-checking his numbers before jotting them down. Every movement is deliberate, patient — like fixing this place isn’t just a job to him, but something more personal.

Dean finds himself smiling without really meaning to, something soft settling in his chest. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at this beat-up house — or at him, honestly — like it was something worth putting that kind of effort into.

Clearing his throat and dragging himself out of his thoughts, Dean pushes off the wall. “I’m gonna be in the kitchen if you need me,” he calls casually over his shoulder, heading back down the hall.

Behind him, he hears Castiel’s low reply: “I’ll let you know if I do.”

Dean busies himself with tidying the kitchen, tossing the empty wrappers and juice boxes into the trash and wiping down the counters. The kitchen still smells like syrup and coffee, a cozy sort of leftover warmth that settles into the house. He moves on autopilot, cleaning without really thinking about it, his mind half on the way Castiel was crouched back there, working like it actually mattered.

He pauses for a second, dish towel in hand, glancing toward the hallway. He can hear the faint scrape of tools and the occasional low hum of Castiel talking to himself — nothing full sentences, just little notes under his breath as his pen slides effortlessly across the little notebook page. 

It has been a while since Dean has had another adult in the house besides Sam, and he finds that he doesn’t actually mind the extra presence. It’s not loud, it’s not chaotic — it’s just… steady. Calming, even. Like someone else was shouldering a piece of the weight he didn’t even realize he’d been dragging around.

Dean leans against the counter for a second longer, tapping the dish towel against his leg, before finally pushing off with a small grunt. “Alright, Winchester,” he mutters to himself. “Quit standing around like a weirdo and go be useful.”

He tosses the towel into the laundry pile and heads toward the hallway, figuring if Cas was gonna fix up his house, the least he could do was give the guy a hand.

❇️

Dean stares at the list again, then at the growing pile of supplies in their cart, looking like he’s about two seconds from spiraling. “Dude, are you sure we need all this? Waterproofing? For a hallway ? That sounds like overkill. Like, what the hell are we waterproofing, the air?”

Castiel calmly grabs a few more items off the shelf, dropping them into the cart with a soft clatter. “Water damage has already started, Dean. Better to be cautious now than rip up the floors later.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair, clearly stressing. “Man, this is gonna cost a fortune...”

Castiel pauses, glancing at him with a small, steady smile. “Relax. I know a few tricks. We'll keep it solid without emptying your wallet.” He holds up a can of sealant, the store brand version, a fraction of the price of the flashy name-brand stuff. “Same results. Less marketing.”

Dean lets out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping a little. “Okay... okay, I’m trusting you, man.”

Together, they start swapping out a few things on the list, picking up what they need with Castiel steering them toward the cheaper — but still solid — options. Dean leans on the handle of the cart, shooting Castiel a sideways look. 

“You might actually be magic, you know that?”

Castiel just huffs out a quiet breath that could almost be a laugh. “Not magic. Just experience.”

“Experience in what?” Dean asks as he watches Castiel place a tube of caulking into the cart. 

Castiel’s eyes sort of narrow for a split second, like he’s weighing how much to say. He picks up a bottle of wood cleaner, glancing at Dean before putting it in the cart with a quiet clink. “Experience in knowing how to fix things with minimal material.” 

Dean just exhales through his nose, and follows him. He figures whatever Castiel’s not saying isn’t something that needs to be dragged out under fluorescent lights and the smell of sawdust.

By the time they roll up to the register, the cart’s packed tight and as Castiel unloads their haul onto the counter, Dean watches him with a small, grudging respect. The total’s way less terrifying than Dean had braced for and his wallet doesn't feel like it’s screaming in his pocket, which honestly feels like a damn miracle.

“Alright, Cas,” he mutters, grabbing his card, “show me you can do the same magic at my house.”

Castiel just tilts his head slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling up in something that almost looks like a challenge.

Dean grabs the receipt, stuffing it into his jacket pocket without looking, and they gather up the supplies between them. As they head back out into the parking lot, the late morning sun is creeping higher, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt.

Castiel loads the truck bed with quiet efficiency, every tool and supply fitting like he already planned it out in his head. Dean watches for a second before tossing the last bag into the cab and slamming the door shut.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Let’s go fix some shit.”

Castiel only nods, calm and steady, like he was built for this kind of work — quiet, methodical, purposeful.

As Dean climbs into the driver's seat and fires up the engine, he can’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — this whole mess of a house might finally stand a chance.

He throws the truck into gear, shooting Castiel a quick sideways glance. “Hope you’re ready to get your hands dirty,” he says with a grin.

Castiel just smirks faintly, eyes forward, ready. “Always.”

And with that, they head back toward home.

❇️

The hallway floor doesn’t take as long as Dean anticipated. Castiel is nailing the last of the wood down when Dean glances at his watch and realizes the school bus will be pulling up any minute now.

He brushes the sawdust from his hands onto his jeans and leans against the wall, watching Castiel work with smooth, practiced motions. "Damn, Cas," he mutters, half to himself. "Thought this was gonna take all day."

Castiel doesn't even look up as he taps the last nail in with a steady hand. "Efficiency, Dean," he says calmly, grabbing the caulking tube and placing it in this weird looking device. Dean tilts his head, eyeing the contraption like it might bite him. 

"Uh... you sure you’re not secretly building a damn robot army or something?"

Castiel’s mouth twitches, just the faintest hint of amusement. “It’s a caulking gun, Dean. Very common. Not a weapon.”

Dean crosses his arms and leans against the freshly patched wall. “Yeah, well, around here? Anything’s a weapon if you try hard enough.”

Castiel just hums, loading the tube into the gun with a few quick, practiced moves. He tests the pressure, a little line of sealant squeezing out neatly. “This will keep the water from getting back in. Prevention is easier than another repair.”

“I don’t think my wallet would be able to deal with another repair like that,” Dean mutters, pushing his hands deep into his pockets as he watches Castiel work. “Pretty sure it’d just straight-up combust if it had to.”

Castiel offers a small, understanding smile without looking up, running a careful bead of caulk along the seam where the new baseboard meets the floor. “Then we’ll make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

Dean lets out a low huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You make it sound so damn easy.”

“For me, it is,” Castiel says, tone light but not arrogant — just stating a fact, like fixing broken things was as natural to him as breathing.

Dean watches him for a second longer, something unspoken curling in his chest. Before he can think too hard about it, he hears the distant rumble of the bus turning onto the street.

“Alright, troops are inbound,” Dean says, pushing off the wall. Castiel wipes his hands on a rag, setting the caulking gun down neatly beside him.

“I’m finished here,” he says simply. “I’ll clean up while you get your children.”

Dean catches himself smiling as he heads down the front path, the afternoon sun warming the cracked concrete under his boots. He’s barely halfway to the bus stop when the familiar screech of brakes fills the air, and then the kids come spilling out like a tidal wave — loud, messy, and entirely his.

Ben lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave. Claire’s earbuds are tangled around her fingers as she talks to Alicia, who’s already teasing Max about something. Jack bolts ahead, his backpack bouncing wildly behind him, grinning like he’s won a race only he knew about.

Dean laughs under his breath, feeling something settle easy in his chest. He kneels just in time to catch Jack in a hug, ruffling his hair as the others swarm past in a rush of chatter and complaints about homework.

When he glances back toward the house, Castiel’s still standing on the porch, arms crossed loosely, watching it all with that same unreadable expression.

Dean smiles again without even thinking about it, because Castiel looks good standing there — like he fits, somehow, like he’s always belonged. The worn boards under his boots, the sunlight catching in his hair, the easy way he just exists in Dean’s space without forcing it.

Yeah.

Dean finds he doesn’t mind that much at all. 

Chapter Text

Dean leans against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand, and takes a long sip as he surveys the front yard in the early morning light.

The steps on the porch don’t creak anymore — Castiel had ripped out the bad boards and replaced them with solid, smooth planks that didn’t threaten to snap underfoot. Dean can still smell the faint scent of fresh-cut wood when the breeze kicks up. It’s… nice. Comforting, even.

He glances around, taking stock of everything else. The fence along the back of the yard that had been barely holding on? Castiel fixed that too, replacing the warped boards, straightening the posts. There’s still a little bit of a lean to it, but it’s sturdy now — safe enough that Dean doesn’t have to worry about Jack chasing a ball straight into the neighbor’s yard.

The garden beds have been next. What used to be half-rotted frames full of stubborn weeds are now neat, squared-off patches of fresh soil. Claire's already talked about planting a different assortment of plants when spring comes around, her voice suspiciously excited for someone who usually pretends not to care about the aesthetics of the house.

Dean shakes his head slightly, smiling into his coffee. It’s been a few weeks, but the difference is insane. It's like Castiel hasn’t just been fixing the house — he's been stitching something back together in Dean, too, one board, one screw, one coat of paint at a time.

The sound of footsteps draws his attention, and he doesn’t have to look to know it’s Castiel coming up behind him, probably ready to tackle the next project on that never-ending list.

Dean huffs a breath through his nose, already feeling lighter than he has in months.

"Morning, Cas," he says without turning around, grinning into the rim of his mug.

Castiel is there today to work on the backyard, though Dean isn't exactly sure what’s left to fix. The fence is sturdy now, the garden beds are ready for planting, and even the patch of broken ground where the kids used to run is as level as it'll ever be. It’s almost like he’s run out of things to break.

"Morning, Dean," Castiel replies, his voice steady and calm as usual. He steps up onto the porch, pausing for a moment to glance over the work that’s been done. His gaze flickers over the yard, the repairs done with precise attention, then back to Dean. “I assume you’re not planning on turning this into a garden of some sort yourself.”

Dean snorts, taking another sip of his coffee. “You kidding? My idea of an ideal backyard is a decent grill and a cold beer in hand. If I turn this place into Eden, that’s even better.”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “That seems like a reasonable arrangement.”

Dean smirks, then looks back out at the yard. "But seriously, man, you’ve done a hell of a lot around here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to fix everything ."

Castiel shrugs, his movements fluid as he checks a few of the garden beds. "I’m only trying to make sure it lasts. A few repairs here and there won’t hurt."

Dean watches him for a moment. "It’s more than that, though, isn’t it? You’ve been sticking around fixing all this stuff like it’s… like it matters."

There’s a beat of silence before Castiel turns to face him, his eyes meeting Dean’s with that steady, unreadable gaze of his. "Everything matters, Dean. Whether you see it right away or not."

Dean blinks, the words landing heavier than he expects. He clears his throat and quickly changes the subject. "So, what’s on the agenda today? You planting a forest back here or just fixing that patch by the shed?"

Castiel’s lips twitch, like he’s trying to suppress a smile. "I’ll start with the shed. The roof looks like it might need some attention."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Roof, huh? You’re really not stopping, are you?"

"Not unless you’ve got a better idea," Castiel says, his voice warm but teasing. “Unless, of course, you need something else fixed.”

Dean shakes his head, a laugh escaping him. "Nah, man. You’ve done enough already. I’m just gonna sit back, enjoy my coffee, and let you do your thing."

Castiel nods, then sets to work, pulling a few tools from his bag and moving toward the shed. Dean watches him go, that strange feeling creeping back — a little lighter, a little less burdened by everything. Maybe this place isn’t just becoming a home again. Maybe it’s becoming something more.

Dean takes another sip of his coffee, glancing out at the yard. Maybe it’s time to stop worrying about everything falling apart and just let someone else take care of it for once.

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it’s time.”

❇️

Castiel drives another nail into the roof, each hammer strike clean, deliberate. The repetition should help. Usually it does. But today, it’s not enough to quiet the edge prickling beneath his skin.

The morning sun warms his back, but it doesn’t touch the chill settled deep in his bones. It’s not from the weather. It started before dawn—just after the dream.

His skin itches with the memory of it. Not from dust or sweat, but from how real it had felt. Too vivid. Too sharp around the edges.

He was in uniform again. Somewhere dry and broken, rifle in hand, boots sinking into sand. And Dean—Dean wasn’t supposed to be there. But he was.

Running.

Being hunted.

Castiel remembers the way the insurgents moved, their shadows flickering between buildings like smoke, the way his instincts kicked in, how his body moved before his brain could catch up. But no matter how fast he ran, no matter how hard he shouted—he couldn’t reach Dean in time.

And then—

The crack of a rifle.

The moment the first bullet hit Dean, Castiel woke up.

Snapped upright, breath ragged, hands twisted in the sheets like he was still gripping his weapon.

Now, hours later, the echo of it still clings to him. His grip on the hammer is too tight, the muscles in his forearms locked, every movement just slightly too precise.

He glances down from the shed roof.

Dean’s in the backyard, dragging a rake toward the compost pile. He looks alive. Whole. Oblivious to the way he died in Castiel’s head only hours ago.

He’s fine. He’s here.

But Castiel’s chest doesn’t loosen.

He turns his attention back to the roof, to the nails lined up at his side, to the next swing of the hammer. Anything to stay in the present. Anything to shove the dream back into the dark where it came from.

He works in silence for a while, the hammer falling in steady, muffled thuds against the wood. His focus narrows to the rhythm of it, the sharp smell of shingles baking in the sun, the sting in his shoulders from holding the same position too long. It’s the kind of physical discomfort he prefers—straightforward, measurable, earned.

Unlike the weight he can’t shake.

The dream is still curled around his ribs, tight and stubborn. It had felt so real, down to the burn of adrenaline in his veins, the helpless roar in his throat as Dean fell. There was no symbolism in it. No mystery to puzzle through. Just panic. Just failure.

Just loss. Shattering Castiel into a million little pieces. 

He shakes his head, wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, and forces himself back into motion. It’s all he can do.

Below, Dean stops at the edge of the yard, straightens up, and stretches his back with a quiet groan. His shirt clings to him, smudged with dirt, the sun turning the curve of his shoulders golden.

Alive. Safe.

Castiel drags in a breath and lets it out slowly, like he can breathe out the tension pressing against his chest.

“Need anything up there?” Dean calls, shielding his eyes to look up at him.

Castiel hesitates a half-second too long. “No,” he says, voice steady enough. “Just finishing this section.”

Dean gives him a little nod and turns back toward the garden beds.

Castiel watches him for a moment too long before returning to the nails.

He should tell someone about the dream. Gabriel would make some snarky remark and then secretly worry. His therapist would want to dissect it.

Dean...

No.

Dean doesn’t need that weight. Doesn’t need to know that Castiel’s subconscious has started offering up worst-case scenarios like some twisted nightly ritual. He doesn’t need to know how fucked up Castiel was, how 

This is his to carry.

Just like everything else.

He exhales again, settles back into the motion, lets the hammer keep time while his mind drifts around the edges of things he won’t say aloud.

It’s just a dream.

He knows that.

But some part of him—some old, worn-down soldier part—still wants to stay up here on the roof forever. Watching. Guarding. Making sure Dean stays in sight.

Because if he can see him, maybe he won’t lose him.

Hammering in the last nail, Castiel climbs down the ladder slowly, boots careful on each rung, the muscles in his legs aching from the hours crouched in place. His movements are deliberate, measured—same as always—but there’s something tighter in them today. Something quieter.

Dean’s waiting at the bottom, holding a bottle of water in one hand, wiping his palms on his jeans with the other. He offers the bottle as soon as Castiel steps off the last rung.

“Here,” he says, voice easy.

Castiel nods and takes it with a quiet “Thanks,” but doesn’t meet his eyes.

Dean watches him for a second, then huffs a soft breath through his nose. “You’ve been real quiet today.”

“I’ve been working,” Castiel replies, unscrewing the cap and drinking like that explains everything.

“Sure,” Dean says slowly, hands resting on his hips. “But even when you’re working, you usually have some smart ass comments. Like how my ladder’s uneven. Or how I brought the wrong nails.”

Castiel’s lips twitch, just a little, but it fades too fast. He hands the bottle back.

Dean doesn’t take it. “You okay?” he asks, gentler this time.

“I’m fine,” Castiel says—automatic, practiced, the kind of answer that comes from hearing the question too many times and never really meaning the reply.

Dean studies him. “Uh-huh,” he mutters, clearly not buying it, but letting it slide. “You need a break?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. I’d rather finish. There’s not much left to do.”

Dean doesn’t press, though Castiel catches the way his jaw tightens before he gives a short nod. “Alright.”

Without another word, Castiel turns toward the tools scattered near the base of the ladder. He ignores the look Dean gives him—too careful, too searching—and starts picking them up one by one, placing each into the toolbox with quiet precision.

Dean watches him for a second, then says, casual as anything, “Y’know, now that the shed’s all patched up, you could store those in there if you want.”

Castiel pauses with the hammer still in his hand. He doesn’t look up, but something in his shoulders stills.

It’s not a big thing. Just a simple offer. Just a place to put tools.

Still, the hesitation hangs in the air for a beat too long.

Then finally, he gives a small nod and says, “Alright.”

He changes direction and walks toward the shed, toolbox in hand, the door creaking slightly as he opens it. It’s clean now, dry and solid, the fresh boards still bright against the older ones.

He sets the box down carefully on one of the shelves he’d installed himself, then lingers for a second longer than necessary, eyes scanning the space like he’s still not quite used to it being… functional.

Behind him, Dean says nothing—just goes back to raking, the steady rhythm of the motion as casual as ever, like he hadn’t noticed the pause at all.

But Castiel knows that he had. He knows that Dean always notices the little things. The way his fingers linger on a tool for just a moment too long, the way his voice softens when he asks a question. Dean’s ability to pick up on even the smallest shift, even when he doesn’t say anything, is something Castiel has come to rely on over the past few weeks. Even when Dean pretends he’s not paying attention, he’s always watching. Always listening.

It’s something Castiel has learned to be wary of—because sometimes, even when Dean doesn’t ask, he still expects an answer.

Castiel pushes the door shut with a soft thud and turns back toward the yard. The afternoon sun is lower now, casting long shadows across the grass. He can feel Dean’s presence behind him, the air between them thick with that quiet understanding.

“Anything else you need?” Dean asks, his voice easy but still holding that undercurrent of curiosity.

Castiel shakes his head. “No, I think that’s it for today.”

Dean doesn’t say anything more, just gives him another one of those sharp, unspoken glances. But Castiel’s already walking back toward the house, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders, and he can feel Dean’s eyes still on him.

He wonders, for a moment, how much longer he can keep up this act. How long before Dean sees through the quiet.

But it’s not today. Not yet. And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

The bell over the nursery door jingles as Dean pushes it open, the familiar scent of damp soil and fresh green hitting him right in the chest. It’s warm inside—sunlight streaming through the greenhouse panels, bouncing off rows of leafy ferns and tomato seedlings like the world is trying its hardest to be normal.

Castiel steps in behind him, and Dean doesn’t even need to look—he feels it. That shift. That barely-there change in the air around them.

Something’s off.

Not in a big, flashing-sign kind of way. Just… the way Cas holds himself. Straighter than usual. Jaw a little too tight. Eyes already scanning the place like he’s memorizing exits instead of checking for mint or lavender.

Dean grabs a cart and starts rolling it toward the veggie starters. “Tomatoes or cucumbers?” he asks over his shoulder, casual.

Castiel follows, his footsteps light, even. “Cucumbers,” he says, after a pause. “They grow quickly. The kids might like that.”

Dean hums, tossing a tray onto the cart. “Alright, speed-garden it is.”

They wander the rows in a familiar rhythm. Dean picks things up, sniffs leaves, mutters about weeds he pulled last week that could’ve started their own zip code. Cas makes a face at a spray of half-wilted marigolds. They argue—quietly, politely—about mulch types.

From the outside, they probably look like any two guys on a weekend mission. But Dean’s radar is blaring. Cas is too quiet. Too measured. His mouth twitches like he wants to say something and keeps swallowing it down.

Dean doesn’t push. Not yet. He just adds basil to the cart and lets the silence stretch between them like rope—tight, but not breaking.

They check out, load up the back of Castiel’s truck, and head back to the house. The windows are down, the drive warm and breezy, and for a few minutes, it almost feels like they’re just two guys picking out garden supplies on a Saturday.

But then they pull into the driveway, and Dean sees the kids.

Jack, Max and Alicia are in the front yard, running barefoot in the grass, chasing each other with Nerf swords and shrieking like banshees. One of the neighbor’s five-year-olds is there too—Tommy, or maybe Toby—joining the chaos with a foam hammer twice his size. It’s pure summer energy.

Claire is sitting on the porch, sipping at something in a coffee mug as she watches the kids play and Ben is sitting beside her, his headphones in his ears as normal. 

Dean gets out the driver’s side and goes to the back of the truck and grabs the boxes full of various plants and vegetables that he and Castiel had gotten, and he whistles. 

“Oi, can we get a hand here?” he calls out and Claire lifts her eyes lazily from her mug, raises an eyebrow like she’s weighing the pros and cons of standing up. Jack’s the first to react, flinging his Nerf sword into a bush and sprinting over with a big, toothy grin.

“I’ll help!” he shouts and Dean notices that Ben doesn’t move. Not at first. Just nods along to whatever music he’s got pumping through his earbuds. But when Claire elbows him—light, but with that big sister "don’t make me ask again" kind of force—he sighs, pulls one earbud out, and gets to his feet.

Dean hands off a flat of basil and peppers to Jack, careful to steady it so the kid doesn’t immediately drop it. “Alright, green thumbs—don’t crush ‘em. These babies are gonna be dinner someday.”

Ben groans theatrically. “I thought we were planting stuff to look at, not stuff we’re supposed to eat.”

“Dude, like you eat vegetables anyway,” Claire shoots back, smirking over the rim of her mug. “Pretty sure I’ve seen you trade salad for fries every time we go out.”

Ben shrugs, unbothered. “Fries are basically potatoes, and potatoes are vegetables. Boom. Logic.”

The older kids banter as they make their way down to the backyard, and Dean dusts off his hands and steps up beside Cas, lowering his voice so only he can hear.

“Alright,” he says, calm and even. “Out with it. Before we end up planting tomatoes in the flowerbeds ‘cause your head’s somewhere else.”

Castiel doesn’t answer right away. He crouches instead, adjusting a tray so it’s not tipping over the edge of the porch. The sunlight catches the gray at his temples, the faint line between his brows. That crease that only shows up when he’s thinking too hard.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Dean huffs a quiet breath. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Castiel looks up at that, mouth twitching just a little.

Dean doesn’t push—not really. Just nudges. “You’ve been locked in your own head all day. That’s suspicious as fuck, Cas.”

Castiel glances toward the yard, where the kids are now dragging a hose out of its coil like they’re preparing for a water fight. Claire’s already kneeling on the grass, but already calling out something about “rules” and “boundaries” and “do not spray me”, and then he turns his attention back to Dean. 

“Everything is fine,” he repeats, kind of robotically, and Dean decides that yeah, now is the time to call bullshit.

He crosses his arms, leveling Cas with a look that doesn’t need to be loud to land. “Man, you keep saying that and I’m gonna start thinking you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to.”

Castiel doesn’t flinch, but there’s a shift. His jaw ticks. His hands—so steady with the plants earlier—tighten slightly around the edge of the crate.

Dean softens his stance just a little. “You don’t have to tell me everything, okay? But don’t lie. Not to me.”

For a second, it’s just the sounds of the yard—water hitting pavement, Alicia howling something about sabotage, Ben yelling that someone got his hoodie wet. Summer chaos unfolding like a warm, messy blanket.

“Let’s get this done.” Castiel states, hauling the bag of bark mulch over his shoulder and making his way down to the backyard. 

Dean sighs softly. He gets it, he does. He and Castiel haven’t been friends long enough to have that kind of shorthand where you know exactly when to press and when to back off—but they’ve been close just long enough that Dean can tell when someone’s putting walls up instead of letting anyone help knock them down.

He grabs the second bag and follows Castiel down the slope toward the garden beds. The air smells like hose water and sunscreen and freshly torn grass—every bit the soundtrack of a weekend that’s trying its hardest to be normal.

“Hey,” Dean calls after him, keeping his tone light, “you know this is the part where we’re supposed to rope the kids into helping, right? Free labor and all that.”

Castiel sets the bag down a little too hard beside one of the beds and brushes his hands on his jeans. “Let them play.”

Dean glances back up the hill—Jack is now dual-wielding Nerf swords, Claire’s threatening Ben with a garden hose, and the neighbor kid has somehow turned a watering can into a helmet. He grins. “Fair enough.”

He kneels by the bed and slices the bag open with a pocketknife. The bark mulch spills out in thick clumps, damp and earthy.

Castiel crouches beside him, working in silence. It’s not tense, exactly, but it’s definitely not the usual easy rhythm they’ve started to fall into lately, either. There’s a hitch in it. A beat off.

Just as Dean’s about to stand and brush the dirt off his jeans, a loud bang rings out from the other side of the fence—sharp and metallic, like someone dropped a steel trash can off a ladder. Or maybe tried to shove a refrigerator down a flight of stairs.

Both he and Cas freeze.

“What the hell—” Dean starts, already half-rising.

The kids immediately stop whatever minor war they’ve been waging. Claire jumps up from her spot on the lawn, eyes sharp. Jack looks toward the fence, his sword forgotten at his feet. Even Ben pulls his headphones off, frowning.

But Castiel. 

He’s gone.

❇️

The loud bang splits the air like a shot.

Castiel’s body reacts before his mind does—before he can even register the backyard, the kids, the spring sun still warm on his back.

His brain is already somewhere else.

Sand. Smoke. Screaming. A flash, a crack, the high-pitched whistle of something falling too fast. The bang of impact, the way it knocked the breath from his lungs. The ringing. The blood. The moment you realize it’s not your own.

He’s moving. Automatically. No hesitation. No thought.

He gets to the kids in seconds. Max is ducking, Alicia frozen mid-step, wide-eyed. The neighbor boy is standing there confused, mouth open like he might cry.

Castiel crouches low and gathers them fast, firm. One arm around Max and Alicia, the other on the neighbor kid’s shoulder. “Inside,” he says—no, not inside. That’s not right. He scans the yard.

Exposed. Too open. Nowhere safe.

His eyes land on the shed. Reinforced. Small. Defensible.

He ushers the kids toward it with urgency, not alarm—not yet—but his voice is flat, firm. “Go. Now. In there. Stay low.” He’s not yelling. He’s not panicking.

He’s operating.

They obey. Too stunned to argue. He closes the shed door behind them, quickly scanning for anything he can use—rake, shovel, toolbox, hammer. Not good enough. Not fast enough.

He steps out and makes for the house.

Protect them, Novak. You gotta protect them.

“Cas!”

Dean’s voice cuts through the moment like a hand grabbing his collar.

He turns. Dean’s standing between him and the back steps, arms raised slightly, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal without spooking it.

“Hey, hey, hey,”

Castiel stops, his chest heaving heavily as he—

“Look at me. Cas. ”

Castiel blinks, breath caught halfway in his chest.

Dean takes a slow step forward. “It was a trash can lid. Tommy’s dad dropped it over the fence.”

The words don’t quite register. They hit like static. Far away.

Castiel glances toward the fence. The man’s head is just visible above the boards, waving awkwardly, apologetic.

“Sorry!” the guy calls. “Didn’t think it’d land so loud.”

Castiel’s hands are clenched at his sides. He can feel the way his pulse is still spiking, the way his knees have locked like they’re waiting for the next shot. But nothing’s coming.

Dean steps closer. Not touching him. Not pushing.

“Kids are okay,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”

It takes a second. Another blink. Another breath.

Then the fog recedes just enough for Castiel to nod.

He turns back toward the shed and opens the door. The kids look up at him, wide-eyed, but safe. He gives them a small, practiced nod. “It’s alright now,” he says. “You can come out.”

Alicia’s the first to move, then Max, then the neighbor boy, clutching the foam sword like it might actually protect him. Dean meets them halfway and herds them toward the house, murmuring something about juice boxes and cookies. Distraction. Comfort. Something normal.

Castiel lingers behind, eyes still scanning the tree line, the fence, the corners of the yard. His brain is slower now, returning to the present in cautious, measured steps. He closes the shed door quietly.  

❇️

Inside, the kids settle fast—too fast, if you ask Dean. They’re at the kitchen table like nothing happened, snacking and bickering in that low-energy, post-adrenaline way kids sometimes do. It’s normal. That’s good.

But Castiel’s not bouncing back the same way.

He’s still by the back door, stiff, eyes scanning the backyard like the threat might reappear if he blinks too long. Like he doesn’t quite believe it’s over.

Dean watches him for a moment, then pushes off the counter and walks over, letting the fridge door swing shut behind him.

“Army or Marines?”

Castiel’s head turns slowly, brows furrowed like he’s not sure he heard right.

Dean crosses his arms. “You don’t react like that to a trash can lid unless you’ve been downrange. So. Army or Marines?”

Castiel looks at him for a beat, long enough that Dean almost thinks he won’t answer.

Then: “Army.”

Dean nods, once. “Infantry?”

Castiel’s gaze drifts back toward the window. “Yes,” he replies simply.

Dean lets that sit for a second, then sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Figured. That wasn’t just muscle memory out there. That was combat mode. ”

Castiel doesn't deny it. He just nods—slow, reluctant. “It felt real.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, leaning a shoulder against the wall beside him. “Looked real too.”

The silence stretches a little. Not uncomfortable, but weighty.

Dean tips his head toward the kids. “They’re alright. You got to them fast.”

“So did you.”

Dean shrugs. “I didn’t throw 'em in a fortified shed like a tactical evacuation.”

Castiel’s lips twitch—just barely. “It seemed… appropriate.”

Dean lets out a soft huff, part laugh, part sigh. “Hell of a thing, watching you go full operator in the middle of my backyard.”

“I didn’t think. I just moved.”

“I know,” Dean says. “That’s what muscle memory is. ”

Another beat of silence. Castiel still doesn’t quite relax, but the hard edge in his shoulders has dulled.

Dean nudges him lightly with an elbow. “Tea? Beer?”

“Tea.”

Dean heads to the fridge and pours a glass, setting it down on the counter without a word. Castiel picks it up and nods his thanks.

Dean leans on the counter beside him, arms still folded. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Castiel glances sideways. “But you’re asking anyway.”

“I’m asking if you’re okay. That’s not the same.”

Castiel thinks about that for a second, then nods slowly. “I will be.”

Dean doesn’t say anything else. Just stays beside him, quiet, solid. Not pushing, not prying.

Just there.

The silence stretches a bit longer, but it’s comfortable. Castiel’s still sipping his tea, eyes flickering occasionally to the window. Dean, for once, isn’t pushing him to talk. He’s learned by now to just let Cas be when he’s processing.

But then, after a beat, Dean speaks up, voice casual, but there’s a heaviness in it—something unspoken he’s offering, just a crack of vulnerability.

“My dad was a Marine,” Dean says, out of nowhere, his gaze drifting to the backyard. “That’s where I get all the stubbornness.”

Castiel blinks, surprised at the sudden shift in topic. He turns his head toward Dean, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Really?” Castiel asks, his voice quiet.

Dean gives a short nod, the corners of his mouth tightening. “Yeah. He wasn’t around much, but when he was, he made sure we knew who he was. It’s... one of those things that sticks with you, y’know? That whole ‘no room for weakness’ thing. I guess I picked up some of that.” He rubs the back of his neck, a little uncomfortable. “It’s why I don’t take shit from anyone. But it’s also why I know a little about reacting when shit hits the fan. Sometimes you just do. Don’t really have a choice.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. Castiel watches him, eyes softer now, not as distant as before.

“You get that too, don’t you?” Dean continues, voice lowering. “When everything shuts off, when the world’s trying to kill you, you just... react. No thinking. It’s all autopilot. And then when it’s over, you’re left standing there wondering what the hell just happened.”

Castiel’s gaze drifts back out the window, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, finally, he nods, just a little. “Yeah. I get it.”

Dean watches him for a second longer before he pushes off the counter, grabbing his glass of iced tea.

“My dad... he didn’t really talk about the war. Or anything. But I remember some things he’d say, like how the Marines teach you to be ready for anything. To never show fear. To always be the one who acts first, even if it’s not always the right call.”

He shrugs, not looking for sympathy. “I never agreed with all of it, but there’s some stuff you can’t shake. No matter how hard you try.”

Castiel’s eyes flick back to him, the flicker of understanding there. “I don’t think you’re supposed to shake it.”

Dean lets out a breath and chuckles softly. “Yeah, well... Maybe not. But it doesn’t make it easier.”

Dean’s dad was a Marine. That’s part of why Dean is who he is—why he gets the way he does sometimes. The strictness. The instinct to fight first, to protect the people around him even if it means taking on more than he should. 

Castiel takes a slow breath, then picks up his mug taking another sip of tea in the quiet kitchen, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air between them. Dean’s words about his father, his history with the Marines, still echo in Castiel’s mind. He’s not used to sharing much of his own past, but something about Dean’s openness makes him feel like it’s okay to offer just a little more.

"I was a soldier," Castiel says after a beat, his voice quiet, almost distant. “But I didn’t want to be one.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Then why?”

Castiel shrugs, his gaze unfocused as he looks past Dean toward the backyard. "Because it was the only thing left. It was a way to fight. To make sure people had a chance. I wasn’t interested in the war itself—I was interested in the purpose. But I couldn’t save everyone. I couldn’t even save the ones who mattered most."

Dean watches him closely; his arms still crossed over his chest as he leans against the counter. There’s something in Castiel’s voice—something raw and buried under years of hardened experience. It’s not the first time Castiel’s alluded to his past, but Dean feels like he’s getting a glimpse of what really drives him, what weighs him down when he thinks no one’s looking.

Castiel’s eyes flicker back to Dean’s, his expression unreadable. “I joined because I thought I could make a difference. But in the end, I was just another soldier. Another piece in a bigger machine. And I... I didn’t know how to stop.”

Dean’s gaze softens, his usual sharp edge melting away just a little. He takes a step closer to Castiel, standing just a few inches away now. It’s not intentional—it’s just that he’s always felt this pull toward Castiel, this unspoken understanding between them, this shared weight they both carry.

“You don’t have to be that guy anymore,” Dean says, his voice lower now, a little more personal. “You don’t have to keep carrying all that. I’m not gonna tell you to forget it, but you don’t have to shoulder it all alone.”

Castiel doesn’t respond right away. He just stands there, staring at Dean, his posture still stiff, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. But something shifts in his eyes, the smallest flicker of something that’s not as guarded as usual.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Castiel admits quietly, almost to himself.

Dean’s heart tightens at the honesty in his voice. He moves a little closer, just close enough that he’s nearly standing between Castiel’s legs. The proximity is sudden but not it doesn’t feel unwelcome. It just feels natural, like something they both need. Dean doesn’t say anything at first—he doesn’t need to. The space between them feels like it’s filled with everything that’s been unsaid for so long.

Dean leans in just slightly, close enough that he can feel the warmth of Castiel’s breath on his skin, the air between them thick with the weight of what they’re both carrying. His voice is low, softer than usual, like he's giving Castiel the space to hear the words without the pressure of them.

Castiel’s breath hitches for the briefest of moments, and Dean’s not sure if it’s because of the words or the closeness or both. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t break the quiet. They stand there for what feels like a long time, just existing in the space between them. 

For the first time in a long while, Dean feels like maybe—just maybe—he's not the only one who needs… whatever this is. 

And that feels like something worth holding on to.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Castiel stands by the window, staring out at the yard, though his thoughts are far from the calm, quiet garden in front of him. The soft rustle of the wind outside is a stark contrast to the storm in his mind. He’s been replaying yesterday over and over, the way Dean had stood so close to him, the way his presence had anchored him in a way that Castiel wasn’t used to.

The moment in the yard had hit him harder than he wanted to admit. The loud bang of the trash can lid had sent him straight into autopilot—instincts kicking in like they always did in the field. He’d moved before he even thought about it, getting the kids into the shed, reaching for something—anything—to defend them. But that wasn’t the reality anymore. He wasn’t on a battlefield. He wasn’t in a place where every sound could mean death. But his body had reacted like it was.

He takes a slow breath, pushing the memory back down, forcing it into the deep, quiet corner of his mind where it belongs. He’s learned to bury it, to push past it when it lingers too long. But every now and then, it resurfaces. A bang. A sharp noise. A scent. And suddenly, he’s back there, in the middle of a mission, when everything was life or death. When survival was the only thing that mattered.

Yesterday, after he’d calmed down, after he’d told himself it was just a trash can lid, he’d tried to shake off the feeling, but it stayed with him longer than it should have.

And then Dean had come close.

It wasn’t the first time they’d stood near each other, but yesterday felt different. Dean hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t flinched, even when Castiel’s nerves were raw and his hands had been trembling. There was something about the way Dean had stayed close, like he understood without needing to say anything. Castiel still wasn’t sure if it was just his need for comfort or something more, but the memory of Dean standing right there, inches away, made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t explain.

He recalls the moment Dean had spoken about his father being a Marine, how the words had come out almost casually, but Castiel had caught the weight behind them. Dean’s father had been a Marine—fighting, surviving, doing what was necessary. Castiel had felt a strange pull in his chest at the thought. Dean had always been the one who kept going, who kept pushing through, even when the world around him was falling apart. And Castiel wondered, for a brief second, if that same drive was why Dean had been so calm when he’d stood so close to Castiel yesterday.

The way it had all happened so fast. It had shaken him more than he’d wanted to admit. The warmth of Dean’s presence had unsettled him in a way he hadn’t prepared for. It wasn’t just the closeness—it was the unspoken understanding between them, the shared history, the silent acknowledgment that neither of them needed to explain anything. That was the problem. That understanding made it feel too personal, too... intimate.

He exhales slowly, trying to clear his head. But the feeling lingers, like a shadow he can’t escape. Maybe it’s because Dean had been steady when Castiel hadn’t been. Maybe it’s because, in that brief moment, when Dean had stepped closer, Castiel had felt like he wasn’t just another soldier trying to keep everything together. He’d felt like he mattered.

A footstep behind him pulls him from his thoughts, but he doesn’t notice right away. He’s still standing at the window, lost in the quiet aftermath of his own mind. 

The sound of the door opening, the soft creak of the hinges, doesn’t register immediately. It’s not until he hears the quiet shuffle of Gabriel’s voice behind him that Castiel’s thoughts are broken.

“Mornin’, Cassie,” Gabriel says lightly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a ripple across still water.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to give Gabriel a nod in greeting, but his expression doesn’t change much. Whatever calm the morning’s supposed to bring hasn’t found him yet.

Gabriel, to his credit, doesn’t poke. He just walks over and presses a warm mug into Castiel’s hand before settling in beside him, shoulder brushing close but not quite touching. He sips from his own cup, gazing out the window like they’re just two brothers watching the world start up.

Castiel takes the mug, fingers curling around the ceramic automatically. He doesn’t drink. He’s still somewhere else—half in the memory, half in the question of what Dean’s quiet nearness had meant. Or maybe what it could mean, if he let himself go there.

Next to him, Gabriel doesn’t say anything.

And that silence, for now, feels like the only kindness Castiel can manage to accept.

“I had a relapse yesterday,” Castiel says, breaking the quiet like someone cracking glass.

Gabriel doesn’t react right away. Just takes another sip of his coffee, eyes still on the yard outside. Then, without looking at him, he says, “What kind?”

Castiel shifts his weight, fingers tightening around the mug. “There was a loud noise—metal against concrete. Sudden. Sharp. My body just… moved. I got the kids into the shed before I even realized what I was doing. I was looking for a weapon before Dean stopped me.”

Gabriel exhales through his nose—half a sigh, half something else. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Castiel glances at him. “You’re not surprised.”

Gabriel finally turns to meet his gaze. “Cas, you’re a human pressure cooker. Of course I’m not surprised.”

He doesn’t say it like it’s judgment. Just fact. Like it’s been waiting there the whole time, and Castiel’s only just caught up to it.

“I didn’t realize it was still in me like that,” Castiel admits. “Not in that way.”

Gabriel gives a small shrug. “It never really leaves though, does it? It just hides in the cracks.”

Castiel looks down into the coffee, watches the faint swirl of steam. “Dean was calm. He didn’t flinch when I panicked. He… understood.”

Gabriel hums as he lifts his cup to his mouth, taking a slow sip before replying. “Yeah. That’s kind of his thing, huh? Being solid when the world decides to take a nosedive.”

Castiel doesn’t answer right away. He’s still watching the steam fade from his mug, like it might spell out something he hasn’t figured out yet. “It surprised me,” he admits. “Not just that he stayed calm, but… how safe it felt. Having him there.”

Gabriel leans against the counter, cocking an eyebrow. “You mean emotionally or in a 'I'm gonna cut a bitch’ kind of way?”

Castiel’s mouth twitches like he might smile, but it doesn’t quite happen. “Both, I suppose.”

There’s a beat of quiet, filled only by the faint creak of the house settling and the low hum of the fridge.

Gabriel sets his mug down with a soft clink. “You know, it’s okay if this is more than just fixing the house with him. You’re allowed to want things, Cas.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Castiel says quietly. “Or maybe I do, and I’m just afraid to admit it.”

Gabriel’s voice drops into something gentler. “Fear’s not a sign you’re wrong. Sometimes it just means you’re close to something real.”

Castiel finally looks at him, eyes a little clearer now. Still tired, still holding too much—but maybe not as alone in it.

Gabriel nods toward the window. “Go see him.”

“I don’t—”

“Not to say anything,” Gabriel interrupts. “Just… go be near him. You’ll know when you’re ready.”

Castiel hesitates, then sets the cold coffee on the counter and steps back from the window.

Maybe Gabriel’s right.

Maybe being close is enough for now.

❇️

Castiel hadn’t really planned on going to Dean’s house today. In fact, he’d told himself it was better to let the silence of the morning sink in, to keep his distance, to give himself time to think through everything. But the longer he stood in the quiet of Gabriel’s house, the heavier the silence seemed to press on him. The weight of his own thoughts was suffocating, and even though he couldn’t quite explain why, he found himself pulling on his jacket and heading out the door.

The drive to Dean’s place is quick, but it feels like time moves differently today. Every mile that ticks by seems slower, more deliberate, as if the road itself is waiting for him to make a decision. The sky overhead is streaked with gray, the kind of weather that makes everything look muted, like the world is holding its breath.

As Castiel pulls into the driveway, he notices the house looks the same as always—familiar in the way only a home can be, the steady presence that grounds him. It’s a contrast to the turmoil that’s been rolling through his chest since yesterday. He parks the car, his fingers lingering on the wheel for a moment longer than necessary, taking a breath.

This isn’t something he’s used to. The need to go to someone, to seek out another person when he’s unsettled. He’s always kept his distance, always done things on his own terms, never letting anyone get close enough to see the cracks. But yesterday, Dean was there. Calm. Unbothered. And now, Castiel feels like he’s chasing that feeling, that calmness that Dean seems to carry so effortlessly.

He steps out of the car, the cool air brushing against his face, and makes his way to the front door. His heart beats a little faster, his mind still racing over the last few days—what he feels, what he wants, and why it’s so difficult to figure out.

Dean’s truck is parked out front, so he’s definitely home. Castiel reaches for the doorbell, his hand hovering just a moment before he presses it. The sound of it rings out, sharp and clear in the quiet, and for a split second, he wonders if he’s making a mistake. But the thought vanishes as quickly as it came when the door swings open, and there’s Dean, standing in the frame with a half-smile on his face.

"Hey, Cas," he greets, his voice casual, like everything’s normal. Like they’re just two friends, nothing more, nothing less. But Castiel can hear the undertone, the slight shift in Dean’s gaze that says he’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending to be.

"Hi," Castiel says, his voice quieter than he intended. "I thought I’d stop by."

Dean raises an eyebrow, stepping aside to let him in. "You thought, huh? Well, you’re always welcome, man. What’s up?"

Castiel steps inside, the familiar scent of Dean’s house wrapping around him like a blanket—wood, leather, and something else that’s distinctly Dean . He feels a flicker of something in his chest, something warmer than he’s used to, but he pushes it down. It’s just the space, just the comfort of the place. He’s not used to thinking about why he feels like this.

"I don’t really know," Castiel admits, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "I just… needed to be around someone who isn’t… this ." He gestures vaguely toward himself, then the air around them, as if that explains the tension in his bones, the unease that has yet to leave him.

“Well, I don’t mind being around it,” Dean states, his voice steady, like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t even hesitate, just looks over his shoulder with a faint smile as he heads toward the kitchen. 

Castiel doesn’t know how to respond to that. There’s something about Dean’s words that makes his chest tighten, like he’s trying to convince himself of something as much as he’s trying to convince Castiel. But he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t need to.

He follows Dean into the kitchen, the soft click of the door closing behind him sounding almost too loud. Dean’s already pulling out the coffee pot, the familiar rhythm of it somehow comforting. The sound of mugs clinking, the water running—these small moments, these quiet things, are what make Castiel feel like maybe, just maybe, he isn’t as lost as he thinks.

They fall into an easy silence as Dean prepares the coffee, Castiel leaning against the counter, trying not to think about everything that still feels so wrong in his head. The last few days, the sudden rush of emotions, and now this strange feeling that sits just under his ribs whenever he’s near Dean. It’s not discomfort exactly, but something else, something that makes his pulse quicken just a little bit when Dean’s close.

Dean makes his way towards him with the steaming mugs, the warmth of the coffee rising in the air between them, mingling with the stillness of the kitchen. Castiel can feel the shift in the air as Dean approaches, the subtle tension that lingers like an unspoken invitation. Dean hands him a mug with a simple "Here," his fingers brushing against Castiel’s in the process.

It’s a small thing, but it sends a spark of heat straight through Castiel’s chest, and for a moment, his mind blanks. His heart skips, just a little too fast, and he grips the mug a little harder than necessary, trying to steady his hands, steady the wild thrum of his pulse that refuses to slow.

“Thanks,” Castiel says, his voice sounding quieter than he’d intended. He lifts the mug to his lips, but the warm liquid does nothing to ease the cold coil of uncertainty in his stomach.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice the shift, or if he does, he doesn’t say anything. He’s already sitting down at the kitchen table, leaning back in his chair with that familiar, easy posture, his eyes not quite meeting Castiel’s. Instead, he’s staring out the window, watching the way the light slants through the trees in the backyard, the sound of a distant bird chirping filling the quiet space between them.

Castiel sits down opposite him, still feeling the faint buzz of proximity, that strange tension that keeps pulling him toward Dean, even though he’s not sure why. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, piece by piece, and each moment that passes makes him feel more like he’s on the verge of understanding… or losing control entirely.

“So,” Dean begins, breaking the silence as he looks back at Castiel, his expression casual, but there’s something else in his eyes—a flicker of something, maybe concern, maybe curiosity. “What’s really going on, Cas?”

Castiel hesitates, the words caught in his throat for a long moment. He can feel the weight of the question pressing down on him, a pull he isn’t sure he’s ready to answer. But Dean’s gaze is steady, patient, waiting for him to say something, anything.

His fingers grip the edge of his mug, his thumb brushing the smooth ceramic absently as he stares into the coffee, the steam still rising lazily from the surface. The words are there—just out of reach, tangled up in a mess of confusion and emotions he doesn’t know how to sort out. He wants to explain, to say what he’s feeling, but the truth is, he doesn’t even know where to begin.

How does he tell Dean that, despite everything Castiel has been through—despite the chaos, the darkness, the scars— Dean is the one who makes him feel… something ? How does he explain that, when Dean’s around, it’s like the world doesn’t feel so heavy anymore? That the constant buzzing in his head, the noise of everything wrong, just… fades when Dean’s near.

He wants to say it, but the words feel too big. Too real.

He looks up at Dean, sitting across from him, and something shifts in his chest. There’s that pull again—the same one that makes him want to close the distance between them, to say something, anything, to bridge the gap that feels just too wide for him to cross. But every time he tries, it feels like there’s an invisible wall, like he’s trapped behind a glass, unable to reach out.

Castiel doesn’t know how to explain the way Dean makes him feel like himself —not the soldier, not the broken thing he’s been for so long, but the person he’s only beginning to understand he could be. Dean doesn’t need to fix him. He just is . And that, somehow, is enough.

But how does Castiel tell him that?

“I…” Castiel starts, but the words falter in his throat, as if they’re too heavy to carry. He looks down again, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to figure out how to even say what he means. “You… you make everything feel… centered,” he says at last, his voice quieter than before, like he's afraid of the weight of his own honesty. “When I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m… falling apart. I don’t feel like I’m constantly fighting against everything I’ve done. You make me feel like there’s… purpose, again.”

He glances up at Dean, half expecting to see confusion or pity, but instead, there’s just quiet understanding in his eyes. Dean doesn’t look surprised, but there’s something almost… tender in the way he’s watching Castiel, like he’s waiting for him to keep going.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Castiel admits, his voice thick with something he can’t quite name. “I don’t know how to explain you —how you make everything better just by being there.”

The silence hangs heavy between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just… real. Honest. And Castiel doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how to handle the fact that he’s letting someone in. Letting Dean in. It’s both terrifying and… relieving, in a way he can’t quite wrap his head around.

Dean rises from the table, his movements slow, deliberate, like he’s giving Castiel time to notice, to decide, to make the choice. He takes a step toward him, then another, until he’s moving around the table, edging closer with an almost hesitant energy. It’s not like Dean to be uncertain, to linger at the edges of something, but there’s something in the air between them that makes him tread carefully.

Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t react at first, but his gaze tracks Dean’s every step, feeling the shift in the space around them as Dean draws closer. There’s something about the way Dean moves, purposeful but cautious, like he’s waiting for Castiel to either pull away or reach out.

Dean stops just on the other side of the table, his hands resting lightly on the edge. He looks down at Castiel, their eyes meeting in that quiet, weighty silence, the kind of silence that feels more like a conversation than words ever could. There’s no pressure, no rush, just Dean waiting, his body language open but unsure, like he’s asking for permission without saying a word.

Castiel’s breath catches, his chest tightens for a moment, and his mind races, trying to make sense of the pull he feels toward Dean—how he wants this, how it feels natural, but also... completely terrifying. He’s been good at holding his distance for so long, keeping everyone at arm’s length, but with Dean, it’s different. The barrier that he’s built around himself seems like it could crumble at any moment, and part of him wonders if he’s ready to let that happen.

Dean doesn’t move any closer, doesn’t push, his eyes flicking between Castiel’s face and his hands on the table, waiting for a sign that it’s okay, that Castiel wants this too. There’s a quiet understanding between them now, a kind of unspoken agreement that whatever this is, it has to be on Castiel’s terms. Dean won’t force anything.

Castiel’s heart races, his pulse thrumming in his ears, and for the briefest of moments, he wants to say something, do something—anything to close the distance between them. But the words feel stuck in his throat, and the air around them feels thick, charged.

Dean leans just a little closer, his posture softening, still waiting for that quiet permission. And in that moment, Castiel realizes that he doesn’t need the perfect words. He doesn’t need to have everything figured out right now. He just needs to trust, and maybe, for the first time, let someone else close enough to show him that not everything has to be kept locked away.

Finally, Castiel exhales, a soft sound, and a small, almost imperceptible nod. It’s not much, but it’s enough for Dean to take the final step, crossing the space between them, slowly, deliberately, like he’s respecting every bit of hesitation Castiel has, giving him the time and space to choose.

Dean’s hand comes to rest gently on the back of Castiel’s chair, his breath warm against Castiel’s skin, and without a word, they both know what the other is waiting for. Castiel is thrumming, he wants Dean to close the gap between them, he feels Dean’s thumb brush against his back. The contact light but enough to send a ripple of warmth through Castiel’s body. His breath is shallow, the proximity almost too much to bear, but Castiel can’t bring himself to move, can’t quite push past the tightness in his chest to do what he wants to do.

Dean doesn’t rush him. He stays there, close, close enough that Castiel can feel the subtle shift in the air between them, close enough that it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of them in this moment.

Castiel’s pulse quickens, thumping in his ears as he stares at the hand resting so near him. He wants Dean to close the gap. He wants that heat, that closeness, the safety of it, but there’s this hesitation, this weight in the air, like there’s something bigger at play here—something that neither of them can ignore, not when everything they’ve been through is still hanging just beneath the surface.

Dean leans in just a little, his face mere inches from Castiel’s. His breath stirs the air between them, and Castiel’s whole body seems to hum in response. He’s so aware of Dean, of the way Dean is looking at him, not with expectation, but with understanding—like he’s giving Castiel the space to make this decision.

Castiel’s chest tightens again, a soft tremor running through him. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, the unfamiliar tightness in his throat, and for a moment, all the words that have been bottled up inside of him feel like they’re rushing to the surface, threatening to spill out and ruin everything.

But he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t retreat.

Instead, his eyes flick to Dean’s lips, then back to his eyes, and for the first time, he wants to cross that invisible line between them. He wants to let himself feel whatever this is. And in that moment, it’s clear to him—this isn’t just a need for connection. This is Dean . This is the way he makes everything feel steady, the way he makes Castiel feel like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something worth holding on to.

Dean’s hand shifts slightly, moving from the back of the chair to the armrest, just barely brushing against Castiel’s arm, and the contact is enough to send a jolt of heat straight through him. Castiel’s breath catches, his heart thumping in his chest like a drumbeat, and before he can think better of it, he lets his eyes drop to the floor, his hands gripping the edge of his seat just to hold himself steady.

Dean’s voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but it carries the weight of everything between them. “Is this okay?” he asks, his tone gentle, as though giving Castiel every opportunity to step back, to call a halt to it all.

The question hangs in the air, and for a second, Castiel doesn’t know how to answer. How does he explain that, for once, he’s not scared? That, for once, he wants something so badly, something that feels right, even when it scares him more than anything else ever has?

But then, his breath evens out, and he finally looks back up at Dean, his gaze steady and searching. And in that look, Dean can see it—the answer Castiel hasn’t been able to voice, but that’s clear as day in his eyes.

It’s a small, but unmistakable shift. Castiel’s hand moves toward Dean’s face, not quite touching, but close enough that the intent is there. The space between them is still there, but it’s closing, slowly, gently, with a quiet kind of promise.

And that’s all it takes. Dean steps closer, and Castiel meets him halfway, his pulse racing, the warmth of their bodies just a breath apart, the tension in the room finally starting to dissipate as they both move in tandem, no longer needing words to understand each other.

Their lips meet tentatively, a soft brush at first, as if they’re both testing the waters, unsure but eager. Castiel feels a jolt of warmth flood through him at the contact, something deep and heavy settling in his chest. It’s gentle, almost shy, like neither of them wants to rush this, but there’s an urgency in the way they move closer, an unspoken need to close the gap that’s been lingering between them for so long.

Dean’s hand, still hovering near Castiel’s arm, moves to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him just a little closer, as if asking for more. Castiel responds without thinking, his own hand coming to rest on Dean’s waist, his fingers brushing the soft fabric of his shirt, grounding him.

The kiss deepens, just slightly, as both of them lean into it, the warmth of each other’s touch spreading through them like wildfire. Castiel’s heart beats faster, a rapid rhythm that makes his head spin, and he can’t tell if it’s the kiss itself or the way Dean is making him feel—alive, centered, like everything that’s been clouded in his mind is suddenly clearing, just by being this close.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s a slow, careful exploration, as if they both know that whatever happens next will change everything.

Dean’s lips are soft against his, warm and familiar, and Castiel feels a shift, something he didn’t even realize he was waiting for. It’s like, for the first time, he’s letting himself be seen —not for the soldier he used to be, not for the burdens he’s carried, but for the person he is now, standing in front of Dean, letting himself feel something that isn’t fear or regret or uncertainty.

He’s letting himself feel wanted.

Dean pulls back just a fraction, his forehead resting against Castiel’s, both of them breathing a little harder now, but neither of them saying anything, the weight of the moment pressing between them in the best way possible. There’s no need for words yet. Neither of them is ready to break the spell.

Dean’s voice is quiet, almost like he’s testing it out. “You okay?” It’s the same question he asked before, but this time, there’s no tension in his tone, no worry. It’s just a simple check, like he’s giving Castiel the space to breathe, to decide if this is what he really wants.

Castiel can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips, even if it’s barely there, because he knows the answer now. He knows that, for once, everything feels right.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, softer. “I’m okay.”

Dean lets out a small exhale, a soft chuckle under his breath, and Castiel can feel the relief in it—relief for both of them, because this, whatever this is, feels like the beginning of something. It’s new, but it’s familiar, like they’ve been walking toward it all along without even realizing.

They stand there for a moment longer, their bodies still close, their breathing syncing up, and Castiel feels the weight of all his past decisions, all the walls he’s built, start to crumble away, piece by piece, with each passing second.

Dean leans in and kisses him again, this time with a quiet certainty, no hesitation, just a deep, slow connection that feels like it’s been building between them for longer than either of them realizes. Castiel’s heart races again, but it’s not with the sharp, anxious thud of panic. It’s steady, slow, like a soft drumbeat, grounding him, pulling him further into this moment. Into Dean.

Dean’s lips are warm and persistent against his, and for a moment, Castiel lets himself melt into it. It’s a rare thing, to allow himself this freedom, to let go of the walls he’s spent so long building around himself. But with Dean, it doesn’t feel like surrender. It feels like finally —finally letting himself be something other than the soldier, the survivor, the person holding everything inside.

He slides his hands up to rest on Dean’s shoulders, feeling the strength there, the warmth of his skin through the fabric. Dean’s hands, steady and gentle, find their way to Castiel’s waist, pulling him a little closer, until their bodies are flush, chest to chest, and every inch of space between them is gone.

There’s a deep, unspoken understanding in the way they move together, no words needed, just the quiet rhythm of their kiss, their connection. The outside world falls away, the noise of their pasts, the weight of their responsibilities, everything else just fades into the background as they stay there, pressed together in the calm of the moment.

Castiel breathes in slowly, his mind still swirling, but in a way that’s not overwhelming anymore. With Dean, it’s different. It’s as though the chaos inside him settles, finds its balance. He’s no longer drowning in it. For the first time in a long time, he feels... right. He feels at home.

Dean pulls away just enough to look at him, his forehead resting against Castiel’s, breath still coming in shallow pants. His eyes are dark, and there’s a flicker of something in them—something that matches the way Castiel feels, like a shared understanding between them that goes deeper than words.

“You sure about this?” Dean asks, his voice low, a little rough. He’s asking, not because he’s unsure, but because he wants to make sure Castiel knows what this means. That it’s not just about the kiss, but about everything that comes after.

Castiel doesn’t hesitate. He meets Dean’s gaze, his voice quiet but certain. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Dean’s lips curve into a small smile, the kind that’s soft but genuine, and without saying another word, he leans in once more, pressing his lips to Castiel’s with a slow, gentle kiss that feels like a promise—one they’re both ready to keep.

The world outside may still exist, with its complications, its noise, and its mess, but in this moment, in this space, everything feels right. And for once, Castiel doesn’t feel like he’s holding himself together by sheer will alone.

With Dean, he doesn’t need to.

Chapter Text

A few days pass, and things between Dean and Castiel settle into a rhythm. It’s not perfect, not yet, but it’s real, and it’s quiet in a way that Dean never expected. It’s in the stolen moments—when the kids are running around in the yard or playing with their toys, when there’s a lull in the chaos, that’s when Dean feels the pull.

It starts with the smallest of touches. A hand brushing Castiel’s as they walk past each other, the soft graze of fingers, a fleeting but charged moment that lingers longer than it should. Sometimes it’s just a glance, a look that says everything without speaking a word. And then, there’s the kisses.

The kisses are soft at first—quick, almost innocent. But as the days go by, they grow bolder, more desperate, like they’re trying to steal whatever time they can before the kids inevitably show up. Dean finds himself sneaking them in at odd moments—when Castiel’s working on a project, when they’re washing dishes together, or when they’re just standing in the kitchen, casually talking about nothing and everything at once. A quick kiss on the cheek, a peck on the lips, one that’s a little too long to be called casual, but just short enough to pass under the radar.

It’s the kind of thing that makes Dean feel like a teenager again. The kind of thing that makes his pulse race every time their lips meet, like he’s sneaking around, like this is some forbidden thrill, but it’s also... right.

He can’t help but think that it’s been way too long since he’s felt like this. There’s a certain heat that comes with these moments, a hunger in his chest that grows with each kiss. He’s always been confident, always knew what he wanted, but this—this feels different. It’s not just about the physical attraction; it’s about everything he’s feeling when Castiel is near.

Dean chuckles to himself as he tosses a towel into the laundry basket, wiping his hands absently. He hasn’t been this horny since he was a damn teenager. He catches himself thinking about Castiel in ways that make his skin prickle, his thoughts wandering into dangerous territory, but he doesn't care. Every time Castiel’s lips touch his, it’s like the world falls away, and it’s just them, the chaos of their lives muted by the warmth they find in each other.

He walks into the living room, where Castiel is sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine. The kids are outside, running around, and the house is relatively quiet. Dean leans in, his hand brushing Castiel’s arm just as the other man looks up at him. There’s a glimmer in Castiel’s eyes, like he knows what’s coming, and Dean doesn’t waste a second.

He leans in, capturing Castiel’s lips in a kiss that starts slow and soft, but quickly turns urgent as he feels Castiel’s hand find the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Dean’s heart races, and for a split second, he feels like he’s fifteen again, sneaking around behind his parents’ backs, stealing kisses with a boy he couldn’t get enough of. Only this time, it’s Castiel, and it’s not just a simple crush.

Dean pulls away just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against Castiel’s. “You know,” he murmurs, “if we keep doing this, we’re gonna have a hard time pretending we’re just... friends.”

Castiel’s lips curve into a small, knowing smile, his thumb brushing Dean’s cheek. “Is that what you want? To pretend?”

Dean’s chest tightens at the question, and his thoughts race. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be more than what they’ve been—he’s felt it from the start. But the reality of it, of having to put a name on it, to deal with the possible fallout of the kids finding out, or Gabriel’s thoughts on the matter, makes it feel... complicated.

He leans in again, kissing Castiel with a bit more force this time, letting the kiss say everything he can’t quite put into words. Because when it’s just them, it’s simple.

"Fuck no," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet Castiel’s gaze. "I don’t want to pretend anymore."

Castiel’s gaze softens, and there’s something in his eyes that Dean can’t quite place—a mix of relief, longing, and something deeper, like they both know they’re standing on the edge of something big.

Before either of them can say anything more, there’s a loud noise from outside, the sound of kids’ laughter and shouting. Dean’s head tilts toward the window, and he sighs, pulling away with a reluctant smile. "We’re not gonna get a lot of alone time if we keep this up."

Castiel nods, his face flushed, his breathing still a little ragged. “No. We won’t.”

Dean grins. "Guess we better make the most of what we’ve got."

But even as the moment breaks, Dean can’t help but feel that pull, that heat, like Castiel is a magnet, and he’s stuck in its field. It’s intense, and it’s been too long since he’s felt this alive. He feels himself hardening in his jeans, and Dean catches himself and takes a deep breath, trying to focus on anything but the heat pooling in his chest and the growing pressure between his legs. It’s been way too long since he felt anything like this—like his body is alive, keyed up with a raw energy he hasn’t experienced in forever. And it’s all coming from Castiel, standing just inches away, with that quiet intensity in his eyes.

He shifts slightly, trying to readjust without making it obvious. His thoughts are racing, trying to pull himself together before he does something stupid. The last thing he wants is to make Castiel uncomfortable or push things further than either of them are ready for. But damn if it isn’t hard to ignore the way Castiel’s presence seems to fill the space between them, like every little movement is pulling Dean in.

For a split second, he wonders if Castiel feels it too—this magnetic pull that’s been growing between them. He’s never been one for subtlety, but right now, he wishes he could be. The desire to reach out, to close the distance between them, is so strong that it almost physically hurts.

But instead, Dean takes another step back, forcing himself to focus on something—anything—that’ll take his mind off the situation. He clears his throat, glancing at Castiel but keeping his tone casual, masking the turmoil he feels underneath. “So, uh… you want me to grab us some beers? Or should we actually do something with our Saturday?”

Castiel looks up at him, his face flushed as he clears his throat. “Ah, yeah, we could, um, start the fencing in the front yard.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. The flush on Castiel’s face is hard to ignore, and it’s both endearing and distracting. Castiel’s usually so composed, so reserved, and seeing him like this—a little flustered, a little unsure—has Dean wondering just what the hell’s going on in that head of his.

“Fencing, huh?” Dean says, his voice a little more teasing than he intended. “Hammering some hard sticks into holes sounds like my kind of fun.”

Castiel’s lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smile, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he grabs his jacket off the back of the chair, the sleeves pulling tight against his forearms as he slips it on. Dean can’t help but notice the way his muscles flex, even under the loose fabric. It’s distracting, but in a way that feels almost dangerous —like the air around them is buzzing with the potential of something more.

“Well, I’ll let you do the fun part,” Castiel finally says, his voice steady, but Dean catches the slight glint of amusement in his eyes. “After all, I did do a lot of the prep work.” 

Dean chuckles, but it comes out a little too breathy, his nerves tingling from the way Castiel’s looking at him. There’s something in his eyes, a challenge or maybe something else, that makes Dean’s chest tighten. He forces himself to focus on the tools in front of him, the piles of wood, anything other than the way Castiel’s standing a little too close, his presence like an invisible pull that’s making it harder to think straight.

“Yeah, yeah, I saw your ‘prep work,’” Dean says, trying to keep his voice light, but it’s a little rougher than he meant it to be. “I’ll take care of the fun stuff, though. I’m good at handling... sticks.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Dean realizes how it sounds, and he immediately feels heat rush to his face. Great, real smooth, Winchester.

Castiel doesn’t seem to react right away, but Dean notices the faintest shift in his expression, like he’s trying to keep his own reactions in check. But Dean can’t help it. He shifts his weight, his heart suddenly pounding too fast, and he has to get out of the space between them before he does something dumb.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean mutters under his breath, swallowing hard. “I—I gotta leave the room before I do something stupid.”

Without another word, Dean steps back, his pulse racing, his mind spinning. He’s trying not to focus on the way Castiel’s still looking at him, still close, the tension between them thickening with every second. He’s halfway to the door before he realizes it, not looking back because he knows that if he does, there is a high chance that he would be jumping the man in front of him, ripping his clothes off and riding him until he can't see straight. 

“Uh… Yeah... I’ll be outside,” Dean says, his voice sounding a little too strained, as he hightails it out the door, ignoring the chuckle he hears from behind him.

❇️

As soon as Dean steps out of the room, Castiel feels the weight of the silence settle in around him. He’s left standing there, unsure of what to do next, when the sharp sound of Claire’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“So,” she says, her tone clipped and direct, “how long have you two been at it?”

Castiel tenses, his mind racing as he turns to face her. Claire’s posture is casual, arms crossed, but there’s an unmistakable glint of something in her eyes—curiosity, maybe even concern, mixed with her usual snark.

“I—uh…” Castiel starts, but the words stall in his throat. He’s not sure how to explain what’s happening between him and Dean. He’s not even sure he has the words for it yet.

Claire’s eyes narrow slightly as she watches him, clearly not buying the hesitation. “Don’t try to dodge it. I can tell something’s going on. You and Dad? You’re different.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “You’re not… you’re not doing all this for him, are you?”

Castiel feels his throat tighten, the unspoken question hanging in the air. He knows what she’s asking, but he’s not sure how to answer. Is he doing this for Dean? Or is it something else—something he still doesn’t understand?

“I don’t know what you mean,” Castiel replies, his voice quieter than he intends. He can’t bring himself to lie, but he also doesn’t have the clarity to explain. “Doing what?”

“This whole house fixing thing,” she says. Castiel holds her gaze and Claire’s gaze softens for a moment, and she uncrosses her arms, taking a small step closer. “Look, I’m not gonna judge you, okay? But I’ve seen Dad go through a lot, and I know that you have been through some shit, too.”

Castiel listens carefully, his expression softening as he watches Claire, sensing the weight behind her words. She’s not wrong. He has been through a lot, and so has Dean. He knows Claire’s seen her dad go through more than his fair share of pain, and he can feel the concern in her voice.

He doesn’t interrupt her as she steps a little closer, her posture shifting, becoming less defensive.

“This whole happy family schtick that you’re trying to sell him,” Claire continues, her tone a little more guarded now. “I don’t know, Cas. It feels like you’re pretending. Like you’re trying to fill a hole that doesn’t... I don’t know, fit.” 

Castiel nods slowly, considering her words. The idea that he’s pretending, or even that Dean might be trying to fill some unspoken gap with him, it’s a lot to process. The thought has crossed his mind, too, especially after what happened between them the other night, how much it shifted things between them. But to Claire, all she sees is a man who’s been hurt and is now stepping into a role that he’s unsure about.

Castiel exhales slowly, nodding. He understands what she’s saying. He doesn’t want to rush this, doesn’t want to push Dean into something he’s not ready for. It’s been a strange, slow progression, one that’s felt right but also left him uncertain.

“I’m not pretending,” Castiel says quietly, his voice steady. “I just... I care about him, Claire. More than you think. I’m not going to force anything,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “But I won’t pretend it’s not real either.”

Claire studies him for a moment, eyes narrowed but no longer angry. There’s a flicker of understanding behind her gaze, and Castiel wonders if she’s starting to see the sincerity behind his words. She doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she watches him for a long moment before her lips curl into a small, almost knowing smile.

“Good,” she says, her voice quieter now, more like the Claire that Castiel’s used to. “Just... don’t screw it up, Cas. For his sake.”

With a final glance at him, Claire turns to leave, her footsteps light on the floor as she heads toward the door. Before she disappears, she throws one last comment over her shoulder.

“Just don’t break his heart, okay? You do, I’ll break your face. Got me?”

With that, she turns and walks away, leaving Castiel standing there with her words echoing in his mind. It’s strange, hearing her concerns— valid , he realizes—but it’s also grounding. If anything, it helps him understand his own feelings more clearly. He’s not pretending. He’s not forcing anything. He’s just trying to figure out what this thing with Dean really means.

And for the first time in a long while, he’s not sure he wants to walk away from it.

Chapter Text

“Hey, man,” comes Sam’s voice on the other end, familiar and easy. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Dean exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “Nah, you’re good. Just wrangling laundry. What’s up?”

There’s a pause, not quite awkward, but telling.

“Just wanted to check in,” Sam says eventually. “See how things are going. With the house. With, uh... Castiel.”

Dean flops back onto the bed, phone to his ear. He stares at the ceiling for a second, his throat tight with words he hasn’t said yet. “Yeah. It’s been… good.”

“Good?” Sam repeats, skeptical. “That’s all I get?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “I mean, yeah. I don’t know, man. It’s weird.”

“Weird how?”

Dean pauses. “Weird like… good weird. Like I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn’t. Cas is just there , you know? Fixing shit. Making coffee. Talking to the kids like he’s been doing it his whole life. I don’t know how he fits in so easily, but he does.”

Sam’s quiet for a beat. “Sounds like you like having him around.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, without hesitation this time. “I do. A lot.”

Another pause.

“Dean,” Sam says gently, “is this more than just having help with the house?”

Dean rubs his hand over his face as he sits on the bed. “Uh, it started as that, yeah, but then something happened and now I can’t stop thinking about him,” Dean admits, the words rough in his throat. “Like, really thinking about him. It’s not just the house or the kids or whatever—we’ve got this rhythm, y’know? And when he’s not around, everything feels off.”

Sam doesn’t say anything at first. Dean can hear the quiet on the line, but it’s not judgmental. It’s just Sam processing, like he always does.

“So something happened?” Sam finally asks, voice careful.

Dean huffs a laugh, short and a little helpless. “Yeah. Something happened. We kissed. And then we did it again and again. And now we’re... something. I don’t even know what to call it. But I can’t look at him without wanting to be closer. It’s like he pulls all the static outta my head. Makes things quiet. Makes me quiet.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the scuffed floorboards.

Sam exhales softly. “Wow.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

“I mean,” Sam says. “I like the fact that you’ve found someone, Dean, but remember—you have the kids to look out for.”

“No shit, Sammy,” Dean replies, rubbing a hand over his face again. “You think I don’t know that? They’re the reason I’ve been holding back.”

He pauses, looking out the window again, watching Castiel gently pull weeds with the kind of focus only Cas could have for something that boring.

“But he’s good with them,” Dean continues, softer this time. “Better than I expected. Patient. Solid. And they like him. Hell, I think they trust him more than they do me half the time.”

Sam hums. “That’s good to hear. Just… be sure. The last thing they need is someone else walking out of their lives.”

“I am sure,” Dean says, more certain than he expected. “It’s not some fling. He’s not just passing through. He’s here. He stayed .”

Sam’s quiet for a beat. “Okay. Then I’m happy for you, man. Just… don’t screw it up.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dean smiles faintly. “Yeah. I do.”

There’s a beat of silence again before Dean adds, “I’m gonna tell them.” 

“About you and Cas?” Sam asks, his voice careful, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

Dean leans forward, elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not like we’ve been subtle. My kids aren’t stupid.”

“No, they’re not,” Sam agrees. “And you think they’ll take it okay?”

Dean sighs. “I think… I think they’ll have questions. Maybe need time. But I also think they’ve seen enough bullshit to recognize the real thing when it’s in front of them.”

Sam hums thoughtfully. “So what’s stopping you?”

Dean scratches the back of his neck, gaze drifting again to Castiel outside. “Just want to get it right, you know? Make sure they know it doesn’t change anything—except maybe that there’s more good in this house than there was before.”

Sam’s quiet for a moment, then says, “That sounds pretty damn close to getting it right, Dean.”

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime,” Sam replies. “And hey—next time you call, give Cas the phone. I want to mess with him.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, still your favorite brother.”

Dean grins. “Yeah, yeah. Talk soon, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean hangs up, the smile lingering on his face as he sets the phone down.

Through the window, Castiel looks up—like he felt Dean watching—and offers the smallest, warmest smile.

Dean thinks, Yeah. I’m definitely gonna tell them.

❇️

The kitchen smelled like roasted garlic and herbs—the kind of scent that made the place feel like home. Dean stood at the stove finishing up the sauce while Castiel lingered by the sink, drying a dish he probably didn’t need to, eyes flitting toward Dean like he was still learning how to exist in this kind of comfort.

“You can sit down, Cas,” Dean said with a smile, glancing over his shoulder. “You earned it.”

Castiel hesitated, then nodded and took the seat closest to the window.

The kids shuffled in a few minutes later—Max and Alicia still bickering about who cheated in their backyard game, Ben quiet but observant as always, Claire with her usual don’t-mess-with-me energy, and Jack, bright-eyed and bouncing just a little too much for a house with dishes on the table.

Dinner was loud and full of the usual chaos. Castiel stayed quiet but listened intently, offering a word here and there. Jack, seated beside him, kept sneaking glances his way like he was trying to figure something out.

Once the food was mostly gone and the noise died down, Dean cleared his throat.

“Okay. Got something I wanna say.”

The table fell quiet. Castiel blinked and looked up, surprised. The kids watched him expectantly.

“You all know Cas has been around a lot,” Dean started, resting his arms on the table. “Helping with the house, with you guys. And it started off as just that. But... it’s more now.”

A beat.

“Me and Cas—we’re together.”

Alicia blinked. “Like… boyfriends?”

Dean gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah. Like that.”

Castiel looked momentarily frozen, caught somewhere between surprise and awe, like he hadn’t expected Dean to say it out loud.

“I know it’s a lot,” Dean said, glancing around at them, “and I get it if you need time. But I wanted to be honest. I care about him. A lot. He makes me happy. And I just wanna know if you’re okay with that.”

Max nodded easily. “I like him. He helped me fix my robot arm thing.”

Alicia shrugged. “He’s quiet, but cool. Like… weird uncle cool.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at Castiel. “Remember… Heart. Face.”

Castiel gave her a small, respectful nod. “Understood.”

Max leaned forward a little, eyes fixed on Cas. “Why Dad?”

Castiel tilted his head. “Why Dean?”

Max nodded.

Castiel paused, then spoke, voice low and honest. “Because he lets me be myself. And when I’m around him, I don’t feel like I’m falling apart. He’s… steady. And I need that.”

Ben looks up from the table, and looks at his brother. “He’s better at fixing stuff than Dad anyway.”

“Rude,” Dean muttered, grinning.

And then Jack looked over, eyes wide and serious. “Does that mean we’re a family now?”

Dean’s heart thudded in his chest. Castiel’s breath hitched.

“I mean… if you want that,” Dean said carefully.

Jack nodded, eyes shining. “I’d like that.”

And that was it. Just like that, the room relaxed again.

Dean glanced at Castiel, and beneath the table, their knees bumped softly. Not a word passed between them—but something settled. Real. Quiet. Strong. And jeez, did it make Dean giddy.

He hadn’t felt this way since... hell, maybe ever. Not just the warmth in his chest, or the flutter in his stomach—though, yeah, that was there too—but the sheer rightness of it all. Like something had finally clicked into place. Like maybe he didn’t have to hold his breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Castiel was watching him with that steady gaze, unreadable to most, but Dean was starting to learn the language behind those eyes. There was relief in them now. Maybe even hope.

Dean gave him a small, crooked smile.

Yeah. This— them —it was the real deal.

As the laughter faded and the plates emptied, the clatter of dishes filled the kitchen. Dean stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running as he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn casserole dish. Castiel moved beside him, towel in hand, quietly drying each plate Dean passed over.

It was easy, domestic. The kind of rhythm Dean hadn’t realized he missed until it was just there . Quietly being in sync with someone, no need for chatter, no tension lurking under the surface. Just… comfort.

Jack passed through with a handful of napkins, grinning. “I think I accidentally won the mashed potato fight,” he said, and Dean just shook his head, chuckling.

“Clean victory, huh?”

“Clean is a strong word,” Castiel murmured, eyeing a smear of potato on Jack’s sleeve.

They both smiled as Jack scampered off.

As the house settled and the kids disappeared into the usual after-dinner chaos—Ben on the couch with his phone, Claire giving Alicia side-eye over board game rules, Jack still buzzing with leftover energy—Dean glanced at Castiel again. They hadn’t talked about the dinner announcement, not really. Cas had looked stunned, sure, but he hadn’t run. He’d stayed. He was still here.

Dean wiped his hands on a towel, fidgeting with the edge of it before clearing his throat. “Hey, uh…” He looked over at Castiel, who had just finished folding the last clean dish towel. “You don’t, uh—you don’t have to go back tonight. If you don’t want to.”

Castiel blinked slowly, head tilting just slightly.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, suddenly hyper aware of how warm his face felt. “I mean, I know we haven’t really figured out... what this is yet, but—tonight was good. And I’d kinda like to end the day with you still here.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Castiel, softly but steadily said, “Okay.”

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a relieved smile.

“Okay,” he echoed, trying not to grin like an idiot as he reached to switch off the kitchen light.

Chapter Text

Castiel steps further into the room, gaze roaming over the space like he’s cataloging every detail. The bed is neatly made—Dean had made a quick pass at tidying earlier, just in case. A few shirts are draped over the back of a chair. There’s a pair of boots by the door, a book on the nightstand, and an old record player in the corner that hasn’t been used in months.

“It’s very… you,” Castiel says softly, and Dean isn’t sure if that’s a compliment or just an observation, but it makes something warm settle in his chest anyway.

Dean scratches the back of his neck, suddenly fifteen again. “Yeah, well. Sorry it’s not, like… romantic or anything. I didn’t exactly plan—this.”

Castiel turns to him, expression unreadable for a second. “It doesn’t need to be planned.”

There’s something about the way he says it—calm, grounded—that makes Dean’s pulse skip. The room feels smaller now, quieter, like the space between them is thick with the weight of what’s not being said.

Dean crosses the floor slowly, stopping just in front of Castiel. “You sure about this?” he asks, voice lower than he intends.

Castiel’s eyes meet his, and there’s no hesitation when he says, “Yes.”

Dean leans in—not rushed, not like he’s afraid the moment will vanish—but like he knows this is real, and it’s his to hold now. His hands come to rest on Castiel’s hips as their lips meet again, slower this time, more certain. There’s no one else in the world, no past regrets or future questions—just this.

Just them.

They kiss for a long moment—slow and steady—like they’re figuring it out as they go, and Dean’s hands grip just a little tighter at Castiel’s sides, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between them. He can feel the rise and fall of Castiel’s chest against his own, feel the heat blooming between them in the quiet.

When they finally pull apart, just barely, Dean presses his forehead to Castiel’s. Castiel’s hands slide up Dean’s arms, steady and warm. He slips his hands under Castiel’s shirt, fingertips tracing along the planes of his back, learning every scar, every muscle. Castiel breathes out softly as the shirt is pulled over his head, and then his own hands make quick work of Dean’s, sliding the flannel from his shoulders and tossing it to the side.

It’s not frantic or rough—it’s gentle. Something unspoken passed between fingertips and quiet glances. It’s with a kind of reverence that neither of them is used to. Dean’s body hums with need, but it’s matched with something deeper—something tender.

Castiel pushes Dean onto the bed, his fingers softly unbuttoning Dean’s jeans, pulling them slowly down his legs, his fingers brushing gently over Dean’s skin as he pulls them over his feet and deposits them on the floor.

Dean reaches out and captures Castiel's hands, holding them in his own as he gazes up at him with a mixture of desire and adoration. There's a vulnerability in Castiel's eyes that Dean has never seen before, a rawness that tugs at his heartstrings. And in that moment, Dean knows he would do anything to protect this man in front of him, to keep him safe and cherished.

As Castiel leans down to press a soft kiss to Dean's lips, the world around them fades away, leaving only the two of them in their own intimate bubble. Dean feels a sense of peace wash over him, a feeling he never thought he would experience in a moment like this. It's not just about physical desire anymore—it's about connection, about trust, about love.

Their bodies move together in perfect harmony, each touch and caress speaking volumes without the need for words. Dean loses himself in the sensation of Castiel's skin against his own, in the way their breaths mingle and become one. And as they finally come together as one, it feels like coming home. Like finding a piece of himself that he never knew was missing.

“Lube and condoms?” Castiel asks, and Dean nods his head toward the drawer on the nightstand. He retrieves the items from the drawer with ease, a small smile playing on his lips as he turns back to Dean.

“Would you rather lay on your stomach?” he asked, and Dean shook his head.

“I wanna see you, Cas,” he replies, and a soft smile gracing Castiel’s lips. He nods in understanding, a silent promise passing between them. With careful hands and a tenderness that speaks volumes, Castiel carefully prepares Dean, every touch a declaration of his love and devotion, his fingers moving in a slow, steady rhythm that makes Dean gasp and arch into his touch. Castiel takes his time, whispering words of reassurance that Dean doesn't understand but feels resonate deep within his soul.

“Please Cas,” Dean whispers and his breath hitches as Castiel positions himself, their eyes locked in a gaze that is more intimate than any touch. There's a moment of stillness, a silent question asked and answered in the space between heartbeats. Then, with a gentle push, Castiel enters Dean, and the world shifts beneath them.

The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that leaves Dean clinging to Castiel, his nails digging into Castiel’s back. Castiel pauses, giving Dean time to adjust, his forehead resting against Dean's as they share breath and space. When Dean finally nods, Castiel begins to move, each thrust slow and deliberate, building a rhythm that is theirs alone.

Dean wraps his legs around Castiel's waist, pulling him deeper, needing more of this connection that feels both new and ancient. Castiel’s thrusts increase as their bodies find a rhythm that is as natural and inevitable as the tides. Dean's hands roam over Castiel's back, feeling the muscles shift and bunch under his touch, the scent of Castiel filling his lungs with every breath.

Castiel's eyes never leave Dean's, the intensity of his gaze a tangible force that holds Dean captive. There's a universe in those eyes, a depth of emotion that speaks to Dean's soul. He feels seen, understood, cherished in a way that transcends the physical. Their bodies are slick with sweat, moving together in a dance that is both primal and profoundly spiritual.

The room fills with the sounds of their lovemaking—soft gasps, whispered endearments, the rhythmic creaking of the bed beneath them. It's a symphony that blocks out the rest of the world, creating a sanctuary where only they exist. Dean's heart hammers in his chest, each beat echoing Castiel's name, a silent mantra that anchors him in this moment, building and building until Dean feels like he's on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into the abyss of pleasure. Castiel's hand finds Dean's, their fingers entwining in a grip that is both fierce and tender. Dean can feel his orgasm building, the sensation is overwhelming, a blend of the physical and the divine that leaves him gasping for breath.

Castiel's movements soon become more urgent, each thrust deeper, more intense, as if he's trying to merge their very souls. Dean meets each movement with equal fervor, their bodies locked in a dance that is both desperate and profoundly connected. The room seems to spin around them, the world outside fading into insignificance as they lose themselves in each other.

Dean’s body tenses, every muscle contracting as Castiel thrusts into him, hitting that spot inside him that sends sparks throughout his whole body. wrapped around his cock, jerking himself as Castiel pounds into him. The pleasure is overwhelming, a white-hot heat that consumes him from the inside out.

Castiel’s eyes are still locked on Dean’s, dark with desire and something more, something that Dean can’t quite name. It’s a look of raw, unbridled passion, a reflection of the fire that’s burning through Dean’s veins.

He can feel Castiel’s cock twitching inside him, signaling his impending release. With a final, desperate thrust, Castiel buries himself deep inside Dean and spills over the edge, his body shuddering with ecstasy.

Feeling Castiel’s release is all it takes to push Dean over the edge. With a strangled cry, his orgasm rips through him like a bolt of lightning, as he spills over his fist. 

For a moment, they’re suspended in time, their bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs and sweat. Dean can feel Castiel’s heart beating against his chest, steady and sure.

As they come down from the high, Castiel presses a soft kiss to Dean’s lips, a silent promise of all the things he can’t put into words.

Dean smiles, a lazy, sated smile that comes from deep within him. “Fuck, Cas,” he says, pushing his hand through Castiel’s sweaty hair. 

“I think we just did,” Castiel replies.

Dean snorts, the sound muffled by Castiel’s neck as he nuzzles in closer. “Smartass.”

Castiel hums, the vibration low in his chest, and lets his hand rest against Dean’s side, fingers splayed like he’s anchoring himself there. The air is still warm between them, bodies cooling down, breath still slightly uneven.

For a while, they don’t move. Just soft touches, the occasional smile. Quiet. Easy.

Then Dean shifts a little, arm tightening around Castiel’s waist. “I wasn’t just talkin’ about the sex, you know.”

Castiel tilts his head back enough to look at him. “No?”

“Nah.” Dean’s voice is rough, but honest. “I meant… all of this. You bein’ here. Us. I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ half the time, but with you, it feels like I’m not just winging it anymore.”

Castiel’s expression softens, and he leans forward, resting his forehead gently against Dean’s. “That makes two of us.”

A few moments pass, wrapped up in shared warmth and the quiet hum of something new and fragile taking root.

Then Dean sighs. “We should probably sleep before one of the kids kicks the door in tomorrow.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “I locked it.”

Dean grins. “You’re smarter than you look.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “And yet, I’m still here.”

Dean chuckles, kisses him again—soft and slow—and murmurs, “Yeah. You are.”

And with that, they settle into the bed together, legs tangled, hearts lighter than they’ve been in a long time.

Chapter Text

“CAS!”

Castiel barely has time to turn before he’s hit with the force of two overexcited five-year-olds. Max latches onto his waist, and Alicia throws her arms around his middle like she hasn’t seen him in weeks instead of just eight hours.

“Whoa—easy,” Castiel says with a small grunt, staggering back a step, paintbrush still in hand. “You're going to knock me off the porch.”

“You weren’t here when we left this morning,” Max says, breathless and grinning up at him.

“We thought you left!” Alicia adds, eyes wide and dramatic, as if that had been a very real fear.

“I had errands,” Castiel replies, setting the brush aside carefully before crouching down to their level. “But I said I’d be back before dinner, didn’t I?”

They both nod, arms still locked around him.

Dean appears a second later from around the side of the house, shaking his head with a smile. “Told you he wasn’t going anywhere.”

“But what if he changed his mind?” Alicia says, turning her head toward Dean but not letting go of Castiel.

“I didn’t,” Castiel says quietly, looking at her. “I won’t.”

That seems to be enough for both of them because Alicia finally lets go and skips off toward the front door, yelling about snack time, and Max gives Castiel one last squeeze before chasing after her.

Dean watches them go, then steps up onto the porch beside Castiel, who’s slowly standing back up.

“They missed you today.”

Castiel glances at him. “I noticed.”

Dean nudges him gently with his shoulder. “You good?”

Castiel nods. “I think so. Yeah.”

Dean leans in just a little, voice softer. “You sure? You’ve had a big week.”

Castiel looks toward the door where the kids disappeared inside, then back at Dean. “I’ve had worse weeks.”

Dean gives him a crooked smile. “Well, c’mon, Michelangelo. Wash up and come inside before Alicia eats all the fruit snacks and blames it on Max again.”

Castiel chuckles under his breath, brushing paint off his hands. “Right behind you.”

He notices Ben hanging back, lingering at the edge of the driveway with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a guarded look on his face. Castiel pauses, eyes narrowing slightly—not with suspicion, but concern.

“Ben?” he calls gently, keeping his voice easy. “Everything alright?”

Ben shrugs, but doesn’t come any closer. “Yeah. Just… watching.”

Castiel steps off the porch, wiping his hands on a rag as he approaches, not wanting to crowd him. “You’ve got a good vantage point,” he says, nodding toward the porch. “Paint’s finally going on straight.”

Ben huffs a small laugh, glancing at the boards. “You missed a spot.”

Castiel follows his gaze and smirks. “So I did.”

There’s a beat of quiet between them. Ben shifts his weight, then finally looks up.

“You’re staying, right?” he asks—no challenge in his tone, just a straightforward question from a kid who’s learned not to waste time pretending.

Castiel considers the weight of that question and nods. “Yes. If your dad wants me to. If all of you do.”

Ben squints at him. “Even when stuff gets… weird?”

Castiel doesn’t flinch. “Especially then. Is that why you’ve been acting…” He trails off, hoping that it gives Ben the opportunity to elaborate on his feelings.

Ben shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve never had to share Dad before.” 

Castiel nods slowly, the truth of Ben’s words settling in his chest. “That makes sense,” he says gently. “It’s a big shift. For all of you.”

Ben kicks at a loose stone on the driveway, not looking up. “We just got used to it being us. And now it’s like… he smiles at you in a way he used to smile at my mom.”

Castiel’s breath catches for a second, but he keeps his voice steady. “Ben, I’m not here to replace her. I couldn’t. And I wouldn’t want to try.”

“I know that,” Ben mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… weird, like I said.”

“I get it,” Castiel says, and he does. More than he expected to. “I’ve spent most of my life feeling like an outsider. I don’t want to make you or your siblings feel that way in your own home.”

Ben finally looks at him again, studying him with that same sharp gaze that reminds Castiel so much of Dean it almost hurts. “You’re not. I mean… not completely.” A beat passes. “Just don’t hurt him. My dad’s not great at showing it, but he breaks easy.”

Castiel swallows hard. “I won’t. I swear to you, Ben—I won’t.”

Ben studies him a second longer, then nods slowly, satisfied. “Okay.” He starts toward the house but tosses a final look over his shoulder. “You’re still better at fixing stuff than Dad, anyway.”

Castiel blinks, a soft laugh escaping him as the boy disappears through the door.

❇️

The house is loud again—full of clattering forks and overlapping voices. Max is animatedly recounting something that happened in gym, Alicia is arguing about the “right” way to pack a peanut butter sandwich, and Jack keeps giggling at everything like he’s just happy to be part of the noise. Claire announces that there’s a school event coming up, and Dean tells her to stick a note on the fridge calendar. Ben, sitting a little quieter than the rest, listens with a kind of calm focus, only chiming in when he has something worth saying—which, naturally, earns him the most attention when he does speak.

Dean’s in his element, sliding a casserole dish onto the table with a flourish like he’s just unveiled a gourmet masterpiece.

“Not bad, huh?” he says, proud. “Only burned the edges a little.”

“You say that like it’s a win,” Ben deadpans, but he’s already helping himself to seconds, so no one’s complaining.

Castiel doesn’t say much during dinner. He listens. Watches. Learns the rhythm of their family—of his family now, maybe. The way Dean teases just enough to make the kids laugh but backs off before it crosses into annoying. The way Jack keeps sneaking glances at Castiel like he’s trying to decide if he can ask him another question. The way Claire, even from the other side of the table, still notices when Dean’s glass is empty and nudges the water pitcher in his direction.

It’s chaotic and warm and a little overwhelming, but it’s real.

Later, after the dishwasher’s humming quietly and the house has begun to settle into the familiar hush of bedtime, Dean and Castiel are in the kitchen, standing shoulder to shoulder as they prep lunch boxes. Dean hands Castiel a sandwich bag without even looking—like it’s second nature now.

“You really cut the crusts off,” Castiel murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips.

Dean snorts. “Jack swears they’re poison. I don’t fight that battle anymore.”

Castiel chuckles quietly, then his smile fades just a little as he speaks again. “Is this going to disrupt your morning routine with Claire?”

Dean pauses, glancing up from the sliced apples he’s bagging. “What do you mean?”

“You two have a pattern,” Castiel says. “The coffee. The quiet before the others wake up. I’ve seen it… I don’t want to intrude.”

Dean leans his hip against the counter, considering him. “It’s true—me and Claire have our mornings. But she’s not a kid anymore, Cas. And I think she’s glad you’re around. Even if she pretends she isn’t half the time.”

Castiel looks down at the sandwich in his hands. “I just don’t want to… push into spaces that aren’t mine.”

Dean steps a little closer, brushing their arms together, voice low. “You’re not pushing in. You’re in it. Already. Whether you realize it or not.”

Castiel looks up at him, and Dean smiles—soft and a little tired, but genuine. “Besides,” Dean adds, “I’ve got room in my mornings for both of you. Coffee’s better with company anyway.”

Castiel doesn’t reply right away. He just nods—small, quiet, but full of gratitude. Then Dean reaches over, tugging the sandwich bag gently from his hands and leaning in, close enough that Castiel can feel the warmth radiating off him. He’s not quite touching him, but it’s enough to make the moment feel charged. Dean’s eyes lock with his.

“You’re not a disruption, Cas,” he says, voice low. “You’re part of the routine now.”

Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe for a second. The air between them hums with something electric, something unspoken but deeply understood.

Dean leans in, just enough to brush their noses, and then presses a soft, unhurried kiss to Castiel’s mouth. It’s not rushed or heated—just simple, grounding. A promise, maybe.

When he pulls back, his voice is warm, rough at the edges. “Come to bed, Cas.”

❇️

They slip quietly into Dean’s bedroom, the familiar creak of the door muffled by the softness of the hour. The lights are low, casting a warm glow over the room, and Dean tosses his flannel overshirt onto the chair in the corner before turning back to look at Castiel.

Castiel stands just inside the door, hesitating like he’s still not used to being allowed here, like this could still vanish if he moves too quickly.

Dean catches it right away.

“Hey,” he says softly, walking over. He reaches out, letting his fingers brush Castiel’s wrist. “You’re not a guest, Cas. You don’t have to wait for permission.”

Castiel finally meets his eyes. “It still feels like I do.”

Dean frowns, but gently. He curls his fingers around Cas’s hand, tugging him closer. “Well, get used to it. You’re here. With me. That’s not temporary.”

Castiel leans in and Dean just seems to know exactly what he wants—what he needs.

He meets him halfway, their mouths brushing in a kiss that’s slower this time, deeper. Not rushed, not frantic like the first time, but something that settles between them like a secret being shared. Castiel’s fingers curl into Dean’s t-shirt, grounding himself, and Dean’s hand lifts to cradle the back of his neck, keeping him close, like he’s afraid Cas might pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Castiel stays, melts into it, lets himself feel it—the safety, the warmth, the pull of Dean’s mouth on his, the way everything around them softens when they’re like this. Dean shifts them easily, moving to press Castiel back into the mattress, their bodies aligning naturally, like they were always meant to fit this way.

They don’t say anything. They don’t need to.

Dean’s hand slips under Castiel’s shirt, fingers tracing the line of his ribs, memorizing. Castiel’s breath hitches, his own hands sliding up Dean’s back, gripping tight, like maybe if he holds on hard enough, the ghosts will fade completely.

Dean lifts his head just a little, forehead resting against Castiel’s. “Still feel like you need permission?” he murmurs.

“No,” Castiel whispers. “Not with you.”

Dean kisses him again, slower this time, and lets that be the answer. “Let me look after you,” Dean whispers against his lips when he pulls away. 

Castiel closes his eyes at the words, the tenderness in them hitting somewhere deep—somewhere untouched for too long. He nods, barely, and Dean doesn’t wait for more.

He moves carefully, like he’s afraid to break something, like this is sacred. His hands explore in soft, reverent sweeps, mapping every scar, every line, like he’s memorizing a language only he and Castiel will ever speak. Castiel lets himself be seen, lets the walls fall away one by one under Dean’s touch.

“Dean…” he murmurs, voice catching in his throat.

“I’ve got you,” Dean says, quiet and sure, the way he says things he means. “Please?”

And Castiel lets him.

Not because he doesn’t know how to carry himself, but because for once—just once—he doesn’t have to. He’s allowed to be held, to be safe, to let go of the weight he’s been shouldering for so long.

Every kiss, every breath, feels like a promise: You’re not alone anymore.

When they settle again, bodies warm beneath the sheets, Castiel curls into Dean’s side, head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Dean’s fingers are in his hair, gentle, slow, grounding him in the moment.

He undresses Cas slowly, kissing every piece of exposed skin like it matters—like he matters. There’s no rush in it, no urgency—just a reverence that wraps around them like a second set of sheets.

Castiel deposits himself onto the bed, breath shallow, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. There’s trust there now, more than before—earned, not given—and Dean treats it like gold. His lips trail from collarbone to sternum, over ribs and down, mapping out this body with patient devotion. Each press of his mouth is a silent thank you , a you’re safe , a stay .

Dean kisses his way down his naked torso, and Castiel’s fingers slide into Dean’s hair, holding on not to guide, but just to anchor —to make sure this is real. He gets to the jut of Castiel’s hips and he pauses, just for a breath, pressing a kiss there like it's a vow. Castiel’s muscles twitch beneath the attention, a soft sound catching in his throat. Dean glances up through his lashes, eyes locking with Castiel’s—checking in, making sure he’s still with him, still okay.

What he sees makes his chest ache: Castiel, flushed and open, eyes wide with something like awe, like trust . Like he's letting himself be seen, fully, maybe for the first time.

Dean leans in again, slower now, kissing the line of his hip, then lower, worshipping every inch like it matters—because it does . Every scar, every tremble, every breath Castiel takes under his hands means something.

And Castiel—Castiel arches just a little, not from need, but from the overwhelming care that Dean is showing him. He threads his fingers tighter in Dean’s hair, grounding himself with a whispered, “Dean…”

Dean hums, the sound low and warm, and keeps going, giving all of himself to this moment, to him .

Because this? This is love, raw and unspoken—and neither of them needs words to know it.

He practically jolts off the bed when Dean’s lips wrap around the head of his cock, his tongue dipping into the slit. His breath hitches, a strangled moan escaping his throat as pleasure courses through him. Dean's mouth is warm, wet, and relentless, driving him insane with every flick of his tongue.

Cas resists the urge to slam his cock down Dean's throat, wanting Dean to take it all, but he fists the blanket, his knuckles practically white as Dean continues to work him over with skill and determination. The sensation is overwhelming, the combination of Dean's mouth and hands sending shivers down his spine. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, his hips involuntarily thrusting into Dean's mouth. The intensity of it all is almost too much to bear, but he never wants it to end. Dean's moans vibrate against his skin, only adding to the pleasure he's experiencing. Cas can't help but let out a string of curses, his body on fire with desire as Dean brings him to the brink of ecstasy.

Dean presses his thumb to his perineum, stimulating his prostate from the outside. Cas groans loudly as he presses and massages that little place behind his balls.

"Oh, you like that, sweetheart," Dean whispers, his voice husky with desire. Cas nods frantically, unable to form words as the pleasure overwhelms him, and Dean's fingers dip lower. With a wicked grin, Dean lifts Cas's thighs off the bed and leans down and spits on Cas's hole, the slickness adding to the intense sensation. Cas arches his back, unable to control the shivers running through him as Dean's touch becomes more insistent. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, his body thrumming with need. "Dean," he gasps out. "I'm close."

Dean slows down his movements, and Cas struggles to hold back his climax, wanting to prolong the pleasure. "Can I fuck you, Cas?"

Cas's breath catches in his throat at Dean's words, his heart pounding with anticipation. He nods eagerly, unable to form words as desire consumes him. Dean smirks before reaching for the lube, preparing himself as he positions himself between Cas's legs before slipping two lubed-up fingers into Cas's tight heat. Cas moans loudly, arching his back in response to the sensation. Dean continues to stretch him, adding a third finger and scissoring them to prepare him for what's to come. Cas can't help but whimper at the feeling of fullness, his body trembling with anticipation. 

"Please, Dean," he pleads, his voice thick with need. Dean removes his fingers, causing Cas to whine at the loss, before lining himself up and slowly pushing into Cas, both of them gasping at the feeling of being so intimately connected. The pleasure is overwhelming, and Cas wraps his legs around Dean's waist, urging him to move faster. Dean obliges, setting a quick pace that has Cas seeing stars. They move together in perfect rhythm; the room filled with the sound of their moans and the creaking of the bed beneath them. Dean's thrusts become more desperate, his movements becoming erratic as he chases his own release. 

Cas can feel himself teetering on the edge, his body on fire with pleasure. "Dean, I'm-" he gasps out, unable to form a coherent sentence as the pleasure builds to a crescendo. Dean reaches between them, wrapping his hand around Cas's cock and stroking him in time with his thrusts, pushing him over the edge. Cas's orgasm hits him like a tidal wave, his body tensing as he comes undone beneath Dean. Dean follows soon after, his own release washing over him as he spills himself inside Cas. 

They collapse against each other, breathless and sated, their bodies still humming with the aftershocks of their pleasure. Dean presses a kiss to Cas's forehead, his heart swelling with love for the man in his arms. "I love you, Cas," he whispers, his voice filled with emotion. Cas smiles up at him, his eyes filled with adoration. 

"I love you too, Dean," he replies, feeling more content than he's ever been. They lay there in each other's arms, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, knowing that they are exactly where they belong.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few months since everything started settling into place.

Dean meets Gabriel—loud, sarcastic, and immediately suspicious, which Dean figures is fair. But by the end of the afternoon, they’re trading jabs over beers like they’ve known each other forever. Gabriel even makes a crack about Dean having a type, looking pointedly between Dean and Castiel, and Dean just laughs. It doesn't feel awkward; it feels like acceptance.

Castiel meets Sam, who’s calm and kind, asking soft questions that don’t make Castiel feel like he’s under a microscope. They talk about books and Jack, and eventually, Sam asks if Castiel likes hiking, which leads to a spirited discussion about national parks. Sam gives him a careful once-over that’s more brotherly concern than interrogation. “You make him happy,” Sam says, like it’s a quiet approval.

The house is finally coming together, too. Weekend after weekend, they chip away at it, until all that’s left is a fresh coat of paint on the siding. They tackle it side by side, shirts stained, arms sunburned, music blasting from Dean’s phone and laughter spilling out across the yard.

That night, they collapse on the couch, sore and satisfied. Dean fidgets with something in his pocket, fingers twitching until Castiel tilts his head at him.

“I, uh...” Dean clears his throat. “I wanted to give you this.” He holds out a key. “To the house. To our house. I mean, if you want that. To move in. With me. Us.”

Castiel doesn’t say a word. He just climbs into Dean’s lap and kisses him breathless, straddling him on the couch until Dean’s laughing against his mouth.

“Yes,” Castiel murmurs. “Of course, yes.”

They make it to the bedroom eventually, the bedside lamp casting soft light as they undress each other slowly—familiar, warm, but this time, it’s different. This time, it means something more. Something that lasts.

The next morning, they wake to the sound of cereal boxes rustling and someone arguing about who left the fridge open.

Dean sits up, rubs a hand over his face, and leans over to kiss Castiel’s temple. “Time to tell the gremlins.”

They find the kids in their usual breakfast chaos. Max is balancing a spoon on his nose. Alicia is arguing with Jack about chocolate syrup in cereal. Claire looks up from her phone. Ben’s already watching them like he knows something’s up.

Dean clears his throat. “Okay, everybody—quick announcement. Cas is moving in. Like, officially.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Max lets out a cheer. Jack grins and runs over to throw his arms around Castiel’s waist. Alicia claps, Claire raises a brow and says, “Took you long enough.”

Ben just nods slowly, shrugs, and says, “He’s better at fixing stuff anyway.”

Castiel laughs, touched in a way that wraps warm around his ribs as Dean slings an arm around his waist and pulls him in close.

The kitchen is loud, chaotic, and completely full. But under all the clatter and teasing, something new settles in—solid and lasting.

They’re a family now.

And everything feels exactly right.

❇️

The weeks that follow are a kind of messy domestic bliss. Castiel moves in slowly, bit by bit, until his books are stacked on the living room shelf beside Dean’s ancient music magazines. His jackets share space on the hook by the door. The bathroom cabinet gets rearranged twice before Dean stops grumbling about it. He doesn’t really mind.

They settle into rhythms—morning coffee routines, evening chores, sharing dinner prep and school lunches. Jack insists on helping with dishes because “teamwork makes the dream work,” and Alicia tries (badly) to teach Castiel TikTok dances in the living room.

One night, Dean finds Castiel asleep on the couch, Jack curled into his side, both of them snoring lightly under a blanket. He stands there for a minute, just watching them, heart aching in the best way.

He doesn’t take a picture. He doesn’t need to.

It’s already seared into his memory.

On Sundays, they go for walks. Sometimes to the park, sometimes just around the block, and every now and then out to the woods where Dean grew up. Castiel listens as Dean tells stories about Sam and old hunts, and Dean listens as Castiel talks about what quiet means to him. They don’t always say much, but it doesn’t matter.

They’re together. They’re whole.

Gabriel swings by sometimes with pizza and sarcasm, poking fun at the domesticity like it’s a crime, but Castiel just offers him a beer and tells him to hush. Sam visits, too, more often than he used to, clearly content seeing Dean surrounded by something good. Something solid.

One evening, Dean and Castiel end up on the porch swing, wine glasses in hand, watching the sun go down. The kids are inside, laughing over some show, and the sound carries through the open windows like music.

Dean bumps his knee against Castiel’s. “Y'know, I never thought I’d get this. A life like this.”

Castiel turns to him, something soft and open in his eyes. “You deserve it.”

Dean swallows hard, his throat suddenly tight. He leans in, presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips, and stays there.

They don’t need anything else.

They’ve got everything right here.