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The first time Dean wakes up on a particular Sunday in October, it’s when the sky is pitch black, and it’s because of a nightmare.
He doesn’t remember what happened in the dream, not specifically. He remembers the vaguest details- blood, dread, monsters. His loved ones in danger, again.
He wakes with a start, his hand instinctively flailing for the gun in the nightstand drawer, a cry of Sam’s name dying in his throat. He can’t see, can’t breathe, doesn’t know where he is. Right then, there is absolutely nothing except for the adrenaline and the terror-fueled thoughts blaring in his mind. Sammy’s hurt, Cas is hurt, Eileen, Jack, Mom-
“Dean. Dean,” there are hands on him, warm and kind, but he still thrashes, confused in his half-awake state. The hands cup his face, grip his shoulder. “It’s me, Dean, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
Angel, Dean’s mind supplies. He’d know that gravelly voice anywhere. The panic begins to fade away. “Cas,” he croaks.
Finally, he begins to register his surroundings. Soft sheets, the weight of many blankets covering his body. Detergent and Cas’ smell. He’s in bed, in their home. Not sure what time it is; either very late or very early judging from how dark it is.
The familiar shadows of their bedroom come into view as his eyes adjust, and there’s his angel, beside him, running his palms over Dean’s arms to bring him back to the present moment. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m sorry.” Dean feels Cas pull at him lightly and he moves, curling up against Cas’ chest. Cas runs his fingers through his hair with one hand and traces mindless patterns on his upper back with the other, holding him close. Dean inhales deeply through his nose, taking comfort in that familiar scent. He’s safe. He’s at home, in bed, with his partner. Cas is safe. Sam and Eileen are safe, everybody is safe. Tears burn in his eyes and a couple spill over onto his cheeks. “S-sorry. I’m good. I’m fine.”
“I know. It’s okay,” Cas repeats against Dean’s forehead. Embarrassment sets in, though Dean knows he doesn’t need to be. Cas has reassured him enough times through the years that he understands, and there’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of or feel bad about. Still, It doesn’t make Dean feel any less ridiculous after he wakes up screaming or shaking or stumbles out of bed, barely conscious, fumbling for a weapon to fight off enemies who aren’t there.
With a huff of flustered indignance that makes Cas chuckle, Dean shoves his burning face into Cas’ neck, tangles their legs together, and shuts his eyes. Cas holds him till he falls asleep again.
***
The second time Dean wakes up, he is alone in bed and the sun is up. Through cracked eyelids, the white walls glow under the blocks of sunlight falling through the windows and specks of dust dance and drift, suspended in the air.
Dean rolls onto Cas’ side of the bed and stretches his arms and legs out, groaning when he feels his lower back pop. The alarm clock informs him that it’s almost 9 A.M. Cas made coffee, Dean can smell it. “Heaven-sent,” Dean mumbles to nobody, then grins at his own joke before he summons the strength to get out of bed.
Almost every morning, without fail, Dean takes at least five minutes to just look around their home, because even after several years of living here with Cas, he’s still kind of shocked that he actually has one.
A quaint, sprawling bungalow a few miles outside of town, settled on the shore of a small lake. Large windows and several skylights, creaky hardwood floors. Worn but sturdy furniture accumulated from thrift stores, garage sales, fancy-ass antique shops and dumps alike. Nothing in the place matches; not the L-shaped couch or the overstuffed chairs, not the tables or the overflowing bookshelves. Every wall is decorated. photographs, posters, weapons, instruments, vinyls. Monster lore, maps, drawings, the random knick-knacks and rocks that Cas likes to collect. Lots of pictures of Sam and Mary (except in their bedroom, because “I want to enjoy getting fucked in my bed by my husband whenever I please and I can’t do that if I feel like I’m being watched by my brother and my mom, Cas.”), of Eileen, Jack, Bobby, of all their closest friends and any hunters they’ve managed to stay on good terms with. Some of the bigger frames conceal warding symbols painted on the walls. Potted plants line the windowsills and dangle down from on top of the shelves. The welcome mats are muddy and trodden. The lampshades are crooked. The rugs have beer stains.
It’s perfect.
It’s absolutely perfect. It’s theirs. Dean’s always dreamed of having a place like this. And to have it with the love of his life, and fill it with memories and reminders of each other…Well, you can’t blame him for taking the time to absorb it all over again with every new day.
The colorful ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor are cold under his feet as he wanders in. The coffee pot is full and he finds a plate of scrambled eggs and breakfast sausages on the counter, under a glass pot lid to keep them warm. Cas still hasn’t completely gotten the hang of cooking; the sausages are burnt and Dean knows without tasting them that the eggs have way too much salt. But he’ll eat them anyway, because Cas made food for him, so of course he’s gonna eat it. Coffee first, though.
After his first sip from one of their many stupid mugs (this one says “I swing both ways. Violently. With a bat.” It was a gift from Sam on their first Christmas after Dean finally (and needlessly, because Sam had long since figured it out, but Dean still wanted to make it official) came out as bisexual), Dean belatedly notes that he hasn’t seen Cas anywhere. That’s not unusual in the morning. Cas, ever the early riser if he even does sleep, liked watching the world wake up around him. Most mornings, unless it was especially cold or stormy, he could be found out in the garden, down by the lake, or on the back patio.
Speak of the devil. Right as Dean goes to perch on a stool at the counter, his phone vibrates. He fishes it out of the pocket of his stolen dead guy robe.
Cas: If you’re awake, come out to the patio.
Cas: There’s somebody I want to introduce you to.
Dean frowns at the screen. Somebody he wants to introduce him to? They’ve got about a mile between themselves and the closest neighbors; people didn’t tend to wander out here unless he already knew them. Is Cas safe? Should Dean bring a gun?
His phone buzzes again.
Cas: You do not need to bring a gun.
Dean snorts.
Two minutes later, he’s pulled on socks, shoved his feet into his unlaced boots and traded in his robe for a fleece-lined jacket. Maybe if he’s meeting someone new, he should put in a little more effort than the baggy sweatpants he slept in and unstyled hair. Honestly, though, Dean stopped caring about shit like that after he died for the second time.
He steps out through the sliding glass door onto the wooden patio, coffee in hand, and grimaces when the frigid autumn air hits his skin. The house is always cold in the morning, but outside is far worse.
Dean quickly spots Cas a few yards away from the Patio’s edge. He is crouching in the yellowing grass with his back to Dean. Confused and intrigued, Dean lopes down the patio steps and towards Cas. “Watcha doin’, angel?” he calls out.
Cas’ head pops up and he looks back at Dean, a smile gracing his face. “Hello, Dean. I made a new friend.” Dean closes the remaining distance between them, and as he gets closer, he sees who Cas is talking about.
A bird. A crow, by the looks of it. Large and sleek and black, hopping around and leaning into it when Cas reaches out to pet its head. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Holy shit. How are you doing that?”
“What do you mean?” Cas asks, scratching under the bird’s beak. It wiggles against the action, like it’s enjoying the attention.
Dean kneels beside Cas, trying to move slowly in case the bird startles away, but it doesn’t seem to pay him any mind. “Just, y’know. Birds are usually pretty skittish around people. It’s hard to get near ‘em, let alone touch ‘em. How’d you get it not to fly away?”
The crow hops away from them, but not far, pecking and nipping at random sections of grass and dirt. Cas shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because I’m an angel. She came up to me. I gave her some blueberries from my breakfast, which seems to have earned me her trust.”
“Crows eat blueberries?”
“She’s a raven, actually. Ravens are larger than crows. They have a broader wingspan and their tails are thinner and sort of taper to a point, whereas crows’ tails are shaped in a wide, flat curve. Different beaks, too- see how hers is large and more curved?” Cas holds his hand out to point and the bird- the raven- hops back to him. Cas traces the curve of her bill with his index finger. Dean watches, bewildered. He’s so distracted, somewhat by the bird but mostly by Cas, that he forgets he’s holding his coffee until the raven starts poking at his mug. “Ravens typically travel in pairs, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s another one somewhere around here,” Cas continues. Dean stares at him for a moment. Taking in his bird-whisperer of a husband’s appearance, disheveled in the morning sun, Dean feels his heart swell with affection. Then, unexpectedly, a loud laugh bursts out of him.
The bird darts away in the blink of an eye, flying up into the branches of a nearby tree. Cas scowls as Dean cracks up, shaking with it. “You scared her away,” Cas grumbles. Dean laughs harder, doubling over on his knees. “What is so funny?”
There are inexplicable tears in Dean’s eyes that he wipes away with his free hand, still giggling, feeling like he’s drunk. “Just- just you, Cas. you’re fucking…you’re unbelievable sometimes.”
Dean studies the angel’s confused expression, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “I don’t understand,” Cas says, tilting his head in that way that still makes Dean’s stomach flutter.
“It’s just, like- I’ve known you for so long. We’ve seen so much crazy shit together, stuff some people could never even begin to imagine. Sometimes I think I've seen it all. But then you go and- and make friends with a fucking bird.” Another small bout of laughter erupts out of Dean. He shakes his head. “I dunno. You still manage to surprise me, man. You’re amazing.”
A slow smile blooms on Cas’ face. “Oh. Thank you.”
Dean reaches over and grabs Cas’ hand, intertwining their cold fingers. “Weirdo.” Cas chuckles, bonking his shoulder into Dean’s. “Come back inside.” Cas looks up at the bird wistfully, but he acquiesces and lets Dean drag him back inside.
They shed their jackets and shoes and Dean eats his too-salty eggs with burnt sausage while Cas drinks more coffee. They sit across from each other at the kitchen counter. Cas laces their fingers together again, and Dean admires the being opposite him. Cas is wearing a striped sweater with a loose collar that dips to reveal his collarbones. The sensitive skin there is still decorated with bruises left by Dean’s lips and teeth the night before last. In a sappy comparison he would never voice aloud, Dean can’t help but think the love bites kind of look like flower petals.
When it hits Cas at the right angle, the sunlight turns his eyes into glacial pools, a piercing contrast from his honey colored skin and dark hair, still mussed from sleep. It’s gotten longer, falling over his forehead and sticking out in cute little wings around his ears when unstyled. It’s started to turn gray at his temples. Dean kisses those gray spots all the time. They’re a reminder that Cas is still here, still alive. He is aging. They are so lucky to be aging, and Dean is grateful in a way words can’t describe that he, against all odds, gets to be middle aged, gets to grow old. He gets to grow old with Castiel. He’s the luckiest son of a bitch around.
“Your hands are very cold,” Cas speaks up, pulling Dean from his simultaneously smug yet sentimental thoughts.
He clears his throat and looks down at his plate, stabbing a sausage with his fork. “Yeah, ‘M kinda chilly. It’s freezing out there.” Dean has never run warm, one of the reasons he wears so many layers. Luckily for him, Cas is basically a walking furnace. Dean likes to shove his cold toes under Cas’ thighs on the couch or snake his hands under the angel’s shirt, partly for warmth and partly because it’s funny to make him yelp at the unexpected temperature change.
Cas stares at their connected hands on the counter for a moment. “I’ll run you a hot bath,” he suggests, or, more accurately, declares. Dean’s eyes snap up, about to protest the idea for reasons he doesn’t really know, but Cas’ expression is resolute. No point in arguing. He mumbles an okay and Cas tells him to finish his food, then come to the bathroom.
***
The tub is two-thirds of the way full with steaming water when Dean gets there. “Jesus, Cas, you tryin’ to boil me alive?” he quips. He’s oddly nervous. Cas just rolls his eyes with a small smile. He stands up and moves to a shelf with various soaps and bottles on it. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna put your girly bubble bath shit in there, too.”
“Yes I am,” Cas glares playfully at him, grabbing two bottles. “Now which scent of girly bubble bath shit would you like?”
Dean huffs and reads the two bottles. With a blush he stubbornly is choosing to ignore, he picks the one labeled chamomile green tea. He watches Cas pour some under the faucet stream and bubbles quickly form on the surface, filling the room with the aroma. It’s a good smell, Dean can’t deny that. Sweet, fresh and earthy, one he’s smelled on Cas numerous times.
The faucet is turned off and Cas bats Dean’s hands away when he goes to pull his shirt off, wordlessly undressing Dean for him. The act is familiar, yet intimate, and it leaves him slightly breathless. It occurs to him, as Cas tugs his own sweater off and nudges him towards the tub, that he can’t remember the last time he’s had a bath. Even while they’ve lived here, he’s always defaulted to showers.
Dean steps into the bath, slowly lowering himself into the water.
Showers are quick, barebones, they get the job done. Good when you live your life on the road, bouncing from one cheap motel to the next, never staying in one place too long.
Baths are different. They’re indulgent, leisurely, and sybaritic. He’s never been good with stuff like that. Cas took to it easier.
Ironically, Dean sometimes thinks Cas is better at being a human than he is.
The word ‘undeserving’ flashes through his mind. He tenses up as he leans back in the water. Cas notices.
He sits beside the tub, behind Dean, dunks his hands in the water before bringing them up to Dean’s shoulders and rubbing into them. “Relax, my love,” he urges softly. “This is meant to be soothing.”
Dean nods with a shaky exhale, and lets his eyes slip closed. He focuses on the heat, the aroma, Cas’ hands working his muscles. “Still feels weird, even after all this time. Like I don’t even know how to.”
“...Then we will keep practicing.” a pair of lips press against his cheekbone. Dean rests his head back against Cas’ shoulder, leaning into the touch, much like the raven had leaned into it earlier. That thought makes a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. The hands on his shoulders slide down, rubbing at his arms under the bubbly surface. That touch reminds him of something else, from much earlier in the morning. As though Cas is reading Dean’s thoughts (which he very well could be), he squeezes a bit tighter and asks, “Do you want to talk about last night?”
Cas always asks, after. Dean appreciates this much more than he allows himself to express. His answers vary each time, depending on how bad it was and how he feels. Here, naked and warm in their bathroom with his angel’s strong and sure hands on him, he feels sleepy and safe. “I…don’t remember much. Just that…that I was scared, ‘n my people were in trouble, somehow. You and Sammy and Eileen, and Jack, mom, and…well, just everybody. I couldn’t help or save anyone. Really freaked me out.” Cas rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder. Dean leans their heads together, and opens his eyes to watch the angel’s hands as they come to lay on his chest. “It was bad. But we’re okay.”
“We are okay,” Cas confirms. Dean turns his head and musters up his best puppy dog eyes, humming with success when Cas kisses him. It’s slow and sloppy at an awkward angle and perfect. He places his hands on Cas’ and holds them over his heart. It’s cheesy as fuck, but he’s too at ease to care.
Dean pulls back the slightest bit, tugging and then releasing Cas’ bottom lip with his teeth. “Thank you. For, y’know. Takin’ care of me.”
Cas brushes his nose against Dean’s. “Thank you for letting me.”
“I could, uh, groom your wings for you later. If you want.”
“Are you suggesting that because you want me to keep my shirt off?”
“Maybe.”
***
Time, and Dean’s higher brain function, both melt away as Cas washes him.
He lathers his hands up with soap and runs them over the planes of Dean’s body. “Okay?” he asks quietly, and Dean just eagerly nods, because words are suddenly failing him.
The way Cas touches him is always so caring and attentive that it stupidly kind of makes Dean want to cry. He’s grown mostly used to it now, but there are still moments where he’s blown away. Especially when it happens outside of sex.
Before Cas, Dean aways tried to be an entirely selfless lover; shrouding the other person in his devotion. He did this partly because it did actually get him off, and partly because the idea of someone giving the same kind of care to him was kind of terrifying. He tried to do the same with Cas. Compared to all his previous partners, though, Cas certainly endeavors to give as good as he gets. The angel is even more pig-headed than Dean in that regard. From the very beginning of their sexual relationship, Cas took charge, speaking and touching with reverence, practically worshiping Dean, no matter how unworthy and insecure Dean felt.
At first, he felt guilty about how much he liked it, wanted it. He couldn’t believe that someone could actually feel this way about him.
Now, it’s much easier for him to accept, thanks to Cas and his unwavering insistence to shower Dean in so much adoration and praise it makes his head float away. These days, Cas allows Dean to pay him more special attention as well. But he never misses a chance to worship, in and outside of the bedroom.
All of Dean’s scars and blemishes, every wrinkle and splatter of freckles, every place along his belly, hips and thighs that used to be firm and toned but have softened since his retirement- Cas touches all of it, unabashed and unrestrained. He explores like every time is the first. He washes, scrubs, and simply feels.
Dean lays back, slightly overwhelmed but content to let it happen. Cas cleans and rinses each arm, curling around his biceps and up under his armpits, then down to the crooks of the elbows, the wrists, between each finger. He cups Dean’s pecs and traces his clavicle, sweeps down his stomach and flanks. The touch makes Dean feel kind of floaty and far away, like his head is spinning, but not in a bad way. He isn’t cold anymore, but goosebumps still rise on his skin. Cas has a way of affecting his body many different ways at once. He’s bone-tired but electrified, delightfully tranquil but desperately, shakingly turned on. Mostly he feels very much in love, sinking further into the water and into his angel’s presence.
A considerable amount of time goes into pushing and pulling Dean’s bellybutton into different shapes. Cas does this with a look of intense concentration and Dean has to try very, very hard not to giggle.
When his navel is no longer interesting enough, Cas moves on to Dean’s legs, raking along his calves and shins, behind his knees (it tickles and makes Dean jump), then higher to feel up his thighs.
Dean spreads his legs easily, almost subconsciously.
Being touched along his inner thighs, predictably, makes Dean’s cock go from just plumping up to fully hardening. He’s in no rush to do anything about it though, and neither is Cas. His eyes flutter shut again while Cas touches him, brushing his pelvis and scratching through his pubic hair. Dean’s hips twitch and his breath hitches when fingers brush over his balls and perineum, down between his cheeks, then under his thighs again. “You’re so beautiful, Dean,” he hears Cas whisper. Dean shivers and makes a low, whiny noise, something between an acknowledging hum and a plea. He manages to move his own arm enough to cup his erection. He grinds his palm down a few times, letting a small moan slip out. Cas hums encouragement. Dean keeps his hand there, just holding himself, enjoying the muted buzz of pleasure but not feeling the need to work himself to orgasm. Cas trails open mouthed kisses down his leg and to his ankle, finishing up by massaging Dean’s feet.
He’s half asleep and boneless when Cas pulls him to his feet after removing the stopper from the drain. The shower head comes on for a last rinse-off, Where Dean lets his cock soften and rolls his neck to get his hair and face wet, and then Cas turns it off and helps him out of the tub.
A large towel is wrapped around him and while his eyes are still shut, he can tell Cas is standing in front of him and leans into the angel, smushing his face in his shoulder.
“My love, all relaxed,” Cas murmurs happily, pulling Dean in by his waist and nosing at his hair. “Gorgeous. You’re so good for me.”
Dean grunts, voice muffled in Cas’ neck. “Shut up. Love you s’much. Fuckin’ sap.” he feels Cas’ rumbly laugh reverberate in his chest.
“I love you.” Cas pauses. Then he seems to perk up against Dean. “Oh.”
“Hm?”
Cas’ smile can be heard in his voice. “Our friend is at the window.”
Dean looks up and peers over at the window. Outside, perched on a branch, is the raven, tilting its head and looking around. Dean laughs. “Wow. Guess she likes us, huh?”
Cas nods. He leads Dean to their bedroom, helping dry him off and pulling out some clothes. “Perhaps we could research what ravens like to eat most and leave food out for her and her mate, if she has one. I’d enjoy it if they stayed near us,” Cas ventured, his tone telling Dean that he was thinking out loud, conjuring ideas.
Dean moved into Cas’ space and pressed a kiss to his mouth, beaming. “Yeah. We can do that, angel.”