Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean knows he looks like an idiot as pulls the curtains shut, blocking his guests’ view of the front window - and more pertinently Aaron's view of Dean hovering in his home like a groundhog who saw his shadow.

He spins around, leaning against the wall in what he hopes is relaxed posture.

Channel James Dean. Cool. So cool. Nothing to see here.

“Birds,” Dean says quickly. “They sometimes get confused by the glass and I wouldn't want to be responsible for….”

He trails off. 

The matching skeptical looks he's getting from Sam, Charlie and Jo make it clear that nobody is buying what he's selling.

He sighs.

“Fine. The guy outside was my gay thing.”

Sam looks unimpressed. “Dean, what isn't your gay thing? I mean, I have a distinct memory of you drooling over Gunnar Lawless.”

Dean glares at him, wishing he could chokeslam this entire conversation into oblivion like his favorite wrestler.

“I was a kid. What boy doesn’t idolize wrestlers, superheroes and firemen?”

Sam snorts derisively. “You were 25 when said drooling occurred, Dean.”

Dean feels the full weight of regret that his brother was there to see him fall all over the former wrestling star in that hotel bar in Kansas City.

Maybe we were comparing scars platonically.

Truth be told, Sammy has a point. Dean’s realization that he's bisexual has opened up a lot of Dean’s memories that he had somehow managed to previously write off as purely straight things that straight men do.

Some part of him cringes when he thinks about how obvious it must have been in high school that his jealousy of Lee Webb was less to do with him being named captain of the wrestling team, and more to do with wanting to be his head cheerleader girlfriend.

It's not his fault that straight men apparently don't recognize Swayze gets a pass. That man is objectively good looking! Especially in those tight pants he wore in Roadhouse.

Okay, so maybe Dean did spend some time in denial.

Still, Dean slightly resents that everyone around him apparently realized he was just a little too enthusiastic of an ally before he, himself, did.

His friends had tried to act surprised when he announced last month that he had a crush on a guy. Only Charlie had actually managed to pull off some semblance of shock, but unfortunately Dean has known her long enough to recognize the look.

It's the same one she makes when she knows a bit of gossip she shouldn't.

Usually gossip Dean told her, but that's not the point.

It's not a big deal, of course. It's just that tinge of embarrassment is about to get a lot worse because he's gonna have to admit the truth.

He's bisexual and he's bad at it.

So bad, he ran off the first guy he's dated almost immediately.

“He's the guy I was dating,” Dean clarifies quietly - just in case his voice might carry as Aaron puts his mail into the slot in the door. “We broke up.”

His admission has the opposite effect than he hoped.

All three of the occupants vacate the couch at once hoping to catch a glimpse of his ex-boyfriend.

His sort of ex-boyfriend.

His ex-boyfriend if three dates and a nervous handy makes you boyfriends.

Which it doesn’t.

Charlie shoots past Dean and slides the curtain aside before Dean can react.

Dean’s stomach drops. He really doesn't want to do this.

“I don't see anyone except-” Charlie goes silent.

Jo looks at Dean, her eyebrows drawing together in judgey sympathy. “Dean, tell me the man in uniform you had a crush on wasn't the mail carrier.”

“No, of course not.” Charlie says automatically defending him until her eyes find Dean’s and she reads the confession in them.

“Nooo,” she says drawing it out this time. “Dean, you don't date anyone who provides you with a regular service. Did you learn nothing from my great barista fiasco of 2021? It took me years to find someone who could make my iced double shot oatmilk espresso with a sprinkle of cinnamon correctly. Years.”

“Where am I supposed to meet guys? I work from home.” Dean knows it's a weak excuse, made weaker when his phone helpfully fills the silence with a grindr notification.

Sam lumbers over, his face crinkled with that constipated look that means he's pitying Dean. 

“Do you want to talk about it? When Jess ghosted me, I was devastated. And then the first time I ran into her in the student union-”

Dean cuts him off. “Nothing to talk about. We had a few dates and I decided I wasn't feeling it,” he lies. “I just didn't want to make him feel awkward. We're both adults. We can be totally mature about this.”

Dean doesn’t add that his totally mature plan is to avoid Aaron like a friend who's been posting about his new multi level marketing scheme.

Luckily for Dean, Aaron is good at his job.

He always comes at the same time, which Dean knows from “coincidentally” leaving his house for lunch so that he could run into Aaron to flirt.

He simply has to do the opposite now.

As long as he stays inside at lunchtime, he won't have to make small talk with the guy who dumped him.

“Come on,” Dean says with relief at having a plan, and one that he doesn’t even have to implement today because Aaron has come and gone, “those burgers aren't going to cook themselves.”

It's the perfect Saturday for a party and he's not going to let his embarrassing love life ruin it.

With one last glance at Aaron's retreating mailtruck, Dean heads to the fridge.

For two weeks, Dean’s plan works perfectly. Plus, by not going out at lunch he's been more fiscally responsible.

They obviously don't give awards for mature break-up coping, but he feels as if he would be a frontrunner if they did.

He can practically hear the nominee announcement now.

Dean Winchester bravely moved on when told “I just don't think this is working. It's not you. It's me.” No tears. No drama. He simply walked away and never bothered the guy again.

And he saved money doing it.

Like a responsible adult.

Maybe it needs work, but something like that. 

His Monday starts like any other - with him wearing a formal shirt (in case he has to go on camera) and his hot dog pajama pants.

The “remote worker mullet” as his friend Ash calls it. Business on top, bedroom on the bottom.

For a split second, Dean is grateful for the knock on his door, which interrupts him as he stares at an excel spreadsheet boring enough to make accounting weep.

But trepidation replaces his relief when he realizes he's not expecting anyone. 

And it's almost noon - which means there's a good chance the knock is Aaron delivering a package too large to fit through the slot.

Dean wracks his brain trying to remember if he ordered anything that would be delivered by the post office.

He did purchase that part for Baby online, but it was supposed to get delivered to Bobby's place.

Wasn't it?

Dean wracks his brain, trying to remember if he actually put in the address or if it autofilled.

Did he pay with PayMe? Last time he did that, it pulled an address he hadn't lived at for five years.

He hopes the new resident is enjoying those panties, because he certainly wasn't going to show up on their porch to ask for them.

It's a shame too. They were on sale. 

Dean's so distracted by the thought of his long lost panties, that he swings the door open on autopilot before he remembers that he's concerned about who may be on the other side.

He sucks in a breath, pulling his lips into a smile he hopes looks less forced than it feels, and then huffs it out in surprise.

Instead of Aaron, the man on his doorstep seems to have stepped out of his wet dreams.

His ill-fitting suit can't hide the heft of his wide shoulders or the delectable thickness of his thighs.

And then there are his eyes, piercing Dean like a trapped butterfly.

Dean used to think that the uneasy feeling in his gut around certain men was instinct or jealousy, but now he recognizes it for what it is. 

Attraction.

And, unfortunately for Dean, the ease with which he has always talked to women seems to be inversely offset by his ability to form intelligent words near a stunning man.

And this man is undeniably so.

Which means Dean is experiencing fight or flight panic at a level that would typically be expected when facing some sort of monster or ancient eldritch being.

His brain helpfully supplies: pretty.

The clock in the back of his mind is blaring, telling him that he has been staring way too long for any semblance of polite company.

Especially because he is now staring at the strangers lips and he can't seem to make himself look away.

Say something. Anything.

“Where's your package?”

The man's eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

Dean's brain comes back online too late to save him, and he realizes with mortifying clarity two things.

One: this man is in no way dressed in a manner that would insinuate that he's in the business of parcel delivery.

And B: Given this now painfully obvious fact, this man has no idea that Dean assumed the same, and therefore his mind has supplied a rather unintended definition of the word package.

At least Dean assumes that's the case because the man glances down at his own crotch and then back up at Dean with an adorable, flustered bewilderment that sends him spiraling back into Panicville, population one.

Even worse, behind the poor unsuspecting visitor a truck pulls up.

A mail truck.

“Um,” Dean says eloquently.

The man in front of him tilts his head as if perhaps Dean will make more sense from a different angle. “Are you okay?”

The man looks at his hotdog pants meaningfully. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”

Dean shifts, wishing even more that he had received those panties because it's laundry day and his plan to go commando is becoming distressingly worse by the second under the scrutiny of those blue eyes.

Dean hears the sound of Aaron whistling as he steps out of the truck behind the man.

Left with no other options, Dean pulls himself up to his full height and maturely slams the door shut.

He hears a startled and confused shout from the other side of his front door from the salesman - or whatever he is - standing on his front porch.

At least it was a stranger, Dean assures himself as he slinks back to his desk. It's not like we're likely to meet again.

With that assurance, Dean returns to his excel-induced torture, grateful again for the interruption. This time because he can now confidently assure himself it could be far worse than troubleshooting the equation in cell G59.

He could have a fear boner in front of the hottest man he's ever seen and his ex.

Really putting the wiener in those hot dog pants.

Dean laughs at his own joke and focuses on his work, trying to put the embarrassment behind him.

It was a close call, but he got out of everything unscathed.

It's not like he'll have to see either of those men again.

“I have to move.”

Dean slumps into the booth, punctuating his statement with a huge pull of his beer.

“So you slept with your mail carrier,” Charlie says supportively from across the table. “It's not a relocation offense. Just be polite. If that doesn't work, ignore him! It's, what? A few minutes of your day? That's barely a blip.”

Dean sighs, staring a hole in his beer. “It's not just Aaron.”

Jo punches Dean in the arm. “What did you do now? Did you sleep with the guy who checks the water meter? The exterminator?”

Dean rubs his arm where Jo made contact. “Ow! And for your information: I'm not a man-whore, Jo.” He sighs. “Besides, the exterminator is married.”

“Dean!” Charlie yells, flicking a straw wrapper at him.

Sam gives him concerned face number three. “Dean, perhaps you should consider taking all of this slowly. Dating can be overwhelming.”

Dean looks at Jo. “If you're going to punch someone…”

Charlie clears her throat loudly. “Nice try, Winchester. Stop avoiding the subject. What did you do?”

Dean takes another drink to bolster himself. “So you know how my neighbor Mildred moved to Oak Park Retirement Community?”

Sam snorts. “I don't think I'll erase the image of her saying ‘I hate to go, but I love to watch you leave’ from my brain until I'm her age, so yeah.”

Dean feels his spirits lift slightly at the memory of his brother's crimson face as Mildred Baker turned her charm on Sam.

Unfortunately, they plummet again when he remembers that his own humiliation far eclipses Sam.

“Apparently,” he continues, “she sold the place to an extremely attractive guy who enjoys cutting his grass without a shirt on.”

“And you slept with him,” Jo declares triumphantly.

Dean wishes that's what happened. 

He wonders if he can crawl under the table and his companions will just forget that he was here.

Given that they are basically his three bratty siblings, he knows the answer.

“I accidentally asked him about his dick and then slammed the door in his face.”

Three matching slack-jawed looks of shock meet Dean when he raises his eyes from his beer.

“How do you accidentally ask someone about their dick?” Sam says hesitantly, as if he isn't sure he wants the answer.

“I thought he was delivering something so I asked about his package,” Dean says miserably.

“Was he wearing a uniform or something?” Jo asks.

Dean sighs. “He was in a suit.”

Dean holds up a hand before the peanut gallery can ask follow-up questions. “Look. I saw Aaron and I panicked.”

“Did you try apologizing?” Charlie asks with care generally reserved for dismantling a bomb. “You can just knock on his door with a welcome-to-the-neighborhood pie and explain that you were confused about what he wanted.”

Dean's thought of exactly that.

The problem is he already knows how it will go. Two days ago he saw Cas mowing the lawn with no shirt and he almost ran his Impala into a mailbox.

His Baby.

He has no doubt that attempts to bring him a pie would end in complete disaster and possibly the ruination of his clothing as he somehow manages to spill a pie on them.

And that's the best case scenario.

“He's really cute, Charlie,” Dean grits out.

Charlie gives him a sympathetic look. “You can do this. You're getting better at flirting. And so what if it's a little awkward? Benny has totally forgiven you.”

Ever helpful, Jo points to the chalkboard behind the bar, which lists the staff and their favorite beer or cocktail.

The staff plus one. Scrawled across the bottom is “Dean Winchester: Benny's Dick Sucking Lips.”

“Come on, guys. Leave him alone.” Sam says coming to his defense.

“Who could have guessed telling a man he has a mouth made for sucking was a bad pick-up line?”

Traitor.

“He was dressed like a vampire,” Dean says, defending his honor because apparently nobody else will. “I was talking about his costume.”

“He was a pirate,” Charlie says flatly.

“Well he looked like a vampire pirate, okay? A Vampirate.”

Sam's bitchface could light the eastern seaboard for a week. “A vampirate? That's not a thing, Dean.”

Like Sam has any room to talk. 

“Yeah, you know what's not a thing? Flying batman. Remember when you jumped off the roof dressed as Batman and broke your arm, Sam?”

“I was five!”

“Anyway,” Charlie cuts in, “the point is that Benny thinks it's hilarious now. No harm, no foul. Go next door and apologize.”

Dean grumbles.

She has a point.

A point he will absolutely not be taking under advisement, but she doesn’t have to know that.

“I'll think about it,” Dean lies. “Now, who wants another round?”

There are some really great things about the small cottage Dean inherited from his grandfather.

It's walkable to the perfect fishing spot.

The natural light that filters into the kitchen every morning is almost cheery enough to chase away his morning grumpiness, even before the first critical sip of coffee.

And perhaps most importantly, after years of being on the road and dealing with dank, moldy showers, the water pressure is immaculate. The battering of the hot water on his tired muscles is nearly a religious experience, especially today, after working up a sweat doing routine maintenance on Baby this morning.

There are, however, some “areas of opportunity” as his boss, Crowley, would say as well.

For example, the ancient fuse system wasn't made for modern electrical needs and sometimes the power will fail at the least opportune time - like, say, when you are in the shower.

Dean definitely feels like there is some room for efficiency in the department of not finding yourself in the dark with suddenly ice cold water.

Additionally, if he were giving constructive feedback, he might also say something like “hey, the back door shouldn't lock automatically behind me.”

Especially in cases where he only threw on a pair of plaid boxers for his trek to the backyard and the offending fuse box.

The house, not being particularly open to such feedback, seems indifferent to his plight.

If Dean had a credit card, maybe he could break into the place. 

Instead, he finds himself exposed - almost quite literally - to the elements staring at his locked back door with only the dead fuse in his hand to help him gain access to his home.

Through the window, Dean can see the kitchen table where his wallet, keys and phone sit mockingly out of reach.

Dean can't even break the window because he doesn't have anything to protect his hand - unless you count his boxers which Dean definitely does not.

Left with the singular option of walking to his front door clad only in boxers, Dean decides to own it.

He's a good looking guy.

You're welcome bored housewives and househusbands of Garden Terrace Subdivision.

Unfortunately for Dean, he also doesn't happen to be wearing a watch, which is why he's surprised and horrified to see the postal truck pull up before he can make it halfway around the house.

“Fuck,” Dean offers to his azaleas that back up to the hedged boundary of his yard.

They don't respond.

Dean turns towards the back, but before he can hightail it to safety, he hears Aaron's voice.

“Dean?”

In a stroke of good luck, which is feeling in short supply, the angle from which Aaron is approaching doesn't give him a clear view of Dean's lack of respectable clothing. 

However, his luck is only so good. Any attempts to retreat will require Dean to step out from behind the Azalea bush, thereby revealing his pantsless conundrum.

“Hey, Aaron. I'd love to talk, but I actually have to, uh…” Dean looks around for an excuse to cut this conversation off at the pass. 

Dean sends up a grateful word of thanks for anyone who's listening, because at his feet is a pair of serrated hedge clippers he left outside after moving them from the garage to give himself room to work on Baby.

He holds them up, waving them in perhaps too enthusiastic victory, if Aaron's confused look is anything to go by, “...return these to my neighbor. I'll just take the shortcut. Bye now!”

There's not actually a path next door, but that isn't going to deter Dean from making his own.

Not when he's so close from escaping relatively unscathed.

Dean squeezes between the bushes, muttering curses under his breath.

Apparently he isn't escaping entirely unscathed because the branches of the bush tug and snag on his boxers.

He realizes that he could have cut a break in the bushes with the tool he's holding, still above his head like a trophy, but that course of action comes to him too late. 

He waves at Aaron again, plastering a smile on his face, as he attempts to tug himself past a particularly stubborn branch.

The bush clings to Dean, holding him in place.

Dean is so close to the side yard of his neighbor's house, he can practically taste the freedom.

Just a few steps to disappear from Aaron's view and then he can vault back into his own backyard over the fence behind the hedges.

Aaron, seeming to notice Dean's hesitation, frowns.

He opens his mouth to say something; probably, ‘are you wearing pants?’ or ‘when I said it's not you, it's me, I lied. It's obviously you.’

In a panic, Dean throws himself sideways.

There's a ripping noise from his posterior region.

Dean feels a much more substantial draft than he did a moment before, but he doesn't have time to worry about that because apparently his boxers were all that were keeping him upright.

Dean staggers, trying to get his feet under him.

Dean becomes aware of a few things at the same time.

First, he is still holding the clippers over his head like he’s heading to battle.

Second, he left most of his boxers - along with his dignity in the bush behind him. What's left is a sad tattered loin cloth-like strip of flannel. If crotchless, assless boxers ever become popular, just call Dean a fashion trailblazer.

Third, and most critically, he vastly underestimated where he would end up from the other side of the hedges. Instead of the side of the neighboring house, he has somehow managed to find himself in the backyard.

The occupied backyard.

Seated around a table just past the fence line are Dean’s extremely hot neighbor, a man who looks like a slightly degraded copy paste of him, and a horrified woman with her hands over the eyes of a little blonde girl.

“Um,” Dean says eloquently. He drops the clippers on the ground. “I thought I saw a bat. They only come out during the day if they're sick, so I wanted to make sure it didn't give anyone rabies or something.”

“Is that so?” Dean’s neighbor asks dryly.

“Yep,” Dean says with confidence he doesn't feel. “Sorry about the wardrobe malfunction! Those bushes are no joke."

The man next to his neighbor scowls at him. “That's why they make such good boundary markers, but maybe you should consider extending the fence, Castiel. Good fences make good neighbors.”

Castiel?

Dean's brain glides right over the - probably earned - implied insult and catches on the name.

It's such a formal name.

For an apparently formal man who has brunch in his backyard in a full suit.

“Well, Cas, it's good to see you again. You're welcome for my rabies-preventing vigilance.”

Dean knows it's bratty to give him a nickname just to see if it annoys him, but he doesn't care. 

The man's eyes flare, but Dean can't read the expression in them. He would almost guess bemusement.

Dean taps the brim of a fake cap. “If you'll excuse me, I'll just…”

He tapers off, realizing that he can't head out front to Aaron.

And he's certainly not getting invited to high tea or whatever is happening here.

He looks around, nods to himself as he assesses his only option, and says, “I'll just be going. I have to call animal control.”

The skeptical looks from all three adults tell Dean that absolutely nobody is buying his explanation - which, he has to admit is a terrible one.

He runs towards the fence and vaults himself up and over.

Well, most of him.

He hears a hauntingly familiar ripping sound.

Dean doesn't have to look to know the last shred of Dean's boxers and his pride are impaled on top of the fence.

Dean lands awkwardly and lays there, staring up at the sky. He tries to produce from his memory the name of that realtor he hooked up with last fall. 

He's in desperate need of her services.

Maybe she can find him a nice quiet cabin in the woods with no neighbors or mail service.

On the other side of the fence, he hears the little girl cackle with glee. “Mom, there's underwear on the fence!”

Maybe he needs to try the FBI instead. He needs witness protection levels of relocation.

With nowhere better to be and in worse shape than he thought possible when the door clicked behind him, Dean lays there wishing the Earth would swallow him up for 3-5 business days.

Dean hears a voice drift over the fence. “If you needed a loan, Cas, I told you I would help you. You didn't need to move to such a dangerous neighborhood. I mean, we can't even have breakfast without a naked, probably intoxicated, man busting through your bushes like a demented version of the kool-aid man.”

“Jimmy,” Cas says, giving a name to Dean's new lifelong nemesis, “we aren't re-opening this discussion. Why don't you take Claire inside?”

Jimmy grumbles something unintelligible, then says in a tone that garners no discussion, “Amelia, get the plates. Claire, let's go.”

The whine of disappointment from the little girl marks their progress towards Cas’ house.

“You go ahead,” Cas says, presumably to Amelia, “I'm just going to grab my coat.”

In the welcome silence that follows, Dean tries to come up with a new plan, since he can't exactly walk around the front now.

The last thing he needs to add to this day is an arrest for public indecency.

Perhaps that scrap of boxers is large enough to cover my hand so I can break the window.

As long as he doesn't cut himself too badly, it's probably the best option.

It's not like a solution is just going to fall from the sky.

Above him a swath of tan material flies over the fence, landing next to Dean.

He sits up and examines it.

A trench coat.

Cas’ gravely voice comes from the small slit between the fence rails.

“It looks like your house was built about the same time as mine and, therefore, I can guess that you and I share a common annoyance - the automatic lock on the back door. It's something I personally experienced last week when I realized I left my wallet on the table out back and got stuck in the rain in just a button down shirt.”

Dean’s brain helpfully supplies an image of Cas, thighs exposed, shirt plastered to his skin.

He does his best to ignore it, instead asking, “How did you get back in? I'm a little disappointed it didn't involve breaking into my backyard. I bet you had a whole Ryan Gosling in the Notebook thing happening.”

“I don't understand that reference, so I'll just have to take your word for it. I used a credit card to break in.”

Dean pulls the coat around him. It's warm and more importantly covers him in the indecent-exposure areas.

“Well, thank you. I look a bit like a flasher, but it's a much better look than torn boxers.”

“I kinda enjoyed the boxers,” Cas says.

Dean's stomach flips.

Is he flirting?

“Do you have a spare key, or do you need to borrow my phone?” 

Right. He’s not flirting. He's being nice.

Neighborly.

“Pretty sure your brother will call the police if I show back up in this trench coat.”

Cas snorts on the other side of the fence. “I am confident I can secure your safe passage and amnesty for a phone call.”

Dean realizes in shock that he's grinning, unexpectedly charmed by the kindness of the man on the other side of the fence. 

“Thanks, but I have a spare key in the front and now that you have kindly provided me a respectable level of clothing for public view, I should be able to access it.”

Cas knocks once on the fence like he's putting Dean in a cab at the end of the night. “Okay…”

He trails off.

“Sorry, I didn't actually get your name.”

“Dean,” he offers with an embarrassing grin that mercifully can't be seen by his neighbor. “Ill, uh, shake your hand when I return your coat, but it's nice to meet you, Cas.”

Realizing that the unapproved nickname may not be particularly welcome, he corrects, “erm, Castiel.”

“Cas is fine,” comes the bemused response.

“He sure is,” Dean offers before his brain can remind him that he's managed to come off relatively normal in this conversation with his crush.

Well, as normal as one can expect for a conversation that started with Dean being equipped with a weapon and almost nothing else.

Cas chuckles, though. “Thank you, I think. I should probably get back to my brother and his family.”

Dean nods in agreement, only then remembering that Cas can't actually see him. 

“Yeah, of course. I'll just wash this and return it tomorrow if that works?”

It may be wishful thinking, but he thinks he can hear a smile in Cas’ voice when he responds: “That sounds great, Dean. I'll see you then.”

Dean sits there a moment, grinning like an asshole, before moving to get up.

He wonders if Cas is doing the same because he doesn't hear the retreat of his footsteps.

Taking a chance, he says, “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?” comes the gravely response.

“Sorry for traumatizing your brother and his family.”

Cas hums softly. “Don't be. Jimmy's sort of an asshole. Also, it was hilarious.”

That pulls a full throated laugh from Dean.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Cas,” he offers after he collects himself. “In actual clothes this time.”

“If you must,” Cas responds. 

Before Dean can come up with a response to that, Cas says, “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Bye, Cas,” he says, and he turns towards the front to get his spare key.

Cas frowns at the coat in Dean’s hands then looks at him warily.

Dean plasters on a smile that, from Cas’ reaction, probably looks like that creepy lady from the Blackhole Sun video and spits out, “Hi, I wanted to return your jacket and also to invite you over. I'm barbecuing for some friends and I would love to feed you as an apology for yesterday. I realize my little mishap disturbed you and your family which wasn't my intention, so I was hoping to make it up to you.”

Was it smooth? 

Absolutely not.

But he did manage to get his entire pre-approved message out without panicking too badly in front of the attractive man.

Progress.

Cas’ face softens. “Thank you,” he says, taking the offered coat, “I believe this is actually my brother's, but I'll be sure to get it to him.”

Cas examines Dean with a little frown. “Jesus did tell us to love our neighbor and Pastor Michael has been challenging us to do more outreach, so I suppose we can give you the chance to rehabilitate yourself.”

Dean feels a little hitch in his chest. 

He didn't clock Cas as a church guy, but what does he know? The closest thing to religion either of his parents is practiced was his mother's bedtime stories about angels.

“Right,” Dean says encouragingly, “that's very kind of you.”

Cas smiles and nods as if Dean has just managed to spell a difficult word in the spelling bee. “I'm glad you have seen the error of your ways. In fact, we would love to invite you to church-”

A voice cuts in, interrupting Cas. 

“Jimmy, who is it?”

Dean realizes with dawning horror two things simultaneously.

First, he was able to actually form words because this is not Cas, but his substantially less attractive brother - something he entirely failed to notice in his nervous panic.

Second, he has now managed to invite the wrong brother to his home - the home in which his friends are huddled waiting on their best behavior ready to be wingmen and wingwomen - which said brother will absolutely not welcome.

“We'd love to have the entire family,” Dean course corrects. “You. Your wife and daughter. Your brother.”

He looks hopefully at Cas who has appeared in his line of vision.

A mistake because, unlike his brother, Cas looks as edible as the pie cooling on his kitchen counter. 

Cas raises an eyebrow and Dean's knees go weak. “Where is it you want to have me?”

And, oh, does Dean have an answer for that. 

Before he can offer it, Jimmy provides: “Dean is having a barbecue and he's invited us.”

“I'd love to try your meat, Dean,” Cas says with a mischievous glint in his eye that leaves no room for doubt that he knows precisely which portion of the gutter Dean's mind currently occupies.

Warmth spreads up Dean's neck leaving no doubt that he's now the one who resembles that pie, or at least the cherry filling.

“Amelia can bring her potato salad. She made it for our brunch yesterday, but there's plenty of leftovers. The secret is that she uses raisins.”

Jimmy's voice is like the cold shower Dean accidentally had yesterday. 

Especially when combined with the image of the least sexy thing on the planet - dried grape carcasses.

In potato salad.

“Looking forward to it,” Dean says tightly, suddenly realizing just how complicated his day is going to be.

Even more so if Cas keeps openly flirting with him while his disapproving brother hovers like a guardian angel protecting their virtue.

“See you in a bit, Dean, though it is probably best we are seeing a bit less of you.” Cas says lightly - apparently unperturbed by the presence of his twin brother slash chastity belt.

Still, Dean can hear the “for now,” in his voice.

Because apparently this man enjoys his humiliation and/or has extremely questionable taste in men.

Dean isn't going to look at the dental work of this particular free equine.

Deciding a strategic retreat is in order, he. swivels and walks towards the steps on the porch. 

“Yup,” Dean says over his shoulder, “Looking forward to it.”

“Are you married,” Amelia asks as she sizes up Charlie, “because there are several eligible bachelors at our church. In fact, I happen to know that Brother Inias has a thing for redheads.”

She leans in conspiratorially, “plus he has a full head of hair.”

Charlie chokes on her drink - a screwdriver that she is pretending is orange juice after they all pivoted to host Cas’ religious family members. 

“I'm sorry to say she's taken,” Jo says smugly, winking behind Amelia's back. 

Amelia looks slightly crestfallen, as if she gets some sort of matchmaking commission.

“Oh, well. I'm glad to hear you aren't one of those single cat ladies.”

Charlie gives Dean a bemused look and offers, “nope. I have a partner named Jo, so I'm off the market.”

Amelia nods. “Well, I hope I can meet Joe one day. I'm sure he's lovely.”

Neither woman corrects her misapprehension. 

The memory of a post Dean saw years ago comes roaring back into his mind.

They're lesbians, Harold.

The thought is so unexpected, he has to turn his face away so nobody sees his smirk.

Unfortunately, he manages to turn directly to Cas who, apparently having clocked the couple, has a matching look of amusement.

“Claire,” Jo says, blessedly changing the subject, “have you seen the movie Kpop Demon Hunters? I teach karate and a lot of the girls in my class are obsessed with it. I happen to know Dean has Netflix, and I'm happy to set you up with some entertainment away from all these boring adults.”

Claire's eyes widen in interest and she looks between her two parents uncertainly. “I'm not really allowed to watch much TV.”

Jimmy frowns. “We generally only allow her to watch religious programming.”

Claire's face falls and Dean feels the sudden overwhelming urge to fix it.

This poor girl has nobody to play with and her miserable boredom is unmistakable.

Cas apparently has the same impulse.

“Oh well,” Cas offers, “I mean this movie is about fighting demons. You can't get much more religious than that, can you?”

“It's practically Veggie Tales,” Dean offers, not adding that he's only familiar with that particular franchise because he attended a themed drag show called Veggie Tails, which featured some rather inventive use of vegetables as props.

That poor zucchini.

“Well, okay,” Jimmy says hesitantly. “But if anything is too sinful, promise you'll turn it off.”

Claire squeals and follows Jo towards the living room.

Devoid of youthful energy, the kitchen is blanketed in awkward silence.

“I should probably get the meat on,” Dean says, moving to grab his expertly shaped burgers so that he can make an escape.

“I'll go with you,” Cas offers.

Grilling burgers isn't exactly a two man job, but Dean's heart leaps at the idea of getting Cas alone, so he doesn't point that out.

Instead, he manages a soft smile. “I'd like that.”

“We can all go,” Jimmy offers.

Dean's heart sinks and he gives Sam and Charlie a desperate glance.

Reading the SOS like he blinked it in morse code, Charlie says, “actually, Amelia, I understand you're quite the gardener. I'd love to pick your brain on something.”

“Oh,” Amelia says, immediately lighting up with interest, “do you garden?”

“Does Samwise Gamgee like potatoes?” 

Amelia stares at her blankly.

Charlie waves it off, “he does. Anyway, yes, I am a huge fan of gardening. Like a superfan. And I hear you have some really impressive mums. Can I see?”

Dean suppresses laughter.

He's pretty sure the only mums Charlie has ever shown interest in were of the MILF variety and the only gardening he has ever seen her do was growing pot in college.

Nonetheless, Amelia is entirely engaged, scrolling through images of - frankly, identical looking to him - flowers.

Charlie winks at Dean over her shoulder and turns back to the phone, “oh, what kind of soil do you use for these?”

“Well,” Jimmy says simply, “we can leave the little ladies to their gardening talk. Let's hit the grill.”

Dean stares at Sam desperately, but he doesn't seem to notice.

Thinking fast, Dean says: “oh I would love your help but I think Sam had a question for you, too.”

Sam looks at Dean, befuddled.

Clearly his baby brother is oblivious, which tracks, because he is as big of a cockblock as Cas’ brother.

“About work.” Dean says desperately, despite having no clue what profession Jimmy is actually in.

“Oh, are you a fellow accountant?” Jimmy asks.

Sam, finally realizing this is the wingmanning he promised to do, says eloquently, “Oh. Um.”

“He's a lawyer,” Dean offers helpfully.

“Yeah,” Sam says, finally managing to catch the softball Dean is throwing, “I do corporate law. I know it's your day off, but I was, um, hoping to ask you about nonprofit tax code.”

Jimmy smiles like it's Christmas morning and Santa brought him a shiny new bicycle. “Oh please. If I didn't have a passion for the tax code, I wouldn't be a CPA. You know what they say! Choose a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life.”

Sam fails to hide his reaction, which is about as enthusiastic as Dean’s was to the raisin potato salad, but Jimmy doesn't notice now that he's talking about his life's passion.

He's already launched into some explanation of unrelated business income.

Dean grabs the plate of burgers and takes the moment facing the wall to gather himself.

James Dean.

Cool.

In Dean’s ear comes a gravely voice, “looks like it's just you, me, and all that meat.”

Somehow, Dean doesn't drop the plate, but it's close. 

Dean realizes he forgot the tattered remains of his underwear at the same time Cas says, “you know, you're pretty cute when you blush.”

He sucks in a breath, mortification and desire heating his blood in equal measure.

“I, uh, meant to get rid of those this morning while your coat was in the wash, but the phone rang and…sorry, cute?”

It's Cas’ turn to blush. 

“Was that too forward? Flirtation has never been my strongest attribute.”

Dean doesn’t care that he probably looks like an idiot, he grins at Cas. “Yeah, I know the feeling. Sometimes a guy is so cute, I panic and slam the door in his face.”

Cas takes a step forward, confidence returning. “Is that what happened? I assumed you confused me with the likes of my brother and expected me to start proselytizing."

Dean's mouth, ever circumventing his brain, says, “I think you are far more likely to make me say ‘oh my God.”

Cas’ eyes darken with interest. “Perhaps we can test that theory some time.”

The heat from his grill has nothing on the heat between them, but given that he can only really address one of those situations, Dean focuses on the craving he can satisfy.

He uses his tongs to place the burgers on his grill. The sizzle of meat on hot metal is almost soothing for him. 

Maybe it will help smooth some of his rough edges.

“So,” Dean says, trying to find a subject beyond their hopefully mutual attraction, “it's nice to see you and your brother are so close. Sammy and I are basically the only family either of us have, unless you count my mom's weird cousins. I don't. I think they may be serial killers or something.”

Cas snorts. “Jimmy comes on strong, but he's a good brother.”

Cas hesitates, as if he's embarrassed. “We were sort of raised in a cult.”

Dean tries and fails to imagine Cas and Jimmy in ceremonial robes.

Cas grimaces, “My father claimed to be God. We never knew our mom. She died in childbirth.”

Dean feels a surge of sympathy, but even stronger is a sense of awe

Cas clearly got dealt a bad hand in life and instead of making him bitter, it apparently made him the kind of guy who would give you the shirt - or trench coat - off his back.

“We grew up in the woods. Jimmy and I had largely had to fend for ourselves, especially after our dad disappeared with everyone's money.”

Even from here, Dean can see Cas is holding his breath as if bracing for impact.

Dean suspects that a lot of people react badly to this particular story, but all he feels is warmth for the man in front of him.

He puts a gentle hand on Cas’ shoulder. “I'm sorry. I lost my mom young, too. Sam was just a baby. Dad took it badly, so we were mostly on our own.”

Cas looks at him with such softness that it makes Dean's chest constrict. 

The dead parents club is a really shitty one, but it also feels good to be seen and understood. 

Cas’ eyes aren't full of pity. 

Empty platitudes don't fall from his lips.

Instead, a moment of understanding stretches between them.

The sizzle of meat brings Dean back to the task at hand.

He tears his eyes away from the man next to him. 

“So you're brother's okay with the whole liking men thing?” Dean asks.

Dean internally kicks himself. 

Changing the subject from deceased parents to possibly homophobic siblings is probably not the best way to kick off a sort of maybe date.

Another thought makes him freeze.

What if Cas isn't flirting? What if he isn't into men and I have just been reading into his kindness? 

“I mean, if you like men, that is. To date. Romantically.”

Dean manages to snap his mouth shut far too late.

Cas chuckles. It's a deep, throaty sound. 

“I know I admitted that I'm bad at flirtation, but I thought I was being obvious enough.”

Dean glances at Cas and then has to look away before he blurts out how cute the little wrinkles at the edge of Cas’ eyes are.

“Yeah, no. You were,” Dean says hastily. “I just didn't want to presume.”

“Dean,” Cas says, softly.

Dean draws his eyes back up to find Cas’.

“I do like men. You specifically. To date. Romantically.”

Dean grins. “Good. Me too. But reversed. You get it.”

“I get it,” Cas says with bemusement lacing his voice. “I'm glad we agree.”

Dean begins putting burgers on the clean plate. 

“Jimmy's fine. His wife sometimes tries to set me up with the only gay person she knows - Claire's 60 year old art teacher - but otherwise, they're okay.”

Dean laughs. “Not into GILFs?”

Cas snorts. “Not when there are NILFs. Neighbors I'd like to-”

“I got it,” Dean says mostly because he's pretty sure if he hears a filthy word come out of that mouth, he is not going to make it through dinner.

But he does file it away for later when he doesn't have a kitchen full of family.

He walks towards the door with his plate full of burgers.

“NILF sounds like some sort of fairy creature that Charlie would make me be when she drags me go LARPing,” he grumbles good-naturedly. 

“You,” he says in a fakely high voice to imitate Charlie, “will serve on Oberon's court. Bow to him. Get on your knees for the king of the fairies.”

Dean unfortunately delivers this monologue as Cas opens the door for him.

Four sets of eyes stare at them.

“Dean,” Sam asks flatly, “why are you talking about servicing Oberon, king of the fairies?”

Dean gives him a probably devastating glare. Sam doesn't flinch, but Dean's sure it hit.

Then he smiles at everyone weakly, holding up the plate. “Don't worry about it. Who wants some meat?”

Dean tries not to show his disappointment when Cas leaves with Jimmy, Amelia and Claire.

It would have been rude not to see his brother off as he heads across town to what Dean can only assume is the blandest of suburban homes.

There's probably a white picket fence and an HOA.

They don't, however, get out the door before Amelia gets Jo's number so she can set Claire up in one of her karate classes.

The girl had been entirely inspired by her evening with pop singing demon hunters and now all she wants to do is learn to fight.

Dean's a little worried Jo may have created a monster. 

“You owe me,” Sam says with a scowl as he heads towards the door. “I had to talk about the Code of Federal Regulations, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, “I'll let you pick the music next time you ride shotgun.”

Sam gets a hopeful look on his face. “Can I bring an auxiliary cord? If you just let me connect Spotify, we can-”

Dean holds up a hand to stop him. “Don't push it, Sammy. Even the tax code doesn't give you the right to defile my Baby like that.”

He gives Dean his best bitchface, but he softens when they reach the door.

“I like him,” Sam says softly, “and I'm proud of you, Dean. I think it's great you're finally comfortable enough in your own skin to pursue something with another guy.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he can't help the stupid grin that pulls at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. No chick flick moments.”

“Oh please,” Charlie offers, “you love chick flicks. How many times have you made me watch Legally Blonde?”

“Legally Blonde is not a chick flick. It's a masterpiece,” Dean corrects.

Charlie snorts and punches him on the arm. “Whatever you say, Dean. I've seen the amount of Jane Austen on your bookshelf. You can't hide your many layers from me.”

Dean lets a chuckle bubble out of him. It's very unlike him, but he feels embarrassingly happy. 

“Okay, Ms. Horticulture. Why didn’t I know you are President of the local gardening club?”

She reddens. “I may be slightly addicted to a gardening game.”

“Slightly?” Jo asks, wrapping an arm around her. “I keep telling her to touch grass, but all she wants to do is grow it.”

“Hey, in college all she wanted to do is smoke it,” Dean teases, “so that's progress.”

They leave in a flurry of hugs and promises to get together again soon and then Dean is alone.

The house feels cavernous as Dean loads the dishwasher.

His joy has cooled slightly and in its place is a growing worry that he might have done or said something wrong.

Why is it so much harder to flirt with men?

His signature confidence seems to be MIA when the object of his attraction has stubble.

I asked him if he liked men. 

I made him talk about his dead mom.

Dean sighs.

Truly stellar first date talk. Typical get-to-know-you type stuff.

You would think Dean has never dated another human in his life.

A knock on the door interrupts Dean’s self-flagellation.

He looks around as he heads to the door, trying to figure out what Jo left this time.

He doesn't see anything, but Jo is notoriously bad about misplacing her things. 

She once had to return three times for her keys, wallet, and shoes.

In that order.

He swings the door open, “you know you could just put your keys on a carabiner so you don't lose them, like a normal lesbian.”

On the other side of the door, Cas stares at him in befuddled amusement. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Dean feels heat crawl up the side of his face. “I thought you were Jo.”

Cas snorts. “That's a relief. I would make a terrible lesbian.”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Did you forget something?”

Cas smiles and holds up Dean's hedge clippers, looking suddenly uncertain. 

“I thought you might need these. In case you had plans too…” he hesitates, looking a bit lost, “do some early morning yard work before work tomorrow.”

He's so impossibly cute when he's full of shit.

Dean takes the clippers and lays them on the side of his porch. “You never know when the spirit of Edward Scissorhands will possess you.”

He straightens back up.

Cas is staring at him, his eyes dark, apparently having enjoyed his view of Dean bending over to put down the tool.

“Anyway, I should go.” Cas says, his voice uncertain.

Dean feels the familiar fight or flight panic he gets when a cute guy talks to him - a feeling he suspects is mirrored in Cas' mind - but he chooses a third option.

He steps forward and clasps Cas’ face. “Or you could stay.”

Cas closes the final inches between them, bringing their lips together.

They fit together seamlessly. 

The kiss starts out gentle. Tentative.

But then Cas groans into Dean’s mouth and need takes over.

Dean slides a hand to the back of Cas’ head and deepens the kiss. 

Dean may be awkward when it comes to flirting, but kissing Cas is natural. 

Easy.

Its lips and teeth and tongue, but somehow it's almost celestial, like worlds being created from the explosive chemistry between them.

By the time Cas pulls back, they're both panting. 

“We should probably go inside,” Dean says, his gravelly voice unfamiliar in his own ears, “I've flirted enough with a public indecency charge this week already.”

“I'm not complaining,” Cas says with a smirk that makes Dean want to hit his knees anyway.

Instead, he grabs Cas' hand and pulls him inside.

They make it only a few steps before Cas has him pressed up against a wall in a desperate kiss.

Cas slides his hands under Dean's shirt, fingers skating along his skin.

In Dean's ear, Cas growls, “Do you know the torture I endured staring at you across the table. I wanted to throw the plates on the floor and get to dessert. Instead I had to listen to my brother talk about interest rates.”

Cas presses his hips forward and his thigh provides some extremely welcome pressure against Dean’s aching dick.

“I barely slept last night. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to see if you feel as good under me as you looked running through my yard.”

Dean whines as Cas traces his fingers along his chest and then down his stomach.

“I've been thinking about you since you showed up on my doorstep,” Dean's admits. 

Cas slides his hands below Dean’s thighs and lifts him up as if he weighs nothing.

Dean wraps his legs around Cas, kissing him and putting every ounce of his aching need into the slide of his tongue against Cas’.

Cas bucks his hips again, the friction between them enough to have Dean panting.

It's almost too much. Dean has to concentrate not to embarrass himself by coming in his pants.

“Cas,” Dean manages when they come up for air, “I need you.”

Cas moans. “You have me.”

Dean nearly forgets the point he was trying to make.

“Perhaps we should at least make it to the bedroom?”

Cas smiles sheepishly and puts Dean back on solid ground. “Okay, but I reserve the right to spread you across that kitchen table later. I spent the entirety of dinner thinking of creative things to do to you on that table.”

Dean didn't think it was possible for him to get harder.

He licks his lips, begging his brain for 30 more seconds of coherence. “Yeah. We'll definitely put a pin in that.”

When they get to the bedroom, Dean half expects Cas to tear his clothes off.

Instead, he kisses him softly, sweetly.

“Tell me what you want, Dean.”

Dean knows what he wants. He aches for it.

But he's finding it hard to say out loud.

Misreading Dean's hesitation, Cas strokes a hand along Dean's face. “We can take it slow, if you want. We don't have to-”

“I want you to fuck me,” Dean blurts out.

He can feel the heat as he blushes furiously. “I've just never…”

He trails off.

Cas’ eyes widen. “Dean,” he says quietly.

“I mean, I've used toys, but I've never been with someone else.”

Cas stares into his eyes, as if trying to read his mind. “You're sure?” 

Dean nods.

Cas sucks in a breath. “Okay. I'd like that, Dean.”

They move slowly then, taking their time getting undressed - largely because neither one of them seems to be able to separate from the other long enough to focus on buttons and zippers.

Cas is all hard planes and soft skin first under Dean's fingertips and then beneath his lips.

Dean could spend all night memorizing every detail.

Well, maybe that's a lie, because when Cas presses him against the bed and begins working his way down to Dean's cock, suddenly Dean wants to spend all night doing something very different.

Cas looks up at him with shining blue eyes. “Lube?”

Dean reaches into the drawer next to the bed and grabs lube and condoms, handing them both to Cas.

Cas hums in appreciation, then lowers himself between Dean's legs, swallowing his dick without hesitation.

Dean lets out a surprised groan of appreciation.

That turns into a louder moan when a slick finger begins to circle his hole.

Dean's body lights up as the warmth of Cas’ mouth envelops him. When Cas presses into him, it goes incandescent.

Cas takes his time. He slides his fingers into Dean until he's shaking with need.

“Please,” Dean grits out.

Cas obliges, pulling himself back. There's the crinkle of a wrapper and the snick of the lube bottle and then Cas is over Dean, staring into his eyes. 

“You are so beautiful,” Cas says with such admiration that it almost sounds like a prayer. 

He kisses Dean and a moment later presses up against Dean hole.

Cas works his way in with an agonizingly slow care.

They move together as one, the slide of Cas’ dick makes Dean shake with need.

It's better than any toy - the heat of Cas filling him up and bringing him closer and closer to heaven.

Cas hand slides around Dean’s dick and his brain shorts out.

The pressure builds until it can’t be contained.

With a shout, Dean comes, his entire body shuddering.

Above him, Cas stutters as he empties into Dean.

He's so beautiful, Dean shudders again.

After they clean up, Dean braces himself for Cas to say goodbye. This pull he feels for Cas puts him in dangerous territory. 

He barely knows Cas and falling into bed immediately probably puts this into the hookup category.

But for the first time in a long time - maybe ever - that's not enough for Dean.

There are feelings here he wants to explore.

But he recognizes that, for now, it's probably not reasonable to expect Cas to feel the same way.

Cas doesn't leave, though.

He kisses Dean softly and pulls him against his chest.

“I know we just met,” Cas says softly, “but I really like you, Dean. Just so there's no question.”

It's so close to what Dean has been thinking that Dean pulls back and stares at him. “Cas, did you just do some weird mojo to read my mind?”

Cas snorts. “No, Dean, but since you weren't sure if I was flirting earlier, I thought I'd be direct.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but they both know he doesn't mean it.

“I think you're pretty neat, too,” he says, curling back up against Cas. 

Cas sighs and relaxes against him.

“You're moving?”

Dean jumps at the unexpected voice.

He turns to find Aaron staring at the box in his arms. 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, putting the box down on top of another on his porch.

“Well, if it's your last night in town,” Aaron says smoothly, “maybe you'd like to have a little fun.”

“He's just moving next door,” Cas says from behind Dean with the intensity of a soldier ready to fight to the death. “With me.”

Aaron holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, well good for you two. If you ever need a third, you know where to find me.”

He holds Dean’s mail out, but instead places it on the box after Cas makes a growling noise.

Dean would scold him for the possessiveness, but he finds it unbearably hot.

“See you around, Aaron,” Dean calls just to make Cas burn a little more intensely.

He'll pay for it later if he's lucky.

Aaron gives a half wave as he walks back towards his truck, passing Amelia Novak on the sidewalk.

She does a double take.

“Was that Aaron Bass?” 

Dean says yes even though he's not actually sure of his last name.

She makes a disapproving little huff. 

“Do you know him?” Cas asks, sounding just as befuddled as Dean feels.

She frowns. “You know I hate to gossip…”

What Dean knows is that she likes to say she's hates to gossip almost as much as she loves dropping the absolute hottest tea.

Charlie, as if summoned by the word gossip, comes out of the front door. “You can tell us,” she says, knowing the drill.

“Well,” Amelia says, leaning in, “apparently he's a bit of a man w-h-o-r-e.”

For some reason Dean hasn't managed to suss out in the 6 months he's known her, Amelia seems to think spelling a word is more proper than saying it.

She continues breathlessly, “Lisa Braeden, the woman who lives on the corner? She has a son and nobody knows who the dad is, right? But last week she got into it with Kelly Kline, her neighbor who is currently pregnant with no father in sight. Rumor has it that the mailman has been delivering more than the mail to both of them, if you know what I mean.”

Charlie leans against Dean, elbowing him. “Oh, I'm getting a pretty clear picture.”

Amelia shrugs. “It worked out, though.”

“Yeah?” Charlie asks, her eyes glowing with interest. 

Dean gives her a disapproving look and she holds up her hands. “What? This is my neighborhood now. I need to take an interest in my community.”

Amelia grins, nodding in agreement. “I guess they decided to throw the whole man in the trash because I heard they're moving in together. As girlfriends.”

Charlie whoops. “Good for them!”

“Amelia,” Cas interrupts, “not that I'm not glad to see you, but Dean and I were planning to have a quiet night settling in.”

Settling in, in this case, means fucking in every room of their house or falling asleep trying - starting with the kitchen table - but Amelia doesn't need to know that.

She waves him off. “I'm not here for you, though I did drop a jello salad in your fridge as a housewarming gift for Dean.”

Dean almost shudders, knowing what horrors Amelia typically produces from her kitchen - but instead he smiles.

It's the thought that counts and Amelia is welcoming him into Cas’ home. 

Into their family.

“She's here to see me,” Charlie says with a grin. 

“I brought the cuttings you asked for,” Amelia says with a broad grin, “let's get your garden started.”

Dean takes one last look at the house, wishing her well with her new owners. He'll be back, possibly as soon as tomorrow. Besides, he knows Charlie and Jo will take good care of her.

He picks up the top box.

“Come on, Cas,” he says, “let's go get settled in.”

Cas grins and grabs the other box to follow Dean home.