Archive of Our Own ^beta

According to Dean, Castiel has done a number of deplorable things during sex, including but not limited to; calling him beautiful, which he’s not allowed to do anymore (but still does), telling him he loves him (“fuckin’ sap,” Dean had groused, even though there was a smile tugging at the corners of his lips and he had a spring in his step for the rest of the day), and on one momentous occasion, leaving mid-coitus because his stomach had rumbled rather violently, and he decided it would be best to continue their activities after he had eaten a generous portion of scrambled eggs.

Cas is most definitely not allowed to do the latter anymore, and Dean has now made it a habit of asking him if he’s eaten before too much skin to skin contact is made.

Cas had originally protested that he had made eggs for the both of them, but it somehow didn’t seem to matter to Dean, who had stomped out of the bunker and come back an hour later only to dump a bag of blue ping pong balls over an unsuspecting Castiel’s head, with a finger in his face and a fervent, “if you ever cut out in the middle of sex again to go make a sandwich, I will kill you.” When Cas responded that it had, in fact, been eggs he was going to make, Dean had put a palm over his eyes and muttered a very long and drawn out colorful string of swear words. Cas went down on him later that day, pretty spectacularly, though, so no hard feelings.

Besides, Cas is pretty sure none of his violations in the bedroom (or living room, or library, or kitchen, etc) come even close to the amount of offense he’s supposed to feel at the fact that Dean has fallen asleep while Cas’ dick is in his ass.
To be fair, they’d been going at each other basically all night, and their latest round had been less unbridled passion, more gentle waves rocking.

As it stands however, Cas has a hard dick, Dean is asleep, and he’s not sure what to do in this situation.

“Um,” he hedges, searching Dean’s face for any sign of this being an inconveniently timed thirty second power nap. “Dean,” he whispers, and drops a soft kiss onto the corner of Dean’s mouth, “Dean.” When he doesn’t stir, Cas slips out of him slowly, kneeling back onto the bed between Dean’s spread legs. “Dean,” he says again, normal volume, and puts a hand on his knee, gently shaking him, “Dean. If this is another lesson on ‘blue balls’, please know that for the love of god, I get it. The ping pong balls were very informative.”

No response, and Cas sighs, feeling his erection sighing along with him.

He supposes he can’t blame Dean, not really. He figures (knows from another very athletic night in the bunker, actually) that having a dick in your ass for hours of marathon sex is extremely exhausting. Then again, Cas hadn’t fallen asleep. Dean had.

He knows that if their roles had been reversed, Dean would probably be equal parts put out and amused. It most certainly would be something Cas would never live down. Sam would probably hear about it, whether he wanted to or not. Kevin would know. Dean would probably blog about it, somehow. Or make Sam do it.

Cas likes to think that he’ll be more mature about the situation; he’ll take the high road. He’s a grown man, angel, hybrid, soulless creature destined for nothingness, something. Either way, he’ll be more mature about it than Dean.

Then again… he glances contemplatively over Dean’s slumbering form, taking in the soft lines and gentle slope of his chest that raises and dips with every contented breath. He feels a smirk ghost across his face, and brushes his fingertips down the inside of Dean’s thigh, wisping through soft, light hairs. Dean’s leg jerks a little bit, but he doesn’t stir otherwise. Cas presses his lips to Dean’s knee cap briefly, swirling his index finger through the coarser hair on Dean’s calf.

“You’re beautiful,” Cas murmurs, lips still pressed to Dean’s knee, because if Dean’s asleep, he can’t invoke the ‘no sappy shit’ rule, and Cas can therefore say whatever he like. “I love you more than I could ever adequately describe in any language,” he insists quietly, dragging chapped, gentle lips down the inside of Dean’s thigh, one hand moving in smooth circles on his outer thigh, the other resting in the divot of Dean’s hipbone.

“I didn’t know,” he continues, a hint of wistfulness lingering on his exhale, “I didn’t realize just how much you are, Dean Winchester.” Lips to skin, “Of course I knew,” he tacks on pragmatically, “how important you were, in the grand scheme of things. I knew that you would help end the apocalypse just as you had a hand in starting it. But I didn’t know,” he says, eyes gone liquid and warm, knuckles brushing the underside of Dean’s thigh, low rumble of words being spoken into the muscle of his leg. “You,” he finishes, reverent. He squares his shoulder again, puts both palms flat to Dean’s bedded, warm abdomen.

“Your goodness,” he murmurs, running his hands lightly up and down Dean’s sides. Dean makes a soft noise, a happy noise, and it brings a serene grin to Cas’ face. He might be all the way asleep, but Cas doubts it. He thinks Dean’s closer to the grey area between sleeping and wakefulness, and he hopes and hopes that Dean will hear this, be it in a shallow dream or a sleep fogged mind, and he hopes and hopes these words will take root, will flower and grow into something beautiful in Dean’s subconscious, eventually breaking through to his waking thoughts, so he can know, every single day, just how exceptional he is. “And not for what you can do,” he clarifies, even though he never voiced the former thought out loud, “but for who you are.”

He crawls up to Dean’s side on the bed, sinking a bit with every movement into the memory foam Dean’s so fond of stroking, often to the point of (Cas thinks, anyways, and Sam agrees,) eroticism.

“But not because you’re Dean Winchester, Michael’s vessel, or Dean Winchester, the righteous man,” Cas’ lips are barely moving, Dean’s eyelids fluttering only inches from his own face, and he thinks that even if Dean were awake right now, he’d be straining to hear, “Not because you are Dean Winchester, your father’s soldier, and not because you are Dean Winchester, protector of your only brother. No,” Cas reaches a gentle hand, cups Dean’s cheek, and even in sleep, or half sleep, wherever he is, Dean leans into the touch, and Cas suddenly feels something obstructing his throat, “You are exceptional, so incredibly beautiful,” he says, voice low and genuine and hopelessly in love, “Because you are Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester. Because you don’t belong to anyone but yourself. Because you are you.”

Cas kisses Dean’s forehead, rests his lips there for a second.

“You are so good,” he promises Dean, letting a hand flutter across his torso to his hip, “You are good,” he repeats, an axiom, and presses his lips to Dean’s shoulder.

As it turns out, Cas is pretty tired too, and follows Dean into sleep.

***

He cheekily wishes Sam a happy unattached drifter’s Christmas, but it’s hollow for more than one reason; first, Sam still seems to want treat their relationship like a reluctant business partnership, and second, the whole ‘unattached drifter’ thing seems to become more and more untrue as the years go on, as Dean finds himself unfortunately becoming attached to more and more people. Of course, a handful of those people are now dead, thanks in some part to him.

Thankfully, some press on, lives yet unended despite the presence of a Winchester in them. Speaking of, Cas has been with them for about a week, now. No luck on any front, he’d reported, sounding beat, and then asked for a beer. It’s kind of like pouring it down the drain and then expecting to get drunk, but Dean could appreciate the effort, anyhow.

Now, they’re sitting across from each other in the library, engaged in a high stakes game of chess. Naturally, Cas is excellent, but he’s commented on Dean’s skills more than once as well.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Cas informs him mildly, staring at the board. It’s his move, and he ends up barely moving a pawn.

Dean’s move.
“Is it?” he asks sarcastically, “The massive amount of decorations in the stores didn’t tip me off at all.” He moves his piece, and sees a muscle tick in Cas’ jaw. Good, that means he’s stumped.

Cas surveys the board, crease between his brows, and Dean can practically see the cogs turning in his brain.

“I’m perfectly okay accepting your humble surrender,” he informs him, fully anticipating the look of stormy irritation Cas shoots him across the board. “So long as you agree to obey my every command.”

“And what would those commands be?” Cas asks, back in neutral, eyes refusing to raise from the board.

“Oh, you know,” Dean leans back in his chair with a vague hand gesture, knowing he’s pushing his luck. They’ve each taken the same amount of pieces, and the only high ground Dean has to stand on right now is that he’s got Cas stuck for the moment. But he can’t help it, he’s always been casually competitive when it comes to board games, and he thinks Cas is going to go into shock if he actually loses. Cas is a smug winner for sure, and Dean’s eager to see how petulant he gets when he loses. He wonders if he pouts.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Cas says distractedly, and Dean thinks he’s finally starting to plan his move. He always gets this vague, faraway look in his eyes when he’s planning his destruction of Dean’s livelihood (chess livelihood, that is), so he makes sure to keep a close eye on Cas’ eyes, following his gaze as he looks at various pieces.

“A little of this, a little of that. Y’know.” Dean says, purposely keeping that annoying lilting tone to his voice. “How do you feel about marathoning all the extended versions of Lord of the Rings?”

At that, Cas finally looks up from the board, confused.

“That’s hardly a punishment,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “I was expecting something along the lines of, ‘Eat this shaving cream pie’, or ‘Do a funny dance’.”

“What? Dude,” Dean says, “I was kidding. I’m not going to force you to marathon Lord of the Rings with me.”

“What?”

“What?”

Dean supposes it wouldn’t be a conversation with Cas if there weren’t at least one miscommunication.

“Whatever,” Dean says, because Cas is still staring at him. “You gonna make your move or what, Carlsen?”

“I don’t know who or what that is,” Cas says, moving his rook, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“It’s topical banter,” he assures him.

Dean’s move again.

They’re nearing the end of the game, and Dean’s started charting his path to Cas’ king, while he’s sure Cas is definitely doing the exact same thing on the other side of the table.

“I would like to watch movies with you,” Cas says in his typical forward way. “Of my own volition.”

“Careful what you say on Valentine’s Day.”

It’s half-mumbled, meant to be said offhandedly. Dean’s focusing too much on the game to really filter what’s coming out of mouth. It’s only after he makes his move that he realizes what he’s said, and he feels his cheeks grow hot.

He looks up again, and to absolutely nobody’s surprise, Cas is staring at him again, assessing.

“Since my time being human,” he starts, without even bothering to look at the board, and Dean thinks, uh oh, “I’ve become privy to a much wider spectrum of emotion. I’ve learned a lot, and feel like I’ve really caught onto the finer minutiae of many things.” A slight smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, “Although I do believe I’ll never become quite human enough to understand all your pop culture references.”

Despite the nerves that he feels tickling away under his palms, Dean puts as much bravado into his cheeky smile as possible.

“That’s me; two pop culture references and a glass of whiskey. Life of the party.”

Cas shakes his head, disagreeing with Dean’s self-deprecation.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he says, more firmly. “What I’m trying to tell you, Dean, is that I’ve learned in the past couple of months that sometimes humans say one thing, only for it to mean something else.” He reaches out, and Dean flinches, but he only moves the chess board out of the way so there’s nothing between them but empty table now.

“We weren’t finished that,” Dean protests weakly.

“It was going to be a draw,” Cas says. “We were too evenly matched.”

Dean scoffs.

“I think it’s an interesting phenomenon, actually,” Cas continues, like Dean never interrupted. “Years ago, you straightened my tie and told me that when humans want something really really bad, they lie.” He clamps his hands together and rests them on the table. He looks like the picture of ease, but there’s that damn tick in his jaw again. He’s not near as calm as he seems to be. “Why do they do that, Dean?” he asks, and Dean thinks, saying one thing, meaning another. He tries to think of it as just another chess game, and sometimes you’ve just got to play your opponent more than you play the game. Regardless, Dean swallows hard.

“Because that’s just how we do it,” he says. “If you lie, you don’t have to show your hand.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to show your hand?”

“Because then you’ve…” Dean searches for the right phrase, and finally has to circle back to, “shown your hand.” He rests his elbows on the table, mirroring Cas’ posture. “You were a strategist,” he says, pointing, “you know you don’t want the enemy to know all your best moves. They can prepare for them. They can use them against you.”

Something flashes in Cas’ eyes, and it’s gone too quickly before Dean can read it properly.

“Who said anything about enemies?” Cas asks. “We were just talking about people.”

Dean shrugs, the nerves making him feel like there’s a strobe light flashing away at the base of his spine.

“You got me,” he finally says, holding his hands up, feeling the urge to tuck tail and run already tensing in his leg muscles, “Glass half empty, grass is always greener, etc. Congrats, I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Dean,” Cas pleads, eyes soft, “We’re just talking. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean wets his lips, feels his clammy palms slide against each other, “You’re not doing a very good job.”

Cas nods resignedly.

“Okay,” he says, “Well then consider this me showing my cards.”

Dean’s not sure what he expects to happen, whether Cas is going to fucking leap across the table at him or do some weird angel mojo thingy. Instead, however, Cas just looks at him. And looks at him. And doesn’t say anything.

“Dude,” Dean finally has to say, because so much for not making him feel uncomfortable.

“You don’t want to show your cards because you’re afraid it makes you vulnerable,” Cas says. “You speak in doublespeak because it allows you to hide what you really want to say. So I’m asking you, Dean,” he’s looking at Dean with such openness that Dean feels his own defenses perk up in retaliation, but fights against them vehemently. “To do me the courtesy of not.” He moves his hand slightly more towards the center of the table, closer to Dean, and it could just be him adjusting his position, but it might not be, either, and Dean’s wildly unsure.

“What do you want from me, Cas?” Dean asks, and it comes out a lot more brittle than he meant it to.

“What I want,” Cas says slowly, pained, “is to know what you want.”

“Cas,” Dean says again, a warning this time.

Cas doesn’t say anything in response. Just looks.

“Don’t,” Dean says.

Cas continues to watch him, and they’re at a stalemate, and then it’s like a floodgate opens. He shoves the chess board off the table, sending the pieces flying, can hear them rolling away to whatever little dusty corners they can find.

“Why?” Dean hisses, slamming a fist down on the table. “Why do you wanna know, huh Cas? What I want doesn’t matter, haven’t you gotten the fucking memo? Haven’t you seen what I’ve done? Why the fuck do I deserve anything?” He’s standing now, breathing heavily, and Cas is still just fucking watching him, tranquil, like there’s not a goddam problem in the whole universe. He too, stands, but in contrast to Dean’s sudden explosion of anger, he’s calm, cool, and collected.

“You deserve everything,” Cas corrects him quietly, “Because you do.” He says it like it’s an irrefutable truth of the universe, and Dean doesn’t know how to handle it, wants to simultaneously bottle that feeling and keep it in his pocket for all time, and reject it, crush it under the heel of his boot because he’s not good enough, because people like him don’t deserve to feel like that.

Cas comes around the table to his side, and holds out a hand- Dean is sure this time. He grabs it, hopes Cas doesn’t mind that his palms are damp, that his pulse is probably racing under the thin skin of his wrist. He feels like a child as Cas leads him through the halls of the bunker, and strangely, he doesn’t realize they’re walking towards his own room until Cas is gently forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed, hands warm on Dean’s shoulders through the fabric of his t-shirt.

Cas sits beside him, and they look at each other, and it hits Dean then, he thinks, he was never that good at playing his cards close to his chest when it came to Cas. Not really. He’s been looking at Cas for years now, across from him in diner booths and in the rear view mirror of the Impala when he’s riding in the backseat. He’s seen him at the end of the world and seen what he looks like in death. There have been small moments, meeting gazes across motel rooms or a nod while interviewing suspects. Big moments, like just before Cas sent him to Saint Mary’s to stop Sam, or that last second, as he stood in the portal from Purgatory to earth, and Cas told him to go.

He’s looking at Cas right now, and it might be a culmination of all those times, it might be a thing that started the moment Cas found his soul in hell. It might be something entirely new.

But when Cas asks, “What do you want, Dean?” like the answer to that question is the most important answer to the most important question in existence, Dean thinks he’s seeing things clearly for the first time. This is it, the moment his head finally breaks the surface.

“You,” he says, like a revelation, and closes the distance between them.

***

some of dean and cas’ fights are just ridiculous, though.

like that time they fought over whose lone sock was left in the drier (“dean, this sock still has chocolate on it, and i watched you spill hot cocoa on your crotch and legs last week. it has to be yours.” “yeah, cas? you just watched me spill steaming hot liquid on my lap and then didn’t even bother to come and, i dunno, help a brother out?” “i ascertained your genitals were fine, dean. i assumed there would have been a lot more screaming otherwise.” “okay so basically all i’m getting from this is that you’re only invested in the working condition of my dick and all attached parts.” “that’s not true. you also have a beautiful soul that i will love and cherish forever, but i’m fairly sure you didn’t spill hot cocoa on that.” [dean grumbles and grabs the sock from the drier, because cas has a habit of winning arguments by being annoyingly heartfelt and endearing at the most convenient times for him and most inconvenient times for dean])
or that time cas liked a pop song (“CAS, I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD IF YOU PLAY THAT SONG ONE MORE TIME I’M NOT GOING TO BLOW YOU FOR A WEEK.” “i highly doubt that, dean.” “WE ARE NOT YOUNG, CAS. I SPENT FORTY YEARS IN HELL AND YOU’RE LIKE A DINOSAUR. ALSO WE ARE NOT SETTING THE FUCKING WORLD ON FIRE AGAIN.”)

or that time cas got dean off without even touching his dick and dean got all disgruntled and huffy even though his chest is still splattered with come (“yeah well there was that time you got an erection in the produce aisle, so wipe that smug grin off your face.” “what can i say, dean. the bananas speak to me.” “you did not seriously just say that.”)

or the first time cas orders a salad as a side instead of fries (“jesus fucking christ cas you’re gonna give me a heart attack.” “no, dean, those fries are going to give you a heart attack.” “no cas, that fucking salad is going to give me a heart attack.” “i highly doubt it.” [dean then fakes a heart attack, thereby almost giving cas a heart attack. cas wises up quickly, but dean keeps groaning in the diner, and people are looking. cas has finally learned the social graces of not moaning loudly in the vicinity of other people eating- his and dean’s various sexual forays in the bedroom during dinnertime have earned them many a complaint from the other occupants of the bunker- so he leaves his salad sadly as he smiles apologetically at people as they walk out of the diner. he eats nothing but salad for the next week in retaliation, and dean practically goes out of his mind.])

or that time dean woke cas up at 6am with a fantastic blow job (“dean you can put my dick in your mouth all you want but it’s still 6am, and as far as i’m concerned, i have at least another four hours- oh- ah, ahhhhhh”)

alright so that last one wasn’t much of a fight. but just remember that it escalates into a naked and sloppy wrestling match, and cas more than holds his own in the ensuing tangle of sweaty limbs.

***

Dean’s relationship with Death is a tough one to pin down.

Generally, most people meet Death once and only once on their way to the Great Gig in the Sky.

Dean, however, is somewhat of an expert on the matter, and it’s totally not because he has a crush on the guy.

The walls between dimensions have always been thin for him anyway, something about being born in Purgatory and growing up on Earth and having the king of hell as a brother. (That makes for some interesting discussions at the dinner table, most definitely, but what worries Dean the most is just how big Sam’s head has gotten over the whole debacle. Fine, him deep sixing Crowley’s ass into the third circle and scattering the rest of him about was awesome, but can we drop it now, please? Also, Sam, that doesn’t make you better at Mario Kart than me.)
So his dad was a vampire who got killed by a hunter and landed his dumbass in Purgatory. His mom was a phoenix who had died hundreds of years before and was basically ruling the place when John Winchester showed up with his head hanging on by barely a stitch. Apparently, Mary had healed him with her own ash (gross) and the two lived happily ever after and managed to escape back to earth with their baby thingamabob (what do you even call the offspring of a phoenix and a vampire? A phampire?) when some moron named Lovecraft tried cracking Purgatory via topside. As far as Dean knows, he got a load of flak for it and maybe a celebrating dragon ate him in the end. C’est la vie.

Sam was born a couple years later with black eyes and eventually started wearing dark sunglasses all the time when the other kids at school made fun of him for it, because apparently being a demon wasn’t ‘in’ that generation. Then puberty hit and Sam basically realized he could possess anyone who looked at him funny to do embarrassing things like stuff their face into their macaroni and cheese at lunch or belt out an ABBA song when the teacher left the room, so the teasing died down pretty quickly after that. (Also, he could kill people, but he didn’t exactly capitalize on the opportunities and especially didn’t advertise it. It was a big shocker to most when he started campaigning for the king of hell spot, but he somehow won the seat by kissing just as many babies as he normally did.)

In terms of physical appearance, Dean is human. By all standardized tests, Dean is human. It even says so on his driver’s license.

Of course, no one’s who decided these things knows that he’s died approximately two hundred and thirty seven times in the last year for varying lengths of time, and every time, he’s come back to life, the picture of health.

Hey, it’s not his fault Death refuses to reap him. In fact, he’s pretty sure the guy has the hots for him too, otherwise he would have been permanently smeared across the pavement months ago.

It all started with an ill-timed joke and a hard taco shell, and if Sam wasn’t so busy sobbing into his business casual at lunch he probably would have sneered and said, ‘told you so, Dean.’ (Dean’s still pretty sure he wouldn’t vote for a king of hell who cries into his salads just because his older brother is choking to death as a result of laughing at his own joke, but hey, he’s not part of the ‘demonocracy’, so it’s really not his place, is it?)

So he died.

And to be honest, the thing he lamented most was the loss of the second half of his taco, because it had been a damn good taco. (and the joke was a damn good joke, which is why he was in this mess in the first place.)

So he’s standing at the side of his corpse, staring down at his now slack mouth full of taco. He always thought he’d leave a good looking stiff, but stray bits of ground beef really don’t look that attractive dropping out of the side of anyone’s mouth, unfortunately. Poetic, maybe. Hot like a tator tot, not so much.

Behind him, there’s a voice, low and gravelly and with just the right hint of sympathy and disdain that says, “You’d be surprised at how many taco related spirits I have to deal with.”

Dean turns away from Sam’s snotty crying nose (c’mon, Sam, you’re the king of hell, just pull a couple of strings, you moron) and comes face to face with the entity him(her, its?) self, Death.

Who is wearing a trench coat.

Dean’s not sure what he expected- a skeleton in a long black robe, scythe in hand?- but maybe it should have been something more along the lines of this- scruffy guy, dishevelled, tired-looking; just another schlub working the nine to five. Or in this case, eternity to eternity, but same idea.

“I’d probably be underwhelmed, actually,” Dean offers, trying to keep a good amount of self-deprecation in his voice. Last thing he wants is to piss off Death. “Tacos are kind of my speciality.” He pats his belly proudly.

Death cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Really?” he asks, unimpressed.

Dean nods.

“Well,” Death looks from Dean’s lifeless body to Dean’s now eternal spirit, “I don’t usually make exceptions, but its been a slow day. Impress me, Mr. Winchester.”

And that’s the first time Dean finds himself jolting back to life, spraying unchewed taco into his brother’s wet face.

***

It becomes kind of a game after that. Which flippant remarks can Dean spout off today to keep the Pale Horseman at bay?

“Hello, Dean. Impaled by television remote?”

“The news was boring tonight.”

“Dean. Slipped in the shower?”

“I dropped the lube.”

“Was it really necessary for you to climb into the bear pen at the zoo?”

“About as necessary as the time I tried doing fifty backflips in a row on our neighbour’s trampoline at midnight.”

It’s some kind of weird mating dance, maybe. Dean’s not really sure how to go about courting Death, but he figures he can at least make the guy’s job more entertaining and, most importantly, fun. Reaping souls can really take its toll on a guy, apparently.

Months pass, and Dean dies a lot. Every time, Death sends him spinning back to life with a click of fingers.

One day, the game changes.

They’re sitting in limbo together, Death wringing his hands and Dean whistling.

“You’re my best friend, you know,” Death says, out of nowhere.

“Really?” Dean asks. “Of all the souls you‘ve reaped, you choose Taco Guy as your favorite?”

Death shrugs, and the conversation lulls.

“You’re my best friend, too,” Dean admits after a couple minutes of silence. “Just so you know.”

Death nods slowly.

“Maybe we should change the rules of the game,” he muses quietly, and Dean turns to look at him, curious. “Not permanently, of course, but it could be interesting.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe instead of you dying all the time,” Death says nervously, picking at his coat sleeve, “I could try living once in a while.”

Dean kind of wants to kiss him, but he figures they can figure that out later.

Instead, he just grins and says, “C’est la vie.”

***

They find Cas a couple weeks after the meteor shower, curled up under some decrepit, unused bridge in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Oklahoma. After an initial exchange that basically consists of Dean barking out Cas’ name a hell of a lot more harshly than he means to (stress reaction, always the stress), and Cas stumbling over, pale in the face and weak in disposition, they bundle him up in the blankets they brought, just in case, and sit him in the backseat of the Impala. They peel out of there, Dean not even knowing the city they’re in, Sam opening and closing his mouth more often than a goldfish, trying to think of a conversation opener that’s not, so what happened this time, Cas? On the other hand, he seems to be trying to mentally send waves of good will Cas’ way, like he’s approaching a frightened animal backed into a corner.

It’s not a far off description, really. The backseat is close enough to a corner, and there seems to be a new, minute trembling in Cas’ frame that he seems unaware of, but he sure as hell didn’t have as an angel. They’d figured out the whole Cas is now a stinky human deal a long time ago- it was the first thing they really discussed once they decided if he wasn’t going to come to them, they would go to him. (Which, really, was definitely the more difficult way to go. Cas knows where they live, whereas when they started looking for him, they had an entire continent to deal with- they even had Canada on the table as a possibility for a while.)
Cas says nothing on the drive back to Lebanon, but drinks gratefully from the water bottle Dean hands him silently. Dean can feel Sam trying to catch his eye for one of their trademark Winchester eyeball/eyebrow wiggling conversations, but he’s not having any of it. He has enough shit clogging up his brain as it is, he doesn’t need Sam’s power dump suggestions in the bowl too.

Because they can only do this thing so many times. The reunion thing, because Dean’s not sure how much more he can take of Cas disappearing on him. His grief has been played out, only to be recalled at a later date, so many times, an incredible amount of times. It’s become this twisted facsimile of mourning, but really, it’s just a numbness, white noise that fills his head like static on an old television. He doesn’t know how to grieve anymore, or, even worse, he’s become complacent in his grief.

This doesn’t mean Dean wants Cas to just fuck off permanently. In fact, it means the exact opposite. He wants him to just stay put, for once. He’s entirely too conscious of the fact that someone that he cares about, somehow, will soon inevitably end up dead. It’s just an axiom in his universe by now, and as tired as he is of waking up with a new hole in his heart, he also understands the purpose of mourning, the process of moving on.

It’s been a long time coming, he thinks, to learn these things. A mighty change up from the stewing and melancholy and bouts of alcoholism of times past.

With Cas, though, he can’t seem to find it in himself to move on. Admittedly, Cas isn’t always a priority in his thoughts, but he’s always on the periphery, treading that fine line betweenthe family part of his brain and some other, oddly integral part that before Cas showed up, had been filled with nothing but dust and cobwebs.

So yeah, Dean (as much as he hates himself for it) depends on Cas for more reasons than one.

The Impala rolls up to the bunker, tires crunching on gravel, and everyone sits in silent for a moment before coming to their senses and exiting the car.

"Welcome home," Dean mumbles, and he feels more than hears Cas’ double take. It kind of stings, if he’s honest.

Cas trails him and Sam to the front door, and Sam shoots Cas a small, genuine smile as he steps over the threshold.

"I’m glad you’re here, man," he says, and claps Cas firmly on the shoulder. Dean tries to ignore the way he sees Cas’ knees quake a bit. The guy’s been living under a bridge for weeks, and is newly human. Of course he’s going to be a little jelly. Before he realizes he’s doing it, Dean’s running through his mental catalog of recipes, trying to think of the heartiest meals to feed Cas to get him back to full stamina.

They make their way down into the library, Cas still a couple steps behind, and stand around awkwardly for a moment. Sam raises his eyebrows meaningfully at Dean, and announces that he’s going to go tell Kevin the good news. He claps Cas on the shoulder one more time (gentler than the first, Dean notices gratefully), and makes his exit.

It’s quiet. Cas is quiet, Dean is quiet, but his head is a cacophony of noise. It’s basically Hurricane Cas up there, and real, human Cas is staring down at his shoes, all scuffled and stubbled and just so generally disheveled that Dean feels his entire body go soft, feels the fondness leaking into his gaze and dissolving any leftover awkwardness between them.

"Cas," he says, still quiet, and waits patiently for Cas to meet his eyes. Finally, Cas looks up, and his cheeks are wet. He scrubs at them furiously.

"I apologize," he mumbles, face currently covered by his sleeve, "I haven’t quite learned how to turn that off yet."

Dean huffs laughter, feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re not supposed to turn it off," Dean explains softly, a recent graduate of that specific school of thought himself. "Welcome to the human experience. Enjoy the ride."

Cas sniffs, and before Dean knows it, he’s gently prying Cas’ arm away from his face, and he’s swiping under Cas’ eye with his thumb, skin rough, but Dean knows that’s probably just an unfortunate amount of grime that’s settled there in the last few weeks.

"Cas," he says again, reverent, and he closes the distance between them, wraps his arms around his best friend in the world, silently begging him to stay.

Cas crumples into his arms, folds in on himself, clings onto Dean for dear life. He has fistfuls of plaid, and he’s squeezing, and he’s silently begging Dean to let him stay.

"Please stay," Dean whispers into Cas’ hair, like if he asks too loud it’ll scare him away.

"Please let me stay," is the muffled reply, and Dean kisses the top of his head, and belatedly realizes that Cas isn’t the only one crying anymore.

***

It all starts because Dean has been playfully rubbing his foot up and down Cas’ calf under the cover of the jets in the hot tub for the last twenty minutes.

For once, they’d lucked into a semi decent motel, thanks to Cas’ newfound aptitude at hustling and their inclination to blow it all on their last night before returning home from that hunt in Iowa. Sam gave up on the hot tub at least ten minutes ago, claiming sleepiness- and Dean admits, the yawning lent it credibility- but he’s pretty sure what actually happened is that at one point he’d accidentally started brushing Sam’s leg instead of Cas’, and he is both grateful and amused that something like that can chase Sam out of the room so fast.

However, he’d eventually gotten back on course, and Cas has been sending him looks for the past five minutes that range from annoyance to heavy lidded arousal, within the space of seconds.

So, it’s with eager eyes that Dean watches the last straggler leave the pool, leaving the place all to the two of them and at least half an hour till it’s closed for the night. Dean glances at Cas and quirks a brow, and Cas quirks one right back.

"Oh, what," Dean complains, splashing Cas a little, "I’m the one who got this shindig on the road and you expect me to initiate, too?"

Cas shrugs non-chalantly. “I never figured you’d complain about ‘initiating’,” he says, a hint of teasing underlining his words. “One might think you weren’t actually prepared to see this thing through.” And with that, Cas moves over a seat, one closer to Dean.

And, alright then, challenge accepted.

Dean reaches out to grab Cas’ hand, and pulls him through the water towards him, so that Cas is practically sitting in his lap, his back to Dean’s chest.

"I dunno," Dean whispers hotly into Cas’ ear, the steam rising from the water leaving his torso sweaty and slick. He rolls his hips up and along Cas’ ass, and even with the warmth of the water, Dean can feel him shiver and give a long, shuddering sigh. "Is that enough initiation for you?" He nips at Cas’ earlobe.

Cas turns around to pin him with a hooded stare. “You know it’s not,” he says lowly, twisting around in Dean’s lap so that they’re face to face now. He makes sure to grind down into Dean’s lap as he does so, and Dean does his absolute best not to bite his lip, but he knows he’s failed when he catches Cas staring at his mouth, transfixed.

"You’ve got to stop doing that," Cas tells him, still staring. "It’s not professional."

"Are we being professionals right now?" Dean asks, amused. "My raging boner would say otherwise."

Cas smirks, and grips the side of the hot tub behind Dean’s head, effectively trapping Dean between his arms. He leans down, a breath away from their lips meeting, and just… hovers. When Dean moves forward to kiss him, Cas immediately draws back, but makes sure to use the momentum to his advantage as he torques in Dean’s lap again.

"So crass," he chastises, shaking his head with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as Dean visibly has to take a deep breath.

"Would it make it less crass if I hummed the Jaws theme, or…” he starts, trying to play up the bravado, but Cas’ smirk just grows more pronounced. He plunges his hand under the water and starts grazing his knuckles along the outline of Dean’s cock.

"Dun dun," he says quietly, and Dean’s eyes go wide, caught between amusement and shock. He laughs out loud.

"Oh my god," he says, "You’ve got to be kidding me. I was just kidding.”

"Dun dun," Cas continues, and moves forward to press his lips to Dean’s. "Dun dun," he says, faster, against Dean’s lips, as he speeds up the motion of his hand, and Dean starts to feel the heat pool in his abdomen.

"No," he says, "No way, no no no, you are not getting me off while humming the Jaws theme.”

"Dun dun dun dun,"

"I swear to god, Ca- ah" There’s water sloshing up over the sides of the hot tub now, splashing onto the linoleum of the deck.

Cas immediately slows down again, strokes slow and deliberate.

"Dun dun," he repeats, right back where he started, and Dean’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that he won’t come while thinking about sharks eating people, because on the one hand, good. On the other hand, Cas is infuriating and Dean would like an orgasm or three tonight.

Cas sits back and surveys Dean for a moment, thinking.

"Okay," he decides, eyes flashing, "How about this."

Before Dean can say anything, Cas has disappeared under the water, and he can feel a hand each on his thighs.

He also can feel said hands yank his swim trunks down at the waist. Cas surfaces with a gross, dopey smile on his face, water trickling down his cheeks and through his eyelashes.

"Okay?" he asks.

Dean nods, spellbound.

"Dun and dun," he agrees, awed, and Cas makes sure to kiss him one more time before going back under and utilizing his own jaw for a much more pleasant experience.

***

Castiel Novak has what the administration of Lawrence High School call an “attitude problem”, which he indignantly denies.

He likes to think of it as him adjusting other people’s attitudes. As in, so what if he dropped a plate of spaghetti onto the head of a kid who thought it was okay call someone else a “fag” loud enough for the rest of the cafeteria to hear? So what if he punched a kid in the face for slapping Jo’s ass in the hallway? (Jo actually got mad at him later, only because he beat her to the punch- literally.)
In a startling turn of events, he actually gets elected as class president in senior year. He assumes it was a joke at first, some white bread kid on student council who doesn’t like his eyebrow piercings or leather jackets or the way he has a habit of glaring at everything. (It’s just his face, he can’t help what his face looks like.)

It’s a good thing he’s alone when he finds out that Dean Winchester, fellow classmate and resident nerd with a heart of gold, was the one who nominated him, because he blushes brighter than a stoplight, which would do nothing for his tough kid credibility. They’d never been close, him and Dean, but had shared a table in study hall more than once, and it’s only after the nomination that he realizes Dean’s locker is just a couple rows down from his. (From what Cas knows, their class schedule is wildly different- Dean in the sciences and maths and him frequenting philosophy and various history courses, meaning they miss each other all the time.)

One day after school, however, Cas has to stay late to go through student suggestions in the council room. He’s done and at his locker by five, and almost jumps when he notices Dean’s locker door open. (The fact that he can tell it’s Dean just by the set of his legs may speak to Cas’ feelings more adequately than Cas can quite articulate yet.) He shucks his backpack across his shoulders and closes his locker, heading down to Dean’s neck of the woods.

Despite his tendency to wear motorcycle boots, he’s known to have a light tread, and finds himself standing awkwardly behind Dean’s locker door, without Dean having noticed him yet.

“Um-” he starts eloquently, and Dean lets out a harsh, “shit,” before slamming his locker door shut and staring at Cas with wide eyes.

“Dude,” he breathes, holding a hand over his heart, “you scared thecrap outta me, man.”

“Sorry,” Cas apologizes quickly, already lamenting the direction this conversation has turned. “I just wanted to come over here and thank you.”

Slowly gaining his regular pulse rate back, Dean lets his hand drop from his chest. He quirks a brow and leans against his locker. “Thank me for what?” he asks.

“Nominating me,” Cas clarifies. “I thought it was a joke at first, but I guess not.” He feels his cheeks turn hot and hopes it doesn’t show on his face. “Your nomination letter was very kind,” he mumbles.

“Oh,” Dean laughs somewhat awkwardly, and rubs a palm across the back of his neck but seems genuinely delighted. “No problem, man. I’m really happy you got the gig. Uh-” he looks down at his shoes for a moment, and takes a deep breath, “You do a lot of good, y’know?” he brings his gaze back to Cas’, “My little brother, Sam, was being teased by these guys and you made them cut it out, so-” he shrugs, “Thanks for that.”

“Sam is a lovely kid,” Cas says, remembering. “Very kind.”

“Yeah, yeah he is,” Dean’s grin is easier now, his posture more relaxed. “So what do you think of being president, huh?” he asks, “is it as great as all the movies make it out to be?”

“It’s frustrating,” Cas says honestly, and Dean’s face falls a little bit, “Only because there are many changes I want to make, and they’re very slow going.”

Dean hums in acknowledgment as he opens his locker again to grab his backpack. He looks at Cas speculatively, before another grin graces his face.

“My mom’s making lasagne tonight,” he informs Cas, “if you want, you could come over and tell me all about your grand political aspirations over dinner.”

Cas, despite being surprised by the invitation, manages to deadpan, “Only if you aren’t adverse to discussing potential world domination.”

Dean shrugs, before starting to walk down the hallway, Cas falling into step.

“So long as you let me be your co-ruler and give me Canada, I’m all good.”

Cas nods, pleased.

“Sounds like a date,” he says.

***

It’s kind of like Fight Club, actually.

The first rule? Don’t talk about Cas.

It’s weird, because in the weeks after the angels fall, in the weeks during Sam’s recovery and Kevin’s haughty silences (they did fail to close the gates, after all), Dean doesn’t really think about Cas much. Their relationship is far from a typical one, and they’ve gone months before without seeing each other. That, and Cas’ penchant for dramatically disappearing at pivotal points in emotionally honest conversations, has formed enough of a basis for Dean’s boundaries with the guy that he’s going to do his damndest not to lose sleep over the absence of Cas.

It’s an insidious thing, though. That little niggle of worry that sits at the back of his mind, patient. It spreads slowly, infects in inky rivulets, trickles into Dean’s thoughts like a leaky faucet. Cas might be dead, Cas might be human, Cas might have finally up and decided that Dean is a toxic presence that he can now do without.
Cas might just be gone, without a trace, and that’s probably the possibility that scares Dean the most. The not knowing is incredibly hard, a litany of what ifs and maybes that play over and over in his mind, lamenting all that he could have done instead.

He starts to get snappish when anyone mentions Cas, complete overreactions that do their job, at least, and get Sam and Kevin to back off.

He’s confused. Because he usually finds someone to talk to about his problems with Sam (god forbid it be Sam himself, Dean isn’t interested in opening that particular can of worms) but for the life of him, every time Cas’ name tries to work its way past his lips, he clamps down, bear trap tight. Maybe he’s just trying to hold onto the part of Cas that he can claim wholly, the nickname that really only evolved from a three syllable name that was a little bit of a mouthful. But it’s his. And Dean’s spent so much time trying to catch up with Cas, hand always just brushing the tips of his coat tails, that he has to cling to the one thing he never had to chase; the nickname.

It makes exactly zero sense, but Dean doesn’t care. He clamps down. Bites his tongue. Doesn’t want to talk about it. Typical Dean Winchester macho bullshit that he really thought he was growing out of.

He beheads vamps, worries about the rest of the fallen angels, doing god knows what out there, stakes djinns, burns rugarous. Business as usual.

Unfortunately, at some point along the way, business as usual started including Cas, and that thought stops Dean cold in the middle of a fight, actually almost gets him killed by an opportunistic werewolf. Sam comes to his rescue, luckily, bitching at him afterwards for losing focus.

Dean, however, holds onto that thought. A little spark that needs coaxing with just the slightest breath; anything harsher and it’ll blow away, hunker down again in fright.

He doesn’t talk about Cas, but he sees Cas everywhere. In the cartoons that occasionally play on the television, in the doomsdayers-you’re-all-going-to-burn radio shows that he always switches off as quickly as possible, in the way the burgers he makes once or twice a week sizzle happily in the pan.

Cas, whether he likes it or not, dead or not, seems to have found a spot in their little family. There’s a chair at the table, a chair in the library, the only chair in Dean’s room, and they all have Cas’ name carved into them.

Cas is etched into the bunker, in the same way Sam leaves his morning cereal bowls on the coffee table, in the way Kevin finally feels comfortable enough to pick up the cello again, in the way Dean takes his coffee in the morning. Dean knows he’s not the only one who feels it, has seen both Sam and Kevin throw wary glances towards any empty chair they pass.

Dean knows he can function without Cas- he’s done it before, can do it again. It’s just a matter of how well. He finds himself closing books in the middle of sentences, turning off the tv before the show he wants to watch has even started. There are half eaten dinners and card games he bails on partway through.

Sam throws him worried looks, but says nothing, tries to engage him the best he can. Dean’s not an invalid by any means, but salt and burns have definitely lost their shine for him. Driving the Impala as far as a full tank will allow, and he still feels antsy, feels restless, feels heavy. He’s always fidgeting now, but his body resists it every step of the way. He’s coiled, sprung too far, and now he constantly teeters.

It becomes the new normal, this life that includes Cas but not actually Cas. A life that’s steeped in him, but won’t openly acknowledge him. Dean can’t possibly know if this is how it’s always going to be, or if they’re in some sort of limbo, a cosmic waiting room that’s just taking its damn time getting to all the appointments this century.

Dean waits, Dean settles. Teeters.

And then there’s the day someone knocks on the door, and Dean’s always wary about answering, but not wary enough to bother changing out of his favorite bath robe and plaid pajama pants. He pulls it open, and there he is.

Dean Winchester, your number has been called, you’re next in line.

Cas says, “hello, Dean,” because that’s just how he is.

And Dean says, chokes out, “hey, Cas,” the first time he’s said the name in months, because that’s just how he is.

They stand in another limbo, another of their own creation for a moment, this one admittedly fraught with much more tension than a long distance one could ever hope for, and Dean doesn’t mean to think it, will never admit to thinking it, but he thinks it anyway; that maybe all that stuff he’s been doing halfway for the past however many months, the meals and the games and the books, is all because he’s been waiting all along. Waiting for someone to come and share them with him.

“Come in,” Dean says, though they both know the invitation is needless. Cas is welcome, always.

Cas shuffles by him, a little more solid than before, Dean thinks. A little rougher around the edges, too.

He’s standing in front of Dean, pretty close, maybe not close enough.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Dean says, and curls an arm around Cas’ forearm before pulling him into an all-encompassing hug, “I’m tired of doing things half-assed.”

“It’s alright,” Cas assures him, even though there’s no way he can really know what Dean’s talking about. He mumbles into Dean’s shoulder, “I’m a big enough ass for the both of us.”

Dean chuckles, and has to swallow past the lump in his throat.

“Welcome home, man,” he says quietly.

He feels Cas’ fists tighten at his back, wonders if he’s said something wrong.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” Cas says, relieved.

Dean squeezes him tighter.

***

Dean thinks about those old vintage postcards he’s seen in various crappy gas stations across the Midwest, sepia toned and fuzzy. Little girls in dark, velvet dresses, scowling at the camera; workmen, sweat stained undershirts and skin gleaming in the grey afternoon sun; smooth, reflective lakes surrounded by forests as yet untouched.

He’s seen them all, the strange ways of the past. Looking at them as a kid (even then, tea toned in his mind) he always felt strangely comforted by them. Dean more than anyone else knows that oftentimes, the past is not somewhere to dwell, knows that memories can hold more power than the present, given the right circumstances. He’s been there, swept up in the fires of hell just by staring at a lighter for too long. Old family photos that he cant bear to get rid of plague him, sometimes, relentless. Haunt him.

He never thought he’d catch himself thinking, this would make a really great postcard. He’s never actively considered what moments should belong to kodak. The only time they take pictures is when they expect someone to die (Carthage, and they were fucking right), or when they need to update their fake plethora of IDs and badges.

There’s always been the legend that cameras steal your soul, and if Dean and souls weren’t in such a bad place nowadays, he’d probably laugh at the concept (despite the fact that in their line of work, anything is possible.)

But Dean’s here, right now, and in this particular moment, he realizes he wants to remember this sight. He wants to keep it in his back pocket and pull it out when he forgets what they’re fighting for. He wants to remember how he felt in this moment, reverent and fond and so incredibly in love. Content.
Dean watches, through the dusty, cracked window of this old house, the house that’s finally theirs. Cas is trying to start a fire out there, and the smell- smoke and all the promise that autumn brings- seeps through the cracks, settles around Dean like that fleece blanket of theirs they share every night. The sun is setting behind the trees, quickly cooling into the standard, crisp autumn nights, bathing the forest in dying ruby rays, setting the already vibrantly colored leaves on fire, and he thinks, this is it. This is my postcard.

Apostcard that’s the furthest thing from sepia, warm not because of misplaced nostalgia, but because of the fondness bubbling happily away in his chest, a grounding, forever kind of warmth. The kind that you’d stand outside in the dead of a Canadian winter just so you could come back in and experience it all over again.

Cas spots him, through the grime of the window they have yet to clean, smiles slightly. Dean grins, waves back, fights off the overwhelming urge to cry, just because he thinks if he doesn’t find an outlet for this rush of emotion, he might combust.

So instead, he holds up a finger, one minute, and he throws on his jacket, his boots, grabs a scarf that trails behind him like a banner, and he’s out the door of the ramshackle house, and idly thinks that if they don’t want to freeze their fingers off in the winter, then they’d better get moving on the fixing up. He turns the corner on the groaning, wraparound porch, and there’s Cas, no dirty window to obscure him from view anymore.

"Need some help?" Dean asks, coming up behind him, crouching beside him.

Cas had insisted on making a fire the old fashioned way, two sticks and some friction. He’s managed some smoke so far, but no flame. He nods.

"No problem," Dean says, as he winds the scarf around Cas’ neck, gently. "We’ll make a boy scout out of you yet."

A couple minutes later and they’ve got a small fire going cheerfully, and Dean always forgets how beautiful Cas looks in light cast off from the flames.

"It takes a little bit of effort," Dean is saying, Cas leaning against him, rubbing Dean’s hands in between his own, warming them both, "You’ve just got to keep at it, find the right angle."

Cas brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a kiss to Dean’s palm.

"Like us," he says, and Dean smiles, because this is better than any postcard, better than any life he never got to live. This is incredibly real and solid, tangible. There’s the weight of Cas against him, the heat of the fire on his face, and the most incredible feeling imaginable blooming in his chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of Cas’ head, feels the tickle of dark hair against his chin.

"Yeah," he agrees, "Like us."

***

Not that Dean doesn’t enjoy the sight of Cas walking around the bunker naked all day… except for the fact that he doesn’t enjoy the sight of Cas walking naked around the bunker all day.

It just makes things… really difficult to get done.

Trying to cook a goddamned grilled cheese sandwich suddenly turns into diffusing a bomb and having to decide between cutting the red or the blue wire when Cas walks into the kitchen, dick bobbing cheerfully between his legs, and Dean feels his palms start to sweat. Not even to mention Dean feels like there’s a second pair of eyes on him courtesy of the unwavering stare of Cas’ cock. It’s not like he’s making the grilled cheese for a goddamned dick , for christ’s sake, but somehow he feels like he’s being judged.
Sam and Kevin are out, at least, but Dean has the feeling Cas is determined and shameless enough that if he really wanted to go pants free for a day, not even Sam’s shrieks of (justified) outrage could sway him.

He’s in the library trying to read at least one freakin’ chapter in the first Game of Thrones book, and Cas practically dissolves out of nowhere, nearly giving Dean a heart attack. Cas is standing in front of him, face unreadable, which Dean has come to learn usually means the fucker is trying hard not to crack a smile. There’s a pressure on the cover of the book, and when Dean realizes what it is, he throws his hands up in defeat.

“Really, Cas?” he asks, as Cas shrugs innocently, eyes wide, “This is Game of Thrones, dude. The last thing it needs is more dicks.”

Cas curls up beside him on the couch like an overgrown cat, and Dean does his best to finish a chapter of his dick-book, but it gets increasingly hard as Cas continues to nakedly rub up on him, still kind of like a cat, except Dean’s not really into the bestiality thing, so maybe he should stop that train of thought right there.

Later, after defiling the library couch, and double dicking the dick-book (Dean’s gonna need a new copy), he’s honestly trying to do some research in his bedroom, laptop on his thighs and game face on.

Right in the middle of an article about a potential haunting in Maine, (as if on cue) Cas walks into the room, still naked as the day he wasn’t born.

"Dude," Dean complains, as Cas walks towards him, predatory glint in his eye, "I’m actually trying to do work this time.”

Cas ignores him, wolfish smile spreading across his face.The laptop is slllllowly closed by none other than Cas’ favorite appendage, and Dean slides it off his lap obligingly.

It’s not like the research is going anywhere, anyways.

Cas takes the laptop’s place, making sure to grind against Dean’s pelvis in the process of positioning himself.

"I think your laptop is haunted," he tells Dean seriously, eyes betraying nothing, "I’m pretty sure they aren’t supposed to close on their own like that."

"Yeah?" Dean smirks, running his palms up and down Cas’ sides. "Maybe we should go get it checked out."

"I think I know of a way to scare the spirit away," Cas confides to him, sentence punctuated by the sound of his deft fingers unzipping Dean’s jeans.

"Ah," Dean nods as Cas takes his dick in his hand, "Yeah, that’ll probably do it."

They cleanse the room pretty thoroughly after that, and finish only when Cas has decided it’s finally safe for them to do so.

"Spirits are dicks," Dean says afterwards, panting, forehead resting against Cas’.

Cas nods sagely.

"That’s why i suggested fighting fire with fire," he says gravely.

***

Cas asks you one day, “What do you think about eternity?”

And you, burned and bruised and stubbled and stubborn you, scoff and say, “Not anything I ever have to worry about.”

You don’t notice the way his jaw tightens. You never bothered to think through the question, never bothered to look past the surface probably because you were annoyed about some stupid shit; Sam tracking mud into the bunker from his morning run, or the fact you opened the fridge last night and someone had put the empty milk carton back on the shelf.

So Cas shuts up about abstract (to you) concepts of eternity and you flip through the tv channels and find a ghost hunting tv show that you both genuinely think is hilarious. Cas laughing is easily the best part of the show, because he doesn’t do it enough and it’s nice to know that even former servants of heaven can get a chuckle out of rusty hinges masquerading as a long lost spirit.
Any ruminations on the concept of eternity flit from your mind, because you were never really listening anyway. It was just one of those nights.

It’s only next month, as you’re laying with a harpoon (don’t fucking ask) sticking out of your stomach and Cas freaks out because he’s too low on juice to do anything, that you realize maybe you should have had that conversation.

The only problem with conversations like that is that no one knows they’re important until you’re laying on your back with a harpoon sticking out of your stomach and there’s blood on your hands and blood on your lips and blood on your words.

No one likes a blood covered confession of love, but the blood really doesn’t care. You don’t even say the words.

Your life isn’t a book, and because it’s not, your last words before you pass out from blood loss are closer to, “I’m soorghhh hhh,” as opposed to, “I’m sorry I’ve never considered the fact that I am going to die and you are going to live forever.”

The last thing you see before you go under is him yelling at you, begging you not to go, and in that moment, you feel more sorry for that poor son of a bitch than you ever have for anyone in your entire life. Not only because you are going, whether he likes it or not, but also because you’re the person he’s decided he wants to go with. Cas is just an oh-for-two kind of guy, apparently.

You don’t actually end up dying, which is swell enough. You’re swaddled in cotton sheets and memory foam for three weeks straight, almost a month.

At one point, you say, (again) without thinking, “Christ, I feel like I’ve been stuck in this bed forever,” making a halfhearted attempt to get up, although your stitches pull something fierce and you’re still tired as shit.

Cas gently manhandles you back into bed, but his face is a mask and his eyes are sad in a way you don’t understand, because you aren’t millions of years old and tired- not in the same way, anyhow.

And you, you complete fuck, don’t even remember. That night from a month ago is just one in a succession of similar nights, because you both had a nice time and had a laugh and some beers. That’s the way human memory works, bringing you back to a feeling instead of a moment, a stirring in the chest instead of a five w’s recap.

Cas, despite a tendency to display startling humanity, is still an angel, and therefore thinks in moments. He thinks of the moment you were both sitting on the couch in the den and without either of you meaning to, you inadvertently recast your relationship as a temporary one. It wasn’t a conscious realization, but after that, the touches were less ‘we have time even though we’re supposed to catch that movie in twenty minutes’ and more ‘this could be the last time your hand grazes my forearm like that’.

Speaking of, you’ve picked up a thing or two about time since Cas showed up in your life. Namely, it’s not a straight line. Namely, it can be manipulated. And you won’t lie, you’re pretty sure you can see through dimensions when Cas kisses you sometimes. Sometimes Cas’ words alone take you to a whole new plane of existence.

And yet, here you two are, preparing to be separated by a little phenomenon called eternity, and you can’t even remember the five second conversation where it all started. Time is funny that way, you guess. Because how can you be chastising yourself for it now, if you don’t even recall that exchange on the couch all those weeks ago?

The answer, surprisingly, is more hopeful than you’ve dared to consider. Because as you’ve come to learn, the concept of time is fluid, and the concept of eternity bamboozles you.

But if you can somehow switch those definitions, (because time is in flux, after all) then the concept of time will now bamboozle you, and the concept of eternity is now fluid, then you think, this is it. This is the solution.

If reading a clock suddenly becomes impossible, then it’s like you’ve got all the time in the world.

Like you, pitiful mortal sniveling you, can be eternal as well.

***

Dean really shouldn’t be this embarrassed.

He’s the guy who almost shits himself at any elevation higher than the second floor of a residential home. He’s the guy who once got locked in a porto-potty (that was subsequently knocked over) all night by a poltergeist that enjoyed toilet humor way too much. Sam had had a field day with that one. He’s the guy who once got such a bad rash from that waitress in Tampa that he had to walk around scratching his junk in public like some kind of cretin for a week straight before the cream the doctor gave him finally kicked in- and, important to note, it’s hard to impersonate a federal agent for a hunt when one’s hand is practically permanently glued to one’s crotch. Bobby, playing their fake supervisor at the time, had chewed him out good for that one after they left the witness’ home and the lady had called the number on their card to complain.

“She has kids, idjit,” Bobby had growled, before calling him a much meaner name and hanging up on him.

So, yeah. Dean has a pretty high tolerance for embarrassing situations.

And yet, here he is, his face absolutely flaming, because Cas is listening to an AC/DC song about big balls.
The fact that literally every AC/DC song is just a thinly veiled metaphor about dicks or sex or bodily fluids is obviously not registering with Dean’s brain at the moment. He’s listened to this kind of music before with Cas, even, and never paid it any mind.

But maybe the difference today is that Cas is very much paying attention to this song. Usually, Cas just drifts when they’re driving just the two of them. They talk intermittently, but for the most part, Cas stares pensively into the middle distance and Dean listens to unsubtle euphemisms for having sex set to background noise.

Hey, whatever works, right?

Today, Cas is staring at the radio like he’s only just realized it’s there and actually does something, instead of just remaining another automobile related mystery to him. His head is cocked, because if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be Cas, and Dean would be breaking out the holy water and salt he keeps stashed in the glove compartment at all times.

Dean’s not sure why he doesn’t just change the radio station, but maybe the way his hands are suddenly slipping on the steel wheel due to a sudden onset of sweaty palms is a pretty big flashing neon sign pointing to the answer. He feels himself swallow hard, watching Cas watch the radio. Cas’ eyes are narrowed, and he looks like a student cramming for a big exam instead of a dude listening to half-baked allusions to testicular grandeur.

Thankfully, the song is only a couple minutes, and as it fades out to a commercial break, Cas moves to turn the volume down. As soon as Cas’ hand moves from his side, Dean practically jumps out of his skin, and forces his eyes back to the road, because Cas doesn’t need to know Dean was watching him very carefully listening to a song that claims the best way to hold balls is to hold them for pleasure.

Speaking of balls, Dean’s pretty sure he has two large grapefruits sitting in his fucking pants at the moment, thanks to Cas’ incessant staring and his own, overactive imagination. Mazel tov.

“I get it,” Cas says, breaking the almost silence in the car, and Dean whips his head around to stare at Cas so fast he’s surprised it doesn’t fly off like a champagne cork on New Year’s Eve.

“W-what?” he stammers, and silently congratulates himself on keeping it cool. Smooth, Winchester, like fucking silk.

“It’s a euphemism,” Cas explains mildly, “for testicles.”

Oh. Yeah. That’s what he gets. Because there’s… nothing else to get here. Nothing at all.

“I would’ve thought you’d have caught onto that,” Cas continues, a little confused now, “You like this band, right? You must have listened to this song many times.”

“Uh-“ Jesus Christ, whatever you do, don’t crash the car. Focus. If Sam catches wind that you got into a wreck because Cas was curious about balls in AC/DC songs, you will literally never hear the end of it. His mocking laughter is going to haunt you in the afterlife until there ceases to be one. “Yeah, no, of course I got it,” Dean blusters, and can’t believe he currently feels the need to palm his dick through his jeans. Jesus. “It’s just… uh,” he reaches up a hand to scrub at his face, and then realizes halfway through the action that this is his tell. He’s flustered, and Cas now knows it. (Of course, there’s no way Cas could have told before, because Cas is obviously blind and didn’t notice how his face looked like it had given overripe tomatoes a run for their money.)

“I didn’t realize you would catch onto it… quite so bluntly. And suddenly.”

Cas shrugs neutrally.

“It makes sense,” he says, “I enjoy holding my testicles while masturbating. I imagine other owners of testicles enjoy doing the same thing.”

Yeah, screw Sam the Jerky Ghost, Dean almost crashes the car because he’s too busy spluttering to pay attention to the red light he just ran.

He’s staring at Cas now, only giving the road intermittent, cursory glances.

“Cas,” he says hoarsely, and he’s pretty sure he’s pleading for him to either shut up or keeping going.

Cas looks at him, wide eyed and innocent.

“Is your ballroom always full?” Cas asks him, corner of his mouth twitching, “Does everybody come and come again?” He levels Dean with a look that Dean’s pretty sure will have him sporting a stiffy for the next thirty years, and asks, voice lower, if that’s even possible, “Is it your belief that your big balls should be held every night?”

“Ca…-” Dean swallows, makes a noise that’s closer to a whine than he’d like to admit, swallows again, and finishes, “-aaaaas….” And he notices that his grip on the steering has gone up tenfold, and his knuckles are white. (Probably because the blood has rushed somewhere else, if he’s being honest.)

“Dean,” Cas says, simple, though Dean can hear the smirk in his voice, the fucker, “I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”

And he leans back, and kicks his fucking feet up on the dashboard, and normally Dean would kill someone for doing that, but he’s slowly realizing that tonight isn’t exactly a normal night. One glance at Cas’ finger tracing idle circles on his own upper thigh is enough to almost send him into a conniption, and when Cas non-chalantly suggests they pull off the road for a moment, Dean (and subsequent appendages) are more than happy to comply.

Suffice to say, the notion that some balls may be held for charity, but balls held for pleasure are most definitely the best, is really drilled home tonight.

He’ll have to remember to send Angus Young a fruit basket or something.

***

Dean’s raking leaves outside the bunker, which is strange. It’s not like Sam and Dean have laid out a welcome mat, not like they expect many visitors, minus Charlie, who most likely wouldn’t notice if a couple leaves were blocking the door.

Cas watches him from the low roof (Dean hasn’t noticed yet), and tries to ignore how this isn’t the first time he’s watched Dean raking leaves. He pulls his new coat up against the autumn chill, covering his chin and mouth, leaving only the red tip of his nose sticking out. There’s a thick, black wool hat pulled low over his eyes, and he wouldn’t be surprised if, were he in public, a few sidelong glances were cast his way.

The wind is blowing the dead, crackly leaves around anyways, and Cas can’t figure out why Dean would bother raking, especially since he’s not even putting them in a garbage bag. He glaces around at the plethora of leaves already littering the ground, some already dead, some still the vibrant color of the soon to be dead.
The bunker is actually quite beautiful in the fall, Cas thinks. Surrounded by all the expected shades- reds, yellows, oranges, browns. The ground is littered in color, the Impala’s stalwart black broken only by the fluttering of a leaf that’s finally let go from the tree, gracefully finding its place on the pristine, sleek body of Dean’s baby. Every couple seconds, he’ll hear a cheerful whistle float up from the ground level, and Cas feels the smile rise up, unbidden, feels it in his whole body, like being submerged in a warm, perfectly temperate bath.

A small animal rushes past him, crunching leaves as it goes, and he turns around to just catch the flash of a tail disappearing into some well hidden burrow. When he turns around again, Dean is staring at him, mouth quirked up at the side. His cheeks are a bright pink, kissed by the autumn wind just like Cas’ nose.

"Cas, man, you look like a creep," Dean chastises, but he’s smiling. Dean has on a thick, red and brown plaid jacket, and a hat that doesn’t look nearly as snug as Cas’ lumpy, knitted one. He’s not wearing gloves, and Cas can see, even from up here, that Dean’s hands are cold. "C’mere."

Dean lays the rake against the railing by the top stair, then leans against it himself. He watches as Cas carefully makes his way down the side of the bunker, losing traction and slipping on some still damp leaves from the soft rain the night before. He skids a bit, but Dean has him by the forearms, righting him before he falls.

Cas glances up, and the green of Dean’s eyes is somehow accentuated by all the warm colors that surround him. It’s strange, Castiel muses, that he’s fully prepared to classify Dean’s specific eye color as warm, when green is traditionally a cool one. But here, among the fire-oranges and earthy browns, Dean fits right in.

"Why are you raking?" Cas asks, inspecting the flush on Dean’s cheeks, on his hands. Dean, who seems to belatedly notice that he’s still holding onto Cas’ forearms, gently releases them. He shrugs.

"I dunno. Upkeep is important."

Cas glances around them, can feel Dean following his gaze. The wind just keeps blowing them all back into the same place. If he were so inclined, Dean could be out here raking leaves all day.

He shoves his already gloved hands into their respective pockets, and raises a brow in question. He thinks he’s gleaned an answer, from the reverent look in Dean’s eyes, but he wants to be sure. Wants to be sure this is something that makes Dean happy.

Sure enough, when Dean starts talking, there’s a softness to his voice that Cas rarely hears. It’s a softness reserved for late nights in the library, voices low as Dean tells Cas about the way his mother would tuck him into bed at night. A softness for how Dean says his brother’s name when he thinks he can’t hear him. A softness, Cas has been surprised to learn, that is often directed at him, in look, in words, in touch.

"It’s- upkeep,” Dean explains, smiling fondly at the leaves that are still swirling in the air, caught up in one small vortex or another. He points at the rake, eyes shining, “I have a thing to keep up,” he continues, and his smile just keeps expanding, so genuine it makes Cas’ breath catch in his chest. “A thing, a place, a home,” he finishes, “Where I can actually rake leaves.”

And Cas gets it. He had gotten it a long time ago, had understood that when he built his home in Dean, there would be upkeep. Gutters in his heart to clean out. Overgrown lawns of melancholy to mow. Leaves of doubt to rake away.

"I know," Cas says, and it’s amazing just how much he does. He hasn’t been human for long enough to really understand the intricacies, but this, homes, upkeep, these things he knows, and knows well. These things he wants to keep as close to him as possible, both hiding them away in the privatest corner of his mind and putting them on display over the fireplace for all to see.

"I know," Cas says again, and even though they haven’t talked about it, this thing between them, Cas pulls his gloved hands out of his pockets and takes Dean’s hands in his own. He rubs his thumbs along the backs of Dean’s palms, warms them. Dean is staring at him, eyes clear with understanding, clear of doubts. Obviously, they’ve both been doing some raking of their own.

"I thought you might," Dean grins at him, sweet and boyish, and they’re close now, moving forwards, when Cas reaches out with one hand to snatch Dean’s hat off his head, and takes his own hat off with the other. He switches their hats, Dean now wearing the chunky black beanie, Cas wearing the much less warm, threadbare one.

"What was that for?" Dean asks, and Cas can’t help but roll his eyes.

"You looked cold," he says, matter of fact, and he knows for a fact that the pink in Dean’s cheeks this time isn’t just the nip in the air.

"Well then why don’t you warm me up?" Dean challenges, and then they’re kissing, cold noses and all.

A leaf chooses that specific moment to detach itself from the tree above their heads, and it falls, slowly and beautifully, to the ground between them, between the heat generated by two exceptionally warm human bodies bundled beneath the layers of autumn.

***

At night, you think about Cas.

At night, you think about a lot of things that you don’t allow yourself during the daytime. The cover of darkness justifies some of your more insidious thoughts, the ones that whisper and coil around you, the word want burned like a brand behind your eyelids with a straight shot to the furl of heat in your abdomen. At nighttime, you don’t have to look in a mirror and regret the reflection that stares back at you every time. You don’t have to wonder if the nightmares outnumber the freckles by now, or if the circles under your eyes are more bruised than an overripe grape. There are no pretty pink lips and long eyelashes in the dark, just slick and warmth and comfort weaved out of desperate, hazy dreams of frantic hands and flush mouths.
Cas first met you, bodiless, and vice versa. There was no gravel-in-a-blender voice or the trench coat that was so easy to make fun of. You were no more than base instinct by then, deep in the pit; a snarling animal that Cas plucked from the fire, a pup to be bred for the eternal dogfighting of twin eternities. You think- you can’t know, of course, because your mind still refuses, some days, to believe itself- of yourself as a rabid dog, maybe thrashed to the bone by hell’s incisors, maybe just born to it.

In the dark, though, that’s not who you are. In the dark, you are who you choose to be. Morning light always casts such sharp angles, you think, razor like precision. Facing the day is facing reality, and for a long time, you’ve had no interest in being real.

Reality is the crunch of your cheekbone beneath the broken skin of the knuckles of someone you love. It’s begging for your life on your knees, eye swollen shut and tongue swimming in blood, when you know it’s hardly a life to beg for. You’re a parasite, hanging along for one more ride. In the crypt, on your knees, you don’t die, but every blow that lands upon you feels like a validation; after all, what’s a bone that hasn’t been broken? You don’t want to sound cheesy, but replace bone with heart, and maybe you’re onto something.

Your body is his tapestry. He paints fist sized bruises onto you and accents with crimson. He may not be the one holding the paint brush (you have Naomi to thank for that) but that doesn’t stop you from becoming his work of art. Hang you in a gallery and someone would pay millions. Not because of the subject matter, but the artist’s slim fingers are worth enough zeros on their own. You’re worth nothing if you sell yourself, but Cas’ll talk you up. He’d do that. He’s a stand-up guy.

You could be one of those rigged carnival games: step right up and Break the Boy! You hate to harp on it, but aim for the heart. That’ll really get him, that foolish boy.

Such power, the ability to rip and tear and then knit back together like new. Erasure, almost.

But at nighttime, you don’t think about that. The slip slide of flesh and the way your cock feels heavy in your palm are the things you think about. You sink into your mattress with the weight of an imaginary body on yours, not the weight of a thousand and one failures. Those can wait for morning.

Cas’ imaginary eyes are dark and wide, just a glint in the night. He hovers over you, elbows imprinting the mattress on either side of you. You can almost feel the vibrations emanating from his chest in the air between you, his hammering heart knocking on your ribcage like it wants to come in.

You’ll let him in, every time.

Imaginary lips trail down your neck, and an imaginary cock that’s really just your lubed up fist slots into position perfectly, the friction just right, and oh, god, it’s like you two were meant to be.

You really are a romantic at heart, even in (especially in) the midst of masturbation, but don’t let that stop you.

There are words being murmured into your ear, but this is where you always falter. You can’t possibly know what Cas would say in this situation, and you most definitely don’t know what you would want to hear him say. You pretend it’s just nonsense, a whisper between lovers no one else is meant to hear, including you. You’re sure it’s groundbreaking, though. The secret to fixing everything you two are.

You keen into it, and Cas kisses your mouth to see how your moans taste on his tongue. Evidently, he enjoys it- you enjoy it- because he’s thrusting against you now, rutting against you, and you feel your heart trying to explode out of your chest, searching for something, anything to hold onto.

You think about how it wasn’t bodies in the pit, but most likely approximations of consciousness (on your part, at least. You can’t even fathom Cas in hell, could never begin to) that somehow clicked. Bolt A into Slot B, and so on. Maybe corresponding souls were on two for one at the local Ikea that week.

Sometimes you wish you could hold onto the night forever, could keep the weight of your imaginary best friend as close as possible, just for another hand to clutch onto. You think, as you thrust into the heat of your own fist, pre come speeding the process considerably, hips snapping and vocal chords constricting, that he is everything you will always pretend not to want.

He saved me, you think, as you come hard, Cas’ name on your lips.

In the morning, you will wake with the rising sun and the cold, grey clarity you spend every night trying to dispel.

You hold a hand to your cheek, and despite the lack of tenderness, the sometimes permanent sore spot that can accompany severe injury, you remember what it felt like to fall to your knees in front of someone you love the most, and have that love not be enough.

You touch your cheek, and remember.

Even though your perfectly knitted bones don’t.

***

It was bound to happen eventually.

A misaimed flare while chasing a rugaru and suddenly the whole condemned building is in flames, Dean and Cas on one side of the rubble, Sam on the other.

“Dean,” Cas says urgently over the roar of the fire, “The structure of the building is weakening. We’re going to fall through the floor any moment now.”

“Well,” Dean tries to grin, because he’s nothing if not cocky in the face of death, “Better find something to hold onto.”
---

At least the basement is further away from the smoke.

Unfortunately, it’s also doorless and windowless.

“No offense to you personally or anything, man,” Dean says on the end of a cough, “But I really wish you were mojo’d up at the moment.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Cas says somberly, “So do I.”

---

There’s a broken piece of debris sticking out of Dean’s thigh, and he thanks his lucky stars it didn’t hit any major veins or arteries. The last thing he needs to do is bleed out during a building fire. All these years of avoiding and unavoiding death, and here he is, number called, and it gets called twice. Typical.

He feels bad for Cas, though. They’d never discussed the whole, ‘fallen angels are soulless’ thing properly, and no one knows where he’s going once he bites it as a human. To be fair, Dean’s not sure where he’s going either, so at least they can be unsure and terrified together.

Cas has a strong palm on his thigh, doing his best to staunch the bleeding.

“Dude,” Dean says, and then points upwards at the fire still raging in all its glory. “We’re gonna die of smoke inhalation first, no worries.”

Cas shakes his head, teeth gritted.

“I didn’t fall for this,” he bites out, ripping off a shred of his shirt to use as a bandage, “I didn’t put my ass on the line for you hundreds of times so we could die at the hands of a badly aimed flare gun.” He wraps the cloth around Dean’s thigh as best he can without dislodging the debris.

Dean can’t help but chuckle resignedly at that.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says, and tries to find it in him to lament dying, but really, he’s so lost. He’s sad about Cas, though. Truly.

“Shut up,” Cas snaps, and presses his hand onto the wound, but Dean thinks he might just need something to hold onto.

He wonders what it’s like to fear death as an angel-turned-human. First nothing, then everything.

Of course, maybe Cas wonders what it’s like for him as well. First dying, then dying some more, then dying again.

---

“Dean, you need to stay awake,” Cas commands harshly, holding his face in both hands. Dean’s pant leg is wet and sticky with blood, and his tongue tastes like ash. “You can’t fall asleep on me,” He begs, and his voice breaks on the last word. “Dean!”

“God, you’re annoying,” Dean mumbles drowsily, and pulls on Cas’ singed tie so that they’re practically nose to nose. Both of their faces are grey with soot, streaked red where the heat has managed to find them. “Why do you want to live?” he asks, “When sleeping is so much easier?”

Cas snatches his tie back. Even though Jimmy’s blue tie is long gone, he’s found himself wearing other ties more often than not. He’s not sure where his fondness for them comes from.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he orders, and goes to canvas the room for the hundredth time, searching for a way out.

---

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, as Cas collapses beside him, exhausted. “I’m real sorry, Cas.”

“I killed half of my own species and did a lot worse than that,” Cas says, “This is really the least that I deserve.”

Dean rolls his head over to fix Cas with a rude glare.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he says petulantly, going to hit Cas on the shoulder. Somehow, his hand gets to Cas’ chest and then refuses to move. He stares at it in awe, and thinks, this has to be the carbon monoxide.

Cas stares down at Dean’s hand speculatively, and then, slowly, reaches up and intertwines his fingers with Dean’s. Their hands lay together over Cas’ beating, human heart.

Okay, Dean thinks, that’s definitely the carbon monoxide.

---

“My mom died in a fire,” Dean says, somehow finding his head lying on Cas’ shoulder.

“I know,” Cas says, and squeezes Dean’s hand. He turns to press a kiss to the top of Dean’s head. “I know,” he murmurs.

---

The fire is so loud. Dean always forgets how loud fires are. He can barely hear himself think, if he were thinking anything remotely worth thinking at the moment.

It’s weird though, because he can hear Cas perfectly.

“You need to know,” Cas is telling him, voice low and full of purpose, “How much you are. To Sam. To the world.” His breath hitches, “To me.”

“Eugh.”

Dean only says it because deathbed confessionals are the worst. Now he knows how much he missed out on, how much he could’ve had. He’s kind of pissed, frankly. But hey, literal last moments on earth, here.

Dean summons his last vestiges of strength to lift his head so that he’s staring Cas right in the eyes.

“Same,” he says awkwardly, and is glad to know these last moments are so incredibly poetic. “Y’know. About you needing to know things. But vice versa.”

“You mean I don’t need to know those things?” Cas asks, confused.

“No, you idiot.” Dean coughs and brings his palm up to cup Cas’ face. “I mean, you are so much. To me.” He sighs, but it’s kind of huffed laughter as well. “One last miscommunication, huh?” he says ruefully, patting Cas’ cheek, but still leaving his hand in place afterwards. “A good sum up of our relationship, I guess.”

Cas’ eyes flash sadness, his soot covered face crumpling.

“I wish it wasn’t,” he says honestly.

Dean shrugs.

“Kept things exciting,” he lies. Kept things awful, terrible, always just out of reach, you mean. “I’m lying,” he admits, because what the fuck. They’re going to die anyways. “We could’ve tried,” he says, “We might’ve made it, y’know.” One of his hands is still desperately holding Cas’, while the other is still resting on his cheek, gathering ash as it falls through the hole in the floor.

“I have faith,” Cas says wryly.

Dean feels his eyes start to burn, and not from the fire. There’s a lump in his throat.

“Weirdly enough,” he murmurs, sliding his hand down from Cas’ cheek to his neck, resting at the pulse point there, “So do I.”

Cas lifts his free hand to rest it on the back of Dean’s neck, and they gently lay their foreheads together.

They kiss, and frankly, it’s disgusting. It tastes like ash and soot and fire and Dean knows it’s the first and last time he’s ever going to get to kiss Cas, and that is so woefully unfair. He thinks, fuck it, maybe I do want to live.

It’s the worst kiss of his life, but also the best.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t,” Cas whispers backs, and kisses him again.

---

When he hears the explosion, Dean thinks, this is it.

What he doesn’t realize, however, is that his pyromaniac of a brother has just busted his way in with the c4 they apparently keep lying around in the Impala.

“You never told me?” Dean shouts deliriously, hideously betrayed, as Sam drags their asses out of the fire.

“Nope,” Sam says simply, voice tight with worry.

---

Sam leaves Dean and Cas sprawled out in the backseat on the drive home, checking to make sure they’re both still breathing every couple minutes.

They’re both awake now, incredibly cramped and practically on top of each other since the backseat doesn’t exactly boast a whole lot of room for two grown men.

“Well, I guess we survived,” Dean says, looking down at Cas and doing his best to smile. “We did it again.”

“I think I know why I like to wear ties now,” Cas replies, completely off topic.

Dean rolls with the subject change, used to Cas’ unapologetic abruptness. He runs his fingers down the length of tie that Cas has left. Today he’s sporting a bright, vivid green one. Or at least, it was that color until the fire ate it up.

“And why is that?” Dean asks, winding it playfully around his index finger, but on the inside, really, really scared. He wonders if this is one of those, what happens in the fire, stays in the fire situations.

Cas bumps their foreheads together.

“Because I don’t know how to tie them right,” he admits, “And you always fix them for me.”

That lump is back in Dean’s throat, but he doesn’t have the fire to blame this time.

“Oh,” he says quietly, and reaches out to straighten the tiny little stub of a tie with a tiny little smile on his face. “Like that?” he asks, letting his fingers linger at Cas’ collar.

“Yes,” Cas says, gently grabbing Dean’s shirt at his waist and rubbing the material between his thumb and index finger. “Exactly like that.”