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"How's it going in there?"
Behind the door, Cas grunts.
Dean chuckles and adjusts how he's sitting on the rickety chair outside the dressing room. They should've gone to a thrift store, but putting Cas in someone else's clothes feels wrong. Dean wants to buy him clothes that belong to him, and only to him. Besides, Weaver's is a Lawrence institution. There's a hazy memory of holding his mom's hand while she picked out Christmas presents, of insisting on a gift for Sam, even though he wasn't due for another five months.
"I don't understand why I can't continue to wear your clothes," Cas complains.
"Cause they don't fit you worth a damn."
Lawrence is just under four hours from the bunker, so they hit the road early, a little before eight. Dean invited Sam along, thought he might appreciate a day trip, but Sam said he could use the research time. He's probably trying to do them a solid, or he simply doesn't want to be a third wheel. Either way, Dean's glad to have the time alone with Cas. They'll spend the day in Lawrence: buy Cas some new things, grab something to eat, swing by the old house, and roll back into Lebanon late.
Cas huffs. "It seems like a waste of money."
"Don't worry about that. How do they fit?"
"I don't know. They're tighter than I'm used to."
"That's because Jimmy wore everything two sizes too big. Open the door."
Cas swings the door inward. He selected the clothes himself: dark-washed jeans, a black henley, and a black-and-gray-striped cardigan that was ugly as sin on the hanger. Dean was prepared to ask directions to the nearest hipster coffee shop, but on Cas the sweater is somehow appealing. Dean stands up and crowds into the dressing room, reaches his hands around Cas's middle, hooks his chin over his shoulder and buttons the sweater for him. He lets his hands linger on Cas's hips, then steps back.
The clothes fit. Cas doesn't look like he's playing dress-up anymore, though he fidgets at his sleeves, shifts his weight as he scrutinizes his reflection.
"You look good," Dean compliments, with a peck to his cheek. "What do you think?"
"Your shirts are softer," Cas says doubtfully.
"Try on the next one."
"I'm hungry."
"We'll eat after we leave here."
"Burgers?" Cas asks.
"Obviously," Dean says with a grin and resumes his seat.
Cas looks appeased and closes the door.
+
The cashier recommends the brewing company for lunch. She says they've got the best burgers in town. It's less than a half mile up the road, so they drop the bags in the car and hike two blocks up Massachusetts.
Dean keeps his hands in his pockets, but he walks close to Cas, so their elbows knock and he can bump him with his shoulder. While they wait for a walk signal, Dean rests his hand at the small of Cas's back: solid, reassuring. Cas smiles at the affection and holds open the door for Dean when they arrive at the restaurant.
Dean planned to sit at the bar, but Cas selects a booth when the hostess presents the option. He lays his napkin on his lap and watches Dean open the menu with a peaceful expression.
"Burgers and beers," Dean says. "Doesn't get much better than this."
Cas orders a beer, which nearly prompts Dean to comment, "Thought you didn't like the taste?" before he remembers that never happened. He bites his lip and orders a stout for himself.
"What is it?" Cas asks when the server walks away. He folds his hands on the table and tilts his head.
"It's nothing," Dean dismisses, forcing a laugh. He drums out a rhythm with his palms, hoping to distract Cas, but he just squints.
"I thought we were done lying to each other," he says.
It's not accusatory, just a little sad. Dean sighs and cranes his head around to study the restaurant. It looks like a place where college kids would hang out: casual, clean. Big windows out front, metal railings separating the upper level from the ground floor, so the whole room feels open. He would come here, if they lived in Lawrence again. It's a hell of a lot nicer than the bar in Essex Junction that probably doesn't exist.
"Dean?" Cas prompts.
"You didn't like beer," he mumbles, turning back around. He keeps his eyes trained on his hands. "I just—it's still weird. I know it wasn't real, but, uh. I don't know how to explain."
"You don't have to," Cas says. "I understand."
"Yeah?" Dean asks. He scowls and meets Cas's eyes.
Cas nods slowly. He purses his lips together and needlessly wipes them with his napkin; they don't even have water yet. It's a nervous habit. He pinches the napkin's crease and works it between his fingers.
"Naomi," he begins, his voice low. "Had...creative ways of resetting me."
An uneasiness stirs in Dean's stomach. He sits forward, leaning his forearms on the table. "What're you talking about?"
Cas goes still, sets his napkin down and turns away, toward the front windows. The light highlights his frown and the tension around his mouth.
"She needed a weapon," Cas continues. "I had become compromised. It was necessary to retrain me."
His tone has gone flat.
"What do you mean, retrain?"
"My duty was to follow orders, so she gave me one that I would never obey." His voice wavers, but Cas swallows and continues, face hardening. "She made copies. She ordered me to kill those copies. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Perfect likenesses, down to your freckles."
It's a moment before Dean realizes what Cas just admitted, the horror of it bleeding through like nausea.
"Jesus," he whispers. He covers his mouth with a hand.
"They cursed at me," Cas murmurs, haunted. "Some of them cried. Begged. Some of them...some of them kissed me. That's how I knew they weren't you."
Dean feels sick. Cas takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes.
"Hundreds, all in the same room. It was a warehouse of corpses. And you were praying. While I was there, you were praying to me. I could hear you, Dean, as I was—"
"Alright," their server interrupts with practiced cheer, appearing tableside with a tray.
Cas snaps his mouth closed. The server lays two coasters on the table and sets their glasses down.
"Two beers," she says, "and your burgers will be up in a few."
"Thanks," Dean mutters, giving her a slight smile and a nod. She walks away.
Cas is staring at his lap. His hands are still folded on the edge of the table, visibly trembling. Dean reaches out and covers them with his.
"Hey," he says. "That wasn't your fault."
"I know that," Cas says. "But I still experienced it. I experienced you die by my hand a thousand times. It can be hard to separate that from reality."
"Good thing the training didn't work," Dean says. He squeezes Cas's hands.
"That was unprecedented," Cas confides. "Naomi hadn't considered how completely I..."
He stops talking when his voice breaks.
"Yeah, well, me neither," Dean says. He smiles. "Took us long enough, huh?"
Cas turns his hands over, so his fingertips brush Dean's palms. He doesn't answer.
+
Dean didn't plan to stop by a flower shop, but they pass one on the walk back to the car. He slows his pace, dragging a foot along the sidewalk as he takes in the clutter of arrangements in the front window.
"Uh," he says, motioning to the door. "I'm just gonna..."
"Alright," Cas says and follows him inside.
It's nondescript as far as flower shops go, with ugly floral carpeting and knick-knacks obscuring the view from the front door. Dean's no florist connoisseur, but he figures he managed to hallucinate a pretty decent one. He migrates to the refrigerated cases of pre-made arrangements on the far wall: a colorful pink and orange mix, single long-stemmed roses, a simple bunch of white flowers. He chooses those, takes them from the case without checking the price.
Cas is bent at the waist, sniffing a Japanese peace lily. He frowns. He sniffs an orchid and his frown deepens.
"What?" Dean asks.
"They're beautiful," Cas says, "but they don't smell like anything."
Dean studies the case again, and his eyes settle on a bouquet that's unsettlingly familiar. It's a second before he can react and open the case. His hand hovers next to the plastic wrapped around the stems, ghosts over the roses, but he can't make himself pick it up. He selects the bouquet next to it, something purple and white. Anything but yellow.
"Here," he says, handing it to Cas. "Try this one."
"Oh," Cas says, smiling as he holds them to his face. "I like these."
"Good," Dean says, pleased when Cas walks with them to the front register.
He cradles them against his chest the rest of the walk, glancing to Dean every few feet.
"Dude, they're just flowers," Dean mutters, but in the car, Cas's mouth pressed to his cheek, he knows they're not.
+
The house looks about the same as it did almost a decade ago. There are fresh mower lines criss-crossing the grass and the porch has recently been power washed, though he doesn't remember the front door being red. But it's in good shape. Walking past, you'd never guess it had once been engulfed by fire or that a poltergeist terrorized the homeowners. It looks like any other house in small-town America. The only thing missing is a white-picket fence.
He's embarrassed it's been so long since the last time he and Sammy came here, though Sam doesn't have the emotional tie to the place that Dean does. Sam has no memories of Lawrence, apart from what Dean has told him and what he picked up the couple times they've passed through.
He parks down the block and shuts off the engine, staring at the house through the windshield. They've come all this way and now he's too chickenshit to get out of the car.
Cas just lays a hand on Dean's thigh. It settles the sour feeling in his stomach, eases the tension in his back.
"Do you want me to wait here?" Cas offers.
"No," Dean says. He takes the keys out of the ignition.
They don't go up to the front door. There isn't a point. This isn't his house any longer, and Cas doesn't need to see the nursery to understand what happened there. Sam's nursery is gone. What stands in front of them is just a reconstruction.
Dean keeps his feet on the sidewalk, mindful of the grass. The bouquet hangs at his side. He feels a little foolish for buying it—is he gonna leave it on the lawn?—but he thinks his mom would appreciate the sentiment. He didn't bother with a card. He sets them down, just next to the walkway that leads to the front door, and shoves his hands into his pockets. Maybe the homeowners will pick them up, stick them in a vase with some water. He steps back, points toward a second-floor window.
"That was my room," he says.
"It's a lovely house, Dean."
"Yeah, I think my mom and dad were real happy here." Cas is quiet, like he's waiting to hear more, so Dean continues. "Dad was a mechanic and mom stayed home with us. It was simple."
"You could give up hunting," Cas says. "There are others who would take up the task."
Dean shakes his head. "Can't really imagine a life without..." he begins, then stops himself before the lie spills out. "Well. Even then, I went back to it."
"I think it's possible to have both."
"Cas, you get a house like this, you live there, not outta motels. And my credit ain't exactly stellar."
"I'm sure Charlie could assist us," Cas says, nudging him with an elbow. Dean snorts laughter and takes Cas's hand.
"Yeah, probably."
"I'd like a porch," Cas muses. "Perhaps a rocking chair. Jimmy had one."
Dean doesn't say, I’ve kissed you in a rocking chair. I've watched you sit on one a hundred times.
What he does say is, "Long as the place has a garage. Think we could bury an underground salt ring around the perimeter?"
"That would be a lot of salt," Cas says, considering. "But I don't see why not."
"Then we just need a devil's trap in the entryway like we had at the house, and we're all set." Dean laughs, but then it dawns on him what he's just said, and he falls quiet. Why can't he stop thinking about that place? His cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame—he doesn't want Cas thinking he wishes he were still there. He doesn't. This is where he wants to be, right here in Lawrence, Kansas with Cas next to him. He scrubs his free hand over his face to conceal the blush.
Cas strokes his thumb over the back of Dean's hand gently. "You're allowed to talk about it," he says.
Dean takes a long, steadying breath and fixes his gaze on the roofline. The shingles look new, lying flat against the A-frame. The B&B was two years overdue for a new roof.
"Tell me one thing," Cas says.
Dean squeezes his eyes tightly at the first sting. He doesn't want to talk about this, even though he should, even though Cas is asking.
"You had these, um." He swallows. "These crazy trellices in the garden. I think they were Enochian symbols. Had bean plants growing all over them."
"We had a garden?" Cas asks. His tone is bright and hopeful.
"Yeah, a big one. You could see it through the kitchen window."
"I love gardens," Cas declares. "We'll have one of those, too."
He says it like it's a certainty.
"Are you alright?" he asks after a while.
"Yeah, I'm good."
"Do you want to take a picture?" Cas asks, taking out his phone.
"Why not," Dean says, thinking Cas is going to take a shot of the house, but he positions them both with their backs to it.
"Smile," he says, taking a crooked selfie.
Their heads knock together, and Dean can only laugh at their expressions. Cas is looking at his thumb, not the camera, and Dean is simultaneously smiling and frowning. The house is only partially visible in the background, roof cut off.
It's a terrible picture.
"I like taking photographs," Cas says as he texts it to Sam. His phone makes a swishing noise to indicate the message has been sent.
"I'm buying you a photo album," Dean tells him, slinging an arm over Cas's shoulders as they walk toward the car. A green one, he thinks.
+
They spend a couple hours ambling through town, grab some fancy chocolate coffee and donut bites, then check out KU’s campus for forty minutes before getting lost trying to find his dad’s old mechanic’s shop. Before long, it begins to cool as the sun lowers. Dean checks the time. It’s seven o’clock, so they decide to hit the road.
Cas falls asleep with his head against the window during the ride home. Dean spends the last hour in silence, stopping once for gas. He texts Sam to let him know they're on their way and picks up one of those energy drinks in a skinny can. He downs half in a couple sips. It's too sweet with a sour aftertaste, but it staves off the heavy feeling in his eyes. Cas wakes up when Dean restarts the car and leans over Cas to fish in the glove compartment for gum.
"Are we home?" he asks.
"Little bit longer," Dean says, patting his knee.
"Alright," Cas mumbles, twisting on the seat so he can lay his head against Dean's shoulder. It's an awkward way to drive but there are very few cars on the road. Dean keeps to the speed limit, content in the way that Cas sleepily fumbles for his hand and tangles his own around it.
They reach Lebanon a little after eleven. Everything is closed for the night; the traffic lights are blinking yellow. Dean heads off the main drag, to the road that leads to the bunker's entrance. It's shrouded in dark, the trees casting long, finger-like shadows across the driveway. It's an ominous welcome, but it feels more like home than any motel welcome mat he's walked across in thirty years.
If they ever move out and get a place of their own, he'll miss this garage. He pulls Baby into her parking space, shuts her off for the night. He pockets his keys and gently shakes Cas awake.
"Hey," he murmurs. "We're home."
"Okay," Cas answers.
Dean laughs. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."
Cas shakes his head against Dean's shoulder.
"Cas, we're not sleeping in the car."
With a grunt, Cas sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He yawns and blinks like he's disoriented.
"Yes," he says. "Of course."
But he sits on the front seat a moment longer, so Dean gets out of the car, pops open the trunk and takes out the shopping bags. He retrieves the flowers from the back seat. Cas wakes up enough to walk inside without help, but once they get to the bedroom, he's out of his coat and shoes within seconds, crawling into bed in his clothes.
"Not gonna brush your teeth?" Dean asks, switching off the light.
Cas mutters "no" into his pillow. He pats the mattress next to him.
"I'll be in later," Dean promises, dropping a kiss to his cheek. "Gonna say hi to Sammy."
Cas doesn't respond, which either means he's done talking or he's fallen asleep, so Dean tugs the covers up to his shoulders and shuts the bedroom door on his way out.
Sam is still awake despite the late hour, drinking coffee at the table as he skims what looks like an online article.
"What are you still doing up?" Dean asks, opening the cabinets until he finds a vase.
"Is it that late?" Sam asks, eyes flitting to the bottom right corner of his screen. Both eyebrows shoot up. He shuts the laptop and stretches back in his chair. "How was your trip?"
"It was alright," Dean says, filling the vase with water. "Got Cas some new clothes."
He removes the plastic around the flowers and sets them in the vase. They splay outward haphazardly and drop a few leaves on the counter. They resist his effort to arrange them, so he shrugs, pinches the dead leaves and tosses them with the plastic. He sets the vase in the middle of the counter, where Cas will see it in the morning.
Sam points to the refrigerator. "There's leftovers if you're hungry."
"Probably should. We never got dinner."
"It's a pasta and vegetable thing."
"Think I'll stick with cereal," Dean laughs. He gets down a bowl. "Stopped by the house," he adds, not turning around.
"Oh, yeah?"
Sam's doing that thing with his voice where he tries to make it sound like he isn't digging for more information. Dean's too tired for a runaround. He pours milk onto corn flakes and leaves the container on the counter.
"Looked good," he offers, coming to the table and falling in across from Sam.
Sam nods and sips the last of his coffee. "Do you ever think about moving back there?" he asks.
"To Lawrence? Not really."
"Don't get me wrong," Sam says. "This place is amazing, but don't you think it would be nice to have a yard? Neighbors?"
"Sure, it would be nice. It would be nice to have a freaking nine-to-five job, but we don't. We can't just walk away from this life."
"Bobby had a house," Sam points out. "I don't think anybody could say he walked away from this."
"Bobby's different," Dean dismisses. He shovels cereal into his mouth.
"I'm not saying you have to do it right away. But you're going to wake up one morning and you're not gonna want to live in an underground bunker with Cas and me."
"Hey," Dean snaps. He points the spoon at Sam. "Don't you ever think I would kick you out. Ever."
"But what if that's what I want?" Sam asks gently. "Dean, I don't want to do this forever. This was just supposed to be for a weekend. I understand we have a responsibility, but I still want my own life. You know, I want to meet someone. Have a couple kids."
"You'd be a good dad," Dean says, ignoring the ache in his chest, the phantom memory of a child swinging on his thigh.
"Well, so would you," Sam says.
"Me and Cas don't exactly have the equipment to pop out brats."
"There are other ways to have children. Look at Bobby."
"With my luck, I'll end up with a house full of cats," Dean snorts. The next mouthful is slightly soggy, so he eats faster.
"We don't have to make any decisions right now," Sam says, circling back around to his point. "Just…think about it."
Dean takes his bowl to the sink and rinses it, puts the milk away. They need to clear out the fridge. He'll scrub the whole kitchen down tomorrow. He ought to do it now, but that energy drink is starting to wear off, and crawling into bed with Cas sounds good.
"I'm turning in," he tells Sam.
"See you in the morning."
"Don't stay up too late," Dean calls on his way out.
+
Dean slips into the bedroom and gets undressed without turning on the light. Cas hasn't moved from the position where Dean left him, snoring face down into the pillow.
It's warm underneath the covers. Dean sinks into it, crowding into Cas's side. He loves that he can do this, can fling an arm over Cas's back, kiss a path along his shoulder. Cas mutters something and turns his head sleepily, catching Dean's mouth. His lips are slack. The kiss is lazy, a chaste goodnight kiss that hangs. Both of them are too tired to pull away.
They don't move, just breathe against each other—but then Cas shifts, waking further. He rolls onto his side and parts his lips, moaning softly as he licks into Dean's mouth. Heat instantly curls in Dean's stomach. He pulls Cas against him and works a knee between his legs. He knots his other hand in Cas's hair and massages circles onto his scalp. Cas traces patterns on his chest, trails fingers over his ribs, scrapes his nails down Dean's back to pull him closer.
It's silent in the bunker. The only sound is the rustle of sheets over their skin. His hands are firm on Dean's ass and he squeezes, easing Dean's hips into a rocking motion against his. Dean's tired, and he could probably come just like this, if Cas keeps it up.
"Turn around," Cas murmurs into his mouth.
Dean sucks in a breath, kisses Cas lushly and does, flipping onto his other side.
Cas quickly pulls off his own clothes. They land somewhere beside the bed, and then Cas is pressed against him, sucking at the juncture of his neck and shoulder as he slides his hands underneath the waistband of Dean's boxers and works them down. He's agonizingly slow about it, like he's memorizing every inch of Dean's skin along the way—every imperfection, every scar. He works the boxers down far enough that he can settle against Dean's ass.
Cas grinds against him, mouth wet at the base of Dean's neck. He presses his forehead into Dean's spine and rests a hand on his waist. They don't talk, but Cas utters breathy, nearly inaudible gasps as he fucks himself against Dean's body.
Dean can already feel pressure building, the tingling in his hands and feet. He takes himself in hand, slides it up to twist just slightly, then back down. Slow. Steady. He wants the sensation to last. They haven't done more than this yet, just mouths and hands, but this is good. It's great, even, and Cas reaches around and wraps his hand over Dean's fist.
Dean throws his head back, cranes his neck so he can kiss Cas, desperate for his mouth. It's a horrible angle; Cas kisses the corner of his lips, but it's enough. He seals their mouths together as much as he can and continues to rock.
He slides against Dean's ass, thrusts his hips in a way that triggers a memory of cinnamon and a night on the floor—and that's it. Dean's spilling over both of their hands in relief, and Cas is moaning into his ear, murmuring "Dean, Dean," in reverent disbelief.
Dean's heart thunders as Cas eases him onto his back and settles over him, cupping Dean's face in his hand and kissing him: deep and unhurried. Dean cleans his hand on the sheets, then grips Cas's hair, pulling his face closer. He lets his legs fall apart so Cas can lie between them, cock trapped between their stomachs. He's still hard and it makes Dean breathless.
"You wanna...?" he offers, rocking his hips up so Cas gets the idea.
He might as well be offering Cas a truckload of kittens or a whole neighborhood of dream houses the way Cas's expression changes, barely visible in the glow from the alarm clock, but Dean can see it. Cas kisses Dean like his mouth is a religion. He's nodding yes and he's panting "yes, yes, Dean" against his lips.
Dean switches on the lamp and searches in the nightstand drawer. He's almost positive there's lube in here somewhere. It's been so long since he used any, since he had any desire to touch himself, but he finds a crumpled tube next to a stack of magazines. Cas's eyes are wide with excitement, a little fearful, lips deep pink and his cheeks flushed. He stares at the tube in Dean's hand. Dean folds Cas's fingers around it and kisses him in reassurance.
Cas kisses him before sitting back, kneeling between Dean's thighs as he unscrews the cap. "I've never done this," he says, laying it aside. He squeezes lubricant onto his fingertips. "How?"
"Just go slow," Dean tells him.
Technically, he's never done this either, but the first press of Cas's finger is achingly familiar. Tears spring into his eyes in relief even though his body rejects the intrusion, squeezing involuntarily around it. He holds his breath and forces himself to relax.
"Are you alright?" Cas asks, voice layered with concern. He doesn't remove his hand but he stills.
"I'm fine," Dean promises, though his voice is strained. He wipes the tears from his eyes. "Just kiss me."
Cas comes willingly, lying down next to Dean, pulling the sheet over both of them. He kisses sweetly, props himself up on an elbow so that he can reach between Dean's legs, and continues to work him open.
It's almost too slow, feels too strange, but Cas exhales words against his lips, "You're so warm. Do you like this?" and Dean whispers back, "Yeah, it's good, baby. Keep going."
Cas closes his eyes; his lips are parted. When Dean moans, Cas chokes on air before finding Dean’s mouth again, pressing deeper, until Dean's begging, "More. More, I can take it."
And when he finally says, "Okay, okay, I'm good, let's—" Cas kisses him like it might be the last time, and Dean lies on his back again. He thinks it might be harder this way, but he wants to see Cas's face, can't bear to look away from him. Not today. Cas seems to understand and bends Dean's knees up to his chest, strokes his cheek and holds Dean's eyes for a beat before looking between their bodies.
He begins to push, his face blossoming into surprised bliss as he gasps, "Oh, Dean. Dean, this is—" and Dean wraps his ankles around Cas's back, pulling him deeper despite the burn and murmurs, "I know," while trying to adjust to the discomfort. His body quakes, he's trembling, but it's Cas. Cas is above him and inside him, flesh-and-blood real, and Dean gets to have him for the rest of his life.
Their rhythm starts out slow and awkward. Cas stares at the place their bodies connect, closes his eyes as he slides out, then pushes forward timidly, like he's afraid he's hurting Dean. He holds there, hands positioned on the underside of Dean's thighs, and takes a few seconds to breathe. Dean bites his lip, hisses, "Jesus, Cas, move," and Cas finally does.
Dean doesn't try to keep quiet, groaning in encouragement with every roll of Cas's hips. The louder he cries, the harder Cas pushes back in, until Dean's practically shouting and the headboard rattles against the wall.
Cas's eyes flicker open, and he comes with a small cry. Dean wishes he could stop time for a while, lose himself in the sound of it. Cas is undone, staring at Dean as he slows his movements, pumps his hips a few more times, then eases out with a reluctant expression. Dean feels strange and empty.
He gulps in air until Cas settles on top of him, kissing him over and over. Cas’s cheeks are wet, eyes glassy. He's crying, so Dean brushes the tears away, kisses back.
"That was amazing," he promises.
Cas shakes his head. He kisses Dean again. "I didn't know it would feel like that."
Dean can only hold him. They should get up to shower, but Dean's too tired to move, and Cas is shaking. Dean wraps his arms around his back, sighing as Cas lays his head on Dean's shoulder and gradually settles.
"I'd like you to do that to me sometime," Cas murmurs after a while.
"Yeah?" Dean trails a hand down his spine.
"Yes. So you can feel it."
Dean kisses the top of Cas’s head. "It's a deal," he says, and Cas hums contentedly against his skin.
They fall asleep with the light on.