Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Dude!” Sam laughed when he turned around and saw Dean leaning over the convenience store counter, scribbling something down on one of those obnoxiously bright flyers that practically screamed WIN A FREE SEVEN-DAY CRUISE!

“What?” Dean shot back with that familiar, mischievous grin. “It’d be funny.”

Sam groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re almost thirty, Dean. You know those things are scams, right?”

Dean only shrugged, tongue poking between his teeth as he kept writing. “Yeah, well. Life’s a scam, Sammy. Might as well see if this one’s got free drinks.”

He filled out the form with reckless enthusiasm—his name scrawled in uneven letters, his old phone number, and some dusty email address he hadn’t touched since MySpace was still a thing. Without bothering to double-check, he tore the paper from the pad, folded it in half, and stuffed it into the narrow slit of the entry box with exaggerated ceremony.

“There,” he said, dusting his hands off like he’d just done something noble.

Sam shook his head, muttering, “You’re unbelievable.”

Dean grinned wider. “Thanks. I try.”

He sauntered over to the snack aisle, arms already full by the time Sam caught up—Slim Jims, two bags of chips, and a prepackaged mini pie that looked like it had survived the apocalypse. Sam didn’t even bother arguing anymore. He just sighed deeply, the kind that said I’ve been here before, while Dean unloaded the pile onto the counter.

When Dean predictably tried to pay, Sam blocked him with a practiced move. The cashier chuckled, clearly used to watching the same argument play out every other week. Dean pouted, Sam rolled his eyes, and the world spun on.

Groceries in hand, they stepped out into the soft hum of dusk—the sky burning orange over the gas station lot, the pump clicking one last time before Dean replaced the handle. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and fried food, the kind of evening that begged for bad jokes and worse decisions.

Dean tore open his chips before the engine even started, crunching loudly enough to drown out the radio. “How funny would it be if I actually won?” he said between bites, grinning around a mouthful of salt and grease.

“Yeah. Real funny.” Sam’s tone was flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Dean snorted, brushing crumbs off on his jeans. “You’re such a prude, Sammy.”

Sam gave him a sideways look. “And you’re an idiot. A gullible idiot."

Dean laughed, a full, unbothered sound, and Sam—against his better judgment—found himself smiling, too. He reached out and smacked the back of Dean’s head, just enough to make him yelp.

“Hey! Abuse!” Dean barked, mock-offended, rubbing the spot.

“Consider it preventative maintenance,” Sam said dryly.

The Impala rolled down the quiet road, headlights cutting through the thickening dark. Dean was still laughing to himself when he muttered, “Man, it’d be hilarious if I actually won that thing.”

Sam only shook his head, knowing damn well that with Dean’s luck, the universe was probably already conspiring to make it happen.

**

A week later, the galaxy decided to have a little fun at Dean Winchester’s expense.

He was flat on his back under a ’72 Chevelle, hands slick with oil, the radio humming something lazy and twangy somewhere by his feet. The garage smelled like motor grease and burnt coffee—his kind of heaven, if heaven had bad wiring and a flickering fluorescent light. He was elbow-deep in a routine oil change when his phone started buzzing in his pocket.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again. And again.

“Son of a—” Dean muttered, squinting up at the underside of the car like it might offer help.

From across the bay, Benny called out, “You gonna answer that, or you waitin’ for it to crawl under there and do it for ya?”

Dean huffed, rolling out from under the car with a clatter of tools. “If this is another telemarketer, I’m changing my damn number.”

“Sure you are,” Benny said, smirking.

Dean tossed the wrench to him. “Take over, would ya? Apparently someone’s life or death waitin’ to talk to me.”

“Casanova’s got priorities,” Benny muttered, ducking under the hood as Dean wiped his hands on a rag and headed outside.

The sunlight hit him hard after the dim garage, blinding and hot. His phone buzzed one more time, screen flashing an unfamiliar number with a fancy area code. Dean squinted at it.

“All right,” he sighed. “Let’s see which prince of Nigeria wants my money today.”

He answered. “Yeah, this is Dean.”

“Hello, Mr. Winchester!” chirped a voice that was far too cheerful for a Tuesday. “This is Erica from OceanDream Cruises! Congratulations—you’re our grand prize winner!”

Dean blinked. “My what now?”

“Our grand prize winner! You’ve won an all-expenses-paid seven-day Caribbean cruise for two! Isn’t that exciting?”

He glanced back through the open bay doors where Benny was half-watching him, clearly enjoying the show. “Uh, lady, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t win things. I don’t even win rock-paper-scissors.”

“Oh no, it’s definitely you!” she trilled. “Dean Winchester, right? From Lawrence? Entered our Win a Cruise for Two contest last week?”

Dean froze mid-step. “...Wait. That thing was real?”

“Very real, sir! You’re our lucky winner!”

From inside the garage, Benny yelled, “You win the lottery or somethin’?”

Dean covered the mic. “Apparently I won a cruise,” he hissed.

Benny’s laugh echoed like a bark of thunder.

Dean rubbed a greasy hand over his face. “Okay, just to be clear, this isn’t, like… a scam, right? You’re not gonna ask me to sign over my kidneys or whatever?”

Erica giggled. “Of course not, Mr. Winchester! All we need is a small processing fee to secure your reservation, and then you and your guest are all set to sail next month!”

“Guest,” Dean repeated flatly.

“Yes! The cruise package is for two!”

He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “What if I don’t have anybody? Can I just… come by myself?”

There was a brief, awkward pause before Erica answered, chipper as ever. “Well, the booking system automatically reserves two passengers per cabin, but if you don’t have a guest, that’s perfectly fine! You’ll just have the extra space to yourself.”

Dean smirked faintly. “Right. Extra space. Got it.”

“Well, shall we go ahead and get that processing fee taken care of?” she asked brightly.

Dean’s mouth opened, then closed. “Processing fee,” he repeated flatly.

“It’s standard procedure, sir! Just a few hundred dollars to finalize the paperwork.”

He glanced at Benny again, who was mouthing the words don’t do it.

Dean hesitated. He knew this had to be a scam. Nobody actually won those things. And yet… the part of him that had dropped that neon flyer into the box just to make Sam roll his eyes whispered: What if it’s real?

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “And this covers, what, exactly?”

“Oh! The cruise, meals, entertainment, a luxury cabin for two—everything except airfare to the port.”

“Right. Of course,” Dean muttered.

There was a pause. Then, a faint spark of mischief lit up his voice. “So… I could, hypothetically, take anyone I want on this cruise?”

“Absolutely!” Erica chirped. “A friend, a family member, a partner—it’s up to you!”

Dean smirked to himself. “Well, that’ll be interesting.”

He was outside the garage for a while, digging into his back pocket for his wallet and Benny rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. Moments later, Dean ended the call and walked back towards the garage.

Benny raised an eyebrow. “You actually goin’?”

Dean pocketed his rag and shrugged. “I mean… what’s the worst that could happen?”

Benny grinned. “Famous last words, man.”

As Dean walked back into the garage, he had no idea that somewhere in the fine print of his “grand prize,” fate had already arranged a surprise of its own—one very tall, blue-eyed roommate waiting to make this the strangest vacation of his life.

***

“I can’t believe you’re actually going,” Sam said, arms crossed as he leaned in the doorway, watching his brother fumble through a mess of half-folded shirts and questionable life choices.

“Yeah, me neither,” Dean admitted, shoving another T-shirt into his duffel. “But she claims it’s legit, man. I called after paying, checked the website, the whole nine yards—turns out Ocean Dream Cruises is the real freakin’ deal. Said I can take anybody I want. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come with me.”

Sam snorted. “Uh-huh. Sure you were.”

Dean paused, pretending to refold a pair of jeans. “No, really.”

“Dean,” Sam said, eyebrow raised. “You’re literally praying I say no.”

Dean shot him a guilty half-smile. “Maybe a little.”

Sam shook his head, laughing. “Nah, man. This is your win. You go. Have fun. You earned it. Where’s the big fancy ship headed, anyway?”

“I gotta fly into Miami first,” Dean said, rummaging for his toiletries. “Then they pick me up from the airport and—uh—something about the Caribbean. The lady said there’ll be white sand, blue water, and... cocktails with umbrellas.”

Sam smirked. “You, drinking out of a coconut.”

Dean pointed a finger. “Hey, don’t knock it till you try it. I’ve always wanted to go to the beach.” His voice softened on the last word, and Sam caught it—the flicker of something wistful beneath the bravado.

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “You deserve it, man. Been working your ass off since forever.”

Dean shrugged, but his mouth curved, grateful. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Dean grinned. “I make no promises.”

When Sam finally left, the room fell into the kind of silence that made Dean’s thoughts loud. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the duffel bag sitting proudly like it had accomplished something. Then, inevitably, he dropped it straight to the floor with a thud.

Reaching over to his nightstand, he grabbed the glossy brochure that he had grabbed after visiting the business after work. The thing was obnoxiously cheerful—filled with photos of smiling couples in straw hats, glittering blue water, and cocktails in coconuts. The words Ocean Dream Cruises: Your Adventure Awaits! were stamped across the top in an offensively perky font.

Dean flipped it open, squinting at the descriptions. Five-star dining. Live entertainment. Sunset dances on the deck.

“Sunset dances,” he muttered under his breath. “Yeah, that’s me. Real Fred Astaire material.”

Still, he kept reading. The more he looked—at the turquoise water, the palm trees, the promise of fresh seafood and no boss yelling about oil changes—the more something in his chest started to loosen.

He’d never taken a real vacation before. Not one that didn’t involve a broken-down car or a motel with questionable stains on the comforter.

By the time he reached the last page, he caught himself smiling. A real one.

“Guess it can’t be that bad,” he said to the empty room.

The brochure’s photo of a cruise ship gleamed back at him like it was in on the joke.

“Yeah,” Dean added with a little laugh, tossing it back onto the nightstand. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

The universe, naturally, took that as a challenge.

***

By the time Dean’s plane touched down in Miami, he was ninety percent sure he’d aged a decade somewhere over Georgia.

The flight hadn’t been bad, technically. The baby two rows up had only cried for the first hour, the old lady beside him had only elbowed him in the ribs twice, and the pilot hadn’t crashed them into a fiery death. But Dean’s knuckles were white the entire trip, gripping the armrests like the plane was dangling over a cliff instead of cruising calmly through clouds.

When the flight attendant had smiled and asked if he wanted a drink, Dean had managed a strangled, “Yes. Something strong.” He didn’t even care what it was. He just needed something to convince his brain that thirty thousand feet above solid ground wasn’t a death sentence.

So yeah—by the time he finally stepped out into the Miami heat, Dean felt like he’d survived a war.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging his duffel over one shoulder as the blast of humidity hit him like opening an oven. Sweat clung instantly to his shirt. “How the hell can people live in this?”

The airport was chaos—families shouting over luggage, kids darting around with plastic leis, someone already arguing loudly with a rental car rep. Dean squinted through the crowd, trying to find whoever was supposed to meet him.

A woman in a turquoise uniform stood off to the side, holding up a sign that said Ocean Dream Cruises – Welcome Aboard! in glittering letters. She looked so chipper it was almost suspicious.

“Mr. Winchester?” she asked when he approached, voice bright and airy.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Dean said, still half-expecting someone to jump out and yell gotcha.

“Welcome to Ocean Dream! We’re thrilled to have you. Your shuttle to the port is right outside.”

Dean nodded, mumbling, “Yeah, thrilled’s one word for it,” and followed her directions toward the bus idling outside the terminal.

Thirty minutes later, the shuttle pulled up to the docks, Dean’s skepticism was starting to waver. The ship was enormous—gleaming white, sunlight bouncing off its surface like something out of a movie. He caught himself staring, the faintest spark of awe lighting in his chest.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Inside the terminal, the check-in process felt like a well-oiled machine. Smiling attendants handed him his key card, a map of the ship, and a bright blue lanyard that said Ocean Dream VIP Guest.

“VIP, huh?” Dean grinned. “You sure you got the right guy?”

The young woman behind the counter smiled politely. “We’re sure, Mr. Winchester. You’re in Cabin 327, deck five. Oh—and would you like a complimentary welcome drink?”

Dean blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

She gestured to a table nearby where a man in a crisp uniform was serving tall glasses of something pink with pineapple wedges on the rim.

Dean picked one up, sniffed it suspiciously, and took a sip. It was sweet, cold, and maybe seventy percent rum. He raised his eyebrows. “Huh. Not bad.” Not his usual cheap beer, but he’ll take it.

He was halfway through it when he stepped onto the gangway, ocean breeze hitting him full force. Seagulls cried overhead, music drifted faintly from somewhere on deck, and the sunlight made everything shimmer.

Dean couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth. “All right,” he said under his breath. “Free cruise, free booze. Maybe my luck’s turning around.”

He found his cabin easily—polished wood doors, soft carpet, everything smelling faintly of salt and citrus. He fished the keycard from his pocket, balancing his half-finished drink in the other hand.

“Seven days,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Seven days of doing absolutely nothing.”

Dean chuckled to himself, swiping the card. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

The lock clicked.

And on the other side of the door, waiting in the cool, perfectly air-conditioned cabin, was the first sign that this trip was about to be way more complicated than he’d bargained for.

***

The cabin was way fancier than Dean expected.

He stepped inside and stopped dead in the doorway, blinking like he’d just walked into the wrong movie.

“Holy crap,” he muttered.

Everything gleamed. A king sized bed between two sliding glass doors, there were soft white sheets, polished wood paneling, a bowl of fruit on the table like he was in some kind of five-star commercial. Even the air smelled expensive—salt, citrus, and something faintly floral that made him wonder if rich people’s oxygen just smelled better.

He set his drink down carefully on the counter, glancing toward the balcony doors where sunlight spilled in through sheer curtains. Beyond them, the ocean stretched endlessly, impossibly blue and bright. For a second, Dean forgot to breathe.

“Damn,” he whispered. “Guess this might actually be—”

The bathroom door clicked open behind him.

Dean froze.

Out stepped a man. Tall, lean, wrapped in nothing but a towel and steam, dark hair dripping against his temples. He blinked in surprise, a toothbrush still halfway to his mouth.

“Oh,” the guy said, voice low and calm. “You must be Dean.”

Dean stared. His brain, ever helpful, immediately forgot how words worked.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“Uh—” His brain fizzed like a bad connection. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Castiel,” the man replied simply, like that answered everything. “Your roommate.”

“My what now?” Dean said, his voice a pitch higher than usual.

Castiel frowned slightly, as if confused by his confusion. “Your roommate. The cabin is listed as double occupancy.”

Dean just stood there for a beat, staring, mouth slightly open, towel-guy blinking at him like this was completely normal. Then Dean turned on his heel, muttered “Nope,” and walked straight out of the room.

He didn’t even stop for his drink.

The woman at the check-in desk looked up as he approached, a little too cheerful for the chaos surrounding her.

“Hi there, Mr. Winchester! How are you settling in?”

Dean planted both hands on the counter. “Yeah, so about that—what the hell do you mean settling in? There’s a guy in my room. A half-naked guy.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “Yes, that would be your cabinmate, Mr. Novak.”

“My—no, no, see, that’s the thing. I didn’t ask for a cabinmate. I booked this thing solo.”

She nodded sympathetically, like she’d had this conversation before. “Oh, yes, but the promotional bookings are all for double occupancy. It’s part of the ‘Sail and Share’ campaign! Didn’t you read the brochure?”

Dean blinked. “You mean the one with the dolphins and the words tropical bliss plastered across it in comic sans?”

“That’s the one!” she chirped.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m not sharing a room with some random dude in a towel. Can’t you just, I don’t know—move me?”

She typed something furiously into her computer, then smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid we’re completely booked, sir. But I can assure you, Mr. Novak is a lovely guest. Very polite. Hardly any complaints.”

Dean blinked again. “That’s… not comforting.”

She handed him a second keycard anyway. “Just give it a day or two! You might make a new friend.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, pocketing the card. “Or end up overboard.”

As he trudged back down the hallway, he could already feel his blood pressure rising. A roommate. On a ship. For seven days.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbled, stopping outside the cabin door. He stared at the handle for a moment, muttering under his breath. “All right, Winchester. Be cool. It’s fine. Just some guy. No big deal.”

He took a deep breath, swiped his card, and stepped back inside.

Castiel was still there, now fully dressed, standing by the window with that same calm, unreadable expression—like Dean walking out hadn’t been weird at all.

“Everything sorted out?” he asked mildly.

Dean closed the door behind him with a resigned sigh. “Not even close.”

He stood in the doorway a moment too long, staring at the man now fully dressed and looking maddeningly calm. Castiel had traded the towel for a pair of dark jeans and a plain blue T-shirt that fit him way too well for Dean’s sanity. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he smelled faintly like soap and sea salt.

Dean cleared his throat and tossed his duffel onto the other bed—if it was the other bed. Who the hell knew what kind of weird roommate policy this place had?

“Well,” he muttered, zipping it open. “Guess we’re doin’ this.”

He started unpacking like a man performing under duress—half-folded shirts, socks flying, everything done with a little too much noise. Castiel stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching with that same quiet curiosity that somehow made Dean even more self-conscious.

“So,” Castiel said finally, voice calm and even, “what brings you aboard the Ocean Dream?”

Dean snorted, shaking out a T-shirt. “A bad decision and some really good marketing.”

Castiel’s brows pulled together. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Dean sighed and looked up, gesturing vaguely with a rolled-up pair of socks. “I, uh—won this thing. Some stupid flyer at a gas station. Thought it was fake. Turns out it wasn’t. Lady on the phone said it was all legit, and that I could, quote, ‘bring anybody I want.’”

He paused, giving Castiel a look. “Emphasis on bring anybody I want, not get assigned a random guy named Castiel in a towel.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, blue eyes blinking with innocent confusion. “So you didn’t expect company.”

Dean barked a laugh. “That’s one way to put it. No offense or anything, man, but I’m not exactly used to sharing a room with strangers.”

“No offense taken,” Castiel said easily, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m not used to strangers either. But I suppose we won’t be for long.”

Dean froze mid-motion, caught off guard by the casual warmth of that. “Yeah, uh… right,” he mumbled, turning back to his duffel. “We’ll see.”

Castiel didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness—or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He moved to the fruit bowl, picking up a banana with deep concentration, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Dean caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. “You… uh, you eat it,” he said finally.

Castiel blinked. “I know that.”

“Just checkin’.”

A silence settled between them—not tense exactly, but charged, the kind that buzzed faintly in the air like static. Dean busied himself with lining up his toiletries on the nightstand, pretending it was totally normal to share a cabin with a beautiful stranger who looked like he’d wandered out of a magazine.

Castiel sat down on the edge of his bed, folding his hands loosely. “I take it this isn’t how you imagined your vacation.”

Dean shot him a dry look. “Oh, this is exactly how I imagined it. Me, sunburned, sharing close quarters with a guy named after a Bible character. Livin’ the dream.”

Castiel’s lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “Well,” he said softly, “it is called the Ocean Dream.”

Dean groaned, throwing a balled-up T-shirt at him. Castiel caught it—without even looking—and set it neatly beside him.

“Show-off,” Dean muttered, but there was a grin hiding behind the irritation now.

He turned toward the balcony, pretending to focus on the horizon, while Castiel leaned back on his hands, watching him with quiet curiosity.

For the first time since the whole mess started, Dean realized he wasn’t actually mad anymore—just… unsettled. In the weird, magnetic way that made his stomach twist.

Still, he wasn’t about to admit that.

Not yet.

***

Dean stepped out onto the balcony, phone pressed to his ear, the ocean spread beneath him like glass. The sun was beginning to dip, painting everything gold, and the steady sound of waves almost—almost—managed to calm the irritation simmering under his skin.

“Yeah, Sammy! A cabinmate!” Dean hissed into the phone, pacing as seagulls circled lazily overhead. “They didn’t even try to admit their fault. Dude came outta the bathroom in just a towel, lookin’ like he stepped outta goddamn GQ!”

Sam’s laughter on the other end was immediate and uncontrollable. “Oh my God, you’re serious?”

“I’m dead serious!” Dean snapped, though he couldn’t help the reluctant grin tugging at his lips. “I open the door, and there he is—towel, toothbrush, steam—like some freakin’ romance novel cover come to life.”

Sam was practically wheezing now. “I told you those trips were too good to be true.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Dean muttered, leaning against the railing. He glanced back through the balcony glass where Castiel sat at the little table, reading a paperback book like he owned the place. He was calm. Too calm. His brow furrowed faintly as he read, his lips pressed in quiet focus.

Sam’s voice cut through the line. “Is he at least good-looking?”

Dean frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, man, but you could’ve been stuck with, you know, somebody less fortunate.” Sam said, though he wasn't trying to sound shallow or anything.

Dean turned his head slightly—just enough to look back through the glass again. Castiel was still reading, the sunlight slanting across his face, making the blue of his eyes almost unnaturally bright. He must’ve felt Dean watching because, after a moment, he looked up. Their eyes met through the reflection—just long enough for Dean’s breath to catch and his stomach to drop a little too fast.

He turned back toward the ocean immediately, face burning. “Nah, he’s—uh…” He cleared his throat. “He’s actually freakin’ gorgeous, man. Makes Han Solo look terrible.”

Sam absolutely lost it. “Han Solo?! Dean, you’ve officially lost your mind!”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just sayin’—it’s unfair. Nobody should look like that and still read like they’re outta a Hallmark movie.”

“Wow,” Sam teased. “You’re really sufferin’ over there, huh?”

Dean scowled at the horizon. “Don’t start. It’s just weird, all right? I’m not used to sharing a room with random towel guys.”

“Sure,” Sam said, clearly enjoying himself. “A beautiful towel guy who reads and makes you blush. Sounds so terrible.”

“Sammy—”

“Hey, I’m just saying, Dean. Maybe the universe’s trying to get you to relax for once.”

Dean rolled his eyes skyward. “Yeah, well, the universe could try not puttin’ me in a rom-com next time.”

But even as he said it, he could feel that traitorous smile tugging at his mouth.

A ship’s horn sounded in the distance, long and low, announcing the start of their departure. Dean looked down at the waves churning below and let out a long breath.

“All right,” he muttered. “I gotta go. Dinner thing or whatever.”

Sam hummed knowingly. “Enjoy your date.”

“It’s not a date!” Dean snapped, though Sam’s laughter followed him even after he hung up.

He slipped his phone into his pocket, took one last look at the endless ocean, and stepped back inside. Castiel looked up from his book again, eyes steady, a faint smile on his lips—as if he’d somehow overheard every word.

“Dinner soon?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Guess so.”

“Good,” Castiel replied simply, closing his book. “I was about to ask if you’d like to join me.”

Dean froze for half a second before forcing a grin. “Oh, sure. Why not? Not like anything else worse could happen. I’m gonna go check out the boat.”

Before he could let Castiel respond, Dean was out the door in seconds, and he took a left and wandered down the hall to explore. He needed to clear his head after this… “mix-up”.

***

By the time the dinner bell rang—an actual chime, classy and almost smug about it—Dean had convinced himself he wasn’t going to sit with Castiel.

No way.

He’d already survived the towel incident, the eyebrow-raising eye contact, and the world’s most humiliating phone call to Sam. He could handle a quiet meal on his own.

The dining hall, though, had other plans.

When Dean stepped inside, he stopped short at the sight of it—an open, glittering sprawl that looked more like a hotel ballroom than a ship’s mess hall. The ceiling arched high overhead, threaded with strings of soft gold lights that flickered like lazy stars. Glass chandeliers swayed gently with the rhythm of the ocean. Every table gleamed with polished silverware and folded napkins shaped like little sails.

And the smell—God. It hit him all at once: butter, grilled shrimp, baked bread, something roasted and sweet he couldn’t name. It made his stomach growl loud enough that a woman passing by gave him a knowing smile.

“Wow,” Dean muttered under his breath. “Gotta love being spoiled.”

He grabbed a plate, telling himself he’d just keep to himself—find a quiet corner, eat, and avoid any more awkward run-ins. Simple.

Except he wasn’t prepared for the buffet.

Dean wasn’t used to choices. He was used to gas station sandwiches and diner specials, not ten different kinds of seafood, an entire carving station, and a dessert table that looked like sin itself. Within minutes, his plate was a small mountain of food—shrimp, steak, mac and cheese, some fancy thing with sauce he couldn’t pronounce. He felt a little ridiculous, but damn if it didn’t smell heavenly.

He found an empty table near the far side of the room, tucked away by a window. Perfect. He sat, ready to dig in, fork halfway to his mouth—

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean froze mid-bite.

A young cruise attendant stood beside him, smiling politely. “We have you listed as part of a party of two. Would you like me to escort you to your table?”

Dean blinked. “My what now?”

“Your table, sir,” she said kindly. “Assigned seating for the duration of the cruise. You and Mr. Novak are together.”

Dean nearly choked on air. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, though her voice carried the faintest amused lilt.

Before Dean could argue, Castiel appeared—of course he did—carrying a much neater plate, mostly vegetables and some perfectly cut fish. He looked completely unbothered, like this was exactly how things were supposed to go.

“Hello again,” Castiel said as he approached.

Dean exhaled through his nose. “You gotta be kidding me.”

The attendant beamed. “Right this way, gentlemen.”

Dean shot Castiel a helpless look, but Castiel only offered a small shrug, that same quiet composure that was quickly becoming infuriating. “It seems we’re meant to sit together,” he said, tone soft but teasing around the edges.

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, picking up his overloaded plate and following. “Seems like the universe hates me personally.”

Their table was set near one of the panoramic windows, the view outside endless and blue, the last of the sunset burning low on the horizon. The sea shimmered in gold and rose tones, soft waves glinting like scattered coins.

Castiel sat with graceful ease. Dean sat across from him, trying not to stare too hard—or, really, at all.

“So,” Castiel said after a moment, unfolding his napkin. “How was your day after… the mix-up?”

Dean stabbed at a shrimp. “Still processing the trauma.”

Castiel’s lips curved slightly. “I assure you, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Yeah, well, you did. Not every day a guy comes outta the shower lookin’ like a Calvin Klein model.”

That made Castiel blink. “Calvin Klein?”

Dean grinned despite himself. “Never mind. Just… forget it.”

For a while, they ate in relative silence. Dean’s nerves eased slowly as his stomach filled. The food was—against all odds—actually incredible. Warm bread, buttery steak, something with coconut he hadn’t known he liked until now. His shoulders loosened. The hum of conversation around them, the low croon of a jazz singer somewhere near the bar, the way the ocean glowed darkly outside—it all started to feel almost… nice.

Castiel watched him quietly for a while before speaking again. “You seem more relaxed.”

Dean swallowed a bite, shrugged. “Hard to be cranky when you’ve got three different kinds of dessert staring at you.”

“That’s a healthy philosophy,” Castiel said dryly.

Dean smirked. “Yeah, well, I’m full of those.”

When their eyes met, it wasn’t awkward this time—it was steady, something curious flickering there. Not quite tension, but close.

Dean cleared his throat first, looking down at his plate. “Anyway,” he said, feigning casual. “Maybe this cruise won’t be so bad after all.”

Castiel tilted his head faintly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’m glad you think so.”

And for a brief, quiet moment, Dean almost forgot to roll his eyes.

“So how many of these have you been on?” Dean asked finally, breaking the quiet between them. His voice was casual, but his eyes lingered on Castiel’s plate—half-empty and perfectly organized like the man ate with a blueprint in mind.

Castiel looked up, set his fork down, and carefully unraveled the napkin shaped like a little sail. He dabbed his mouth with it, then folded it with precision and placed it neatly beside his plate. The whole process looked so methodical that Dean half-expected him to pull out a ruler next.

“Including this one?” Castiel asked, glancing up.

Dean nodded, still chewing a forkful of steak. “Yeah.”

“Three,” Castiel answered simply.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Three?” He swallowed and leaned back in his chair. “What, like—you do this for fun?”

Castiel tilted his head, that faint smile ghosting at his lips. “Is that surprising?”

“Kinda,” Dean said, pointing his fork at him. “You don’t strike me as the—uh—cruise enthusiast type. You know, shuffleboard and karaoke nights.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Castiel said mildly, and Dean almost choked on a laugh.

He tried again, gesturing with his fork. “So, you’ve always done this cabinmate thing? Or am I just the lucky one?”

“Not always.” Castiel’s smile softened. “This is the first time I’ve been assigned one. I’ve always traveled with someone.”

Dean made a small sound in acknowledgment and ran his tongue along his teeth, nodding slowly as if that made perfect sense. “Got it. So I’m like… your first random stranger.”

“Technically, yes,” Castiel said, deadpan.

Dean grinned. “Guess I should feel honored.”

“You should,” Castiel said, completely serious.

Dean barked out a laugh and shook his head. “You’re somethin’ else, man.”

They fell into silence again, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. The ship’s band had started playing somewhere nearby—a slow, crooning tune that melted into the hum of conversation and clinking silverware. Dean speared another bite of shrimp but found his attention slipping back toward the man across from him.

It was unfair, really—how damn put together Castiel was. Perfect posture, calm voice, the kind of face that didn’t need effort to look good. The guy was practically glowing in the soft golden light, his lashes casting faint shadows when he looked down.

Dean told himself he was just observing. Being polite. But his eyes lingered too long.

And Castiel noticed.

When Dean’s gaze flicked up again, their eyes met—blue against green—and something slow, electric passed between them. Castiel’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. His eyes dipped for a fraction of a second, down to Dean’s mouth, before he caught himself and looked away.

Dean cleared his throat, reaching for his water glass to break the tension. “So, uh… you married or somethin’?”

Castiel blinked, startled back into focus. “No.”

“Oh.” Dean took a sip, feigning nonchalance. “Boyfriend?”

“Not exactly.”

Dean frowned a little, trying to sound casual but failing. “So what then? Girlfriend?”

Castiel shook his head, his tone even, but there was a faint glint of amusement in his eyes now. “No. I’m not straight. I just don’t have a boyfriend at the moment.”

Dean nearly dropped his fork. “Oh.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched at the corners, like he was trying not to smile. “You sound surprised.”

“Just—didn’t expect it, that’s all.” Dean leaned back, trying to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Thought maybe you had some pretty lady waitin’ back home or somethin’.”

“She wasn’t available,” Castiel said lightly.

Dean blinked. “Wait, what?”

Castiel tilted his head again. “My last travel companion. A friend. She couldn’t make it, so I was given a replacement.” He paused, meeting Dean’s gaze with calm sincerity. “That would be you.”

Dean let out a low laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Man, I swear—every word that comes outta your mouth sounds like it’s got a double meaning.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Do they?”

Dean smirked. “Yeah. And the worst part? You probably don’t even know it.”

“I’m aware,” Castiel said, completely straight-faced, and Dean just stared at him for a second before breaking into laughter—loud, unfiltered, the kind that made a few nearby guests turn their heads.

“Christ,” Dean said when he could finally breathe again, grinning. “You’re too much man.”

Castiel’s lips quirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Dean shook his head, still chuckling, trying—and failing—not to notice how much softer Castiel’s expression looked when he smiled back.

The jazz band shifted into something slower. Outside, the last of the daylight slipped beneath the horizon, leaving only the glimmer of the sea and the faint reflection of two men sharing a table that felt far too small for how big the room suddenly was.

***

The evening stretched long after dinner. Between the endless courses, the too-smooth music, and the free cocktails that somehow kept finding their way into his hand, Dean felt like he’d lived through three separate vacations in one night.

By the time they’d wandered the deck—warm air, salt wind, waves whispering below—Dean was running on fumes. The sea shimmered black under the lights, and the ship’s gentle sway had gone from charming to downright hypnotic.

When they finally made it back to the cabin, Dean let out a groan and tossed his jacket onto the chair by the door. “Man, I’m beat. Think I’m hittin’ the sack early.”

Castiel nodded, closing the door behind them. “That seems wise.”

Dean turned toward the bed—and froze.

Right. There was one bed.

A massive king-sized one, sure, but still. One bed.

He stopped at the foot of it, staring like it might sprout legs and offer a second option if he waited long enough. Castiel came to stand beside him, hands in his pockets, looking at it too, head tilted in quiet contemplation.

“So, uh…” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, trying for casual. “How are we gonna do this?”

Castiel looked at him like the question required no clarification. “Do what?”

Dean gestured vaguely toward the bed. “This. Sleeping situation. The… bed thing.”

“Oh.” Castiel nodded, understanding dawning. “I can sleep on the floor.”

Dean frowned immediately. “No, you don’t—nah, man, that’s not necessary. I’m not gonna make you sleep on the damn floor.”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel said simply. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Yeah, well, so have I,” Dean muttered, “but that doesn’t mean we gotta reenact a camping trip.”

Castiel turned toward him then, that steady, unreadable gaze fixed on Dean’s face. “So what do you propose we do?”

Dean hesitated. “I dunno. Rock-paper-scissors? Build a pillow fort? I could take one half if you don’t kick.”

Castiel considered that, then shrugged lightly. “I don’t mind sharing. If you don’t mind sharing with me.”

Dean blinked. “Sharing. Like—sharing sharing?”

Before he could get any further, Castiel reached down and tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion.

Dean’s brain immediately hit the brakes. Hard.

“I—uh—what—hold on, what are you—”

Castiel paused mid-motion, blinking in mild confusion. “Getting ready for bed.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay. Sure.” Dean was staring at the ceiling now, hands on his hips, doing his best impression of a man very much not flustered by the sight of another man’s bare chest. “Totally normal. Just… bedtime stuff.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, messy brown hair falling across his forehead. “You seem uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” Dean said too quickly, voice cracking just a little. “It’s just—uh—it’s been a long day, you know? Planes. Boats. Surprise roommates.”

Castiel gave a small hum of agreement, utterly unbothered as he folded his shirt and placed it neatly on the dresser. “Understandable.”

Dean swallowed, eyes darting to the bed again like it might save him. “Okay, so—you take that side, I’ll take this side, yeah? Nice and easy. No funny business.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t planned any.”

Dean blinked. “Right. Good. Yeah. Great. That’s—that’s what I meant.”

He yanked off his own shirt and tossed it aside, quickly kicked his shoes and pants off before climbing into bed, trying not to notice how warm the other side already looked—or how close it was.

The lights went off, the sound of the ocean filtered softly through the balcony doors, and for a few minutes, Dean thought he might actually relax.

Then Castiel shifted beside him, the bed dipping just enough to brush their shoulders.

Dean froze. “Castiel?”

“Yes?”

“You snore?”

“Occasionally.”

“Good to know,” Dean muttered, rolling onto his back. “Just in case I gotta drown myself halfway through the night.”

Castiel’s quiet laugh came, low and unexpected, threading through the dark like something soft and dangerous.

“Sleep well, Dean,” he said.

Dean sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he mumbled, voice lower now, eyes heavy but mind wide awake. “We’ll see.”

And as the ship rocked gently beneath them, he couldn’t quite shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—the worst that could happen wasn’t so bad after all.

Chapter Text

To Dean’s utter disbelief, he’d actually slept well.

Like, really well.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten through an entire night without waking up sore, overheated, or annoyed by something. Maybe it was the gentle rocking of the ship, maybe it was the exhaustion from travel—or maybe it was the faint, steady sound of breathing beside him that had lulled him into the best damn sleep of his life.

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains, soft and gold. The hum of the ship was a low, distant heartbeat. Dean lay still for a second, somewhere between dreaming and waking, before he felt the bed move beside him.

He blinked his eyes open, groggy but curious, and turned his head.

Castiel was still there—on his back, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting over the sheets. His hair was a little wild, sticking up in soft tufts that somehow made him look more human, less composed. There was a faint smile tugging at his lips even in sleep, like he’d been having a good dream.

Dean stared for a beat too long.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough from sleep. “Even unconscious, you’re photogenic.”

He sat up slowly, stretching, a long groan slipping out as his muscles protested. The sound must’ve stirred Castiel because his lashes fluttered, and a second later those ridiculous blue eyes blinked open—dazed, soft, and utterly unguarded.

Dean froze halfway through another stretch.

“Morning,” Castiel murmured, voice deep and husky from sleep.

Dean felt something stupid twist in his chest. The guy looked unreal—bare shoulders emerging from under the sheet, sunlight tracing over skin that looked unfairly warm, golden even. When Castiel moved, the sheets slid down his torso just enough to reveal more—broad chest, the hint of muscle, the curve of his ribs as he lifted his arms over his head in a lazy stretch.

Dean’s brain short-circuited.

“Uh—yeah. Morning,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck like it owed him money.

Castiel yawned softly, completely unaware—or maybe entirely aware—of the havoc he was wreaking. “How’d you sleep?” he asked, voice still thick with drowsiness.

Dean grunted, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. “Fine. Great. Perfect. Like a baby. You?”

Castiel’s mouth curved faintly. “Also well. You don’t snore as loudly as I expected.”

Dean shot him a look. “You expected me to snore?”

“It seemed likely.”

Dean scoffed, muttering, “Yeah, well, glad to disappoint,” and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

The air in the cabin felt suddenly too close, too warm. He needed distance—like, immediately. He stood up a little too fast, grabbed the first T-shirt within reach, and made a beeline for the bathroom.

“Gonna—uh—shower,” he said, voice muffled as he tugged the shirt over his head.

“Of course,” Castiel said, tone smooth and polite, though there was something faintly amused under it.

Dean made the mistake of glancing back just before shutting the door. Castiel had rolled onto his side, facing the window now, one arm tucked under his head, the sheet low on his hips. His back was all long, smooth lines and sunlight, and Dean hated how his brain noticed.

He slammed the door maybe a little harder than necessary.

Inside the small bathroom, Dean leaned against the counter, staring at himself in the mirror. His reflection looked about as frazzled as he felt.

“Get it together, Winchester,” he muttered. “It’s just a guy. A roommate. A half-naked, stupidly hot—” He groaned and turned on the shower full blast, cutting himself off.

Out in the cabin, Castiel blinked at the sound of the door slamming and the sudden rush of water. He mumbled something to himself—something that sounded suspiciously like “dramatic”—and rolled over, pulling the sheet higher over his chest.

He was still smiling.

***

Dean emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low around his hips and damp hair sticking to his forehead. If Castiel could walk around half-naked like it was nothing, so could he.

Fair was fair.

He stepped out with the kind of forced confidence only a man internally screaming could muster—chin up, shoulders back, pretending the whole towel-only thing was totally natural.

Castiel was already dressed and sitting at the small table, scrolling absently through the ship’s itinerary. Dean’s bravado lasted exactly two seconds before he got a good look at him.

Salmon pink shorts.

Dean blinked.

And not just any pink—loud pink. Paired with a dark blue shirt patterned with big, unapologetic hibiscus flowers. The kind of thing you’d expect to see in a Ryan Reynolds beach comedy, not on a man who usually looked like he ironed his soul before breakfast.

Dean tried, tried, not to laugh. “Wow. That’s… uh. Bright.”

Castiel looked up, utterly unbothered. “It’s tropical attire. It seemed appropriate.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, appropriate for a flamingo maybe.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed slightly, like he wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. But whatever comeback he had vanished when his gaze shifted—and landed squarely on Dean.

It wasn’t subtle, either.

His eyes traveled from the towel knotted at Dean’s hips up to his chest, lingering just a little too long before meeting Dean’s. And he didn’t look away.

Dean froze mid-step. “…Gonna take a picture, man?” he asked, smirking to cover the faint pink creeping up his own neck. “Might last longer.”

Castiel blinked once, thoughtful. “Do you want me to?”

Dean’s smirk faltered. “What?”

“For memories,” Castiel said, voice perfectly serious. “In case you’d like to remember this later.”

Dean barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. “You’re—Jesus, you’re serious.”

Castiel tilted his head, unphased. “I was offering.”

Dean turned toward the dresser, shaking his head, still grinning.

He yanked open a drawer, grabbing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans out of habit. Castiel stood near the table, awkward now, hands tucked in his pockets as if uncertain what to do with himself while Dean half-dressed across the room.

Dean caught the movement from the corner of his eye. “What?” he asked, voice muffled as he pulled his shirt halfway over his head.

Castiel straightened. “I was going to go have breakfast. I thought I’d ask if… you wanted to meet me there.”

Dean blinked, caught off guard by how earnest that sounded.

“Yeah, uh—sure. Just lemme get dressed,” Dean said, trying to sound casual. The heat crawling up his neck betrayed him.

Castiel smiled, just faintly, like he’d noticed anyway. “All right,” he said softly, slipping on his shoes. “I’ll see you there.”

He walked to the door with the same infuriating calm as always, shirt bright as the sunrise, and closed it gently behind him.

Dean exhaled and dropped the towel. “Son of a—”

He looked down at the jeans he’d grabbed, frowned, then back at the dresser. “It’s gonna be hot,” he reasoned aloud, reaching for the bottom drawer. “No way I’m sweatin’ through denim all day.”

He pulled out the pair of beige cargo shorts Sam had packed—the same ones Dean had sworn he’d never wear—and a black T-shirt. “God, Sammy, you sneaky little bastard,” he muttered, slipping them on.

Then came the flip-flops. Stupid fucking flip-flops. “Jesus Christ,” Dean mumbled as he shoved his feet into them, “he thought of everything.”

By the time he made it down to the breakfast deck, the place was buzzing. A live steel drum band was playing near the buffet line, the smell of bacon and coffee mixing with salt air. Guests milled around in bright shirts and big smiles, and Dean felt like he’d wandered into a travel brochure.

He barely made it three steps before he was intercepted by a sweet-looking grandma in a sunhat. “Oh, you look just like my Henry when he was your age!” she cooed, patting his arm.

Dean forced a polite smile. “That right? Must’ve been a handsome guy.”

“Oh, he was,” she said wistfully. “Before he lost all his hair.”

Dean chuckled weakly, muttering, “Yeah, okay, thanks,” and escaped as soon as politeness allowed.

He scanned the room—and there he was.

Castiel, sitting by the windows at their assigned table, the morning sun turning the ocean outside into liquid silver. His pink shorts stood out like a beacon. He was sipping coffee, calm as ever, watching the waves like he belonged to them.

Dean didn’t even hesitate. He cut through the crowd, ignored the buffet line, and made a beeline straight for the table.

“Morning,” Dean said as he slid into the seat across from him.

Castiel looked up, eyes flicking briefly to Dean’s cargo shorts before returning to his face. “Good choice,” he said simply.

Dean blinked. “What?”

“The shorts,” Castiel said, voice smooth, almost teasing. “They suit you.”

Dean stared for a second, then laughed—quiet and a little disbelieving. “Man,” he said, shaking his head, “you really don’t know what you do to people, do you?”

Castiel tilted his head, lips curving faintly. “I’m beginning to suspect I’m finding out.”

And for once, Dean didn’t have a comeback.

“You gonna eat anything?” Dean asked after a few minutes, glancing at Castiel’s empty spot on the table. It seemed unfair that the guy had invited him to breakfast only to sit there sipping coffee like a monk.

“I’m waiting for the line to die down,” Castiel replied, eyes following the slow-moving buffet crowd with faint disapproval. “People are greedy in the mornings.”

Dean huffed out a laugh and looked down at Castiel’s cup. The coffee was still steaming, rich and dark, while his own stomach let out a low, traitorous growl that made the woman at the next table glance over. Dean grimaced. “Yeah, well, I’m one of ‘em. I could eat a horse.”

Castiel didn’t react, just lifted his cup for another sip, and Dean had to look away before he accidentally started counting the veins in the man’s forearm.

“So,” Dean said after a moment, leaning back in his chair, “what’s the plan for today? When do we hit the island?”

Castiel looked up, blinking like Dean had just reminded him there was a world beyond his coffee. “There’s a party tonight at the club,” he said matter-of-factly, “and we arrive at the island tomorrow morning.”

“Party, huh,” Dean murmured, twirling the spoon in his empty mug.

“You don’t like them?” Castiel asked, voice mild but curious.

Dean shrugged. “Not really my scene, man. I’m more of a bar-and-a-jukebox kinda guy. But… I could try it out. They got free drinks, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel said simply, and somehow the way he said it made Dean grin.

They both noticed the buffet line thinning at the same time. Castiel stood first, setting his cup aside. Dean followed, grabbing a plate as they stepped up to the shining row of silver trays and platters.

Dean tried not to laugh at what he saw next.

Castiel approached the buffet with surgical precision—small scoops of scrambled eggs, neat slices of bacon, a perfectly even array of fruit, each piece carefully selected like it was going to be photographed later. Nothing touched. Not even by accident.

Dean couldn’t help himself. “You buildin’ a museum exhibit or eatin’ breakfast?”

Castiel shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk. “Presentation is important.”

“Right,” Dean muttered, biting back a smirk. “Remind me to never hand you a burger.”

Dean’s own plate looked like a war zone by comparison. Eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, something that might’ve been hash browns—it was all stacked precariously. By the time he finished, the thing could’ve fed a small family.

As they made their way back to the table, Dean snagged an orange mimosa off a passing tray. He wasn’t a champagne guy, but hell, it was vacation.

They ate in companionable quiet for a while, the low hum of conversation and the clinking of dishes filling the space between them. The morning sun poured through the windows, painting everything gold. Outside, the sea glimmered and stretched endlessly on, calm and impossibly blue.

Dean snuck glances at Castiel as he ate. The man was meticulous—small bites, methodical, always pausing to sip his coffee before continuing. There was something hypnotic about it. The slow rhythm, the quiet focus.

Dean, meanwhile, tore through his plate like he was in a competition. When he looked up again, Castiel’s meal still looked artfully arranged—like he’d barely made a dent.

“You always eat like that?” Dean asked finally, pointing his fork toward the tidy array on Castiel’s plate.

Castiel glanced down. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid to offend the food.”

Castiel frowned, then smiled faintly. “I prefer order.”

Dean smirked. “Well, I prefer flavor.”

“That much is obvious,” Castiel said dryly, watching as Dean demolished the last of his bacon.

Dean grinned, licking a bit of yolk from his thumb. “What can I say? I’m a simple man.”

Castiel looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze before he went back to his coffee. “I don’t think you are.”

Dean blinked, thrown by the softness of it—the certainty. But before he could say anything, Castiel took another slow sip of his coffee, eyes on the sea beyond the glass.

Dean sat back, heart thudding a little faster than it should have, wondering why the hell breakfast suddenly felt more dangerous than the plane ride over.

***

Dean hadn’t expected the day to turn out half as good as it did.

After breakfast, he’d figured he’d kill a few hours wandering the ship, maybe grab a beer (or his new favorite thing, a mixed drink) and find a quiet corner to nap off the travel fatigue. Instead, he found himself trailing behind Castiel, who seemed to have a sixth sense for every peaceful spot on board.

They started on the top deck. The sun was already high, glittering off the water like a thousand tiny mirrors. The breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen. A few kids splashed in the pool, couples lounged in deck chairs, and somewhere nearby, steel drums played a cheerful tune that made Dean’s shoulders loosen.

He leaned against the railing, watching the endless expanse of blue. “You ever get tired of lookin’ at this?”

Castiel stood beside him, one hand resting on the polished rail, his hair ruffled lightly by the wind. “No,” he said simply. “It changes constantly. The color, the light, the movement. You could stare for hours and never see the same ocean twice.”

Dean snorted softly. “You sound like a poet.”

“I’m an observer,” Castiel corrected.

“Same difference.”

Castiel turned to look at him then, eyes bright under the sun. “You don’t enjoy it?”

Dean hesitated. “I do. I just… never had much reason to stop and look before, never really been to the beach man.”

Castiel’s expression softened, but he didn’t press.

They moved on, wandering through the ship’s different decks—past the shops lined with overpriced souvenirs, through the shaded atrium filled with tropical plants, and eventually to a small lounge overlooking the sea. Dean bought them both a drink—something strong and citrusy that came with a slice of pineapple for Castiel, a blood orange for Dean—and they sank into a pair of cushioned chairs near the window.

“So,” Dean said, gesturing with his glass. “Where you from, anyway?”

“Originally?” Castiel asked, stirring his drink absentmindedly. “Kansas.”

Dean blinked. “No way.”

Castiel’s mouth curved faintly. “Way.”

Dean laughed. “Small world. I’m from Lawrence.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, leaning back. “Born and raised. You?”

“Lebanon,” Castiel said.

Dean barked a laugh. “You’re kidding. That’s, like, forty minutes away!”

“I’m not kidding,” Castiel said, tone perfectly dry, which somehow made Dean laugh harder.

“Unbelievable,” Dean muttered. “I travel halfway across the damn country, win a fake cruise, and my mystery roommate turns out to be practically my neighbor.”

Castiel smiled into his drink. “The universe has a sense of humor.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, grinning. “Usually at my expense.”

They talked for a while after that—about small things, nothing too deep. Castiel mentioned working long hours at a job he didn’t seem eager to elaborate on, something about research and archives. Dean told him about his work at the garage, the smell of motor oil, the satisfaction of fixing something with his hands.

At one point, they wandered down to the lower deck where the glass panels showed the churn of the waves below. Dean leaned over to look, the tilt of the ship making his balance waver for a second. Castiel’s hand came out instinctively, steadying him.

“Careful,” Castiel said quietly, his fingers warm against Dean’s arm.

Dean looked down at the hand before meeting his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, voice softer than intended.

Castiel’s hand lingered half a second too long before he withdrew it, clearing his throat. “Of course.”

They kept walking after that—browsing the small art gallery, watching a bartender juggle bottles in a show of flair that made Castiel tilt his head in mild fascination, and sharing an ice cream on the sunny deck because Dean had insisted “it’s a crime to be on vacation and not eat something cold and sugary.”

It wasn’t flashy or wild, but the day passed like an easy current, conversation coming more naturally as the hours stretched on.

“So you travel a lot?” Dean asked at one point as they leaned on the railing again, watching the horizon.

“Sometimes,” Castiel said. “When I need quiet.”

Dean hummed. “Guess I can understand that. World gets loud.”

“It does,” Castiel agreed, and then, after a pause: “You’re not as loud as I expected.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I imagined you’d talk a lot more,” Castiel said, matter-of-fact.

Dean chuckled. “Give me time. You ain’t seen me around a few beers yet.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Castiel said, smiling faintly.

They stood there for a while, the ocean stretching endlessly in front of them, sunlight turning the water into liquid fire. It should’ve been awkward—Dean wasn’t used to silence with strangers—but it wasn’t. Not with him.

When the afternoon heat finally started to dip, Castiel turned to him. “You said you might try the party tonight,” he reminded him.

Dean groaned. “Right. The party.”

“I think you’ll enjoy it,” Castiel said, his tone impossibly confident.

Dean squinted at him. “You plannin’ on draggin’ me there if I don’t?”

Castiel’s mouth curved. “If I have to.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “I gotta know when you’re joking, Castiel.”

“You will, eventually. You can call me Cas by the way.” Castiel said, and Dean just grinned like it was the best gift in the world.

***

Dean had made up his mind the second dinner was over—he wasn’t going to that damn party.

He told himself it was about being responsible, that he didn’t want to show up to the island tomorrow hungover or sunburned or whatever kind of trouble a cruise club could get him into. But really, he just didn’t want to deal with crowds and neon lights and bad remixes of songs he already hated.

Castiel, however, was a different story.

When he’d said he might go out “for a little while,” Dean hadn’t expected this.

The man had changed into a pair of jeans that hung indecently low on his hips, and a soft, fitted shirt that was about two sizes too small—white cotton stretched taut across his chest and snug around his biceps, sleeves rolled halfway up his arms like he’d done it on purpose. Dean had taken one look, swallowed hard, and looked anywhere but at him.

“Party starts at nine,” Castiel had said simply, brushing an invisible bit of lint off his shirt.

“Yeah, good for them,” Dean had muttered, pretending to dig through his duffel for something he didn’t need.

Castiel had only smiled faintly, like he knew. “Don’t wait up,” he’d added before slipping out the door.

Now, hours later, Dean lay stretched across the bed, bare-chested in a pair of loose pajama pants, watching an old black-and-white movie on the tiny hidden TV he’d discovered in the cabinet across the bed. The ocean breeze drifted through the open balcony doors, carrying the hum of the ship—the soft percussion of waves, distant laughter, the occasional shout from somewhere down below.

He found it… peaceful. Comforting, even.

The kind of quiet he hadn’t realized he missed.

Dean was half-asleep, drifting somewhere between the crackle of the old film and the rhythm of the waves, when the door burst open.

It slammed hard against the stopper, and Dean jumped upright, heart lurching.

Then came the stumbling.

Castiel practically crashed into the room, muttering something incoherent under his breath as he tripped over his own shoes. The sound of knees hitting furniture followed, along with a mumbled curse that was so deeply un-Castiel-like that Dean couldn’t stop the small laugh bubbling in his throat.

“Son of a bitch,” Castiel grumbled, his voice thick and slurred, and then giggled—actually giggled—like the whole thing was hilarious.

Dean pressed a fist to his mouth, trying to muffle a snort.

“Cas?” he said softly.

Castiel froze halfway to the bed, blinking blearily in his direction. “Dean.” His voice was low and sweet and absolutely soaked in alcohol. “You’re still awake.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, biting back a grin. “Kinda hard to sleep through an earthquake.”

Castiel frowned, or tried to. “It’s not an earthquake. It’s the ship.”

Dean laughed outright at that. “You have fun?”

Castiel nodded solemnly, swaying on his feet as he started fumbling with his shirt. “The bar was… serving lots of free beverages,” he said finally, as though it were a revelation.

“Yeah?” Dean teased.

“I drank it,” Castiel slurred.

That did it—Dean lost it, snickering into his hand. “Of course you did.”

Castiel smiled, proud of himself, before nearly tripping as he tugged the shirt off. He managed to toe off his jeans next—slowly, clumsily, until they pooled around his ankles. Dean tried not to look but couldn’t help catching flashes of warm, tanned skin under the low light.

“Jesus, Cas,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face as he moved to lay back down on his side, facing away from Castiel.

Castiel ignored him entirely, pulling back the covers and crawling into bed with all the grace of a cat on roller skates. The mattress dipped under his weight, sheets rustling as he squirmed his way beneath them.

Dean lay stiff as a board, eyes wide, staring at the wall as the bed shifted again—closer.

Way closer.

Castiel’s arm brushed his back first, then slid around his waist in a lazy, heavy drape. His breath was hot against Dean’s neck, sweet with alcohol and the faint trace of mint.

“Cas—”

“You’re so warm,” Castiel murmured, voice soft and sleepy. “You mind if I hold you?”

Dean blinked. “You’re—uh—you’re already doin’ that, man.”

“Good,” Castiel said simply, as if that settled it. His arm tightened, pulling Dean flush against him, his bare chest pressed to Dean’s back. The heat of his skin was startling.

Dean could feel everything—the steady rhythm of Castiel’s heartbeat, the warmth of his breath on the back of his neck, the small, almost unconscious sounds rumbling low in his throat.

“You’re so drunk,” Dean muttered, voice rough around the edges.

“Don't say stupid things,” Castiel slurred, followed by another small giggle that made Dean’s stomach twist for reasons he didn’t want to think about.

“Nothing’s funny,” Dean said weakly.

But Castiel only giggled again, softer this time, his voice fading as sleep pulled him under.

Dean lay there frozen, staring at the boring painting on the wall, every nerve lit up. He should’ve pushed him off. Should’ve rolled over, reclaimed his personal space, done something.

But then Castiel sighed—a quiet, content sound that ghosted across Dean’s skin—and pressed his face against the back of Dean’s shoulder, mumbling something unintelligible.

Dean swallowed hard, his chest tight, pulse thudding loud in his ears.

“Yeah,” he whispered into the dark, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “Sure, Cas. Whatever you say.”

The ship rocked gently beneath them, the sound of the waves steady and rhythmic against the hull, and despite everything—despite the warmth pressed to his back, the tickle of laughter still clinging to the air—Dean felt himself drift.

For the second night in a row, he slept better than he had in years.

***

Dean woke to sunlight and warmth.

The first thing he noticed was the soft sway of the ship, gentle and rhythmic, lulling him back toward sleep. The second was the steady heat pressed against his back. The weight of an arm slung lazily over his waist. The faint exhale brushing the back of his neck.

For a long, bleary second, he couldn’t remember why that felt wrong. Then memory hit him like a hangover he didn’t earn.

Right.

Castiel.

Drunk.

Laughing.

Crawling into bed and wrapping himself around Dean like he owned the place.

Dean should’ve rolled away. Should’ve shoved him off or built a pillow wall or something remotely reasonable. But he hadn’t. He’d laid there, stiff and still, waiting for the weirdness to pass—except it never did. It just... settled.

And now, hours later, it felt almost natural.

Castiel’s arm was still around him, palm resting against his bare stomach. The slow rise and fall of his breathing pressed against Dean’s back. It was intimate in a way Dean hadn’t realized could feel so—easy.

He didn’t move. Didn’t want to. The air felt too calm, too warm.

He stared at the wall, lips twitching in something halfway between a smirk and a sigh. “You’re trouble, Cas,” he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible.

Castiel groaned loudly in response.

Dean froze.

The sound came again—an obnoxiously pained noise somewhere between a growl and a moan, muffled into the pillow. Then came movement: the tightening of an arm, a sleepy shift, a low, confused hum.

Dean bit back a grin. “Well, look who’s alive.”

Another groan, this one laced with pure suffering.

“Make that barely alive,” Dean corrected, turning slightly.

Castiel’s face was buried in the pillow, hair a chaotic mess, one eye half open. His voice was a gravelly rasp. “My head hurts.”

Dean smirked. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you drink the entire bar.”

Castiel made another sound that might’ve been a protest, but it came out as a pathetic whine instead.

Dean couldn’t help it—he laughed, low and quiet. Then he finally rolled over to face him, propping his head up on one hand. “You look like death warmed over, man.”

Castiel peeked at him with one bleary blue eye. “You’re too loud.”

Dean grinned wider. “Oh, I’m loud? Buddy, you came in here at two a.m. crashing into everything like a drunk pinball machine.”

Castiel squinted, groaning again, and pulled the blanket up over his head. “Don’t remind me.”

“Too late.” Dean tugged at the blanket, exposing his face again. “Also, for the record, you asked if you could hold me.”

Castiel froze under the sheet. “…Did I?”

Dean chuckled. “You did. Not that you waited for an answer. Just wrapped me up like a damn koala bear.”

A beat of silence passed, and then, muffled under the blanket: “I’m sorry.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, sure you are.”

“I am,” Castiel insisted weakly, though his voice carried a hint of embarrassment. He lowered the sheet just enough for Dean to see the faint flush across his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to invade your space.”

Dean tried to play it cool, even as his heart gave a stupid little thump. “Eh, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse bedmates. You didn’t snore, drool, or start a fight, so you’re already ahead.”

Castiel groaned into his pillow. “That’s not comforting.”

“Didn’t say it was.” Dean grinned, lying back beside him, hands tucked behind his head. “So what’s the verdict? Gonna survive the hangover?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. You gotta be conscious for when we hit the island later.”

Castiel shifted under the sheets, eyes still closed but a faint smile forming. “I’ll manage. With enough coffee.”

“Or more mimosas,” Dean teased.

That earned a soft, pained laugh. “Never again.”

Dean chuckled, quiet for a moment as he glanced sideways at him. Castiel’s lashes rested against his cheeks, the early light tracing gold along his jaw. He looked peaceful again, softer somehow despite the pounding headache he probably had.

Dean exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He shouldn’t have liked this—lying there, side by side, sunlight filtering through open doors, air filled with the sound of waves—but he did. Way more than he should.

When Castiel shifted again, rolling slightly toward him, Dean caught himself watching. Just for a second.

“Dean?” Castiel murmured, eyes still closed.

“Yeah?”

“Can I hold you,” he mumbled.

Dean swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah... yeah sure, Cas.”

Castiel hummed faintly, already half asleep again, and Dean muttered to himself, “Yeah. Definitely trouble.”

He didn’t move for a while.

Castiel didn’t make it long before drifting back to sleep.

Dean had turned the TV on low—some old horror flick playing in silence—and stayed right where he was, not daring to move. Castiel had shifted once, mumbling something about light or sound, before curling right into Dean again.

Dean had lifted his arm silently in response, a wordless “yeah, it’s fine,” and Castiel had taken it as permission—nestling in close, head resting against Dean’s chest.

Dean could feel the soft rise and fall of his breathing, warm and steady, against his ribs. Every so often, a lock of Castiel’s hair brushed against his chin, and Dean had to fight the urge to laugh at how bizarrely domestic it all felt.

A stranger—someone he’d known for barely two days—was sleeping against him like they’d been doing this for years.

“Unbelievable,” Dean muttered softly, shaking his head as he shifted the remote in his hand. But when Castiel exhaled, letting out a small sigh that sounded dangerously content, Dean’s smile lingered.

The credits rolled on one movie, another started, and somewhere halfway through it, Castiel jerked awake with a soft groan.

Dean glanced down. “You good?”

Castiel blinked blearily, looking confused for half a second—then realization hit.

“Oh no,” he mumbled, voice thick and miserable, and before Dean could say a word, Castiel scrambled out of bed, tripping over the sheets and nearly face-planting on his way to the bathroom.

Dean winced at the sound of retching, grimacing. “Yep,” he said aloud, talking mostly to the ceiling. “Knew that was coming.”

He wasn’t about to play nurse, though. Instead, he grabbed the room phone and called room service, ordering the ultimate hangover cure: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, buttered toast, a full pot of black coffee, and—because Dean Winchester believed in science—a shot of whiskey.

By the time the food arrived, Castiel had emerged from the bathroom looking pale as the bedsheets and about as alive as a ghost.

Dean pointed toward the tray. “Breakfast. Eat before you pass out again.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel said weakly, voice scratchy but still stubborn.

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England. Sit down.”

Castiel blinked at him, dazed, before finally obeying. He managed a few tentative bites—slow, careful, like chewing was advanced calculus—but after a while, the color started coming back to his cheeks.

“See?” Dean said around a mouthful of bacon. “Miracle cure. Never fails.”

Castiel gave him a flat look over the rim of his coffee cup. “The liquor was unnecessary.”

Dean grinned. “Nah. That’s the most important part.”

Once he’d eaten and seemed steady enough on his feet, Castiel announced he was going to shower. Dean took the opportunity to get dressed—jeans, a short-sleeved button-up, and the cursed flip-flops Sam had packed.

When Castiel emerged a few minutes later, Dean froze halfway through buttoning his shirt.

The man had cleaned up nice. Too nice.

He was dressed casually this time—pale blue shorts, a white V-neck that dipped just enough to show the sharp lines of his collarbones. His hair was damp, finger-combed, a little wild. Somehow, that made it worse. The faint scent of sea salt and citrus followed him.

Dean cleared his throat, eyes darting away. “You, uh, feeling human again?”

Castiel smiled faintly, reaching up to push his hair back. “Better. Thank you.”

“Good,” Dean said, tugging his shirt straight. “’Cause we’re about to hit land soon. You sure you’re up for that?”

“I’ll manage.” Castiel picked up a pair of sunglasses from the dresser and slid them on.

Dean blinked. And blinked again.

Great. Now he looked like every hot guy in a summer rom-com who existed purely to ruin someone’s peace of mind. Dean’s peace of mind.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered under his breath, pretending to look for his wallet.

“You should buy some clothes on the island,” Castiel said conversationally, running his fingers through his hair again. “It’s going to be very hot.”

Dean forced a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I planned on it. These jeans ain’t gonna survive the humidity.” He grabbed his keycard and shoved it into his back pocket. “You been to this island before?”

“I have,” Castiel said, adjusting the strap of his watch, voice soft but certain.

“Yeah? What’s it like?”

Castiel turned toward him, and there was a quiet gleam in his eyes even behind the dark shades. “Beautiful,” he said simply. “I think you’ll like it.”

Dean nodded, trying to play it cool while very much not staring. “So you gonna walk around with the rest of the group? I heard there’s a tour guide or something.”

Castiel paused, smiling faintly. “I know the island well. We don’t have to walk with everyone,” he said. “If you’d like, I can be your tour guide.”

Dean’s throat went dry for no logical reason whatsoever. “You?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, completely sincere. “I promise I’m better company than a microphone and a bored guide with a flag.”

Dean chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s a pretty low bar, man.”

But when he looked at Castiel again—hair still a little damp, shirt clinging just right, the sunlight catching on the edge of his sunglasses—something fluttered uncomfortably in his chest.

The hallway outside was already alive with the sounds of people preparing to disembark, laughter and footsteps echoing faintly through the door.

Dean swallowed, looked toward the door, then back at him.

“Yeah,” he said finally, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Guess I’d be an idiot to turn down a private tour.”

Castiel’s smile deepened, gentle and knowing. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Dean reached for the door handle, his voice low but warm. “You can take it however you want, man.”

Castiel’s laugh was quiet, almost hidden behind the hum of the ship, but it stayed with Dean all the way out into the sun.

***

The moment Dean stepped off the gangway and onto solid ground, the air hit him like a welcome punch.

It was different here—warmer, thicker, alive with the smell of salt and ripe fruit and something sweet he couldn’t quite name. The sunlight was blinding, bouncing off the water in a glittering sprawl of blue that stretched farther than his eyes could follow. Palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze, their leaves whispering overhead, and a faint hum of steel drums drifted from the dock.

“Holy hell,” Dean muttered, squinting against the sun. “Feels like I just walked into a postcard.”

Beside him, Castiel adjusted his sunglasses and smiled faintly. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, turning slowly to take it all in. “I didn’t even know blue came in this many shades.”

“The ocean does that,” Castiel said simply, his voice quieter now, almost reverent.

Dean looked at him then—and immediately regretted it.

Because damn.

The sunlight hit Castiel like it had a personal vendetta against Dean’s self-control. His white T-shirt glowed against his lightly tanned skin, the thin fabric clinging gently to his shoulders in the breeze. His sunglasses framed his face perfectly, and his hair—still a little wild from the wind—looked infuriatingly good. The man practically radiated calm, like he’d stepped straight out of a magazine ad for “serenity and things that make Dean forget how to speak.”

Dean swallowed and tore his gaze away, focusing on the horizon instead. “So, uh… tour guide, huh? What’s the plan? You gonna walk me through paradise, or what?”

Castiel’s mouth quirked. “Something like that.”

He started walking, motioning for Dean to follow. The dock opened into a narrow cobblestone path lined with vibrant stalls and small shops. Locals called out greetings in lilting accents, the air alive with laughter and the rustle of woven fabrics fluttering in the wind.

Castiel led him through the bustle, his pace unhurried but purposeful. Every few steps, Dean caught himself staring—at the sway of palm leaves, at the flash of sunlight on the ocean—and, inevitably, at the man walking a few feet ahead of him.

“So,” Dean said, breaking the silence before it could stretch. “You’ve been here before, huh? What’s the story? Secret vacation spot? Former life as a pirate?”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder, smirking faintly. “I used to come here for work.”

“Work? On this island?” Dean arched a brow. “What, you a travel agent?”

Castiel chuckled under his breath. “No. Research, actually.”

Dean blinked. “Research. Like… science?”

“History,” Castiel clarified. “Archaeological archives. There’s a preservation center on the far end of the island.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Man, that’s a hell of a commute.”

Castiel smiled. “Worth it, though.” He gestured toward the open water. “There’s something grounding about places that have been here for centuries, weathering storms and still standing.”

Dean hummed, looking out at the waves. “Yeah, I can see that.” Then, with a grin: “Though I’m pretty sure the last time I went somewhere ‘grounding,’ it had a drive-thru and greasy cheeseburgers.”

Castiel laughed softly—an honest, quiet sound that hit Dean right in the chest. “Then I’ll make sure this trip expands your horizons.”

Dean grinned. “Oh, it’s already expandin’ something, all right.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Your vocabulary, I hope.”

Dean snorted. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

They wandered further inland, past a cluster of trees and small stone paths leading to open stretches of sand. The beach was nearly empty—just the sound of the waves and the occasional cry of a seabird. The sun shimmered across the surface of the water like spilled gold.

Castiel stopped by a small overlook, shaded by an arching canopy of green. “This is one of my favorite spots,” he said quietly. “You can see the reefs from here when the tide’s low.”

Dean stepped up beside him, peering over the edge. Beneath the clear turquoise surface, patches of coral glowed faintly, alive with color. Fish darted through the water in flashes of yellow and silver.

“Damn,” Dean breathed. “That’s… yeah. That’s somethin’.”

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He was watching Dean instead—head tilted, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “I thought you’d like it.”

Dean caught the look and had to clear his throat. “Yeah, well, you’re not a bad tour guide.”

“I try,” Castiel said, smiling softly. “Would you like to see more?”

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, pretending to think about it. “Hmm. Lemme see… hot sun, ocean breeze, and a guy who somehow doesn’t sweat. Yeah, I can manage that.”

Castiel’s eyes gleamed faintly behind his sunglasses. “Good. Because there’s a café down the hill that serves the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

“Better than room service?” Dean teased.

Castiel smirked. “By several worlds.”

Dean grinned, falling into step beside him again. “Then lead the way, Han Solo.”

Castiel chuckled softly as they walked, the sun spilling down over them in golden waves. Dean couldn’t tell if it was the island air or the company, but everything suddenly felt lighter—easier.

He wasn’t sure what this trip was turning into, but for once, he didn’t want to question it.

***

They didn’t get far before Dean spotted a small clothing stall tucked between two palm-lined cafés. Bright shirts fluttered on hangers, patterned with flowers, parrots, and the kind of loud colors Dean usually made fun of in movies.

Castiel stopped when Dean did, following his gaze. “Ah,” he said with faint amusement. “Island attire.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, squinting at the rack. “Jeans and flip-flops ain’t exactly beachwear.”

Castiel tilted his head. “You could always try something floral. Blend in.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. I’d look like a teenager on vacation.”

“Then you’ll fit right in,” Castiel said, deadpan, and that earned him a laugh.

“Alright, fine,” Dean grumbled, flipping through the shirts until his fingers caught on one that made him hesitate—a pale green button-up covered in pink flamingos, a white sleeveless underneath, and matching shorts that looked… too short. It was soft, breezy, and so far from anything he’d normally wear that it was almost funny.

He held it up. “This one’s ridiculous.”

“I like it,” Castiel said simply, and for some reason, that was enough to make Dean hand over the cash without another word.

When he stepped out of the small changing stall, the shirt hung open over his white tee, the light fabric moving with the wind. Castiel was waiting outside, leaning casually against a wooden post, sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. He turned when he heard Dean yank open the curtain.

The smile that spread across his face was slow and genuine. “It suits you.”

Dean blinked. “You serious?”

Castiel nodded. “Very.”

“Guess I clean up nice, huh?” Dean joked, trying to shake off the warmth creeping up his neck.

“You do look good,” Castiel said, and there wasn’t a trace of teasing in it.

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered, “Shut up Cas.”

Castiel’s smile deepened.

Before Dean could think of a comeback, a local woman running the stall offered to take their picture—something about capturing the “magic of friends on vacation.” Dean had waved it off at first, but Castiel, of course, said yes.

So they posed—badly, at first. Dean made a face, Castiel didn’t know what to do with his hands. The first picture was awkward. The second was ridiculous—Dean flexing and Castiel rolling his eyes. But then something shifted.

Dean leaned in, laughing, and Castiel turned his head at just the wrong (or maybe right) moment. The woman snapped the photo just as Castiel’s cheek brushed his. It looked, in the frozen image on her camera, like a kiss.

Dean’s laughter faltered when he saw it. “Huh.”

“It’s a good picture,” Castiel said softly.

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah. Real good.”

They walked on after that, the sound of the sea following them like a heartbeat.

The café Castiel mentioned was small, perched on a low cliff overlooking the beach below. The tables were scattered under wide umbrellas; their shadows cool against the golden stone. From where they sat, Dean could see the water stretching out forever—so blue it almost didn’t look real. Waves broke against the rocks below, white foam curling like lace.

“Damn,” Dean said, leaning back in his chair. “You weren’t kidding about the view.”

“I never do,” Castiel said, stirring his coffee.

Dean grinned. “You always this confident?”

“Only when I’m right.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re unreal man.”

Castiel looked at him over the rim of his cup, sunlight catching the reflection in his sunglasses. “You keep saying that.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, smirking. “You keep provin’ it.”

For a while, they sat in easy silence—the kind that didn’t need to be filled. The breeze moved through the palm fronds, the smell of coffee and coconut drifted through the air, and somewhere nearby, a guitarist strummed something slow and gentle.

Dean looked out over the water again, the sunlight flickering like sparks on the surface, and then—inevitably—his gaze shifted back to Castiel.

The man was half-turned toward the ocean, the wind teasing through his hair, his expression soft and thoughtful. Dean couldn’t tell if the world had gotten quieter or if his heartbeat had just gotten louder.

The view was beautiful. Stunning, even. But Castiel, sitting there in the sunlight, the faintest smile curving his mouth as he looked out over the sea—Yeah. The view didn’t stand a chance.

Castiel caught him staring. “What?”

Dean blinked, dragging his eyes away. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’.”

“About what?”

Dean hesitated, then smiled. “About how you weren’t lyin’ when you said this place was beautiful.”

Castiel tilted his head. “It is.” A pause. Then, more quietly: “You look like you needed this.”

Dean looked down at his cup, thumb tracing the rim. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I really did.”

Castiel didn’t say anything for a moment. He just sat there, the sunlight painting him in gold. Then he reached out, resting his hand briefly against Dean’s forearm. “Then I’m glad you came.”

Dean’s heart did a weird, heavy thing in his chest.

He swallowed hard, masking it with a lopsided grin. “Careful, man. You keep talkin’ like that, I might start thinkin’ you actually like me.”

Castiel smiled, small and knowing. “Can’t have that can we?” He teased.

Dean blinked, thrown—but before he could respond, Castiel stood, the sunlight haloing his frame. “Come on,” he said softly, gesturing toward the path that led down to the beach. “You haven’t seen the best part yet.”

Dean stayed seated for a second longer, staring at his coffee, his pulse still thudding unevenly.

“Yeah,” he murmured, finally pushing to his feet. “I’m startin’ to think I haven’t.”

When Castiel glanced back at him, smiling beneath the brilliance of the island sun, Dean thought—for the first time—that maybe this trip had been worth every bit of luck that got him there.

***

The afternoon melted into something slow and golden.

They’d made their way down from the café, wandering along the narrow beachside market that wound toward the shoreline. Vendors leaned over wooden stalls stacked with fruits, grilled skewers, and coconuts and pineapples split open with straws. The air buzzed with chatter and the sound of the tide, and Dean felt loose, content in a way he hadn’t expected to be on this trip.

Castiel had found a stall serving something colorful and fizzy in tall glasses. “Two, please,” he’d told the vendor before Dean could protest.

Dean sniffed his drink suspiciously. “What is this?”

“Something local,” Castiel said, sipping his own through the little paper umbrella sticking out of it. “Rum, pineapple, lime… and possibly something else.”

Dean took a cautious taste. His eyes widened. “Damn. That’s good.”

Castiel smirked. “You sound surprised.”

“I didn’t say that.” He took another, longer sip. “Okay, maybe a little. I’m surprised you’re even drinking again.”

Castiel rolled his eyes.

They traded drinks after that, laughing as they compared flavors. Dean’s was stronger—sweet but sharp—while Castiel’s tasted like summer and sugar and trouble. Dean wrinkled his nose as he handed the second glass back. “Yours is fancy. Mine’s a man’s drink.”

“It’s pink,” Castiel pointed out, deadpan.

Dean looked down. “So?”

Castiel’s smile widened. “It suits you.”

Dean nearly choked on his next sip. “You’re gonna kill me, Cas.”

“Not my intention,” Castiel said mildly, though the small laugh that escaped him sounded unguarded and warm.

They kept wandering, passing food stands where Castiel seemed to know everything. He pointed out every local delicacy, each stranger than the last—fish wrapped in leaves, fruit that looked like alien eggs, and something sizzling on skewers that smelled incredible and probably wasn’t safe.

When they reached a stall filled with oddly shaped fruits—some spiky, some soft and fragrant—Castiel’s eyes lit up. “Ah, durian.”

Dean stared at it like it had personally offended him. “Durian? Smells like someone left gym socks in a blender, man.”

Castiel picked up a slice with reverence. “It’s a delicacy, an acquired taste.”

“It’s a biohazard,” Dean said, but when Castiel looked at him expectantly, he sighed. “Alright, fine. But if I die, you’re tellin’ my brother it was your fault.”

He took a bite.

Instant regret.

His whole face twisted as the taste hit—sweet and creamy, sure, but with the unmistakable undertone of… something rotten. His gag reflex kicked in almost instantly, and he turned, coughing and spluttering into the ocean breeze.

“Jesus Christ—”

Castiel was laughing. Not a polite chuckle, but a real laugh—loud, open, bright. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his shoulders shake.

Dean turned back, wiping his mouth, trying to glare but failing miserably. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much.”

“I told you it was an acquired taste,” Castiel managed between laughs.

“Well, congrats, I ain’t acquiring it.”

Castiel’s grin softened as his laughter faded, the sound lingering in the air like the last note of a song. Dean found himself staring, not at the fruit anymore, but at him. The way the sunlight hit his face, catching on the edge of his smile, the sound of his laughter still ringing in his head.

He’d never realized laughter could sound like that—like something worth chasing.

They ended up with a bag of safer snacks after that—grilled skewers, bits of fruit that didn’t smell like a chemistry experiment, and another round of drinks to “cleanse the palate.”

And then, when the day began to dip into gold, they made their way down to the beach.

The sun was low now, burning deep orange, spilling across the water in ripples of light. Dean had slipped off his flip-flops, the sand cool between his toes, the waves brushing at his ankles as he walked.

Neither of them spoke much. They didn’t need to. The air buzzed faintly with the sound of the tide and distant laughter from the dock, the world painted in slow, melting color.

Dean kicked gently at the surf, sending a spray of droplets shimmering into the sunlight. “You ever get used to this?” he asked softly.

Castiel looked at him, the breeze teasing through his hair. “Used to what?”

“This,” Dean said, gesturing to the horizon. “The sound. The sky. The way it all feels… bigger.”

Castiel considered the question, his gaze following the setting sun. “No,” he said finally. “That’s the best part.”

Dean nodded, watching the light fade into the water. “Yeah. I think I get that.”

They walked a little longer, close enough that their hands brushed once, then again—small, accidental touches that neither of them mentioned.

When they reached the far curve of the shore, Castiel stopped. “You see that?” he said, pointing toward the horizon. A small cluster of lights blinked to life from the distant village, mirrored in the ocean below. “They light candles there every night. For luck.”

Dean smiled faintly. “Guess I could use some of that.”

Castiel looked at him, his voice soft. “Maybe you already have it.”

Dean met his gaze, something warm and uncertain curling in his chest. The silence between them stretched again—comfortable, shimmering with unspoken things.

Then Castiel smiled, small and knowing, and turned back toward the fading light.

Dean followed, hands tucked into his pockets, heart a little too full for words.

Two strangers, barefoot in the surf, walking through the last rays of gold like they had all the time in the world.

And maybe—for now—they did.

Chapter Text

They finished their day over dinner at a little seaside restaurant Castiel swore had “the best food on the island.” Dean hadn’t even caught what it was—some local name he couldn’t pronounce—but he didn’t care. Between the smell of grilled seafood, the warm breeze that carried the sound of the waves, and Castiel’s easy laughter across the table, Dean figured he’d follow wherever the man led.

It was perfect—the kind of evening Dean didn’t think actually existed outside of travel commercials. The ocean stretched endlessly just a few steps away, the last light of day rippling over it in shades of rose and orange. Lanterns hung from the rafters, glowing amber against the growing dusk, and the air smelled of salt, lime, and grilled citrus.

Castiel sat across from him, elbows resting lightly on the table, watching Dean with that quiet, steady attention that always made Dean’s chest feel tight.

They’d spent most of the meal laughing. Like—really laughing. The kind that made Dean’s stomach hurt and his cheeks ache, the kind that pulled sound out of Castiel that Dean didn’t think the man even knew he could make.

Castiel wasn’t trying to be funny—he just was. His dry comments, his timing, the way he said things with complete seriousness only made them funnier. Dean could hardly breathe by the end of it, wiping tears from his eyes as he leaned back in his chair.

“God, stop,” Dean gasped at one point, grinning so wide his jaw hurt. “My face is gonna fall off, man.”

Castiel smiled, that small, beautiful, secretive kind of smile that Dean had started to crave. “I wasn’t aware I was doing anything.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he speared the last bit of food on his plate.

By the time he pushed the dish away, it was spotless except for streaks of sauce he’d been scraping up with his fork—and, eventually, his finger. Castiel snickered softly, a quiet, genuine sound that made Dean glance up and grin.

“What?” Dean said around a mouthful.

“Nothing,” Castiel said, still smiling. “You just seem… happy.”

Dean blinked, taken off guard by the gentleness in his tone. “Yeah. Good food will do that.”

The view beyond their table glowed with the last breath of sunset. Castiel pulled his phone from his pocket and, for once, didn’t point it at the horizon. He lifted it toward Dean instead, his voice low. “Stay still.”

Dean frowned. “What, you takin’ pictures now?”

“I want to remember this,” Castiel said simply.

Dean raised an eyebrow but didn’t move. The flash of light from the screen reflected briefly in his eyes, the ocean behind him shimmering gold.

When Castiel looked down at the photo, his chest tightened. Dean looked—well, beautiful. The kind of beautiful that crept up on you. His eyes were bright, lit with laughter and sunlight, the line of his smile soft in the glow.

Castiel tucked his phone away before Dean could ask to see it.

“Alright, Cas,” Dean said after a moment, leaning back and taking another sip of his drink—something served in a hollowed-out coconut with way too much rum. “What now?”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, considering. “We could walk along the beach again… or go back to the cabin, maybe have another drink by the pool.”

Dean looked between the bar inside, the beach just beyond the steps, and Castiel sitting across from him—steady, patient, waiting. Soft music drifted from the restaurant’s speakers, something slow and full of strings.

He exhaled, smiling faintly. “Is there more of the island to see?”

“There’s plenty,” Castiel said, eyes gleaming faintly. “We could hike, or take the bike trail—”

Dean snorted, nearly choking on his drink. “Me on a bike? Yeah, that’s a disaster waitin’ to happen.”

Castiel’s lips quirked upward. “You might surprise yourself.”

“Or break somethin’,” Dean said with a grin. “Yeah, no thanks.”

“It’s not safe at night anyway,” Castiel admitted. “So if you’d rather, we can—”

“Let’s take a walk,” Dean interrupted, voice soft but certain.

Castiel blinked, then smiled—warm, quiet, full of something unspoken. “Alright,” he said, nodding.

They paid the bill, the faint scrape of chairs against stone mingling with the sound of the waves below.

The night air had cooled by the time they reached the street again. The shops were still open, lights glowing in strings above their heads. Tourists wandered by, laughter echoing off the cobblestones.

Dean paused at one of the stalls, eyeing another rack of island shirts. This time, he didn’t think twice—he picked up a dark blue one covered in bright orange hibiscus flowers and a pair of matching shorts that made Castiel grin behind his glass of rum.

“Another bold choice,” Castiel said.

“I’m blendin’ in,” Dean replied, holding up the shirt. “You said it yourself, right? Tropical attire.”

Castiel’s grin softened. “It will look good on you.”

“Yeah, I’m startin’ to think you say that about everything I wear.”

“Only when I mean it,” Castiel said easily.

Dean rolled his eyes, but his smile stayed.

They carried on down the winding path toward the beach, a bag swinging from Dean’s hand. The sound of the tide grew louder as they stepped off the cobblestones and onto soft, cool sand. The stars had come out—so many of them that it made the sky look alive.

Castiel slowed, glancing upward. “You can see more constellations from here than you can back home.”

“Yeah?” Dean followed his gaze, watching the stars scatter across the darkness like spilled glitter.

“The light pollution in the States hides most of them,” Castiel said. He raised a hand, pointing toward a faint cluster high above the horizon. “That one’s Orion. You can just make out the belt.”

Dean squinted. “Looks like three dots to me.”

Castiel chuckled. “That’s the belt.”

“Then I’m a damn genius.”

“Undoubtedly,” Castiel said, laughter in his voice.

Dean glanced over at him. The stars reflected faintly in Castiel’s eyes as he looked up, his face calm and open, the wind brushing at his hair. Dean barely heard half of what he was saying—something about constellations and myth—but it didn’t matter.

All he could think was how right this felt. The sound of waves, the soft pull of the tide, Castiel’s voice threading through the dark.

Dean let out a slow breath, watching him with quiet awe.

For once, he didn’t feel restless. He didn’t feel like running or fixing or filling the silence.

He just felt… there.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

***

By the time they made it back to the ship, the night had gone still and heavy with salt air. The dock lights glimmered in the water as they boarded, the soft hum of the engines echoing through the decks. Neither of them spoke much; exhaustion had settled in, warm and pleasant, the kind that came from too much laughter, sun, and rum.

Back in their cabin, the door clicked shut behind them, and the hush of the ocean filled the space. The air conditioning hummed low, the faint scent of sea breeze still drifting in through the balcony doors.

Dean tossed his bag down by the dresser and stretched. “Man, I’m beat. Thought vacation was supposed to be relaxing.”

Castiel smiled faintly, already pulling his shirt off, his voice calm. “You enjoyed yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t think I’d have this much fun.”

They agreed without much discussion that a movie and bed sounded better than another round of drinks. There were still a few days left—one more day on the island, and then the slow journey back to Miami. Plenty of time for more adventures.

Dean changed first, slipping into soft flannel pajama pants and a plain T-shirt. By the time he turned around, Castiel was in nothing but his boxers—tight, black, and leaving very little to the imagination.

Dean’s brain short-circuited for a full second.

He tried to look away. Really tried. But Castiel moved with such casual, unaware ease that it was impossible not to notice the way his skin caught the low light, the strength in his legs, the curve of his back as he walked toward the bathroom. Dean caught himself staring, eyes tracing down to the swell of Castiel’s ass before he jerked his gaze back to the TV like a man guilty of a crime.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to scroll through channels.

From the bathroom came the sound of running water and the faint clink of a toothbrush against porcelain. A minute later, Castiel returned, turning off the overhead light and cracking open the balcony doors at Dean’s request. The soft rush of waves filled the room instantly. The curtains fluttered gently, and the night breeze swept through—cool and sweet.

Castiel climbed into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. Dean was sitting upright, remote in hand, flipping through the endless lineup of channels.

“Too much choice,” Dean muttered. “How’s a guy supposed to pick?”

Castiel leaned back against the headboard, his arm brushing Dean’s. “Try the romance section.”

Dean arched a brow. “Romance?”

“There’s a good one,” Castiel said, nodding toward the screen. “Third one down.”

Dean smirked. “You watch rom-coms?”

“I appreciate happy endings,” Castiel said simply.

Dean chuckled but clicked on it anyway. The movie started with bright music and city skylines. Not his usual thing, but Castiel’s eyes lit up in a way Dean couldn’t ignore. He found himself watching him more than the screen—the small curve of his smile, the way he leaned forward when something made him laugh, the quiet contentment that softened his whole face.

Before Dean realized it, he’d been inching closer. It wasn’t obvious at first—just a shift, a lean, a brush of elbows. But after a while, he noticed the warmth radiating from Castiel’s skin, and suddenly he was right there, shoulders touching.

Castiel had been the one to hold him last night, his arm around Dean’s waist, the weight of him comforting in a way Dean hadn’t known he’d missed. Dean had liked it—more than he should’ve. He liked being close, liked feeling another heartbeat near his own. But now, sitting here with the faint glow of the TV painting the room in soft light, he wanted something a little different.

He wanted to hold. Be held.

“Can we…” Dean started, his voice rougher than intended.

Castiel turned his head. “Hm?”

Dean froze, instantly regretting opening his mouth. “Never mind, I just—”

But Castiel, without hesitation, shifted down a little, lifting his arm in quiet invitation.

Dean blinked. “…You read minds now?”

“Sometimes,” Castiel said softly.

Dean huffed a small laugh, cheeks warming as he moved closer, letting himself fall into that space Castiel had made for him. The man’s skin was warm against his own, smooth and solid. Dean settled cautiously, his head resting against Castiel’s bare chest, their legs tangling almost naturally.

Castiel’s arm came around him—unhurried, sure—pulling him closer until Dean could feel the slow rhythm of his breathing, steady against his cheek.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The movie flickered quietly in the background, the sound of the ocean filling the room. Dean could feel the faint thrum of Castiel’s heartbeat beneath his palm, the soft rise and fall of his chest.

It was strange. It should’ve been strange—lying like this with someone he’d only just met, someone who’d practically fallen into his life by accident. But it wasn’t. It felt… easy. Familiar in a way he couldn’t explain.

Like the universe had rigged the whole thing on purpose.

Dean shifted slightly, adjusting until he was comfortable, his hand splayed absently against Castiel’s ribs. “You’re so soft,” he murmured.

Castiel’s voice came low, almost a whisper. “So are you.”

Dean smiled to himself. He didn’t say anything after that.

They lay there until the movie ended, the credits rolling to the sound of the sea. And when Castiel finally drifted off—breathing soft, head tilted slightly toward him—Dean stayed awake just a little longer, staring out at the open balcony and the flicker of moonlight on the water.

He’d come on this trip expecting nothing. But somehow, sitting here with a near-stranger asleep against him, he felt like he’d found something.

Whatever it was, it felt too real to question.

***

Morning crept in slow.

Dean woke first—again—with the steady warmth of someone pressed close beside him. For a few seconds, he didn’t move. The cabin was quiet, save for the hush of the waves through the open balcony doors. The air smelled faintly of salt, clean sheets, and something distinctively Castiel.

Dean blinked the sleep from his eyes, then looked down.

They were tangled. Really tangled.

Castiel’s leg was slung over his thigh, one arm hooked around Dean’s middle, palm resting over his stomach like they’d been doing this for years. Dean’s face was half-buried against Castiel’s shoulder, and for a fleeting, sleepy moment, he thought about staying there—just a little longer.

Then Castiel shifted.

Dean froze, eyes darting shut like a guilty kid pretending to sleep.

Castiel made a small, groggy sound—half sigh, half stretch—before his arm tightened reflexively, pulling Dean closer. Dean’s chest brushed against warm skin, his breath caught, and his brain promptly short-circuited.

Okay. That’s enough of that.

He cleared his throat softly and rolled back just enough to make space between them. Castiel stirred at the movement, his eyes opening, blue and dazed with sleep.

“Good morning,” he murmured, voice low and raspy.

“Yeah, mornin’,” Dean said quickly, pretending to fuss with the sheets. “You, uh—sleep alright?”

Castiel blinked once, twice, still half-dreaming. “Very well.”

Dean snorted, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I could tell. You nearly strangled me in my sleep, man.”

Castiel frowned faintly. “I was comfortable.”

“Yeah, I bet you were,” Dean muttered, but he was smiling.

They showered—separately, thank God—and got dressed for their last full day on the island.

Dean pulled on the loudest thing he’d bought so far: the navy-blue shirt with blinding orange hibiscus flowers and matching shorts. He buttoned it halfway, looked at himself in the mirror, and muttered, “Sam would be cryin’ if he saw me right now.”

When he stepped out, Castiel was already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed tying his shoes. His outfit was… something.

Mismatched, plain, and completely unbothered by fashion. A faded gray T-shirt and tan shorts that somehow managed to look both careless and infuriatingly good on him.

Dean chuckled. “Wow. Didn’t realize the dress code was ‘Dad on laundry day.’”

Castiel looked up, blinking once. “You’re one to talk. You look like a tropical storm.”

Dean laughed. “Hey, you liked this shirt yesterday.”

“I did,” Castiel said mildly, “the matching shorts are just as loud.”

“Yeah, well, it’s called commitment.”

Castiel smirked faintly. “To chaos?”

“Exactly.”

Breakfast was served in the same deck café as before, though it felt different today—slower, warmer, familiar in a way Dean hadn’t expected. They found a table by the windows, sunlight spilling across their plates. The smell of coffee and pastries filled the air, and the distant chatter of other passengers mixed with the sound of the sea outside.

Dean poured himself a cup of coffee while Castiel buttered a croissant with the precision of a surgeon.

“So,” Dean said, breaking the quiet. “No weird dreams about strangling me?”

Castiel looked up over his cup. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I woke up in a headlock, man.”

“You were comfortable.”

Dean snorted, almost spilling his coffee. “You don’t know that!”

Castiel tilted his head, unruffled. “You didn’t move away.”

Dean froze mid-sip, nearly choking. “…Okay, fair point.”

Castiel’s lips quirked in a quiet, victorious smile.

“You’re impossible,” Dean muttered, stabbing at a piece of bacon with exaggerated force.

“I’m attentive,” Castiel corrected calmly. “There’s a difference.”

Dean chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

They ate in easy silence after that, trading small comments about the ship, the food, the way the coffee was too strong (Dean’s complaint) and not strong enough (Castiel’s). The light shifted slowly through the windows, gold fading into white.

Halfway through breakfast, Dean leaned back in his chair and sighed, his eyes still half-lidded with sleep. “So what’s on the agenda today, Tour Guide Extraordinaire? You got a plan?”

Castiel nodded once. “A loose one.”

Dean grinned. “You planned somethin’?”

“I did,” Castiel admitted, a small, secretive smile curving his mouth. “While you were asleep.”

Dean raised a brow. “When you were what, cuddlin’ me like a human pillow?”

Castiel didn’t even blink. “Exactly.”

Dean sputtered into his coffee, laughing. “Jesus, Cas.”

“What?” Castiel said simply, taking another sip of his drink.

Dean shook his head, smiling into his cup.

“You wanted to cuddle last night,” Castiel said dryly, his eyes glinting with humor.

Dean laughed again, the sound easy and unguarded, echoing softly in the bright café. “Damn right I did.”

For a moment, he just looked at Castiel—the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the faint smile tugging at his lips as he stirred his coffee. Dean didn’t know what the rest of the day would look like, or the one after that, or what would happen when they went their separate ways.

But right then, in the gentle buzz of morning, with the sea outside and laughter still caught between them, Dean couldn’t bring himself to care.

***

The sun was already blazing by the time they stepped off the ship. Dean squinted against the light, one hand shading his eyes as the humid air wrapped around him like a wet blanket.

“So,” Dean started, slinging his backpack higher on his shoulder, “this top-secret plan of yours—how far are we talkin’? A stroll? A scenic lookout? Or, like, full-on death-march to Mordor?”

Castiel smiled, handing him a bottle of water before answering. “Somewhere in between.”

“Not reassuring, Cas.”

“It’s worth it,” Castiel promised, that quiet confidence in his voice that Dean was starting to recognize as dangerous.

They followed a narrow dirt trail that wound up the side of a hill, lined with tall palms and wild hibiscus flowers. Every now and then, a small lizard darted across the path or the distant cry of a tropical bird echoed from the trees. The scent of damp earth and sea breeze mixed with something sweet and green.

Dean huffed as he climbed, already regretting the extra helping of bacon at breakfast. “You sure this isn’t some kinda revenge for me callin’ you clingy this morning?”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder, grinning faintly. “It was not revenge.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“You complain a lot for someone in paradise,” Castiel teased, holding out his hand to help Dean over a rocky step.

Dean took it, their palms brushing, warm and damp from the climb. “Yeah, well, paradise doesn’t usually involve cardio.”

Castiel laughed—a low, genuine sound that made Dean forget about his burning calves for a second. “You’re doing fine,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

Dean eyed the incline suspiciously. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“This time I mean it.”

When the trail finally opened up, Dean stopped dead in his tracks.

Before them, the world fell away into blue. The ocean stretched endlessly, glittering under the sun, waves breaking against the distant reef like milk foam. Below, the island sprawled in a mess of green palms, terracotta roofs, and winding sand paths.

“Holy hell,” Dean breathed. “It’s… fucking beautiful man.”

Castiel smiled softly, stepping up beside him. “I told you it was worth it.”

Dean turned toward him, grinning. “Alright, I’ll admit it—you win.”

“I usually do.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Cocky bastard.”

They stood there for a long moment, the breeze moving through their hair, the sound of the waves far below. Castiel crouched to pull a thermos from his bag—because of course he’d thought ahead—and poured two cups of what turned out to be cold, sweet tea.

“You packed drinks?” Dean said, taking his cup.

“I said I had a plan,” Castiel replied.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it came with catering.”

Castiel’s lips curved. “You underestimate me.”

Dean was starting to realize that was true.

They sat on the rocks overlooking the ocean, sipping their drinks and pointing out shapes in the clouds, well Dean mostly did. Castiel spotted a sea turtle swimming near the reef, and Dean caught a glimpse of a bright blue bird perched nearby, watching them curiously.

It was peaceful—too peaceful for Dean’s restless heart. He wasn’t used to company that didn’t ask for anything in return.

“So,” Dean asked, breaking the quiet. “You just hop from one paradise to the next?”

Castiel glanced over, the sunlight catching the edges of his hair. “Not always. But I like seeing new things. Being reminded how small the world makes us feel, I just prefer this island.”

Dean hummed softly, looking out at the horizon. “Yeah. Small’s not somethin’ I mind right now.”

Castiel smiled faintly, and for a while they didn’t talk at all.

Then Dean turned toward him—and realized just how close they were sitting.

The wind had softened, and the only sound was the slow rhythm of the surf below. Castiel’s eyes met his, impossibly blue, his expression open and quiet in the gold light.

Dean’s breath hitched.

Castiel’s gaze flicked to his mouth — those beautiful bow shaped lips — and back up again, and for a moment Dean swore the whole island went still. It would’ve been so easy. One lean forward, one breath’s worth of distance gone, and it would’ve happened.

Then Castiel cleared his throat and looked away. “We should start heading back before it gets too hot.”

Dean blinked, sitting back quickly, pretending to adjust his shirt. “Yeah. Yeah, good idea.”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his shorts, his pulse still hammering. Castiel picked up the thermos, quiet as ever, though his ears looked faintly pink in the sunlight.

The hike back was easier—lighter somehow. They joked, they teased, they slipped into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. But every time their hands brushed on the narrow trail, neither of them moved away quite as fast as they should have.

By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, the sun was high and the ocean was calling again. Dean grinned, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“Next time you plan a surprise, make sure it includes air-conditioning.”

Castiel’s eyes sparkled. “Noted.”

Dean nudged him with his shoulder as they walked toward the beach. “Still. Gotta admit—it was worth it.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

Dean looked at him, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Yeah, Cas. I really do.”

And as the wind picked up off the water and the laughter between them rose again, the almost-kiss hung quietly between them—unspoken, but impossible to forget.

Halfway down the hill, just as Dean was starting to imagine the cold relief of a drink back on the strip, Castiel stopped. He glanced toward the path, then abruptly veered right, stepping off the trail and disappearing through a wall of ferns.

“Uh—Cas?” Dean called, pushing through the branches after him. “Pretty sure that’s not the way back.”

“Trust me,” Castiel’s voice floated through the trees. “You’ll like this.”

Dean muttered under his breath, batting away a low branch. “That’s what you said before the uphill marathon.”

But when the trees opened up again, Dean stopped short.

A clearing spread out before them, warm sunlight filtering through the canopy in shifting patterns. In the middle sat a small watering hole—clear as glass, rippling gently where the light hit the surface. Moss-covered rocks framed the edges, and a family of iguanas lounged lazily in the sun, blinking as if they owned the place.

Dean’s jaw slackened. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Castiel smiled, the quiet kind that said he’d been waiting for that exact reaction. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Dean turned in a slow circle, taking it in—the shimmer of the water, the sound of the forest alive with cicadas and distant birds. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s one word for it.”

Before Dean could process much else, Castiel was already pulling his shirt over his head.

Dean froze. “Whoa—hey, what’re you—?”

“Swimming,” Castiel said simply, kicking off his shoes. “You don’t have to, but I’d recommend it.”

Dean’s throat went dry.

Sunlight poured over Castiel’s bare skin as he stepped into the shallows. The water lapped at his ankles, cool and crystalline, and Dean couldn’t help but notice the way the light refracted across him—the faint scars, the smooth muscle, the sheer ease of him.

Dean groaned softly to himself. “You’re tryin’ to kill me.”

Castiel turned, half-smiling. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Dean muttered quickly, peeling off his own shirt and tossing it onto a nearby rock. “Just—fine. You win again.”

The water was cold, shocking, perfect. He hissed as he waded in, feeling the heat melt off his skin.

“Holy—damn, that’s cold!”

Castiel laughed, the sound bright against the still air. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’ll get hypothermia.” Dean whined.

“Stop complaining.”

Dean splashed a wave of water toward him in retaliation. “Make me.”

The challenge hung there for half a second before Castiel flicked his hand, sending a sharp splash right back into Dean’s face.

Dean sputtered. “Oh, it’s on now.”

The next few minutes dissolved into chaos—water flying, laughter echoing off the rocks, sunlight glittering around them like gold dust. Dean lunged; Castiel ducked; a small wave caught them both, leaving them breathless and grinning.

At one point, Dean caught Castiel from behind, looping an arm around his waist in triumph. “Ha!”

Castiel twisted in his grip, laughter still bubbling from him, and Dean’s hands slid instinctively up to catch his wrists.

The world went very still.

Castiel’s laughter faded into quiet. Their skin was slick with water and sunlight; their breaths mingled in the charged space between them. Dean’s fingers wrapped lightly around Castiel’s wrists, holding him but not holding him, thumb tracing slow circles against the pulse beneath his skin.

They were close—too close.

Castiel’s eyes met his, ocean-blue and wide, the corner of his mouth curved just slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or breathe. Dean’s chest tightened.

He should let go. He should.

But then Castiel looked down—at Dean’s mouth—and Dean forgot what air was.

The sound of the forest fell away. The only thing left was the quiet rush of water between them, the faint tremble in Castiel’s pulse under Dean’s thumb, the raw, magnetic pull that made his heart stutter.

Dean’s breath hitched. “Cas…”

Castiel blinked, eyes flicking back up to meet his.

For a heartbeat, it felt inevitable.

And then—like the world remembered itself—Castiel exhaled and stepped back.

The space between them filled again with sunlight and the sound of rippling water.

Dean swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. “Right. So, uh… hydration break?”

Castiel smiled faintly, turning away to wade toward the edge. “Of course.”

Dean watched him go, chest still tight, pulse still unsteady.

He wasn’t sure what exactly had just happened—or what hadn’t—but he knew one thing for certain: something between them had shifted, subtle as the current beneath the surface.

He glanced back at the iguanas sunning themselves nearby. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered.

One blinked, unimpressed.

Dean sighed, then dove under the water again—because the only thing that made sense anymore was not thinking.

***

The sun had started to fall when they finally left the watering hole.

They walked side by side through the trees, their shoes squelching softly against damp earth, the smell of salt and sunlight still clinging to their skin. The air had changed—heavy now, tinted gold and pink as the light filtered through the canopy. Cicadas hummed somewhere distant, their rhythm slow and drowsy, echoing the pulse in Dean’s chest.

Neither of them spoke.

Every so often, Dean would glance sideways, catching the line of Castiel’s profile—the curve of his jaw, the droplets of water still clinging to his hair, the faint flush across his neck from the sun. He didn’t know if it was just the heat or something else entirely, but every breath felt weighted, stretched tight.

He kept replaying the moment in the water. The way their laughter had tripped into silence. The way Castiel’s pulse had thrummed beneath his thumb, steady and trembling all at once. The way their eyes had met and refused to look away.

He’d wanted to kiss him.

The thought hit again, sharp and undeniable, and Dean swallowed hard, dragging his gaze toward the path.

They broke through the tree line just as the sun dipped low, the horizon burning in deep amber and soft violet. The ship gleamed in the distance, haloed by the fading light. The sky above them looked painted—too vivid to be real.

Castiel stopped for a moment to look at it. His face was calm, but his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—looked far away. Dean slowed beside him, the soft wind tugging at his shirt.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But there wasn’t a word in the world that wouldn’t ruin the moment.

So he didn’t.

He just stood there beside him, both of them framed by the bleeding sky, listening to the ocean whisper against the rocks below.

The ship was quieter when they returned, most passengers already gathered for dinner. They showered in silence, one by one, each lost in their own thoughts, the sound of running water filling the space between them.

When they dressed and headed down to the dining hall, the air had cooled. The lights were low, the windows open to the dark, and soft music played somewhere near the bar.

They sat across from each other at a small table by the glass, the sea stretching endlessly outside. The glow of the lamps threw faint shadows across Castiel’s face, catching the gleam of his eyes when he glanced up.

Neither spoke.

The clink of silverware, the quiet murmur of other conversations—it all seemed far away. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was thick, charged, full of things unspoken.

Dean caught himself staring more than once—at the way Castiel’s hand moved as he cut into his food, at the shape of his mouth when he took a slow sip of water, at the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Every gesture felt deliberate. Every glance lingered a heartbeat too long.

He couldn’t remember the last time silence had felt this loud.

Outside, the waves brushed softly against the hull. The moon had risen by the time they finished eating, silver light pooling across the floor, casting everything in a pale glow.

When they stood to leave, neither of them said a word. But when Castiel brushed past him—just a touch, shoulder to shoulder—Dean felt it all the way to his ribs.

It wasn’t a touch at all, really. It was gravity.

They walked back to their cabin the same way they’d left the forest: side by side, quiet, their shadows long and swaying in the dim corridor light.

And though not a single word passed between them, Dean knew—just by the way Castiel’s hand hovered close to his as they walked—that they were both thinking the same thing.

Something was changing.

And there was no stopping it now.

Chapter Text

By the time the sky had gone dark outside the balcony doors, the ship had transformed. The quiet hum of dinner hour faded into music—low bass lines pulsing faintly through the floorboards, laughter echoing down the hallways.

Dean was stretched across his bed, flipping idly through TV channels, when Castiel’s voice broke the silence.

“There’s a club on the other side of the ship,” he said, standing near the balcony, the soft light spilling over his shoulder. “They serve drinks. Dancing, too.”

Dean turned his head, brow raised.

Castiel tilted his head.

Dean barked a laugh, sitting up. “Cas, you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who enjoys crowds and flashing lights.”

“I sometimes do,” Castiel admitted, unbothered. “But I’d like a drink. And you could use one.”

Dean gave him a look that said you’re not wrong but I’m not admitting it. “Yeah, well… I don’t dance, Cas. You’d have better luck findin’ someone else.”

Castiel’s mouth twitched—barely a smile, more like a challenge. “We’ll see.”

Dean groaned. “Oh no. No ‘we’ll see.’ I know how that tone ends. That’s the same one that got me up a mountain this morning.”

Castiel shrugged. “You seemed to enjoy the view.”

Dean stared at him for a beat, then shook his head, smirking despite himself. “Maybe if you get a few drinks in me, no promises.”

“I’ll take that,” Castiel said, that dry humor creeping in again.

He gave in, of course. He always did.

Ten minutes later, Dean stood at the small mirror beside the bed, tugging on a pair of dark jeans and a soft t-shirt that fit just right across his shoulders. He ran a hand through his hair, making sure it spiked in that deliberate, effortlessly messy way he pretended didn’t take five full minutes to get right.

Behind him, Castiel stood patiently, watching with quiet amusement.

“You done yet?” Castiel asked, voice soft.

Dean met his gaze in the mirror. “You don’t rush perfection, Cas.”

Castiel smiled. “I thought that’s what humility was for.”

Dean grabbed the nearest object—a small rolled-up towel—and tossed it at him. “You’re a riot.”

Castiel caught it easily, then set it back where it belonged with infuriating calm. Dean had a flash of déjà vu, kind of like their first meeting.

Castiel hadn’t changed his outfit after dinner—still in the same dark slacks and button-down, the top two buttons undone now, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show the curve of his forearms, the veins under his skin. But he had done something—something subtle. Maybe it was the faint trace of cologne, or the way his hair had dried a little messier, softer. Maybe it was just the way he stood there, lit by the amber glow of the bedside lamp, looking both effortless and impossible all at once.

Dean tried not to stare. Failed spectacularly.

“Alright,” he said, slipping on his boots. “Let’s go. But just so you know—I’m only in this for the drinks.”

“Of course,” Castiel said. “That’s what they all say.”

Dean squinted at him. “You’re startin’ to sound real smug for a guy who wears floral shirts unironically.”

Castiel’s lips curved, slow and knowing. “You liked those shirts.”

Dean pointed a finger at him on his way out the door. “Don’t push it, man.”

The walk through the ship was alive with sound—music thumping from below decks, snippets of laughter spilling out of open lounges. The scent of salt and rum hung thick in the air, and warm light glowed against polished wood and brass.

Dean glanced over at Castiel as they walked. The man looked utterly unbothered by the chaos around them, calm and sure-footed, his eyes flicking occasionally toward the windows where the sea stretched black and endless outside.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, smiling faintly to himself. “You really know how to drag me outta my comfort zone, huh?”

“That’s the idea,” Castiel said.

***

They reached the club—a wide, open space of glass and light, the ceiling low enough for the bass to hum in their bones. The room was alive: people moving on the dance floor, others leaning at the bar, glasses glinting under blue and gold lights. Dean was actually impressed, they were playing 80s hits versus “today’s music” which all sucked, according to him at least.

Dean hesitated at the entrance, scanning the crowd. “Yup. This is about as far from my comfort zone as it gets.”

Castiel didn’t even blink. “One drink first,” he said, already heading toward the bar.

Dean followed, muttering, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I heard that,” Castiel said over his shoulder.

Dean froze, then cursed softly under his breath, though the grin tugging at his mouth refused to die.

At the bar, Castiel ordered something foreign—smooth, amber-colored, served with lime—and slid one glass toward Dean.

Dean took a sip. “Damn. You got good taste.”

Castiel turned to him, the light painting his face in soft blue and shadow. “You’re surprised.”

“Little bit,” Dean said, leaning against the bar. “But I should’ve known better by now.”

Castiel’s eyes lingered on him for a moment too long, the corners of his mouth hinting at something that wasn’t quite a smile.

The music shifted—something slower, deeper, a steady beat thrumming low through the speakers—something by Journey, because of course, the universe is still playing a joke and making this some epic romance for Dean and Castiel. He felt it in his ribs, in his breath, in the silence that stretched between them.

He didn’t dance. He’d told Castiel he didn’t dance. But as Castiel turned toward the dance floor, eyes catching the soft glow of light, Dean felt that pull again—that strange gravity that always seemed to draw him closer.

Castiel extended his hand—not a command, not even a challenge this time, just an offering.

Dean looked at it. Then at him.

And for a heartbeat, everything in him warred between sense and want.

He didn’t move yet. Not quite. But his pulse betrayed him, ticking louder, faster.

Castiel’s voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the music. “One dance.”

Dean’s throat worked around a dry laugh. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

Castiel’s gaze softened, something tender hidden under the dim club light. “Not when I believe it’s worth it.”

Dean stared at him, heart doing that stupid thing again—picking up speed, ignoring reason.

He sighed, finishing his drink in one swallow. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Cas.”

“Maybe,” Castiel said, his smile ghostlike, hand still outstretched. “But at least it’ll be memorable.”

Dean took Castiel’s hand, half-grinning like he was already regretting it but not enough to stop himself. Castiel’s fingers were warm, steady—strong in a quiet, unshowy way that made Dean’s chest feel too tight. Without a word, Castiel guided him through the crowd toward the center of the dance floor.

The lights dimmed as they stepped into the space, melting into shades of dark blue and soft black. The air shimmered faintly with heat and the thump of bass underfoot. All around them, couples swayed and shifted, framed in neon halos, laughter and conversation blurring into something low and rhythmic.

Dean looked around once, self-conscious, already preparing some smart remark. This is where he’s gonna spin me, he thought—some ridiculous twirl, movie-style. But Castiel didn’t.

Instead, he simply turned, slow and deliberate, and stepped in.

And before Dean could even process it, Castiel’s arm slid around his waist, pulling him close—so close that their hips lined up perfectly, breath to breath, heart to heart.

Dean froze. His body didn’t know what to do with that much nearness.

The smell hit him first—Castiel’s cologne, woodsy and clean with a bite of citrus, something deep beneath it like cedar smoke or rain. It was subtle, expensive, him. Dean breathed it in without meaning to and felt his brain short-circuit in real time.

“Fuck,” he breathed, because words were all he had left.

Castiel didn’t answer; he just looked at him, calm and unreadable under the flicker of light, his hand firm at Dean’s lower back.

The music softly picked up, the tempo thumping into something steady but fast, the bass vibrating through their ribs. Dean could feel it in every inch of contact between them—through his shirt, through Castiel’s. He let out a half-nervous laugh that disappeared into the sound of the room.

He could have stepped back. He didn’t.

Instead, he found his hands hovering at Castiel’s sides, fingers catching in the cotton of his shirt. He tightened his grip, just slightly, grounding himself in the fabric, in the realness of it all.

Castiel’s thumb traced a small, unconscious circle at Dean’s waist. The touch was light but it burned all the same.

They barely moved. It wasn’t dancing—it was breathing in tandem, swaying gently as the rest of the world spun around them. The crowd blurred into motion and color; the two of them stayed still at the center of it, the axis everything seemed to turn on.

Dean shut his eyes for a moment, breathing in deep. The press of Castiel’s body against his, the faint hitch in his chest when their knees brushed—it was too much and not enough.

Castiel turned his head slightly, cheek brushing through Dean’s hair. The scrape of stubble, the warmth of his skin—it sent a shiver up Dean’s spine. He leaned closer, almost unconsciously, until their temples touched.

It would have been comical, really, if it didn’t feel so damn right.

He half-laughed under his breath. “If this turns into a montage, I swear—”

Castiel didn’t laugh. He just drew back a little, enough that Dean could see him properly in the dim blue light.

And that was it—game over.

The lights hit Castiel’s face just right, the shadows carving the line of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the soft rise and fall of his chest. He was beautiful, and Dean hated how the word fit him so easily.

Dean’s hand lifted without thought, fingers brushing the roughness of Castiel’s jaw before cupping his cheek. The heat of his skin was startling—alive and solid. Castiel leaned into it, his lashes lowering just slightly.

Dean swallowed hard. His eyes dropped, helplessly, to Castiel’s mouth. Up again. Down. His pulse hammered so hard he was sure Castiel could feel it.

He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. The question was right there between them. Can I?

Castiel’s hand came up, slow, wrapping gently around Dean’s wrist.

He leaned in.

Dean’s breath hitched as he mirrored the movement, their noses brushing first, then a pause—one heartbeat, two—before their lips finally met.

It was soft. Tentative. A question and an answer all at once.

The first brush was barely there, just a ghost of contact, before Dean tilted his head and caught Castiel’s bottom lip between his own. The world stilled—the music, the lights, even the thrum of noise around them—all fading into the simple, impossible warmth of that kiss.

When they finally broke apart, the air felt thinner somehow, charged. Dean laughed under his breath, shaky and a little awed. “Guess I dance after all.”

Castiel’s eyes crinkled, his voice soft as a whisper. “I never doubted it.”

Dean chuckled, his forehead still resting against Castiel’s. “Yeah, well. Don’t get cocky.”

But neither of them moved away. They stayed like that—two silhouettes in a wash of blue light, swaying slowly while the rest of the world spun on around them—caught somewhere between laughter and everything they weren’t ready to say aloud.

***

Eventually, after their one dance, they walked away, hand in hand, weaving through the crowd toward an empty table tucked into the corner of the club. The bass thudded beneath their feet, lights sliding over the floor like waves. People moved around them in flashes of color and laughter, but Dean barely saw any of it—his focus was on the weight of Castiel’s hand in his, the warmth of his skin against the cool air-conditioning, the way Castiel’s thumb brushed unconsciously along his knuckles as if to remind him he was still there.

They stood close enough that Dean could smell him again—salt, cologne, a hint of something sweet from the drink they’d shared. The silence between them was thick and humming, a pause that felt like it could tip either way.

Dean leaned over, his lips near Castiel’s ear, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the music. He could feel the faint shiver that went through Castiel when he spoke. “Can I give you another kiss.”

Castiel didn’t answer right away. Dean felt the hesitation, the small moment where everything stilled—the air, the music, the crowd. Then Castiel nodded once, and that was all the permission Dean needed.

He pulled back just enough to see his face and then dove right in.

The second their mouths met, the noise of the club fell away. The world tunneled into heat and soundless motion—the slide of breath, the thump of his heart, the faint taste of rum and citrus. The force of it caught Castiel off guard; Dean felt the way his body wavered, how his balance faltered until Dean’s hands found his waist and steadied him. He used his height to his advantage, crowding him back until Castiel’s shoulders brushed the wall.

Castiel gasped softly against his mouth, and Dean took that chance—pushing closer, kissing him deeper, needier, until it was impossible to tell who had started it or who was giving in. The kiss wasn’t gentle; it was hungry, the kind that made everything else feel dim in comparison.

Castiel made a small sound in his throat—half surprise, half something else—and even with the music pounding around them, Dean felt it more than heard it. His hand moved up, fingers tracing the line of Castiel’s throat, feeling the vibration there, the steady pulse under his palm.

They kissed again, messier this time, both of them chasing the other. Dean felt Castiel’s hand slide up his arm, gripping the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The air between them turned heavy, electric, filled with the heat of skin and the faint shimmer of sweat.

Their rhythm faltered only when breath ran out. Castiel broke first, just barely, their foreheads touching as they caught the air they’d forgotten they needed.

“Cas.” Dean whispered, his voice almost lost to the music but still cutting through, intimate and hoarse.

Castiel heard it—Dean could tell from the flicker in his eyes, from the way his lips parted like he was fighting to answer but couldn’t find words. Dean didn’t pull back. He stayed there, their chests rising in sync, both caught in that fragile space between sense and surrender.

Castiel leaned forward again, his mouth brushing the skin just below Dean’s ear. His breath was warm, unsteady when he spoke. “Can we get out of here?”

Dean’s eyes went wide. He leaned back just enough to look at Castiel, searching, silently asking if he was serious. Castiel’s response was another kiss—firmer, sure, the kind that didn’t leave room for misunderstanding.

Dean didn’t even think. He just grabbed his hand, their fingers locking tight as they started moving through the crowd again, the lights strobing against their faces, the music a distant roar beneath the sound of their hearts.

***

They crashed into their room, mouths colliding like they’d been holding back for unaccounted years—kissing frantically, desperately, as if the world were ending and this was the only way to stop it.

Dean kicked the door shut with his boot, the sharp click echoing through the dim room. He didn’t break the kiss; he couldn’t. He caught Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, sucking until he heard the man’s quiet groan—half pain, half need. Castiel stumbled backward, letting Dean guide him until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and then they were falling together—Dean landing on top, the air between them hot, erratic, charged.

Castiel fisted the hem of Dean’s shirt, dragging it upward with impatient hands. Dean lifted his arms, letting it go, and the fabric hit the floor somewhere behind them. Castiel’s mouth followed the exposed skin down—kisses scattered across Dean’s throat, his collarbones, the warm expanse of his chest.

Dean made a sound low in his throat, a breathless, trembling exhale that sounded like he’d just stepped into a bath too hot to handle, too perfect to leave.

The sound drove Castiel wild. He kissed lower, pressing his lips to the center of Dean’s chest, right over his sternum—one reverent kiss before he came back up, finding Dean’s mouth again, hungry and sure. Dean’s fingers were clumsy as they found the buttons of Castiel’s shirt, fumbling them open one by one until frustration got the better of him. Castiel laughed quietly against his lips, sat up, and helped him, shrugging out of the fabric until it was tossed carelessly aside.

Dean leaned up to meet him, his lips finding the curve of Castiel’s neck. He sucked, bit, tasted, leaving marks that made Castiel gasp—a sound from somewhere deep, almost startled by how good it felt. Dean’s tongue soothed where his teeth had been, and then Castiel flipped them with surprising strength, pressing Dean down into the sheets.

For a moment, Dean could only look up at him. Castiel hovered above, chest heaving, hair mussed, eyes dark and wild. The room’s dim light caught his irises—blue, deep and storm-lit—and Dean’s breath caught. There was something holy about the way Castiel looked at him, something that made his chest ache.

Dean reached up, his hands sliding around Castiel’s back, pulling him down until their mouths crashed together again. It wasn’t graceful. It was messy, hot, full of need. Their tongues tangled, tasted of whiskey and want, of everything unspoken.

Castiel shifted, parting Dean’s legs with one knee, slotting himself between them. The friction was electric—sudden, unbearable. Dean could feel the press of Castiel’s arousal against his thigh, could feel his own pulse answering it. The space between them vanished, their bodies finding that rhythm on instinct.

Castiel ground against him, slow at first, testing, then deeper—his hips rolling until their cocks brushed through layers of denim and heat. Dean’s head fell back, his breath catching on a sharp sound.

“Fuck,” he gasped, the word shuddering out of him.

Castiel’s response was a quiet hum, almost a groan, his voice trembling with restraint.

Then, softly—almost tenderly—he asked, “Do you want to?”

Dean blinked, dazed, staring up at him. Of course Cas would ask. Of course he’d still be gentle, still be careful, even now—when every nerve in Dean’s body was begging for more. The thought hit him like a punch; this was the same man who’d scolded himself hours ago for invading Dean’s personal space, the same man now trembling above him, asking permission.

Dean huffed out a laugh, half disbelieving, half in awe. “Yeah, Cas—fuck yeah,” he breathed, voice cracking under the weight of it.

And when Castiel leaned in again, kissing him with quiet reverence, it didn’t feel rushed anymore. It felt like something inevitable—like gravity had been waiting all along for them to fall.

Dean kissed him back, his hands gliding up and down the strong line of Castiel’s back. The muscles shifted beneath his palms—solid, warm, alive. His legs wound around Castiel’s waist, pulling him in until their bodies were flush, the air between them thick with heat.

Castiel’s hands found Dean’s sides, palms firm as they explored the curve of his waist, sliding upward until his thumbs brushed the taut peaks of Dean’s chest. His fingers circled one, teasing lightly, and Dean gasped—his breath hitching as Castiel’s mouth found his neck again, lips pressing into the sensitive skin there.

Dean’s hands scrambled for something to hold on to as Castiel fumbled with the button of his jeans. The sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet room. Dean kicked off his boots, impatient, half-snarling at the layers between them. His jeans followed, dragged down by Castiel’s sure hands and tossed somewhere onto the floor.

Castiel leaned in again, kissing a slow path down Dean’s stomach. The sensation was dizzying—soft lips, rough stubble, the heat of his breath. He lingered at Dean’s hips, sucking small bruises into the skin there, leaving evidence of his want. Dean writhed beneath him, muscles trembling, voice breaking into a whine.

“Cas—c’mon, man,” he pleaded, impatience coloring every syllable.

Castiel only hummed, a low sound of amusement as he kicked off his own shoes. He unbuttoned his slacks, the fabric falling away to reveal long, strong thighs and the unmistakable bulge straining against the cotton of his tight boxers. Dean’s breath caught at the sight, hunger written across his face in every twitch and swallow.

Without a word, Castiel dipped between Dean’s legs, his mouth finding the hard outline beneath the thin fabric. He nuzzled him there, slow and reverent, before closing his lips around the damp spot forming at the tip. The gentle suck tore a sound out of Dean—half cry, half curse—as his back arched off the bed, legs falling open in surrender.

Castiel didn’t stop, didn’t rush. He kept teasing, lips and breath ghosting against Dean without offering the relief he so clearly needed. Dean’s body twisted in frustration, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch him through a haze of want.

And God, he looked good like that—dark hair falling into his face, lips parted, eyes heavy with focus and heat. The sight alone nearly undid Dean.

Castiel’s hand finally slipped inside Dean’s boxers, wrapping around him with deliberate care before he pulled away completely. Dean groaned in protest, sitting up just enough to tug the rest of his underwear off, clumsy and eager.

When he fell back, bare under the dim light, he was all flushed skin and shuddering breath, looking so devastatingly alive it made Castiel’s cock throb, his chest ache.

Castiel bent again, pressing a kiss to one thigh, then the other, before trailing up to the hard length between them. A kiss. Then another. Then a third—soft, reverent, torturous. His tongue traced the tip, a flicker of warmth that made Dean tremble.

Then Castiel was moving up again, his mouth finding Dean’s skin in a trail of kisses and licks until he reached his lips. He crushed their mouths together, the kiss hungry and unrestrained, hips rolling in a slow, maddening rhythm.

Dean groaned into his mouth, fingers digging into Castiel’s shoulders, his body meeting every teasing thrust. Each movement blurred the line between pleasure and desperation, between want and worship—until all that was left was the sound of their breathing and the heat that refused to fade.

“Do you have lubricant?” Castiel asked, his voice a low rasp against Dean’s mouth.

Dean nodded so fast it almost made Castiel laugh. The man pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. “Where?”

Dean gestured toward the bag near the cabin wall, the motion small and hurried. Castiel rewarded him with another kiss, softer this time—reassuring—before he slipped away from the bed.

Dean watched every step. The sound of the floorboards beneath Castiel’s bare feet, beneath the carpet, the lamplight skimming over the lines of his body—it was all too much, too good to be real.

Holy shit. This is actually happening.

Castiel crouched at the bag, rummaging through it with calm precision until he found what he needed. The small bottle glinted in his hand, a box of condoms beside it. He tore one free, setting the rest aside. The sight alone sent a shock through Dean—anticipation mixed with disbelief, like he was standing on the edge of something he’d wanted for days but hadn’t dared to touch.

When Castiel turned back, his face was bathed in the soft gold of the overhead light. His eyes met Dean’s, a question in their depths, a promise too. Then he shed the last piece of clothing.

Dean’s breath caught. The light traced every line of him—broad shoulders, lean stomach, down to the thick line of the man’s cock, flushed and engorged, throbbing. He looked like something sculpted out of heat and shadow, and Dean’s stomach twisted with hunger. He’d thought about this before, of course he had—the first time he met Castiel, towel slung around his hips—but seeing him now was different. Real.

Castiel climbed back onto the bed, deliberate, his weight sinking the mattress just enough that Dean felt it everywhere. Their bodies found each other instinctively, chest to chest, skin to skin. The first brush of contact from their dicks drew twin groans from them, soft and helpless.

Castiel’s lips found his again, unhurried now, a deep, anchoring kiss that made Dean forget how to breathe. Somewhere between them came the faint pop of a cap, the sound of movement—Castiel’s calm precision breaking through the haze of want.

Dean opened his eyes, dazed, watching him, feeling the way Castiel’s fingers nudged between his cheeks. Castiel’s focus was unwavering, his expression almost tender. “What makes you think I’m a bottom?” Dean asked, trying for humor but falling short, the words trembling on his tongue.

Castiel’s answering smile was faint but sure. “You didn’t say you weren’t,” he murmured, “but I had a feeling.”

Dean’s laugh was barely a breath, lost as Castiel leaned in again, murmuring quiet reassurance against his throat. Castiel circled his rim, opening him up without entering him. Dean muttered something incoherent and nearly cried out when Castiel pressed the tip of his finger forward, nudging past the resistance.

Dean was tight, his ass squeezing around the digit, dragging it in on its own. Castiel kisses Dean’s throat, his finger pumped steadily in and out, in and out until Dean was panting.

When Dean’s fingers curled in the sheets and Castiel whispered his name, everything else disappeared. The world outside the cabin fell away, until there was nothing left but the warmth between them and the sound of two people finally giving in.

“Deeper, Cas—please,” Dean gasped, his voice breaking on the word.

Castiel drew back just enough to look at him, breath uneven, eyes dark with want. “Okay,” he whispered, his tone almost reverent. He pulled his finger out, and applied more lube to his digits, just to press two back in, slowly.

Dean’s fingers twisted in the sheets, his chest rising and falling with each trembling breath. The air between them shimmered with heat, with the soft sounds of movement and quiet moans. Castiel’s hand was steady, his other arm braced beside Dean’s head, keeping him grounded while he fucked his ass with his fingers, slowly, carefully.

Dean arched up, a helpless sound escaping him, the kind that made Castiel’s jaw tighten. He threatens and twists and whines. Castiel bent low, his breath skating across Dean’s ear. “You sound so beautiful,” he murmured, though the words came out almost like a moan—half praise, half surrender.

Dean’s laugh was breathless, shaking. He bit his lip, trying and failing to hide the sounds that kept spilling from him. He's normally not this fucking loud, but Castiel just brings it out of him, literally.

“Don’t hide yourself.” Castiel’s voice was soft but certain.

The words sank into Dean like heat. He could feel himself coming undone beneath the careful rhythm of Castiel’s touch, every nerve lit up, his body caught somewhere between tension and release.

Castiel’s gaze flicked downward, and the sight that met him made something inside his chest twist—Dean’s cock flushed and leaking steadily against his belly, his breath coming fast, his body open and trusting. For a moment, all Castiel could think was I’m the one doing this to him.

“God, Cas,” Dean whispered, the sound breaking into a whimper. “Please.”

Castiel leaned in, pressing slow, wet kisses against his throat, his collarbone, anywhere his lips could reach. The room felt smaller, hotter, the air thick with the scent of sweat and skin. His fingers worked in slow steady motions, pumping, scissoring, and moving deep inside, right up against his prostate and Dean was fucking himself on his fingers now, chasing the friction, needing more.

Dean’s hand came up, catching Castiel’s jaw. He pulled him down and kissed him hard—nothing careful about it. Their mouths collided, tongues meeting in a clumsy, hungry rhythm, moaning helplessly into each other’s mouths.

Castiel exhaled against him, their bodies sliding together, skin to skin. His thick cock slides against Dean’s thigh, precum leaking and leaving slick trails, the friction made Dean’s stomach tighten, made the room spin. The way Castiel’s body fit against his, heavy and solid and unbearably close—it was enough to make him tremble.

And when Dean opened his eyes, Castiel was still there, looking down at him with something raw, almost awed. The world felt like it had narrowed to that single moment—just breath and heat.

He needed Castiel inside him. Now.

"Cas—please, fuck... you gotta... please!" Dean begged, voice cracking with desperation, his pupils blown wide with desire.

Castiel was already withdrawing his slick fingers and wiping them on his discarded shirt. He tore the foil packet with his teeth, the sharp sound cutting through their heavy breathing. Dean watched, entranced, biting his lower lip until it reddened as Castiel rolled the latex down his flushed, straining length. Dean's heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal, sweat beading across his collarbone.

Castiel squeezed more lubricant onto his palm, warming it before stroking it over his cock with deliberate movements that made his breath catch in his throat. He shifted forward on his knees, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he placed his strong hands under Dean's trembling knees, pushing his thighs apart with commanding pressure.

Dean's gaze traveled down the taut muscles of Castiel's abdomen to his glistening cock, then back up to meet piercing blue eyes.

The intensity in Castiel's stare burned like holy fire, so consuming that Dean nearly looked away, but then Castiel was positioning himself, the blunt head of his cock teasing Dean's entrance with tantalizing circles before pressing forward with inexorable pressure.

The stretch was exquisite torture—Castiel was thick, hot and unyielding, and Dean threw his head back against the pillow, throat exposed, as his body yielded to the delicious invasion, muscles clenching and relaxing in waves of sensation.

"Ah, fuck, Cas!" Dean shuddered, fingers digging into the corded muscles of Castiel's thighs as he seated himself fully, their bodies joined completely. Dean attempted to wrap his legs around Castiel's waist, to draw him down into an embrace, but Castiel maintained his position above him, kneeling between his parted thighs, grip unwavering under Dean's knees, keeping him spread open and vulnerable.

He began with measured withdrawal, the drag of flesh against flesh sending sparks up Dean's spine, before driving forward with purpose, gradually building to a rhythm that was relentless and precise, each thrust striking deeper than the last.

Dean's chest heaved, each panting breath a desperate plea as he stared up at Castiel.

The sound, the slap of skin and wet, deep slide, eats at the hot fog in Dean’s head.

His cock is so fucking hard, slapping wetly between his stomach and Castiel, and every pump in flares it up, sets a desperate, sharp tingle running back to his spine.

Dean’s goddamn vision swims with it. Castiel’s hands are still strong on him, holding him open, holding him here, and the man’s face—so focused, so fucking intent, eyes storm-dark and burning—locks Dean up more than anything he’s ever seen. It’s almost too much.

But fuck, he’d never say stop. Not a chance.

Every thrust rocks him, and every time Castiel is fully in, there’s this brief, obliterating pressure, perfect and brutal, that makes Dean’s breath lurch out of his lungs. When it gets to be too much, his body tries to go all tense and rigid to cut.

"Kiss me, Cas," Dean begged, lips swollen and parted, breath coming in desperate pants.

Castiel reaches down, strong fingers wrapping around the back of Dean's neck, calluses rough against tender skin as he hauls him up for a kiss that tastes of desperation and want.

Dean whimpers and moans into it, the sound vibrating between their pressed mouths while Castiel continues to fuck into him, grinding hard, each movement sending electric jolts up Dean's spine. Dean reaches up with one trembling hand, the other still firmly gripping Castiel's sweat-slicked thigh, and brushes his thumb across Castiel's stiff nipple, feeling it harden further under his touch, coaxing more of those deep, rumbling groans that make Dean's cock twitch with need.

The bed frame protests beneath them, springs squealing in rhythmic complaint at the force of Castiel's relentless pace. He breaks the kiss with a wet sound, but stays close enough that their ragged breaths mingle in the scant space between them.

"Look at me," Castiel commands, his voice rough like honey drizzled over sun-baked gravel, and Dean tries, he fucking tries through the haze of pleasure threatening to drown him. Their eyes lock—emerald gems meeting ocean blue—clashing and melding together in the humid heat of their shared passion.

Dean's eyelids grow heavy, fluttering as another wave of pleasure crashes through him. Castiel pulls back slightly, broad palm sliding possessively over Dean's quivering thigh, fingers digging into muscle hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks. Dean gazes up at the man above him, transfixed by the way moonlight from the window catches on the beads of sweat trailing down Castiel's temple, how his biceps flex and coil with each powerful thrust, how the defined muscles in his stomach tense and release as he drives himself deeper.

Castiel looks down, breaking their intense stare just to watch himself disappear into Dean's body, his thick cock sliding in and out of Dean's flushed, stretched rim. Dean reaches down with desperate urgency, wrapping his fingers around his own neglected, leaking cock, the head glistening with sticky fluid.

He pumps his fist in time with Castiel's thrusts, matching the punishing rhythm that has him seeing stars behind his eyelids.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck! Cas! Cas!" The name tears from his throat like a prayer to a god he's ever truly believed in.

Dean's breath hitched, his voice breaking into a desperate whine as the pressure built inside him, coiling tighter with every relentless thrust.

Castiel's lean body moved with commanding precision above him, his hips snapping forward in deep, punishing thrusts that buried his thick cock to the hilt inside Dean's clenching ass.

Dean's strong build trembled under the assault. He craved it—the way Castiel knew exactly how to angle his thrusts, hitting that sweet spot deep within him that sent sparks racing up his spine. Castiel's intensity shone through, his dark eyes locked on Dean's face, watching every flicker of pleasure twist his features.

Without a word, Castiel shifted, slowing just enough to grind his hips in a deliberate circle, pressing the swollen head of his cock firmly against Dean's prostate.

The sensation was electric, a deep, throbbing pressure that made Dean's toes curl and his back arch off the mattress. "Fuck, Cas," Dean groaned, his voice rough and needy. He loved this—fucking loved how Castiel dominated him in bed, rough and unyielding, always attuned to what his body begged for, like they had been fucking for years and not hours.

The grind came again, slower this time, dragging out the torment as Castiel's hands gripped Dean's thighs, holding him open, forcing his thighs further apart until his muscles ached.

Dean's fist tightened around his cock, stroking faster as the heat surged. Castiel picked up the pace once more, thrusting hard and fast, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the dim room.

Each plunge stretched Dean wide, the burn mixing with overwhelming pleasure, his prostate assaulted repeatedly until he couldn't hold back.

"I'm gonna cum," he whined, his hand pumping his aching cock in frantic rhythm, slick with precum that made each stroke glide easier. As if on instinct, Castiel fucked into him faster, groaning as he felt Dean's body clench around his thick cock, coaxing his orgasm to crest faster.

"Fuck!" Dean cried out, his body seizing as orgasm ripped through him. Hot cum spilled in thick ropes over his pumping fist, splattering across his taut stomach, the release leaving him shuddering and gasping for air.

Castiel's rhythm faltered only for a heartbeat, his own control fraying at the sight and feel of Dean coming undone beneath him. He drove in one last time, burying himself deep as his cock throbbed, filling the condom with pulse after pulse of thick cum.

The latex stretched around the expanding load, and Dean felt every twitch inside him, the warmth seeping through in a distant echo. Castiel panted heavily, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow onto Dean's skin. Everything softened in that moment, vulnerability flickering in his eyes as he leaned down, collapsing atop Dean's sweaty, spent body.

Their weights pressed together, slick and intimate, Dean's arms wrapping instinctively around Castiel's back. He turned his head, pressing shaky, open-mouthed kisses to the damp skin of Castiel's neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. The tenderness bloomed in Dean's chest, a quiet ache of affection after the storm. Castiel shifted slightly, his cock still softening inside Dean, but he made no move to pull away yet, savoring the closeness.

"You okay?" Dean murmured against Castiel's cheek, his voice hoarse from cries and gasps, his lips brushing the stubbled jawline.

"Mmm," Castiel hummed in response, the sound vibrating through both of them, low and satisfied. Slowly, he eased back, pulling his cock free with a wet slide that made Dean gasp at the sudden emptiness, his ass clenching around nothing. The cool air hit the sensitive skin, a reminder of how thoroughly he'd been fucked.

Dean watched through half-lidded eyes as Castiel crawled off the bed, his lean muscles flexing under the faint glow of the overhead light. He peeled the condom off carefully, the cum-filled tip heavy and glistening, tying it off with practiced ease before tossing it into the trash bin by the tiny table.

The room plunged into softer shadows as Castiel flicked off the overhead light, the harsh buzz replaced by the quiet hum of the waves crashing outside. He returned to the bed, collapsing beside Dean with a sigh, their bodies immediately seeking each other out.

Dean rolled toward him, nuzzling into the crook of Castiel's neck, inhaling the familiar musk of him—sweat, soap, and something uniquely Cas that made his heart stutter.

Castiel's arms encircled him, one hand petting down Dean's back in slow, soothing strokes, fingers tracing the ridges of his spine and dipping lower to caress the curve of his ass. The touch was sensual, gentle after the roughness, igniting little aftershocks of pleasure that made Dean hum contentedly.

He felt cherished, the emotional openness post-sex washing over him like a warm tide. Castiel's other hand threaded through Dean's short hair, massaging his scalp lightly, drawing out a soft moan from deep in Dean's throat.

"That was... intense," Dean whispered, his voice muffled against Castiel's skin, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. He pressed closer, their legs tangling, cocks softening against thighs in lazy contentment.

Castiel chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Glad you liked it," he replied, his voice tender, lips brushing Dean's forehead. His hand continued its petting, now sliding along Dean's arm, intertwining their fingers. The aftercare wrapped around them like a blanket, bodies cooling but hearts still racing from the connection they'd forged.

Dean closed his eyes, letting the sensations sink in—the steady beat of Castiel's heart under his cheek, the faint ache in his muscles, the lingering throb in his ass that promised more if they wanted it.

In this quiet tangle, doubts faded, leaving only the promise of whatever came next, their breaths syncing in the hush of the night.

Chapter Text

Morning came in with the sound of water.

The ship rose and fell in slow rhythm, the waves brushing against the hull like the pulse of something alive. Pale sunlight spilled through the thin curtains, painting the room in gold and quiet.

Dean stirred first. The world was warm. The air smelled faintly of salt and linen, and something else—something familiar now—that clung to the sheets and to his skin. It wasn’t just the scent of the ocean anymore. It was them.

Castiel was pressed close behind him, one arm looped firmly around his waist, palm resting against his chest like it belonged there. The weight of it was solid, grounding, and every small shift made the bed creak softly with the rhythm of the ship.

When Dean moved, Castiel moved too, a low sound leaving him—half sigh, half hum—as he tightened his hold, as if the night hadn’t ended yet. His face was tucked against the back of Dean’s neck, the brush of his breath warm and steady against his skin.

Dean exhaled slowly. He didn’t pull away.

Outside, the waves rolled in lazy patterns, the sound slipping through the half-open balcony door. A faint breeze stirred the curtains, carrying the sharp tang of the sea and the faint, lingering sweetness of cologne.

The memories of the night before lay thick between them—not in sharp flashes, but in the quiet ache of recollection. The closeness, the heat of it, the way the world had seemed to fall away until there had been only this: hands, breath, and something that felt dangerously close to belonging.

Dean hummed low in his throat, the sound more instinct than words. He could feel the vibration of Castiel’s chest pressed to his back, the faint rise and fall of his breathing syncing with his own.

Castiel murmured something—his voice a soft, sleep-heavy rasp—and shifted just enough to nuzzle into the curve of Dean’s neck. Dean felt the tickle of stubble, the warmth of skin against skin.

“Morning,” Dean mumbled, voice rough.

Castiel didn’t answer, not right away. He only hummed in response, the sound sinking into the quiet like another heartbeat.

They stayed like that, wrapped up in sunlight and salt air, the silence full of unspoken things. Every creak of the ship and every lap of water against the hull seemed to remind them of how close they were now—how close they’d let themselves be.

Dean let his eyes fall shut again, his hand brushing lightly over Castiel’s where it rested against his chest. He didn’t think about what came next. He didn’t need to.

For now, there was only warmth, and the sea, and the soft gravity of someone who, somehow, felt like home.

They finally pulled themselves out of bed an hour later, the sunlight had climbed higher, spilling through the balcony door in bright gold. The sea outside shimmered like glass, the horizon wide and endless.

Dean groaned softly as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I swear this bed’s gonna ruin me for real life.”

From behind him came a sleepy hum. Castiel had barely moved, the sheet pooled low at his waist, his hair a tousled mess that looked far too good for someone who’d just woken up. “It’s comfortable,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Comfortable?” Dean repeated, stretching until his shoulders cracked. “Cas, this thing feels like it’s made of clouds. You don’t call that comfortable—you call that divine intervention.”

Castiel blinked, then gave him that small, amused look that had become his trademark. “Appropriate choice of words.”

Dean smirked over his shoulder. “You’re smug for a guy who almost refused to get outta bed.”

“I never refused,” Castiel said mildly. “You just didn’t give me a compelling reason to move.”

Dean snorted. “Breakfast not a good enough reason?”

Castiel finally pushed himself up, sitting cross-legged beside Dean, sunlight cutting across his shoulders. “That depends. Are you making it?”

“Hell no,” Dean said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “That’s why we’re payin’ for this fancy cruise, remember? I plan to get my money’s worth in pancakes and coffee.”

“You didn’t pay for anything, you won a free cruise,” Castiel murmured, but his tone held a quiet amusement.

“Exactly!” Dean laughed.

They showered and dressed in relative silence, though Dean kept up a steady stream of muttering about missing flannel shirts and how no one warned him “island air made your hair go rogue.” Castiel watched him in the mirror, buttoning his own shirt—white, simple, crisp—and smiling faintly at Dean’s reflection.

“You look fine,” he said.

“‘Fine’?” Dean huffed. “That’s what people say when you look like you lost a fight with a hair dryer.”

Castiel’s smile grew. “Then you look handsome.”

Dean paused mid-grumble, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “You’re real bad at subtle, you know that?”

“I’m not trying to be subtle.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Dean muttered, but his grin was unmistakable.

***

The deck was already buzzing with life when they arrived. The scent of brewed coffee mingled with sea air and the faint sweetness of fruit from the buffet. Sunlight glimmered across the surface of the water, throwing reflections that danced along the glass railings.

They found a table tucked by the railing, half in shade, half in sun. Castiel sat opposite him, quiet and content, his gaze on the water. Dean filled their plates like a man who hadn’t eaten in days—eggs, bacon, toast, the works.

“You gonna eat anything?” Dean asked, eyeing Castiel’s plate of fruit and yogurt.

“I am,” Castiel said simply, spooning a bite of mango.

Dean frowned. “That’s not breakfast. That’s a side dish.”

“It’s refreshing.”

“It’s rabbit food.”

“It’s balanced.”

Dean pointed at his own overflowing plate. “This is balanced. Got all the major food groups—protein, carbs, caffeine, grease.”

Castiel’s lips twitched. “And regret.”

Dean choked on his coffee, laughing. “Did you just make a joke?”

“I make jokes all the time,” Castiel said, completely deadpan.

Dean leaned forward, still chuckling. “You do not. You make statements that only sound like jokes if I squint real hard.”

“Then maybe you should squint more often,” Castiel replied smoothly.

Dean stared at him for a beat before breaking into another grin. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

They ate, the air between them light but full of small, unspoken things. Every so often, Castiel’s eyes would drift toward Dean—soft, thoughtful—and Dean would feel the echo of last night humming somewhere deep under his ribs. The memory wasn’t sharp anymore; it was warm, like the sunlight soaking into his skin.

At one point, Dean pushed his coffee cup toward Castiel. “Wanna try mine? It’s got about a pound of sugar.”

Castiel hesitated, then took a sip. His brow furrowed. “That’s not coffee.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“It tastes like melted candy.”

“That’s the point.”

Castiel shook his head, sliding it back. “You have very particular tastes.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

Castiel met his gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “I’m beginning to.”

Dean blinked, his grin faltering for half a heartbeat before returning—smaller this time, more real.

“Careful, Cas,” he said softly, leaning back in his chair. “Might actually think you do like me after all.”

“I thought that was obvious,” Castiel said simply, cutting into his fruit. “I did fuck you last night.”

Dean laughed under his breath, looking down at his plate to hide the color creeping into his cheeks.

The boat wasn’t leaving for a few hours, and the air on the island still felt alive with that bright, lazy warmth that only happened near the sea. Dean and Castiel decided to spend what was left of the afternoon walking—no plan, no map, just wandering.

They moved through narrow streets lined with stalls and cafés, the smell of grilled fruit and salt heavy in the air. Every turn offered something new: bright sarongs fluttering in the wind, tables stacked with carved trinkets, shop windows filled with glittering glass and sun-bleached shells.

Castiel stopped more than once, fascinated by something simple—a wooden bird carved from driftwood, a painting of the shore done in thick, uneven strokes. Dean, meanwhile, was far more interested in the food.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean said, pointing to a stand dripping with colorful bottles. “We can’t leave without tryin’ whatever that is.”

“I think that’s hot sauce,” Castiel said, peering closer.

“Yeah, well, I like to live dangerously.”

“You said that before eating durian.”

“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “And I survived, didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

Dean laughed, the sound easy and bright, and before he even thought about it, his hand found Castiel’s. Their fingers brushed once—hesitant, unsure—and then Dean laced them together, holding firm.

For a second, he expected Castiel to pull away. But he didn’t.

Castiel looked down at their joined hands, eyes soft, thoughtful, before glancing back up. He didn’t say anything—just looked back at Dean, who was doing a terrible job of pretending to study the plates.

When Dean finally glanced sideways, their eyes met.

Castiel smiled—small, real, the kind that pulled at something deep in Dean’s chest. Then, without a word, he tugged him gently away from the stall.

They walked back toward the port hand in hand, the path winding through the narrow cobbled streets lined with shuttered cafés and flowers spilling from windowsills. The sun dipped lower, the air softening into the cool of early evening. Their conversation drifted—light, meaningless, and everything at once.

They talked about food, about the music, about the weird tan lines Dean was already complaining about. And then, as the ship came into view again, Dean’s tone changed.

“So… um… what are you going to do when you get back to Miami?” he asked, his voice almost lost under the sound of waves hitting the dock.

Castiel turned toward him, the question hanging there like the pause before a storm.

“I might… go home, actually.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Home. Your home away from home or…”

“No, like…” Castiel glanced out at the horizon. “Kansas. Haven’t been there in a while.”

He leaned against the railing beside him, arms crossed loosely. “Oh, okay.”

Castiel turned to look at him fully then, his shoulder brushing Dean’s. “Why do you ask,” he said softly.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It hummed, low and full of something neither of them wanted to name yet.

Dean’s hand tightened on the railing. “This is… this is a bit of a stretch but…” He looked away, the words coming out rough. “Can we maybe meet up after this? Like… see each other again.”

He tried to make it sound casual, but the way he mumbled it gave him away. The wind caught his hair, ruffling it into disarray, and the faint blush that crept up his cheeks made his freckles disappear beneath the color.

Castiel watched him for a long moment, taking him in—the way Dean avoided his gaze, the small twitch of his jaw, the uncertainty that didn’t quite match the confident man he’d met days ago.

“Yeah,” Castiel said finally, his voice soft but sure.

Dean’s head lifted, his green eyes catching the last light of the sun. “Yeah?”

Castiel smiled. “Yeah.”

The wind whipped past them, carrying the sound of gulls and the faint echo of music from the dockside. For a moment, everything else disappeared—the chatter, the ship, even the countdown to departure. There was only this: two people standing side by side on the edge of something that neither of them wanted to end.

Dean exhaled slowly, a crooked grin breaking across his face. “Good. ‘Cause I was already thinkin’ I’d find some excuse to ‘accidentally’ bump into you again.”

Castiel’s smile deepened. “No excuse necessary.”

Dean laughed under his breath, the sound carried off by the wind. And as the ship horn sounded in the distance, calling them home, neither of them moved right away.

They just stood there—fingers brushing, eyes on the horizon—watching the sun sink low over the water.

***

They finally made it aboard the ship and planted themselves on the stern, shoulders brushing as the island shrank into the distance. The lights along the shore blinked once, twice, then vanished into a smear of gold on the horizon. For a long minute they just watched the world recede—salt air, the low thrum of engines, and the easy quiet that fell between them.

Back in their cabin, Dean ordered room service while Castiel changed. He reappeared in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers—this time tighter and silkier than Dean would’ve expected—and for the briefest second Dean forgot how to finish a sentence.

He fumbled through the menu over the phone, fingers tapping the bedside table, voice going a little rough around the edges. He bit his bottom lip and tried to hide it behind the polite cadence of the waiter on the line.

Castiel moved toward the mini-fridge with the kind of silent, casual grace that made Dean entirely aware of where the light hit his shoulders. Dean hadn’t even noticed the fridge when he’d first walked in; Castiel had been a fucking distraction the whole trip. For once, the distraction had no supernatural explanation—just a person, the way his T-shirt had ridden up earlier, the faint crease of a freckle near his collarbone. He grabbed two glasses, and poured the small bottle of whiskey into them.

“So,” Castiel asked, glass in hand, “how are you enjoying the trip?”

Dean took a slow sip and let the answer come out like a confession and a joke at once. “Oh, it’s great,” he said. “Won a free cruise with unlimited booze and food, got bunked with a stranger who looks like he walked out of a GQ spread—really insufferable.” He rolled his eyes, but the smile that followed was all teeth. “But he’s hot, so, y’know. Made the whole thing worth it.” He couldn’t keep the fondness from his voice.

Castiel let out a short, amused sound and reached out, offering his glass. Dean met his hand halfway; their glasses chimed together with a soft, deliberate clink. For a second they were just two people on a ship, two glasses, the hush of the ocean pressing at the windows.

Moments later their dinner arrived: two perfectly seared steaks, a mound of garlicky mashed potatoes, and a small bowl of roasted vegetables that smelled faintly of rosemary.

They ate on the balcony in companionable silence, the ship’s wake whispering below and a cool breeze lifting the hem of Castiel’s shirt now and then. Castiel talked—about the island they’d left, something about a map he’d seen in a museum, a detail about an old stone restaurant—but Dean wasn’t really listening.

He kept stealing looks, watching the way the light caught at the line of Castiel’s jaw, the way his fingers tapped the railing when he made a point.

Dean pretended to be absorbed, nodding at intervals while stuffing another bite in his mouth. Castiel caught him once and raised an eyebrow, amusement softening his features. “You’re not listening, are you?” he asked.

Muffled around the potato, Dean shrugged and grinned. “I heard the important parts,” he said. “Like—there’s a restaurant.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast and Castiel laughed, the sound small and warm against the evening.

When they finished, the ritual of the small room took over in comfortable, unhurried motions. They brushed their teeth side by side in the tiny bathroom, a ridiculous synchronized shuffle around a crowded sink.

Toothpaste foamed at the corners of their mouths and they bumped shoulders reaching for towels; Dean caught Castiel’s wrist to steady him and lingered there just a breath too long. Their eyes met in the mirror—wide, amused, a little raw—and neither said anything. What needed saying was already understood.

In bed they chose the quiet option over the roar of the ship’s bars and pools. They opened the balcony doors again and let the night in: the vast, dark ocean, the pale smear of moonlight skimming the water, the smell of salt and diesel and laundry. Dean turned the lamp off, leaving only the faint glow of the corridor lights outside and a sliver of moon painting Castiel in silver.

Dean practically dove under the sheets, the bed dipping with the movement. He paused only to cup Castiel’s jaw in one hand, thumb brushing along the line until the other man leaned into the touch.

Dean kissed the corner of Castiel’s mouth first—soft and searching—then let his lips roam, tongue flicking playfully at the seam before pressing into a deeper, sure kiss. It was the kind of kiss that said yes without words: slow, intent, and gentle enough to tease what might come next.

Castiel pulled Dean down onto him, fingers tangling at the back of his neck; Dean took the invitation like a man who’d been waiting all night. He shifted, sliding himself between Castiel’s thighs until their hips were flush.

Their mouths met again, tasting of mint and a sliver of whiskey—the sharpness of his drink undercut by something sweeter and fiercer. Dean teased Castiel’s tongue with his own, then broke the kiss to trail his lips down the hollow of Castiel’s throat.

Castiel tilted his head back, giving Dean more room, and the exhale that left him sounded like surrender. Dean kissed and nipped a slow path downward, leaving warm, wet marks against skin that was suddenly electric under his mouth.

He paused at Castiel’s chest, eyes lifting to watch the reactions he was drawing. When Dean’s tongue found a nipple, the movement was curious and reverent at first—light flicks and a gentle suck—then more insistent, alternating with soft nibbles that made Castiel arch into him.

Hands were everywhere: Castiel’s palms came up to cup Dean’s face, fingers threading into hair, drawing him closer; Dean’s free hand fanned across Castiel’s ribs and lower, learning the landscape of his body in quick, hungry strokes.

Dean moved down, down until his face was right at the waistband of Castiel’s silky shorts. The fabric was soft against his skin, but it was the promise of what lay beneath that made his breath hitch.

“Cas, can I?” Dean asked, his voice low and filled with anticipation, as his hands roamed over Castiel’s strong thighs. He could feel the heat radiating from Castiel’s body, a magnetic pull that drew him closer.

When his fingers reached up to palm Castiel’s cock through the silken fabric, Dean couldn’t help but let out a soft moan of his own. Castiel was hard—so hard and so thick—that it sent a rush of desire coursing through him. He remembered feeling his cock inside him, the memory was enough to make him dizzy with longing, even though it was just last night.

Castiel answered him with a soft moan and a subtle buck of his hips, a silent invitation that Dean was more than happy to accept.

Taking that cue, Dean reached up and pulled the elastic down. His dick sprang free, the tip glistening with precum, and Dean couldn’t help but bite his lip at the sight. The sound of it slapping against Castiel’s belly was intoxicating, fueling the fire of his desire.

“God, you’re so fucking hard,” Dean moaned, his voice thick with hunger as he pulled Castiel’s boxers down all the way. Castiel helped him, lifting his legs, exposing himself completely.

Dean barely hesitated. He nuzzled into Castiel’s balls first, his breath hot against the sensitive skin, swirling his tongue and sucking gently as he explored the rich texture. The taste was intoxicating, a heady mix of musk that made Dean crave more. He traced the length of Castiel’s cock next, his tongue teasing the sensitive underside before he suckled on the sensitive bundle of nerves just beneath the swollen tip.

Castiel’s breath hitched, a low groan escaping his lips as he tangled his fingers in Dean’s hair, urging him on. Each flick of Dean’s tongue was drawing forth more sounds of pleasure from Castiel. Dean reveled in the way Castiel’s body responded to him, the way his hips instinctively thrust forward, seeking more of that delicious friction.

“Please, Dean,” Castiel gasped, his voice laced with desperation and need.

Dean wasted no time. He wrapped his lips around the engorged length, swallowing him down to the hilt, his throat constricting with each inch he took.

The firm grip on his hair wasn't even painful, just grounding as Castiel let Dean fuck his own throat, the rhythm steady and relentless. If there was one thing Dean was good at, it was giving head, and if Castiel had fucked him so good last night, he was prepared to return the favor with a blow job that would leave the man breathless.

Dean reached up, his fingers tugging and groping Castiel's balls while he bobbed his head, the motion fluid and practiced. The slick sounds of his throat constricting echoed off the walls of their cabin, a symphony of desire that filled the air.

Castiel let out helpless, deep groans as Dean continued to suck and lick his cock, the sensation driving him wild. Dean looked up, barely able to see the man's face through the haze of pleasure and limited light, but he knew Castiel was looking down at him, his eyes dark with lust.

Dean pulled off him, his hand wrapping around that big, wet cock, stroking it with a wicked grin. "You taste so fucking good," he murmured, his voice husky with need.

Castiel's breath hitched, his body tensing as Dean continued to tease him, his touch both gentle and demanding. The room was filled with the sounds of their pleasure, a testament to the intense connection they developed.

Dean was learning the man’s body and soon enough, he knew exactly how to drive Castiel to the edge, his skills honed by years of practice and a deep understanding of what a man wanted. He took his time, savoring every moment, every sensation, as he pushed Castiel closer and closer to the brink.

Dean wrapped his lips around Castiel's cock, bobbing his head with a steady rhythm, urging Castiel to cum. Castiel's grip tightened in his hair, his breath hitching with each deep thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of the obscene wet slurping echoing off the walls as Dean took him deeper.

"Ah, ahh!" Castiel cried out, his breath hitching, his body tensed, his muscles coiling as he neared the edge. Dean felt the throb of his cock against his tongue, the pulse of blood beneath the sensitive skin.

He forced Castiel's cock deeper into his mouth, his nose brushing the soft thatch of trimmed hair, and Castiel let out a low, guttural moan.

Hot cum spilled straight down Dean's throat, the taste salty and familiar. He moaned around the throbbing length, swallowing all the fluid he could handle, his throat constricting with each gulp. He pulled back slowly, a thin trail of saliva connecting his lips to Castiel's cock, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a wicked grin on his face.

Dean kissed up Castiel's body, his lips tracing a path from his stomach to his chest, lingering on his collarbone before finally reaching his cheek and temple. Castiel's breath was still ragged, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

"That was amazing," Castiel said, his voice breathless and hoarse. "You're incredible."

"Good. Glad you enjoyed it," Dean replied, his voice low and husky. He pulled the sheets up over their bodies, the soft fabric a comforting weight against their skin. Castiel turned towards Dean, pressing his softening cock against his ass, and Dean smiled softly, a sense of contentment washing over him.

"Do you want me to do you?" Castiel asked, his hand already reaching for the pitching tent in Dean's pants. Dean hesitated, the temptation strong, but he shook his head.

"No, it's okay," Dean murmured, though he knew he was a fool for denying Castiel's touch right now. "If we're going to see each other again, we've got plenty of time for this."

Castiel barely stopped touching Dean, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin, his lips pressing soft kisses to his neck and shoulder. "You're right," Castiel agreed, his voice a low rumble. "But I can't wait to have you again."

Dean chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that vibrated through his chest. Castiel placed a final kiss on the back of Dean's neck, a promise of things to come, and they settled into a comfortable silence, their bodies entwined, their breaths syncing as they drifted off to sleep.

***

The ship docked just after sunrise, the light on the water a pale shimmer of gold and blue. The harbor buzzed with life—luggage wheels clattering, gulls crying overhead, the low murmur of travelers who had already switched their minds back to home and routine.

But for Dean and Castiel, the world had slowed down.

They stood at the edge of the pier for a long time after they disembarked, waiting for the shuttle that would take them to the airport. The breeze carried the scent of salt and engine oil, and Dean caught himself wishing for one more day—just a few more hours before the spell of the cruise broke.

When the shuttle finally arrived, they climbed aboard, finding a seat near the back. The interior was quiet, half-empty. A few passengers chatted in low voices, but neither Dean nor Castiel spoke. The hum of the engine filled the silence between them.

Dean rested his elbow against the window, watching the ocean fade into the distance, and without thinking, he reached out.

Castiel’s hand was waiting.

Their fingers met halfway, slow and unspoken, and laced together.

No one said anything. They didn’t need to. The city came into view outside the window, sunlight streaking through the glass, the reflection of their joined hands blurred against it.

Castiel leaned slightly closer, his shoulder brushing Dean’s. The warmth of him was steady and grounding, the one familiar thing in the shifting landscape of departure.

Dean let out a quiet breath, half a laugh, half something else. “Guess this is the part where the credits roll, huh?”

Castiel turned his head, eyes soft. “Not yet.”

Dean smiled faintly. “You always gotta have the last word, don’t you?”

“Only when it matters,” Castiel said.

Dean chuckled, but it came out quiet, full of something fond and heavy. The shuttle rolled on, the sound of the tires against the road steady as a heartbeat.

When they reached the airport, neither moved at first. People filed out around them, chatter filling the aisle, and still they sat there, hands linked. Dean finally cleared his throat, the motion breaking the spell.

“Well,” he said, voice rough. “Guess this is it.”

Castiel looked at him, a small, certain smile playing at his lips. “For now.”

Dean held his gaze for a beat longer, then nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. For now.”

They stood, shoulders brushing one last time as they stepped off the shuttle and into the sunlight.

And though they walked in opposite directions a few minutes later, Dean kept looking back—just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it when Castiel turned once, too.

Dean had made it maybe twenty steps through the terminal, head down, duffel slung over his shoulder, the noise of rolling suitcases and flight announcements crowding his thoughts. Every step felt like dragging his feet through water—heavy, wrong.

Then, without thinking, he stopped.

Something in his chest twisted, that deep, restless ache that had followed him ever since he’d stepped off the ship. He turned.

And there was Castiel.

He was standing near the row of seats by the big glass windows, looking out at the runways— luggage in hand, his phone and that familiar, quiet presence that somehow steadied the world around him.

When Castiel felt the weight of Dean’s gaze, he turned too, eyes finding him across the crowded terminal. The noise of the airport seemed to dim between them.

He opened his mouth—probably to say something polite, something measured. But Dean didn’t let him.

He crossed the distance between them in quick, sure strides, the kind that made a few heads turn. And before Castiel could even get out a word, Dean dropped his bag to the floor, reached out, and kissed him.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned. It was everything—all the words he hadn’t said, the warmth of the ship, the salt of the sea, the impossible pull of a few days that had felt like forever.

Castiel froze for half a heartbeat, eyes wide, and then he melted into it—smiling against Dean’s mouth as laughter bubbled up between them. His hands came up, curling in the fabric of Dean’s shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left at all.

The world went on around them—people walking past, luggage wheels clattering, someone’s child pointing in delighted confusion—but neither of them cared.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless and grinning like idiots.

“You realize everyone’s staring,” Castiel said softly, his lips still close to Dean’s.

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Good. Maybe they’ll learn a thing or two about not letting somethin’ good walk away.”

Castiel smiled—really smiled, the kind that reached his eyes and made the corners crinkle. “You didn’t let me.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck but still beaming, “I couldn’t let you leave without one more kiss.”

“For someone who doesn’t like romantic comedies, sure you like to act them out.” Castiel laughed quietly, that warm, rich sound Dean had missed the moment it stopped. “I’m glad you turned around.”

Dean nodded, slipping his fingers through Castiel’s again. “Me too, Cas. Me too.”

The overhead speakers crackled with another boarding announcement, but for the first time, neither of them moved.

They just stood there in the middle of the airport, surrounded by strangers, smiling like two people who’d somehow found home again—right where they left it.

Chapter Text

It had been a few weeks since Dean had last seen Castiel.

After their epic kiss at the airport—Sam’s word, not his—they’d done the whole “we’ll keep in touch” thing. Except they actually meant it. There were texts, phone calls, late-night video chats where Dean pretended he wasn’t tired just to hear Castiel talk about his day.

Dean had even let Sam in on it—a little.

He filled him in more about Castiel, about the cruise, about the island, about how he’d accidentally fallen for a guy who wore floral shirts like a lifestyle choice. And of course, Sam insisted on meeting him—virtually.

Dean should’ve known better.

Within minutes, Sam and Castiel were deep in conversation, laughing like they’d known each other for years. Sam was asking about travel and books, Castiel was being charmingly literal, and Dean sat there watching, somewhere between exasperated and smitten.

When they both started ganging up on him, Dean finally lost it. “Alright! Alright!” he’d said, snatching the phone out of Sam’s hand while Sam grinned like the devil.

Castiel had just smiled from the other side of the screen, soft and knowing.

“So,” Dean said then, trying for casual and failing, “when are you coming?”

“Soon, my love. I promise,” Castiel replied in that calm, earnest way that could disarm a tank.

Dean had smiled—the same smile that said I’m disappointed, but I’m trying not to be clingy about it. Castiel, of course, saw right through him.

That was a few weeks ago. And Dean was officially, completely, absolutely out of patience.

***

The morning was like any other. Sunlight glared off the chrome fenders in the shop, classic rock hummed faintly from the radio, and Dean was half under an SUV, elbow-deep in work and motor oil.

The air smelled like grease and coffee gone stale. The bell over the bay door dinged as a car rolled over the entry wire.

“Benny! You got that?” Dean called, tightening one last bolt.

“Yeah, brother,” Benny called back. His voice was easy, unhurried. Dean heard the murmur of conversation—Benny’s deep drawl, someone else’s voice lower, familiar in a way that made his pulse stutter.

“Routine oil change? Park in the first space there,” Benny said.

Dean wiped his hands on a rag and rolled himself out from under the SUV. “I’ll be right there,” he muttered, climbing to his feet. He rounded the front of the car—ready with his customer-service grin—and nearly tripped over his own damn boots.

There he was.

Castiel.

Standing in the middle of the garage like he belonged there—hands in the pockets of teal shorts, a navy shirt clinging just right, sunglasses perched on his nose, looking every bit like the kind of summer dream Dean hadn’t realized he’d been having until now.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, the name escaping before he could stop it.

Castiel smiled, slow and warm, pulling off his sunglasses. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean blinked, then blinked again, like he was checking if the universe was punking him. “What—how—why are you here? You—you drove here? From Miami?”

“Technically from here,” Castiel said calmly. “I told you I’d be home soon.”

Dean just stood there for a second, rag dangling uselessly from his hand, eyes wide. “You mean to tell me you came all this way just for an oil change?”

Castiel tilted his head, lips curving. “You told me this was the best shop in town.”

Dean’s jaw worked uselessly for a second before he laughed, the sound echoing off the metal walls. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I missed you,” Castiel said simply, as if that explained everything.

Dean’s laughter softened into something else, something quieter. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a grin that was equal parts flustered and glowing. “Yeah, me too, Cas.”

Benny, who’d been leaning on the counter pretending not to eavesdrop, coughed pointedly. “You want me to… uh, take my lunch early?”

Dean shot him a look. “Yeah, Benny. Go get a burger. Or a vacation.”

Benny chuckled all the way out the door, muttering something about “kids these days.”

The garage was quiet again, except for the hum of the radio and the faint thrum of Dean’s heartbeat in his ears.

“So,” Dean said after a moment, voice rougher than he meant it to be. “You just show up here looking like a damn postcard and expect me to what—check your oil?”

Castiel’s smile widened. “Yes.”

Dean chuckled under his breath. “You’re so fucking lucky you’re cute.”

Castiel stepped closer, close enough that Dean could smell the faint salt of his skin and something citrusy—his same cologne. “You told me that once before,” Castiel said.

“Yeah, well,” Dean murmured, grinning, “still true.”

The radio crackled into a familiar tune, lazy and warm. Outside, the Kansas sky was as blue as the ocean they’d left behind.

For a long moment, they just stood there in the smell of oil and sunlight, smiling at each other like they’d never really said goodbye at all.

***

The rest of the afternoon slipped by easily, almost suspiciously so.

Castiel stayed at the shop, following Dean around as he finished up the last few cars. He asked questions—some practical, some very Castiel, like “Why is this called a catalytic converter when it doesn’t actually convert anything?”—and Dean laughed more than he had in weeks.

By the time the Closed sign flipped on the bay door, the sun had turned the world a deep, molten gold.

“You could’ve gone to a hotel,” Dean said as he locked up, tossing his keys from one hand to the other.

“I could have,” Castiel replied, standing there with his hands in his pockets, a small, knowing smile tugging at his mouth. “But you wouldn’t have liked that.”

Dean stopped mid-step and looked back at him, grin breaking through before he could hide it. “You’re not wrong.”

Dean’s house was small but warm—lived-in, the way places get when they’ve seen years of laughter, heartbreak, and a lot of bad takeout. The moment they stepped inside, Castiel took it in like he was seeing something precious: the half-finished jigsaw on the coffee table, the old flannel jacket draped over the back of a chair, the way the light hit the kitchen window.

“Nice place,” he said, genuine.

“Yeah, well,” Dean scratched the back of his neck, “don’t get too impressed. The real charm’s the fridge—it hums like it’s tryin’ to start a band.”

Castiel chuckled softly. “I like it.”

Before Dean could respond, a voice called from the hallway. “That you, Dean?”

Sam appeared, drying his hands on a towel, eyebrows shooting up when he saw who stood behind his brother. “No way,” he said, grinning. “Castiel?”

Castiel smiled warmly. “Hello, Sam.”

They shook hands, and Sam—being Sam—immediately went into host mode. “You’re just in time, man. I was about to start dinner. You eat, right?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “He’s not a robot, Sam.”

“You never know,” Sam teased.

Dean went to shower, leaving Sam and Castiel chatting about God knows what, though he didn’t mind because Sam liking Castiel was important to him.

When he finally emerged smelling like coconuts and citrus, they ended up around the small kitchen table with a spread that smelled too good to be one of Dean’s usual bachelor meals. Sam had taken charge, whipping up pasta, garlic bread, and something green that Dean poked at, but ate anyway because his brother made it.

Conversation flowed easily. Castiel talked about the drive, about his work, about how weird Kansas looked after so long away. Sam asked a hundred questions, fascinated by the way Castiel answered each one honestly and thoughtfully.

Dean mostly listened, watching the way they got along—Sam laughing, Castiel smiling that quiet, content smile. He caught himself thinking how right it all looked: this moment, this light, this table.

“So,” Sam said finally, leaning back in his chair, “you two gonna tell me about your epic love story.”

Dean groaned. “Don’t start.”

“What? I just wanna know how my brother managed to pull off a rom-com plot in real life.”

“It wasn’t a rom-com,” Dean muttered, lying to himself mostly.

Castiel tilted his head. “It had several comedic and romantic elements.”

Sam nearly choked on his drink. “You are perfect for him.”

Dean pointed a fork at him. “You’re not funny.”

Castiel’s quiet laugh said otherwise.

The night stretched on like that—teasing, laughter, the kind of warmth that comes from feeling completely at ease. The radio played low in the background, the kitchen lights soft and golden.

At one point, Dean caught Castiel looking at him across the table—eyes steady, full of that same fondness he’d carried since the island. Dean’s chest went tight in the best way possible.

When Sam finally called it a night and disappeared down the hall, Dean and Castiel lingered at the table, finishing the last of the wine.

“It feels good,” Dean said quietly, breaking the silence. “You bein’ here. Feels… right.”

Castiel smiled, resting his elbows on the table. “It is.”

Dean’s grin turned a little shy, a little crooked. “You think maybe… you’ll stay a while?”

Castiel tilted his head, as if considering it—but his answer came without hesitation. “I think I already am.”

Dean smiled and quickly grabbed the dishes, stacking them neatly in the sink. Castiel followed suit, his movements efficient and quiet. Together, they exited the kitchen, turning off the lights and leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the moon filtering through the windows. Castiel followed Dean up the stairs, his footsteps echoing the steady rhythm of Dean's heart.

Thankfully, Sam's room was downstairs, and Dean refused to scar his brother, though it wasn't as if he hadn't done so before. As they reached the top of the stairs, Dean barely wasted any time. He shut and locked the door behind him, practically shoving Castiel towards the bed with a hunger that had been building for far too long.

The overhead light flicked off, replaced by the warm, ambient glow of the lamps, casting long shadows across the room. Dean climbed on top of Castiel, his body pressing down with a desperation born of longing. It felt as if he had been starved of Castiel's touch, and the sensation of their skin meeting was electric.

"God, I missed you so much," Dean moaned into Castiel's neck, his lips and teeth teasing the tender flesh. Each word was a confession, a plea for more. Castiel chuckled breathlessly, his body tensing as Dean's fingers cupped his jaw, turning his head to capture the tender spot under his ear with a kiss that was both gentle and demanding.

Castiel pulled Dean up for a passionate kiss, his hands firmly gripping Dean's hips as he pressed their bodies together. Dean crushed their lips together, his tongue delving in, tasting wine and something uniquely Castiel. Castiel's fingers traced the curve of Dean's spine, sending shivers down his back as he ran his hands over the taut muscles beneath the fabric. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows that danced across their intertwined forms, adding an air of intimacy to the moment.

Castiel's hands slipped into Dean's shirt from the back, running over his smooth, warmed skin. Dean sat back on his knees, straddling Castiel, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Castiel leaned up, pulling Dean into his lap and started kissing and sucking bruises into his chest and collarbones. He wrapped his arms around Dean's waist; his mouth trailing down to suck and tease his nipples.

Dean nearly tore Castiel's mouth away from his chest, biting his bottom lip playfully before kissing him deeply again. Castiel swiftly switched their positions, dragging Dean up to the top of the bed.

"Gotta stop that ninja shit, Cas. Gonna make me fucking blow my load before I'm ready," Dean said with a shaky laugh.

"Do you not like me manhandling you?" Castiel asked, his tone deep and teasing.

"Can only imagine what you could do," Dean laughed, trying to lean up, only to have Castiel shove him down. The look on Dean's face was one of pure desire.

"Goddamn, Cas..." Dean leaned up and kissed the man, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it on the floor. Their kisses turned frantic, and Dean's hands reached up to tease Castiel's nipples while he fumbled with pulling Dean's sweatpants down, mildly surprised to find him naked underneath. Dean gasped when the cool air hit his flushed cock, and Castiel reached down, palming his cock and rubbing the pads of his fingers over his swollen cockhead, smearing the small amount of precum there.

Castiel kissed down Dean's body, his lips tracing a path over the firm planes of his stomach and hips, lingering on his hipbones as he sucked and nibbled the sensitive flesh. Before Dean could utter a sound or make a move, Castiel wrapped his lips around his cock, swallowing him down until his nose brushed the neatly trimmed hair at the base. The sensation was electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to Dean's core.

"Oh god," Dean gasped, his eyes rolling back as he gripped Castiel's hair, not to guide but to ground himself in the overwhelming sensation. Castiel's throat fluttered around Dean's thick cock, the muscles constricting and releasing in a rhythm that threatened to undo him.

Castiel pulled back slowly, his tongue swirling around the leaking tip, savoring the taste of precum as he sucked it from the slit. Dean's cock gave a violent throb, more precum spilling onto Castiel's tongue, and Dean thought he was going to fucking cum right there.

Castiel was so fucking good at this, hell, he was good at everything. He took Dean's breath away, whether he was being a tour guide extraordinaire or a fantastic lover. Now, the man was hellbent on sucking the soul out of his dick.

Saliva dripped down the shaft of his dick, pooling around his balls where Castiel reached up and cupped them, smearing the fluid around with his thumb, adding an extra layer of sensation that pushed Dean closer to the edge.

"Shit man... you're gonna make me cum," Dean said, a twinge of embarrassment in his voice. Castiel pulled back, a wide, toothy grin spreading across his face, letting Dean's tip just brush his swollen lips. The teasing touch was almost too much, and Dean had to grit his teeth to hold back the orgasm that threatened to overwhelm him.

Castiel's eyes sparkled with mischief as he maintained eye contact, his grin never wavering. "Is that a problem?" he teased, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated against Dean's cock. The sound alone was enough to make Dean's hips buck, seeking more of the incredible sensation.

Dean let out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening in Castiel's hair.

"Fuck, Cas. You know it's not," he managed to say, his voice strained with need. Castiel took that as an invitation, leaning in to swirl his tongue around the sensitive head once more before taking him back into his mouth, deeper this time. The suction was intense, pulling at Dean's cock with a relentless hunger.

Dean's moans filled the room, a symphony of pleasure and desperation. He could feel the pressure building, the tingling at the base of his spine signaling his impending release. Castiel seemed to sense it too, his movements becoming more urgent, his hands gripping Dean's thighs as if to hold him in place.

"Cas, I'm close," Dean warned, his voice barely above a whisper.

But Castiel didn't let up. Instead, he doubled down, his head bobbing faster, his throat working to take Dean even deeper. The combination of the tight suction and the flick of Castiel's tongue against the underside of his cock sent Dean spiraling over the edge.

With a final, guttural moan, Dean came, his body tensing as he spilled into Castiel's mouth. Castiel swallowed every drop, his throat working to take it all, his eyes never leaving Dean's face. When Dean finally collapsed back onto the bed, spent and breathless, Castiel pulled back, a satisfied smile on his face.

"God, Cas," Dean panted, his chest heaving with each breath.

Castiel crawled up the bed, settling beside him, his hand resting on Dean's chest. "I aim to please," he said with a soft chuckle, his eyes filled with a warmth that went beyond the physical.

"You gonna fuck me now?" Dean asked, his voice laced with a mix of desperation and hope. He had been craving this moment for weeks, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. Castiel, sensing his need, moved up Dean's body, his lips leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. He lingered on Dean's stomach, his tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive skin, before moving up to his chest. Castiel's mouth found Dean's nipples, his teeth grazing the hard peaks, eliciting a whine from Dean at the loss of contact when he pulled away.

Dean gasped, his body arching off the bed as Castiel ground into his flaccid cock, still oversensitive and wet from his cum. The sensation was almost too much, and Dean could feel his body responding, his cock already stirring back to life.

Castiel's eyes held a mix of lust and tenderness as he looked down at Dean, his hands roaming over his body with a mildly possessive touch.

"Tell me what you want, Dean," Castiel whispered, his voice low and husky. "Tell me how you want me to fuck you."

Dean's breath hitched, his mind racing with the possibilities.

"I want you to fuck me deep," Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to feel you inside me. I need it Cas… been too long." Castiel's eyes darkened with desire, and he leaned down to capture Dean's mouth in a fierce kiss, his tongue exploring every inch, claiming him as his own. He fumbled with the rest of his clothes, kicking everything off. Dean's hands found their way to Castiel's back, pulling him closer, wanting to feel every inch of his skin against his own.

“Condoms?” Castiel asked against Dean’s lips.

“Drawer.” Dean answers, voice rough.

Castiel reached into the bedside drawer, feeling a tiny bottle first and grabbing that and a condom. He quickly rolled the condom on, his movements efficient and purposeful. Dean watched, his breath coming in short gasps, his body aching with need. Castiel poured a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, his eyes never leaving Dean's as he reached between his legs, his fingers finding his hole.

Dean's hips bucked as Castiel's fingers circled his rim, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure through his body. Castiel's touch was gentle at first, teasing and preparing him, but Dean was beyond ready. "More, Cas. Please," he begged, his voice strained with need. Castiel added a second finger, then a third, stretching him, filling him, and Dean could feel himself unraveling, his body begging for more.

"God, you're so tight," Castiel murmured, his voice laced with awe and desire.

Dean's body clenched around his fingers, and Castiel knew he was ready. He pulled his fingers out, positioning himself at Dean's entrance. Dean's eyes met his, filled with trust and longing, and Castiel pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving Dean time to adjust to the intrusion.

Dean's eyes rolled back as Castiel filled him, the sensation of being stretched and filled overwhelming him. Castiel's cock was thick and hard, hitting all the right spots, and Dean could feel himself spiraling out of control.

"Fuck, Cas. You feel so good," he gasped, his fingers digging into Castiel's back, urging him deeper.

Castiel began to move, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of Dean with ease. Each thrust was a claim, a promise, a declaration of their connection. Dean met him thrust for thrust, his body moving in sync with Castiel's, their breaths mingling, their hearts beating as one.

The room was filled with the sounds of their pleasure, the wet slapping of skin against skin, the soft moans and gasps that spoke of a connection far deeper than physical desire. Castiel's hand found its way to Dean's cock, already plumping up again, stroking him in time with his thrusts, pushing him closer to the edge.

"Cas, I’m—fuck," Dean warned, his body tensing, his cock throbbing in Castiel's hand. Castiel's thrusts became more urgent, his body chasing his own release, and with a final, deep thrust, he sent Dean over the edge. Dean's body convulsed, his cock pulsing as he spilled onto his stomach, his cries of pleasure filling the room.

Castiel followed soon after, his body tensing as he came, his cock pulsing inside Dean, filling the condom with his release. He collapsed on top of Dean, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Dean wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, their hearts beating in sync, their bodies entwined.

***

They sat together at the top of the bed for a while, the room dim except for the amber light from the lamp and the faint moon glow sneaking through the blinds. The hush between them wasn’t awkward anymore—it was easy, almost drowsy, like they’d both finally stopped pretending to be anywhere else.

Dean leaned back against the headboard, one arm stretched behind Castiel’s shoulders. “Y’know,” he said, voice low but teasing, “this whole thing still feels kinda crazy. Cruise competitions, shared cabins, fate pulling one over on me…”

Castiel looked thoughtful for a moment, then cleared his throat. “About that.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “About what?”

Castiel hesitated, which was never a good sign. “There’s something I probably should have mentioned sooner.”

Dean turned his head. “Cas. What did you do?”

“Well,” Castiel began carefully, as if handling something fragile, “after my friend cancelled and I changed my reservation to one person, the cruise agency called me. They said there was another guest who’d just won a solo trip but didn’t have a cabinmate. They wanted to know if I’d be willing to share my room.”

Dean stared. “Wait—what?”

“I agreed,” Castiel continued, perfectly calm, “and they told me his name was Dean Winchester.”

Dean blinked at him. “Hold up. You knew?”

Castiel gave the smallest shrug. “I was curious.”

“You—Cas—!” Dean sat up so fast the mattress squeaked. “You mean to tell me you knew I was gonna be your roommate before I even set foot on that damn ship?”

“Yes,” Castiel said simply, expression completely unbothered.

Dean’s mouth dropped open. “You absolute cheater!”

Castiel tilted his head, still maddeningly serene. “I prefer the term ‘opportunist.’”

Dean grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him square in the chest.

“Hey!” Castiel sputtered, laughing despite himself.

“You set me up!” Dean said, hitting him again.

“I didn’t set you up!” Castiel protested, laughter bubbling out between words. “I merely… agreed to share a room.”

“With me!”

“I didn’t realize you’d object so strongly.”

“Oh, don’t play innocent with me, sunshine.” Dean raised the pillow again, but Castiel caught it mid-swing, twisting it out of his hands. They wrestled for it for a second, the bed dipping under their weight, laughter filling the room like static.

Dean ended up half-collapsed against him, both of them out of breath, grinning like idiots.

Castiel looked down at him, eyes bright with amusement. “Would you have refused if I’d told you?”

Dean thought about it for a second, then huffed. “Hell no.”

Castiel’s smile softened. “Then I don’t regret it.”

Dean gave a mock-glare, then leaned his head against Castiel’s shoulder. “You’re so fucking lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

“So you’ve said,” Castiel murmured, resting his chin lightly on Dean’s hair.

The room fell quiet again, except for the low hum of the house and the distant sound of Sam’s ancient dishwasher downstairs.

Dean sighed, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess the universe had a wingman after all.”

Castiel chuckled softly. “It seems so.”

They sat there for a long time after that, the fight forgotten, the air warm and easy—just two people tangled in the kind of chaos that only ever happens when the universe decides to be kind.