Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Mr. Novak?"

Castiel turned from the whiteboard, marker still poised mid-sentence, and raised a brow at the interruption. Claire stood by her desk, fidgeting with the edge of her notebook. That alone was suspicious—Claire didn’t fidget. She stirred the pot.

"Yes, Claire?" he asked, lowering the marker cap with a soft click.

She hesitated, glancing sideways at the rest of the class. Slowly—far too slowly to be innocent—the other students stood up, one by one, like badly coordinated dominoes. Even Donna Hanscum had slipped in through the back door, grinning wide and suspiciously toothy like she was in on something.

“We, uh… we know you’re getting married,” Claire began, “and leaving us soon.”

Castiel blinked. Leaving them? That wasn’t exactly—

“And,” she plowed ahead, louder now, “we got you a gift!”

She reached behind the crowd of students, who were all clearly trying not to laugh, and produced a small blue gift bag stuffed with white tissue paper. Castiel eyed it warily, then looked to Donna, who gave him a thumbs-up like this was a perfectly normal Thursday morning.

He took the bag gently. “You really didn’t have to…”

“We did though,” Claire said, beaming with the kind of mischievous pride that always meant trouble.

Castiel peeled away the tissue paper and pulled out a ceramic mug. White. Simple. And on the side, in bold cartoon lettering, it read:

“Hey, Assbutt!”

For a second, there was only silence. Then the class erupted into laughter.

Castiel stared at the mug like it had personally betrayed him. “Oh no,” he said under his breath, already bracing himself.

“It was the best day ever!” Claire howled, leaning on her desk for support. “You were trying to break the tension before a pop quiz, and that was the best insult you could come up with! We were crying!”

Donna was nearly doubled over behind the students, wiping at her eyes. “You said it so seriously,” she added between giggles. “Like you thought it was some kind of mic drop.”

Castiel held the mug delicately, like it might explode. “In my defense,” he said dryly, “I didn’t know it was a pop culture reference. I thought I’d invented it.”

That only made the laughter worse. Someone in the back actually snorted.

“Well,” he sighed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “I’ll be sure to bring this to faculty meetings. It’ll pair well with my existential dread and decaf.”

“Cheers to Mr. Novak!” someone shouted.

“Cheers to Assbutt!” someone else corrected.

Castiel raised the mug like a toast and chuckled softly. “You’re all little gremlins. And I’ll miss every last one of you.”

***

“So, you’re finally gettin’ hitched to that Shakespearean Adonis, huh?” Benny drawled, leaning against the garage workbench with a crooked grin. His Cajun accent stretched the words out like taffy—lazy, warm, familiar in the way that only years of friendship could make it.

Dean chuckled from beneath an old car, the metallic clink of a ratchet echoing through the garage. “Hell yeah. He asked me on a mountain, man. With a view, a speech, and everything. I couldn’t say no. I mean, I tried. I opened my mouth, and my brain just went, ‘Nope. That’s your husband now.’”

From the front desk, Charlie’s voice rang out like a warning bell. “Which, for the record, I didn’t even get a phone call. Or a picture. Or a hint!”

Dean rolled out from under the car, grease smudged across his cheek and temple like war paint. He blinked up at her with mock offense. “Charlie. You and Cas went shopping for the ring without me. You literally knew I was getting hitched before I did!”

Charlie slowly rotated the monitor in front of her face like a rising shield. “This is my wall of shame,” she muttered behind it.

Benny chuckled and crossed his arms, eyes flicking between the two of them like a spectator at a tennis match. “Well, regardless, I’m happy for you, brother.”

Dean stood, wiping his hands on a rag that was already too stained to be of any help. He gave Benny a grateful smile. “Thanks, man. That means a lot. You’re coming right?”

“You know I wouldn’t miss it,” Benny said, shifting slightly like he was working up to something. “Uh... I can bring someone, right?”

Dean raised a brow, pausing mid-wipe. “Yeah, of course. Just give me a name and I’ll add ’em to the guest list. Who is it?”

Benny hesitated for half a second too long. “Garth.”

Dean blinked.

He blinked again.

Then he leaned to the side just enough to peek past Benny’s shoulder, spotting Garth at the front desk beside Charlie, enthusiastically explaining something to her—complete with wild hand gestures and the occasional finger gun. Charlie was nodding like she was being held hostage by an improv group.

Dean looked back at Benny. “Forreal?”

Benny rubbed the back of his neck, ears turning faintly pink. “Yeah. It’s... new. But not that new.”

Dean broke into a grin so wide it looked like it hurt. “Dude. That’s—God, I don’t even know what that is. Unexpected? Weirdly adorable? Like a raccoon and a golden retriever found love in a hopeless place?”

Benny laughed, low and sheepish. “He makes a mean gumbo, man. Don’t let the awkward smile fool you.”

“I’m not judging. Just... wow. I did not see that coming. That’s like finding out your pet turtle’s been running a secret tech startup.”

“Say what you want, but the man’s got passion. And he brought me a thermos of soup when I got the flu.”

Dean slapped a greasy hand over his heart. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

They both looked back toward the front desk. Garth was now miming what looked like a kazoo solo. Charlie was actively googling escape routes.

Dean leaned closer to Benny. “You sure he’s not just cursed or possessed or something?”

“Pretty sure. But he did bless my truck the other day.”

Dean cackled. “Alright, yeah. Bring him. I was going to ask him to come anyway. Do you know his last name?”

Benny smirked. “Pretty sure it’s just ‘Garth.’ Like Cher. Or God.”

Dean wiped his hand one more time and clapped Benny on the shoulder. “Then he’s gonna fit in perfectly.”

***

“Benny and Garth?” Castiel asked, voice floating over the kitchen island as he diced herbs with practiced precision.

“Yeah.” Dean laughed, standing opposite him with a very not practiced grip on a chef’s knife, massacring a bell pepper like it owed him money. “I didn’t expect it either, man. But... I dunno. They just work, you know?” He scraped the uneven pieces toward the cutting board’s edge and used the side of the knife to push them clumsily into the glass bowl in Castiel’s hands.

Castiel gave the vegetables a glance—some diced, some practically whole—and wisely chose not to comment.

“That brings the guest list to seventy-five… I think,” Dean added, wiping his hands on a dish towel with a little more confidence than he deserved.

“A small wedding of seventy-five,” Castiel repeated, sighing dreamily like he was quoting scripture.

Dean narrowed his eyes across the island. “Did you just quote Sex and the City?”

Castiel didn’t miss a beat. “You loved that movie.”

Dean scoffed and looked away too fast. “Yeah, okay. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Must’ve been my evil twin.”

“You cried when Miranda forgave Steve.”

“I had allergies, Cas. The pollen was aggressive that day.”

“Inside the movie theater?”

Dean pointed a finger at him. “You’re lucky I’m marrying you.”

“I am very lucky,” Castiel said sweetly, turning to the stove and tossing the vegetables into the hot skillet. A loud sizzle filled the kitchen, the scent of garlic and olive oil blooming instantly.

Dean leaned on the counter, watching him fondly, and then turned around to reach into the seat of one of the barstools.

Then, as Castiel stirred, he turned back to find Dean holding a small square velvet box in one hand, eyebrows raised just slightly in that way that always gave him away when he was trying to act casual.

“Happy birthday,” Dean said, voice soft but laced with mischief.

Castiel’s lips quirked, amusement flashing in his eyes. “The big thirty-four,” Dean added with an exaggerated grin.

Castiel arched an eyebrow. “You say that like I’ve turned ancient.”

“Well, you are a little dusty. Should I be worried about you turning to sand when you blow out the candles?”

Castiel rolled his eyes and smacked Dean lightly on the thigh as he rounded the counter. “Give me that.”

Dean grinned as Castiel snatched the box from his hand. “Jeez, no patience. You didn’t even say ‘thank you.’”

“I’ll thank you after I confirm it’s not a prank. I haven’t forgotten when you came to school and pulled a prank with the help of my students.”

“That was a romantic gesture,” Dean said proudly.

“You wrote ‘Congrats on your sparkle awakening’ on a post-it, and my desk somehow exploded with glitter.”

“And you still wanna marry me,” Dean shot back with a wink.

“Of course I do,” Castiel said.

Dean watched as Castiel turned the box slowly in his hand, the soft velvet brushing against his fingertips. His expression was unreadable at first—measured, thoughtful—until he gently lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in black satin, was a bottle of cologne. Sleek. Elegant. Heavy glass with a minimalist label embossed in gold. Even from where he stood, Dean could smell it faintly—wood smoke, spice, a dark leather warmth that made his stomach twist with want.

Castiel’s lips parted slightly. “Dean... this is expensive,” he said quietly, fingertips ghosting over the bottle with reverence.

Dean shrugged like it was no big deal, even though it was. “You said something like… smell is the strongest sense tied to memory,” he mumbled. “Figured I’d make sure you never forget how much I want you.”

Castiel blinked at him, slow and blinking like something was catching up with him—something thick and hot and emotional—and then he noticed it.

A small envelope, nearly invisible, tucked snug beneath the groove of the bottle.

He lifted it out with care and opened it. Inside was a single card, unlined. Dean’s unmistakable handwriting scrawled in dark ink across the center:

“I want you to wear this while you ruin me.”

Castiel didn’t speak at first. He just stared at the note, exhaled through his nose, and a slow, wicked smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. When he looked up, Dean was already backing toward the kitchen counter with his hands up like he’d just robbed a bank.

“Hey now,” Dean grinned, trying to suppress the twitch of heat crawling up his neck. “You still gotta cook those veggies. Don’t burn it!”

Castiel walked toward him slowly, card in one hand, cologne in the other, eyes lit with something both amused and deeply possessive.

“I think dinner can wait,” he said, voice low and smooth.

Dean bumped into the edge of the counter and held up the dishtowel like a white flag. “We talked about this. Kitchen’s a no-fun zone. Safety hazard.”

“You brought this on yourself,” Castiel murmured, setting the box down and bracketing Dean between the counter and his body, hands sliding onto Dean’s hips with practiced ease.

Dean smirked, leaning in just enough to feel Castiel’s breath ghost over his lips. “Happy birthday, babe.”

“I’m going to ruin you,” Castiel whispered.

“God, I hope so.”

Castiel reached up slowly, fingers grazing along the cool steel of Dean’s chain collar. His touch was deliberate, reverent, like he was tracing a promise etched into metal. He found the tail end of the tag and gave it a gentle tug, watching as the collar tightened snug around Dean’s throat.

Dean’s lips parted in a grin—sharp, breathless, cocky as hell—and Castiel leaned in to kiss it off his face.

He caught Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting just hard enough to make him gasp. His free hand came up to cradle Dean’s jaw, then slid effortlessly to wrap around his throat. His fingers splayed possessively over the collar, feeling the beat of Dean’s pulse beneath his thumb.

Dean moaned, low and rough, and tilted his head back like an offering. Castiel didn’t hesitate—he chased his mouth, licked along the seam of his lip, slow and savoring, like he had all the time in the world to worship him.

Dean’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter behind him, white-knuckled and trembling.

“Veggies are burning,” Dean rasped, voice hoarse with arousal, his grin returning with less swagger and more want.

Castiel’s mouth hovered a breath from his. “Let them burn.”

He pressed in again, claiming Dean’s lips with heat and hunger, and Dean made a sound that could only be described as wrecked.

“Cas, the veggies are burning,” Dean laughed, voice low and breathy as he leaned back against the counter.

Castiel pulled away with a quiet growl of frustration and turned toward the stove. He grabbed the wooden spoon and stirred the vegetables with unnecessary aggression, the scent of caramelized garlic thick in the air—but he didn’t notice. Not really. Not until the room went quiet.

He turned just as he barely lowered the heat, placing the spoon carefully on a paper towel beside the burner.

And froze.

Dean was on his knees, chest lifted with pride and hunger, palms flat on his thighs. His back was straight, chin tilted up, green eyes catching the glow of the stovetop light like some unholy offering.

Castiel swallowed hard. That sight—collared, obedient, filthy—cut through his restraint like a blade through silk.

Dean licked his lips slowly. “Think I can suck your cock and make you cum before dinner burns?”

His voice was rough—wrecked gravel laced with heat and submission. A kinky slur meant only for Castiel’s ears. And Castiel felt it all the way down to his spine.

“Ask me properly,” Castiel said, his voice dangerously low, already tugging open the top button of his dark jeans. His fingers moved slow, like he knew Dean’s mouth was watering with every inch of skin he revealed.

Dean’s gaze dropped like gravity had pulled it there. “Please, Castiel,” he whispered. “Let me suck your big cock.”

That was all it took.

Castiel pulled the zipper down in one sharp motion, dragging his cock free with no pretense, thick and already flushed from the weight of anticipation. He stepped forward and grabbed the back of Dean’s head with one firm hand, threading his fingers tight in Dean’s hair.

Then he thrust forward—no hesitation, no gentleness—burying himself down Dean’s throat to the hilt in one brutal motion.

Dean gagged softly around him but never pulled away, just let his throat stretch and flex around the intrusion. He blinked slowly, lashes wet, eyes glassy and half-lidded, and looked up just to show Castiel that he could take it. That he wanted to.

Castiel groaned, the sound low and broken. “Filthy fucking brat,” he growled, rolling his hips just enough to feel Dean’s nose press into the base. “This what you wanted instead of dinner?”

Dean moaned around him in answer, and the vibration nearly made Castiel’s knees buckle.

He started to thrust in earnest now—slow but deep, dragging himself out only to drive back in harder, using Dean’s throat like it was made for him. Dean’s hands stayed obediently on his thighs, trembling slightly, jaw aching, eyes never leaving Castiel’s face.

Drool dripped from the corner of his mouth, slicking Castiel’s length, and Castiel wiped it away with his thumb only to smear it right back across Dean’s cheek possessively.

“My good boy,” he rasped, voice thick. “You gonna take every drop like I trained you?”

Dean whimpered, throat spasming around him, and Castiel hissed through his teeth.

He wasn’t going to last long. Not like this. Not with Dean on his knees in the kitchen, collar glinting, scent of dinner filling the air while his mouth was stuffed full and happy about it.

“Fuck—Dean—” he gasped, and his grip in Dean’s hair tightened as his rhythm faltered. “Don’t you dare spill a fucking drop.”

Dean moaned again, hungry and open, and when Castiel finally came—hot, deep, choking—Dean held still and swallowed every bit of it like a blessing, audibly gulping his fiancé’s thick cum.

Castiel’s body trembled as he gently pulled out, his hand cradling the side of Dean’s face, his thumb brushing over the mess at the corner of his mouth.

Dean looked up with a swollen, satisfied smile. “Told you I could do it before the veggies burned.”

Castiel blinked once.

Then he turned to the stove, sniffed the air—

And sighed. “They’re black.”

Dean snorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Worth it.”

Castiel chuckled low in his throat. “You’re doing the dishes.”

“Gladly,” Dean rasped. “But, uh… maybe after round two?”

Castiel reached down with both hands, fingers curling gently beneath Dean’s arms as he helped him up from the kitchen floor. Dean rose slowly, flushed and breathless, collar glinting against his throat, his lips kiss-bruised and swollen.

“Dishes first,” Castiel said, brushing Dean’s messy hair back from his forehead with surprising tenderness. “Round two after.”

Dean made a dramatic face, lips pursed in exaggerated protest. “Or,” he countered, stretching the word out like it was a seductive proposition, “round two first, and then dishes after.”

Castiel raised a brow, his hand pausing mid-motion on Dean’s cheek.

Dean didn’t stop. No, he doubled down like a man who hadn’t just had his throat fucked in the middle of their kitchen.

“I mean…” he shrugged, tone dripping with bratty challenge, “it’s your birthday. Shouldn’t you be getting what you want? And you did say you wanted to ruin me.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, jaw tightening in that dangerous way that always made Dean’s stomach flutter.

“I did say that,” Castiel murmured, voice like silk dragging over a blade. His eyes flicked down Dean’s body and back up again. “And you’re tempting me to skip dinner entirely.”

Dean smirked. “What can I say? I’m a giver.”

“You’re a brat,” Castiel corrected.

Dean pouted, shameless. “A cute brat.”

Castiel stepped closer, closing the distance between them in a slow, deliberate motion. He reached out and ran a hand down Dean’s back—once, tenderly—before letting it settle low on his ass, fingers splayed, possessive.

Dean’s breath hitched.

“I should bend you over this counter and spank you for talking back,” Castiel said, low and dark, his fingers tightening slightly for emphasis.

Dean’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You could. Or… I could be good for you instead. Just need some incentive.”

Castiel leaned in, their mouths nearly brushing. “My hand across your ass is incentive enough.”

Dean’s breath came shallow now, excitement pulsing just beneath his skin.

“Okay,” he whispered, almost teasing, “but if I end up bent over the sink scrubbing pans and walking funny, that’s on you, Cas.”

Castiel exhaled a quiet laugh, pulling him in by the hips until their bodies pressed together. “I accept full responsibility.”

He kissed Dean then—deep and slow, a promise and a threat wrapped into one perfect, possessive drag of tongue and lips—and when he pulled back, his hand gave Dean’s ass a firm smack, just enough to make Dean gasp and whine into his mouth.

“Now,” Castiel said, stepping back just enough to let Dean breathe, “dishes. And if I hear one more bratty word out of your mouth…”

Dean raised his hands in surrender. “Not a peep.”

“…I’ll make good on every single threat. With the spatula if I have to.”

Dean bit his lip, eyes gleaming. “You say that like it’s a punishment.”

Castiel just smiled and turned back to the stove.

The clatter of plates and quiet rush of water filled the kitchen, a soft domestic lull that might’ve seemed innocent—if not for the way Dean kept accidentally brushing his hips against Castiel’s as they cleaned up. First a bump. Then a lean. Then a slow, unapologetic grind as he reached for the sponge, his back arched just a little too perfectly as he “searched” for the dish soap.

Castiel gave him a warning glance the first time.

The second time, he said nothing—just watched Dean with simmering focus, the kind that made Dean’s skin buzz.

But by the third time, Dean had leaned over the sink unnecessarily far, humming under his breath, ass pressing into Castiel’s front with calculated rhythm as he scrubbed a plate that had already been clean five minutes ago.

“You done?” Castiel asked, voice low.

Dean looked over his shoulder with a grin. “Almost.”

Castiel didn’t reply.

He reached forward and snapped the faucet off, then grabbed the back of Dean’s shirt and pulled him upright so fast the plate clattered in the sink. Dean let out a small yelp, laughing breathlessly as Castiel spun him and pressed him hard against the counter.

“I warned you,” Castiel said, mouth a breath from his ear. “I was very clear.”

“Guess I wasn’t listening,” Dean said, grinning even as his breath hitched.

“You weren’t,” Castiel agreed, voice like rough velvet as his hands slid down Dean’s hips, gripping tight.

Before Dean could offer another smart remark, Castiel pushed his front against the counter and yanked his sweatpants and boxers down in one swift motion, baring him completely.

Dean gasped, hands scrambling to brace himself on the counter as the cold air hit his flushed skin. “Cas—”

“You don’t get to brat all through dish duty and think I won’t follow through.”

A slap echoed through the kitchen—sharp, deliberate, cracking across Dean’s ass and making him moan, knees nearly buckling. Castiel didn’t give him time to recover before delivering another, then another, each one firmer, more rhythmic, leaving Dean panting and red-faced against the counter’s edge.

“Count,” Castiel commanded.

Dean whined but obeyed, voice rough. “One… fuck—two… three…”

By the time he reached seven, his voice was barely more than a needy whimper, hips grinding back toward every punishing strike like he couldn’t help himself.

Castiel’s hand slid between Dean’s thighs then, palming him roughly.

Dean gasped, pushing into his touch.

“You’re already hard?” Castiel murmured, teasing. “From getting your ass beat for being a mouthy little brat?”

Dean nodded desperately, cheek pressed to the counter. “Yes. God, yes.”

Though Castiel wasn’t any different, he was just as fucking hard (again). Castiel’s other hand reached for the drawer beside them, retrieving the small bottle of lube they kept stashed there. With practiced ease, he slicked his fingers and reached back down, teasing between Dean’s cheeks with deliberate slowness.

Dean moaned, his knees shaking as two fingers pushed in deep, stretching him with no patience. “Fuck—Cas—”

“You misbehave, you get used like a toy,” Castiel rasped, bending low to press a kiss between Dean’s shoulder blades. “That’s the deal.”

Dean whimpered in response, pushing back onto Castiel’s fingers, fucking himself on them with shameless abandon.

Castiel didn’t make him wait long.

Moments later, he lined himself up and thrust in hard, burying himself in one deep stroke that knocked the air from Dean’s lungs.

“F-fuck,” Dean choked, head dropping forward. “God, yes—please—”

Castiel gripped Dean’s hips and drove into him again, relentless, pulling nearly all the way out only to slam back in with punishing force, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the kitchen. Dean’s moans grew louder, messier, every thrust sending sparks through him as he braced himself against the counter.

“You’re mine,” Castiel growled, voice shaking with restraint. “Every inch of you. This is mine.”

Dean nodded, moaned, babbling, and cock drunk.

“Say it,” Castiel demanded, snapping his hips again, harder.

“I’m yours,” Dean gasped. “I’m—fuck—I’m yours, Cas—always—”

Castiel’s hand wrapped around Dean’s cock, stroking him roughly in time with his thrusts, and it was all too much—the pressure, the stretch, the overwhelming ownership of it all.

Dean shattered with a cry, spilling against the cabinets beneath them, muscles spasming around Castiel’s cock as he was fucked straight through it.

Castiel followed a few thrusts later, groaning deep as he came inside him, gripping Dean’s hips so tight they’d leave bruises he’d kiss better later.

They stood there like that for a long moment—sweaty, trembling, wrecked.

Then Castiel leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. “Dishes are done.”

Dean snorted weakly, limp against the counter. “So am I.”

Castiel chuckled, wrapping an arm around his waist and gently pulling him back to standing. “Come on. Shower, then you can have dessert. You’ve earned it.”

Dean grinned over his shoulder. “Only if I get to eat it naked.”

Castiel raised a brow. “You planning on behaving now?”

Dean winked. “Absolutely not.”

***

The water steamed against the glass before they even stepped inside. Castiel guided Dean by the wrist into the walk-in shower, still bare, flushed, and pliant from being thoroughly wrecked against the kitchen counter. Dean leaned into him with a lazy smirk, that satisfied post-orgasm glow written all over his face—and just a touch of smugness too.

Castiel let it slide. For now.

The moment the water hit Dean’s back, he sighed, deep and guttural, letting the heat melt the last of the tension out of his shoulders. Castiel reached for the soap, working it between his palms until it frothed into a soft lather, and then brought his hands to Dean’s chest.

He washed him slowly.

Fingers mapped across collarbone and sternum, over the flushed ridges of his ribs, smoothing soap over every inch like worship. He was tender, reverent in contrast to the roughness from earlier—thumbs grazing the faint red lines across Dean’s hips, marks he’d made, and would no doubt mark again. Dean's breath hitched softly when Castiel gently massaged his thighs, his hands moving up the insides, careful, warm, never rushing.

“You okay?” Castiel asked, his lips ghosting across Dean’s shoulder.

Dean gave a lazy little hum of contentment, head tilting back. “Floatin’, Cas.”

Castiel smiled and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, then another. “Good.”

He rinsed the soap off in long, slow strokes, his hands chasing the rivulets of water down Dean’s body. Then he switched places, letting Dean return the favor—Dean’s touches were rougher, but affectionate, and his thumbs were firm in all the places that were sore.

When Castiel leaned his head forward to rinse, Dean wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, hugging him close beneath the stream.

“I love you,” Dean whispered, chest pressed to Castiel’s spine, words damp with warmth and reverence.

Castiel reached back and threaded his fingers into Dean’s, squeezing gently. “I love you more.”

They stayed like that until the water began to cool, and then they stepped out, Castiel wrapping Dean in a towel first, ruffling his hair with another before wrapping himself up.

They made their way into the kitchen again—naked, slightly damp, and utterly unbothered by it.

On the island sat a pristine homemade pie Dean had bought and baked the night before—a flaky golden crust with a gooey caramel apple center that had made Castiel moan when it came out of the oven.

Dean leaned against the counter beside it, smirking. “So.”

Castiel quirked a brow.

“Naked pie,” Dean said, reaching for the knife, slicing a generous wedge, and setting it on a plate like he was preparing something sacred.

He dipped a finger into the caramel filling and brought it to his lips, sucking it slowly. “Damn. That’s good.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, watching the way Dean’s tongue wrapped around his finger, obscene and slow. “What are you doing?”

“Testing the quality,” Dean said, reaching for the can of whipped cream in the fridge. “And... enhancing it.” Dean walked to the kitchen table and placed the plate down.

Before Castiel could stop him, Dean sprayed a thick dollop of whipped cream directly onto the plate. But instead of eating it with the fork, he reached down, scooped some up with two fingers, bringing it up to his lips, but a dollop landed on his chest, where he shrugged and smeared it as he scooped it up.

“You gonna have a taste?” Dean asked innocently, licking the excess off his fingers.

Castiel stared. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then he advanced.

Dean barely had time to drop the whipped cream before Castiel had him on his back atop the table, kissing him deep, tongue plunging past his lips with fevered hunger as one hand smeared through the cream and down his chest.

“You are filthy,” Castiel growled, licking a stripe from Dean’s pec to his shoulder. “You’re going to ruin dessert.”

Dean giggled—actually giggled, squirming under the attention as Castiel dipped his fingers into the filling and rubbed it gently over Dean’s lips, then sucked it away with a low moan.

“Correction,” Dean gasped. “I am dessert.”

Castiel leaned in, whipped cream smeared across his cheek, and bit at Dean’s lower lip. “Then I’ll lick you clean.”

And he did. Everywhere Dean smeared the pie and whipped cream, Castiel’s mouth would chase after it, biting, licking and sucking.

He licked every smear of cream and caramel off Dean’s chest, stomach, and hips, pausing only to kiss him breathless between mouthfuls, until Dean was gasping and writhing and begging for round three with sticky thighs and apple filling on his jaw.

Castiel smirked above him. “You gonna behave now?”

Dean blinked up, flushed and wrecked and smug as hell.

“Not a chance.”

Castiel laughed, low and deep. “Perfect.”

Dean was already panting beneath him, flushed from head to toe, sweat mixing with streaks of whipped cream and apple filling on his bare skin. His hair was a damp, wild mess against the kitchen table, his thighs already sticky where Castiel had licked and kissed and bit his way down.

And yet… he was still hard. Still hungry.

Castiel stood over him, his dark eyes devouring every inch of Dean’s sprawled, glistening body. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” he murmured, voice thick with arousal as he stroked himself slowly, letting Dean see it—how hard he was again, already aching to be buried inside.

Dean gave a breathless laugh and spread his legs wider on the table. “If you’re offering, Cas, I’m not saying no.”

Castiel grinned—dangerous, fond—and grabbed Dean by the hips, dragging him down the table with a rough pull until the backs of Dean’s thighs were hanging over the edge. His toes curled uselessly in the air as Castiel lined himself up once more.

“You're loud when you want something,” Castiel said, rubbing the head of his cock along Dean’s slick, abused hole, teasing him with short, shallow thrusts that made Dean moan and buck his hips. “Want you loud now. Want the neighbors to know how desperate you are for me.”

Dean gasped, fingers curling against the edge of the table. “Then stop talking and fuck me, Cas—please, please—fuck—”

Castiel thrust forward in one smooth, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

Dean screamed—a high, broken, aching sound that echoed off the kitchen tile, his head thrown back, eyes rolling up as Castiel’s cock filled him completely.

“God—fuckfuckfuck—”

Castiel didn’t pause.

He gripped Dean’s thighs and started thrusting hard, unrelenting, every wet slap of skin-on-skin punctuated by Dean’s loud, ragged cries. The table rocked beneath them, silverware clattering to the floor, pie forgotten at the corner. Castiel leaned in over him, one hand gripping Dean’s throat as his hips pounded into him, deep and punishing.

Dean was wrecked—sweat dripping from his temples, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, mouth falling open with every filthy, guttural noise that tore out of him.

“Oh god, Cas! Fuck—fuck me!” he babbled, legs wrapping around Castiel’s waist, pulling him impossibly close, hands gripping Castiel’s biceps so hard they’d bruise. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop, Cas, I’m gonna—shit—”

Castiel grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him hard, swallowing every gasp and cry as he slammed into him over and over, chasing the heat building between them like it was a holy thing.

“Good boy,” he growled against Dean’s mouth. “Taking me so well—so fucking tight for me. You love being used like this, don’t you?”

Dean could barely answer—just nodded frantically, choking on his own moans, his oversensitive cock trapped between their bodies and leaking against his stomach.

Castiel slipped a hand down and started stroking him in time with every thrust, rough and fast and perfect, and that was all it took.

Dean screamed, his back arching completely off the table as he came hard, striping both their stomachs, his whole body spasming violently beneath Castiel’s.

“Cas—Cas—Cas—fuck, oh my god—”

Castiel groaned as Dean’s body clenched around him, tight and pulsing, dragging him over the edge. He thrust once, twice more, then came with a guttural cry, grinding in deep as he filled Dean with heat and want and everything he had left.

They stayed like that for a moment—frozen in the wreckage of it. Breathing hard. Slick with sweat and cream and cum and love, even if neither of them had said it in that exact moment.

Castiel slowly eased out, watching as Dean whimpered and blinked up at the ceiling like he didn’t remember what year it was.

“You okay?” Castiel asked, brushing damp hair back from his forehead.

Dean gave a weak, blissed-out laugh. “I don’t think I have bones anymore.”

Castiel chuckled, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, then lower. “You asked for round three.”

“And I regret nothing.”

“Mm.” Castiel pulled him up gently, cradling him as he slid off the table, legs wobbly and grin still plastered across his flushed face. “Bed?”

Dean nodded. “And maybe… pie round two later.”

Castiel’s eyes darkened again. “Not if I eat it off you first.”

Dean smirked. “God, I love being engaged to a pervert.”

Castiel kissed the corner of his mouth, hand sliding down to squeeze his sore ass. “And I love owning one.”

***

Dean collapsed face-first into the mattress after their second shower, with a sigh so deep it vibrated through the room, his arms splayed out and legs like jelly behind him. Castiel followed moments later, dropping beside him with a soft grunt and a warm hand already reaching across the sheets to pull Dean closer.

Neither of them said anything at first. Just quiet breathing. Cooling skin. The steady, grounding thrum of a shared heartbeat, chest to chest, pressed so close it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Dean let out a small, tired groan. “I’m gonna feel that in my soul tomorrow.”

“I’m hoping so,” Castiel murmured, tucking his face into the curve of Dean’s neck and breathing him in.

Dean smiled lazily, fingers playing with the edge of the sheet. “We’re disgusting.”

“Speak for yourself. I think we’re romantic.”

Dean laughed, soft and unguarded. “Romantic with a side of whipped cream and table-banging.”

Castiel kissed the edge of his collarbone, slow and reverent. “Exactly.”

They settled deeper into the blankets, warmth curling around them like an embrace. Castiel’s hand slipped beneath the sheet to rest on Dean’s waist, thumb drawing idle circles just above the swell of his hip.

For a long while, there was only silence and breath and the occasional hum of contentment from Dean.

Then—

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” Dean murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Castiel blinked against his skin. “Wedding?”

Dean snorted. “No. Pie tasting, Cas.”

Castiel smiled against his shoulder. “Ah. Yes. The more sacred ceremony.”

“You joke,” Dean said, turning to face him, “but you haven’t lived until you’ve had Missouri Moseley’s bourbon pecan pie. That woman could start wars with her pastry.”

“I’m terrified and intrigued.”

“You should be. She’s got opinions. And a wooden cane. Don’t get on her bad side. She’s like... if a sweet grandma and a mafia boss had a baby and raised it in a kitchen.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched. “So I should let you do most of the talking.”

“God, yes.” Dean scooted closer, hooking a leg over Castiel’s and tangling them up. “I’ve been going to that shop since I was a kid. She used to sneak me slices when Dad would drop me off and forget to come back on time. Mom would show up instead fuming.” Dean laughed wryly.

Castiel’s expression softened. “She sounds great.”

“She is,” Dean said quietly.

There was a pause, and then Castiel brushed a hand over Dean’s cheek, gentle.

“Then I’ll be on my best behavior. Even if she threatens me with her cane.”

Dean grinned. “You’ll charm her. She’s got a soft spot for weird, handsome guys who love pie and treat me right.”

“I’ll do my best,” Castiel whispered, nudging their noses together.

“You already are,” Dean murmured.

The kiss that followed was soft—just lips brushing, slow and sleepy, nothing urgent. Just a quiet affirmation. A shared exhale.

When they pulled apart, Dean let his head rest against Castiel’s chest, ear pressed to the steady beat beneath his skin. “What if she doesn’t like you?”

“She will,” Castiel said, threading his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Because I love you.”

Dean went still for a moment.

And then: “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you.”

Dean smiled against his chest, heart thudding slow and safe. “Good. ’Cause I kinda like bein’ loved by you.”

“You make it easy.”

They drifted then—entwined in warmth and soft words, the sheets twisted around their bodies, the room dim and quiet except for the sound of their breathing. The scent of pie still lingered faintly in the air, sweet and ridiculous, and so very them.

And as Dean dozed off in Castiel’s arms, one final thought drifted lazily from his mouth:

“If we don’t pick that bourbon pecan tomorrow, I’m calling off the wedding.”

Castiel smiled. “Duly noted.”

***

The next morning broke soft and golden, sunlight spilling through the windshield as Dean drove the winding country road out of town. His arm rested lazily on the steering wheel, fingers tapping to the quiet rhythm of classic rock playing low on the radio. Castiel sat in the passenger seat, unusually quiet, sipping coffee from a paper cup that said Kiss the Cook or Go Hungry in handwritten marker—Dean’s doing, courtesy of his favorite gas station mug theft.

Dean glanced over and smirked. “Nervous?”

Castiel looked at him over the rim of the cup. “About being judged by a legendary pie matriarch wielding a cane and possibly dark magic? No. Why would I be?”

Dean grinned, turning back to the road. “You’ll do fine. Just don’t try to critique the crust, and don’t mention artificial sweeteners unless you want to be hexed.”

The trees gave way to an open gravel parking lot and a squat, lovingly weathered building that looked like it hadn’t changed since the early ’80s—except for the hand-painted sign over the door that read MOSELEY'S FINEST. Below it, smaller letters: Pie So Good It’ll Confess Your Sins For You.

“Home sweet home,” Dean murmured.

They pulled in beside a dark sedan and a battered old hatchback. Two figures were already leaning against the side of the building—Nick, in a leather jacket that always seemed too warm for the weather, and Jack, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet in a hoodie two sizes too big and a pair of blindingly white sneakers.

Dean stepped out and grinned wide. “Look who couldn’t wait for pie.”

“Are you kidding?” Jack beamed. “I set an alarm. Missouri’s peach crumble changed my life.”

Nick crossed his arms and nodded to Castiel. “Morning, Cas. Ready for your official initiation into the Cult of Pie?”

Castiel nodded solemnly. “I have trained for this.”

Dean chuckled and wrapped an arm around his waist, tugging him closer as they walked toward the door. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s got a sweet tooth worse than mine now.”

“Lies,” Castiel murmured. “I’m simply thorough in my tasting methods.”

Jack looked between them and grinned. “So like, are we judging pies or just eating ourselves into sugar comas?”

“Both,” Dean said. “But make no mistake, we’re making wedding decisions today. This is sacred. The wedding is next week.”

They stepped through the door into a warm, fragrant world that smelled like sugar and butter and a memory Dean hadn’t touched in years. The scent hit him first—vanilla, cinnamon, something just shy of nutmeg—and then the familiar creak of the old tile under his boots. The counter hadn’t changed. Neither had the mismatched stools or the chalkboard menu above the register.

Behind the glass display case, slicing into a steaming pie with military precision, stood Missouri Moseley.

“’Bout time,” she said without looking up. “You’re lucky I like you, Dean Winchester. I held back the bourbon pecan just for you. Any later and I’d’ve fed it to the preacher next door.”

Dean’s grin could’ve cracked glass. “Missouri.”

She looked up then, her gaze sharp enough to cut steel—and softened just slightly when she saw him. “Boy, you still don’t know how to shave right.”

Dean walked around the counter and pulled her into a hug anyway. “And you still threaten people with dessert like it’s a weapon.”

“It is a weapon.” She gave him a firm pat on the back before pulling away. “Now, introduce me to the poor man brave enough to marry your smart mouth.”

Dean turned and held out a hand toward Castiel, who had quietly stepped forward, standing tall in a dark blue button-down and the softest look in his eyes.

“This is Castiel,” Dean said. “My fiancé. He already knows you by reputation.”

Missouri looked him up and down. “Mm. Tall. Quiet. Looks like he reads banned poetry and scares small men at the DMV. I like him.”

Castiel blinked once. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t tasted my pie.”

Dean coughed into his hand and muttered, “Out of context, that sentence…”

“Watch it,” she warned, picking up her cane and tapping it lightly against his shin.

He saluted. “Yes ma’am.”

Missouri turned to the others. “Jack, honey, you go set the table out back. Nick, you help me bring out the test plates. We’re doing this old-school.”

Jack grinned and bolted for the back porch while Nick followed her into the kitchen with a shrug.

Dean slipped his hand into Castiel’s and leaned in close. “You ready for a religious experience?”

“I already had one last night,” Castiel whispered back, low and warm in his ear. “But I’m open to conversion.”

Dean’s eyes darkened, but before he could retort, Missouri’s voice bellowed from the kitchen:

“I heard that!”

Dean groaned. “She’s got the hearing of a goddamn bat.”

Castiel smiled softly, fingers lacing tighter with his. “Then behave.”

Dean just grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Out back, the sunlight filtered through the wide branches of an old oak tree that shaded the picnic tables Missouri had set up decades ago—weathered wood, chipped paint, and all. Jack had already laid out mismatched plates and silverware like he was setting up for a summer wedding, humming to himself as he adjusted each fork with intense concentration.

Dean and Castiel took a seat on one side of the long bench, side by side, thighs pressed together beneath the table. Nick sat across from them, arms folded like he was ready to judge a reality TV show. And then the screen door creaked, and Missouri stepped out like a one-woman parade, balancing three full trays of steaming pie slices with the grace of someone who’d been doing this longer than anyone alive had earned the right to question.

“I hope y’all came hungry,” she said, placing the first tray down with a satisfying thud. “There are ten kinds today. I only accept marriage proposals after the third slice, so pace yourselves.”

“Too late,” Dean muttered. “Cas already put a ring on it.”

“Then I’ll just take his number for emergencies,” Missouri fired back without missing a beat.

Jack snorted so hard he nearly knocked over a plate.

Missouri pointed at him with a pie server. “Watch yourself, sugar. One wrong move and you’re getting the sugar-free slice.”

“No!” Jack looked genuinely alarmed.

Dean leaned over and stage-whispered, “I told you. She doesn’t play.”

The first slice went to Dean—Missouri’s classic apple bourbon cinnamon, the crust so flakey it practically sighed when the fork touched it. He took one bite and groaned aloud, hand gripping Castiel’s knee under the table. “Okay, this one’s already the winner.”

“Slow your roll,” Missouri said, setting another slice down in front of Castiel. “You say that after every first bite. Got the palate memory of a damn goldfish.”

Castiel took his first bite of the same pie, closed his eyes, and made a soft, appreciative hum that went straight to Dean’s spine.

Missouri pointed her server at Castiel’s face. “See, that’s how you express gratitude. Quiet reverence. Not moaning like a sinner in a confessional.”

Dean lifted a brow and leaned in. “You weren’t complaining a few weeks ago when I helped fix your generator.”

“I was being polite,” she sniffed, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

The next slices were placed in front of Jack and Nick—strawberry rhubarb and chocolate. Jack immediately gasped. “Oh my god. This tastes like happiness and summer camp had a baby.”

Nick stared at him. “What the hell kind of summer camp did you go to?”

“I didn’t go to camp,” Jack said cheerfully, taking another bite. “But if I did, this would be it.”

Castiel raised his fork, offering Dean a bite off his plate. “Try the blueberry lavender.”

Dean leaned in and took the offered bite slowly, eyes locked with Castiel’s in a way that made Jack audibly sigh and Missouri roll her eyes hard enough to shift the Earth’s axis.

“This is a pie tasting, not a softcore wedding special,” Missouri barked. “Save it for the honeymoon—or at least the parking lot.”

Dean grinned around the bite, chewing slowly. “You say that like it’s not the hottest thing that’s happened to me today.”

“I can still revoke your tasting privileges,” she warned.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Dean said, gesturing at his empty plate. “This is foreplay for me.”

Missouri dropped another tray on the table, loud. “You freaks are getting the key lime.”

Dean gasped in mock offense. “You said that like it’s a punishment.”

Castiel, completely unbothered, picked up the key lime slice, took a single bite, and blinked. “This is… extraordinary.”

Missouri smirked. “You’ve got taste. Marry him before he ruins you with processed snack cakes and gas station pastries.”

Dean held a hand to his heart. “I’m right here, Missouri.”

“You’re lucky I love you boy,” she muttered, slicing into the next pie. “Otherwise I’d’ve had you arrested years ago for your crimes against dessert.”

As the morning wore on, plates multiplied. Pecan bourbon. Blackberry basil. A wild cherry ginger that made Castiel arch an eyebrow and declare, “This might be what joy tastes like.”

Dean leaned close, lips brushing Castiel’s ear. “If you keep making noises like that, I’m gonna have to take you back to Baby for a private tasting.”

“Try it and you’ll be tasting my cane,” Missouri said from behind him without even looking.

Dean jerked upright. “Jesus Christ, woman, how do you do that?”

“She’s omnipresent,” Jack whispered reverently.

By the end, they were stuffed. Jack had pie filling around his mouth. Nick looked like he was calculating the calories in real time and having a minor existential crisis. Castiel sat back with his hand resting on Dean’s thigh under the table, content and quiet.

“So?” Missouri asked, arms crossed. “Final decision?”

Dean looked to Castiel.

Castiel nodded once, confident.

Dean turned back to her with a grin. “Bourbon pecan and blackberry basil. One sweet, one sharp. Just like us.”

Missouri raised her brow, impressed. “Damn. Y’all are getting married.”

Dean laughed and leaned over to kiss Castiel’s temple. “Yeah, we are.”

Missouri just huffed, muttering, “Lord help you.” She gestured to Castiel.

***

That evening, the sky turned a soft shade of amber as golden hour filtered in through the living room windows of Dean and Castiel’s home. The scent of roasted peppers and buttery takeout filled the air, carried by the breeze from the open kitchen window. On the coffee table sat three sweating bottles of beer, two containers of lasagna—one vegetarian, one not—and a paper bag of still-warm garlic knots that had already been half-devoured.

Charlie had her boots kicked off and her legs curled under her on the couch, red hair pulled into a loose bun, and a tablet propped up on her lap like she was about to give a TED Talk.

“Okay,” she said, taking a swig of her drink. “So, wedding themes. I brought samples, mood boards, and exactly two opinions I’m willing to die for. Let’s go.”

Dean sat sprawled on the opposite end of the couch, nursing his beer and half-laying against Castiel, who perched calmly in the armchair beside him, one ankle crossed neatly over his knee, watching them like they were a documentary with mild chaos and high entertainment value.

“Theme?” Dean scoffed, mouth full. “I thought the theme was ‘get married and not die from decision fatigue.’”

Charlie rolled her eyes dramatically. “Dean. You’re marrying Castiel. You can’t just roll up to a barn in your flannel and call it a day.”

“I like barns,” Dean grumbled. “And flannels.”

“You also like dipping tater tots in peanut butter at 2 a.m. That doesn’t mean we build a wedding around it.”

Castiel cleared his throat. “Dean did mention liking the idea of an outdoor ceremony. Something rustic. Natural.”

Dean pointed with his bottle. “See? Cas gets me.”

“Rustic is fine,” Charlie allowed, “but it needs direction. Cohesion. Intentionality. We need a color palette, floral direction, lighting language—”

Dean groaned. “Are you planning a wedding or leading a revolution?”

Charlie grinned wickedly. “Both. And I will take prisoners.”

Dean shot Castiel a desperate look. “Babe, talk to her.”

“She’s your Maid of Honor,” Castiel said smoothly, reaching over to steal a garlic knot. “I assumed this dynamic was part of the package.”

Dean sighed. “I didn’t realize I was marrying both of you.”

Charlie perked up. “Hey, I’m honored. But if we’re doing a throuple vibe, I get equal pie slices at the reception.”

“That’s it,” Dean snapped, sitting up and tossing his napkin down. “No eucalyptus garland. No champagne-tinted linen napkins. And no groomsmen in suspenders. I swear to God, Charlie.”

Charlie sat up straighter, eyes ablaze. “Oh my God, you loved the suspenders! You said—and I quote—‘Those are pretty damn sharp, actually.’ I wrote it down!”

“I was drunk!”

“You were sentimental! We were watching Little Women!”

Dean groaned like he’d just been personally attacked. “You promised you wouldn’t bring that up!”

“I lied!”

Castiel, who had been calmly chewing, held up one hand like he was raising it in court. “Enough.”

Dean and Charlie froze mid-glare.

Castiel blinked slowly. “Dean, your taste is questionable at best. Charlie, your ambition is admirable but bordering on tyrannical. Perhaps we find a middle ground where Dean gets his barn and pie, and you get your design-forward mood lighting.”

Charlie snorted. “Design-forward mood lighting. You are marrying him for his vocabulary, aren’t you?”

Dean grinned sideways. “That, and the tongue.”

Charlie made a gagging noise and threw a pillow at his head. “Gross.”

Castiel caught the pillow mid-air and placed it neatly on his lap. “Do I need to implement a speaking schedule?”

“Please do,” Charlie muttered.

Dean shoved another knot in his mouth like a middle finger. “I’ll behave if she behaves.”

Charlie looked at Castiel. “He’s lying.”

“I know,” Castiel said evenly. “But I love him anyway.”

Dean leaned over the arm of the couch and gave Castiel a crooked smile. “Sucker.”

Charlie watched the exchange with a soft little sigh, her mood boards momentarily forgotten. “God, you two are disgustingly perfect.”

“Just wait till you see our matching vows,” Dean said, mouth full.

“I already regret agreeing to this,” she mumbled into her drink.

Castiel raised his beer. “To balance,” he said simply. “Between chaos and order.”

Dean raised his bottle, clinking it against Castiel’s.

Charlie smiled and raised hers too. “To pie, profanity, and the power of design.”

Chapter Text

By the time Dean and Castiel made it to Rowena and Crowley’s place that weekend, they were deep into the wedding trenches—pie picked (bourbon pecan and blackberry basil), mini pies ordered (at a steep but Missouri-approved price), and the theme finally decided upon after a cold war between Dean and Charlie that ended with Castiel quietly selecting navy and “accidentally” ordering the linens before either of them could argue again.

“I stand by forest green,” Dean muttered under his breath as they stepped into the foyer.

Castiel patted his back gently. “And I stand by your complete lack of taste.”

Before Dean could respond, the scent of something rich with rosemary wafted down the hallway—lamb, maybe, or something soaked in wine. Rowena didn’t do “light” cooking. Everything was decadent or cursed. Sometimes both.

“Look who finally arrived,” came Ruby’s voice from the dining room, sharp and playful as ever. “Took you long enough. I was about to drink both your glasses of wine.”

Dean rounded the corner with Castiel in tow to find the dining room already bustling. Ruby was perched on the edge of her seat, one heel kicked off and nudging Sam’s shin under the table, and Sam—bless him—looked like he wasn’t sure if he should be aroused or deeply uncomfortable.

Rowena stood by the head of the table, swirling a glass of red like a villainess waiting for her monologue. Crowley leaned against the sideboard, sleeves rolled, nursing his scotch in the window like a brooding noir extra who had just discovered fresh gossip.

“Well, if it isn’t the groom and the... other groom,” Crowley said, waving them in. “Come in, sit down, and prepare to be peer-pressured into elegance.”

“We brought wine,” Castiel offered, holding up the bottle.

“Darling,” Rowena said as she glided toward him and kissed his cheek, “if the wine isn’t older than your relationship, you’ve done it wrong.”

Dean leaned in to Castiel as they sat. “I love her. But she terrifies me.”

“She should.”

As they settled in, Ruby passed Dean a glass already poured and smirked as he took a sip. “So. Heard you finally caved on the color palette. Navy, huh? Real original.”

Dean glared over the rim of his glass. “I was outnumbered.”

“You were outstyled,” Ruby shot back.

“Actually, Dean wanted a ‘rustic Americana’ vibe,” Castiel offered helpfully, mouth twitching with amusement.

“Oh no,” Ruby groaned. “Did he say that out loud?”

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “He did. Twice. And once in front of Missouri.”

“Jesus,” Ruby said, grinning. “Did she threaten to revoke the pie contract?”

Dean muttered into his wine. “She did threaten to throw a rolling pin at me.”

Ruby turned to Sam and stage-whispered, “You’re related to this man.”

Sam shrugged helplessly, cheeks pink. “Trust me, I’m trying not to be.”

“You love me,” Dean said, pointing a fork at him.

“I’m under legal obligation to,” Sam replied dryly, earning a soft laugh from Castiel and a delighted little snort from Rowena.

“Now then,” Rowena said, clapping her hands once, “let’s talk dinner reception. Sit-down or buffet?”

“Not buffet,” Crowley said with disdain. “What are we, medieval peasants?”

“I like buffets,” Dean argued. “People get options.”

“And chafing dishes,” Crowley countered. “Sweaty meatballs and limp salad. Absolutely not.”

“What about a plated dinner with courses?” Ruby asked, biting into her lamb. “Like... four or five rounds of stuff, smaller portions. Real fancy, real dramatic.”

Dean glanced at Castiel. “How do you feel about ‘dramatic’ food?”

“I’m marrying you,” Castiel replied, deadpan. “Clearly, I’m open to theatrics.”

Sam choked slightly on his drink.

Rowena tilted her glass at them. “You could do family-style dining. Elegant but communal. Big platters passed around. That’s what we in the business call balance.”

Ruby leaned forward. “And if you let me handle the cocktail hour, I’ll make sure every drink comes with edible glitter and names like Holy Matrimony Mojito.”

Sam made a face. “Please do.”

“Please don’t,” Dean said at the same time.

Castiel reached over and squeezed his thigh under the table. “We’ll discuss it.”

“‘Discuss it,’” Ruby mimicked with a mock-deep voice. “That’s couple code for ‘you’re not getting what you want, Dean.’”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “How come you’re dating my brother and bullying me?”

“Because Sam’s sweet and you’re fun to poke.”

Sam looked vaguely offended. “I’m fun.”

“You’re sweet,” Castiel agreed kindly.

Ruby winked. “And a little boring. But I love you anyway.”

Dean burst out laughing, and Sam gave up entirely, sinking back into his seat and picking at his potatoes with dramatic resignation.

“So, final vote?” Crowley asked, swirling his scotch. “Three-course plated dinner with customized cocktails, midnight pie bar, and a mini dessert tower?”

Dean blinked. “Did you just... build our entire reception menu?”

Rowena and Crowley shared a smug little glance.

“We curated your entire reception menu,” Rowena corrected.

“You’re welcome,” Crowley added.

Castiel smiled softly and leaned his shoulder into Dean’s. “It’s perfect.”

Dean let out a breath and looked around the table—his brother, his—other—best friend, his chosen family, and the man he was going to marry. He lowered his gaze.

The laughter had settled into a warm, satisfied lull, plates mostly cleared and glasses half-full with second rounds of wine or scotch. Candles flickered low along Rowena’s antique candelabra, casting soft shadows across the dining room table, gilding the edges of napkins and glassware.

Everyone looked... content.

Everyone except Dean.

He hadn’t said anything for several minutes, just quietly pushed the remnants of his mashed potatoes around his plate, the ones he’s always begged for and gushed over, the tip of his fork clinking softly against porcelain. His brow was furrowed, mouth tugged into a faint pout he probably thought went unnoticed—but Castiel, seated beside him, noticed immediately.

So did Rowena.

She leaned her elbow on the table and tilted her head, tone honeyed and dangerous in the way only Rowena could manage. “Dean, darling... you’re awfully quiet all of a sudden. Is something the matter?”

Dean looked up like he’d been caught mid-thought, eyes darting first to her, then to Castiel, and then—almost guiltily—to Sam.

He shrugged, casual. Too casual. “Nah, I’m fine.”

Rowena didn’t blink. “That sounded like the ‘fine’ someone says when they’re about to set the house on fire.”

Ruby grinned. “He’s got the face of someone who just watched his favorite truck get painted pink.”

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t quite meet anyone’s gaze. “It’s just... never mind.”

“Dean,” Castiel said gently, reaching up to pat the back of his head—his hand large and steady, fingers curling briefly in his hair in a way that was grounding, familiar, and patient. “Tell me.”

Dean exhaled through his nose and dropped his fork, letting it clatter onto the edge of the plate. “I just...” He shifted in his chair, still not looking at Sam. “I guess I feel like I haven’t really gotten anything I wanted to do.”

The silence that followed was brief but palpable.

Rowena’s expression softened instantly, her red-painted lips parting slightly.

Dean kept talking, trying to bury the edge of frustration under a thin layer of humor that didn’t quite land. “I mean, not that I had, like, a list or anything. But the food? The colors? The theme? It’s all great. Just not... mine. Not really.”

His voice didn’t break, but it dipped—quiet and just shy of small.

He huffed and added quickly, “And I’m not trying to whine or anything, I just—Charlie and Cas were arguing with their eyes and then Missouri told me I had the palate of a goldfish and I just kinda... gave up.”

That earned a few quiet chuckles. Even Sam smiled faintly.

Dean folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the table, his jaw clenched and his shoulders tense—not quite bratting, but teetering right on the edge. He didn’t want to make a scene, not with Sam here. Not with everyone looking at him like that. But it mattered—he mattered. And he didn’t know how to say that without sounding ridiculous.

“Darling,” Rowena said, her voice low, not mocking this time. “No one here wants a wedding that doesn’t feel like yours. You should have said something sooner.”

“I was saying something,” Dean muttered. “I just got outvoted.”

“You got steamrolled,” Ruby said with a shrug. “It’s different.”

Castiel’s hand shifted from Dean’s head to his shoulder, squeezing once, firmly. “She’s right,” he said softly. “And you didn’t say anything to me. Why?”

Dean glanced at him, then away, voice low. “’Cause I didn’t wanna be that guy, Cas. The one who’s throwing fits over fucking tablecloths. And... I didn’t want Sam to think I was being—”

He stopped himself, mouth snapping shut.

Sam blinked. “Being what?”

Dean finally looked at him, cheeks a little pink. “Weird. Whiny. I don’t know. Just—not me.”

The room held still for a beat.

Sam leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “Dean. You’re allowed to care about your own wedding. It doesn’t make you weird. It makes you a grown-up.”

Dean blinked at him.

Ruby snorted. “That might be a stretch, but the point stands.”

“Make a list,” Rowena said. “Three things. Doesn’t have to be big. Doesn’t even have to be logical. But they’re yours. Non-negotiable.”

Dean looked unsure. “Like what?”

Castiel tilted his head. “What’s something you dreamed about having, before all the plans started?”

Dean opened his mouth, paused, then laughed—almost sheepish. “A mechanical bull.”

The room went dead silent.

Ruby immediately slammed her palm on the table. “YES. Yes. That’s it. That’s the vibe.”

“Dear God,” Crowley muttered from the corner, clearly horrified. “We’ve created a monster.”

Rowena smirked over her wine glass. “It could be painted navy.”

Castiel leaned close and whispered against Dean’s temple, “You can have the bull, sweetheart.”

Dean smiled—soft and crooked. Still pink in the cheeks, but a little looser now. A little less wound tight.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Even if you’re all judging me.”

“We’ve always judged you,” Ruby said. “But we love you too, so it cancels out.”

Sam lifted his glass. “To mechanical bulls and letting Dean pick weird shit that makes him happy.”

Everyone followed suit, even Castiel, who smiled softly as he clinked his glass against Dean’s.

Dean raised his own, chin lifting a little higher.

“To letting me have one damn thing.”

Dean hadn’t even taken a full sip of his wine before Rowena leaned in, red curls catching the candlelight like fire, and fixed him with the kind of look that made men confess sins they hadn’t even committed yet.

“Well?” she purred. “That’s one. The bull. What are the other two?”

Dean blinked at her. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

“I haven’t even thought about it yet—”

“Then think fast,” Ruby said, leaning forward like she was watching a game show. “This is good stuff.”

Castiel rubbed soothing circles against the back of Dean’s neck, his voice calm but curious. “You don’t have to rush. But I am curious, too. If it matters to you... I want to know.”

Dean huffed, glancing around the table like they’d all formed a tribunal. “Jesus. You’d think I was choosing the next pope.”

“You’re picking the emotional highlights of a ceremony that legally binds you to me,” Castiel said. “It’s slightly more significant.”

Dean stared at him for a long second, then muttered, “How do you always manage to make stuff sound both terrifying and kinda hot?”

Ruby raised a hand. “That’s what we all wanna know.”

Rowena reached across the table and gently tapped her long, painted nail against Dean’s glass. “You’re stalling, darling.”

Dean let out a groan and slumped back in his chair. “Okay, okay, fine. Just—don’t laugh.”

Crowley exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Oh, now it’s getting good.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Number two... I want to walk down the aisle to music. Like, a real song. Not classical crap, or... harp strings or some bridal march from the 1800s.”

Rowena tilted her head. “What kind of music?”

Dean flushed a bit. “Like... acoustic. Something low. Kinda sad, but hopeful. Makes you feel shit in your chest, y’know?”

Sam nodded quietly. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Not that I’m crying,” Dean added quickly. “I won’t cry. You’ll all cry. I’ll be fine.”

Castiel gently kissed his temple, barely holding back a smile. “Of course you will.”

Ruby was practically glowing. “So wait—you’re walking down the aisle?”

Dean hesitated. “Well... yeah? Why not?”

“I just assumed Cas would—”

“We’re both walking down the aisle,” Castiel said, tone decisive. “There’s no reason Dean shouldn’t have that moment.”

Dean looked over at him, something soft flickering behind his eyes. “You really mean that?”

Castiel smiled, eyes dark and steady. “Of course I do.”

Rowena sighed happily and waved her hand like she was airing out the emotion in the room. “Well, that’s two.”

Dean groaned. “You’re relentless.”

“And yet you adore me,” she replied sweetly. “Now give us the last one, love. What’s your final demand?”

Dean looked down at his glass, swirling the dark wine around in slow circles. “Okay. This one’s dumb.”

“No such thing,” Castiel said softly.

Dean bit his lip, hesitating—then, in a voice just above a murmur: “I want to wear something different after the ceremony. Like... not a whole tux the whole night.”

Everyone blinked.

“I wanna be comfy, alright?” Dean said defensively. “Like, change into a button-up and jeans or something for the reception. Loosen up. Dance a little. Maybe boots. I just... don’t wanna spend the night sweating through some tight-ass jacket.”

“You want a costume change,” Ruby grinned. “You’re officially extra.”

“I’m practical,” Dean shot back.

Crowley took a long sip of his scotch. “You’re finally growing into your soft, diva era. I support it.”

Rowena clinked her glass to Dean’s again. “Then it’s settled. You get your bull, your music, and your wardrobe change. Heaven help us all.”

Dean smiled shyly, the tension finally bleeding from his shoulders. “Thanks.”

Castiel squeezed his hand under the table and said warmly, “You deserve it.”

Dean turned toward him, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Don’t think I won’t use the bull against you, Cas.”

“I’m counting on it,” Castiel said dryly.

Ruby nearly choked on her drink.

And as the laughter filled the room again, Dean felt it—that fragile, blooming thing in his chest. Like maybe this wedding wasn’t just shaping up to be something beautiful.

***

The house was still when they got home—quiet in that comforting way that only followed a long night surrounded by people you loved. The kind of quiet that made it feel like the world had finally exhaled.

Their bedroom was bathed in the soft blue glow of the bedside lamp, the covers already pulled back, a glass of water waiting on the nightstand. Dean had insisted on brushing his teeth first, mumbling something about “garlic knots being romantic until they’re not,” and Castiel had waited patiently, already halfway beneath the sheets, bare-chested and warm, the covers bunched around his hips.

Dean slipped in beside him with a soft groan, his skin still warm from the shower, his hair damp and messy. Without a word, he curled into Castiel’s chest, one leg sliding between his, arm draping across his stomach. He pressed his nose beneath Castiel’s jaw and breathed in deep—clean soap, that cologne he always wore for special nights, and something distinctly home.

Castiel didn’t speak at first. Just stroked his hand gently up and down Dean’s back, slow and grounding. His thumb traced lazy, thoughtful circles against his spine.

When he finally did speak, it was quiet. Honest.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just pressed in closer, like the question had landed somewhere sensitive, somewhere too close to a wound he didn’t want to name.

Castiel didn’t push. He just kept his hand moving, patient.

Dean’s voice finally came, thick and quiet. “Because I promised you.”

Castiel stilled for a moment. “Promised me what?”

Dean shifted, burying his face against Castiel’s shoulder. “That I’d give you everything you wanted. That this would be perfect for you. I mean, hell, Cas—you deserve perfect. You’ve waited a long time for this.”

Castiel’s heart ached at the words—at how soft they were, and how hard Dean had tried to bury them.

He kissed the crown of Dean’s head, then leaned back just enough to tilt his chin up gently.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “It’s your wedding too.”

“I know...” Dean mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes. His fingers lazily drew invisible circles on Castiel’s hip bone, delicate and distracted. “But you’ve dreamed about this, y’know? You had ideas. A vision. I didn’t wanna screw it up.”

“You haven’t,” Castiel said softly. “Dean... I love all of it. Every part of this. But I love it because you’re in it.”

Dean’s throat bobbed. “Even the mechanical bull?”

“Especially the mechanical bull,” Castiel said, with just enough dry humor to make Dean’s lip twitch into a smile.

Dean looked up finally, eyes tired but open. “You’re not mad?”

Castiel smiled. “No. I’m proud of you.”

Dean blinked. “For being a brat?”

“For finally saying what you want.”

There was a pause, and then Castiel leaned in and kissed him—tender and slow, no urgency, just lips pressed together like a vow.

Dean melted into it, hand tightening on Castiel’s waist as he deepened the kiss just slightly, letting his guard fall all the way for the first time that day. When they parted, his voice was softer.

“I do want this,” Dean whispered. “All of it. The wedding, the stupid music, the dancing. You.”

“I know,” Castiel said, brushing his knuckles down Dean’s cheek. “And I want you to have it.”

They stayed quiet after that, tucked beneath the covers, breathing steadying into sync. Dean’s hand remained on Castiel’s hip, drawing endless, sleepy circles. Castiel held him tighter, the way he always did when Dean was winding down—his steady anchor, always just a breath away.

The room was quiet but not still.

The kind of quiet that hummed beneath the surface—thick with warmth, heavy with the slow throb of something unspoken between them. Sheets twisted low at their hips, bodies half-bare and already warm from the way they curled around each other, legs tangled beneath the covers.

Castiel’s hand rested against Dean’s side, thumb gently tracing the ridge of his waist. His breathing was even. Relaxed.

But Dean hadn’t moved in minutes.

He just watched him.

Watched the rise and fall of Castiel’s chest. The faint sheen of his skin under the bedside lamp. The way the dark stubble had started to bloom along his jawline again. Dean’s eyes dragged down the exposed stretch of his throat, his shoulder, the slow, steady beat of his pulse just beneath the surface.

And something stirred.

Something needy, and reverent, and aching to touch.

“Hey Cas,” Dean murmured, his voice rough, barely more than gravel and breath.

Castiel’s lashes fluttered. “Yes.”

Dean hesitated, then lifted himself onto one elbow, his hand resting lightly against Castiel’s stomach. “Can I…” He licked his lips, nervous now, but lit up from inside. “Can I do something to you?”

Castiel turned to look at him, slowly, his eyes catching the glow of the bedside lamp—green swimming in shadow, turning dark and soft all at once. He blinked once.

“What do you want to do?” he asked, low and curious, not a hint of fear. Only invitation.

Dean didn’t answer with words.

He sat up fully, shifting the sheets off their bodies, and gently tugged at Castiel until he followed the silent cue—letting himself be turned, slowly, to hands and knees in the center of their bed.

The air changed.

Castiel’s breath caught as he glanced over his shoulder, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Dean’s hands were already trailing up the backs of his thighs, dragging slow and warm up to his hips. He leaned down and pressed a kiss between Castiel’s shoulder blades—soft, almost reverent. Then another. Lower this time. He followed the line of Castiel’s spine with his mouth, with lips and teeth and tongue, slow and open and needy, worship in every drag of breath.

Castiel let out a quiet sound, almost a hum, and Dean smiled against his skin.

He reached the waistband of Castiel’s boxers and gripped the cotton gently, tugging them down inch by inch until they were bunched around his thighs, leaving the curve of Castiel’s ass exposed to the cool air and the heat of Dean’s breath.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, voice low, rough with anticipation.

Dean’s hands gripped his hips tighter, grounding him. “Let me,” he whispered, and pressed a kiss to the dip of Castiel’s lower back. “Just… let me.”

He leaned in again, slower this time, dragging his tongue along the small of Castiel’s back, tasting salt and heat and the softness only he ever got to touch.

Castiel shuddered.

Dean’s mouth continued its descent—kissing lower, biting softly just above the swell of his ass, then soothing the spot with his tongue. One hand slid up Castiel’s back, pressing flat between his shoulder blades, keeping him steady.

“Fuck,” Castiel murmured, voice wrecked already. “Dean…”

“You’re so fucking hot Cas,” Dean whispered, breath ghosting over bare skin. “Let me take care of you.”

Castiel swallowed hard and nodded, hips tilting just slightly as he arched into Dean’s mouth.

Dean parted his cheeks and kissed him there—softly at first, a question—before running his tongue down, teasing, licking into him with slow, deliberate pressure that made Castiel gasp and push back instinctively.

“Jesus,” He breathed, knuckles tightening in the sheets.

Dean moaned into him, gripping his thighs harder, devouring now, unhurried but hungry, like he’d wanted this forever and didn’t care how long it took. His tongue moved in slow circles, then deeper strokes, tasting, worshiping, pulling a low, helpless groan from Castiel’s throat.

“That’s it,” Dean rasped, licking back up and biting at the tender skin just above the base of his spine. “Let go. I got you.”

Castiel’s body trembled under his mouth, his hips rocking with every movement, his cock flushed and hard, hanging thick between his legs, untouched and leaking onto the mattress.

Dean kissed the inside of his thigh, wet and open-mouthed. “You gonna let me make you cum like this?” he whispered, filth and reverence tangled together in every word.

Castiel barely managed a nod, voice cracked and breathless: “Yes. Please. Dean—”

Dean groaned, pressing his mouth back where it belonged, tongue working slow and deep, one hand sliding up to stroke Castiel’s cock finally—tight, fast, matching the rhythm of his tongue.

And when Castiel came, he shook—hips jerking forward, voice breaking in a moan that sounded like prayer, every muscle tight as he spilled across the sheets in long, hot pulses.

Dean slowed but didn’t stop, licking him through it, moaning softly as Castiel trembled under his hands.

Only once he’d gone still—boneless and spent—did Dean finally press one more kiss to his lower back and sit back, breathing hard, eyes wide with something close to awe.

Castiel slowly collapsed onto his side, chest rising and falling like a wave retreating to shore. He reached for Dean immediately, voice hoarse. “Come here.”

Dean crawled into his arms and was met with a long, open kiss—tasting himself on Dean’s tongue, pulling him close with a possessive hand in his hair.

“I love you,” Castiel whispered against his mouth.

Dean tucked his face into Castiel’s neck, grinning against his skin. “I love you too.”

“You’ll do it again.”

Dean hummed. “I plan to.”

They curled into each other, legs tangled again, skin still warm and slick with sweat, but neither of them moved to clean up just yet. The only sound was their breathing. And the soft rustle of sheets as Castiel pulled Dean impossibly closer.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Castiel whispered, kissing the top of Dean’s head.

Dean smiled sleepily. “’Night, Cas.”

***

Dean stood in the center of Charlie’s living room with his arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw set, shoulders bunched like a grizzly bear about to be shoved into a tutu. His expression was a perfect cocktail of suspicion and long-suffering dread, eyes flicking between the four people who had conspired against him in broad daylight.

Ruby dangled a pink satin sash in front of him like it was a piece of meat. It read Groomzilla in sparkly, black cursive, complete with a tiara that looked like it had been stolen from a Disney villain. “Just one photo,” she coaxed, grinning ear to ear. “One little photo, Dean. Come on. Do it for the memories.”

“No.” Dean’s tone was flat, resolute. “I'm already letting you guys drag me to a—what is it? A drag show? A strip club? A combo drag strip club—whatever. That’s enough. I’m not putting that thing on my body.”

Charlie plopped onto the couch and took a swig from her beer. “Okay, but you let Cas tie a leash to your collar and called it a spiritual experience. But a sash is where you draw the line?”

Dean’s ears went pink. “That’s different.”

“Because it’s Cas?” Meg offered, arching a brow.

Dean muttered into his drink. “Exactly.”

Ruby wiggled the tiara dramatically. “I swear to God, if you let your fiancé collar you in public but won’t wear a plastic crown in front of your friends, I’m going to scream.”

“I’m preserving what’s left of my dignity,” Dean snapped, motioning vaguely at the sash. “That thing is an assassination attempt on my masculinity.”

“Sweetie,” Meg said, sliding in beside him and patting his arm, “you moaned over key lime pie. Masculinity left the building two counties ago.”

Charlie snorted into her beer.

Sam had been leaning against the doorway up until then, watching the exchange unfold with the kind of calm amusement only someone used to Dean’s tantrums could manage. He finally stepped forward, casually, like he was about to defuse a bomb he’d already seen go off before.

“Dean,” he said, voice easy. “If you're worried about me seeing you like this—”

“I’m not—”

Sam cut him off, smirking. “Look, I know you're a fucking brat. I grew up with you. I saw you cry when Dad grounded you from Metallica and you claimed it was 'just allergies.'”

Dean’s jaw dropped. “That was pollen season and you know it.”

“I also know you once hid in the Impala for three hours because you were mad Mom made you wear dress shoes to a wedding.”

Ruby perked up. “Dean, that’s adorable.”

Meg leaned in to Charlie. “I’d have paid real money to see tiny Dean sulking in a car in patent leather.”

“I bet he scowled at himself in the rearview mirror the whole time,” Charlie added, nearly crying with laughter.

Dean, thoroughly betrayed, turned to his brother with a slow blink. “You are so not officiating my wedding anymore.”

Sam shrugged. “Then I’m telling Cas about the Celine Dion playlist in your workout folder.”

Dean froze. "You wouldn’t."

“Oh he absolutely would,” Ruby grinned.

Dean stared them all down for a moment, considering the weight of the betrayal, the impossibility of escape, the fact that every one of them would keep this going forever unless he gave in. With a groan of a man accepting his fate, he snatched the sash from Ruby’s hands and muttered, “Fine. One photo. That’s it. No tagging me. No filters. No captions.”

Charlie was already pulling her phone out. “Too late. I’ve got a Boomerang ready.”

Meg placed the tiara delicately on Dean’s head like she was crowning him Queen of Stubbornness. “Smile, sunshine. You're about to be married.”

Dean grimaced as they huddled around him, cameras flashing.

“I hate all of you,” he grumbled.

“You love us,” Ruby corrected, looping an arm around his waist.

Dean sighed, half a smirk creeping back. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

Sam chuckled from behind the camera. “Say Groomzilla!”

“Bite me,” Dean growled.

Click.

The picture turned out blurry, mid-snarl, tiara crooked, sash slipping off his shoulder—and Dean never looked happier.

***

The club was a neon fever dream—glitter-streaked lights and heavy bass vibrating through the floorboards, drag queens in towering heels strutting across the runway in a blur of sequins and absolute divine judgment. Smoke machines hissed periodically. Disco balls spun like a god was watching and wanted drama.

Their private booth was tucked into a corner near the front—velvet-lined, half-circle seating, low table already cluttered with empty shot glasses and half-sucked lime wedges. The sign above them read STAG PARTY, DO NOT APPROACH UNLESS INVITED—which Ruby had immediately torn off and shoved in her purse.

She was currently holding court at the edge of the booth, laughing too loud, her arm thrown over the shoulder of a queen named Venus Envy, who had taken a break from the stage to sip from Ruby’s drink and braid her hair with rhinestones.

Meg was leaned back against the booth’s curve, legs crossed, heels up on the seat like a queen in exile, sipping something dark and potent through a red straw. Sam was nursing his second beer and trying very hard not to look directly at the pole in the center of the room where a shirtless man in six-inch pleasers had just done a slow, sensual split.

Dean had taken his fourth tequila shot and immediately regretted it.

He bit into the lime wedge with a full-body grimace, then grunted as he leaned back against the plush booth, shirt slightly unbuttoned, cheeks pink with alcohol and heat. “Alright, someone else’s turn. I’m not drinking again until I eat something.”

“You had three of those fried pickles,” Ruby yelled over the music.

Dean looked personally attacked. “They were thin!”

Meg leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Okay, so spill!”

Dean blinked. “Spill what?”

Meg reached for the salt, licked her wrist, and grinned over her shoulder. “You have to tell us—Cas cannot be perfect. We don’t believe it. You’ve gotta give us something. What’s one thing he does that drives you absolutely insane?”

Even Sam perked up at that, raising a brow as he took a sip of his beer.

Dean scoffed. “I’m not airing our shit here.”

“Dean,” Meg drawled, “you once described his dick in poetic metaphor. You can tell us one annoying habit.”

“I was drunk,” Dean muttered.

Ruby swirled her drink and grinned. “And we’re drunk now, so the court demands evidence. Spill.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Alright. Okay. Fine.”

They all leaned in.

Dean dropped his hand with a dramatic sigh. “He does this thing... when he reads.”

Ruby’s grin widened. “Oooh, do go on.”

“He licks his finger before turning every page.” Dean made a face, miming the motion. “Every single one. Like some Victorian grandpa in a waistcoat.”

Meg wheezed.

“And he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it! Just sits there on the couch like, ‘Hmm, Kant’s exploration of the metaphysical realm—’ and I’m in the kitchen watching him tongue his thumb like a goddamn librarian in heat.”

Ruby nearly choked on her drink. “Librarian in heat—Jesus, Dean.”

Sam was nodding. “I’ve seen that. He did that while reading a manual on ceiling fixtures.”

Dean pointed aggressively. “Right?! It’s all the time.”

Meg leaned into him. “You know you still find it hot though.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Lifted his glass like a toast. “That is not the point.”

Ruby grinned. “So... what I’m hearing is... he’s a finger-licker and you’re mad because you can’t concentrate.”

Dean flushed. “Oh my God.”

Meg cackled. “It’s giving repressed horny husband.”

“It’s giving desperate to be ruined on the couch while Cas reads German philosophy,” Ruby added helpfully.

Dean covered his face with both hands, muttering, “This was a mistake.”

Sam shrugged. “Honestly? I feel like this is tame compared to what I expected.”

Ruby leaned across the table, eyes dancing. “Wait until we ask him who tops during brunch.”

Dean dropped his hands and pointed at her, voice flat. “Don’t you dare.”

“Please we all know Dean’s a bottom.”  Meg said and Sam couldn’t help but laugh.

The music shifted then—hard bass giving way to a sultry remix of Madonna’s Like a Prayer—and Venus Envy waved dramatically as she was called back to the stage. Ruby blew her a kiss and leaned back, eyes still glued to Dean with a shit-eating grin.

Dean reached for the water glass in front of him, scowling. “Can’t believe I’m spending my bachelor party getting grilled about my fiancé’s finger quirks.”

Meg lifted her drink. “To true love and uncontrollable kinks.”

They all clinked glasses, even Sam.

The music kept pulsing around them, bass rattling glasses on the table and dragging their voices up half an octave as they leaned in to hear each other over the chaos. Their booth had become its own little orbit—sticky with tequila, glowing from the inside out.

Ruby was scrolling through blurry selfies, snorting at each one louder than the last. Meg had absconded with Sam’s flannel and now wore it like a cape while stealing fries from a stranger at the next booth. Dean was slouched into the corner of the velvet seat, dazed and warm, drunk enough to let himself be soft.

Charlie returned from the bar triumphantly holding a basket of curly fries. “Alright, I expect gratitude,” she said, dropping them on the table like she’d just negotiated world peace.

Dean perked up. “Oh my God. I love you.”

Charlie handed him the basket like a gift. “Wow. Four shots and he starts confessing feelings.”

“Keep it going,” Ruby called. “Maybe he’ll admit he cried watching Titanic.”

“I did not cry. I had a tight chest. It’s different.”

Charlie smirked and slid into the seat beside him. “Here I thought you were going to comment on Cas’s weird eating habits.”

Dean nearly choked on a fry.

Charlie raised her brows. “No?”

“No—don’t get me started,” Dean said, wiping his fingers on a napkin and shaking his head like the memory had haunted him. “I love him. I do. I love that it works out for him. But on our first date—our first date, mind you—he dissected nachos.”

Meg blinked. “Dissected?”

“Nachos, Meg. He peeled them apart like he was running a lab experiment. Sorted everything into little flavor categories. Cheese pile. Meat pile. Chips.”

Ruby cackled. “He meal-prepped a single plate of nachos?!”

“Yes!” Dean groaned. “He eats everything separately. Doesn’t like cross-contamination. Says he likes to ‘appreciate each component.’ Which makes zero sense to me, but... it makes sense to him. And I love him for that.”

He didn’t even realize how soft his voice had gotten by the end of it—just a smile curling at his mouth, eyes unfocused, warmth blooming across his cheeks that had little to do with the alcohol.

Charlie nudged his shoulder. “God, you’re gone for him.”

Dean shook his head slowly. “Gone? I’ve been gone. He could sort my damn soul into categories and I’d still call him back.”

While the rest of the table spiraled into fresh laughter, Dean reached into his jacket pocket, half on instinct, and pulled out his phone. The screen was too bright in the dark booth, and he squinted against it, thumb dragging over the keyboard with more heart than coordination.

He didn’t even second-guess it.

Dean: hey. thinking about your back right now. about my mouth on it. can’t stop thinking about licking you again, slow. from your spine to your thighs. watching you fall apart. miss you. miss your taste. wanna ruin you quietly.

He stared at it for half a second. Then hit send.

Dean set the phone down with a dopey little smile.

Sam, noticing the change in expression, raised an eyebrow. “Texting Cas?”

Dean blinked at him. “...What?”

“You’re grinning like you just saw his dick.”

Dean immediately flushed. “I’m not.”

“Definitely just sexted him,” Ruby stage-whispered, “and I support that.”

“Group chat it,” Meg said, sipping from someone else’s drink.

Dean groaned, burying his face in his hands. “This was supposed to be about me, not a roast of my love life.”

Charlie passed him another fry. “Dean, it’s the same thing.”

Dean took it, eyes flicking to his phone screen lighting up with a new message:

Cas: Come home and do it. I’ll be on my hands and knees, waiting.

Dean blushed ten times harder, grinning stupidly.

Meg grinned. “That good, huh?”

Dean just laughed, low and wrecked. “You have no idea.”

Dean had just finished his stolen curly fry when Ruby suddenly sat up straight like she’d heard a dog whistle only she could detect.

“Oh shit,” she gasped. “It’s happening.”

“What’s happening?” Dean asked warily.

Ruby didn’t answer. She just moved, grabbing Meg’s arm as she hopped up, and within seconds the entire booth followed like a flock of chaotic pigeons chasing a dropped funnel cake.

“Ruby!” Dean called after her. “What the hell—?”

And then the music changed.

The lights dimmed into a deep red, casting a sultry glow across the stage and washing the room in velvet warmth. The crowd shifted. Anticipation buzzed in the air like static. A familiar bassline kicked in—slow, teasing, the opening of a sultry jazz rendition of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You—and suddenly, there she was. Venus Envy.

The queen descended from the back of the stage like a deity parting the crowd, her gown a shimmering gold that hugged every curve, hair teased into a towering crown of platinum perfection. She didn’t just walk—she glided, hips rolling with grace and sin in equal measure, rhinestones flashing like danger in the spotlight.

And she was heading straight for Dean.

He blinked. “No. Nope. No no no—”

Charlie practically shoved him back into the booth seat. “Sit down and shut up, groomzilla. You’re about to be blessed.”

“Don’t call me that—”

But it was too late.

Venus Envy sauntered directly to their booth, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea, clapping, cheering, glitter practically hanging in the air as if it knew this was a sacred moment.

“Well hellooo,” Venus purred into her mic, pausing in front of their table. “Don’t we have something delicious over here?”

Dean swallowed. “Hi.”

“Shy?” she teased, spinning on one heel. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m gentle—sometimes.”

Ruby was already filming, biting her lip to keep from bursting into laughter.

Venus snapped her fingers, and the track picked up. “We’ve got a groom-to-be in the house tonight, folks,” she announced to the entire club, voice sultry and booming. “Let’s give him some love.”

Dean barely had time to breathe before Venus straddled his lap and settled in like she owned the space—gown draped over him, perfume clinging to the air, lashes batting dangerously close to his forehead.

“Can’t take my eyes off of you,” she sang, voice smooth and rich as honey, one hand cradling his jaw with the flair of a Broadway diva. “You’d be like heaven to touch... I wanna hold you so much…”

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Dean sat frozen, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, unsure where to look, every muscle in his face trying to stop him from smiling like an idiot. His cheeks burned crimson. His ears went pink. But he was grinning, damn it—because how could you not when someone looked at you like that while serenading you in three-inch lashes and six feet of charisma?

Sam laughed so hard he had to turn away, one hand covering his mouth.

Charlie filmed it all while muttering, “This is the best night of my life.”

Meg was howling, nearly falling into Ruby, who was zooming in dramatically.

Venus tilted Dean’s chin up with a manicured finger, her voice lowering to a sultry purr. “I love you, baby,” she sang, right into his stunned face. “And if it’s quite alright, I need you, baby…”

Dean groaned through his grin, trying to bury his face in his hands, but Venus wouldn’t let him. She guided his hands gently to rest on her waist as she kept singing—soft, smooth, decadent.

When she finally finished, she blew him a kiss, twirled back into the spotlight, and winked at the booth. “Ladies and gentlemen, your groom. May he survive the night.”

Dean exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a week, laughing into his hands.

“You did so good, hon,” Ruby cooed, zooming in on his wrecked expression.

“You looked like you were gonna die,” Meg said.

Sam reached across the table and clinked his glass against Dean’s. “Still not the weirdest night we’ve had.”

Dean dragged a hand down his face, grinning helplessly. “I’m never telling Cas about this.”

Charlie smirked. “Too late.”

Dean blinked. “What?”

She turned her phone toward him.

A notification read:

Video sent: Dean’s Drag Lap Serenade 💋

Dean stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

Meg handed him another tequila shot. “To love.”

Dean downed it in one go.

“Screw all of you,” he muttered.

“Only after the honeymoon,” Ruby winked.

***

“Okay,” Sam said, one arm firmly braced under Dean’s shoulder, “I think we’re reaching the crying stage.”

“Have we?” Charlie asked, stumbling backward a little as Dean sagged dramatically against her other side. “Because I think he started crying at the club when Venus came back and kissed his forehead and called him ‘tender meat.’”

“She meant it respectfully,” Ruby slurred, unlocking the passenger door of the car while Meg shoved an empty fry container under the seat with her foot.

Dean hiccupped from the backseat, curled sideways like a sad, oversized cat in a too-small box. “Guys… guys.” He blinked up at Sam as if just remembering something critical. “I’m getting married.”

“Yes,” Sam said, dragging his hand down his face. “We know.”

Dean’s lip trembled. “To Cas, man. Cas.” His voice cracked on the name like it was holy.

Ruby laughed as she helped haul him upright. “You’d think we were sending him off to war.”

“He’s gonna be so mad,” Dean wailed, feet dragging over the sidewalk as Sam and Charlie all but carried him toward the front door. “I’m not even at home! I’m staying at some random house. He’s gonna think I’m like, cheating or something!”

“You are home,” Meg said from behind, arms crossed, amusement written all over her face. “This is your house, dumbass.”

Dean stared blearily at the front steps, then back at her. “No, ours has that little cactus in the window…”

Charlie turned to point. “Dean, there is your cactus.”

Dean gasped softly. “He’s grown…”

Sam gave up and pulled out his phone, thumb already flying across the screen. “I’m calling Cas.”

Dean perked up. “No! Don’t bother him!”

Sam pressed the phone to his ear. “Too late.”

There was a beat, and then—“Hey, Cas? It’s me. Dean’s fine, he’s just... drunk. Really drunk.”

Dean sagged onto the porch, holding one of his shoes like a security blanket.

“He’s—” Sam glanced down at him. “He’s having feelings.”

Ruby snorted from the steps.

“Yeah. No, I think you should come to the door. We’re outside. He doesn’t believe he’s home.” Sam paused. “He’s talking to the cactus.”

Dean was, in fact, softly petting the ceramic pot and whispering, “You look so strong now, little guy. Cas waters you real good, huh? You’re thriving.”

The door swung open moments later.

Castiel stood in sweatpants and one of Dean’s faded band tees, hair slightly mussed, eyes shadowed with sleep—but the moment he saw Dean crouched on the porch talking to a plant, his whole face softened into something impossibly warm.

Dean looked up.

For a long beat, he just stared.

Then: “Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel said gently, stepping down toward him. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Dean stood too quickly and stumbled, catching himself on Castiel’s shoulders. “You came all the way here?!”

Castiel blinked. “Dean, we live here.”

Dean blinked back, stunned, then looked over his shoulder at the house.

“Oh.”

Sam groaned.

“I told you,” Charlie muttered.

Dean’s hands gripped Castiel’s shirt. “I missed you so bad, Cas. I don’t wanna stay in a weird house with cactus strangers. I wanna be with you.”

Castiel kissed his temple. “You are.”

Dean sniffled, face crumpling again. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Castiel murmured, wrapping his arms fully around him. “Come inside.”

“I did a shot off a stripper’s leg, and I didn’t like it,” Dean whispered, eyes wide with shame. “It was hairy.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Castiel said solemnly.

As Castiel guided him inside, Dean turned around and shouted toward the others, “Thank you for the fries! And the honor!”

Ruby bowed dramatically. “Sleep well, my beautiful disaster.”

Meg blew a kiss. “Tell Cas about the glitter later.”

Dean whimpered and buried his face in Castiel’s neck.

Castiel guided him into the bedroom, murmuring quietly, “Let’s get you into bed, you drunken hurricane.”

Dean pulled back slightly, eyes glassy and sincere. “Are you sure you still wanna marry me?”

Castiel gently ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“More than ever.”

His hand clung loosely to Castiel’s wrist, his head tipped back with that dazed, glassy-eyed expression he always wore when overwhelmed—with emotion, with alcohol, with need.

As they reached the bedroom doorway, Dean suddenly stopped short.

Castiel turned, brows drawn in concern. “Dean?”

Dean didn’t answer. He just reached out, fingers fisting into the collar of Castiel’s (Dean’s) old Zeppelin tee. He yanked him forward with surprising strength, crashing their mouths together in a messy, tequila-warm kiss.

Castiel’s hands immediately caught Dean’s waist, steadying him—but his lips didn’t move. His body tensed. When he gently pulled back, Dean’s eyes fluttered open, pupils blown wide and face flushed.

“Sweetheart,” Castiel said softly, his thumb brushing Dean’s jaw. “You’re drunk. I won’t.”

Dean whimpered.

It wasn’t subtle or dignified—it was an open-mouthed, high-pitched whine into the kiss Castiel was trying to stop, his lips chasing the retreat, his grip on the collar refusing to let go.

“Please,” Dean begged, pressing another kiss to Castiel’s mouth, lips barely moving. “Just one more. One more. I need it.”

Castiel pulled back again, firmer this time, cupping Dean’s cheeks in both hands. “Dean. You need to sleep.”

“But I want you,” Dean rasped, breath hot and desperate between them. “I want your hands—I want your mouth—I want you to fuck me stupid right here.”

His words cracked on the edge of a hiccup, making the moment both filthy and tragically adorable.

“Dean,” Castiel warned, though his voice was thick and frayed now, jaw tense as Dean’s fingers slipped under his shirt to touch the skin of his waist.

“C’mon,” Dean slurred, leaning forward again to kiss Castiel’s neck, messy and hot and needy. “You smell so good. You’re so mean. You always get what you want—why can’t I?”

Castiel exhaled hard through his nose, steadying him with both hands on his hips. “Because I want you to wake up feeling loved, not used.”

Dean blinked up at him with wet lashes, mouth parted. “That’s not fair. I’m not using you. I’m just—I’m so full of want for you, Cas.” His voice cracked again, high and plaintive. “I wanna feel you on me, in me, I wanna be your good boy and let you do whatever you want—”

“Dean.”

That time, it was sharp. Commanding. But gentle.

Dean froze, blinking. Then he wilted with a sigh and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Castiel’s collarbone.

Castiel’s arms came up slowly around him, cradling him close, running a soothing hand down his back.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered into Dean’s hair. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

Dean mumbled something unintelligible and nuzzled closer, letting Castiel walk him the last few steps to the bed. He sat him down and began undoing his jeans, murmuring soft things like “lift your hips” and “arms up, baby,” as he got him undressed, then pulled the blankets up around him.

Dean blinked up with heavy lids, lips still pouty and bruised. “You still love me?”

Castiel kissed his forehead. “More than life.”

“Okay,” Dean whispered, eyes finally slipping shut. “Just don’t leave me here with cactus guy…”

Castiel chuckled softly, brushing the hair from his fiancé’s damp forehead.

“I won’t.”

He turned off the light and slid into bed beside him, arms curling protectively around Dean’s back as the man melted into him with a final sigh.

“I got glitter in my teeth,” Dean mumbled sleepily.

“I’m proud of you,” Castiel whispered.

Dean smiled, half-asleep, his hand clumsily finding Castiel’s. “Gonna marry you.”

“You already have me.”

And in the quiet of their darkened room, under the weight of soft sheets and the smell of tequila and shame, Castiel held his future in his arms and whispered every promise that Dean already knew by heart.

***

The first thing Dean noticed was that his tongue felt like it had been dipped in cotton and shame.

The second was that his skull was definitely trying to split itself in two.

The third? He was still glittery.

Dean groaned, one hand dragging over his face as the morning light stabbed him right between the eyes like it had a personal vendetta. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, squinting through bloodshot eyes, and groaned again as the movement made his head throb in response.

“Fuck me,” he croaked.

“You tried,” came Castiel’s voice from the doorway, far too bright and unbothered. “I said no.”

Dean cracked an eye open to find his fiancé standing with a glass of water and two pills in hand, already dressed in soft grey joggers and an old black hoodie, sleeves pushed up. His hair was still sleep-mussed, and Dean hated—hated—how hot that was right now.

“Kill me,” Dean amended, reaching weakly for the water like a Victorian ghost. “Just smother me with a pillow and tell everyone I died nobly.”

Castiel crossed the room, sitting gently on the edge of the bed, and placed the pills in Dean’s open palm. “Take these, then we can talk about pillow options.”

Dean swallowed them down with the grace of a man seconds from death and flopped dramatically back into the pillow. He winced as the glitter on his skin scraped against the pillowcase.

Castiel tilted his head. “You’re still sparkling.”

Dean groaned again and covered his face with his forearm. “Is it on everything? Please tell me the cactus didn’t catch any.”

Castiel chuckled, brushing a thumb down the side of Dean’s jaw. “No promises.”

Dean peeked up at him through his arm. “How bad was it?”

Castiel considered him, then calmly reached over to the nightstand and picked up his phone. He tapped it once. A second later, Dean’s own phone—charging beside the lamp—lit up.

A new video message from Castiel.

Dean blinked. “No.”

“Oh yes.”

“Cas…”

“You’re being serenaded by Venus Envy while petting your own thigh like it’s a puppy.”

Dean let out a long, suffering groan and rolled over to bury his face in the pillow. “I’m calling off the wedding.”

“No you’re not.”

“You’re supposed to love me.”

“I do,” Castiel said, warm and fond as he ran his hand slowly down Dean’s back. “That’s why I’m feeding you water and not letting you die in a glitter-induced shame spiral.”

Dean turned just enough to glare at him, though it lacked any real heat. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Dean scowled into the pillow. “Can I at least pretend to be mad at you for not stopping me from kissing a drag queen?”

“You kissed a drag queen?”

“She kissed me!” Dean defended. “I was overcome.”

Castiel leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the edge of Dean’s temple. “You were perfect.”

“I was a mess.”

“You were happy. You were loved. And,” Castiel added with a sly smile, “you told an entire club that I water houseplants with ‘devotion and tenderness’ and that I ‘make nachos look like fine art.’”

Dean groaned and rolled over again, pulling a pillow on top of his face this time. “Please shut up forever.”

Castiel chuckled, fingers gently kneading the back of Dean’s neck.

“I also have it on video.”

Dean whimpered.

“But I’ll delete it,” Castiel said softly, “if you let me hold you for the next hour without complaining.”

Dean was quiet for a long beat.

Then: “...Deal.”

Castiel smiled and climbed into bed behind him, slipping under the covers and wrapping his arms around Dean’s middle. Dean groaned again—this time in relief—as Castiel kissed the back of his neck and tangled their legs together, body warm and steady against his own.

“You’re such a little shit,” Dean mumbled.

“And you’re lucky I love you,” Castiel whispered into his hair.

Dean smiled faintly, eyes closing again. “Yeah… I really fucking am.”

***

The kitchen smelled like bacon and toast and the faint burn of something Castiel had gotten distracted with two minutes too long ago—but Dean didn’t mind. He sat barefoot at the small round table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair still a mess from sleep, chewing contentedly on a slice of bacon that was more floppy than crisp. His hangover had dulled into a manageable throb behind his eyes, soothed by water, aspirin, and the smell of Castiel making breakfast.

Across the kitchen, Castiel was focused on flipping eggs in a buttered pan, his stance casual, sleeves rolled, humming quietly under his breath.

Dean watched him for a second too long, something tight and sweet blooming behind his ribs.

"Hey, Cas..." Dean mumbled, voice muffled slightly around a mouthful of bacon.

"Yes, sweetheart," Castiel replied, without turning, but Dean saw the way his shoulders straightened just slightly—always tuned to him.

Dean poked at the runny yolk on his plate, dragging his fork through the gold like he was tracing something invisible.

"So you know... weddings have those dances. Like... for families and stuff."

Castiel glanced back at him, brow faintly drawn in quiet curiosity. “Yes.”

Dean cleared his throat. “You’ve got the whole mother-son thing, right?”

Castiel nodded gently, but didn’t speak. He knew Dean well enough to hear the tremble just under the surface of his voice.

Dean stared at his eggs. “I was thinking about it, and… I know my mom won’t be there.” His jaw worked like he was chewing words, not food. “And that’s fine. I mean—it’s not fine, but I’ve made peace with it, you know.”

Castiel slowly slid his spatula to the side, turned off the burner, and made his way over to the table. He set his plate down but didn’t sit yet.

Dean’s voice softened further. “I was just thinking... you think Rowena would dance with me? Like... for that? The mother-son dance?”

Castiel’s whole expression changed—like the light hit differently. His eyes, already warm, melted into something impossibly tender. His mouth curved into the softest, most reverent smile.

“Dean,” he said gently, lowering into the chair beside him, “she would be honored.”

Dean finally looked up, cheeks flushed not from embarrassment, but emotion. “I don’t wanna tell her,” he added quickly. “I want it to be a surprise. You know, just... one of those moments.”

Castiel reached across the table, hand curling over Dean’s wrist. “That will mean everything to her.”

Dean’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes. “I even picked a song.”

“Yeah?” Castiel asked, fingers giving a warm squeeze. “Tell me.”

Dean grabbed his phone and tapped it open, chewing a little on the inside of his cheek while he scrolled. “Okay, so… it’s kind of dumb, but I found this version and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It’s ‘Sweet Child of Mine’—but like, the cello version. It’s slow and pretty and just…”

He looked up as the soft melody filled the kitchen from his phone speaker. The familiar Guns N’ Roses tune was there, but transformed—delicate strings, each note drawn out with aching gentleness.

Castiel didn’t say anything right away. He just listened.

Dean watched the way his fiancé’s lips parted slightly, how his eyes softened and flicked upward with every note. A small smile ghosted across his face, and when the melody swelled, Castiel reached over to press a kiss to the back of Dean’s hand.

“It’s perfect,” he said simply.

Dean let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it cracked just slightly at the end. He blinked quickly and turned the volume down.

“Yeah? Not too corny?”

“Dean,” Castiel said softly, “it’s beautiful. And it’s you.”

Dean rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. “Okay, well, if I start crying during it, you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“I’ll be crying too,” Castiel replied, completely sincere.

Dean looked over at him, and the emotion passed quietly between them like a shared current—steady, strong, sacred.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean mumbled. “For... just letting me have this.”

Castiel leaned in and kissed him softly, just once, before they both turned back to their breakfast.

Outside, the sun crept a little higher.

And inside, in a kitchen filled with bacon grease and cello strings, Dean let himself feel full—for once in his life—in all the ways that mattered.

Chapter Text

The venue stood like something out of a daydream—an old converted vineyard estate on the edge of town, all sweeping whitewashed walls and warm oak beams that caught the afternoon light just right. The ceremony would take place on a stretch of manicured lawn beneath a canopy of twinkle lights and hanging lanterns. Inside, the reception hall smelled faintly of fresh-cut eucalyptus, polished wood, and the faint tang of paint from the newly retouched walls.

It was the final venue visit before the wedding—one week to go. Final walk-through. Final details. Final “Dean, stop fidgeting and focus.”

And he was trying, he really was.

But the table centerpieces had started a full-blown war.

“I’m just saying,” Dean said, arms crossed, “the tall ones are gonna block people’s faces.”

“They’re elegant,” Sam replied, flipping through the binder with annoying calm. “It’s called ‘height variation.’ You want dimension. Sophistication.”

“I want people to be able to see across the table. It’s a wedding, not a corn maze!”

Across the room, Castiel stood beside Charlie and Jack, arms folded loosely, watching with a mixture of fondness and mild alarm.

Charlie leaned toward him, eyes gleaming. “Ten bucks says Sam brings up symmetry next.”

“I’m not betting against you,” Castiel murmured.

“Oh my god,” Jack whispered. “They’re going to throw one of the vases. I can feel it.”

Back near the mockup table, Dean gestured wildly toward one of the floral arrangements—a lush, low bouquet in a navy ceramic bowl, surrounded by flickering battery-lit votives. “See, this one’s perfect. No neck craning, no birds nesting in it, no guests losing an eye.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being practical.”

“You’re being a brat,” Charlie called, grinning.

Dean turned to her with a glare.

Jack raised his hand sheepishly. “Can we keep the tall ones but move them to the perimeter tables? That way the head table has the low ones and everyone can see?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Dean slowly turned to Sam. Sam glanced at the arrangement, then at Dean.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend it was your idea.”

Sam looked at Castiel. “I’m marrying the wrong brother.”

“You absolutely are,” Dean said, grinning now despite himself.

Castiel crossed the room and gently ran a hand along Dean’s back. “I happen to love the short ones.”

“See?” Dean said, triumphant, wrapping an arm around Castiel’s waist. “Told you. Logic wins.”

Charlie smirked. “More like Dean whining until someone gives in wins.”

Dean gasped, wounded. “I’m delightful.”

“You’re marrying a man who called you a ‘drunken hurricane’ a few days ago,” Sam muttered.

“Tenderly,” Castiel clarified. “I said it tenderly.”

Jack laughed so hard he nearly tripped over a folding chair.

As the group moved on to finalize other reception logistics, Dean lingered at the head table with Castiel. The navy runners were already laid out. The name cards had mock printings. Dean picked Castiel’s up—Castiel Novak-Winchester—and turned it over in his hands like it held something holy.

He looked up at Castiel.

“One week.”

Castiel stepped closer. “One week.”

“You nervous?” Dean asked, voice quieter now, more sincere.

Castiel shook his head, reaching for Dean’s hand beneath the tablecloth. “No. Just… ready. Are you?”

Dean exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the empty chairs arranged just so, the ghost of laughter and music already in the air.

“I think I’ve been ready since that first night you asked to kiss me.”

Castiel’s eyes shimmered slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting with something fierce and soft all at once.

“Well,” he whispered, “get ready to hold your breath, sweetheart.”

Because the best was still coming.

***

Dean was lying belly-down on the living room floor, laptop open in front of him, earbuds tossed beside a half-finished glass of coke. His socked feet were kicking lazily in the air like some teenage girl in a rom-com, while Charlie sat cross-legged beside him, aggressively cueing songs from her phone with the kind of focus most people reserved for bomb defusal.

“No Nickelback, Charlie,” Dean said, already half laughing. “That’s divorced dad music, and we are not divorced… nor dad’s.”

“But it’s photograph, Dean. Photograph!” she wheezed, grinning around the straw of her smoothie. “It’s iconic.”

“You’re iconic,” Dean muttered. “Iconically bad at this.”

Charlie nudged him in the ribs with her socked foot. “Okay, smartass, what do you want to walk into the reception to? Because I’m gonna lose it if you say AC/DC.”

Dean narrowed his eyes like he was considering AC/DC and then shrugged. “I don’t know… maybe that string cover of ‘Carry On’ from that YouTube video? It’s cheesy, but it hits.”

Charlie blinked. “Dean Winchester… you sap.”

“I contain multitudes,” he said, flipping her off half-heartedly. “Besides, you should be glad I’m not fighting to walk down the aisle to Metallica.”

“Noted,” she said, mock-seriously typing something into her Notes app. “No Metallica. No Nickelback. And no ‘Thong Song.’”

Dean looked scandalized. “That wasn’t even on the table!”

“It wasn’t—until I saw the way you just reacted, now it might be.”

Dean groaned and buried his face in the carpet. “I should’ve hired a DJ.”

“You’re getting me, babe. Deal with it. Now. First dance. What’s the vibe?”

Dean hesitated.

He glanced up at the photo on the nearby bookshelf—him and Castiel in the mountains from Dean’s surprise birthday weekend. Castiel’s nose was pink. Dean was grinning like a fool. He stared at it for a long beat.

“Something slow. Oldish. Feels like… like whiskey and firelight and the way he says my name.”

Charlie blinked, softening. “Well… damn.”

Dean shrugged again, a little pink in the ears now. “Told you. Multitudes.”

***

In the kitchen, Sam leaned on the counter with a notepad and a pen, his brow creased in concentration. Castiel sat at the table across from him, fingers curled around a mug of coffee, wedding binder resting beside him like a loyal companion.

“So… vows,” Sam said, chewing on the cap of the pen. “You’re writing your own?”

“I am,” Castiel said quietly, eyes on the steam curling from the mug. “Though I don’t know if I’ll be able to say them without falling apart.”

Sam smiled. “That’s okay. That’s kind of the point.”

Castiel glanced up. “You’re not nervous to officiate?”

Sam shrugged, though his ears turned a little pink. “Honestly? Yeah. I’m gonna cry. Probably before you even get to the vows.”

Castiel laughed, soft and surprised. “Dean keeps pretending he’s not going to cry. But I know he will.”

“Oh, he will,” Sam agreed, fondness thick in his voice. “He cried at that moose video on YouTube.”

“It was stuck in a pool,” Castiel said solemnly.

“It was,” Sam replied, equally serious.

They both paused. Then laughed.

“I’ve been working on what to say,” Sam said after a moment, looking down at the notepad. “I want it to be right, you know? I want it to… mean something. Dean and I haven’t always had the easiest time of it. But he loves you. I’ve never seen him like this. Not with anyone. Not even close.”

Castiel nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “He changed everything for me.”

“He’d say the same about you,” Sam said, his voice quieter now.

They sat in silence for a moment, the soft sound of music drifting from the other room.

“What’s your favorite line of your vows so far?” Sam asked eventually.

Castiel looked down at his mug, then back up, eyes clear and certain.

“I wrote, ‘You are my calm in chaos. My command in the noise. My home, even when I’m lost.’”

Sam’s eyes went glassy. “Okay, cool, great. Gonna cry now. Awesome.”

Castiel smiled, reaching for a napkin and passing it over.

Back in the living room, Dean had curled onto his side, playlist mostly built, phone discarded, and Charlie was stretched across the couch reading aloud possible quotes for their ceremony from a website titled “Shakespeare For Modern Gays.”

“‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?’” she read dramatically.

Dean rolled onto his back. “You’re strange.”

“I’m helping!” she cried.

“You’re doing the Lord’s work,” Castiel called from the kitchen, stepping into the doorway.

Charlie beamed. “Heard that, preacher.”

Dean grinned sleepily and looked up at Castiel. “Hey Cas.”

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Dean held up his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Come sit with me.”

And of course—he did.

***

The house had gone still.

The kind of still that only came after a long day filled with too many opinions and too many tiny decisions—floral spacing, chair placement, table cards, lighting warmth, and, of course, centerpieces. The kind of stillness that settles around two people not because there's nothing left to say—but because they’ve already said all the loud things, and what’s left is sacred and soft.

Dean lay propped on one elbow, face drowsy and golden in the glow of the bedside lamp, the faint scent of honey still clinging to his skin from the earlier shower. Castiel was already under the covers, hair damp from a shower, fingers slowly smoothing over Dean’s forearm where it rested between them.

Dean’s phone was in his free hand, screen dimmed but casting just enough light for him to scroll.

“I finished it,” he murmured.

Castiel blinked slowly, the corner of his mouth curling in a lazy smile. “Finished what?”

“Our playlist,” Dean said, tapping once and turning the screen so Castiel could see the title:
‘Heaven Is Right Here (and It Likes Pie)’.

Castiel huffed a soft laugh. “Perfect.”

Dean sat up a little straighter, nerves working behind his eyes even though he played it casual. “I, uh… I picked all the reception stuff. Like, the songs for dinner, and slow dancing, and the part where we make people cry before the open bar hits.”

“Dean—” Castiel began, warm and touched, but Dean kept going, like he needed to get it all out before he lost the nerve.

“And there’s this one,” he said, fingers flicking to a soft cover of “Heroes”. “I added it because… I dunno. It reminds me of that day Alastair bumped into me, and you just… made me feel so safe. The way you looked at me. The way you held me.”

Castiel stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression—until it gave way to quiet awe. He reached out and brushed a thumb gently across Dean’s cheek.

“You’ve always taken my breath away,” Castiel said softly. “Even before I knew how much you would wreck me.”

Dean swallowed, eyes shining. “Cas…”

“And rebuild me again,” Castiel added, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean looked down at the screen again, clearing his throat. “I put in some dumb stuff too. Like, I made sure we’ve got the ‘Cha Cha Slide’ for Jack, and something wild for Ruby to dance to. And I added ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’—but, like, the version that sounds like we’re slow dancing in a goddamn dream.”

Castiel leaned in and kissed the corner of Dean’s mouth. “You did all that for me?”

“I did it for us,” Dean murmured.

Then, more quietly: “I’ve never let myself plan this far ahead before. Never thought I’d get to. A wedding. A playlist. A... forever.”

Castiel shifted closer under the covers, wrapping his arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him flush. “You’re not just getting to—you’re doing it. With me.”

Dean nodded against Castiel’s temple. “Yeah. With you.”

They lay like that in silence for a moment. Wrapped up, hearts thudding slow and sure, the playlist still softly open on Dean’s phone screen beside them.

“You want to hear the last song on it?” Dean whispered.

“Of course.”

Dean tapped play, and “Tangled Up in You” by Staind began to hum from the speaker—low, aching, and beautiful.

Castiel’s eyes closed, and he let his forehead rest against Dean’s.

“I chose this for us,” Dean murmured.

“It’s perfect,” Castiel whispered back.

Dean shifted slightly under the covers, his hand sliding up Castiel’s chest as he leaned in—slow, unhurried. He kissed him, gentle and sure, lips meeting like they’d done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. There was no urgency at first, just warmth and gravity, the kind of kiss that was more about being close than being devoured.

Castiel's hand curled around the back of Dean's neck, anchoring him there. The softness between them began to melt, giving way to something deeper. The kiss grew heavier, more intense, mouths parting as the hum of the playlist faded into the background. Dean’s palm pressed to Castiel’s chest, and then both hands were climbing up, pushing the sheets aside, finding him.

Without a word, Castiel shifted beneath him, pulling Dean up and into his lap. Dean straddled him easily, knees bracketing his hips, arms resting loosely over his shoulders. Their foreheads bumped together, their breath catching in shared heat and affection.

Dean leaned in again, slower this time—like he was memorizing it now, like he needed to kiss him until the quiet was full. His hand came up, fingers brushing against Castiel’s jaw, the scrape of stubble familiar, grounding.

But then he felt it. Wetness. The trail of something delicate but unmistakable sliding along Castiel’s cheek.

Dean pulled back just slightly, just enough to see him. Castiel's face was flushed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, eyes shining but blurred with unshed tears. Another slipped free, tracking across the high arch of his cheekbone.

Dean didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. Because he knew. He understood.

He brought his thumb up slowly, brushing it across Castiel’s cheek, wiping the tear away with a tenderness that made his throat ache. His other hand cupped the side of Castiel’s face, fingers threading behind his ear. And he just held him there, watching him. Steady. Present. Reverent.

Castiel’s eyes closed as Dean's thumb passed again over his skin, smoothing, comforting. His breath caught—only once—and then settled.

Dean leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Another to his temple. Then one more, slow and sure, to his lips again. He held him close, chest to chest, their foreheads meeting once more in the hush of the room.

No need for words. Not when everything important was already understood in the silence between them.

Dean leaned in again, kissing Castiel slow, with the kind of lazy hunger that came when there was no rush—just the quiet permission of night and the hush of their bedroom all around them. Their lips moved in sync, familiar but never dull, deepening with every passing second. Dean’s hands threaded into Castiel’s hair, tugging lightly before smoothing over the back of his neck.

Castiel’s hands roamed with intent—one resting low on Dean’s back, fingers splaying wide against the warm skin beneath his sleep shirt, while the other trailed up his side, over his ribs, brushing the curve of his waist. The pads of his fingers traced the chain collar with reverence before finding the longer tail of it, tugging lightly—just enough for Dean to feel it tighten at the base of his throat.

Dean gasped softly into his mouth, a tremble rushing through him at the contact.

Castiel kissed along his jaw, lips soft and open-mouthed, and ran his hand higher—palm warm against Dean’s throat, thumb brushing the underside of his jawline.

Dean didn’t flinch. Didn’t brace.

He leaned into the pressure.

His pupils blown, breath hitching, his fingers curled around Castiel’s biceps for balance.

The moment was delicate and charged, Castiel’s palm resting flat—possessive without squeezing, a silent reminder of the trust that hummed like electricity between them.

And then Dean murmured, voice gravel-rough but sweet:

“Hey, Cas… you know what I realized?”

Castiel’s eyes flicked up, something molten and tender behind them. “What, sweetheart?”

Dean smiled. Soft and crooked. A little breathless.

“We’ve been together for a year now.”

Castiel’s hand loosened, fingers brushing Dean’s collarbone now, and his mouth curved into a smile that was almost shy. “That we have.”

Dean looked down at him like he was everything.

Because he was.

Castiel smoothed his hands down Dean’s hips, gripping gently, grounding him in his lap. He leaned forward and kissed him again, slow and savoring, lips parting like a promise.

Dean melted into it.

There was nothing frantic between them now. Just weight. Warmth. The press of skin and the memories beneath it. The ache of time passed, and the sweetness of time still coming.

One year.

And forever more.

Dean shifted slightly in Castiel’s lap, the soft cotton of his sleep shirt riding up his thighs, baring skin to the heat of Castiel’s hands. His breath stuttered when those hands slid over him again—slow, reverent, dragging fingertips down his back and curling possessively into his waist.

They kissed like they had time, but need simmered beneath the surface—familiar and coiled, a low hum in Dean’s belly. He arched into it, into Castiel, parting his lips on a gasp when Castiel licked into his mouth, slow and deep.

Dean moved, grinding down in Castiel’s lap with a quiet, broken sound, his cock already hard and aching beneath the thin fabric of his boxers. Castiel groaned low into his throat, the sound vibrating through Dean’s chest, and his fingers gripped harder at Dean’s hips, guiding the motion now.

“That’s it,” Castiel murmured against his mouth.

The chain collar shifted around Dean’s throat, a gentle drag of metal, and Castiel’s hand found it again—just to touch. Just to remind. The weight of it, the meaning, made Dean shiver.

He reached up, threading his fingers into Castiel’s hair, holding him close as he rocked into him, breaths coming in wet, needful pants between kisses. Castiel’s other hand slipped between them, pushing Dean’s boxers down just far enough to wrap his hand around him—slow, firm strokes that made Dean’s hips stutter and his mouth fall open in a ragged moan.

“You’re so good for me,” Castiel whispered. “So damn beautiful when you fall apart.”

Castiel’s lips trailed down his neck, mouthing at the sensitive skin just beneath the collar, tongue teasing the chain, breath hot against his throat. Dean whimpered. He couldn’t help it. Everything about Castiel—his mouth, his hands, the way he touched like he already knew every place Dean was coming undone—set him on fire from the inside out.

“You feel everything, don’t you?” Castiel said, his voice low and wrecked. “You give me everything.”

Dean’s head fell back, exposing his throat, riding Castiel’s hand now while Castiel pushed up into him, rocking against the curve of Dean’s ass, heat and friction and the unbearable ache of being too clothed, too slow, too close to the edge.

He choked out a sound—half sob, half moan—and Castiel stilled him, just for a second, to kiss him deep again. Tongue meeting his. Breath stolen. Mouths parted on shared need.

When Castiel finally pushed Dean back onto the mattress, guiding him down with trembling control, they kept kissing. They didn’t stop. Not through the gentle peeling away of clothes. Not through the soft, slick press of Castiel’s cock sliding against Dean’s. Not through the slow, grinding rhythm they fell into beneath the blankets.

Dean was loud—always was when it felt this good—hands gripping Castiel’s ass, pulling him closer, chasing friction. The room was filled with the heat of it, the wet slide of skin, the broken gasps, the desperate little curse words Dean tried to bury in Castiel’s throat.

“You’re perfect,” Castiel whispered raggedly against his cheek. “Perfect for me.”

They moved together, messy and gorgeous and slow, like they were trying to memorize every sound, every drag of skin, every breath.

When Dean came, it was with Castiel’s name on his lips, shattered and holy.

And when Castiel followed, his voice caught in Dean’s shoulder, arms locked around him like a vow.

The quiet afterward felt sacred.

Their breath came hard and uneven. Sweat slicked their chests. Fingers stayed tangled. Neither of them let go.

The room was quiet now, the kind of quiet that felt full instead of empty—thick with heat and breath and the slow tick of the bedside clock. Dean lay boneless beneath the sheets, his chest still rising and falling with the remnants of release, his face tucked into the curve of Castiel’s neck.

Castiel didn’t move for a moment. He just held Dean there, one hand stroking lightly down his spine, the other carding gently through his damp hair, smoothing it back with slow fingers. His touch was reverent, grounding. Like he was still worshiping Dean in the aftermath.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice still rough-edged from the pleasure he hadn’t tried to restrain.

Dean hummed in response—lazy, sated. “Yeah. Just… wiped.”

Castiel pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a beat before slowly, carefully untangling from the sheets and slipping out of bed. The room was dim except for the bedside lamp, golden light pooling across the wooden floor as he padded barefoot to the kitchen.

Dean blinked after him with heavy eyes, but didn’t move. He lay on his side now, already curling in on himself, body warm and boneless.

Castiel returned a moment later with a glass of ice water, condensation already forming on the surface. He eased back onto the bed and offered it wordlessly, his other hand reaching to tuck the sheet over Dean’s hip.

Dean took it with both hands, sitting up just long enough to sip it, and Castiel watched him closely—tenderly—making sure he drank enough before setting the glass down on the nightstand.

Then he pulled Dean back against him, guiding him gently until his head found Castiel’s chest again. Dean curled in tighter this time, wrapping one leg around Castiel’s, his fingers resting against the man's ribs.

Castiel stroked his back in slow, lazy circles. “You did so well tonight,” he whispered into Dean’s hair.

Dean didn’t answer right away. Just tucked his face in closer, nose brushing the warm skin of Castiel’s shoulder.

“You always make me feel safe,” he mumbled finally, voice thick with sleep and something tender.

Castiel’s breath caught for a second, then settled. He kissed the top of Dean’s head and whispered, “That’s all I ever want, sweetheart.”

Dean didn’t respond this time. His breathing was slowing, softening, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of a man coming down from everything—heat, noise, want, and love.

Castiel wrapped his arms tighter around him.

The room dimmed around them, the silence settling again—but now it pulsed with comfort. With everything unspoken but deeply understood.

Sleep came slow and warm, wrapped in limbs and cotton sheets, in whispered praise and the steady drum of Castiel’s heartbeat beneath Dean’s cheek.

Together.

Safe.

Always.

***

The night of the rehearsal dinner had arrived faster than anyone expected—flashes of RSVP emails, last-minute confirmations, and frantic playlist updates all behind them now. Which meant one thing: tomorrow was the big day.

Their big day.

Dean stood in front of the bathroom mirror, fussing with his hair—pushing it up just enough to make it look artfully disheveled. That perfect mess that said I don’t try hard while absolutely trying hard.

His black satin button-up was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His good jeans were still unfastened, zipper parted just enough to flash the smooth, dark sheen of the matching satin panties beneath. A teasing hint. A threat.

Beside him, Castiel watched.

Toothbrush idle in one hand, his reflection distracted and heated.

Dean caught his gaze in the mirror and smirked—just the faintest twitch of his lips. Unbothered. But unmistakably lit up with mischief. His green eyes dark with intent.

Castiel finished brushing, spitting into the sink and rinsing his mouth before tossing the towel over his shoulder. He stepped up behind Dean without a word, the heat of his body pressing flush to Dean’s back, hands sliding to his hips with practiced ease.

Dean leaned back into him, his weight relaxed, like he was made to fit there.

Castiel’s right hand slipped beneath the open fly of Dean’s jeans, his palm finding the warm satin-clad bulge waiting for him. He cupped Dean slowly, deliberately, dragging his fingers over the silk, rubbing lazy circles with his thumb until he felt the twitch of arousal begin to stir.

Dean exhaled shakily through his nose, biting back a grin.

“You’re trying to keep me on edge,” Castiel murmured, voice low, already deepening with the pull of want.

Dean rolled his hips into his hand, a soft sound catching in his throat.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said smoothly, the very picture of innocence—if innocence came in the form of satin, undone pants, and a cocky smirk. “Just trying to look good for dinner.”

Castiel chuckled darkly, dragging his palm more firmly along Dean’s cock now, letting it thicken and strain beneath the soft fabric. The heat was palpable. Dean gasped, his lashes fluttering as he caught himself against the sink with both hands.

“You are…” Castiel whispered near his ear, “a menace.”

Dean grinned through the flush spreading down his chest. “Only to you.”

Castiel kissed the side of his neck, open-mouthed and wet, as his fingers tightened around him slightly.

“You think you can wear this—” he punctuated his words with a slow stroke “—and not expect me to do something about it?”

“I mean,” Dean said with a breathy laugh, grinding just enough to make Castiel groan, “I was hoping you'd do something after dinner.”

Castiel pressed his hips against Dean’s ass, letting him feel the full weight of his arousal. “If you keep teasing me, we won’t make it to dinner.”

Dean licked his lips, pupils blown wide, trying and failing to hold back the smugness on his face. “I’d call that a win.”

Castiel nipped gently at his jaw, hand still stroking him slow and steady, making Dean tremble against the sink.

“Button up your pants,” Castiel said eventually, pulling his hand away with one final teasing squeeze that made Dean whine. “And keep them on through dinner. You’ll get your reward after—if you behave.”

Dean smirked, shivering as he tucked himself back in and zipped up. “You’re cruel.”

Castiel leaned in again, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“I’m patient,” he corrected. “But I don’t plan to be later.”

Dean swallowed hard, his thighs clenching, eyes glassy in the mirror.

He was going to be so well-behaved at dinner.

Maybe.

***

The car ride to the rehearsal dinner was supposed to be calm. A moment of quiet before the chaos. But Dean had never been one for peace and quiet—not when he could get Castiel hot under the collar.

The sun had already dipped behind the hills, casting the sky in streaks of lavender and honey gold. Castiel drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, his button-down sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He looked… devastating. Clean lines, steady hands, and the faintest crease between his brows as he focused on the road. The cologne Dean bought him thick and heavy on his skin making the brat go fucking insane.

Dean watched him from the passenger seat. Legs spread, one arm slung lazily over the console, eyes trailing over Castiel’s profile like he was memorizing him.

“Hey Cas,” Dean said, voice low and syrup-thick.

Castiel hummed, glancing at him briefly.

Dean leaned in across the center console, his breath warm against Castiel’s ear. “Remember what you said earlier?” he whispered. “About punishing me if I didn’t behave?”

Castiel’s knuckles tensed just slightly on the steering wheel.

“I recall,” he said evenly.

Dean smirked, letting his lips brush Castiel’s ear as he spoke again. “I’ve been sittin’ here, thinking about how good your hand felt down my pants. Bet you’d wreck me right here if I asked nicely.”

“Dean,” Castiel warned, his voice already shifting—lower, rougher.

But Dean didn’t stop. He inched closer, his hand trailing over Castiel’s thigh, thumb pressing just beside the inseam.

“You should see the way this satin’s rubbing against me every time we hit a bump in the road,” he murmured. “Might be leaking by the time we get there.”

Castiel swallowed thickly, jaw clenching. “You promised to behave.”

Dean’s grin turned feral. “I lied.”

Castiel pulled in a breath through his nose, his fingers twitching slightly against the steering wheel. “You really want me to pull over right now and fuck that brat out of you before we get to dinner?”

Dean moaned quietly, just loud enough to be heard. “Kinda do.”

Castiel didn’t answer immediately. He simply reached over, grabbed Dean’s wandering hand, and pinned it firmly to the console.

“You’ll sit pretty through dinner,” he said darkly, “or I’ll edge you for hours after.”

Dean’s pupils blew wide. He swallowed.

“…Yes, Castiel,” he rasped.

Castiel didn’t let go of his hand for the rest of the drive.

And Dean? He behaved—on the outside.

But he was squirming in his seat the entire way there.

***

When they pulled into the lot outside the restaurant, the soft hum of music inside was drowned out by laughter from the sidewalk. Dean spotted them immediately—Ruby squealing and hanging off Sam’s arm like an excited child at the fair, Meg smirking beside them, Charlie already digging in her purse for god-knows-what. Even Jack bounced on his heels, clearly too amped to stand still.

Dean chuckled under his breath. “I swear, if she jumps on him any harder, Sammy’s gonna throw his back out.”

Castiel smiled fondly as he cut the engine. “It’s nice to see everyone happy.”

Dean didn’t move to get out. Not yet. Instead, he reached over and hooked his fingers through Castiel’s hand where it still rested on the console.

“Hold up,” he said casually, and before Castiel could ask why, Dean tugged his hand lower, pressing it firmly between his legs—right over the thick bulge in his jeans, the silk of his panties barely muffling the heat radiating through the fabric.

Castiel stiffened, his breath catching.

Dean grinned. “Told you I’d be leaking by the time we got here.”

Castiel didn’t say a word—just flexed his hand slightly, thumb brushing over the throbbing tip, slow and deliberate, before he pulled away and wiped his sweaty palm on his dark jeans like he needed to compose himself.

“You’re insatiable,” Castiel murmured, eyes locked on the windshield like it might save him from losing it.

“You love it,” Dean whispered back, smug as hell, before finally grabbing the door handle and stepping out into the warm night.

The scent of grilled meat wafted from the open doors of the restaurant, rich and mouthwatering. Dean looked up at the massive letters overhead—Texas de Brazil—and shook his head.

A Brazilian steakhouse. Of course. Where the price per person was pushing seventy bucks just for the privilege of having endless meat delivered on skewers like a buffet on steroids. Dean would’ve never picked it in a million years.

But Castiel had insisted.

And since his family was covering the cost of the rehearsal dinner?

Dean didn’t have a say.

Not that he minded. He glanced sideways at his soon-to-be husband, the city lights reflecting off his leather jacket and the faintest glint of his ring catching in the glow. Castiel looked calm. Elegant. Completely unaware that Dean was plotting several sins to commit as soon as they got home.

“Ready?” Castiel asked, offering his hand.

Dean interlaced his fingers with Castiel’s and leaned in close as they started toward the group.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said with a grin, “but you better keep feeding me or I’m gonna start acting out.”

Castiel laughed softly under his breath. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re already acting out.”

Dean winked. “I’m innocent.”

“Well, it’s about time! We were betting you were getting fucked before you showed up,” Ruby said loudly, wiggling her eyebrows with zero shame and absolutely no volume control.

“They were betting,” Sam clarified dryly, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “I abstained.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, from betting. Not from the mental image, I bet.”

Sam made a face like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I need a drink.”

Before Dean could throw something back, the front doors opened dramatically to reveal Rowena and Crowley gliding in like they owned the place. Which, to be fair, they practically did—Rowena in a figure-hugging velvet gown the color of deep wine, and Crowley sharp in a three-piece suit that made everyone else look underdressed by comparison.

“Our table is ready,” Rowena announced, hands on her hips, flame-red hair cascading over one shoulder. “Oh! And it’s about time you two showed up.”

“Tell that to him,” Dean said, nodding toward Castiel with a smirk. “He drives like an old woman. Stops fully at every stop sign, even in empty parking lots.”

Castiel, without missing a beat, leaned down, hand still entwined with Dean’s, and whispered just against the shell of his ear, “Don’t start acting up now… or I’ll take you to the bathroom and spank your ass so raw you won’t be able to sit at our wedding tomorrow.”

Dean’s mouth parted in a soft, startled gasp, the kind of breathless whimper that barely made it out of his throat—but Castiel heard it. Felt it. Smirked.

Dean, flustered and glowing red, tried to play it off with a cough. “Well, now I need a drink.”

“Where’s everyone else?” he asked aloud, eyes scanning the crowd, definitely not meeting Castiel’s for a second too long. “Nick?”

“Nick is already inside,” Crowley said as he swept toward the hostess, offering her a wink and a twenty. “Which is where we should be.”

The group followed in through the glass doors, the warm interior humming with low lighting, the scent of roasted garlic and charred meat in the air. The buzz of laughter and clinking glasses filtered through the dining room beyond the entrance.

Dean tapped Meg’s shoulder on their way through the entry. She turned around, arching an eyebrow at him with her usual casual fire.

“Where’s Abaddon?” he asked.

“Oh,” Meg said with a shrug, like she was commenting on the weather. “We broke up. No big deal. She lives too far, and I don’t do long distance. If I can’t strangle you in person, what’s the point?”

Dean opened his mouth to offer some kind of response—but then Meg glanced at Charlie for half a second. Barely even a glance, really. But it was enough.

Dean froze mid-step. “Did you see that?”

Castiel stopped beside him, brushing close at the elbow. “Yes.”

“Was that—?”

“Yes.”

Dean blinked and looked at Charlie, who was ahead chatting with Ruby like nothing happened, cheeks just slightly pinker than usual.

“Oh my God,” Dean whispered. “I think Meg has a thing for Charlie.”

“I think Charlie might have a thing for Meg,” Castiel murmured.

Dean’s mouth curled into a grin. “We need to get them drunk.”

“No interference,” Castiel said, gently pulling Dean forward by the hand. “Let them figure it out.”

“But I love interfering,” Dean whined, just loud enough for Castiel to hear.

“And I love making you pay for your mischief.”

Dean grinned wider, swaying their joined hands between them. “Promises, promises.”

They slipped into the dining room, the party gathering around the massive table reserved at the back—meat skewers already gliding by on trays carried by men with expertly folded napkins over their forearms. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, silverware catching the candlelight.

Dean glanced around at the crowd—his crowd—and felt a warm hum settle in his chest.

***

The rehearsal dinner began like most did — with polite conversation, clinking glasses, and everyone pretending not to be ravenous. That lasted all of seven minutes.

The moment the first server arrived at the table wielding a sword-like skewer of things devolved into delicious, meat-fueled chaos.

Dean didn’t stand a chance.

“Garlic steak?” the server asked, accent thick and warm.

Dean looked up like he’d just seen God. “Uh—hell yeah, I want garlic steak.”

The meat was carved directly onto his plate in perfect, glistening slices. Dean’s eyes followed every motion, practically drooling.

Castiel watched from beside him, napkin folded neatly in his lap, posture straight, expression almost regal in its calm. Meanwhile, Dean stabbed a piece of steak with his fork, shoved it into his mouth, and actually—audibly—moaned.

“Fuck me,” Dean mumbled through the bite, eyes fluttering closed.

Across the table, Ruby choked on her wine and cackled. “Damn, Dean, at least take it on a date first!”

“I’m just sayin’,” Dean said, pointing at the meat with his fork like it had personally rocked his world. “That is so good. Like... I think I saw heaven for a second.”

“You said the same thing last week when Cas—” Charlie started, then wisely cut herself off with a sip of her cocktail.

Castiel placed a calm hand over Dean’s thigh under the table. “Control yourself, sweetheart,” he murmured without looking over. “You’re already embarrassing the wait staff.”

Ruby had leaned halfway out of her chair to flag down the next server. “Do you have anything wrapped in bacon? Wrapped around cheese? Wrapped around more bacon?”

The server blinked. “Uh. We have filet—”

“Great. I’ll take three,” Ruby grinned, not clarifying pieces or entire cuts.

Dean reached for his glass, trying not to choke on another bite of buttery beef, but the table shifted just slightly under his wrist and his steak knife clattered off the edge, tumbling to the floor.

“Shit,” he muttered and leaned down, scooting his chair back with a gentle scrape.

Castiel raised a brow, but said nothing.

Dean ducked under the tablecloth—draped in a deep maroon, flickering candlelight casting golden shadows beneath the table—and retrieved the knife.

And then, of course, he lingered.

Castiel stiffened slightly as he felt a hand ghost over his ankle.

Then his calf.

Then higher.

Castiel cleared his throat once, set his silverware down, and looked across the table at Rowena, who was mid-sentence about how wedding centerpieces were “utterly pointless unless they smelled like something intoxicating or made a political statement.”

Meanwhile, Dean’s hand was sliding up Castiel’s thigh beneath the pristine white tablecloth, slow and deliberate.

Ruby narrowed her eyes. “What’s he doing down there?”

“Retrieving his dignity,” Castiel said smoothly.

“Never had any,” Meg added, sipping her drink.

Dean surfaced a second later, cheeks flushed, knife in one hand and a smug grin stretched across his face.

“I found it,” he said, lifting the utensil like a prize.

“I’ll be sure to reward you later,” Castiel murmured low enough that only Dean could hear.

Dean’s smirk faltered.

Then deepened.

He sat back in his chair with the air of a man who’d won something very, very dangerous.

Before the next round of meat skewers could make their way around the table—and just as Ruby was preparing to launch into a story about that one time she got banned from a hibachi grill—Charlie rose to her feet.

She tapped the side of her wine glass with the edge of her steak knife, not too hard, but enough to create a crisp, clear chime that cut through the hum of laughter and clinking forks.

The noise at the table ebbed immediately, conversations tapering off one by one as everyone turned toward her. Even a few heads at neighboring tables tilted in curiosity, catching the shift in atmosphere.

Dean looked up from his plate, a small piece of filet mignon poised halfway to his mouth, his brow lifting. Castiel, ever aware of Charlie’s timing, sat up a little straighter beside him, his hand brushing against Dean’s under the table.

Charlie cleared her throat, her eyes glittering with excitement, nerves, and a little mischief as she raised her glass slightly.

“I promise I’ll keep this short, because if I get sappy for too long, Dean’ll either cry or try to fight someone to balance it out.”

Laughter bubbled around the table. Dean rolled his eyes with a playful grunt.

Charlie smiled. “But… I just wanted to say something. Because this? All of this—” she gestured around the table, at the people they loved, the half-full glasses, the plates of food, the warmth of it all, “—this is pretty damn special.”

She paused and looked toward Dean.

“I’ve known Dean a long time. Like, a long time. And for a good chunk of that time, I knew a version of him who didn’t always believe he’d get something like this. Love, yeah, maybe. But not this kind of love. Not someone who sees him—all of him—and still chooses him every day without hesitation.”

Dean looked down at the table, jaw tight, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile or chew his lip off. He ran his thumb along the edge of his napkin, eyes glassy. Castiel turned toward him slightly, his gaze never leaving Dean’s face.

“And then he met Cas,” Charlie continued, her voice softening. “And everything changed. I watched my best friend fall in love like it was something he couldn’t stop, couldn’t fight—like his whole soul was finally pulling toward the place it always belonged.”

Her eyes slid to Castiel now, and her tone deepened with sincerity.

“And Cas… I know you know this, but just in case you need reminding—you’re his anchor. His calm. His storm, too, when he needs it. You’ve made him more himself than I’ve ever seen him, and I love you for that.”

Castiel nodded once, throat bobbing with emotion.

Charlie raised her glass higher.

“To the reckless hearts who found home in each other. To love, to loyalty, and to an absolutely filthy wedding night.”

Everyone laughed, glasses lifted with cheers echoing through the room.

Dean swallowed thickly, eyes shining. “I hate you,” he whispered to Charlie across the table, voice choked.

Charlie grinned and blew him a kiss. “I know.”

As the last echoes of Charlie’s toast faded into clinking glasses and soft laughter, the table settled again—until Ruby stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her wine glass with the movement.

“Oh no,” Dean muttered, eyeing her warily. “Here we go.”

Ruby grinned wickedly. “Relax, Winchester. I’m not gonna flash the whole restaurant… this time.”

Castiel chuckled beside him.

Ruby cleared her throat, grabbed her whiskey glass—nearly empty—and stood tall, her red heels giving her an extra inch of command over the room. There was something unusually steady in her eyes, though. Something warm beneath the mischief.

“I know I’m not exactly what you’d call... heartfelt,” she began, swirling her drink. “But this is a big night. And these two idiots—” she pointed between Dean and Castiel with her pinky, “—they deserve something real.”

Dean blinked, a little stunned by her tone shift.

“When I first met Dean,” Ruby continued, “he was... well, let’s just say he was basically one twitch away from pulling a knife on someone if they even looked at Castiel sideways.”

The table erupted in laughter. Dean groaned and buried his face in one hand.

“No, no, I mean it!” Ruby insisted, laughing along. “He was so nervous. Like full body tension, jaw clenched, eye twitching kind of nervous. And the way he looked at Cas? You’d think the guy held the damn moon in his pocket. But instead of admitting it like a normal person, he just scowled and hovered and glared at all of us like we were going to steal his boyfriend.”

“I didn’t glare,” Dean muttered.

“You glared like this,” Ruby shot back, scrunching her face into a perfect imitation of Dean’s early scowl, crossing her arms and muttering, “Who the fuck is that? Why are they talking to you? You’ve known them how long? What do they want?”

Even Castiel barked out a surprised laugh at that.

“But the thing is,” Ruby continued, her grin softening just slightly, “under all that growl and grumble, Dean was just... trying to protect what he loved. What he finally had. Because—and I hope you know this by now, Dean—Cas was talking about you before any of us met you.”

Dean frowned, confused. “Wait, what?” He recalled the conversation he had with Castiel about him mentioning that he had brought Dean up, but—

“Oh, yeah,” Ruby said with a twinkle in her eye. “Castiel had this ridiculous group chat with me, Rowena, Jack, Nick, even Crowley.”

Jack cackled and nodded. “He once sent a message of Dean sleeping in the bed and said, “He looks so innocent when he sleeps, still a brat though’.”

“Or the time he sent that message about Dean being all greasy from work or something, ‘He’s like watching thunder. I want to get on my knees and pray to him.’” Jack added dramatically, wiping a fake tear from her eye.

Dean was full-on red now, eyes wide, ears pink. “He did not.”

“Oh he did,” Rowena chimed in, lifting her wine glass. “We thought you were a figment of Cas’s fantasy life until you actually showed up.”

Castiel, calm and proud, turned slightly toward Dean and murmured, “I still have every message.”

Dean looked like he was about to combust. “You guys are the worst.”

“And yet,” Ruby said sweetly, raising her glass with a wink, “here we are. All of us completely in love with the love you two have. Because it’s big, and stupid, and protective, and holy, and filthy, and real.”

The table lifted their glasses again, voices overlapping in a chorus of cheers and to Dean and Cas!

Dean ducked his head, blushing furiously. Castiel reached beneath the table to squeeze his thigh, and then leaned in to whisper with a knowing smile, “Still think you’re not sentimental?”

Dean just groaned into his napkin. “This is emotional terrorism.”

“Effective, though,” Castiel murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

As the laughter from Ruby’s toast settled into warm hums and sips of wine, another chair scraped quietly against the floor.

Sam stood.

His towering frame seemed even more imposing under the soft golden light of the restaurant’s chandeliers. The table hushed almost instantly.

Even Dean sat up straighter, his brow furrowed with something close to worry.

“I wasn’t planning on saying anything tonight,” Sam began, clearing his throat and glancing awkwardly at his wine glass, “but my crazy girlfriend inspired me.”

Ruby grinned like a devil and reached up to swat him on the arm. “You love it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I do.”

The room quieted again, expectant, and Sam’s eyes flicked toward Castiel.

“I’m not gonna air anyone’s dirty laundry,” Sam said, looking over at Dean with a teasing glint. “Or Dean’s, for that matter.”

A few snorts of laughter rippled around the table.

“But,” Sam continued, his tone softening, “I do want to say something. To Cas.”

Dean turned his head then, brows raised slightly in surprise. Even Castiel tilted in his chair, clearly intrigued.

“I remember the first time Dean ever said your name,” Sam said. “He was trying not to, of course—said he was just ‘seeing someone.’ Real casual. But I’ve known him too long. I knew something was different.”

Sam’s eyes settled on Castiel more fully now, expression gentling.

“And then, once the door cracked open… he wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Dean let out a mortified groan and dropped his forehead to the table. Castiel smiled.

“It was the way Dean talked about you, Cas. The way you made him feel like he wasn’t too much. Or too little. Like he could be soft, and it wouldn’t get him hurt. That was new. That… was everything.”

Dean looked up at that, eyes glossy.

“And I’ll admit,” Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “I was skeptical. Especially when Dean told me you were a few years older than him.”

Everyone snorted and giggled—including Castiel, who merely shook his head with a smirk.

“But then I met you,” Sam continued. “And I saw what he meant. I saw what he felt. And I knew... you were already family.”

Silence followed for a moment, heavy and full.

Then Sam raised his glass toward Castiel.

“So… thank you. For loving my brother. For protecting him. And for giving him the kind of peace I never thought he’d find.”

He turned to the rest of the table. “To Dean and Castiel.”

“To Dean and Castiel!” everyone echoed, glasses clinking, voices overlapping, and the table lit up again with laughter and quiet sniffles.

Dean stared at his brother across the flickering candlelight and whispered, “You big sap.”

Sam just shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

***

As the group spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, laughter trailing behind them like confetti, Castiel reached up, threading his hands into Dean’s hair with slow reverence. The golden glow of the street lamps caught the edges of Dean’s cheekbones as Castiel leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to his mouth, soft but full of promise.

Dean melted into it, hands resting on Castiel’s hips, eyes fluttering closed. The world narrowed to the warmth between them—until—

“Alright, you two, break it up!” Rowena’s voice rang out like a clap of thunder in the quiet evening.

Castiel broke the kiss reluctantly, breath ghosting over Dean’s lips, and then suddenly he was being pulled away by Nick’s hands on his shoulders.

“Whoa—hey—wait—what?” Dean looked utterly confused, blinking as Nick steered Castiel away with all the enthusiasm of a best friend in full-on wedding mode.

“Cas is coming with us,” Nick announced proudly. “He’s staying at Ro and Crowley’s tonight. Can’t have you two tangled up before the big day. Meg, Charlie, Ruby and Sam will stay with you and get ready there.”

Dean's brows furrowed in confusion. “Why?” He sounded genuinely distressed, lips still kiss-swollen and hands falling uselessly at his sides. “Why can’t he come home with me?”

Ruby strutted over, twirling her clutch on her wrist with flair. “Because,” she sing-songed, “he can’t see the bride before the wedding!”

Dean’s face contorted instantly. “I’m not the—”

But she was already skipping away with Meg and Charlie, leaving Sam stifling laughter behind his hand.

Dean scowled after her, eyes narrow, but his attention snapped back to Castiel as the man made his way back over, pulling Dean aside into the shadow of a brick column.

Castiel leaned down close, the smell of spice and cologne still clinging to his skin. His voice was a low purr, rich with mischief. “I’ll call you later.”

Dean exhaled sharply, already drawn in by the promise.

“I can still make you cum tonight,” Castiel added, dragging the words out against the shell of Dean’s ear like honey over gravel.

Dean visibly shuddered, knees nearly buckling as he bit down a groan. “You’re evil,” he whispered, eyes blown wide.

Castiel smirked wickedly, pressing a deep, slow kiss to Dean’s mouth—one that said I’m yours, and I’ll ruin you for anyone else.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Castiel teased once more, straightening his shirt collar as Nick returned to tug him away again.

“I don’t even know what that means anymore!” Dean called after him helplessly.

As Castiel was half-dragged, half-willingly escorted toward his car by Nick and Jack, Rowena linked arms with Crowley and shot Dean a wink over her shoulder. “Sleep well, darling. You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”

Dean stood there, still a little dazed, watching his fiancé vanish across the lot.

Charlie came up beside him and nudged him in the ribs. “Feeling abandoned?”

Dean just exhaled. “I’m gonna combust before morning.”

Charlie, Ruby and Meg left first, and Dean looked over at Sam who was heading to his car. “You ready for the crazy night?” He asked.

Dean snorted. “Not really.” He said with a laugh.

***

The moment Dean stepped through the front door, he was ambushed with a flurry of energy and noise.

“Pajama party!” Ruby sang from the kitchen, already wearing heart-printed sleep shorts and a matching top that barely covered her ass.

“Why am I not surprised?” Dean muttered as Meg grabbed his arm and guided him further inside.

“We have champagne, trashy romcoms, glitter face masks, and tequila,” Meg declared, her eyeliner already smudged to perfection. “You’re gonna look like a glowing, sobbing bride by morning.”

“Stop calling me the bride,” Dean grumbled, flopping down onto the couch.

Charlie shoved a bottle of champagne into his hand. “Sweetheart, you’ve got the sparkle, and the emotionally repressed pining. You’re the bride.”

Sam stifled a laugh from his spot in the corner, already pouring sparkling water into a glass. “I told you not to fight it, man.”

Dean rolled his eyes, taking a long swig from the bottle just to cope.

They spent the first hour watching Bridesmaids, Ruby quoting half the movie with a mouth full of popcorn while Charlie tried—unsuccessfully—to convince Dean to let them paint his nails.

“So what’s it like,” Ruby asked during a lull, “being on the brink of eternal monogamous dick-downs by the hottest teacher in the tristate area?”

Dean snorted and nearly choked on his drink. “I’ll let you know after the honeymoon.”

“Dean Winchester!” Charlie gasped. “Is that filth coming out of your mouth?”

Dean smirked, eyes glassy with drink. “Cas says I’m his filthy boy, so…”

That earned a full chorus of dramatic groans, followed by Sam shouting, “I’m still here, guys!”

Eventually, Dean ended up horizontal on the couch with a glitter mask half-peeling off, cradling a pillow, face turned toward the ceiling.

“I love him,” he mumbled.

“We know, Dean,” Charlie said, tucking a blanket over him with exaggerated care.

“Like. Really love him,” Dean whispered, eyes wet now. “Never thought I’d get this. And now it’s tomorrow. And he’s not here and I miss him and I want to kiss his dumb face and—”

Sam nodded to Charlie, and together they exchanged soft glances before Charlie sat beside him and pulled Dean’s head into her lap. He let it happen, quiet now.

“I just want it to be perfect for him,” Dean added, barely audible.

“It already is,” Charlie whispered, brushing a hand through his hair.

***

Back at the stately, dimly lit MacLeod estate, the mood was quieter—but no less intimate.

Castiel sat in a large armchair in the sitting room, still in his dark jeans, hair slightly mussed. Jack lounged on the rug near the fireplace, barefoot and passing around glasses of wine while Rowena and Crowley sat across from him on the velvet loveseat, drinks in hand, both dressed like they belonged in a gothic novel.

“You alright, love?” Rowena asked, eyes soft as they flitted over Castiel’s expression.

Castiel took a slow sip from his glass, then set it down. “I feel like I’ve waited my entire life for this. And now… I just want to fast-forward to the moment I get to say ‘I do.’”

“You’re already married in your soul,” Jack offered, reaching up to place a hand on Castiel’s knee. “Tomorrow’s just for everyone else to see it.”

Crowley grunted in agreement. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Though I will cry like a child if you don’t wear that navy tie I gave you.”

Castiel smiled faintly, eyes distant.

Nick stepped in from the kitchen with a small box tucked under his arm. “I found the cufflinks.”

He handed them to Castiel and sat beside him.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Nick said gently. “Dean’s probably losing his mind right now trying not to text you.”

“I hope he’s texting,” Castiel said with a chuckle, “I told him I’d call him tonight though, put him to bed properly.”

Rowena cackled. “Oh, darling, now that’s the wedding gift I like to hear about.”

The fireplace crackled behind them, and Jack pulled a blanket up around himself, watching Castiel with the kind of fondness only family could.

“Do you want to sleep?” Nick asked. “Or... do you want us to sit with you for a while?”

Castiel looked around the room—at the people who had embraced him, his love, his future.

“No,” he said quietly, “I think I just want to be still for a moment.”

Crowley raised his glass. “To stillness then. Before the storm.”

They all clinked glasses, and the room fell into a cozy silence, heavy with love, anticipation… and the electric hum of the day to come.

***

Dean lay sprawled across his bed, shirtless, the sheet tangled low around his waist. The glow of his phone screen illuminated his flushed face and bare chest, sweat-kissed and twitchy with want. His hair was mussed, pillow creased, and his fingers were tight around the phone like it might bite him back.

Meg and Charlie had passed out on opposite couches downstairs, both snoring softly under a mountain of mismatched throw blankets. From the spare room, Dean had heard Ruby giggling and Sam muttering something like, “You’re not even a little drunk, are you?” before the door shut and merciful silence followed.

Now, it was just him. Alone. Horny. It felt like he was nineteen again, waiting on a late-night booty call that might never come.

Except this time, the man he wanted to fuck was the one he was going to marry.

Dean stared down at the latest text, his thumb hovering.

Dean: Wish you were here…

The response didn’t take long.

Cas: I know, sweetheart. Me too.

Dean shifted under the sheets, hips arching just enough to relieve a fraction of the pressure throbbing between his legs. His cock was hard, flushed red and leaking against the waistband of his underwear—the black satin ones Castiel liked so much, the ones that did absolutely nothing to hide how worked up he was.

Dean: I’m so hard, Cas. It hurts.

He bit his lip after sending it, almost embarrassed. Almost.

The typing bubble popped up. Disappeared. Came back.

Cas: Give me a few minutes, getting ready for bed. I’ll call you.

Dean groaned and dropped his head back into the pillow. “Fucking tease,” he whispered, palming himself through the satin. His cock throbbed hard in his hand, slippery with precum, the thin fabric doing little to dull the ache. Every vibration of his phone made him twitch.

They’d been doing this for the last half hour—just like when they first matched on Tinder. Filthy texts, shameless photos. Dean had even snapped a quick picture earlier: his hand down his boxers, eyes half-lidded, mouth open around a whimper. It wasn’t exactly artful, but it did the job.

He thumbed up through their messages, rereading the last one Castiel had sent ten minutes ago:

Cas: Be patient for me. If I were there, I’d be inside you already.

Dean made a low, desperate sound.

He squeezed his cock again, not jerking—just pressing, dragging his palm up and down, feeling the sticky wet spot smear beneath the satin. It made him gasp quietly.

The room smelled faintly of fabric softener and faintly of Castiel. But under the sheets, Dean was all sweat and musk and aching, lonely need. His legs spread wider. One hand holding the phone. The other inching the waistband down, just enough to expose the flushed head of his cock to the cool air.

He stared at the screen, biting the inside of his cheek.

Dean: Hurry.

Seconds later, Dean’s phone finally buzzed—Incoming Call: Cas—and he nearly dropped it in his haste to answer.

He swiped up and brought it to his ear, voice rough with arousal and longing. “Hey.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” Castiel’s voice was low and smooth, edged with fondness and something darker—need. “You sound wrecked already.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I am. You took forever.” He pouted.

“I had to get away from Jack and Nick. Jack insists I wear a robe tomorrow morning like I’m on some reality TV wedding special.”

Dean laughed weakly, but the sound broke halfway through. “Cas…”

That made Castiel go quiet for a moment. “What’s wrong?”

“I just…” Dean shifted, the satin shorts now barely covering him. “I miss you. It's dumb, but I feel like I can’t sleep without you.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“It’s not dumb,” Castiel murmured. “I keep reaching for you too. I lay down and my hand moves to the middle of the bed without thinking.” His voice gentled. “You’re not alone, Dean.”

Dean’s throat worked. His hand, still resting on his cock, gripped tighter.

“You’re gonna be my husband tomorrow,” he whispered, the words hitting him square in the chest. “I wanna—fuck—I want you to fuck me so bad.”

Castiel exhaled a shaky breath. “Then let me guide you.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, and he bit down on a gasp.

“Touch yourself, slowly,” Castiel said, voice dipping lower, intimate. “Don’t rush. I want to hear every sound you make.”

Dean slid his hand back down, wrapping fingers around the slick length of himself, starting a slow, deliberate stroke. “God, I wish it was your hand.”

“I know.” Castiel paused. “Are your panties still on?”

Dean whimpered. “Halfway. They’re ruined, Cas. You ruin me.”

A quiet, dark laugh. “Good.”

Dean’s hips rolled into his fist. He couldn’t stop the soft moans that escaped him now, breath catching on every word Castiel said.

“I want to be there with you,” Castiel whispered. “Kneel between your legs and kiss the insides of your thighs. Lick into you until you’re begging. Want you to come undone for me, slow and sweet. Would you do that for me?”

“Y-yeah,” Dean moaned. “Anything. Just—talk more, please. Fuck—say my name.”

“Dean,” Castiel breathed. “You’re so perfect like this. My filthy, aching boy. My beautiful, desperate love.”

Dean’s fist tightened and his legs trembled. The sound of his slick strokes filled the room, and Castiel groaned low over the line like he could hear it, like he could feel it.

“You’re mine, Dean. Tomorrow, every day after. Mine.”

Dean choked on a whimper, pushing closer to the edge. “I’m yours. Always.”

And with Castiel murmuring praises in his ear—so good for me, so gorgeous when you fall apart—Dean finally broke with a muffled cry, hand moving fast through the slick mess as he spilled across his stomach, trembling and breathless.

The line went quiet, just the sound of Dean panting and Castiel’s soft sighs.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Castiel said gently after a moment. “You’re okay.”

Dean wiped at his stomach with a towel beside the bed, still buzzing. “Cas?”

“Yes, love.”

“I don’t even care if I’m tired tomorrow. I needed that.”

“I know.” There was a smile in Castiel’s voice. “Me too.”

Dean curled onto his side, phone still pressed to his ear, heart slowing. “Will you stay on the line till I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” Castiel said. “I’ll be right here. Always.”

Dean hummed quietly, a lazy, content sound, and began to drift with Castiel’s voice in his ear, whispering sweet, sleepy nothings until the world melted into quiet darkness.

Chapter Text

Dean had just drifted into that soft, warm haze where dreams and reality blur. He was tucked into the sheets, face buried in a pillow that still smelled like Castiel—clean, masculine, something faintly like sandalwood. His breathing was even, muscles relaxed, and in his head Castiel was whispering sweet, dirty promises while kissing his neck.

Until Ruby screamed into the stratosphere.

“WAKE UP, BRIDEZILLA!”

Dean let out a strangled yell as a full-grown woman launched herself onto his mattress like a missile. She landed on his back with a bounce and a triumphant oof.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Dean barked, flailing under her weight. “Get off me! What the hell, Ruby?!”

But Ruby wasn’t alone.

Within seconds, Meg stormed in and hurled herself right on top of them, her bony knees digging into Dean’s ribs. She flopped onto his legs like a dead fish, groaning dramatically. “If I don’t get coffee in the next ten minutes, I will eat one of your guests.”

Dean barely had time to catch his breath before Charlie—already dressed in leggings and a “Groomzilla’s Entourage” hoodie—leapt onto the bed with the energy of a sugar-high lemur.

“Good morning, sunshine! It’s WEDDING DAY!”

Dean was now a human pancake. A warm, grumpy, violated pancake.

“SAM!” Dean screamed desperately, muffled by the pillow. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

The floor creaked like a horror movie.

Sam’s laugh came just a second before his weight came crashing down onto the already-strained bed, joining the hellish dogpile. Dean’s soul left his body for a moment.

“YOU’RE ALL GONNA KILL ME!” he shouted, voice high and helpless as he thrashed under the pile of limbs.

“Can’t get married if you’re not awake, hon!” Ruby crooned sweetly, ruffling his hair and kissing the side of his head with exaggerated affection.

“I hate all of you,” Dean grunted. “You’re all banned from the reception.”

“I am the reception,” Ruby declared like it was gospel.

Dean’s groan of frustration twisted into wheezing laughter as Meg jabbed her fingers into his sides and Sam yanked at the blankets like he was in a turf war.

Charlie grinned and waved something in the air. “We also locked your phone this morning so you couldn’t run away.”

Dean growled through clenched teeth, “I’m telling Cas. All of you. Banned.”

It was chaos. Glorious, unhinged, suffocating chaos.

But goddamn if he didn’t love them all.

***

Across town, the morning light flooded into Rowena’s tastefully gothic guest suite. He didn’t even stay in his room. The walls were painted navy with accents of gold, and the long curtains danced lazily in the breeze. Castiel sat on a velvet settee in a dark sapphire silk robe—Jack’s idea—with a cup of coffee in hand, legs crossed neatly at the ankle.

He exhaled through his nose, savoring the silence.

It lasted eleven seconds.

“Okay!” Jack said, bursting through the adjoining door with the energy of someone mainlining espresso. “Breakfast is on the way. Crowley ordered it. Hair and grooming team at nine. But the real question is: have you tried on the robe fully yet? Like, with the slippers?”

Castiel blinked at him. “I’m wearing it, Jack.”

“No,” Jack insisted, circling him like a production assistant. “Like, tied properly. Like you mean it.”

Rowena floated into the room looking like an Oscar-nominated villain in a sea-foam green silk wrap. “You’ll wear what you’re told, darling.”

“I don’t need slippers to get married,” Castiel muttered, but no one was listening.

Crowley followed behind her carrying a tray of espresso shots on crystal. “And you’ll drink what you’re given. You’ll need the stamina.”

Nick strolled in last, shirtless, holding two steaming mugs. “Room service says we can’t order more waffles unless you call, Cas.”

Castiel stared at him. “Why me?”

“You sound the most terrifying on the phone,” Jack said matter-of-factly, as if it were obvious.

“I—what?”

“No notes,” Rowena said breezily, adjusting the collar of his robe. “You’re perfect.”

Castiel looked around at the beautiful, ridiculous people surrounding him—all spinning in chaotic orbits of pre-wedding madness—and couldn’t help the small, overwhelmed smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s going to be a long day,” he muttered.

Jack grinned up at him like sunshine incarnate. “A long day of love!”

Castiel looked down at him and gave a rare, soft laugh. “Yes. A long day of love.”

***

Dean was two seconds away from losing his damn mind.

He stood stiffly beneath the weight of his tailored black tuxedo, shirt collar tight, sweat prickling behind his ears. The fabric hugged him perfectly—Castiel’s choice, of course, all clean lines and classic lapels—but it suddenly felt like a straitjacket. His hands shook as he clutched them together, willing himself not to pass out.

“Breathe,” Ruby reminded him gently, swiping a final streak of deep gold shimmer across Charlie’s eyelids.

“Don’t tell me to breathe like I’m going into labor,” Dean grumbled, but he didn’t move.

They were all dressed to kill. Ruby, Meg, and Charlie looked like they stepped out of a fashion editorial in their navy chiffon gowns, each floor-length dress a unique cut tailored to their energy—Ruby’s slit nearly scandalous, Charlie’s romantic and soft, Meg’s neckline sharp enough to kill a man. Sam, ever the contrast, stood tall and quietly handsome in a charcoal gray suit with a navy tie that matched the girls’ dresses.

The rented photographer—a surprise courtesy of Ruby, of course—was snapping away nonstop. They documented everything: Ruby elegantly leaning in to apply Charlie’s makeup with unexpected gentleness, Meg pouring out two shots of tequila and shoving one into Dean’s hand with a wink, Sam helping Dean tie his tie with trembling hands of his own.

Dean couldn’t keep his fingers steady. “My hands are useless, man. I swear to God.”

“I got you,” Sam said, voice thick with emotion. He reached forward and gently adjusted the knot, smoothing it down. “Just like we practiced.”

When Dean finally looked up, he caught Sam swiping at his eye. “Are you crying?” Dean asked, half a laugh in his voice.

Sam gave a watery chuckle. “Shut up.”

More photos. A dozen more. The photographer guided them out in front of the house where the light was soft and golden. The early afternoon sun made the navy fabrics glow and Dean’s black tux stand out like ink on white paper.

“Alright!” the photographer called. “Big group! Let’s go feral!”

Ruby immediately climbed into Sam’s arms like a drunk koala, and Sam—stunned but compliant—hoisted her up with an annoyed grunt. Meg dropped to one knee beside Dean like she was proposing, and Charlie giggled while pretending to swoon. Dean burst out laughing when Sam abruptly swept him up bridal style with zero warning.

“Put me down!” Dean yelped, gripping his brother’s shoulder, his feet kicking midair.

“You’re the bride today, sweetheart,” Sam teased.

Another click of the camera.

They rotated through more poses. Serious, sweet, chaotic. Ruby doing… explicitly innocent poses in heels. Meg flipping off the camera behind Dean’s back. Charlie straightening Sam and Dean’s lapels with the focus of a wedding general. And then—

One quiet shutter click.

Dean glanced over his shoulder just in time to see it: a candid moment caught like lightning. Meg leaning close to Charlie, something soft and tentative in her expression. Charlie was mid-laugh, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and stunned at the proximity. Their fingers brushed between them like it wasn’t supposed to mean anything—except it clearly did.

Dean grinned wickedly.

“Come on, just kiss her already!” he hollered across the yard.

Charlie turned the color of fresh strawberries and looked away fast. Meg, ever the smirking menace, flicked her tongue over her teeth and threw Dean the middle finger. “You’re one to talk, Groomzilla.”

“Oh, please. I made out with my fiancé in front of Jack and Nick.”

Sam groaned. “Dean, please.”

Charlie buried her face in her bouquet. Meg didn't move away.

The photographer, still snapping, said under her breath, “I’m getting a lot of good content here.”

Dean barked a laugh but couldn’t stop the thrum in his chest—the way it all felt like falling into something good. Something sacred. Something finally his.

***

The air in Rowena’s sunroom smelled faintly of roses, tea, and some exotic oil she’d insisted on dabbing behind Castiel’s ears. "To draw in warmth, luck, and prosperity," she’d said with a wink.

Castiel stood in front of the ornate gold-framed mirror, fully dressed in his wedding tux—a deep navy suit that shimmered subtly when he moved, paired with a crisp white shirt and the navy tie, silkier than anything he’d ever worn, that Crowley gifted him. Jack was behind him, fussing with his cufflinks like a mother hen, even though they were perfectly straight.

“You look like royalty,” Jack murmured, eyes bright with affection.

Castiel exhaled slowly and looked down at his hands, fingers twitching slightly. “I feel... untethered.”

“Is that a good thing?” Jack asked, his voice cautious.

Castiel’s eyes flicked up to the mirror, to the man staring back at him who didn’t look nervous exactly—but he didn’t look like him, either. He looked older. Raw. Exposed in the way people are when they know they’re stepping into a moment that will mark their lives forever.

“It’s a beautiful thing,” Castiel whispered.

Nick entered then with a camera slung around his neck, half-dressed and grinning. “You ready for your solo shots, hot stuff? Because you are glowing in that suit.”

“Glowing is a stretch,” Castiel replied, deadpan.

Rowena floated in wearing midnight blue velvet, a matching fascinator in her curls, her smile feline and sharp. “Nonsense. You’re positively luminous, my darling groom.”

“Can we not call me luminous right before I vow eternal love in front of seventy-five people?”

“Seventy-nine,” Jack corrected. But Castiel didn’t catch on to it.

Crowley appeared behind Rowena with a mimosa and a fresh sprig of eucalyptus. “This is yours love. Dean insisted. Said you liked earthy scents.”

Castiel took it, fingers trembling, and gently pinned it to his lapel. The smell was grounding, sharp with green and citrus.

Nick waved them toward the glass doors leading out into the garden. “Let’s take some shots before your makeup runs from nerves.”

“I’m not wearing makeup,” Castiel said flatly.

“You’re marrying Dean Winchester. You’re going to cry. Let’s go.”

They had only taken a few photos—Jack adjusting Castiel’s shoulders, Rowena whispering something filthy to make him smirk for a candid—when the garden gate creaked.

Castiel turned. His heart skipped a beat.

Naomi was the first to step through, still statuesque in her elegant dove-gray dress, her platinum hair swept up like she hadn’t aged a day. Her face held the faintest tension—always poised, always polished—but there was unmistakable warmth in her eyes.

Behind her, Chuck walked in with that same dopey smile he’d had at Castiel’s graduation. He was in a navy blue sports coat that didn’t quite match the tone of the wedding but was clean, pressed, and carefully chosen. His tie was crooked.

“Cas,” he said gently.

And behind them—Michael in a classic three-piece suit. He looked uncomfortable. Which made sense, because next to him was Gabriel in a metallic paisley shirt and no tie under his blazer, waving like he was showing up to brunch.

Rowena leaned over to Castiel and whispered, “You’re welcome.”

Castiel just blinked.

Naomi walked closer, heels sharp against the flagstone. “I know we said we couldn’t make it,” she said softly. “But I wanted to see you. I wanted to say congratulations... and that you look very handsome, my son.”

Castiel’s throat felt tight. “You came.”

Chuck stepped forward too, clapping his son’s shoulder and smiling with damp eyes. “Of course we did. We’re proud of you, Cas. I mean, sure, we thought you were gonna end up quitting being a teacher, become a priest or an art critic, but this... this is better.”

Michael offered a firm handshake, and Gabriel bypassed that entirely, hugging Castiel from the side and whispering, “we wouldn’t fucking miss it man.”

Castiel let out a helpless laugh and, to his horror, felt his eyes start to sting.

Rowena moved forward with a tissue already in hand. “Oh, don’t ruin your lashes, sweetheart,” she purred, dabbing under his eye.

“I’m not wearing lashes.”

“You should be. Those cheekbones deserve the full treatment.”

As Castiel laughed and rubbed a hand down his face, he felt something loosen in his chest. The pressure of perfection, the weight of control—all of it gently cracking to let something new in. Something warm. Something family.

They all gathered around him for photos next, some stiff (Michael), some wildly inappropriate (Gabriel pretending to grope Rowena for laughs), and some—like Naomi gently fixing Castiel’s collar without a word—achingly tender.

And when he looked over at Nick, who gave him a knowing smile and lifted his camera again, Castiel finally felt ready.

***

Dean arrived first with Ruby, Charlie, Meg, and Sam, their group spilling into the venue like a mismatched but deeply bonded found family.

The ceremony space was draped in soft navy and gray tones, moody florals in rich purples and ivory lining the aisle. The sun filtered through the high windows, making everything glow just a little too bright for Dean’s nerves. The DJ was already softly playing an instrumental track from Charlie’s playlist—an elegant, cinematic piece that filled the space with the kind of slow-building anticipation that made Dean’s skin feel too tight.

Sam was at the front, pacing with his phone in one hand and printed vow sheets in the other, half-mumbling parts of the ceremony to himself. “...Dearly beloved—no, too formal. We’re here today because—ugh, no, too stiff... okay, okay... ‘Today, we get to witness something sacred—’ yeah, that works...”

Occasionally, he’d pause to call something to the DJ, confirming timing and cues with a seriousness that was very Sam and exactly why Charlie had refused the role.

“I love you both,” she’d said during planning. “But if I’m responsible for music and Sam trips over his officiant speech, I’ll throw myself into the wedding pie.”

Inside the grooms’ suite, the vibe was calmer—but only on the surface. Meg and Charlie were quietly adjusting each other’s hair, and Ruby sat cross-legged on a velvet chaise, scrolling through her phone like it wasn’t a life-changing day. Dean, meanwhile, sat stiffly on the cushioned bench near the window, gripping his thighs like they might keep him grounded. His black tux fit perfectly, pressed and pristine, the deep navy boutonnière pinned just right—but his chest felt like it was about to cave in.

He couldn’t stop bouncing his knee.

His hands felt clammy.

And he couldn’t breathe.

Ruby noticed first. She immediately set her phone down and crossed the room to kneel in front of him, her usual spark dimmed into something gentler.

“Dean.” Her voice was low, a softness in it that wasn’t often there unless someone was hurt—or on the edge of a breakdown. “Hey. Look at me.”

Dean lifted his head slowly. His eyes were glossy, unfocused.

Ruby grabbed a water bottle from the mini fridge and cracked the cap open, placing it firmly in his hand. “Breathe. Just drink, okay?”

He took it. His hands shook so much that the first gulp nearly spilled down his chin, but he managed to get most of it down in one go.

“I don’t know why I’m freaking out,” he finally muttered, the words hoarse. “It’s Cas. I know him. He’s mine. I’ve already got him, but—fuck, I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

Charlie walked over and sat beside him, her arm gently brushing against his. “It’s not fear, Dean. It’s just love. That big, overwhelming, soul-rattling kind. It’s okay to be breathless when you’re about to walk into forever.”

Meg chimed in from across the room. “You’ve never been one to do anything halfway. So of course you’re losing it on your wedding day. It means you're doing it right.”

Dean pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, like he could calm the frantic beat under his palm.

“I feel like I’m seventeen again,” he whispered. “First kiss, first love, first everything. Only it’s not first—it’s all. He’s all of it.”

Ruby leaned forward and rested her forehead against his for a second, grounding him. “You’ve come a long damn way, Winchester. From a grumbling, overprotective boy, to crying in a suit because you love someone too much. You’re allowed to feel everything.”

Dean exhaled shakily.

Outside the suite, the music shifted. The gentle melody that had been drifting quietly transformed into something with strings and weight, signaling the beginning of guest seating.

Charlie stood and offered him her hand. “You don’t have to be perfect, you just have to be you. He’s gonna love that. He already does.”

Dean looked up at her. And for the first time in the last hour, he let himself smile.

“I’m marrying Cas,” he said again, this time with awe instead of panic.

“Yes,” Ruby grinned. “You’re marrying Cas. And he’s probably fixing his damn tie for the fifteenth time and threatening to disown Jack. It’s chaos all around, babe. You’re good.”

Dean stood, straightened his jacket, and walked to the full-length mirror. His eyes were still rimmed pink, but he looked solid. Ready. Real.

He whispered, “Let’s do this,” under his breath—and behind him, Charlie, Meg, and Ruby stood like bodyguards of love and sarcasm.

Outside, the music swelled and the first guests began to take their seats.

***

The golden hour had painted everything soft and dreamlike—glass windows glowing, floral arrangements casting faint shadows, candles flickering along the edge of the altar where Sam stood, already trying to hold back tears. Gentle murmurs of excitement ran through the small but packed ceremony space, the kind of collective breath a room takes right before something unforgettable happens.

In the wings, out of sight but not out of earshot, Dean Winchester was about two seconds away from losing his goddamn mind.

He paced. Or tried to.

Because every time he moved, Ruby or Charlie adjusted his lapel or smoothed a wrinkle, and Meg handed him another breath mint like it was morphine and he was bleeding out.

His black tux fit like a glove—sharp, tailored, the collar snug around his throat in a way that made him acutely aware of his own heart pounding beneath it. The fabric of his shirt was already damp against his lower back.

Ruby, Charlie, and Meg looked like a damn dream in navy chiffon. Each dress was floor-length but styled differently—Ruby’s bold and off-the-shoulder with a slit that screamed trouble, Meg’s draped in a way that somehow made her look both ethereal and dangerous, and Charlie’s halter-style gown shimmered with deep indigo undertones. Sam stood with them in a rich slate-gray suit, clean lines and just a touch of navy in his tie.

Then the music began.

A soft piano melody, supported by the slow swell of cello, filled the space. Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors”, but not the pop version—the one that felt like someone gently taking your face in their hands and telling you that who you are is enough. Dean had insisted on it, called it gut-wrenching with no shame whatsoever.

He wasn’t walking down the aisle to some generic wedding march.

He was walking to something that meant something.

And he wanted Castiel to feel it too.

The guests quieted. Heads turned.

And the doors at the end of the aisle opened.

From where Dean stood just offstage—shielded by an arch of tall flower arrangements—he could see them as they walked.

Ruby first, on Crowley’s arm. She looked like temptation dipped in elegance, her red lips curved in a wicked smile as she made her way down the aisle.

Meg followed with Jack—who looked like he was going to cry and combust all at once. Meg whispered something to him halfway down that made him crack a nervous grin.

Then Charlie appeared, radiant and confident as ever, walking with Nick, who kept giving her soft, sidelong glances that didn’t go unnoticed by anyone.

Dean couldn’t breathe.

Not just from the nerves. Not just from the heat beneath his collar or the press of all eyes just a heartbeat away.

But because it was happening.

The moment he’d never really let himself believe he’d get.

His hands were shaking at his sides.

And then—Rowena appeared.

She entered through the side door like a vision, her deep midnight gown catching the light, golden embroidery catching along the seams like it had been stitched by magic. Her hair was pinned in perfect curls, her green eyes warm and sharp all at once.

She stepped up beside him.

Extended her gloved hand.

And said nothing.

Dean stared at her.

His eyes filled without warning—sudden, hot tears that blurred the corners of everything—and before he could second-guess it, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, holding tight.

Rowena stiffened for just a heartbeat in surprise—then softened.

Her arms folded around him with grace and quiet understanding. One hand found the back of his head, fingertips against his undercut, smoothing gently as he pressed his face to her shoulder.

His voice cracked into her neck.

“I’m sorry,” Dean choked. “I don’t deserve you.”

She pulled back slightly, cupping his cheek and dabbing beneath his eye with the edge of her silk glove.

“Oh, my boy,” she murmured with a bittersweet smile. “You’re going to make my mascara run.”

Dean huffed out a shaky laugh and sniffed, shoulders still trembling slightly.

“You do. You have everything now,” Rowena continued, her voice soft but steady, the kind of strength one passes like a torch. “And you're going to walk down that aisle like the storm you are.”

She gave him one final squeeze before looping her arm through his.

The cue came. The doors opened.

The music swelled.

Dean stood taller.

And together, he and Rowena walked into the light.

***

The music shifted again—so softly it felt like it had been there the whole time, threading its way through the ceremony like breath.

The piano struck the opening notes, gentle and low, and the cello followed close behind. The arrangement Dean had picked—not because it was flashy, or traditional—but because it said everything he couldn’t.

Every heart in the garden seemed to still.

A hush fell over the crowd as the heavy wooden doors creaked open, letting in a breeze that curled past the floral arch and rustled the hanging eucalyptus above them. Light poured through the doorway, haloing the figure standing within it like some kind of divine punctuation.

And there he was.

Castiel.

Tall. Composed. Devastating.

His midnight navy tux fit like it had been made for him—sharp lapels, pressed just right, every inch of him immaculate. The single eucalyptus pinned over his heart stood out stark against the deep fabric, delicate but proud.

And beside him stood Naomi.

Dean barely remembered breathing.

Her silver-gray gown shimmered subtly under the sunlight, the lace sleeves catching the glow like frost. Her hair was swept into a twist that looked effortless and elegant all at once. She stood with poise, but the tightness in her jaw and the soft shake in her smile told a different story.

One of pride. One of letting go.

Dean's eyes blurred for a split second, the tears pressing hot behind his lashes—but he blinked them back, clenched his jaw, and watched.

One step.

Castiel’s polished shoes crunched lightly on the gravel path beneath the arbor.

Two.

He adjusted his grip on Naomi’s arm, eyes never leaving Dean’s. There was nothing else in that look. No nerves. No hesitation.

Only him.

Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His breathing had turned shallow, his chest tight.

It wasn't just seeing Castiel looking like that—like the entire sky had bent to suit him—it was her. Walking with him. Guiding him down the aisle like every piece of estrangement and distance had been folded into something soft and whole.

Dean could barely take it.

Halfway down, Castiel leaned in and whispered something to Naomi. She smiled, kissed his cheek, and gave his hand a final squeeze before releasing him with grace.

He walked the rest of the way alone.

And that—that—nearly undid Dean.

Because Castiel wasn’t walking like a man simply heading toward a wedding.

He was walking like he’d made this decision a thousand times over. In silence. In waiting. In hope.

Dean’s heart pounded in his ears as their eyes locked and held like magnets. The rest of the world blurred around them.

No sound existed beyond the music.

No people, no chatter—just this.

Just him.

By the time Castiel reached the altar, Dean was clenching his fists so deep, his nails created crescent moon shapes into his palm.

Castiel stepped close, never breaking eye contact, and reached out.

His hand was warm when it curled around Dean’s.

Dean’s lips trembled, but he pressed them together.

A single tear slipped free down his cheek.

Castiel's thumb brushed the back of Dean’s hand with the gentlest of strokes.

The music faded with its final soft notes, echoing through the trees. The breeze carried the scent of roses and lavender. Somewhere to the left, Ruby sniffled quietly and elbowed Meg in the ribs when she rolled her eyes with a smile.

Sam stepped forward, already red-eyed, clearing his throat. He opened the leather-bound book in his hands and looked up at them.

“I, uh… wow,” he said, voice cracking a little.

A light wave of chuckles passed through the crowd like wind through leaves.

But neither Castiel nor Dean looked away from each other.

They were standing in front of everyone they loved, surrounded by friends and chosen family.

And yet, it still felt like it was just the two of them.

Just this moment.

Just forever.

Sam cleared his throat again at the altar, flipping to the first page of the well-worn leather-bound book he’d spent weeks perfecting. The gold edges of the pages caught in the sun, and the microphone at the small stand let out a faint hum as he stepped closer, adjusting his posture with a nervous chuckle.

“Good afternoon,” he began, his voice a little shaky but warm. “We’re gathered here today… to witness something that, if you’d told me about a year ago, I would’ve called absolute bullshit.”

A ripple of laughter threaded through the crowd.

Dean didn’t laugh. He didn’t even hear it.

He couldn’t.

Because Castiel was standing in front of him, and Dean couldn’t look away.

Not for anything.

Not even for Sam’s sarcastic brilliance, not even for Ruby fake-sniffling behind Charlie or Meg clearing her throat with emotion.

Dean's gaze was locked—glued—on the man in front of him.

Navy tux. White shirt. And that silken navy tie.

It brought out Castiel’s eyes in a way that wasn’t fair. The kind of blue that didn’t look real. Like some secret color that only existed in oil paintings and quiet mornings.

And then there was the suit jacket—tailored sharp and tight at his waist, showing off his broad chest, his shoulders. His stance was perfect, always was. Feet steady, back straight, chin proud.

But his mouth—his mouth—was soft. Kissed pink. Barely parted.

Dean felt like he was breathing through a straw.

His fingers tightened reflexively around Castiel’s hand, the one they had locked at the start. Castiel’s thumb immediately moved, brushing once over Dean’s knuckles. A grounding touch. A quiet message.

I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Dean was shaking and he didn’t even try to hide it.

He didn’t care who saw.

He could barely swallow past the lump in his throat, let alone care that the most important moment of the ceremony was beginning and he hadn’t heard a word of it.

He just kept staring at Castiel’s face. The faint stubble along his jaw. The lines near his eyes that deepened when he smiled. The way his pupils were blown wide, like he was just as undone as Dean felt.

He wanted to kiss him. Right there. Right in front of everybody.

He wanted to pull him close by the lapels of his perfect jacket and hold him tight until they melted together.

He wanted to say—

“Dean,” Sam said gently, and it startled him like a jolt.

Dean blinked, glanced toward Sam—and realized, dimly, that Sam had just finished his first passage. Probably something beautiful and heartfelt that Castiel had definitely heard.

Dean’s mouth parted like he might apologize, but then Castiel squeezed his hand again.

“Still with me?” Castiel whispered, low and rough, a private moment in a room full of people.

Dean nodded quickly. He didn’t trust his voice. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah—just… you look so fucking good.”

Castiel huffed a soft breath of amusement through his nose and smiled. Not the polite kind, either. The real kind. The one that reached his eyes and made Dean feel like the whole world was tilting in his direction.

From the corner of his vision, Dean noticed Sam looking up from the book with the same fond exasperation he always wore when Dean got distracted during anything important. But he didn’t say anything. Just turned to the next page with a sigh.

“Alright,” Sam said with the smallest grin. “Let’s try this again.”

Dean could feel it in his bones—the way everything slowed, all at once, like time was giving him a second to catch up before it shoved him off the edge of the biggest damn moment of his life.

Sam was saying something soft, gentle, the signal that it was Dean’s turn.

But in Dean’s head, everything blurred into a hazy rewind.

He thought about a year ago.

When he walked into the bar and saw Castiel sitting there. His calm, infuriating voice.
When Dean had no clue what he wanted or who he was, and even less of a clue how to love someone right.

He thought about texts that turned filthy. Then tender. Then necessary.

About Castiel’s hands holding him when he was unraveling.

About “I’m proud of you,” whispered after scenes that left him trembling.

About the moment—fuck, the moment—he knew he wanted forever. When they first moved in together.

He’d been brushing his teeth. Castiel was shaving. Dean looked up, caught the way their reflections lined up in the mirror—like they’d always been there. Like they’d always fit.

And right there, with a mouth full of toothpaste and a shirt on inside out, he’d realized he didn’t want to wake up in a world where Castiel wasn’t next to him.

Dean blinked, present again, the weight of Castiel’s hand still in his, grounding him.

Sam turned toward him, nodding.

“It’s all yours, man,” he said softly.

Dean swallowed hard.

Then he pulled a small folded piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket—crinkled, a little greasy from nervous fingers—and cleared his throat. Loudly. His voice was already thick.

He looked at Castiel. And smiled.

“I… uh. I wrote this five times,” Dean started, holding the paper up before folding it again and tucking it back away. “Didn’t like any of ‘em. And Cas—you know me. I’m more of a say-it-when-I-feel-it kinda guy.”

That got a soft chuckle from the guests.

Dean looked down at their hands, then back up into Castiel’s impossibly blue eyes.

“I didn’t think I was gonna get this. Not just the wedding—the whole thing. Love. Commitment. Trust. I didn’t think someone like me deserved all that. Especially not from someone like you.”

His voice cracked at the end, but he kept going.

“You’re… calm where I’m loud. Gentle where I’m a mess. You let me be me, and you never asked me to apologize for it. You let me fall apart and held me together. You saw everything—everything, Cas—and you didn’t flinch.”

Castiel’s eyes glistened. He didn’t blink.

“I didn’t know love could be safe. Or soft. Or dirty and stupid and so damn good. But you taught me. You kept showing up, even when I was hard to love. And now I get to wake up every day and show up for you.”

Dean paused, then smirked slightly through the tears rising in his eyes.

“I promise to keep trying, even when I suck at it. I promise to keep being honest, even when it’s messy. I promise to make you laugh, even if I gotta use that ‘assbutt’ mug every morning until we’re eighty.”

A soft chorus of laughter again. Dean’s voice dropped, tender.

“And I promise, Castiel… to love you the way you deserve to be loved. With everything I’ve got. Always.”

There was a silence that settled after he finished—thick, warm, and sacred. The kind that could only follow the most honest kind of truth.

Dean let out a shaky breath, eyes still locked with Castiel’s. A small but firm tap on his shoulder pulled him gently back into reality.

He turned his head. Charlie stood there, tears in her eyes and a crooked smile on her face, holding something in the flat of her palm.

Dean blinked, then exhaled softly when he saw it.

The ring. The one he had picked two weeks ago, after spending hours in shops and online, obsessed with getting it right. Navy tungsten—rich and dark—paired with a sleek black band running down the center. Strong. Elegant. Just like Castiel. Just like them.

Charlie nudged it toward him silently, and Dean took it with careful fingers, holding it like it was something sacred.

He turned back to Castiel and didn’t say anything—not right away. Just looked at him. At the way the light caught in Castiel’s lashes, at the faint mist in his eyes, at the way he was already holding out his left hand like he knew exactly what was coming.

Then, with both hands, he gently took Castiel’s hand and slid the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had always been meant to be there.

Castiel’s breath hitched. His eyes stayed locked on Dean’s, full of warmth and awe and that ever-patient kind of love that Dean could feel in his bones.

“I love you,” he added quietly, like a secret just for them.

Castiel’s hands didn’t shake.

But his heart was pounding—steady and strong—like it always did when he looked at Dean. Like it had since the first time Dean cracked a crooked smile and called him Cas, soft and surprised like it tasted good on his tongue.

Now, standing in front of the man he loved, Castiel looked down at their joined hands for only a moment. He drew a breath. And lifted his gaze to meet Dean’s.

The world went quiet.

“I’ve always lived by rules,” Castiel began, voice even but low with emotion. “Discipline. Structure. Control. For so long, I thought love was just another discipline—something to master. But then I met you.”

Dean’s lips twitched at the edges.

“And you... broke every rule I had. You were chaos in a leather jacket. You were whiskey in a room full of water. You were alive in a way I’d never seen. And it… scared me. Because I wanted it—I wanted you—more than I’d ever wanted anything.”

Castiel’s voice wavered slightly. He didn’t care.

“I watched you fight your way toward yourself. I watched you tear yourself open and put the pieces back in place. I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life, Dean. You carry your heart like it’s too heavy to hold, but you give it away like it weighs nothing. And I—”

He paused. His throat tightened. He blinked hard and tried again.

“I will spend the rest of my life holding it for you.”

Dean’s eyes were already rimmed red, his breathing uneven. Castiel reached up with one hand and gently brushed a tear off Dean’s cheek.

“I vow to protect you, even from yourself. I vow to worship you—body and soul—every damn day that I have the privilege to wake up beside you. I vow to be your home.”

Dean was already trembling.

Castiel took a slow breath and opened his mouth to say more—

—but he never got the words out.

Because Dean surged forward with a choked noise, grabbed Castiel’s face in both hands and kissed him hard, desperate, like it was the only thing he could do.

Gasps echoed across the guests—followed by laughter and applause.

Sam, still holding his little officiant booklet, laughed as he stepped forward. “Okay! I guess that counts. By the power vested in me—technically—I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may… continue to kiss the groom.”

Everyone laughed again. Ruby actually cheered. Crowley rolled his eyes with an amused smirk. Rowena dabbed at the corner of her eye, clearly misty despite herself.

Dean laughed too—right into Castiel’s mouth, the sound breaking into a sob as his hands clutched at the lapels of his husband's navy-blue suit.

Castiel kissed him back with infinite patience, sliding his hand up Dean’s spine and cradling the back of his neck.

The rest of the world blurred out.

It was them. Just them.

***

The reception hall was filled with soft candlelight and the murmur of clinking glasses and conversation, but when the lights dimmed just enough and the first soft guitar notes of “Tangled Up in You” by Staind started to echo across the wooden floor, the room fell into a hush.

Dean stood at the edge of the dance floor, breath catching in his throat as Castiel held his hand out toward him. His husband. His fucking husband.

He felt the warmth of Castiel’s palm, felt the sure grip of fingers that had steadied him for over a year. He walked into his arms, no hesitation, no swagger—just the bare, beating heart of the man who had almost walked away from this kind of happiness a hundred times before.

Castiel's other hand found Dean’s waist, slow and steady as if grounding them both. Dean's rested on Castiel’s shoulder, gripping just a little tighter than necessary.

The room dissolved. Everyone else—Ruby wiping a tear, Sam watching with a bittersweet smile, Charlie holding Meg’s hand beneath the table—faded into the background.

It was just them.

“You’re shaking,” Castiel whispered, voice warm and close to Dean’s ear as they swayed.

“I know,” Dean murmured. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“I’m right here,” Castiel said softly. “Every second. For the rest of our lives.”

Dean didn’t respond—not with words. He leaned in, resting his cheek against Castiel’s shoulder, his eyes falling shut as the music swelled around them.

Their feet barely moved. The rhythm was secondary. What mattered was the weight of Castiel’s hand at the small of Dean’s back, the press of his cheek against his temple, the smell of his cologne mixing with something older—something comforting, safe.

Dean’s breath hitched again as the lyric “here I am still tangled up in you” slipped through the speaker, like the song had been written just for them.

“I used to think I’d be alone forever,” Dean whispered, his voice cracking. “Now I think maybe I was just waiting for you.”

Castiel’s arms tightened around him. “You were never alone, sweetheart. Not really. You just didn’t know where to look yet.”

Dean didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the wetness soak into Castiel’s shoulder.

They stayed like that—barely swaying, just holding on—until the final notes faded into silence.

Applause rose gently, respectfully.

Dean stayed in Castiel’s arms a second longer before slowly pulling back and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, sheepish but glowing.

Castiel smiled at him, the kind of smile that cracked the world open and put it back together again.

“You did good,” Dean said, his voice hoarse, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

“You did better,” Castiel replied. “You always do.”

The applause from their first dance still lingered faintly in the air, but the music had shifted to something softer—strings, distant piano. Dean stood just off to the side of the dance floor, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on a familiar flash of crimson and curls.

Rowena was seated at her table beside Crowley, sipping champagne, laughing softly at something Jack had said. She hadn’t noticed Dean yet.

His hands were slightly damp. His chest tight. But he took a breath and walked toward her, slowly, deliberately.

Rowena looked up just as Dean reached her. Her expression shifted from polite amusement to surprise when she saw his hand extended.

“Darling?” she asked, brow lifting. “Is something the matter?”

Dean smiled—nervous, soft—and shook his head. “Dance with me?”

The pause was only half a second, but in that second, Rowena’s breath caught, her eyes blinking fast.

And then she stood.

Without a word, she took his hand, delicate fingers trembling just enough for Dean to feel. He led her to the center of the floor, just as the first swelling notes of the cello rendition of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” began to rise.

Rowena stopped short.

Her hand flew to her mouth as the recognition hit her like a wave. “Oh…” she whispered, eyes glassing over.

“I told you I had a surprise,” Dean murmured, guiding her gently into his arms. “Figured I’d add another thing to the list of things I wanted.”

“You little brat,” she sniffled, voice shaking with emotion but touched with pride. “You’re going to ruin my makeup.”

Dean replied with a huff of laughter, even as his eyes shimmered.

They swayed together under the soft lights, not speaking for the first few moments, just holding on. The music floated around them like a memory made real.

“You’re not just my extremely elegant witchy wedding planner, Rowena,” Dean finally said, voice low and rough. “You’re… the closest thing I’ve got to a mom now. And I—I wanted you to know that.”

Rowena sucked in a breath, her arms tightening around him.

“You daft, stubborn, gorgeous idiot,” she murmured, lips curling into a bittersweet smile. “You’ve been mine since the day you sat in my kitchen and let me call you sweetheart without flinching.”

Dean chuckled wetly, shaking his head. “You gonna cry?”

“I am absolutely going to cry,” she said, reaching up to brush a tear off his cheek. “But I’ll do it with style.”

Their heads rested together as they turned slowly on the dance floor. All around them, their friends looked on—Crowley with a rare softness in his eyes, Charlie tearing up as she leaned into Meg, Ruby wiping her cheeks aggressively and pretending she wasn’t, Sam smiling with such quiet awe at his brother.

The music ended on a gentle note, and Rowena pulled back, just enough to look at Dean.

“I’m proud of you,” she said, voice like velvet over steel. “You’ve come such a long way, still a damn brat though.”

Dean couldn’t speak. Just nodded and hugged her tight as everyone clapped again, louder this time, a chorus of love and support ringing out across the room.

***

The remainder of the evening unfolded just as planned—if not better. No drunken uncles, no dramatic exes, not even a random stranger trying to sneak in for free cake. For all Dean had heard about wild wedding stories and guests going off the rails, theirs was surprisingly smooth.

Dinner was a hit. Crowley and Rowena had orchestrated the menu down to the molecular level, offering a curated selection of upscale comfort food that left even the pickiest guests stuffed and satisfied. And of course—pie. Missouri had outdone herself with the spread: mini pies of pecan bourbon and blackberry basil lined a table decked in navy linens and scattered petals. Dean and Castiel’s pick sat at the center like a crown jewel.

Unfortunately, Missouri hadn’t been able to stay long. She’d kissed both Dean’s and Castiel’s faces with those careful, knowing hands of hers, muttered something about “not sticking around for the slow dancing nonsense,” and vanished into the night like the pie wizard she was.

As the evening wore on and golden hour softened everything into something just shy of a dream, Dean changed out of his tux like he said he would. He’d slipped into a pair of jeans that fit like sin—tight, dark-washed denim that did his ass more favors than anything else in his closet. His black shirt was fitted too, tucked just enough at the waist, and over it was a flannel in soft black and white checks. He looked like a polished version of his everyday self—comfortable, cocky, and freshly married.

Castiel had followed suit. Gone was the navy suit jacket and crisp shirt. In its place was a dark henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and black slacks that clung low on his hips. His hair was slightly tousled, his collarbone exposed just enough, and he looked, to Dean’s dismay, criminally good.

“So,” Castiel said, hand curling warmly around Dean’s as they stepped out into the late evening air, the hum of laughter and music echoing behind them.

Dean arched a brow, smirking a little as they made their way across the gravel path toward the barn at the edge of the property. “So?”

“There’s something I have to show you.”

Dean followed without hesitation, his boots crunching lightly over the stone, fingers laced through Castiel’s. When they stepped into the barn—lit with string lights and buzzing with energy—Dean’s jaw dropped, then immediately pulled into a full, boyish grin.

There, in the center of the barn, was a mechanical bull.

It wasn’t just any mechanical bull, either. This one had flair. The body of the bull was painted a deep navy blue, adorned with small white flowers that matched their wedding theme. Draped across the back was a white sign outlined in glitter and rhinestones that read in bold, charming letters: JUST MARRIED.

And people were already taking turns riding it—laughing, hollering, nearly falling off. Jack was clinging for dear life, his limbs flailing as Charlie howled in laughter from behind the gate.

Dean’s whole face lit up.

His eyes practically sparkled as he looked at Castiel, slack-jawed and delighted. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he breathed, then barked out a laugh. “You actually got me a mechanical bull?”

“I figured you’d like it,” Castiel said coolly, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth gave away how pleased he was with himself.

Dean looked at him, eyes wide, and pulled him into a rough kiss, their teeth nearly bumping. “I love you so fucking much.”

Castiel only held him tighter. “I know.”

Dean was positively glowing as he straddled the mechanical bull like it was his birthright. One hand in the air, the other gripping the leather handle, his thighs clamped tightly around the sides with an ease that made more than one person do a double take. His grin was wolfish, wild—face flushed from laughter and exertion, hair mussed from the wind of movement and the warm barn air.

The bull spun and jerked beneath him, the machinery letting out occasional hisses of compressed air, but Dean looked unbothered. Thrilled, actually. He let out another whoop that echoed off the rafters, head thrown back as he laughed like a kid on Christmas morning who just got his first dirt bike.

Near the gate, Castiel stood with his arms crossed, watching fondly. His expression was soft, proud—his gaze trailing every jolt of Dean’s body like he could commit the moment to memory just by looking hard enough.

“He’s never going to get off that thing,” Ruby said suddenly, appearing at Castiel’s side like a chaotic fairy godmother. She slung an arm around his neck and hugged him hard, grinning.

Castiel didn’t even blink. “Nope.”

They both watched as Dean leaned forward, laughing so loud it nearly drowned out the music. The bull bucked again, and Dean held firm, riding it like it was nothing. Like he was made for it.

“That’s your boy,” Ruby teased, elbowing him playfully in the ribs.

“Yup.” Castiel grinned, chuckling as Dean dramatically flopped backwards in the saddle, shouting something ridiculous to the crowd. “He’s going to get down eventually.”

“You could try to get him off.” Ruby sing-songed.

“Oh, I will,” Castiel murmured, one brow raised, voice low and sure, “especially when I tell him where we’re going on our honeymoon.”

Ruby spun to face him fully, eyebrows arched in delighted mischief. “Where are you taking that bratty boy of yours?”

Castiel’s smile widened, teeth flashing. “Hawaii. He’s always wanted to go to a beach, figured I’d make it special.”

Ruby choked on a laugh. “You’re putting Dean on a plane again?”

Castiel shrugged with utter confidence, his hands sliding into his pockets like he wasn’t plotting something wicked. “He’ll survive. Might take a year but,” A pause, and then, with all the calm menace of a man who knows his partner’s weaknesses inside and out— “I’ll just give him another orgasm on the flight.”

He stepped away smoothly, turning on his heel to head toward the bullpen, leaving Ruby standing there with her jaw hanging open.

She blinked. “Jesus Christ.” And then, to no one in particular, she shouted, “That man’s got it all figured out!”

Dean, somehow still on the bull and cackling like he was high on life and tequila, didn’t seem ready to dismount any time soon—until Castiel leaned against the rail and gave him a look.

Dean’s eyes locked onto his husband, and something in him jolted. He wobbled, lost his rhythm, and slipped off the bull in the most spectacularly ungraceful way possible.

Castiel just smirked.

The air outside had cooled. The laughter and chatter were distant now, muffled by the barn doors and the glow of string lights that flickered like fireflies in the dark. Most of the guests had already started to trickle out, hugging their goodbyes, their faces pink from champagne and pie. A few stragglers still lingered near the bar or the fire pit, murmuring in low voices, unwilling to let go of the night.

Dean stood near the edge of the gravel path, one hand clutching Castiel’s, the other wrapped tightly around a pair of tuxedo jackets—his and Cas’s, slung together like they belonged to the same person. He glanced down at the rings on their fingers, shining faintly under the moonlight. His eyes stung. Again.

"You okay?" Castiel asked, his voice a hush against the night, low and fond.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just turned to face him, eyes glassy, expression so open it made Castiel’s heart clench. “Yeah, just really fucking happy. I feel like I’m dreaming, like I’d wake up and I’d still be swiping left.”

Castiel reached up, brushing his fingers along the line of Dean’s jaw, thumb lingering at the corner of his mouth. “And yet here you are,” he said, so gently it barely made a sound. “Still here. Still mine.”

Dean gave a soft, broken laugh, then shook his head. “Yours.”

“You’ve been mine for a long time, Dean.” Castiel leaned in, brushing their foreheads together. “Tonight just made it legal.”

Dean closed his eyes. “Don’t get sappy on me, Cas. You know I cry easy now.”

“You’ve always cried easy,” Castiel teased.

Dean huffed, then leaned into him, burying his face against his shoulder as the final strains of music floated out from the barn—something slow and old, familiar and perfect.

After a long silence, Dean mumbled, “We’re going to have sex again tonight, right?”

Castiel laughed quietly. “I carried you through vows and two dance numbers, then you rode a bull for an hour straight. I think you deserve a break.”

Dean pulled back and gave him a look. “I just promised you forever and you’re the one saying no?”

Castiel smirked. “I didn’t say no. I said you need a break.”

Dean grinned, eyes still glassy, but sparkling now too. “Well... maybe you can carry me to bed and do all the work.”

“That can be arranged,” Castiel murmured.

With one final glance over their shoulder—at the glowing barn, the “Just Married” sign now slightly askew, and the laughter of their friends echoing into the night—they slipped into the backseat of the waiting black SUV, hands clasped tightly between them.

And as the doors closed, sealing them off from the world, Dean let out a soft sigh and leaned his head against Castiel’s shoulder.

“I’m happy,” he whispered.

Castiel kissed his temple.

“I know,” he said.

***

 One Year Later

The soft roll of ocean waves filled the quiet morning air as the sun crept over the horizon, spilling golden light across the lanai of a private beach house. The breeze smelled like salt and hibiscus, and the air hummed with slow, steady peace.

Dean stood barefoot in the sand, a steaming mug of coffee in his hands, sleeves of his worn flannel pushed up to his elbows. His hair was damp from the ocean spray, soft strands tousled by the wind. The tungsten band caught the sun as he lifted his mug, and his eyes drifted out over the water, distant and soft.

Behind him, the sliding doors creaked open.

“You're up early,” Castiel murmured, voice sleep-rough and warm as the island air.

Dean didn’t turn. “Just couldn’t sleep. Too pretty out.” He took another sip, then smirked. “Also, someone kicked me in the shin and tried to steal the blankets.”

Castiel came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist. “I was dreaming we were wrestling sharks. For survival. You should be thanking me.”

Dean snorted into his coffee. “Mmhm. Real hero, my husband.”

Castiel leaned in and kissed the back of his neck. “One year,” he whispered against the thick leather collar around Dean’s neck, tight but breathable.

Dean finally turned, letting Castiel take the mug from his hands and place it on the railing. His hands went to Castiel’s face, thumbs brushing the lines beneath his eyes. “One perfect fucking year,” he said softly, a little husky.

They kissed like they hadn’t kissed a thousand times before, like something new and quiet and holy. When they pulled back, Dean laughed breathlessly. “Think I might keep you another year.”

“I’m honored,” Castiel said, smiling. “But I should let you know, your contract auto-renews.”

Dean grinned. “Fine print really is a bitch.”

Later that day, the two of them returned to the little island chapel where they’d exchanged vows in secret on their honeymoon, not for a wedding—no, not this time. Just a quiet renewal, handwritten letters and shared pie beneath the same arch, now aged by the ocean and time.

Back home, photos would arrive in group chats. Charlie would cry. Ruby would threaten to book a flight. Jack would make a scrapbook. And Sam would text them a single line:

Sam: Still the best officiant you've ever had.

Dean would smile at that and say nothing, while Castiel read it over his shoulder and replied:

Dean: Don’t push it.

But here, in paradise, there was only this—warmth and laughter, an old love made new, and a promise whispered in the hush between waves:

Forever.

And then some.