Archive of Our Own ^beta

It slips out in the middle of an argument in the middle of the bread aisle at the local grocery store. An argument Dean should be winning, actually, because peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are best had on Sunbeam, not Nature's Own Honey Wheat, and Cas can take that to the bank, so there. 

"You don't even get the right to an opinion," Dean hisses at him, holding a loaf of Sunbeam against his chest, cradling it there like a beloved football or perhaps a small child. 

Cas fixes him with a flat look, holding the loaf of Nature's Own Honey Wheat by the very bottom, the whole thing standing straight up right in his ridiculously large palm, not even leaning. "This isn't an opinion, Dean. This is fact." 

"Okay, angel," Dean grinds out pointedly, shooting the woman—who skirts by them with her eyebrows raised high in amusement—a tight smile. He focuses back on Cas, lowering his voice. "White—" 

"Bland," Cas cuts in, steadfast on this. 

Dean swears his eye almost twitches. "Oh, and that crumbling cardboard isn't?  

"That's praised too highly," Cas informs him decisively, jerking his chin at the loaf in Dean's hands. "It's just white bread, Dean, and it adds nothing to the sandwich. Honey Wheat bread, however, has a lingering aftertaste of—" 

"Sunbeam is softer," Dean snaps. 

Cas arches an eyebrow. "I'm quite sure your ability to measure that will always lead to inconclusive results. I'm positive that a fresh loaf of Nature's Own would be much softer than a week's old Sunbeam. You can't claim your statement is true without considering other factor points of data that—" 

"I'll leave you here," Dean declares firmly, meaning it down to his bones. "I will actually leave you here in this store, Cas, and then what? Hm? What will you do then? Is your precious Honey Wheat going to drive you home? Will it—" 

"I'll walk," Cas interrupts carelessly. "If me being right comes at the cost of being cast aside, then I will walk home, and I will do it with my Honey Wheat that is, one, much healthier than—" 

"Oh, fucking spare me. First of all, you don't even care about that shit anyway because you don't even fucking eat. Second—" 

"I care about your health, Dean, if nothing else." 

"Second," Dean continues forcefully, "you're so dramatic, and you should have to walk home, actually, if you're going to be—" 

"Fine, I will," Cas grits out. 

Dean scoffs. "Good. You do that." 

"Fine, I will," Cas repeats more firmly. 

"Good." 

"Fine." 

"Do you know any other words?" Dean gripes.

"Goodbye," Cas says, pointedly. 

"Fine, whatever. Love you too, asshole. I hope you enjoy your walk home with your stupid, grainy bread. Taking Nature's Own a little too much to heart, but sure," Dean tells him, flashing him a sarcastic smile and swiveling around in the aisle to march away. He throws out something over his shoulder, careless and barbed. "I'm not paying for that shitty cardboard." 

Dean's three aisles over when he realizes what, precisely, he said. Thankfully, when he comes to this conclusion, he's holding a box of poptarts, so when he fumbles and drops them to the floor, it's not a huge mess. He stares down at the slightly dented box of Brown Sugar Poptarts, and he has a very swift and very unshakeable crisis right there and then. 

Love you too, asshole. 

No, no, no. Why would he say that? Why would he do that? In the middle of the goddamn grocery store while arguing about bread? That's not—that can't be how it happens. That can't be. 

Ever since Cas came back—ever since he fought to get Cas back—from the Empty, Dean has been quietly working on some...things off to the side. Very unobtrusive. Very out-of-the-way. Just quiet, normal things like hey, best friend's in love with me, what is the proper response? Dean's mature enough—just barely, admittedly—to have come to the realization that he was, at some point, going to have to react to it. 

As far as Cas was concerned, he never had to. He told Dean that. Just looked him square in the eye, still smiling, and told him without wavering that Dean doesn't have to say or do anything about it, that he expects nothing from him. And Dean had mumbled something under his breath, brushed past it, and spent at least three days silently freaking out whenever Cas got too close to him. 

But, of course, Dean got over it, and things were mostly normal from there. Cas acted as he always has, and Dean quietly—without telling literally anyone, just in case—started to work the issue. Not that Cas' love for him is an issue. Dean has already decided that he likes that, actually. No, the issue came in what his reaction would be, given the time to have one, and how he didn't know what that was. 

It's just been a recent thing for Dean to know that, in some way or another, he would have told Cas that he loved him, too. Is the love exactly the same? Well, Dean's not so clear on that one, but he thinks Cas would like to hear that Dean does have some sort of love for him, regardless of what it looks like. 

But in a grocery store? Fighting over bread? 

"Oh god," Dean whispers fiercely, diving forward to grab the poptarts and launch them in the basket hanging off his arm. He goes careening back towards the bread aisle, his eyes wide. Fuck, that was so careless. Why would he—why did—

Dean draws up short at the sight of Cas. He's standing precisely where Dean left him, and he doesn't look like he has moved a muscle. The only thing that's different is that he's now staring down at the bread like it holds all the answers to the universe, an expression on his face like someone slapped it on. Dean cringes, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world. 

"Um. Hey, pal, you okay?" Dean hesitantly approaches him, reaching out cautiously with his free hand to touch Cas' shoulder. The moment he makes contact, Cas jolts like he's been electrocuted, and Dean does the exact same thing as he wrenches his hand back. 

Cas blinks, then looks at him. He just stares at him for a long time, a loaf of disgraceful bread cradled gingerly in his hands. He says, very softly, "Please don't say that to me." 

"Okay," Dean agrees immediately, mostly feeling mortified. "Okay, Cas. I—I'm sorry." 

"You're buying this," Cas whispers, slowly reaching out and putting the loaf of bread in the basket hanging off his arm, careful not to touch skin. 

"Sure, man, whatever you want," Dean allows, because at this point, Cas could probably get anything he wanted. Genuinely. 

"Don't say that, either," Cas croaks, blanching. 

Dean coughs. "Right. Sorry, it's just—I mean, it's true, though. Um. I, uh, mean it. Seriously." 

"I—I don't know what I want," is Cas' response, and miraculously, he's starting to turn red, outright blushing. It's...kind of amazing. 

"Yeah, you do," Dean replies, simply because he knows that Cas knows exactly what he wants, and he knows that Cas knows that he knows, because Cas fucking told him five seconds before dying, so. 

Cas blinks, looks away, and then resolutely does not meet his eyes. He's blatantly flustered. He keeps trying to put his hand in his pocket, but he can't seem to find it. "I don't want to talk about this. I want to—I'm going home. I want to go home." 

"Kinda shopping here, Cas." 

"Continue to do so." 

"Wait, hey," Dean blurts out as Cas turns to walk away like he's actually about to walk home, the stubborn fucker. "Jesus, Cas, calm down. We're almost done. Just...go wait in the car, okay? Baby's a great place to freak out. Trust me, I'd know." 

"I'm not freaking out," Cas snaps. 

Dean clears his throat and takes a step towards him, unsurprised when Cas' eyes bulge and he jerks back as his ears turn a furious red. "Yeah, you're cool as a cucumber right now, dude," he says sarcastically, fond despite himself. "Relax. I'm not going to, um, do anything." 

"Good," Cas says quickly, too quickly, his voice sharp. "Don't." 

"Okay, I won't," Dean replies carefully, his eyebrows jerking up. He clears his throat again, feeling supremely awkward. Trust him to open his big fucking mouth and ruin a perfectly good shopping trip. "Well, you can still go wait in the car if you want. I promise I'll get your cardboard bread." 

Cas makes a noise, though Dean can't put a name to what it is. He nods jerkily and starts skirting around Dean, keeping a wide berth a little ridiculously. He simply refuses to meet Dean's gaze, and the moment he gets past him, he's sweeping away without a word or a backward glance. 

Dean watches him go, then turns and carefully starts beating his forehead against the shelf with all the stupid Honey Wheat bread. 

He's a fucking idiot. 

Again, it slips out in the middle of a mild argument, right in the kitchen in the Bunker. Or, well, something like it slips out, in any case. 

"I think I can manage to flip an omelet, Dean," Cas snaps at him, slapping his hand away as Dean tries to snatch the frying pan away from him. "I'm not a child, and my coordination is exceptional." 

"You're not shaking it right," Dean shoots back, giving in and grabbing Cas' wrist to try and micromanage, because somebody's gotta. 

"Dean, I've got it," Cas bites out, once again slapping his hand away and shooting him a glare. 

Dean nearly fucking growls like a dog. "Look, the sides are fucking sticking, Cas. You gotta—no, not like that. Have you ever even flipped an omelet?" 

"It can't be too terribly difficult to do." 

"Well, it ain't no walk in the park, and you're clearly fucking it up already. Just—just let me—" 

"I will not let you." Cas jerks his body to the side, quite literally body-blocking Dean from the stove, his shoulders all up in the way. 

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." Dean huffs and tries to reach around Cas to get to the pan, only to get a rough elbow right to the center of his chest that genuinely makes him wheeze a little. "Dude, you've got ham and bacon in there, so it's gonna stick if you don't shake it. I'm serious. Shake the fucking—no, not like—Cas, goddammit, if you—" 

Cas throws him an icy look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "Dean, I don't need you to hold my hand through flipping an omelet." 

"Well, maybe I want to," Dean retorts, glaring right back. "You're gonna burn the damn thing, and then what? You hate eggs with brown on 'em. Plus, when you try to flip it, all the ham and bacon will stick because you're not shaking the goddamn omelet!" 

"I'm about to shake you here in a moment," Cas warns, his shoulders going tight. He shuffles forward and puts his entire focus on the unflipped omelet. "If you would please back up, I'd—" 

"Oh, I'm too close now? Am I in your personal space, Cas? Hm? Maybe I wouldn't have to be if you weren't fucking up a perfectly good omelet pan in my kitchen for an omelet I could make even better than you. So, if you'd just let me—" 

"It's my omelet, so I can make it. I'm perfectly capable of—" 

"I don't care if you're capable. That's my omelet pan, and you're not—Cas, I swear on my fucking life if you don't shake that omelet like you're jerking off, I'm going to—" 

"Dean!" 

"What?" Dean snaps, driving his elbow into Cas' side and hip-checking him out of the way. He exhales in immediate relief the moment he fits his hand over Cas' and guides it into the rocking motion of shaking the omelet and swiveling it in the pan. It really is reminiscent of jerking off, actually, if you think about it. All in the wrist. "See? Shit. Look at that, you already got some ham sticking to the bottom. Hand me a fork." 

"It's one piece," Cas hisses, reaching out like he's about to peel Dean's fingers off his hand. "It will come loose when I flip—" 

"No, it won't. Wait. Cas, don't you—" 

Too late. 

Cas strives to prove his point by flipping the omelet, only he doesn't really flip it at all. His arm is too stiff, his wrist is not rolling, and he's clearly too pissed to be in the natural groove that comes with cooking, if someone takes to it. He jerks the pan so hard that the liquidized eggs sail up and splatter onto them both, getting them right across their shirts and faces. Ham and bacon goes everywhere. 

There's a long beat of silence, and Dean closes his eyes at the feeling of egg sliding down his cheek. A small chunk of bacon unsticks from his shirt and hits the floor with a very quiet, very dull splat. 

Dean opens his eyes and oh so slowly turns his head to stare at Cas, who is frowning at the pan like it has betrayed him, like the pan itself is responsible for this and not him. It takes a moment, but Cas eventually looks towards him without an ounce of goddamn regret or shame, and he doesn't look apologetic in the least. It's like he's so damn stubborn that admitting he's the one who's at fault here for not listening to Dean doesn't even cross his mind, not even once. 

"That would have gone differently had you not interfered," Cas informs him seriously. 

Dean exhales and grumbles, "I don't know why I like you so goddamn much." 

Ironically, it's this that gets Cas to relinquish his hold on the pan. He wrenches his hand back so fast that the pan actually overturns and spills the rest of the omelet on the floor. Dean just barely catches the pan before it can hit the ground, and he stares at Cas incredulously, right up until he notices how flustered Cas looks. He goes back over his words in his head and once again feels like an asshole. 

"You don't," is Cas' immediate response, almost like a reflex, the words falling out swift and overly loud. 

"I do," Dean replies, just as knee-jerk, blinking a little as soon as he registers the words. And okay, yeah, he does. Whatever. 

Cas is doing that thing he did in the grocery store about three days ago. Blushing. It starts a little splotchy around his jaw, under the scruff, and then it makes his cheeks glow. "I messed up the omelet." 

"I'll make you a new one," Dean offers—or counters, really. It feels sort of like a counter argument. 

"You don't," Cas repeats, sort of just staring at him with wide eyes, covered in egg and steadily leaning backwards like he forgot how to use his feet but he's still desperately trying to get away from Dean. 

Dean clears his throat and holds his gaze. "Yeah, I do, Cas. I really, really—" 

"Stop! Shut up," Cas blurts out. 

"Okay," Dean says instantly, his voice hoarse. He's not sure how he doesn't sink right into the ground and disappear on the spot. He's pretty sure he's never been so humiliated in his life. 

"You can't say that to me," Cas tells him, his entire face red at this point. 

"Okay," Dean mumbles. 

Cas seems to relearn how to use his feet, and he takes a solid step back. "I—no longer want an omelet. Excuse me." 

He bails. Just as simple as that, he turns and marches right out of the room without looking back, and Dean watches him go. He holds his breath for a long moment, then lets it explode out of him as he miserably puts the pan back on the stove, then cuts it off. With a grimace, he looks at the mess around him, then down at the mess on him. 

Great. Now he needs a shower. Sighing heavily, he turns to grab the closest hand-towel and drops it the moment he catches sight of Sam sitting at the kitchen table. Dean doesn't recall him coming in. He hadn't even heard him, or noticed him. 

Sam is staring at him. 

"Wow," he says after a long, awkward beat of silence. "That was kind of a disaster, huh?" 

"Shut up," Dean mutters. "When'd you get in here anyway? I didn't see you come in." 

"That's because you were too busy trying to… I don't even know what you were doing." 

"Shut the fuck—" 

"I mean, you tried, I'll give you that," Sam cuts in. 

"Sam, I swear to—" 

"It's like a trainwreck, ya know? You don't want to actually see it, but you kinda can't look away. That was—wow, Dean, that was pretty bad." 

Dean wonders what it would be like to actually, genuinely die and not come back afterwards. He has never wanted to know as desperately as he does at this moment. "Stop talking. I'm not kidding, Sam. Shut your face before I fucking punch it, you asshat." 

"I sort of want to give you a pity hug or something," Sam continues, predictably not shutting up because he's terrible. "He shut you down hard, man. I won't lie, I never thought I'd see the day you'd actually, um, try anything, but—" 

Dean turns on his heel and walks the fuck out, leaving Sam to clean up the mess. 

Dean's angry again. It's been a bad week overall, the kind that gets under his skin and makes him prowl around the Bunker and communicate purely in grunts. 

Sam's been giving him strange looks, searching looks like he's trying to figure Dean out, as if there's some new revelation he needs the details of. Cas has mostly returned to normal, excluding the way he doesn't get too close to Dean. Jack, the little shit, eats all of Dean's snack stash, leaving him to find it empty save for the wrappers that do absolutely nothing for him when he needs them the most. 

So, in short, everyone in the Bunker is on his shit list. People react accordingly. Sam abruptly takes a few days to go see Eileen. Jack apparently decides he's going to hang out with his best friend, who is apparently Kaia—this is news to Dean, but whatever. Cas, however, doesn't have someone he loves or a best friend to run off to in efforts to escape Dean. 

Dean is those things for him, so Cas is kind of shit out of luck in that regard. 

"Why don't you find a case?" Cas suggests, watching Dean stomp around the kitchen with a small, fond smile. It doesn't diminish whenever Dean peeks at him—still there, still beautiful. 

"I'm not hungry," Dean replies, distracted, then blinks and grimaces. "I meant—no, I am, that's not what I was talking about. You know how you think one thing and say another?" 

"No." 

"Oh. Well, uh, it's a thing. Anyway, I meant to say I'm not interested. It's all low-level stuff ever since Jack got rid of all the worse monsters. What do we get these days? Anybody could be a Hunter now, ya know. Barely any risk in it." 

"You're bitter about this." Cas tilts his head. "Why?" 

Dean scoffs. "I am not bitter. I just think—" He waves a hand, like that explains it. 

"Riveting," Cas says, dry. "Dean, you should share your thoughts more often. Very interesting." 

"Oh, shut up," Dean mutters, dragging out the stupid carton of almond milk—chocolate, and frankly very good, but Sam can never know. He throws himself down into the chair next to Cas, fixing him with a glare. "I'm not begrudging anyone who gets to be in the life without any of the danger, and honestly, I'm grateful. Just… It's just…" 

"Envy. Self-envy for a younger you, perhaps." 

"You mean, like, I think about all the shit I've been through and Sam's been through, all the times we died and all the risks we took, and I just get...jealous a little? 'Cause I never had what they got now." 

"Yes," Cas confirms. 

"Okay, maybe, but I got it now," Dean argues, holding one hand out like what the fuck, his other hand swiveling the cap off the chocolate almond milk. He takes a big swig right from the carton, his eyes on Cas over the top.

Cas smiles at him again, small and fond. It says a lot about how he feels about Dean when he can do that, even as Dean lowers the carton, a ring of chocolate milk on his top lip. His bulging cheeks are hot as he hastily swallows and reaches up to swipe the back of his hand over his lips. He knows he looks like a fucking idiot, but Cas just looks at him like… 

Well, like a man in love. Grossly besotted. Absolutely, hopelessly, no-coming-back-from-this smitten. Gone on him and aware of it. Open about it, too, with absolutely no shame. 

"The peace in your present can't erase the effects of the horrors in your past," Cas tells him calmly. 

"Still gotta feel 'em, huh?" Dean asks hoarsely, thinking about the dreams he has at night. Nonsense, mostly, all except for one that can't be categorized as a dream at all. A nightmare. One of many. Just a memory that replays and replays and won't get out of his head. I love you. Goodbye, Dean. 

Cas inclines his head. "Indeed you do. It could help to talk about them, though. I'll listen, of course." 

"Fuck you," Dean says with a laugh, and Cas merely waits patiently. "You know I'd rather bite my own tongue off, but thanks, pal. Want some milk?" 

"No, thank you." 

"Have some." 

"I don't want any." 

"It's really good. Don't tell Sam, but yeah. You should try it." 

"No, thank you," Cas repreats, pointed about it now, edging into annoyed exasperation. It really doesn't take much with him. 

Dean huffs. "Dude, is it because it's almonds? 'Cause listen, I know the real stuff is—" 

"It has absolutely nothing to do with—" 

"Well, you'd like it. I know you'd like it. You've pretty much mentioned that you'd like it." 

Cas squints at him. "When have I ever mentioned that?" 

"I'm not—I dunno. You said it. I mean, you kinda had to say it, but you said it, so why not just—" Dean holds the carton out a little forcefully, meeting Cas' gaze. "If you just tried it, maybe it would be as good as you expected it to be, if you'd give it a chance." 

"I never expected—" 

"Cas, come on, man, just try it." 

"I don't want the milk, Dean, but thank—" 

"You do want it; you just forgot— 

"I think you have me confused with someone else, Dean, or your memory of me is poor," Cas informs him, glaring right at him. 

Dean huffs and slams the milk down, listening to it slosh on the inside. "Trust me, Cas, I couldn't forget you if I tried, and I'd know you in my sleep." 

"I—" Cas snaps his mouth shut, his scowl slipping as he stares at Dean in astonishment, tinged with a little bit of—well, horror? He's looking at Dean like he can't believe he just said that to him. Like he's being attacked with words. "Dean…" 

"What?" Dean mumbles, defensive and still prickly about the damn milk. "S'true." 

"That's—we've known each other for years, so I understand why it may seem that way." Cas clears his throat, gaze drifting down to the milk carton, the tips of his ears pink again. "Memory and awareness is a fickle thing, of course, and there are outside forces that could—" 

"Oh, shut up," Dean snaps, officially at the end of his rope. "Feed that line of bullshit to someone who will believe it. Doesn't matter what's going on, as long as we're us, really us, we're gonna recognize each other somehow. Even just—just—" He coughs and waves a hand lazily, his annoyance deflating to make room for his apprehension. "Because we're us, I guess. Like you didn't recognize me even in some, small way when we first saw each other with all that Daphne shit going on. The way you looked at me, man… Or, Emmanuel, whatever." 

"I'm surprised you remember that," Cas murmurs. 

Dean sends him a tight smile, even though Cas still isn't looking at him. "Like ya said, memory and awareness is a fickle thing, dude. You'd be surprised what I've revisited since—since you—" 

"Dean," Cas cuts in, his gaze snapping up to latch onto his, alarm flashing in his eyes. 

"You were in love with me then, too," Dean states brazenly, staring at him, egging it on. "You didn't even know me, and you still loved me, like a part of you doesn't know how not to." Cas' face is so, so red. Dean would pity him if he wasn't currently on cloud nine, for some reason. "What, you think I'm not capable of doing the same thing? 'Cause I could. I would, if it happened to me. I'd look at you and—"

Cas launches himself out of the chair immediately, the legs of it clattering against the floor. "Dean!" he bursts out, staring down at him with wide eyes. 

"Cas!" Dean mocks, faux aghast, almost smiling. 

"Stop," Cas says firmly. "Don't. Don't say things like that to me. I mean it, Dean." 

"But honey," Dean says, sing-song, "am I supposed to sit aside and let you insult the integrity—nay, the unending depth—of my love? What kind of man would I be, if I allowed it without argument?" 

"You are a selfish man," Cas snarls. 

Dean raises his eyebrows. "I thought I was the most selfless, loving man on Earth? What happened to that, Cas? Where did all that go?" 

"Your mind is fragile. Your memories—even more so. You've proved that." 

"Have I? You mean the purgatory thing, right? Yeah, I've given that a lot of thought, too. It takes a lot of love to remember your love for a man you don't know, I'll give you that, but I reckon it takes a whole lot more to rewrite your own memories just so you don't gotta face the fact that the man you do know, you do love, didn't wanna come home with you." 

"Dean," Cas whispers, his voice raspy and pleading, halting Dean immediately, "stop it." 

"Okay," Dean agrees instantly, his voice soft. 

Cas swallows and stares at him. "Stop looking at me like that."

"How am I looking at you?" Dean asks. He genuinely doesn't know. He can take a guess, though. It's probably in-your-face, seen-from-space, pathetically adoring. Because, no matter what or how, Dean does love him. He knows that now, even if he doesn't know how it fits inside of him. He's not sure if it ever did. 

"You can't keep doing this," Cas murmurs. 

Dean takes a deep breath, then releases it, his heart dropping to his stomach. He nods. "Okay." 

Cas averts his gaze and leaves the kitchen without another word, and Dean watches him go. Dean takes another gulp of milk. Dean puts the milk away. 

The next time, Dean's drunk off his ass. 

In his defense, it's Claire's birthday, and Kaia apparently worked in tandem with Alex to make it a big production. It's at a bar, there's an open tab, and Claire and Dean are trying to out-drink each other. Frankly, they're having a great time. 

"Arm-wrestling, old man. Let's go, right now," Claire slurs, plopping her arm up on the table between them, her wrist limp and flopping around. 

Dean squints at her, one eye closed. "Kid, you really don't wanna—" He hiccups, "—do tha' with me."

"No, no, I do," Claire insists, hauling her head off of Cas' shoulder to try and sit up straight. She flops her hand back and forth. "Gonna win. C'mon, loser." 

"Didja know I punched God'n'the face?" Dean mumbles. "It landed an' everything." 

Claire lowers her arm halfway to peer at him over it, unimpressed. "D'ya know how much muscle goes into makin' your lover scream every night?" 

"No," Dean says sadly. 

"There ya go." Claire holds her arm back up, raising her eyebrows. "Put it there. M'stronger than Dean Witch-Winck-Whatever." 

"Cheddar," Dean tells her. He pauses, then holds up a finger. No, that's not right. "Chester." 

"Losechester," Claire decides, then immediately cracks up laughing so hard she almost falls out of her seat. If it wasn't for Cas dutifully reaching out to steady her, she might have. 

Sam snorts into his beer, then shrugs lightly when Dean shoots him a bleary glare. "What? Dude, come on, that's kind of funny." 

"Hilarious," Dean says flatly, but everyone looks at him like he's speaking another language. He's not sure if he got all the vowels out, so maybe he is. Shit, he could just invent a language. People do that. People have done that. Insane of them. "Okay, Barbie. Les'go."

Claire's head pops up. "D'ju just call me a—" 

"Barbie?" Dean grins at her. "Sure did. Kaia is Ken. Kaia, Ken. Kaia, Ken. Kaia—" 

"Don't insult my girlfriend," Claire snaps, swaying in her seat. She reaches out to slap her palm into Dean's, wrenching him half-across the table, ignoring his slurred yelp. "M'not really sure how you did, but ya did, so let's fuckin' do this, Losechester."

"Your funeral," Dean warns, leaning forward and nearly face-planting the half-eaten plate of nachos in the middle of the table. His nose gets dangerously close to the sour cream, but Kaia—who is on the other side of him—kindly reaches out to awkwardly lift his head. He smiles at her, sweet. "Thanks. Sorry 'bout breaking your girlfriend." 

Kaia's lips twitch. "Do your worst." 

"Your girlfriend doesn' care 'bout your arm," Dean informs Claire in a whisper. 

"She really, really does," Claire argues, sounding certain, sounding almost sober with how sure she is. She blinks slow, then flexes her fingers around Dean's hand. "Ready?" 

"On three or after three?" Dean asks, leaning his head over on their hands to frown at her muzzily. She stares at him blankly. "No one ever told me. I don't think anyone really knows. S'all just a bunch of dudes trying to measure dicks without measuring dicks. Claire, my dick is bigger than yours, statically speakin'. Status. Sus-tis-tic-ly." 

"Statistically," Sam offers. 

Dean closes his eyes, rubbing his thumb in slow circles on the back of Claire's hand, his cheek still resting on the top of where they're clasped. "My brother is so smart. So smart. He was gonna be a lawyer, 'cause he's smart, but then he was too smart, so they kicked him out. A genius, they said. Couldn't handle him. He's Pinky, and I'm Brain." 

"Three," Claire announces, then jerks her hand harshly and slams Dean's down to the table. 

"Ouch," Dean declares, picking his head up from the plate of nachos. A chip with salsa is stuck to the end of his nose, but he ignores it in favor of frowning at his hand. It just made the strangest crunching noise.

"Jesus Christ," Kaia hisses, surging forward at the same time that Sam and Cas do. "Claire, you broke his freaking hand!" 

Claire busts out laughing. 

Things are all a'flutter for the next few minutes, and Dean doesn't really know what's going on, to be honest. Claire is giggling, which is nice. He's glad he could do that for her, however he did. Kaia is fussing at her, but it's half-hearted. Sam is telling Jody, Eileen, and Donna what happened, while Alex, Jack, and Patience listen in curiously, since the older three were at the bar for more drinks and the younger three were at the jukebox picking out tunes.

Dean seems to come back to himself like he's moving through sludge, blinking rapidly to see Cas standing in front of him, gently holding his hand. Dean glances at it curiously. It's swollen, kinda purple up the side, and there's a dull throb that really doesn't even register. He blinks and goes back to watching Cas, who is examining his hand with a small frown, his head bent over it. 

"Used to be glad, you know," Dean mumbles. 

"Hm?" Cas looks up, then stares at him. Slowly, he reaches up to carefully pull the chip still stuck to the end of Dean's nose away. His thumb sweeps across the tip to wipe the salsa off, and he's wearing that fond smile of his again. 

"Used to be glad," Dean repeats, clutching onto the thought because it's important, he's sure of it. He doesn't know how, but it is. "Getting hurt. S'not so bad if you would touch me. Liked it more than I should, I think. Your hands are…" He pauses, trying to find the thread again. He's losing it, but he tries to keep it. "Hands. You've sure got 'em, buddy." 

Cas' eyebrows furrow. "I...do, yes." 

"I knew that before I even knew you," Dean tells him, bobbing his head. "Had the proof. It's still there, ya know. The—the—" He waves his hand, then abruptly stops when it causes that dull throb to flare a little hotter than comfortable. Slowly, he places his hand back in both of Cas'. "Hand. Yours. The mark you left is still there, just really faded from the years. Like a scar. S'kinda pretty." 

"Pretty," Cas says softly. 

Dean nods so hard he thinks his head is gonna roll off his neck. The thought makes him chuckle, and by the time he stops, he has absolutely no idea what the fuck they're talking about, so he just says, "Yeah." 

"Pretty," Cas repeats, eyes narrowing. 

"What?" Dean asks, then blinks. "We talkin' about you, man? You are, ya know." 

Cas leans back, and Dean can barely make out his blush, but it's there. It's there. "Ah, allow me to heal your hand, then you should—" 

"Can you kiss me?" Dean blurts out, because his gaze has somehow latched onto Cas' mouth, and he's got this nagging feeling that it would feel really good against his own. He's somehow very sure of this, but he needs the proof. The proof is the whole point. It's the water cycle. No. The hypotenuse. Gotta get to the experiment, or else what do you ever find out, really? It's literally just science. 

"Dean," Cas says, strained, staring at him with his lips pressed into a thin line. 

"It's for science," Dean mumbles. 

"Science," Cas echoes, the skin around his eyes tight, his smile a little sad but still there. 

Dean groans and tips his head back, staring hazily up at the ceiling of the bar. "Yes, man, for science. It just—it makes sense. I can't explain it. I'm not smart enough to—oh! Sam is. Sam can. Sammy!" He cranes his head to the side, nearly tipping over. "Sam! O'brother of mine! Sam, where the fuck—" 

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, appearing at his side with a frown towards his hand. "You can't heal it, Cas? Should we take him to the hospital?" 

"Sam, shut up," Dean cuts in. "Use your brain for me. Tell Cas—" 

"Dean," Cas interrupts quickly, "you're very...drunk at the moment. Sam isn't—" 

Dean swivels toward Sam, peering into his eyes, needing him now more than he ever has. Sam blinks at him. "Don't listen to him, okay? He doesn't get it yet. Tell Cas that we gotta kiss. For science." 

"You—" Sam rears back a little, then tucks his lips in until they disappear, his eyebrows rising up his forehead. He makes a small, muffled sound before clearing his throat and turning towards Cas, casually sweeping out a hand. "Cas, you gotta kiss Dean. It's for science." 

"Fuckin' told you," Dean hisses at Cas, triumphant. 

Cas stares at Sam in disapproval. "That's not funny, Sam, and you know it. Dean is severely inebriated and...frankly, he's talking nonsense." 

"No, no, no," Dean chants, tipping forward to try and stare at him from up close. "I swear m'not. I swear it. The hypotenuse. The—no, that's not what I'm trying to—" He makes a small, pitiful sound, almost desperate. "The hypotenuse, man. It's so important. Your mouth, ya know? How will I know? I really wanna know, Cas. Really, really bad." 

"Are you torturing him?" Claire asks, stumbling over towards them with flushed cheeks and bright eyes with remnants of laughter still dancing in them. "He sounds like he's 'bout to cry." 

"The hypotenuse, Claire," Dean insists. 

Claire bobs her head. "Yeah, man. Yeah, I get you. They got big fucking mouths. Makes me think of Madagascar. Moto Moto had eyebrows, Dean." 

"Mouth," Dean echoes, because yeah. That makes sense, even if the rest doesn't. 

"How's your hand?" Claire asks, then immediately reaches out to smack it. 

Dean watches in disinterest, ignoring it when Sam squawks and Cas hastily shoves her hand away from his. "I don't really know." 

"Losechester," Claire says, grinning. 

"I lost at science," Dean mumbles. He stares miserably at where Cas' fingers cradle his hand. 

"Dean, you're gonna be alright, man. Relax." Sam reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, smiling at him with what seems to be half-sympathy and half-amusement. "Look, Cas is going to fix your hand, then we'll get you home and into bed, how's that sound? It's been a crazy night." 

"Whatever." Dean is no longer in a good mood, and everything is starting to hit him exactly the wrong way. It's cold in the bar. The alcohol in his stomach is starting to churn, to apply pressure. The dull throb in his hand isn't going away. The science bested him, somehow. Dean's officially not having a good time anymore, and he twists away from Sam's hand to fall forward into Cas, dropping his head on his shoulder, leaning into him. His voice is muffled and quiet when he says, "Fix me, Cas. Just fix me." 

Cas' fingers brush across his hand where it's cradled between them, and Dean's eyes drift shut, squeezing. The dull throb fades, and with it, so does the fuzzy cloud in his mind. There's clarity singing through his veins, sobriety creeping in at the corners, and Dean doesn't want this part. Just fix me, he'd said, but this isn't what he meant. He doesn't want to deal with this part of him, this warped piece that has always been there, that has shaped itself to Cas through the years. He fits there, slotting like a goddamn puzzle piece, and it's the same. It's the exact same kind of love Cas for him. 

Of course it is. 

Dean leaves his head on Cas' shoulder, even as he sobers up just by half, thanks to Cas' efforts. He could have saved it, though. Even sober, he doesn't want to stop leaning into him right here in the middle of the bar in front of all their family and friends. Who cares? Who even cares anymore? It's love, so what does it even matter? Once it's out there, it's supposed to be easy. 

Why isn't it easy? Dean thinks. Prays, maybe. He tries it on purpose. Cas, I'm praying, man. Why won't you let this be easy? 

Cas brushes his fingers over Dean's healed fingers again, then pulls his hands back. He doesn't answer. 

The next time, it's anger again. This time, however, it's not anger over anything else. No, it's specifically about this. 

Cas has been avoiding him. Avoiding being alone with him. Avoiding talking to him directly. Avoiding eye-contact, even. All this avoidance—well, ya know, it shockingly isn't working for Dean, who would once cradle avoidance to his chest like the answer to literally all of his problems. Turns out, it's not so fun when it's happening to him. 

Dean watches Cas skirt out of yet another room without looking at him, yet again. He scowls after him, eyes narrowed. He's gonna kill him. Just fucking stab him like he did when they first met. He'll even use the same knife to be sure Cas won't die, and also to get his point across. 

"Are you two fighting?" Jack asks, sitting next to him, a book open in front of him. 

"I'm in love with him," Dean says angrily, practically gnashing his teeth. 

"Okay," Jack says. 

"He loves me back," Dean adds. 

"Okay," Jack repreats. A pause. "So, are you two fighting?" 

Dean grunts. "I'm gonna fucking stab him." 

"Please don't do that," Jack tells him, only vaguely alarmed. "Maybe you could...talk to him, instead."

"Oh, gee, why didn't I think of that?" Dean mutters sarcastically, then grimaces and scrubs a hand over his face when Jack looks wounded at the jab. He sighs and waves his hand. "Sorry, kid. Your dad is being an asshole. Wanna give him the cold-shoulder with me? Might whip him into shape." 

"I will not do that. Sorry," Jack offers. "I'm partial to Cas." 

"Remember when I said love was complicated?" 

"Yes." 

"This is what I meant," Dean says with a huff, pushing to his feet. "One more time, then I'm gonna just fucking stab him." 

Jack watches him with a small frown. "Dean, I don't really think stabbing will...help." 

"Pretty sure stabbing Cas was the thing that got me into this mess, actually," Dean admits, genuinely pondering the idea now. "Shit, it might just get me out of it. Hold on." 

"Dean—Dean, you're not actually going to—" 

"Sam!" 

A beat later, Sam sticks his head out of the kitchen, a spoon dangling from his mouth. He tugs it out, raising his eyebrows. "What's on fire?" 

"Where's the demon knife?" Dean asks. 

"In my room," Sam says. "Why?" 

Dean pivots on the spot. "Need to borrow it. Thanks. I'll put it back when I'm done." 

"Are you gonna open condiments with it again? Dean, you know I hate that!" Sam calls after him. 

"Gonna stab Cas!" Dean yells back. "I'll clean it off, so stop bitching about it!" 

"You're gonna what?!" Sam barks, and there's a thump, followed by hasty footsteps following. Multiple pairs. 

Dean picks up his pace. 

He's got a pretty good lead on both Sam and Jack, so he actually does manage to get Ruby's knife before either of them can stop him. He even makes it back into the hallway, but then both of them are standing beside each other, staring at him in varying degrees of incredulity and alarm. 

"It's romantic," Dean tells them, because he's officially done with the bullshit. "You had to have been there, and neither of you were. Bobby was, but he was asleep. This is a me and Cas thing." 

"Dean, stabbing someone is not romantic. What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam hisses. 

Dean points the tip of the knife at him. "See, you'd think that, but apparently it is when you're an angel meeting a sorry sack of a human being for the first time. Second, maybe, but I really don't think I can justify Hell as a romantic getaway." 

"What's wrong?" Cas asks, padding up the hall behind Dean—which is a mistake, really—sounding wary already. Truly, he has come a long way at being able to read the room. 

"Hi," Dean says, swiveling on the spot and burying the knife right in Cas' chest, all the way to the hilt, without any further questions. Sam and Jack both make sounds of shock and alarm, but Cas is remarkably silent, just blinking down at the knife in apparent confusion. Dean smiles. 

Slowly, Cas reaches up and tugs the knife from his chest, staring at it with a small frown, and then he holds it back out to Dean. "Why?" 

"I'm in love with you," Dean blurts out. 

"So you...stabbed me?" Cas asks, then seems to register the words. He freezes in place and goes red so fast that it's probably a health hazard. He stares at Dean with wide eyes. "No, you're not." 

"Yes," Dean argues, "I am. Stop telling me what I'm not, or what I am. Stop telling me what I can and cannot say. You got to say what you wanted to, didn't you? Well, I've got a lot of shit to say, too." 

"Dean," Cas rasps, shaking his head. He's already stepping back, and Dean is sincerely about to lose his collective shit. 

"You said—Cas, you said it first. You did this. You dragged all this into the spotlight, so it's there now, and we both gotta look at it. The one thing you wanted that you couldn't have? Jokes on you, buddy, you can definitely have it. You can have me." 

"Stop." 

Dean clenches his jaw. "No. Why are you making this so difficult? I don't get it. I don't understand why you won't just let this be easy! Love isn't easy, Cas, I know that. It's a fucking inconvenience. A chore. You think I wanna be head over heels stupid about you, huh? There's so much effort that goes into it, but you do it 'cause you can't stop yourself, and that's where we're at, so we should at least get to have the easy parts that come with it." 

"Dean—" 

"If you tell me to shut up, I swear on my life that I will stab you again, Cas, don't think I—" 

"Dean! Dean," Cas interrupts, his chest stuttering on a sharp exhale as everyone all at once goes silent at his uncharacteristic outburst. Cas swallows, staring at him. "You—you're going too fast. You're...a lot for me. I don't—I can't handle it. Every time you…" He shakes his head, and his voice softens. "I love you, Dean, very much. So much. I can barely—you have to slow down. Give me time. Please." 

Dean draws up short, blinking. He stares at Cas, wrapping his brain around that. It takes him a second, but he thinks about it carefully, about how Cas is out-of-time, how he's a being who has been around for longer than the world. The stretch of time for him must be an impossible thing to actually understand. Centuries must have once felt like seconds to him, or perhaps he felt every second of the centuries. And yet—and yet, being loved by Dean is so overwhelming that he needs time. 

It's kinda...cute, actually. Just, here's this angel who's existed longer than Dean can even wrap his brain around, and he's spent at least a decade doing everything for Dean, but this is what flusters him. 

"Okay," Dean says, finally. 

Cas blinks. "Okay?" 

"Sure," Dean tells him, clearing his throat and shrugging. He reaches out lazily to pluck the knife out of Cas' hands. "Ain't like you haven't waited around for me to get my shit together. It's fine." 

"You're willing to—wait," Cas says haltingly. 

Dean smiles weakly. "Buddy, I'd probably wait eternity for you." 

"Ah," Cas chokes out, the fading red in his cheeks flaring again. 

"In the meantime," Dean declares, pointing at Cas' face with the knife, "I'm gonna keep doing that, if you don't mind. Brightens my day, or something. I dunno. Probably the love hormones, whatever." 

"Pheromones," Cas whispers. 

"Told you it was science," Dean chirps, winking at him. He half-turns, waving the knife at whoever is closest beside him. Small hands take it, avoiding the blood. Jack. "Whatever you gotta do, you do it, but you can't avoid me anymore." 

Cas coughs, then arches an eyebrow. "Or you'll stab me?" 

Dean arches an eyebrow right back. "Yes." 

Dean does it on purpose all the time now. 

"You look good," Dean says on Monday. 

"I look the exact same," Cas replies. 

"That's the point," Dean tells him. 

Cas turns red again. 

"I want to kiss you," Dean says on Tuesday. 

"Dean," Cas mumbles, averting his eyes. 

"Just letting you know," Dean soothes. 

Cas leaves the room. 

"You're the funniest person I know," Dean says on Wednesday. 

"Am I?" Cas asks. 

"Yes," Dean confirms, "you always make me laugh, even when I don't want to." A pause, and then, "Have I ever told you that before?" 

"No," Cas murmurs, watching him fondly. 

"Well, you do. I love it." Dean holds his gaze, waiting, and Cas stares at him, also waiting. Dean's lips curl up. "I love you." 

Cas falls silent, face red, smiling down at his lap. 

"Good morning," Dean says on Thursday. "You could sleep with me, you know." 

"Dean," Cas snaps, glaring at him. 

"Wait, no, I meant—" Dean's the one turning red now, and Sam's laughing into his coffee. Dean's being rejected before breakfast, and Sam's laughing. "I didn't mean it like that, unless you want me to mean it like that, and then I can definitely mean it like that. But uh, I didn't actually mean it like that. No funny business. Just—just sleeping." 

"I don't sleep," Cas says, suspicious. He arches an eyebrow when Dean opens his mouth. "I've also been reliably informed that it is creepy to watch someone else sleep." 

"Ah, right," Dean mutters, deflating a little. He wants to go back and hit himself upside the head for saying that and self-sabotaging himself that far back in the past. Jesus, the lengths he goes to. These are unforeseen circumstances, to be fair. At most, he just wanted to fuck Cas back then, maybe something a little more, but he sure as shit wasn't aware or willing to admit it to himself. It's not like he expected to end up being in love with the guy. Funny how the world works, huh? 

Cas looks peaceful. 

"Need help with that?" Dean asks on Friday, watching in amusement as Cas stares balefully down at the hood of his truck that he's apparently struggling with at the moment. 

"I jammed it," Cas grumbles, shooting him a flat look, eyebrows dipped in an unimpressed fashion. 

"I can fix it," Dean offers, flashing him a smile. 

"Don't start. I'm not in the mood," Cas tells him sharply, but he does back off and return to glaring at the hood like he wants to put his fist through it. 

"What are you trying to do anyway?" Dean asks as he shuffles over to lift the hood as far as it will go and start fiddling underneath it to find the issue. 

"It's due for an oil change." 

"Do you...know how to do that?" 

"I have been known to travel without you to do this for me, Dean," Cas bites out. 

"Can't fool me, buddy. I've been changing the oil on all your vehicles between trips since you started driving. I know you don't do it, 'cause they're generally bone-dry," Dean says lightly, grinning at Cas when he finds the jammed lever. His grin slips when it slams into his thumb as he fixes it back into place. Snatching his hand back, he curses under his breath and shoves his thumb into his mouth, sucking on it with a groan as it throbs.

There's a quiet sound, almost pained, and Dean's gaze lifts in surprise to see Cas' face a furious red again. His eyes dart away, then bounce back to Dean's finger—no, his mouth. Well, Dean's thumb is forgotten immediately. He grins around it, perking right on up and dropping his hand, raising his eyebrows at Cas to let him know he's been caught. 

"Don't," Cas snarls. 

"I didn't say a word." Dean lifts his hands in surrender, but there's not a chance in hell that he'll be able to get rid of his smile. He rolls his shoulders, feeling good. "Hey, want me to show you how—" 

"I can do it," Cas cuts in. 

"Cas. Buddy. Pal." Dean tips his head at him. 

"I've done it before," Cas insists. 

"Cas. Sweetheart. Honey. Babe. Love of my life." Dean puts his hand to his chest, watching Cas' face get redder and redder, also twisting in a scowl because he doesn't want it to. Adorable. "You lie to me? You offer dishonesty to—" 

Cas marches off in a huff and doesn't speak to him for the rest of the day. Dean changes his oil. 

"What are you watching?" Dean asks on Saturday, slipping into the Dean Cave to find Cas staring at the TV with a small frown. 

"The news," Cas says. 

"Don't do that to yourself," Dean tells him, moving over to flop down next to him on the couch they finally hauled in here. He leans over to snatch the remote, noting Cas' lack of protest. Turning off the news is self-care sometimes. 

"There," Cas announces at one point. 

"Storage wars?" Dean asks, but he dutifully sits the remote down and settles back into the couch. 

"I like it when they talk fast," Cas murmurs, and he shifts away from Dean. 

"I'm not gonna do anything," Dean assures him, turning to stare at his side-profile. Cas is steadily not looking at him, but that's his prerogative. His loss, too. Dean's already over silly things such as pretending he doesn't wanna stare at Cas, a thing that comes in handy now as he props his cheek up on his fist and traces Cas with his eyes. 

"What?" Cas asks quietly, still not looking at him. 

"Nothin', just looking. Can I look?" 

"Can I stop you?" 

"Do you want me to stop?" Dean challenges, and Cas starts to go red again. A sigh slips from Dean's lips. "Cas, you don't gotta worry that I'm gonna do anything, okay? Until you—" 

"I'm not worried about you," Cas grits out. 

"Sorry, honey, you're gonna have to run that one by me again," Dean says, light and calm, despite the countless question marks flying through his mind currently. 

"You don't—" Cas breathes for a minute, then clears his throat. "I have...wanted you for a long time." 

"Yeah, got it. What's your point?" 

"I want very many things. Too much." 

"Picked up on that, too. Just a reminder, I'm literally right here, completely willing." 

"You don't understand, Dean."

"Probably not," Dean admits. "Or maybe I do. You don't know what I want, so you can't say." 

"What do you want?" Cas asks cautiously. 

"You sure you wanna know?" 

"Not particularly. Tell me anyway." 

"Cas," Dean murmurs, lifting up and turning into him, getting closer and still not touching, "I want anything and everything you'll give me." 

"Why would you tell me that?" Cas rasps, his eyes fluttering shut. 

"Jesus." Dean flops back against the couch with a gusty sigh. "I told you 'cause you asked, dumbass. You want me to lie? I could go back to that, back to lying to you and me. Shouldn't be too hard. I think I was really good at it." 

"Don't," Cas whispers, his eyes snapping open. He turns to look at Dean, throat bobbing, his gaze soft with something tender and achy. "Please don't." 

"Okay," Dean says softly. Hesitantly, he hovers his hand over Cas' arm, a lump in his throat at the thought of a time when he wouldn't have hesitated at all. "Okay, Cas. I'm in it now, at this point. Gotta see it through." 

"Do you want to?" Cas croaks. 

"More than anything," Dean admits. 

"Can I—" Cas' gaze flicks down to Dean's hand, staring at it with intensity. "Is it alright if I—" 

"Anything and everything," Dean reminds him, his mouth going dry, and huh, he can kinda see why Cas is freaking out so much. It is overwhelming. It's thrilling. It's fucking terrifying. 

"Thank you," Cas says, formal, like he's forcing himself to be polite when all else fails. His hand raises from his leg to catch against his, fumbling, and it takes a second for him to slot their fingers together. Once he's there, though, they both just stare down at their hands without saying anything. 

"Well," Dean whispers, and his voice cracks. He has to clear it. Jesus Christ, Cas' hand is warm, and soft, and holding onto his. Unfortunately, Dean's heart is kicking up a fuss about it, but he is an expert at ignoring that little fucker. "Well, yeah. That's—um, yeah, that's just crazy, Cas. You're going wild, wanting to hold my hand like this. We gotta get you in a holy water bath quick, or you'll be too steeped in sin to ever recover. You're showing out, man." 

"Don't patronize me," Cas says hoarsely. 

"What are you so afraid of?" Dean asks, stroking his thumb across the flat plane of Cas' hand, marveling at the feeling of his ridges and valleys. 

"When I fell, I told myself it wasn't for this," Cas explains slowly, stiffly, like he's ashamed. "I wanted it to be for you without any requirements. Even just for friendship. A family. It didn't have to be this. I never wanted it to be—" He looks up, and Dean meets his gaze. "It is, though. I wanted this. I've wanted this for a long time. I'm sorry." 

"You're sorry for falling in love with me?" 

"No, Dean. I'm sorry that I couldn't help it." 

"Well, I'm not," Dean mumbles, squeezing Cas' hand. He swallows. "I get what you're trying to say, I think. You wanted it to be—innocent, kinda, not for personal gain. Something untouched by greed, right? Like you never needed or wanted anything else, and getting nothing is enough. But it's not." 

"It is," Cas argues. His voice is weak. 

"But," Dean says. 

"But," Cas agrees, gaze dropping in shame. 

"Look at me. Cas, look at me." Dean exhales shakily when Cas looks at him, holding his gaze. "You're not supposed to be just—just some kinda spit machine, like you just keep spitting tickets out over and over and never needing to be refilled. You're not selfish for wanting more. You deserve more." He cracks a weak smile. "And hey, you said I'm the most selfless, loving man you know. Hate to break it to you, but uh, I want more. I'd be glad for anything, but I do." 

"You overwhelm me," Cas breathes out. "I could get lost in you, Dean. I believe I already am." 

"So I'm like a black hole and you got sucked in?" 

"I'd argue that you have your own gravitational pull, catered specifically to me."

"The moon to my stars?" Dean chuckles quietly and looks down at their hands again. "Kinda sweet." 

"Actually, it'd be the moon to your earth. Or, more aptly, the solar system to your sun. I am made of many things, and somehow, they all revolve around you," Cas tells him. 

"C'mon, Cas, that was made for movies," Dean says weakly, swallowing. "You can't just say shit like that and not—not—" 

"What?" 

"You're not freaking out about the hand thing. A kiss couldn't hurt, could it?" 

"It certainly wouldn't hurt," Cas mutters, his hand tightening around Dean's. "And if we do, what if I don't want to stop? What if I spend every second of every day wanting to do it again? I've held your hand for a minute, and I've already come to the swift conclusion that I will genuinely mourn the moment that we let go. I don't want to let go, Dean. Ever." 

"A risk I'm willing to take," Dean whispers, turning further, heart racing in his chest. "I get it, okay? Comes with being the sun, right? Who's not aware that they'd burn up from being too close? Hell, even looking at it too long is too much. But, so help me, Cas, I'm gonna burn up before you ever do." 

"Waiting isn't very simple, is it?" Cas says. 

"We've been waiting a long time, haven't we?" 

"In different stages, I would say so. I suppose I waited just to be able to—express it. I never waited for you to feel the same emotionally." 

"Yeah, you did, you just didn't know it. I took my time. Sorry about that." 

"I never expected it, so I think it would be right for me to say I would have waited an eternity for you, too. Sometimes, I think that's what I was doing." 

"You've given me a lot, man," Dean tells him, his voice low and serious now. "You've done a lot for me. Shit I can never even dream of giving back. I wouldn't even put a dent. And I still want more. Does that make you feel better about you, or what?"

"Dean, you've already given me something that I'll never be able to cherish enough. You've given me everything, and when I still don't know how to take it, you're willing to wait for me to figure it out." 

"You talkin' about me?" 

"Yes," Cas admits bluntly. 

"Jesus Christ, you gotta stop," Dean chokes out, swaying forward, thinking Cas might have a gravitational pull of his own. "Stop saying things like that to me. I can't—" 

"Yes, that's precisely what it feels like every time you...flirt," Cas points out. "Every time you look at me the way that you do. I'm not sure if you're aware, but your face—every part of it—softens. Your heart is gentle for it to be so hardened after being so frequently bruised, and you've always hidden it. Lately, when you look at me…" He shakes his head slightly, huffing an incredulous laugh. "I can't describe it. You let your heart shine on your face when you look at me. And when you tell me you love me, Dean, I feel like I'm falling all over again. It's terrifying. It's exhilarating. It's overwhelming, just as it was the very first time." 

"I can't make that go away," Dean whispers. 

"I don't want it to." 

"I can tell you that you ain't the only one." 

"You're not scared," Cas says. 

"Cas, what do you think all of this is?" Dean leans in, his eyebrows furrowed. "You know me, man. When am I most afraid?" 

"When you act as if you're not." Cas searches his gaze, and then his face softens, and yeah, Dean gets it. He gets what he means. "Oh. I see." 

"I'm so in love with you I don't even know what to do with myself," Dean says softly. "Cas, I stabbed you. Do you think sane people do that? And what drives anyone crazier than love? Not a goddamn thing. That's the first lesson I ever learned in life. I looked at my dad and I thought—hey, love really will make you crazy; it'll ruin you, if you let it. But that's the thing I didn't get then, until you. No one lets it. You just—it just happens, and that's all there is to it, and sometimes, if you're lucky, it can be good." 

"Has it been?" 

"Our story ain't really traditional, is it? Can I in good conscience say it's been good when the world was always falling to shit, when we screwed each other over, betrayed each other, fought and lost each other? Not really. But, ya know, I'd do it all again, Cas. I swear I would. Just to have this. You." 

"I haven't even given you anything, Dean." 

"Are you kidding me? You—" 

"No, I don't mean that. Everything I have ever done, everything I have ever given, it was never offered on the basis that I needed reciprocation. I do want it, yes, but that's not what I'm talking about. I mean, I physically haven't given you anything." 

"You mean—sex." 

"I—" Cas sucks in a sharp breath, staring at him as if he's just committed treason. The rush of red that cuts across his cheeks, dashing over the prominent bridge of his nose, is downright delightful. He shifts, his knee bumping into Dean's. "Yes. That." 

"You don't gotta," Dean says, his voice dropping an octave before he can stop it. His eyes are fixed on Cas', watching the pupils expand. "It could just be this, forever. You could make me wait and never give me a goddamn thing. I could tell you over and over how much I want it, and you still could just—" He licks his lips, his heart turning over in his chest. "I'd do it. Anything. Whatever you wanted, or didn't." 

"But you do want it," Cas murmurs. 

"That's not even a question," Dean allows, "but it's not a requirement, either. S'kinda hot, if you think about it. You never come out of that trenchcoat, and I wanna rip it off—just that same, endless cycle over and over and over. Bonus for you, 'cause you get to watch me—well, I think the term is being edged. Could you imagine? Forever? I mean, I'd have to do what I have to do on my own, but with you, especially in reach, and then I couldn't—" 

"Is that how you would cope?" Cas cuts in, and he sounds...breathless, almost. 

"Is that how you would make me?" Dean leans in, watching Cas' lips pull apart in slow, chapped detail. He looks so good. Fuck, he looks so good. He also looks like he's enjoying this, flushed, blown pupils, his hand gripping Dean's tight. "Shit, you actually like the idea. You—you think it's hot, making me wait. You're actually getting off on it." 

"Not actively," Cas argues, his voice faint. 

"You could do it." Dean swallows and shifts even closer, holding onto Cas' hand for dear life. He can taste his own pulse. It's like pop-rocks, fireworks on his tongue. "Cas, you can do it, if you want. Dunno how long it would take me to crack, or you, but it'd be—something, huh? You could get off; I could get you off. I'd do it." 

"That doesn't seem very fair to you." 

"You hear me complainin'?" 

"No," Cas admits. "Actually, you seem genuinely aroused by the idea." 

"Don't say aroused right now. It's hot in here. I might fucking combust." 

"Are you, ah, titillated by the concept?" 

"I'm into it," Dean mumbles, blinking hard. "Way more than I should be. You'd think I'd want to get at you after all these years, and I do, but I—the—" 

"Something about the anticipation," Cas suggests, his free hand coming up to hover over Dean's jaw. He skirts his finger along, just a brush, and Dean's entire face tingles. Cas watches him like a hawk, eyes bright. "The temptation." 

"Yeah," Dean whispers. He exhales, and it trembles on the way out. "Yeah, exactly. You, uh—you know that feeling right before the beat drops in a song? Or, um, that feeling right before a fight, before you're in the middle of it, and you can—you feel that shit in your goddamn fingers. And—and when you're dreaming that you're falling, but you wake up alert and shaky and just fucking on edge because you never hit the ground, but you know you were going to and when you try to go back to sleep, you can't even do it because you're thinking about the impact. Do you—do you know what I'm talking about?" 

"Suspense," Cas offers. 

"God," Dean chokes out, his eyes drifting shut as Cas' fingers skate along his jaw again. "Yeah, Cas. That's exactly it, I think. Fuck." 

"All these years, and that's what you want?" 

"I dunno if you remember all these years the same way I do, Cas, but it has gotten pretty intense at times. Between us, I mean. I just—I want anything. All of it. Whatever the hell you decide to give me." 

"Okay," Cas murmurs, his fingers shifting to cup his cheek, sliding back so his palm will fit there, and Dean keeps his eyes closed. He feels the breath of Cas' next words against his lips. "Don't open your eyes. Stay just like that." 

Dean does, breathing a little fast, his whole body alight with sensation. He can feel Cas' hand sliding further back, his fingers pushing into short strands at Dean's nape, his palm cupping the bend of Dean's neck. He can hear the shush and shift of Cas moving, getting closer, the heat practically radiating off of him. He can pretty much taste Cas, for all that they're not kissing—every inhale is joined by the whisper of Cas' short breath over his mouth, the near-brush of lips that's so near Dean can almost convince himself there's contact. There's Dean's exhale, Cas' inhale; Dean's inhale, Cas' exhale. 

For a long time, Dean's just suspended there, kept there, and he thinks he'd like to live there. He's almost drunk on it, so close and too far and so much and not enough. Please, Dean thinks. Wait, Dean thinks. He's both simultaneously, wrenched tight and breathless in two different directions. He's so sure, so sure, that when it finally happens, he's gonna fucking melt away the moment it does, and he's drowning in the rush of it that he's nearly hoping it never happens at all. Just this is fucking him up quite well, actually. 

"Please," someone says, and it takes Dean a good few seconds to realize that it came from him. It takes him another moment to realize he's fucking rattling in place like a wrench in an engine, shaken up and vibrating. He's begging. He's shaking. 

"Wait," Cas rumbles, his voice low and soft and still so deep that it's insane. 

"Okay, okay, okay," Dean chants under his breath, forcing himself not to sway forward, not closing the distance, staying perched right there. It's so good. Who said instant gratification is everything? 

There's the tiniest brush of lips over the corner of his mouth, barely even anything, and then Cas is pulling back with a harsh exhale. Dean blinks open his eyes, hazy, still breathing way too hard. His heart is trying to escape like Cas after a compliment. 

"That's it," Cas tells him, drawing his hand back from Dean and leaning away. 

"Wait, can we—" Dean's fingers tighten around Cas' where they're still holding hands. He swallows and meets Cas' gaze. "Is—is that—" 

"That's fine," Cas says, squeezing back when Dean's fingers loosen. 

Dean blows out a deep breath and slumps back into the clutch, staring at Cas in a dazed fashion. "Dude, you're gonna give me a fucking heart attack." 

"Too much?" Cas asks, lips twitching. 

"What? No. Just—" Dean scoffs and waves his free hand, only to smack it back down on the other side of his leg when he sees his fingers tremble. Jesus. He still feels like he's seconds from the big drop on a rollercoaster. "Whatever. Too much for you?" 

"Mm, I'm taking my time," Cas muses, leaning his head back on the couch, smiling at him fondly. 

"You do that, Cas," Dean mumbles. "You take all the time you need." 

Cas' eyes are bright. "I will." 

It's almost funny, now that Dean thinks about it. He's nearly sure that he's got Cas all figured out. Get him set on something, determined, and he throws his whole being into it. Really, it all boils down to purpose, and Dean's pretty sure that it's like that for everybody, even him. Everyone wants something to occupy themselves with, and if it just so happens to make your brain happy while you're at it...well, it doesn't get much better than that. 

Cas is kinda like a cat. One you rescue from an alley who hasn't had a good interaction with a person, not once in his whole cat career. He's on his ninth life, and that asshole hasn't been pet once. Dean's gotta ease him into shit, as it turns out. Distract him with a toy and sneak in a few head-scratches before you suffer the swipe of claws. And dear god, the treats. You're nothing without those treats. 

This is how it works: 

Cas' treats are simple. It's contact he's already comfortable with. Hugs, for example. They've done that in the past—not often enough—but it's not too out of left field for it to earn a hiss. Hand-holding is also a go. He's down for that, any time, any place. 

Sneaky head-scratches are compliments, words of affection, blunt declarations. Dean's the kind of stupid who will steal those at any time and suffer the claws anyway, but he's also learning how to distract with toys and sneak 'em in. 

The toys are… Well, Dean's the toy, technically. Cas likes to play with him, and there's really no better way to put it, honestly. 

"I can't believe you stabbed yourself into a relationship," Sam mutters out of the corner of his mouth as Cas peels himself away from Dean briefly to go help Jack with something on his phone. 

"I stabbed myself into a relationship twice," Dean reminds him quietly. "Either way, that's how it would have gone, 'cause that's how Cas and I met."

"That's embarrassing," Sam informs him. "You stabbed your future boyfriend." 

"Didn't Eileen almost stab you when you met?" 

"That was—a misunderstanding." 

"What, and my thing wasn't?" Dean asks, offended. 

Sam fixes him with a flat look. "Not the second time you stabbed him with the same knife, because you thought it would be romantic."

Dean shrugs. "Solved all our problems." 

"Did it?" Sam asks. "So you two are—you're—" 

"I'm into him, he's into me; he can't touch me without hulking out, I can't touch him without shutting down; he can't take a compliment, neither can I, and we're both stupid enough to keep trying. Whatever that is, that's what we are," Dean says. 

"Complex, Dean. That's what we call complex," Sam replies, snorting. He shakes his head. "Wait, what do you mean he can't touch you without—" 

"You know the line? I'm always angry?" 

"Yeah." 

"It's that, but he's just always horny. Like, literally all the time." 

"Dude, I didn't need to know that." 

"You asked." Dean shrugs again. 

Sam's eyebrows hit his hairline. "Wait, seriously? Like, all the time? Is that—an angel thing?" 

"Pretty sure it's just a Cas thing," Dean muses, flicking his gaze to the man in question. He's squinting down at Jack's phone like he's considering smiting it. "He's making me wait." 

"Making you—" Sam chokes on a laugh, rearing back to stare at him with wide eyes. "Like, like, until marriage, or what? Oh my god." 

Dean blinks. "No. Just...whenever he decides, I guess. I just get to, uh, bask in the almosts."

"And what, you're okay with that?" 

"Have some respect, man. I wouldn't rush him." 

"No, I mean—I thought he was—" Sam screws up his face, then coughs. "Ya know, wanna know my secret? I'm always angry. Yada yada yada." 

"Yeah, so?" 

"So, that kinda insinuates he's ready, but he's just not—doing it. Or that's what it sounds like when you explain it, at least." 

"Maybe it's some of that. Okay, a lot of that. But I dunno. He's horny, but he's also…" Dean tips his head back and forth, then waves a hand. "Shy." 

Sam stares at him. "Cas? Our Cas is shy?" 

"Uh, back the fuck up. Not ours. You can't say that anymore. You're not allowed. He was mine first anyway, and we all know it."

"Are you—Dean, are you jealous right now? No, it's—oh my god. You're like one of those dogs who snarl at anyone who gets too close to their owner. You're possessive. You're territorial. Ha! Holy shit." 

"Do you remember the last time I hit you in the face, Sammy?" 

"Like, playfully, or because you were being controlled by outside forces?" 

"Me. Just me." 

"Yeah. You were being cagey about some mixtape you were making for somebody. I walked in on you and then wouldn't leave you alone about it, and you elbowed me in the face when I tried to steal it from you. Why? Wait, who was that for, by the way? You never actually told me." 

"One, it was for Cas," Dean says, lifting his thumb before flicking up his middle finger pointedly. "Two, why, you ask—because I will fucking deck you if you play around too much about him. Like, if I was hitting on Eileen, you'd gouge my eyeballs out." 

"That's…" Sam opens his mouth, then closes it, then concedes with a nod. "Yeah, okay, that's fair. Still, you made him a—" 

"I've been in love with him forever," Dean declares, deciding it on the spot. He feels like a pipe has burst in him, and he's just leaking everything out all over the place. He can't shut up about it. "I'm so stupid about him, Sammy. So stupid. Just—just. I hate myself. I'm so embarrassed for myself. But I can't stop. I'm just—I'm so…" 

"Yeah," Sam says, "I know. I saw. The whole time, I was literally right there." 

Dean groans and leans his head back, lifting his hands to cover his face as he shakes his head back and forth. He drops them a beat later, exhaling hard and staring above him. "He makes me want to die, but in a good way. The worst way, but the best way. I feel alive, and I wanna kill him. It's so bad. It's good, but it's so bad. God, why did I do this to myself?" 

"You two have issues. Normal relationships are not like whatever you two...do. You do realize that, right? You two are just—I don't even know what the hell to call it. It's kinda ridiculous, man." 

"Hey, don't tell me how to relationship. I don't want a normal one anyway. As if your relationship is normal and boring. Don't think I don't know about Eileen's obsession with being the only one to come back to life after your murder dick got trained on her. Those are her words, by the way. Also, whatever the hell you two do where you both try to hit on other people for each other, just to see who's better at it, is not your everyday normal relationship thing, either. Oh, and give it up, Sam. She's got way more game than you could ever have." 

"Technically, we're tied right now, so shut up," Sam mumbles, clearing his throat and looking away. 

"That's what I thought. We're us, dude. We can't have normal relationships anyway." 

"Maybe. I'm just saying. You and Cas take it to the extreme every single time. You already know you're in love. Just...be together." 

"Well, yeah, but…" Dean's gaze slides back to Cas, and he knows his face is doing that thing again, the heart-glimmer thing. "I dunno. This is kinda fun. Besides, he wants me to wait, so I will. It's the best kind of torture, to be honest." 

"You're gross." 

"No, I'm just always angry. Well, literally that, but also the horny way. Makes you crazy, lemme tell ya. But the good kind, if there's such a thing as that. I've never wanted to set him on fire as much as I do right now, just to burn his clothes off. It's crazy. It's fun." 

"You both need help," Sam says. "Literally seek help. Go to couple's therapy, I beg of you." 

"Nah," Dean replies, unbothered. 

Sam sighs. "Oh, Jesus. Here we go." 

"Hi, I'm back," Cas announces the moment he gets close enough, before promptly reaching out to grab Dean's hand and stare right at him like he's settling in to do just that forever. 

"Hi, you are. I missed you," Dean tells him, just to see his whole face go red and his eyebrows dip into that telltale scowl. Here come the claws. 

"I can't." Sam fake-gags and walks away, shaking his head as he moves over to Jack. 

"Don't say that to me," Cas mutters. 

Dean blinks at him, innocent. "But I do, Cas. All the time. I miss you whenever you're not around." 

"Stop it." 

"C'mere. Get over here." 

Cas squints at him suspiciously, but he allows himself to be reeled in. He settles in willingly, their hands linked down by their sides. Dean slides his free hand into the trenchcoat, letting it rest on the small of his back as Cas leans into him. Cas eases his free hand up and down Dean's arm slowly, fingers curling over flannel. His gaze latches onto Dean's, and he's swaying in so close there's only a breath between their mouths. He doesn't close the gap, and Dean's internally begging him to, all while hoping he doesn't. He fists Cas' undershirt, swallowing. 

Annnnnd the cat's distracted by his toy. 

"Jack's phone is fixed," Cas murmurs. 

"Is it?" Dean croaks, watching the shape of Cas' mouth with fixed intent. His heart is thumping loud and proud in his ears, but somehow he manages to remember the sneaky parts. "You're beautiful." 

Due to his distraction, being as focused as he is, Cas only hums. "So are you. Right now, in particular. Come here. Closer, I mean." 

"Huh?" Dean blinks rapidly, then looks up into Cas' eyes, his heart jolting in his chest. "I can—" 

"Yes," Cas says. 

"Oh," Dean whispers, and his voice has gone tight, thready, strained with—well, desire. His head is swimming. He leans in, not breathing, so close their noses brush, and Cas lets him. He lets him. He—

"Stop," Cas murmurs, and Dean sways back with a sharp inhale, only to be pulled back in again until they're literally right there. He has to shut his eyes because they're so close that he can't even see anything, really. Cas drags the tip of his nose down Dean's. "Wait." 

Dean does, even when he could just push forward the smallest bit and get exactly what he wants. But oh, it's the wanting that's coursing through him, a feeling that he's high off of. It's the middle of the afternoon. He's going to fucking lose it in the shower later, he just knows it. He most definitely knows, as it is a tried and true theory of his. He's been fucking his fist more in a week than he has in the last three years combined. 

"Literally just kiss!" Sam snaps from across the room, sounding both disgusted and exasperated. 

Cas tips his chin up and kisses the tip of Dean's nose before leaning back enough to put some space between them. Dean blows out a deep breath, feeling wired. He's clinging to Cas' hand and waist like he's never gonna let go. Shit, he might not. 

"Is that what you want?" Cas asks quietly. 

Dean makes a small sound that may or may not be a yes, or a no, and then he tilts his head down and to the side, dropping his forehead off into the corner of Cas' neck. This isn't quite a hug anymore, but it's enough of a transition in the middle of everything that Cas is happy to indulge. He's starting to be okay with shit like this, and Dean wonders when and how he became the one easing the other into intimacy. He genuinely doesn't think he'd be able to do it if Cas didn't need him to. What a loophole. 

It's nice, though. It's really fucking nice. Cas' hand moves up and down his arm, and he drops Dean's other hand to wrap his arm around Dean entirely, drawing him in like it's the easiest thing in the world. Dean slides his now-free hand into Cas' trenchcoat to join his first, wrapping around him, and then they're holding onto each other snugly. Hugging, sort of, even if they didn't used to do it like this. It's an improvement. 

Dean closes his eyes and breathes, calming down. Cas will toy with him again later, and Dean will love it, but this is really good, too. Just this. 

"I love you," Dean murmurs, wondering whether he'll get claws here and now, the way they are. 

Cas pulls him closer and says, "I love you, too." 

Dean's pretty sure he just got the equivalent to the cat choosing to come curl up by his leg and purr. It makes him smile into Cas' throat. 

The fact that they last a month technically being in something of a relationship without kissing once is nothing short of a miracle, Dean is sure. 

He's genuinely losing his collective shit. 

At this point, the Cas-as-a-cat metaphor has worn itself out for a few reasons. For one, the alleycat has figured out by now that it will get fed regularly, and oh, it also likes being pet and coddled. For another, the claws don't really come out anymore. 

"Mornin', Sunshine," Dean mumbles as he rolls over, tilting his head back to squint up at Cas. He's sitting up on Dean's bed, a book held in front of his face while his free hand brushes through Dean's hair.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas replies, easily flipping a page with his thumb. 

Getting Cas to sleep in the same bed with him had been something of a chore, but from the very first night that Dean needled him into it, Cas has followed him to the room every night since. It actually took Dean asking Cas to hold him through the night—which had been mortifying and took no less than three years off his life, by the way—before Cas would finally agree. As long as you don't think it's creepy, he'd said. Shut up, nut up, and cuddle me, asshole, Dean had replied, latching onto Cas' side like a fucking barnacle and hiding his face—that was definitely on fire, had to be—in the pillow. 

"What's on the agenda for the day?" Dean asks with a yawn, curling further into Cas' hip, resting his cheek on his thigh. Cas continues to card his hands through his hair, and shit, maybe he's the cat. He'd fucking purr if he was. This is the life.

"Fellatio," Cas replies, and there's the sound of his book snapping shut, being sat down. 

Dean's brain finishes waking up, and then his head snaps up. "The fuck did you just say? A blowjob? A blowjob is on the agenda?" 

"Yes, if you're agreeable." 

"Before breakfast?" 

"Yes, if you're—" 

"Right now?" 

Cas arches an eyebrow at him. "Yes, if—" 

"Yep," Dean interrupts, scrambling back to sit up, only to immediately sit back on his heels. He blinks at Cas, stalled out. "Wait, who—" 

"How good is your self-control?" Cas asks, sitting forward to frown at him. "Be honest." 

"That's literally the sexiest thing you could have said to me at this moment," Dean rasps. He waits for Cas to blush at the compliment, but he doesn't. He still usually will, but he's been snapping at Dean less and less for it. Mostly, he just...smiles softly, bashfully, and looks down. Now, he doesn't even blush or bat an eye at all, clearly waiting for his answer. "Um, my self-control is gonna be shit after the last month. Depends on what you want me to do." 

"Keep your eyes shut." 

"I'll peek. Sorry." 

Cas hums and reaches up to tug at the tie that's always half-off after Dean's been tossing and turning up against him all night. It comes loose in his fingers, and he holds it up and horizontal, leaning forward to press the fabric over the bridge of Dean's nose. Dean blinks, then closes his eyes as the fabric settles against his eyelids. 

"Can you see?" Cas asks. 

Dean swallows. "No." 

"Do you mind?" 

"No. I definitely do not mind." 

"Good," Cas says, wrapping the tie around his head with quick, nimble fingers, securing it in place. 

"You, uh, you never said who—" 

"Well, it's certainly not for you, Dean. You still have to wait. Is that alright?" 

"Jesus Christ," Dean chokes out, and Cas seems to take that as enough of an answer. There's the clink of a belt opening, and Dean exhales. 

A little bit later, Dean stumbles into the kitchen in a daze, nearly bumping into the fridge because his whole brain has been rearranged, so everything in the Bunker seems three inches to the left. He works his jaw as he goes for the almond milk, seconds away from drinking right from the carton when Sam comes ambling in.

Sam pauses, staring at him. Dean pauses, the carton held halfway to his mouth, staring back. Slowly, Dean lowers the milk, his entire face flashing with heat as he awkwardly reaches up to rub at his jaw. His equivalent to the walk-of-shame is shuffling over to find a glass to drink out of. 

"Oh hell no," Sam blurts out. "No, no, no. This is never gonna work. You two gotta move out." 

"Fuck you."

"Dean! You almost just—just—" 

"But I didn't." 

"What would you have done if I hadn't come in?! Not that I'm not happy for you two finally—um, whatever, but you can't just—" 

"We haven't—we aren't—" Dean stares down into his glass, refusing to look up. His face is gonna melt off. It just is. 

He knows there is something a little strange about the fact that he's in a committed relationship—that they never actually confirmed—where he's given his...whatever a blowjob (without seeing anything, or being allowed to touch) before even getting a goddamn kiss. It's kinky. It's just—well, it's amazing. It's insane, but Dean loves it. He's just not sure how to explain the details, and it's not like Sam's gonna really want to know anyway. 

"I know you didn't brush your teeth. That's the problem here. If you had brushed your teeth after you—" Sam makes a pained noise. "For the love of god, please go brush your teeth."

Dean shuffles from the kitchen without a word, his head ducked, his face heating the whole goddamn Bunker. He's fucking sweating. 

"Dean?" Cas asks as he passes him in the hall. When Dean barely manages something incoherent, Cas reaches out to touch his hip. "What's wrong?" 

"I gotta brush my teeth," Dean mumbles, struggling to look Cas in the eye. "I forgot to—I almost drank milk outta the carton, and I forgot to—" 

"Ah," Cas cuts in, getting it. "Yes, that is important. My apologies. I'll remind you next time." 

"Next time?" Dean's head whips up, and he's suddenly less embarrassed than he was five seconds ago. "There's gonna be a—wait, when? Uh. Um. Like, tomorrow, or tonight, or—" 

"Dean," Cas murmurs, watching him fondly, "you sincerely enjoyed yourself that much?" 

Dean coughs. "Sweetheart, I forgot to brush my teeth." 

"Mm, that you did." Cas tilts his head, then steps forward suddenly and reaches up with both hands, catching Dean's cheeks in his palms.

Dean gets to part his lips as his heart starts fucking sprinting in his chest in just enough time for Cas' lips to fit against his own. He makes a small noise immediately, something like surprise, something like unhindered fucking relief, and he jolts at the shock it sends to his system, shutting everything down at once. Cas is only just kissing him, just the pressure of his mouth, and his hands are sliding down Dean's face slowly. One drops to his collar; the other wraps around his jaw, fingertips pressing into his cheeks to make his mouth open wider. 

The first drag of Cas' tongue in his mouth makes him shudder. It's so—there's just so goddamn much. Dean's sensitive with it, like an exposed nerve. Cas' tongue is in his mouth. Cas' tongue is in his mouth. He's pitching forward for more immediately, moaning—then groaning when Cas pulls back, his lips wet and his breath held. He seems to waver for a second, jerking Dean in closer, then pushing him away. He's staring at Dean's mouth. 

"You're stopping?" Dean says, and it's not a whine. It's not. It's just—just—

"I am...playing with fire, as the saying goes. I have no idea how I'm stopping, but I am." Cas' fingers soften on his face, and he exhales as he drops his hands, stepping back. "I just wanted to taste you." 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. "Dammit, Cas. My fucking dick hurts." 

"Unfortunate," Cas says blandly. "If it makes you feel any better, I think you taste fine without brushing your teeth. You taste like me." 

"Kiss me again," Dean breathes out, his eyes snapping open as he surges forward to make a swipe for Cas' hips. Cas steps out of the way. "Cas. Cas, just—just—" 

"Wait," Cas murmurs, watching him steadily, watching him get a control on himself and reel it all back in. His lips curl up. Approval. 

"When we—" Dean waves his hand, breathing hard, his eyes wide. "Just, whenever we finally fucking crack, we're gonna be… It's gonna be bad." 

"I thought it would be good." 

"Yeah, but I mean...I think we're gonna fuck Cas. We're gonna fuck, aren't we?" 

Cas holds his gaze. "The chances are high." 

"Jesus." Dean has to ball his hands into fists to minimize their trembling. "Okay. Okay, well, if you're not gonna fuck me now, you gotta get the hell away from me before I rip my hair out. Or yours. I need to brush my teeth, but I seriously can't walk away from you right now." 

"And to think," Cas muses lightly, his eyes bright with humor as he takes a step back, "you actively chose this for yourself." 

"I'm gonna explode," Dean rasps. 

"That's not an option. I would raze the world trying to put you back together." 

"Would you?" 

"I believe it was you who said love makes us crazy." Cas tips his head and gives a dorky, little wink that makes Dean's chest pulse with fondness. "No exploding. I would miss you terribly." 

Dean huffs a weak laugh. "I'll do my best." 

The fact that they make it yet another month without fucking or kissing again is downright despicable. They do, however, do the blowjobs again. Well, Dean does them; he doesn't get them. Cas is, quite literally, pushing him to the brink. 

The thing is, Dean's simultaneously losing his mind and having the best time of his life. He's pretty much half-turned on from the moment Cas breathes in his direction at any given time. He's so goddamn hyper-aware of every little thing that he barely has time to worry about much of anything at all. 

Everything feels good. Literally everything feels good all the time. Cas touches his arm, and Dean's immediately seconds from having a transcendental experience right then and there. Cas has taken to kissing his cheek in passing, and Dean feels like he could fight god again off the rush it gives him. And fuck, when they hug, it's just—well, it's an embrace, really, and Dean's like a wind-up toy afterwards, off like a rocket and only slowing down long enough to find his way into Cas' arms again, as soon as he can. 

"I've only seen you like this once," Sam informs him one day, watching him attempt to juggle with Jack, who has taken to it with relish. 

Dean busts out laughing when one of the balls he's trying to juggle smacks him on the forehead on the way down. He scoops it up and grins at Sam, barely even listening to him. "What?" 

"I said I've only ever seen you like this once," Sam repeats. He's watching him with his head cocked, like a fucking puppy. "Remember when you lost your memory and everything was just really fun for you in the beginning? You were having a ball getting to experience everything again, but without—" He swivels his finger by his temple. "Ya know." 

"Okay," Dean says. "What's your point?" 

"Love is my point," Sam tells him. "It kinda tints the world in a pink glow. Makes everything pretty. It's just... You're really happy, man." 

"Yep," Dean agrees. 

"And you're not even denying it. I take it all back. This is good. This is—" Sam stands up from his chair, leaning on the table. "Cas! Cas, get in here!" 

"Leave him alone," Dean mutters, his head bobbing up and down as he tries to track the progress of the balls. He's getting into a rhythm. "He's invested in some book right now. Poetry, I think. Maybe mythology. Something something, eating the world, eating oneself, something something." 

"What is it?" Cas asks as he comes into the room, having heard Sam anyway. 

Dean drops all the balls immediately, on purpose, pivoting on the spot to grin at him. "Well, hey there, good-looking. Finish your book?" 

"No." Cas squints at Sam. "What is it?" 

"Dammit!" Jack bursts out, finally losing track of one ball and dropping them all at once. He looks up in chagrin, meeting three looks of disapproval. "In my defense, you all say it all the time." 

"You're four," Dean mutters. 

"Kids mimic their parents." Jack smiles brightly. "I read it in a book. It's normal for me to take on your behavior, like a duckling waddling after their mom."

"Fuck that," Dean says with a huff. 

Jack's smile widens. "Fuck that." 

"Dean," Cas says sharply. 

"Shit. I mean—" Dean snaps his mouth shut, quitting while he's ahead. 

"Cas, come here, I'm gonna hug you," Sam declares, swiveling around the table. "I'm not kidding. You're the best thing that's ever happened to my brother, and I'm going to freaking hug you about it." 

"Okay?" Cas blurts out, confused, but the tail end of the word ends up muffled into Sam's shoulder. 

"Watch the hands," Dean warns, palming the ball in his grip, ready to launch it directly at the back of Sam's head the moment he does something stupid. 

"Listen to me. Cas, listen to me." Sam pulls back to grip Cas' shoulders, peering into his eyes, ducking his head to do it. "I don't think you know this, but you make Dean really, really happy, man. Like, stupid happy. Like, happier than he's ever been in his entire life, and that's your fault. Do you get what I'm trying to tell you? You are genuinely the best thing that has ever happened to him, and I know you think he's the best thing that ever happened to you, but you gotta know it's a mutual thing. Please tell me you know that. Tell me you worked that out already." 

"I—" Cas blinks rapidly, staring up at Sam with a furrow in his eyebrows. "Well, I—I suppose I've definitely improved his—" 

"No, you're not hearing me. Jesus, you two are cut from the same cloth. Okay, listen. Dean would not be happy without you, Cas. At all. He could try, but it wouldn't be like this. He—Cas, he literally needs you," Sam insists. "He needs you to be happy, and I can't say if that's healthy or not, but—but I don't think it even matters because you're here, and he's happy, and that's… It's good, Cas. It's really good. For both of you. Thank you." 

"Ah," Cas mumbles, his face starting to turn red like it hasn't in a while, "you're welcome." 

"The hell is this? Your best man's speech?" Dean lobs the ball at the back of Sam's head to get him to let go and jerk away, relishing in his yelp. Dean flaps his hand at Cas' face, scowling. "Stop it. Cut that shit out. Don't do it for anyone else." 

Cas lightly clicks his tongue. "It was in relation to you, Dean. I'm not sure how you're—" 

"You're getting comfortable. You're getting bored, and you're gonna leave me high-and-dry. Nope, not happening, sweetheart." Dean claps his hands together. "Time to spice it up." 

"Oh?" Cas' gaze drags down his body. Slowly. 

Dean coughs while Sam cringes. "Uh, I meant a date. Come on, I'm taking you on a date. Right now."

"Oh! That sounds fun," Jack chirps. "Can I come?" 

"Jack," Sam says hesitantly, "dates are—" 

"Next time," Dean cuts in, waving Sam off and giving him a look. As if this is his first rodeo with appeasing kids. "I promise." 

"Okay," Jack agrees, seemingly excited about the prospect. He's still so young at heart; most of this shit goes over his head half-the-time. 

"Dean, you need to change," Cas informs him. 

Dean looks down at himself with a frown. "What? Dude, I look—" 

"I like your red flannel," Cas says, staring at him insistently. "Or the purple," he amends, when he apparently notices that Dean is in his red flannel. He raises his eyebrows. "Dean, you need to change. Now. Right now." 

"Okay, okay, tell a guy how you really feel, Cas, damn," Dean mutters, admittedly a little stung, despite himself. "I get it, you don't like my shirt." 

"Correct," Cas tells him firmly. "Come on, I'll help you find a better one." 

"I like this shirt," Dean mumbles defensively, shuffling after Cas with a small frown. He keeps examining his shirt as he follows Cas down the hall, only half paying attention, still sort of stuck on the fact that Cas apparently has shirt preferences. 

The moment Dean gets into his room, Cas whirls around to walk him backwards into the door, pushing him into it until it shuts with a harsh snap. 

"Woah," Dean breathes out, his whole body coming to life in an instant, shirt forgotten as the rest of him catches up to the fact that Cas just slammed him back up against the door. It's like someone just plugged him in, except he wasn't cut off before he was unplugged, so he comes right back on without even a stutter. His jeans are tight immediately. 

"To be clear, I like all your shirts," Cas says, then proceeds to sink to his knees right there in front of Dean without ever breaking eye-contact. 

"Oh," Dean chokes out, "I see," and his head tips back to hit the door with a dull thump the moment Cas' fingers unbutton his pants. 

Literal minutes later—because it doesn't take much with how wound up he's been as of late—Dean's legs almost buckle underneath him as he does his best to catch his breath. He feels like jello in the most wonderful way, thrilled still and so relaxed he could just sink down to the goddamn floor without moving for a few hours and be perfectly content.

Cas raises up smoothly, his thumb dragging across his bottom lip to—to gather his—

Jesus, how is Dean prickling all over again? Already? He's in his forties! 

"The hell was that for?" Dean asks as he watches Cas pull his thumb out of his mouth with what would be a comical pop if Dean's dick wasn't still stuck in his early twenties at the moment. "Tell me, so I can do it again. Wait, it wasn't because of what Sam said, right? 'Cause that's gonna get awkward." 

"No, Dean. Well, partially. Not because he said it. The message more so than anything else was more than enough." Cas sighs and gazes at him fondly, reaching out to catch his hand, easily linking their fingers together. "You're taking me on a date." 

"I'll take you on so many dates," Dean assures him immediately. "If I knew this would have happened, I would have started calling all our other not-dates through the years definitely-dates." 

Cas huffs a quiet laugh. "It's not just that. The way you treat Jack at times… You did it so casually. Not very many people would be comfortable including children in activities you'd prefer to be private, and you had every opportunity to explain to him why a date between us should be private, but you just knew instinctively that I wouldn't want him left out. Or, perhaps, you didn't want him left out. A mixture of both, maybe. I'm not sure, but either way, your intentions with him were good, and though you two have had a shaky history, they often are. It makes me very—well, I...like it very much." 

"Yeah, I can see that," Dean muses, reaching up to scratch his cheek. "So, uh, being a good step-dad does it for you. Noted. I don't have the best track record, but I got all the reasons to improve now. I mean, Jack's more than enough, but… And Claire, too, obviously, but I just—" 

Cas makes a small sound and sort of just—sinks into him like all of his strings have been cut at once, and he fits his mouth to Dean's for the very second time. It's just as mind-blowing as the first.

Dean clamps onto him immediately, seeing his opportunity and taking it, anticipation be damned. He's shaky and unspooled in the afterglow, and everything within him is definitely on board with making out while Cas seems to want it. And Jesus, Cas really wants it, because he's kissing Dean deep and hard and ruthless, tongue and teeth and this low, quiet, growly moan that Dean feels tingle in the back of his throat. It's good. It's too good. 

With a harsh, shuddering breath, Cas rips himself away from Dean with a choked, "Dammit," and backs up, snatching his hand from Dean's so he can get far enough away to put some space between them. He looks deliciously disheveled, lips red-bitten, face flushed, eyes nearly fucking glowing. Actually, they might be, just a little. 

"Fuck," Dean curses, letting his head tip back against the door and hit it with a thump. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling eighty different kinds of fucked up, all swirly and retrograde. He needs about a few hundred seconds to recover, and he wants exactly none of them. "Cas, we're just gonna have to bite the bullet, man. Just—just get it over with and tear at each other. I'm seeing stars over here, sweetheart, and humans ain't meant for all that. I will break. I'm, like, dangerously close to breaking. It's gonna be so good. I know it's gonna be good. Jesus Christ." 

"I know, Dean, I know," Cas murmurs, soothing. He shifts closer again, taking Dean's hand once more, rubbing circles into the dip of skin between the back of his hand and thumb. "Just wait a little more." 

"Okay. Okay," Dean mumbles, dropping his head forward, waiting for his heart rate to quit spazzing the fuck out. "Yeah, sure. I'll do that. Fuck, I'll do it forever. 'Course I will." 

"Take me on a date first," Cas says, lips curling up. 

"Oh, is that all?" Dean laughs a little, lifting their linked hands and kissing the back of Cas' knuckles, delighting at the blush that cuts across his cheeks. Yeah, he's still got it. "Come on, then." 

It's nothing fancy. Dean pulls out the old classic that hasn't ever let anyone down before—dinner and a movie. Dinner first, as a general rule of thumb, that way you don't spend too much at the movies. Whether or not you have an endless abyss for a credit card, those prices are still ridiculous. 

Cas doesn't really eat, but he does pick off Dean's plate lazily. They're at a fucking IHOP that stays open pretty late, and their server is a young guy who's definitely about half their age and so stoned that it's kinda hilarious. He's pretty nice, too, and he doesn't even bat an eye when he sees Cas put a french fry in his mouth, immediately pull it back out, and hold it out for Dean, who leans forward to eat it. That french fry apparently didn't agree with Cas, but their server's weed most definitely agreed with him, because he doesn't even stutter in refilling their drinks and letting them know the pancakes will be coming right on out shortly. 

Anyway, Dean plays footsie under the table and flirts every other sentence in every way he knows how, even the cheesiest, excluding the whole did you fall from heaven thing. Dean's got the idea that wouldn't really go over well, for some reason. Cas' face is red for most of the meal, but he's smiling. He's doing it so much that he keeps pressing his fist to his mouth like he can hide it, and Dean has to keep reaching out to pull it down so he can't. 

At the movies, there's a line, which is a swift change from IHOP, which had practically been deserted. Dean suddenly becomes intensely aware that other people have eyes, and they look at Cas. He's always know that, he thinks, just without really allowing himself to pay it that much attention. 

Something about Cas. It's like so many have said. He's pretty. There's something magnetic about him, something special that draws the eye, something other angels don't really have. It's unique to him, and Dean's very aware. He's a part of the people who like to look at him, so he gets it. 

That being said, Dean's hackles have never raised so fast in his life. He has never actually made a big production about "staking his claim" over Cas, so to speak. He doesn't think he has, anyway. This is something he either mostly ignored, or overcompensated on just to convince himself what he was feeling was not what it seemed like, even though it must certainly was. My devastatingly handsome friend, indeed. That's the part that haunted him when he laid awake at night and replayed everything stupid he ever did or said. My, he'd said. Why'd I say it like that? he'd thought. 

Well. Hindsight and all that. 

In any case, Dean has to get comfortable with their outward projection of their relationship pretty fast, and this isn't an empty IHOP with a server so high he probably won't even remember he worked, let alone who his customers were. No, this is the inside of a movie theatre where people are bustling around, only about a third of them paying attention and only for a split second, unless something catches their attention. As it happens, Cas is double-take worthy. 

Dean is put on the spot by a woman pushing a stroller with a kid who could definitely walk in it. She's heading to the drink machine, but she slows when she sees Cas, her head swiveling to keep him in eyesight. Dean reaches out to grab Cas' hand before he even thinks about it, holding the woman's gaze as he lifts their linked fingers to scratch his nose. She ducks her head and keeps walking. 

That happens twice more before Dean's ready to put a goddamn paper bag over Cas' head. He's sort of itchy all over and pressed up as close to Cas as he can get away with that's socially acceptable. Cas doesn't even seem to register the attention from anyone else, but he does keep looking at Dean over and over, seemingly started that Dean's nose itches every two minutes or so. 

"Are you alright?" Cas asks him. "You're...antsy." 

"No, I'm not," Dean grumbles. 

"Is it the public display of affection?" Cas murmurs, seemingly sympathetic. "Dean, of course I don't mind if you don't wish to—" 

"Got a staring problem?" Dean snaps at the man who tripped over his feet and did a very blatant double-take when he saw Cas. The guy blinks hard, focusing on Dean, who lifts their hands to scratch his nose yet again. "Yeah, keep walking, buddy." 

The guy speed-walks away. 

"Dean," Cas says sharply, "what are you—" 

"Everybody keeps looking," Dean snaps. 

"Because people have eyes, Dean," Cas retorts with a huff. "That doesn't automatically mean that they're thinking negatively of us just because—" 

Dean whips his head towards him. "What? No, dude, I don't give a shit about that. I wish someone would say something stupid. No, Cas, I mean people are looking at you."

"Me?" Cas echoes, blinking. He sounds absurdly skeptical. "Do I have something on my face?" 

"Yeah, your face," Dean hisses. "You're handsome, Cas. Devastatingly so, remember? Beautiful. Pretty. Attractive. Magnetic. Take your fucking pick." 

"Oh," Cas says, like this startles him. He surveys Dean for a long moment, and then his lips curl up as his eyes brighten. "Dean, you can't yell at people for finding me attractive." 

"Like hell," Dean grumbles, lifting his hand once again while some lady in a pants suit nearly drops her popcorn. To her credit, she also seems to find Dean equally nice to look at, so he doesn't actually yell at her. When he scratches his nose, her gaze zeroes in on their hands, and instead of walking off immediately, she cocks her head and smiles faintly like it reminds her of something. 

"Don't pay attention to it," Cas suggests. "There are many people who find you appealing, even right now, but it's best to ignore it." 

Dean scoffs. "Ignore it. Okay. Sure." 

"Dean," Cas says, amused. 

"I'm not so sold on this whole you being in public thing, Cas," Dean mutters, cutting another woman a sharp look as she walks by, suspicious, but she doesn't even glance in their direction. "I think we should just stuff you in the Bunker and make sure no one looks at you ever again. How's that sound?" 

"Constricting, for one," Cas answers. "You're being ridiculous. It's amusing—adorable, even—but unnecessary. Do you want to know my secret?" 

"Your secret? You got secrets now?" 

"On how I've made peace with you being beautiful out in the open when other people can look at you and appreciate it, I mean."

"There's a secret?" 

"Yes. It's not so much who is looking at us, Dean. It's about who we're looking at. I'm sure you don't know, but you're often too busy looking at me to notice people looking at you, especially in the recent years. If you paid attention, I haven't looked at one other person in here besides you. I have no need to. I don't want to. You're all I see." 

"Well—well—" Dean's voice is weak, and he's already forgetting to glare at everyone else, too caught up in looking at Cas. Yeah, okay, he's got a point on that one. "Fine. Don't look at anyone else other than me ever. For my peace of mind." 

Cas' gaze is warm, adoring. "I wasn't aware you were insecure about this."

"What?!" Dean squawks, sputtering. "I am not—" 

"A possessive thing, then?" Cas cuts in, raising his eyebrows. "There's insecurity in that as well, you know. Control through ownership. I'd like you to feel secure in our—in us." 

"It's the principle of the thing, Cas. I'm secure. I don't think you're gonna ditch me. It's just—it's… I dunno. It's complicated." 

"Elaborate." 

"Okay, so it's like…" Dean huffs and reaches up to scratch his nose for real this time. "I guess I've spent the last...a lot of years not—we didn't—" He clenches his jaw and looks down at the floor. "We never had this, man. It's not like other people are a threat; it's just that I never got to—to…" 

"Shout it out from the rooftops, as it were?" Cas offers, tilting his head. His face has softened considerably when Dean glances back up at him. 

"I don't own you. I know that. I just—" Dean swallows and squeezes his hand. "I got you now. You're my—ya know. My person. They should know that. Anyone stupid enough to wonder if some idiot with enough dumb luck to snag your attention didn't ever get their shit together needs to know that he did. I did. I got you, Cas. I fucking got you." 

"I understand," Cas tells him, and it sounds like he does, like he knows exactly what Dean is talking about, which is impossible. He's not the idiot with the dumb luck in this scenario. 

"We should just make out wherever we go," Dean declares, like it's the solution to all their problems. 

"Mm, no," Cas says, smiling. 

Dean huffs a laugh and half-turns, using his free hand to draw Cas closer to him so they're pretty much molded together in line. "C'mon, it'd make me feel better. Don't you wanna make me feel better?"

"Not particularly." Cas chuckles softly when Dean clicks his tongue and starts kissing his cheek, his jaw, nosing his throat. 

"You're a shitty—whatever," Dean mumbles into Cas' skin, tugging him closer. 

"Lover? Partner? Inamorato? Leman? Boyfriend? Dean, stop me at any time." 

"Was gonna let you keep making a fool of yourself, actually. Don't stop on my account." 

Cas lightly smacks his shoulder, rocking into him and tipping his head back. "Pick something. I can't keep telling people you're my friend. Frankly, I'd like to assume we've upgraded from that." 

"Oh, buddy, we definitely have. Tell 'em I'm your plaything you keep in your dungeon. No, better yet, tell 'em I'm your soulmate that you've been trying to get away from, but fate ain't having it." 

"Dean—" 

"Just…" Dean picks his head up and sighs, looking at Cas from up close. "I dunno. Call me whatever you want, I don't care. Tell 'em that I'm yours. Whatever else is just...details." 

"I suppose it is," Cas says softly, scanning his face, the pleased look on his face shining bright. "And what do you call me?" 

"My whatever. My something. I dunno. You're whatever people wanna call it and something more than they could ever label it." Dean shrugs a little, face getting hot. "I should start telling people you're late husband. Remember that time I was a widow? You've literally died. It'd be like that scene from Brother Bear. I lost my dear husband, Cas." He pitches his voice lower. "Dean, stop telling everyone I'm dead." He grins. "Sometimes I can still hear his voice, bitching at me." 

Cas chuckles. "Jack loves that movie." 

"I know," Dean says, delighted. 

"You're going to make me say that all the time now, aren't you?" 

"Literally all the time." 

"I'll indulge you, of course, because you can call me whatever you like. That being said, do not ever—and I mean this, Dean—call me your brother again." Cas fixes him with a stern look. 

Dean jerks, his eyes bulging. "Oh fuck. I used to do that, didn't I? Jesus Christ." 

"You haven't in recent years, but yes, that is something you used to do." 

"I'm...so stupid." 

"We all make mistakes," Cas says graciously, leaning in to kiss his cheek, laughing quietly into his scruff, then his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "After all, I believe I once mocked you and said you look like a lumberjack. You do, but I didn't clarify that this is very appealing to me." 

"Probably a good thing you didn't. I was having a really good day, what with Scooby-Doo and all. If you would have told me I was hot, I would have gone into crisis mode immediately." Dean pauses, thinking about it curiously. "Well, I dunno. By that point, you and I were—it's like we were just like this, but without all the…"

"Touching?" Cas murmurs, pulling back just enough to peer at him and also steer him up further in the line. People shift all around them, moving around like ants, and Dean doesn't even notice. 

"Yeah, maybe. We had some of that. Not a lot of this, though," Dean says, squeezing Cas' hand he's still holding onto and tugging him closer with his other that's gripping his hip inside his trenchcoat. 

"Shame." 

"Yeah, kinda. Probably necessary 'cause the world was always falling apart. I was barely hanging on half the time, so something with you would have probably sent me spiraling. No offense." 

"None taken. I understand. Although, I think we might have benefited from it. Drawn comfort from one another." 

"True. But uh, I don't wanna think about how it would have felt when things got rough between us. It was already bad enough without having to worry if you were gonna dump me."

"Yes, that would be added strain," Cas admits. 

Dean snorts. "And you still ended up dumping me anyway. We weren't even together, asshole." 

Cas squints. "I did not—" 

"'You and Sam have each other. I think it's time for me to move on'," Dean quotes flatly. 

"'You're dead to me'," Cas quotes back pointedly. 

"Okay, but I never wanted you to leave." 

"Oh, so I was just supposed to stay and tolerate the way you treated me?" 

"I mean…" Dean winces when Cas' eyes get wide with disbelief. "What? What do you want me to say? Yes, I was shitty. Yes, I still hate that you left. I would have—I dunno, I would've gotten over it eventually. I did get over it eventually." 

"And, in the meantime, I was meant to just—deal with it? That's what you wanted?" Cas bites out. 

Dean wars with himself for a long moment, knowing the right answer, knowing what the truth is. They're not the same. He opts for honesty like he so rarely does. "Yeah, pretty much. Selfish of me, I know. I just want you to stay, is all, no matter what I—" He cuts himself off, averting his gaze. "I'm a fuck-up, Cas. You've always—you know it, but you still chose me over and over again, every single time. I can't ever get it right, but you can't even begin to imagine what it feels like for me to know I can't break us beyond repair. The relief alone, man...it's something else. And it ain't fair to you, I know that, especially not then, but that's—that's what I wanted. I wanted to be fucking terrible to you, and I wanted you to stay anyway." 

"Well, frankly, Dean, I wasn't going to do that. I was very angry with you," Cas says bluntly. "I wanted you to want me to stay bad enough that you could stop being terrible. Perhaps that was selfish of me, considering everything you were suffering at that point in time." His eyebrows are pulled together when Dean glances at him, age-old dismay lining his forehead. "It hadn't even been a that long since—"

"Don't," Dean says softly. 

Cas gaze locks onto his. Gentle. Sad. "Okay." 

"I was still—" Dean bites his bottom lip. He's never told anyone this before. He barely acknowledged it himself back then, or since. It feels like a confession that would have once burned on his lips, but now it's just hardened with gasoline that won't ignite. "Cas, I thought about you every day, all the time. When you were gone, I was always—the second I wasn't paying attention, I was thinking about you. I couldn't stop. It drove me nuts. Pissed me off more." 

"Yes," Cas says. "I was much the same." 

"Couple of idiots, huh?" Dean mumbles with a half-smile, slipping his arm around Cas further to urge him to lean in. 

"Ridiculous, at the very least," Cas allows, shifting forward so they're closer. 

Dean hums. "We never did kiss and make up back then, you know." 

"We did not. We shared drinks." 

"We should've fucked. Send me back in time so I can tell myself to fuck you." 

"Dean, we are in public," Cas reminds him, and there's a sudden shriek of delight from what's clearly a child to the right of them, like damning evidence to make Dean guilty. 

"Right. Uh." Dean coughs, grimacing when Cas smiles at him. "Wait, are you saying we're in public so you can't send me back in time, or are you saying we're in public so I should stop bringing up sex?" 

"I like that you don't know. It pleases me." 

"You're an odd duck, honey. Can never tell with you. It keeps me on my toes."

"Mm," Cas hums, tugging him further up in line. They're next for the counter by now. "I don't disagree, though. We missed many opportunities."

"Which one do you regret the most?" 

"Do you recall when I was human?" 

"Yeah," Dean says warily. 

Cas inclines his head. "I would have liked to experience that with you. Perhaps one day I will." 

"Wait, seriously?" Dean blinks at him. "You'd—are you planning on...removing your…?" 

"I've given it some thought. If things continue to be calm, I think I'd like to," Cas admits. "There are many things I want to experience properly, without strain. Sleeping. Eating. Sex. Mostly, I want to grow old with you, Dean." 

"Oh," Dean whispers. 

"Is that—" Cas halts, looking at him in surprise. His lips part. "Are you—" 

"No. No, I'm not. I'm—no. Nope," Dean croaks, blinking hard and lifting his hand to quickly swipe his fingers along the bottom of his eyelids, collecting the moisture that abruptly sprang into place there. I want to grow old with you, Dean. The fuck is he supposed to do with that? Jesus. 

"You shouldn't be ashamed. It's sweet." 

"I'm not fucking crying in the middle of a goddamn movie theatre in Kansas, you asshole. Who says shit like that? Jesus Christ, Cas." 

"It moved you," Cas notes curiously. "Emotionally."

"Whatever," Dean mumbles, resolutely looking down at their hands and nothing else. 

"Why?" 

"Cas."

"I'd like to know. Please?" Cas asks, and ah shit, that's dangerous as fuck. 

Dean folds like a lawn chair. "I don't know. I want you to—well, I already told you. And you wanna stick around until we're old. It's just. It means something. I never thought that I'd… Let alone that you'd even…" 

"Ah," Cas says simply, then with equal ease, "I love you very much." 

"Yeah, man. Love you, too," Dean replies, feeling both ridiculous and very good, overall. His eyes still itch, but the warmth in his chest rivals the sun. 

Cas changes the subject, like he senses that Dean's swinging back and forth between too many feelings at once to really follow more heavy conversation. He asks what movie they should watch, and Dean relaxes into the familiar bickering that carries them right on up to the counter. The young woman behind the register watches them argue in mild amusement, then sides with Dean on which movie they should watch, so she's clearly the best.

"You two are a really cute couple," she tells them as she passes them their tickets. 

"Thank you," Cas says, smiling. 

"Getting candy and drinks today?" She glances between them. "Popcorn?" 

"Now we're talking," Dean mutters, rubbing his hands together and peering down through the glass case of candy with his eyes narrowed. 

The movie is pretty good. Dean doesn't recognize any of the actors, not right off the top of his head, but he doesn't judge too harshly. He's in a good mood anyway, seeing as he and Cas hold hands the whole damn time. About halfway in, Cas leans his head over on Dean's shoulder, and Dean glances at him to make sure he's good—he is, he's just getting comfortable—then goes back to shoving Twizzlers in his mouth with his free hand. 

After the movie, Dean and Cas spend the entire ride back to the Bunker at each other's throats (in a mostly playful way) about whether or not the movie was good or terrible. Cas is going with the latter, and Dean honestly didn't have a horse in this race until Cas suddenly did, but arguing with him is delightful when it's like this. They're still holding hands while they're doing it, and Cas keeps laughing every time Dean threatens to run them both off the road to escape his nonsense. It's pretty funny, Dean will admit. He'd never do that to Baby. 

They shuffle back into the Bunker still fussing at each other, while Sam and Jack look up from their laptop screens to watch them come in. 

"Have fun?" Sam asks, amused. 

"Worst time of my life," Dean rattles off immediately, his voice light. "Never doing it again."

Jack frowns. "But what about—" 

"He's joking," Cas assures him, rolling his eyes and heaving a sigh. "It was nice." 

"Nice?" Dean barks, offended. "Just nice? What's my score? From one to ten. Ten being the best, and I know you wish it could go higher, but—" 

"Six," Cas declares, his lips twitching when Dean huffs and points at him. 

"I'm gutted," Dean says. 

"Sorry you had to suffer, Cas," Sam tells him in mock-sympathy. 

Dean clutches his chest. "Et tu, Brute?!" 

Sam rolls his eyes. "You're acting like a child. Who even says shit like that? Cas, I'm actually sorry." 

"No, Cas is happy," Jack informs them, smiling at him, his gaze warm. "You can't see it, but he's currently very...bright." 

Cas clears his throat. "Thank you, Jack, for telling them that. Excuse us. Dean and I…" 

"Yes?" Sam asks innocently. 

"We're very tired," Cas settles on, stoic about it, apparently unflappable in the face of Sam, unless it's in relation to Dean being head over heels for him. 

"So tired," Dean agrees, grinning. 

"You both seem very energized," Jack counters, cocking his head. 

"A mirage," Dean says, waving his hand. "A ruse. We'd kill it on Broadway. Trust me, kid, we're so ready for bed...you wouldn't even believe." 

Jack bobs his head. "Okay. Goodnight." 

"Jack, how do you feel about a drive?" Sam asks, pushing to his feet, clearing his throat. "Just me and you for a couple of hours." 

"At night?" 

"We can go look at that place that has all them lights hanging up. You like it there." 

"Oh!" Jack perks up immediately. "Yes, let's do that. Can we do that right now?" 

"That's the plan," Sam says, waving him from his seat and ushering him towards the door. As he passes Dean, he holds his hands out for the keys. 

Dean passes them over. "Have I ever told you just how much I—" 

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Sam tells him with a low huff of laughter. "Enjoy your...sleep, or whatever. Oh, and you owe me." 

"You're the best, Sammy," Dean murmurs, watching Sam follow Jack out. The moment the door shuts behind them, Dean whips towards Cas. "So, uh…" 

"Bed," Cas says. 

"To...sleep?"

"You'll have to wait and find out." 

Dean squints blearily into his coffee. It's good coffee. All coffee is good coffee when you haven't slept very much, though. It's especially good when you're achy and sore and sporting something of a sex-hangover, which is definitely a thing. If it wasn't before, it sure as shit is now. 

If there's a such a thing where you feel like you've been tossed around in a washing machine for a couple of loads, but it was the best goddamn ride of your life, that's exactly what Dean is right now. He looks it, too. His reflection tells so many stories. 

So many, in fact, that Sam does a double-take when he first pads into the kitchen, and he hisses out a vaguely alarmed, "Did you two fight?" 

"Mm," Dean croaks. "No. No, we did not." 

"Dean, you look like you got your ass handed to you on a platter," Sam blurts out, eyes bulging. "Jesus Christ, dude. You've got—bruises." 

"I know," Dean says dreamily. 

"Did you two try to kill each other?" Sam stares at him incredulously, full of judgement at the moment. 

Dean closes his eyes and sips his coffee, humming again. He knows peace. He is the embodiment of peace. He's so zen that Sam can't even rain on his parade right now. "Maybe a little. Only a little, though. You fishin' for details, man?" 

"I mean, if it's a genuine threat on your life, maybe I am," Sam mutters. 

"I've never been more alive than I am right now." 

"You look like you went twelve rounds with a truck."

"Pfft, you're exaggerating. I just got—marks, or whatever. He's an angel, ya know. Very strong." 

"He could pull his punches a little." 

"Thank fuck he didn't," Dean tells his coffee, opening his eyes slowly. "Anyway, I wasn't complaining, trust me. I'm still not." 

"You have a hickey on your cheek...somehow?" Sam's face scrunches, and he looks like he doesn't know whether to be impressed or disgusted. He's leaning more towards the latter. 

"Most of these aren't, like, actual bruises," Dean clarifies, lazily flicking his fingers at himself, mostly in the direction of where his collar isn't covering him. He's got actual bruises in other places, among other marks, but he doesn't mind. Good thing Sam can't see his thighs. There's hickies all over 'em.

Sam makes an aggrieved sound. "You two are insane. Why didn't Cas just...heal you, man? I mean, it's not that bad, but it's obvious. You really gonna walk around like that?" 

"You know Cas is thinking about becoming human with me?" Dean murmurs, lifting his gaze to look at Sam, a lump forming in his throat every time he thinks about it. He can barely get the words out, and it's a hoarse whisper when he does. "He wants to grow old with me, Sammy." 

"That's…" Sam's face softens. He flicks his gaze over Dean's face, and his lips quirk up. "That means a lot to you, huh?" 

"Yeah," Dean rasps. "It really does." 

"So I take it you're gonna walk around like that because you're stupid about him." 

"Not my first time doing it. At least this time I look better. Feel better, too. It's, uh, the positive version of refusing to let him heal me. Like, ya know, it's deserving something really nice." 

"You're so weird," Sam breathes out. "You're both so freaking weird. I wish you the best." 

"Thanks," Dean chirps, grinning and shifting in his seat, blowing out a deep breath as soon as he does. 

"Good morning, Sam," Cas greets as he pads into the kitchen, looking remarkably untouched. He didn't last night, but then he did on purpose. Something about adding to anticipation again. 

"Mornin', Cas," Sam replies, lifting his coffee with a a sigh. "Thanks for not killing him, I guess. Didn't know I had to worry about that, but still." 

"You don't," Cas says, seeming mildly affronted at the insinuation. "I barely even—" He glances at Dean and promptly shuts up. He blinks. "Oh. That looks...worse in the light." 

"I feel great," Dean feels compelled to say. 

"I should have—" Cas slants a frown at him and moves forward to reach out. "Here, let me." 

Dean jerks back and smacks his hand away, scowling at him. "You heal me and we're gonna have words. Leave it alone. I am fine." 

"Good morning," Jack announces cheerily as he sweeps in, only to falter and look at Dean in surprise. "Oh! Did you get into a fight?" 

"Um." Dean coughs into his coffee. "Yes?" 

"With who?" Jack asks, frowning. 

"With...a door," Dean says slowly. 

Jack flicks a look at Cas and Sam, confused. "Doors fight back now?" 

"That's—" Cas pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs before turning and reaching out to snatch Dean's coffee from him, which earns him a noise of protest. Cas cuts him a sharp look. "Excuse us. Dean and I are going to handle the door." 

"Do you need help?" Jack asks. 

"No, we've—we've got it," Dean chokes out, his voice strained. He slowly pushes to his feet, curling up and out with a pleasure-pain sort of groan, lifting his arms above his head and shaking with the achy stretch. Jesus, that's good. 

Sam lifts his coffee in salute as he follows Cas out, stifling laughter, and Dean flips him off. 

When they get into Dean's room, Cas turns around with a frown. "Let me heal you." 

"Dude, I'm not wounded," Dean says. He waves his hand up and down his body. "Am I sore? Yes. It's good, though. It's really good." 

"You look—" Cas seems to search for a word for a long moment, narrowing his eyes, "—debauched. Violated. Defiled." 

"Maybe, but it's by you, so…" Dean shrugs. 

"Dean," Cas says softly.

"Come on, don't do this to me, Cas. It's like—oh god, okay, have you read the Twilight series, by chance?" Dean asks. 

Cas frowns. "No, but I did have it forced into my head by Metatron."

"Neither have I, to be clear. But anyway, remember the main character? The girl." Dean makes a frustrated sound when Cas just stares at him blankly. "Bella. Well, she goes by—that's not the point. The point is, do you remember in the fourth book when her and Ed—her vampire boyfriend have sex the first time? She wakes up after on cloud nine, covered in, like, feathers and bruises. Maybe, I dunno all the details. Anyway, she's having a wonderful morning, feeling like she's just won at life, like maybe there's a whole point to being a human after all. Relatable, by the way. Um." He coughs and holds his hands out. "Okay, so anyway, she's having a great fucking morning after, right?" 

"Okay," Cas says slowly, blinking. 

Dean nods. "Right. But then Edward's all upset because she's covered head-to-toe in bruises and he bit the pillows because he wanted to bite her. He's basically like, oh, it can never happen again, it was a risk, I'm a monster, yada yada yada. And Bella's like, why the fuck are you ruining this for me, Edward? Edwin, even. Who knows? I don't. Anyway, she's pissed 'cause she was having a good 'ol time before her stupid vampire boyfriend went and killed the mood, and she's like—hey, I'm a horny teenager, I want to have sex all the time, I would literally risk having my spine snapped in half for you, man." 

"Okay," Cas repeats. 

"Exactly." Dean pushes his hands out at him a little vigorously. "Why the fuck are you ruining this for me? Snap me like a glow stick, babe, it's fine." 

"You relate to a hypersexual seventeen year old girl?" Cas asks, eyebrows raising. 

"You make me relate to a hypersexual seventeen year old girl. Actually, she was eighteen at this point, but that's not even—" Dean waves a hand. "Whatever. Anyway, this makes you the creepy vampire boyfriend, by the way. You're totally not a monster, if that's what you're worried about." 

"It...never...was," Cas informs him haltingly, staring at him like he's questioning his intelligence. "I'm an angel. I have superior strength. I might have, perhaps, used that strength to my advantage, but I'm well aware that it was to my advantage. You were in full support, and that's enough for me. That being said, I see no reason why you should remain in this state when I could help." 

"Maybe I like it." 

"Dean, I can't do it again if you're still like this." 

"Maybe I don't like it," Dean corrects, doing a complete one-eighty in a heartbeat. He claps his hands together. "Okay, heal me up, then fuck me up again. Just that, on repeat." 

"That was the plan, yes," Cas says, exasperated. He rolls his eyes and reaches out to tap Dean's forehead. There's the tingle, the fading ache, and Dean wriggles out his limbs, huffing. 

"S'like you erased the evidence," Dean mutters, wrinkling his nose. "Put it back." 

"I am capable of being gentle, you know," Cas tells him in amusement. 

"Great, can't wait. Maybe tomorrow?" Dean asks, reaching out to grab the lapels of Cas' coat to reel him in closer. 

Cas' lips twitch. "We have time." 

"Don't you start," Dean warns, swallowing thickly. "Let's just—can we—" 

"I thought I would be the desperate one." 

"You aren't?" 

"Well, yes, but you're certainly louder about it than I am. I like it." 

Dean brushes his lips along Cas' jaw, mouthing down to his neck. His eyes drift shut, and he's hit with a strong surge of want that nearly knocks him right off his feet. "Jesus," he whispers. "Fuck, Cas, I don't think I'm ever gonna get enough of you. It's like—I could just...I could… Gimme a word." 

"For what?" 

"Eat, but like, not." 

"Consume?" 

"Not quite. It's—it's—" 

Cas hums. "Do you mean—" 

"Oh, I know," Dean breathes out, sliding his hands up Cas' chest, feeling his scruff against his lips, fucking overwhelmed by it, the feel of him. "I could gorge myself on you, and I'd still never get full."

"Insatiable," Cas says softly. 

"Yeah. Yeah," Dean agrees breathlessly, his head turning up at the same time that Cas' head turns towards him, the both of them chasing. 

Dean's back hits the door with a solid thump. 

"I'm not having this argument with you again." 

"Because I'm right." 

"Just because you eat it now doesn't mean—" 

"It's better, Dean. This isn't a debate." 

"Excuse me," a woman says, shuffling awkwardly behind them, pointing towards the shelf, "you're sort of blocking the bread." 

"We apologize," Cas says politely, reaching out to grab Dean's arm and tug him to the side. They're both silent as she hurries forward to grab a loaf and scurry away, and then they're off. "I'm right, you're wrong, and we're not getting white bread." 

"I love you, I'm in love with you, I'm so pathetically in love with you that it's humiliating," Dean says. 

Cas fixes him with an unimpressed look. "Yes, I'm aware, Dean. You can't win arguments like that anymore. We're not getting Sunbeam." 

Dean smacks his teeth. "We are getting the Sunbeam, Cas. I'll leave you here. After all this time, I will actually still just leave you here." 

"Do it." 

"We're getting the—" 

"We are not getting the—" 

"Why are you so obsessed with Nature's Own, anyway? It's just cardboard. It's literally just—" 

"It's not. You're being absolutely—" 

"Oh, don't you fucking start, sweetheart. You're on the same level I am now, Mr. Human for Love." 

"We are not equals. I am superior." Cas holds up his loaf of bread. "I am, because I recognize that this is far better than—" 

"Bullshit. Complete bullshit. You just wanna argue with me. That's what you wanna do. And you can't ever admit that you're wrong, no, god forbid Cas be wrong about anything, because why would he—" 

"I am more than capable of admitting my mistakes, but I am firm when I know I'm right. I did not waver when it came to you, not once, not by my own violation, and was I wrong then?" 

"Don't bring us into this," Dean snaps, pointing at Cas' face. "I'm leaving you here." 

"So go," Cas retorts, sharp and careless. 

"Fine, I will."

"Good. You do that."  

"Fine, I'm going." 

"Good." 

"Fine." 

"Good." 

"Like a broken record," Dean mutters with a scoff, throwing a look of contempt at the bread in Cas' grip. "Keep your stupid bread. Love you too, asshole. I hope it keeps you warm at night."

Dean swivels around and marches off without another word, grumbling under his breath about stupid wheat-bread-eaters. He stomps up and down the aisle two down from the bread, picking up and putting down cans of soup he doesn't even need. He scowls at the can of ravioli before slamming it back down to the shelf with a huff. 

In the next second, the basket on his arm is being tugged free and sat down, and Dean's got warm hands on his cheeks and familiar lips pressing into his own. He melts almost immediately, lit up and shaking in an instant. He's gone two weeks without getting Cas naked—waiting, waiting, they do like their waiting—so he's instantly on board, the bread completely forgotten altogether. 

Cas kisses him for a long time, slow and deep and intense, until Dean's just clutching at him and struggling to stay upright. He should not be this turned on in the middle of a grocery store, but oh, the things Cas does to him. It's wild. 

When Cas pulls away, he hums and looks at him with clears eyes, smiling. "Say it again, please." 

"Love you too, asshole," Dean says dutifully, squeezing Cas' arms, grinning at him. 

"Mm, thank you," Cas murmurs, triumph bright in his gaze, so damn happy he can't even hide it. He doesn't look like he wants to. He looks absolutely overwhelmed with joy, but really, that's the best part about being Dean. He can make that happen. 

"You love me?" 

"Of course." 

"Enough to—" 

"We are not getting—" 

"Yes, we are. We—" 

"Dean, I do love you—" 

"And I love you, Cas—" 

Later, much later in life, that's the part they'll remember. The undercurrent of love that's been cutting through their every interaction for years, that shaped them, that pours out in everything they do for each other. It's undeniable and memorable, the thing that lives on when there's change. 

Really, though, that's the most important part.