#and also to make it feel like almost a dream. like Cas is watching himself do this

[gaytedlasso]

holy feeling

[zzoomacroom]

Live a Little

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Dreamling, One Shot, Fluff, Smut, Angst, Friends to Lovers, 6500 words

Late entry for @mr-sadman's Dreamling Week 2024 (Day 1: Indulgence, First Time). Also for @dreamlingbingo (Square A3: Friends to Lovers)

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Summary: Dream needs to be convinced that he’s allowed to indulge, to want, to live. Hob shows him some of the little things that make life worthwhile: good friends, good wine, fancy chocolate, and amazing sex.

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics)

Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: Fluff, Smut, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Tension, Getting Together, First Time, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Oral Sex, Rimming, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Under-negotiated Kink, Dream has bad blowjob etiquette but Hob is into it, not beta read

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“Make yourself at home, my friend,” Hob says, ushering his oldest and dearest friend into the sitting room. Dream nods soberly and heads for the sofa, while Hob turns back towards the hall. “Back in a tick. I’ve got a nice Pinot noir I’ve been saving that I think you’ll like.”

Before his friend can launch into his whole “You need not trouble yourself, I have no need for sustenance, blah blah blah” spiel, Hob darts through the hall and into the bright, cluttered kitchen at the back of the flat. He uncorks the wine and crouches down to rummage through the cabinets, hauling aside dishes and cast iron pans that would almost certainly be considered antiques by now. He knows they’re around here somewhere…

“Ha!” Hob makes a little noise of triumph as he retrieves the pair of dusty earthenware cups that he’d bought at an art fair a couple decades back. They’re handmade and painted in brilliant blues and greens, and the small bumps and imperfections on them remind him of the Border ware dishes he had owned back in the mid-16th century (minus the lead glaze, presumably).

Hob gives the cups a quick wash and dries them off before pouring the wine. He’s learned the hard way that Dream is not a fan of glass drinkware these days. When his friend explained the reason for this sudden aversion, Hob’s heart had shattered like the brandy snifter that Dream had dropped minutes before. Afterwards, he had gone through and purged his flat of wine glasses, glass bowls, and anything else that even vaguely resembled the prison Dream had described. Not just for his friend’s sake, but for himself; he doesn’t want that reminder either—the thought of his dear stranger, trapped, alone… If Hob had known…

God, if only he’d known…

Anyway. The point is, he’s been sticking with coffee mugs since then. But he can’t serve fine wine to the King of Dreams and Nightmares in a “Shag of the Century” mug, even if it does feel hilariously apropos, so it’s lucky he remembered these. The flat’s a bit of a mess as it is and he doesn’t want to come across as too much of a slob.

Hob hadn’t expected his old friend to drop by today. Well, to be honest, he never expects it, but he’s always thrilled to see him. Ever since they broke their centennial tradition with that first meeting at the New Inn, Dream has started visiting more frequently. At first it was brief, sporadic meetings at the pub, but he gradually started to come around more often, much to Hob’s delight. He’s shown up a few times when Hob was leaving work, instigating a riot of gossip among Hob’s coworkers and sixth-formers alike. Sometimes he visits Hob while he dreams, which had destroyed Hob’s entire perception of reality the first time it happened and still never ceases to blow his mind.

Usually the two of them come up to Hob’s flat, ostensibly to watch a movie or so that Hob can show off whatever new gadget he’s acquired, but the truth is that he wants Dream’s attention all to himself. Hob has always been a selfish, greedy man, and he can’t help but covet this precious time spent together. One never knows if the next Will Shakespeare is lurking in the pub.

He can never predict exactly when his friend will show up, but these days it seems like hardly a week passes without seeing him. So it’s odd that this is the first time he’s been by in over a month. Hob had noticed right away that something was troubling him; Dream seems even more distant and shuttered than usual today, and so Hob had herded him upstairs the moment he walked through the door.

He’s trying very hard not to be a mother hen, but in fairness the pub was starting to get crowded, and Hob knows that his friend is not fond of the noise. He’s just being considerate, he tells himself. Yes, he’s missed him desperately these past few weeks, and yes, the worry that he’d been captured again has consistently been in the back of Hob’s mind. But he has to rein it in and play it cool, lest he trigger another incident like 1889. He knows how lucky he is, how spoiled he’s become, getting to see Dream so often after having gone a century (or more) between meetings. So he knows he’s being a bit silly, getting so antsy after only a month apart.

Still. He worries.

(Continue reading below or on ao3):

Hob returns to the sitting room, wine bottle in one hand and the two cups balanced precariously in the other. He stifles a gasp and nearly drops them when he sees his friend perched on the sofa, having evidently vanished his coat and shoes back to the Dreaming, leaving his feet and arms bare. Hob simultaneously feels like a prude and a pervert as he drinks in the rare sight of that flawless ivory skin.

Then his heart swells with fondness—Dream has actually attempted to make himself at home, like Hob offered. “Attempted” being the key word; he does rather look like he’s sitting in a waiting room instead of on his friend’s sofa. Like he’s not sure how comfortable he’s allowed to get. Hob wants to make him comfortable, wants to wrap him in soft blankets and feed him soup and make him understand how fiercely loved he is.

Steady on, Hobsie. Get a hold of yourself.

Dream looks up from the worn copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy he’s been thumbing through, and if Hob didn’t know any better he’d say there was a faint blush blooming on his perfect cheekbones.

See, that’s the elephant in the room: the ever-present sexual tension between them has been at an all-time high lately. Obviously, Hob fell in love with Dream the second he laid eyes on him—how could he not?—and occasionally, over the centuries, he’s felt a spark of… something, from his stranger (that look he’d given him in 1789 being the most flagrant example). And he’s been feeling that something more and more often these days.

Maybe he’s just a lovesick, hope-stricken old fool, but Hob has a sneaking suspicion that his feelings for his friend are, at least to some small degree, reciprocated. Hob is sure as hell not going to make the first move; he cringes as he remembers how that had gone the last time he tried it. But it’s alright. He can be patient. He has been patient. And if nothing ever happens between them, well, that’s alright too. This easy companionship that they’ve developed is more than Hob could have ever hoped for, and he considers himself a lucky man indeed.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

“Here we are, my friend.” Hob hands one of the cups to Dream—the blue one that matches his eyes—and settles beside him on the sofa, stretching and making a point of putting his feet up on the coffee table to signal to his friend that he’s allowed to relax. And he does seem to get the hint, his shoulders easing down a fraction as he leans back into the cushions. “To life,” Hob says, tilting his cup Dream’s direction. Dream responds with a small, slightly pained smile and gently clinks his cup against Hob’s before taking a sip, humming appreciatively as he drinks.

“Good, eh?” Hob grins, thrilled that his friend is enjoying it.

“Indeed. This is a fine vintage. I thank you for sharing it with me,” Dream replies solemnly.

“I can’t think of anyone better to share it with,” Hob says, perhaps a bit too earnestly, and Dream’s blush deepens ever so slightly. “So,” Hob clears his throat, “what have you been up to, my friend? It’s been a while since I saw you last.” Dream stiffens at that, and Hob hastily adds, “If you want to talk about it, that is. You don’t have to.”

Dream takes another long sip of wine and shakes his head before speaking. “I was with family. I spent some time with my youngest sister, as well as some other relations. One whom I had not seen in centuries, and. Another. With whom I had not spoken in millennia.”

To Hob’s credit, his mind boggles only a little at that. “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it? Family reunion and all?”

Dream makes a small noise—of agreement or skepticism, Hob couldn’t say—and looks away as he continues to drink his wine. It’s obvious that something has happened; Dream seems… hopeless. Resigned. To what, Hob doesn’t dare guess. Dream doesn’t seem inclined to share more at the moment, and there’s a beat of awkward silence as Hob fumbles through his mind for a new topic of conversation. He’s mentally reviewing his day for any interesting stories to tell when he notices his friend staring at the small box wrapped in gold paper on the coffee table, seemingly lost in thought.

Hob springs forward and opens the box, nudging the chocolates in Dream’s direction. “Oh! Where are my manners? Help yourself to those. Some of my coworkers got them for my birthday—well, what they think is my birthday.”

Dream blinks at him. “I do not need to eat.”

Hob chuckles. “Nobody needs to eat chocolate. It’s purely for pleasure. You don’t need to drink this very good wine either, but you’re enjoying it,” he points out, topping off both of their cups to underscore his argument. “And I bet these would go great with the Pinot.” He takes a vanilla cream-filled one for himself before pushing the box closer to Dream. “Go on, they’re quite nice. It’s the expensive stuff. I think that one’s caramel, and that’s a raspberry cream…”

A tiny smile creeps over his friend’s face as he speaks. “My sister is fond of those. Or. Something like them.”

Hob is immensely curious about these family members Dream keeps mentioning, but he doesn’t want to pry; he knows by now that if Dream wants to share something with him, he’ll do so in his own time. “Well, please, have as many as you’d like. I’ll never finish them all before they go stale, so you’d be doing me a favor.”

“I do not usually. Indulge,” Dream says, though he is still staring (longingly, one might almost say) at the cocoa-dusted confections.

“You mean to tell me you’ve got the entire Dreaming at your fingertips, and you don’t indulge in all the lovely things you’ve made? That, my friend, is a tragedy.” Hob smiles and shrugs. “Well, if you won’t indulge yourself, then why not indulge me? I won’t make you eat them, of course, but…” he takes a bite of the bonbon (it really is good, even if it’s a bit too sweet for his taste), “you’d be missing out.”

The gloom that had earlier enshrouded Dream seems all but dissipated, and Hob can’t help but notice the way his friend’s eyes flick to his mouth, the starry voids of his pupils blown wide. Hob is considerably flustered himself right now, but he manages to give his friend what he hopes is a roguishly charming wink.

Dream glances down, his cheeks reddening further. “Very well. If you insist,” he says primly, like he’s doing Hob a favor as he delicately plucks a milk chocolate truffle from the box. And he is doing him a favor; Hob already counted it as a win that he was enjoying the wine, and this is just… well, the icing on the cake. Hmm, maybe he can get him to try cake next time…

Hob loses his train of thought as he watches his friend bite into the chocolate. Dream’s eyes widen before fluttering shut, and the moan he lets out is downright sinful. It’s enthralling. Hob is in trouble.

Dream keeps his eyes closed while he savors the confection, his tongue darting out to lick the powdered cacao from his petal-pink lips. He swallows audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and Hob shivers as he envisions…

No. Now is not the time. Keep it together, old man. Hob shifts and crosses his legs, vainly attempting to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly and the subtle tightening of his trousers.

“Thank you, my friend,” Dream murmurs, glancing demurely at Hob. “They are. Nice. As you said.”

“Of course. I’m glad you like them,” Hob beams. “Help yourself to more. Anything I have, you’re welcome to,” he adds, gesturing vaguely around the flat.

Dream stares at him for a long moment, with a hunger in his eyes that brings to mind that look, the one he’d given him in 1789. There’s something else in his expression, though. Something sad. But before Hob can attempt to decipher it, Dream schools his features, once more a mask of emotionless detachment (except for the telltale flush that has now spread from his cheeks to his ears and neck).

They’re sitting quite close together on the sofa, Hob notices. Had he scooted over without realizing, or was that Dream? There’s no body heat, no familiar human scent coming from his friend, but Hob can feel a strange sort of energy emanating from him—something like static electricity. Like the heavy, expectant stillness that comes before a storm.

Dream slowly, hesitantly reaches for another piece, and as he leans forward their thighs brush together ever so faintly.

Hob’s breath hitches.

Although they’ve been meeting regularly for a couple years now, they have never so much as shaken hands. This is unprecedented.

Hob exhales shakily, and he can’t hold back the embarrassing little noise that escapes him. He tries to disguise it as a cough, but Dream freezes and draws back suddenly as if he’s been bitten.

“It’s alright,” Hob says softly, almost a whisper, like his friend is some skittish wild beast who might flee at any second (actually, that’s about the size of it). “Have another one.”

Dream shrinks back into the sofa, looking suddenly rueful. “I should not.”

Hob laughs nervously. “Now don’t tell me you’re trying to watch your figure, because you’re already…” he splutters and trails off, tugging on his earlobe as a prickling heat creeps up the back of his neck.

Too much. Stupid. So bloody stupid, just shut up.

He hasn’t had nearly enough wine for his mind to be so fuzzy and his mouth so loose. So why can’t he get a grip?

"It’s just—I mean,” he goes on, his treacherous mouth continuing to prattle on despite his brain’s feeble protests, “my point is, it’s alright to indulge. You of all people deserve to indulge. And I offered, so… please. Take what you want. You’re allowed to want things, Dream. And you deserve to have what you want. And—and I know, you can conjure anything up out of dreams and stardust. But even so. I just… I want you to know that anything I have, anything I can offer, however trivial, it’s yours if you want it. And it’s just chocolate and wine, eh? So… why not live a little?”

Hob looks up, apparently done with his ramble, to find Dream staring at him, his head cocked in that adorable way of his. His lips are parted slightly and his eyes shine with unshed tears.

Oh, brilliant. Great fucking job, Hobsie. Just don’t know when to quit, do you?

“Hob,” his friend begins, his voice a deep rumble of distant thunder, more of a feeling than a sound. “You are very generous. More so than is wise, and far more than I deserve. But I am afraid that your generosity may be. Misplaced. You say that I should ‘live a little,’ but. I am not… alive, in the way that you are. I do not live. I simply… am.”

Hob stares at him, dumbfounded, while his heart breaks into a thousand pieces. That… is the saddest fucking thing Hob has ever heard in the two-thirds of a millennium that he’s been alive. It all makes sense now. That’s why Dream has always been so interested in the mundane minutiae of his life. He’s been living vicariously through Hob, and all the while he’s got no life of his own. Just… existing, not living, for billions of years, and on and on until the end of time.

But that’s not true, is it? No. Hob rejects the entire premise. Dream may not be a living, breathing human, but he’s a person. And he does so have a life; he’s got a family. He’s got friends. If nothing else, he’s got Hob. He’s more than just his bloody function that he’s always going on about. Hob wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Tell him that he can live, he must.

Hob’s mind is already racing with ideas—he’s going to have to up his game; they can’t keep meeting at the pub or in Hob’s flat. There’s so much more out there to do and see. Maybe, instead of living vicariously through him, Hob can convince Dream to do some living with him. Not like that… Just. Bucket list-type stuff, even though neither of them can die. Although he doubts Dream would go for it; the mental image of his dear friend skydiving is as far-fetched as it is hilarious.

Of course, he doesn’t dare say any of that. He’s sure he’s already overstepped with that unhinged rant he just went on. He ought to quit while he’s ahead and drop the subject before he offends Dream. Still, it’s impossible not to notice the way Dream has been swaying closer to him over the course of this conversation. The way the air between them seems to crackle with electricity.

“Nevertheless,” Dream continues, “I am grateful for your kindness. Thank you, my friend.”

"'Course,” Hob murmurs. “Like I said. Anything I can offer, it’s yours. So… what do you want?”

Dream falters for a moment and seems to be intensely focused on picking at a nonexistent loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt. “I… I must confess that I do not know what to say. When you ask me this. It is not in my nature to want; desire is the domain of my sibling. It is not within the purview of dreams. I do not live, nor do I want.”

“Bullshit.” The word spills from Hob’s mouth before the thought even crystallizes in his mind. Dream looks stunned and a bit offended, though more confused than anything else. He’s not getting up and storming out, though, so that’s a good sign. He’s frowning, but still watching Hob intently, like he’s curious as to how Hob will follow up that little outburst. Hob is curious where he’s going with this, too; apparently, sitting this close to Dream has caused his brain to short circuit, and now his mouth is running on autopilot.

Ah. Right. Better keep talking, then.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have said that. But… I mean, obviously you wanted that chocolate. And you want to be here, or you’d have left already.” The furrow between Dream’s brows deepens as Hob speaks, and he clenches his jaw tightly. Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t give him ideas. Dial it back, old man. “But that’s alright! Really, it’s fine! More than fine! I—I don’t know about this sibling of yours, but… it just seems to me like you do want something, my friend. And whatever it is, if it’s in my power to give it to you, that’s what I want. So… what do you want?” he asks again.

Dream hesitates, gazing at Hob with those fathomless blue eyes as he appears to genuinely consider the question. He’s sitting so close that Hob can see his own reflection, blurry and distorted, mirrored in the glossy sheen of tears that rests on his friend’s dark lashes.

Finally, he seems to make up his mind. He swallows and leans closer still, his face mere inches away from Hob’s. Hob ceases breathing as a perfect, pale hand snakes upward at a glacial pace, coming to rest on his stubbled cheek. It’s smooth and cool, and Hob’s eyes drift shut as he leans into the touch. Then, impossibly soft lips are brushing against his own, and Hob lets out a muffled sob as one hand flies to Dream’s waist, the other gripping the back of his neck and pulling him closer.

Dream’s tongue probes gingerly into Hob’s open mouth, and lightning sparkles behind his eyelids. His heartbeat is a rolling crash of thunder as the clouds finally break—kissing Dream is like the first rain after centuries of drought; cool and sweet and refreshing and vital. Hob didn’t realize how parched he had been for so long, how desolate the desert of his soul, until this. This perfect kiss. It’s soft and slow and tastes like chocolate and red wine, and this—this may be what finally does Hob in after all these years.

Or it could just be that he hasn’t taken a breath in almost a full minute.

He pulls back, gasping and panting as he rests his forehead against Dream’s. Words fail him—a rare occurrence for Hob—and all he can do is grin stupidly at his friend.

“You,” Dream answers finally. “I want you, Hob.”

Hob lets out a wet, trembling laugh. “You’ve got me, Dream,” Hob whispers. “You’ve always had me.”

Dream surges forward to kiss him again, bolder and more eager this time, and Hob allows himself get swept away in the deluge. He could stay like this for hours—forever, even—and a needy whine escapes him when Dream pulls away again and surveys him with a smoldering gaze.

“Take me to bed, Hob,” he purrs.

“Oh, darling, absolutely,” Hob replies, scrambling up from the sofa and taking Dream’s hand to lead him to the bedroom. Then he freezes, struck by a sudden thought. “Er, quick question first. Is this really—I mean, am I awake right now, or…?”

Dream’s red, kiss-swollen lips twist into a fond smirk. “You are awake, Hob. But would it make any difference if you were not?”

“No,” Hob chuckles. “No, I s’pose it wouldn’t.”

Minutes later, they are entangled on Hob’s unmade bed, exploring each other hungrily with hands and lips and tongues and teeth. Hob is naked from the waist up, Dream having torn his shirt from his body with a fierce, otherworldly strength that was so startlingly arousing that Hob can’t even complain about the loss of his favorite button-down.

Dream sinks his delicate fingers into the thick pelt on Hob’s chest, humming approvingly into his mouth as he grinds against Hob’s thigh. Hob can feel his arousal through the soft fabric of his trousers, and he dips his hand beneath the waistband to squeeze the meager flesh of Dream’s arse. Dream goes still and inhales a sharp breath that Hob knows he doesn’t actually need.

“Hey. You alright?” Hob asks, withdrawing his hand and soothing it over Dream’s shoulder. “Sorry. I should have asked first. I know—after what you went through… I get it. We don’t have to keep going, love. Or we can, and you can keep—”

Dream cuts off his nervous babbling with a kiss. “I wish to continue. I trust you, Hob.”

Hob thinks he might explode from the affection that swells in him at those words. He beams at Dream and steals another quick, fervent kiss before peeling off his shirt.

“Look at you,” he breathes, drinking in the vision before him—Dream is utterly flawless. A marble statue come to life with creamy-white skin and elegant collarbones that flow into lithe, graceful shoulders and lean, well-muscled arms. “You’re so fucking beautiful I could cry, Dream,” Hob says raggedly as he runs his hands over smooth plane of Dream’s chest, circling his thumbs reverently around the firm, pink buds of his nipples.

Dream sighs and closes his eyes as he arches into Hob’s caress, dragging his fingers through the wealth of hair on Hob’s chest and continuing downwards, tracing the narrow trail down to the waistband of his trousers and unbuttoning them with nimble fingers.

Hob quickly shuffles out of his trousers and pants, groaning as his erect cock springs free. Dream’s eyes darken, the sky-blue of his irises nearly eclipsed by starry black as he (sweet Christ in heaven) licks his lips. “Hob,” he rumbles, his voice even deeper and silkier than usual. “You are. Exquisite.”

A laugh bubbles up from Hob’s throat unbidden. “Sorry. Sorry, it’s just—hearing that from you is… I mean, I can’t believe this is really happening, it’s like—”

“Hob,” Dream interrupts, raising his eyebrows and lifting his hips emphatically.

“Right. Sorry,” Hob says, bending down to unbutton Dream’s jeans. But just as his hand brushes over the zipper, the trousers vanish, leaving Dream totally nude with Hob’s hand just millimeters away from his flushed, heavy prick. “Someone’s eager,” he smiles, taking him in hand and gently stroking the delicate, velvety flesh. “Gods above, Dream, you have the most gorgeous cock I’ve ever seen.”

It really is lovely—long and slim and rosy, all wreathed in soft black curls. Even his balls are pretty; plump and pert and perfectly round. Hob wriggles down the bed and nuzzles into the hot, solid length, relishing the weight of it on his face. He licks from the base to the tip, laving his tongue over the leaking slit before mouthing his way back down to his balls, sucking on each of them in turn. Above him, Dream breathes heavily and lets out quiet little whimpers. Hob strokes his thighs—he’s so tense, his muscles taut as a bowstring beneath his silken skin.

“Relax, darling,” Hob says, placing a kiss to the bony jut of his pelvis. “I’ve got you. Just let go and enjoy yourself.” He returns to his task of exploring Dream’s cock with his tongue, and Dream takes a long, quivering breath, loosening a fraction as he exhales. Hob can’t help but feel a bit smug at the knowledge that he’s gotten Dream so worked up he’s apparently forgotten he doesn’t need to breathe. “That’s it, love. Let me take care of you.”

He takes Dream’s bollocks into his mouth again, then moves lower to give a tentative lick to his hole. Dream gasps and startles at that, and Hob hears a choked-off “ah!” somewhere above his head.

Hmm, interesting.

Hob raises his head to see Dream looking down at him in wonder, mouth agape and eyes glazed. His cheeks are flushed a deep rose, and glistening drops of pre-cum decorate the alabaster plane of his abdomen. Hob smiles up at him, tracing a finger around the tight, twitching furl of muscle. “Has anyone ever touched you here before?” he murmurs.

“No,” Dream replies in a trembling whisper.

“May I?” Hob asks gently?

“Please,” Dream sighs, and Hob nearly comes untouched on the spot.

He slides a pillow under Dream’s hips and pushes his thighs upwards, gliding his hands along the smooth white flesh and trailing light kisses down to his spread arse cheeks. “Gonna make you feel so good, love. Just promise you’ll tell me to stop if I do anything you don’t like, alright?”

He glances up to see Dream nodding frantically, his eyes wide and black and glittering. “Yes. I trust you, Hob,” he says again.

Hob grins before diving in and licking a stripe from his entrance to his bollocks and back down, circling his tongue around the rim and nibbling at the tender pucker of milky skin. Dream moans and keens beautifully as Hob thoroughly slicks his hole with saliva, slurping and suckling and reveling in the sensation of Dream’s hairless, baby-soft flesh against his cheeks and chin. He dips his tongue inside, and Dream wails while Hob hums and groans enthusiastically. Dream is hot inside, and he tastes of petrichor and electricity and something Hob can’t identify but that he knows down to the very foundations of his soul (dreams, his mind supplies. He tastes like dreams).

“Hob!” Dream gasps, his voice rough and rasping. “Please—please—!”

Hob works his tongue in deeper, then pulls back and jabs it in again and again, until Dream is mewling and sobbing and writhing in ecstasy. He thinks he doesn’t want? I could teach him to want. Eat him out for hours until he’s sobbing and begging to come.

Just as the vision materializes in his head, Dream howls and clenches around Hob’s tongue. “Yes! Yes, Hob, please please please—I want—ahh!”

Hob has long suspected that his old friend could read his mind, and this all but confirms it. He shivers as he realizes the potential there—the possibilities are, well, endless. Hob withdraws his tongue and glances up, only to be met with the most beautiful sight he’s ever witnessed: Dream, red-faced and panting, his chest heaving, his lovely prick rock hard and leaking steadily against his porcelain stomach.

“Look at you. So bloody gorgeous,” Hob says hoarsely. “How are you feeling, darling? Good?” Dream nods, and Hob smiles and nuzzles against the back of his thigh. “Be a dear and grab the lube? It’s just in the top drawer there.” He tilts his head in the direction of the nightstand and Dream twists around to procure the half-empty pump bottle.

“It is not necessary,” Dream mumbles once he’s remembered to catch his breath, though he nonetheless hands the bottle over. “You cannot hurt me.”

“I know,” Hob replies lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “All the same, I’d prefer not to risk it. Indulge me.”

Dream’s lip quirks and he huffs a tiny laugh before settling back onto the pillows, graciously allowing Hob to continue. Of course he’d be a pillow princess, Hob thinks fondly as he squirts a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, spreading it over Dream’s puffy, fluttering hole. He works a finger inside slowly, and Dream makes the sweetest little noises as Hob strokes his tight, satiny walls and brings his other hand to Dream’s throbbing cock. Dream moans and arches upward into his hand, sighing in relief as the tension begins to bleed from his body.

“That’s it, darling. You’re doing so well. Just let go,” Hob coos. He adds a second finger and finds Dream’s prostate, brushing over it teasingly on every other thrust. “You feel so bloody good inside. Would love to fuck you sometime. Want you to fuck me, too. I could ride that beautiful cock of yours all day. Would you like that, love?”

“Yes—Hob—anything—please!” Dream cries breathlessly, grinding down wantonly on Hob’s fingers.

“Mm, we’ll work up to that. Right now I’d like to get my mouth on you, and you’re not going to last much longer, are you sweetheart?”

“I can—” Dream begins what would no doubt have been a devastating retort, but it tapers off into a high, quavering whine as Hob lowers his mouth to his cock, sinking down in a slow glide until he can feel the bulbous head in the back of his throat, trickling a warm rivulet of pre-come. He swallows, and Dream’s hands fly to his hair, gripping tightly as he starts fucking furiously into Hob’s mouth. Hob groans and ruts his own aching cock against the mattress as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of Dream’s slick, clutching entrance. It’s raw and rough and animalistic, and Hob is more than happy to let Dream use him however he pleases right now; he might come just from this.

With no warning save for a guttural growl and a stutter of his hips, Dream comes down Hob’s throat in thick, hot spurts. He shudders and gasps, tugging roughly on Hob’s hair before abruptly going limp and boneless. Hob swallows down the last drops of spend and slowly pulls his mouth and fingers away, panting raggedly.

He crawls up the bed to wrap Dream in his arms, pressing gentle kisses to his neck and shoulders. “You did so well, love,” Hob whispers proudly. “So beautiful when you let go like that.”

Dream hums and grinds languidly against Hob’s still-hard prick where it rests between the cleft of his arse. He wriggles around in Hob’s hold and captures his mouth in a deep, desperate kiss. He trails his lips along Hob’s jaw, down his neck and chest, steadily traveling southward until he is face to face with Hob’s cock. It’s a bit shorter than Dream’s, albeit thicker, and darker-toned; not as pretty, in Hob’s opinion, though Dream would appear to disagree—he’s practically got hearts in his eyes as he glides his cheek along the hefty, engorged length. He glances hesitantly up at Hob through his thick lashes, looking almost shy.

“You don’t have to, love,” Hob smiles down at him, running his fingers through Dream’s downy, soot-dark hair. “I just wanted to make you feel good, is all.”

“Indeed?” Dream smirks. “I thought that you were teaching me to indulge. So. Won’t you indulge me?”

Hob lets out a delighted laugh. “Well, suppose I can’t argue with that.”

Dream makes a noise of agreement, then swiftly takes Hob’s cock into his mouth, swallowing him to the root in the blink of an eye. Hob gasps at the sudden velvety warmth enveloping his prick, and his hips jerk involuntarily. Dream stills him with surprisingly strong hands, pinning him down and bobbing his head in quick, fluid motions. Dream’s mouth is… fucking sublime. Christ’s bloody wounds, he’s good at this. Hob brings his hands to Dream’s hair, not pulling but stroking and kneading his scalp. Dream rumbles in approval, his deep moans vibrating through Hob’s cock, and Hob throws his head back against the pillows.

“Not gonna last,” he grunts in warning.

Dream only takes him deeper, hollowing out his cheeks and slurping hungrily as he bobs his head faster. Hob looks down to see Dream gazing up at him with a blissfully dazed expression, his forget-me-not blue eyes glassy and his cheeks streaked with tears. Hob is hit with a flash of deja vu; he’s fantasized about exactly this on many a lonely night over the centuries, though his imaginings never came close to the divine, earth-shattering perfection that is Dream’s mouth. He comes with a choked sob, flooding Dream’s mouth with a torrent of spend, and Dream’s eyes flutter shut as he swallows it down eagerly.

“I love you—!” The words escape unbidden in a breathless whisper, dragged forth from somewhere deep within the core of Hob’s being, unable to be contained any longer after being left unsaid for over 600 years. Hob doesn’t realize what he’s said until Dream freezes, tightening his grasp on Hob’s hips and digging his sharp fingernails into his flesh. Then, he’s crawling up Hob’s body like a tiger pinning its prey, steely eyes boring straight into his soul.

Fuck. Of course, had to go and fuck it all up, didn’t you?

“You mean that,” Dream intones, low and sonorous. It is not a question.

“Yes,” Hob replies softly, his voice wavering as he braces himself for the inevitable swirl of sand as Dream disappears.

Instead, Dream swoops down and captures Hob’s mouth in a savage, frenzied kiss, growling and digging his fingers possessively into Hob’s ribcage. He claims him with kisses and bites and scratches and bruises, descending on Hob like a starving man on a feast, and Hob is only too pleased to let Dream glut himself on him. Dream could devour him whole, if that would make him happy.

Once he has thoroughly left his mark, Dream runs his eyes over Hob’s body in apparent satisfaction before nestling into his side and draping himself over his chest. “I think,” Dream says, curling a tuft of chest hair around his long pale fingers, “that I feel the same. About you.” He buries his face in Hob’s neck, and Hob pulls him into a crushing embrace, beaming as he plants a kiss to the top of his head.

“So,” Hob laughs through joyous tears, “would you still say you’re just existing? Because I think we did a lot of living today.”

Dream huffs into his shoulder. “You make a convincing argument,” he concedes, his voice muffled. Then he raises his head to look at Hob, his eyes shining with amusement. “However, I believe I will need more evidence before I can draw an accurate conclusion.”

“Oh, just you wait, darling,” Hob grins. “I happen to be an expert on living, and I’m going to show you all the little things that make it worthwhile.”

Dream’s smile fades slightly at that. Hob brings a hand to his cheek, tilting Dream’s chin up and meeting him in a tender kiss. “Hey,” he whispers. “D’you want to tell me what’s been going on? It’s just… Clearly, something’s bothering you, love. And if there’s any way I can help… You know I’d do anything for you, Dream.”

“You have helped. More than you realize. And… I will tell you what has happened. What I have done. Not today, but… I will tell you. Though you may come to hate me for it,” Dream sighs heavily.

“I could never hate you,” Hob replies automatically. Because it’s true; he’d fallen arse over teakettle for Dream when he thought he was the actual devil. “Whatever happened, we’ll sort it out, eh?”

Dream simply stares at him for a long moment before speaking again. “What do you think happens to a character when their story has finished being told?”

“Er—” Hob doesn’t know what he was expecting Dream to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. Dream has him fixed with a piercing gaze, obviously awaiting a well-thought-out answer. “Well… I guess that’s up to the character do decide, isn’t it? Once the story is over, they’re free to do what they want, I suppose.” He shrugs. This discussion is far too deep for pillow talk.

Dream frowns, furrowing his brows as he considers. “I believe there is some merit to your words,” he pronounces thoughtfully. “I have long believed that I have no story of my own. Perhaps I am wrong.”

“Maybe you’re just in the wrong story,” Hob yawns. He’s honestly lost the thread a bit by this point, and he’s not entirely sure what they were talking about to begin with. But that feels like the right thing to say, and Dream evidently agrees as he rests his cheek on Hob’s chest, just over his heart.

“Perhaps,” Dream murmurs, almost inaudibly.

“Like I said,” Hob says, stroking lightly down his back. “We’ll sort it out.” He yawns again, then winces at the strain on his sore jaw. “Tomorrow, though. Because I am absolutely knackered, darling.”

Dream hums, burrowing contently into Hob’s hold. “Yes. Sleep, beloved. And dream of me.”

Hob chuckles drowsily. “I always do.”

✨✨✨

Thanks for reading! Reblogs, as well as kudos and comments on ao3 are always appreciated! 💗💗💗

[moltensmusings]

One of my biggest annoyances when it comes to people who don't like fjorester is that they try and invalidate everything that happened between them by saying it wasn't romantic and that Ca/eb and jester had better chemistry or that she was forced into liking fjord. And in lesser cases that fjord was harassed into liking jester. They completely ignore character arcs.

Jester stopped outright flirting with fjord upon realizing he wasn't into it. She started to focus on herself at that point and understand that so much of her world view was wrapped up in romance.

Fjord noticed jester once she stopped trying to get with him because it allowed her to exist as a normal person and a friend first which then meant he could see all the qualities of her he'd come to love.

They were friends with similar understandings of loneliness who met before they met the rest of the group and built a bond on trust, joy, honesty, and support.

Jester was the first to see through fjords disguise and actually appreciate him for a side of himself he was still hiding. Something he needed regardless of what form. And Fjord was there to both be kind but also firm when needed for her to understand when she was overstepping. She pushed him when he needed it and he was there to support her and remind her of herself when she was putting herself last to self destructive degrees.

People use him telling Marion that he'd protect her as a way of him not trusting her to handle herself or babying her when fjord knows full well how capable she is of handling herself. But he also knows she will do almost anything to help people and sometimes needs someone to yank her back from the ledge. There's also the need to realize that part of him saying he'd protect her was a way of giving Marion security in some way of her daughter being fine. Think about it from a mother perspective: your child's friend saying she can take care of herself is a lot less calming than one who says they'll watch out for her.

Ca/eb and jester might have been cute in theory but Ca/eb himself is the one deciding it wouldn't work because he's aware he wouldn't be able to give jester what she wanted and needed. Fjord was offering her her dreams and happiness to go along with it. Ca/eb's future was vastly different from what jester wanted. And their future together would've required one or both of them to alter themselves to make it work. They both ended in plot lines that worked magnificently for their characters and invalidating that because you don't like their canon relationships just means you don't understand their characters.

You're allowed to be upset your ship didn't become canon, but it doesn't mean it was a bad narrative choice or a character assassination for them to end how they did. The players choose their endings. There are so many subtle and large moments of fjorester interacting and indicating their feelings for each other. If you ignore them to paint your narrative that's on you, not the players or the fandom.

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

alcoholism fairies and bad decisions

drunk dean calls to tell cas they're going to end up together. eventually. wc: 2k

"Hi, hic , Cas."

Castiel, on his end of the call, puts his mug down on the counter. Icy cold coffee, with froth on the top. If Dean hadn't called him out of the blue, he would probably have sent him a picture of it in guise of documentation - or, well, to get him to tell him how much he wished to be there and drink it with him. If Dean hadn't called him drunk, he would at least have asked him to wait until he took a picture, with the froth all perfect and frothy. 

Given the circumstances, however, he sits down, and nets his eyebrows in a frown. 

"Dean? You okay?" 

Drunk calls weren't that rare, but they were usually pre-planned. Or at least, you know, he’s aware Dean’s drinking when it happens. 

"Oh!" Dean says, voice too bright and too loud. It’s like he’s somewhere that’s making it echo. "Of course. I'm drunk." 

"I can tell." Cas rolls his eyes, for absolutely no one's benefit. His coffee grows warmer, untouched. "Where are you?"

A hum resounds. "So - it's not my room. I can tell that much." 

"What the -” Cas swears under his breath. “Who're you with?" 

"Friends." Dean says, dismissively. "I'm safe, it's all safe. Familiar faces. I just came away for a bit because I wanted to talk to you." 

At that, Cas finally lightens. Stirs his cup (still admiring). "Uh-huh?" 

Friends wouldn't be enough to describe what they were. And yet - it was what either of them would've said. Rather, convinced themselves to say. 

They were the video-call-at-three-am, watch-the-worst-movie-known-to-man, a-football- match-just-afterwards-where-they-root-for-the-wrong-team and go-to-bed-consoling-each-other kinda friends. The kind who had nothing in common - from colleges, to friends, to hopes and dreams - but still let themselves be strung along for the ride and stuck together for whatever it counts. Texting day-in, day-out - with any excuse to think of the other person kinda friends. And the kind who didn't even get weird about girlfriends and boyfriends - which, well, both had, respectively - because they knew nothing would ever change what they had - and nothing could ever come close. 

At one point, they'd come close to dating. At two different points, they'd had larger-than-life cruhes on each other. And now? Now they just danced this familiar dance around each othis, toeing blurry lines - hands-tied behind their backs at risk of twirling too close and falling indubitably into each othis's arms.  

Oh, and they lived half a country apart. Thise was also that. 

"Uh-huh." Dean repeats, definitively. Then, more distracted, "Cas, the whiskey today, I swear to god . I should go get more." 

"You sound pretty whiskey-ed already, just FYI." 

"And you sound jealous." 

"Dude, I have coffee. The Castiel-Novak special, with the expensive kind of cream and all that schtick, because Gabriel just visited." He smirks. "I do not want to be drinking evil-tasting liquid hellfire right now, thankyouverymuch ." 

"Jea-lous." He sings, and Cas scoffs. 

Dean hiccups again, almost like he'd forgotten he was having hiccups for a while, and then remembered again, now that there was a lull in the conversation. 

"Oh, boy." 

"Dean, you okay?" Cas raises his eyebrows, repeating himself. Something sounded different about that oh boy. Not very average-drunk Dean, no, it wasn't. Cas is more or less a connoisseur by now. And he prides himself on it.

"I think so." 

"How do you feel now?" He asks, bordering the line of concerned again.

"Strangely happy." 

There's obviously a smile in his voice when he says it. Cas smiles too. "Oh. Why?" 

"'Cause I figured something out today, Cas." Dean didn't pause for questions, went on rambling. "Realized we're going to end up together. It’s final. And it's a strangely happy thought." Before Cas could say a thing, "Uh, I guess thoughts can't be happy. Or unhappy. The thought made me happy. Or not unhappy. Yeah, that makes more sense. I think." 

Cas just blinks. A warm feeling starts spreading in his chest that he doesn't exactly know how to define. Or, worse, confine . "How'd you figure that out?" 

Another smile in his voice, and this time, Cas can picture exactly what he looks like. Knowing, crinkled eyes, lips curled, head just a little bit quirked. (They'd only met once - a whopping 10-hour first-’non-date’-date that'd been, story for another time - but they'd been through enough movie nights at this point for him to know his I-know-what-happens-and-you-don't look.) "I'm not going to tell you." 

"Wh—"

"Because, you're not drunk . So you won't get it." 

"So the fairies of alcoholism and bad decisions deigned this upon you, did they?" 

"Maybe." He draws out the vowels. "Point is, I know it's true. End up together, you, me. Eventually. Boom." 

"Is that the sound of us having sex?" Cas snorts. The warmth has concentrated in his stomach, making it feel fluttery. He doesn't want to dwell on it too much - because he's so clearly drunk, and he has Jimmy - and things are not even that bad with him right now, really - but. But it’s not like he’s ever known how to not feel things when it comes to this dumbass. 

"I know you think you're kidding," Dean interrupts him, seriously. "But you're not that far from the truth. Keep seeking it."

"The truth of the sound of us — okay. Slightly too much alcohol for you, Dean." 

"Mmm-hm." Dean hums again. "Wait and watch." 

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Cas mumbles, out of habit. 

He knows this isn't exactly a normal conversation for them to be having - but he also can't say that it isn't something that has crossed his mind in the past. 

All that chemistry - all those times he’s been complaining about something and he’s known just the right thing to say, or do, or be - and then there was that one time that they met. Cas still can’t get it out of his head. He’s always had a good memory - but this is a different level of good. Maybe it’s not entirely normal to remember what it felt like to hug his friend at the train station before he left. How they fit just right against all of you. Only maybe. 

But then, it’s also impossible, right? They live hours away - and are certainly both the clingy, affectionate kind of fools who may think they can ace long-distance-relationships but are doomed from the beginning. Of course they are. Plus, he knows Dean has a girlfriend. And he has Jimmy. So yeah, things are fine right now - they’re safe, they’re innocent, okay, they’re half-innocent , half-kidding-themselves, but they’re safe and nothing is fucking them up right now. Because Cas, well, he can’t stand to lose his. 

It doesn’t matter how easy it’d be to remove Dean from his life tangibly since he’s barely there at all, outside of one of his top three chats on WA at all times, and the ever-so-occasional co-movie-marathoner — none of that matters, except from the fact, that two years into this strange friendship, and he’s forgotten what life was like, before. But in a good way. In a healthy, he-gets-him, matching-wavelengths-of-weird, tries-to-make-him-a-better-person-sometimes kind of way. 

So yeah, he can’t say the thought of a relationship hasn’t crossed his mind. He can’t even say that it’s ever really stopped crossing his mind. But Cas can’t have nice things, can he?  

"It's an omen ." 

Cas sighs. "You're so weird." 

"You love me." Dean justifies, as if somehow that makes him weirder than him. It might, but Cas doesn't want to think about that right now. 

"And you're a massive simp - as long as we're just stating facts." 

"I am." Dean sings, again. He sounds a lot mellower now. Tuckered-out would be the word, if he wasn’t all of twenty one. He sounded ready to drift off to sleep, like that forecast had tired him out entirely. A classic drunk-Dean move, Cas rolled his eyes. "And you love me." 

"Yeah, I do." He admits, a little quieter and is encouraged by another mmm-hm . 

"Okay. I love you too." Scuffling sounds, as if he's getting up. Something clutters and falls, sounding queerly like stationery. So he's not outside, then . Probably in, like, a closet or something. The sound of a knob follows, and then, when he speaks, it's a lot less echo-y — with the contrast, Cas can definitely pin it to the previous place being a closet. "I'm going to go back to my friends. Amara's here too, uh, I'm definitely being rude." 

(The girlfriend. Not an altogether bad person but severely, severely undeserving of him. 

Dean had to know that too.)

"It's fine. You’ll make it up to them." Cas consoles, trying to avoid the strange hollowness in his gut at the mental image of him cosying up next to Amara, drunk, trying to make it up to her - okay, that’s never come up before. 

(Not in this magnitude, at least.)

"Yeah, I will." he laughs. "G'night, buddy." 

"Yep." Only a little miffed, Cas repeats it. "G'night." 

"Don't forget, okay?" 

Cas knew he'd be lucky if Dean didn't forget this entire conversation in the morning. But he didn't want to push the conversation any longer and make it weird - for him, or for Amara . "I'll try not to, but not making any promises." Dean makes a sound of affectionate disapproval, and then there's the familiar holler in the backdrop, of a group of ‘friends’ - rewelcoming his to their midst. 

And that's that, for the night. 

Cas stares at his coffee, now almost irritatingly room-temperature-d. Finishes it off in a gulp, while staring at his phone for good measure. Maybe the fairies of caffeinism and moderately-okay decisions would grace him with a visit, but it didn't seem very likely. Dean also doesn’t text for the majority of the night, except a view-once image of Amara's roommate licking a beer bottle (he’s made generally unfunny jokes about setting Cas up with the roommate in the past, probably playing off of that) and Cas replies righteously with eggplant emojis. He then sends a goodnight, at like six am, when Cas has already worn himself out with thoughts - and their annoying brethren, feelings - and passed out on his own couch. 

Many years later - many Amara's and Jimmy's, moving-apart’s and mildly-closer’s, more degrees and a few salaries later - it happens. 

(Of course, it does.)

Dean claims to have known all along. Sunday morning, breakfast-ing in bed with bread-and-jam and Castiel-Novak-specials, Dean solemnly swears he’d seen it coming. Not that he’d gone out of his way to jeopardize anything else for it, nope, but that he’s always known. “ Seriously .”  

Cas laughs. Turns out, Dean didn't forget everything after all. But he did forget the call - too many inebriated misadventures in one night to recall life-changing conversations, of course - and Cas doesn't think he’ll tell him yet, that he’d known it equally long himself. Not right now , when Dean's half in his arms, Cas is halfways to shirtless, and they’re half a minute away from carefully sliding the plates and novelty mugs away to commence a different, but equally compelling Sunday-morning ritual altogether. And not when he’s this thrilled to be acting like a prophesier, an unbearable, inevitable all-knower, and the apparently- destined love of his life. 

Maybe, maybe some other time. 

[hintsofhoney]

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Pairing(s): Dean Winchester x Castiel

Summary: Dean takes Cas out to a ballgame. The Kiss Cam shows them no mercy.

Tags: 16+, baseball game, kissing, fuffy fluff fluff

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Inspired by a TikTok I saw. Beta’d by my angels @wayward-dreamer and @makeadealwithdean. That pretty much covers it.

You can also read me on Ao3!

DESTIEL MASTERLIST | SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Having Cas back didn’t feel real. Losing him hadn’t felt real either, but Dean never had to remind himself that he was gone when he had been in the empty — now he had to pinch himself every five minutes to make sure that Cas wasn’t a hallucination. Now it didn’t feel real in a good way, instead of not feeling real in a drinking-himself-into-oblivion-on-the-library-floor way. 

What Cas had confessed that night almost a year ago still hasn’t been talked about. Dean didn’t know how to bring it up. He didn’t know how to tell the angel that all he’d been wanting to do since Jack brought him back was kiss him stupid and never let him out of his sight again. So, Dean opts for dates, because he’s not good with his words. Besides, isn’t Cas supposed to be able to read his mind anyway? 

Dean doesn’t call them dates — not out loud, anyway — but they’re all intricately planned out with the intention to introduce Cas to all the behind-the-scenes things that Dean loves while also teaching him how to have fun the human way. Dean’s got interests besides hunting monsters, you know. And that wasn’t even an itch he was tempted to scratch anymore. Not since they got Cas back. 

The first not-date was a trip to the ice cream shop in town. Dean got chocolate chip and Cas got strawberry, and they sat outside and talked about all the things Cas had missed in the six months that he’d been gone. The second was mini-golf, where Cas had asked if it was “the game that Claire beat you in?” to which Dean had to deny even though he knew Cas knew he was lying through his teeth — he had watched Claire text him the score card that night. A week after mini-golf was a movie night, where Cas didn’t complain once about Dean making him watch Tombstone again. The fourth not-date was at Dean’s favorite burger joint, where he happily listened to Cas chastise him about how bad greasy food was for your cholesterol, because it was Cas sitting across from him and not the empty seat he had gotten used to for half a year. 

Today is not-date number five, and it’s the one Dean is most excited about. Admittedly, it‘s been years since he’s been to a baseball game. He went to a few after Adam had admitted that John had taken him to one when he was a kid, maybe to prove to himself that he didn’t need his dad to make childhood dreams come true, or maybe because he had been hoping that his dad could see him somehow, happy without him. Either way, he ended up enjoying it quite thoroughly. The environment more so than the game, and the food more so than the environment — but he’s excited to introduce Cas to it all. Cas, on the other hand, hasn’t got a clue as to why humans are so interested in watching people hit balls with bats and run around in circles — but he’s happy to be wherever Dean is.

“Here you go, buddy,” Dean grunts as he takes a seat next to the angel, handing him a hot dog while he places his nachos in his lap. 

“Thank you,” Cas replies, staring at the food. He had made the mistake of telling Dean that his burgers had tasted good a few days after he was brought back, when in reality he was just being nice and everything still tasted like molecules. He didn’t have the heart to tell Dean otherwise, though. Not when he was so excited to introduce Cas to so many new foods. 

“Alright,” Dean begins, mouth full of nachos, “that’s home base.” He points to a white plate on the field, and Cas has to squint to make out which one he’s referring to. “The one closest to us,” Dean explains, noticing Cas’s confusion. “And then going counter-clockwise, it’s first base, second base, and third base. You get points by…”

By the end of Dean’s explanation, Cas is certain he could go out there and play the game himself. “I think I understand,” he states. “So when does it begin?”

Dean snorted a laugh, nearly choking on his beer. “Dude, it’s been going for like an hour.”

“Oh. It isn’t very exciting, then.”

“It never is until the end.”

It’s the end of the sixth inning, and Cas feels like he’s never sat through anything longer in his life. He supposes it is getting slightly more exciting, as the scores are close and the crowd is starting to care more, but he still doesn’t understand why people willingly sit through this. Not that he minds — as long as Dean is happy. Right now they’re playing the latest pop song and showing audience members dancing on the jumbo screen hanging above the field, and Dean laughs at a little boy who couldn’t be more than ten doing a dance called “flossing”. Cas only knows what it’s called because Jack was very proud of himself when he learned it, and attempted to teach everyone in the bunker — unsuccessfully.

“Remember when Jack —”

“Almost had me dislocate my hip trying to learn that shit? Yeah. I had to hear about it from Sam for fuckin’ weeks.” 

“I thought it was very nice of you to indulge him, Dean. I never took you for the dancing type.”

Dean tries to hide the blush creeping up in his cheeks from the compliment. “Yeah, well, if I wasn’t before, I’m definitely not now. Hip’s still sore.” 

Cas smiles and looks back up to the screen, surprised to see two crowd members kissing. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Kiss cam?” he reads the hot pink font at the bottom of the screen. 

Dean looks up from his second helping of nachos. “Oh, yeah. Kiss cam,” he repeats, as if that explains everything. Cas blinks at him. He sighs. “When the camera lands on you, you’re supposed to kiss. It’s like a staple baseball game thing. Spreading the love or whatever.”

“And what if the person you are seated next to is not a significant other?”

“Then it’s really awkward,” Dean chuckles, trying to imagine what he’d do if the kiss cam landed on him and Cas. Not that he was hoping for it or anything, but maybe it’d be his chance to —

“Oh, yes,” Cas interrupts his thoughts. “I suppose this is awkward.”

Dean’s mortified. He blinks a few times, making sure that it’s really his face up there next to Cas’s. There’s no mistaking the lumberjack flannel and tan trench coat staring back at him, and he’s not sure what to do. Of course he wants to kiss Cas. But here? Now? His throat is dry as he looks over to the angel and laughs awkwardly, his hand waving off the camera — no, fuck, why is he doing that? He should kiss him — he should grab Cas by the collar and fucking kiss him because this is the perfect excuse. But he’s too slow, and the camera moves on. 

They sit in silence for a few moments, Dean glancing at Cas, Cas intently watching the screen. Maybe if he watched it hard enough the camera would come back to them. Maybe Cas could finally finish what he had started to say all those months ago, before he was taken. Maybe he could finally do what he wanted to do that night. Maybe —

Now his throat is dry as he sees himself on the screen again. His eyes grow wide as he looks over to Dean, who’s staring at the jumbotron with his mouth slightly agape.

Dean risks a side-eye over at Cas. He can hear the crowd chanting “kiss, kiss, kiss”, although everything is muffled. He turns his head, and fully looks at Cas, who seems expectant, almost. Okay, so he’s cool with Dean kissing him. Is he cool with Dean kissing him? Don’t overthink it, you moron.

Cas licks his lips instinctively, because God, Dean’s right there. But he can’t bring himself to do it. Does Dean even want this? 

The camera moves on again. They’re brought back to reality by the disappointed groans from the crowd. Dean’s red in the face, scratching his neck awkwardly. Cas looks back to the screen, because he doesn’t know where else to look. Dean follows his lead and then — shit — there’s his face again. 

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” 

It’s loud in his ears now, and he pushes every last doubt to the back of his mind as he turns to face Cas. He asks what he needs to with a tilt of his head, and Cas replies with a nod, and then Dean’s reaching for the collar of his trenchcoat and pulling him forward, and he’s finally kissing him the way he’s wanted to for months. For years, really. 

Cas’s hands come to cup Dean’s face, and the crowd is going crazy, reminding the two of them that they are, in fact, being watched by thousands of people. Millions, probably, if the people watching at home count. And the best part of it all is that Dean doesn’t care. He doesn’t care who’s watching, because he’s kissing the man he loves and Cas’s lips are soft and Dean’s nerves are gone and everything feels right. 

They don’t stay for the seventh inning.

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[samsexualdeancurious]

The Sight of Stars (Makes Me Want to Dream)

Pairing: Technically none but I'm calling Sam x Castiel cos I wrote it and therefore I can 😤

Words: 1,027

Summary: Castiel returns from a year-long journey into the depths of Hell with precious cargo in tow.

Warnings: The Cage, mentions of torture

A/N: This is just a lil something expanding on an idea @wendibird had, also betaed by her 🥰️ This isn't very Christmas-y but I love it and Sam coming back from the dead is always a gift

---

Castiel’s wings burn with each upward push but he doesn’t slow down. He did not come this far, spend this long wandering the depths of Hell, only to fail when he finally has what he came for cradled against his chest.

His true form burns bright in the darkness of Hell and he knows it draws attention. He roars with his lion head even as his gazelle head swivels, noting the dark eyes peering at him from the shadows and darker forms lunge at him. Their screeches fill the air. Their claws leave Grace-bright marks on his body and tear feathers from his wings but he pushes on. His blade flashes around him and Demons fall away, vanishing into the depths of the Pit below.

Faintly, he thinks he can hear Lucifer screaming.

Castiel seems to fly forever and yet for no time at all, the strangeness of Hell twisted around him. A sliver of doubt is creeping into the corner of his mind when he sees it at last - a light, just a glimmer, that belongs in this darkness just as much as he does. Demons reach out, desperate to keep him. Fire licks and catches on his feathers. Castiel pushes himself farther, faster. Just a little more. Almost there -

Cool night air washes over his face as he slots back into the Earthly plane and the vessel he left waiting for him. He feels the gate of Hell close behind him as his knees buckle and Castiel tumbles into the grass, Sam Winchester still cradled in his arms.

--

Sam wakes with cool air in his lungs, grass beneath his body, and a vast expanse of stars above him.

He blinks up at the stars. Lucifer has made illusions with stars, of course, but never so many and besides, they always felt… wrong. Like a sky much younger than the one Sam is accustomed to. The one he’s looking at right now.

He breathes deeply and tastes sweet night air. Fresh, in a way not even Lucifer has proven himself capable of so far. Perhaps the Devil is improving. Perhaps Michael has a hand in this, though Sam strongly doubts that. The two are united in their hatred of him and that alone but Michael has never participated in Lucifer's games before.

A breeze stirs his hair and Sam soaks it in. He wants to enjoy every moment of this new trick while it remains peaceful.

"Sam."

Hm. That's a new one. Dean, Lucifer has conjured plenty of times. Enough that Sam almost feels immune. Almost. But Castiel? Never. Lucifer really is upping his game, then.

"Samuel."

Sam doesn't look. Being ignored will just piss Lucifer off but Sam wants to look at the stars and pretend he doesn't hurt to his very core.

His head is pillowed on an arm, he realizes. It moves now. Adjusts. Then a hand presses against his forehead and Grace washes through him.

Sam gasps, and his spine arches off the grass as panic rises in his chest and threatens to swallow him whole. But this Grace… it tastes different, on the back of his tongue. Unfamiliar and yet, very familiar. Not ice and fear. Not ash and flame. This is sweet. A warm spring rain, cleansing and gentle right down to his soul. He knows intrinsically that there are things wrong with him that not even an Angel can heal but the relief still leaves him breathless.

Castiel.

Sam looks, finally, and finds blue eyes watching him with concern. They soften when they meet his.

"There you are," Castiel murmurs.

Sam's gaze shifts beyond him at a movement over Cas’s shoulder and his brow furrows. Huge wings rise up from Castiel’s back. Tattered and charred, smoke rising from the feathers still, and still beautiful in a way that is beyond this plane of existence. The feathers are inky black and seem to mirror the stars above them. They flutter and one curves over Sam, like Cas is trying to protect him. When Sam blinks, though, all he sees is the stillness of the night sky.

"Castiel," Sam whispers, turning his gaze back to his friend’s face and God, his voice feels like it hasn't been used in at least a year. "Cas."

"Hello, Sam. It's good to see you."

Confusion and wonder war in Sam's head as he tries to work through what is going on. "How…? Where…?"

"We're in Stull Cemetery," Cas says softly. "Exactly one year from your leap into the Cage."

Sam blinks. "I'm not…?"

"In the Cage? Not anymore. You're safe now. Lucifer cannot touch you again."

The sob that tears itself from Sam's throat is raw and primal. He’s not sure he believes, not yet, but he wants to. He wants nothing more than to be so certain of his own safety. Of his family’s safety.

His brother. Where is his brother? The last thing Sam remembers of Dean is him with a face swollen from Sam’s own fists, kneeling on the grass by the car. Is he here still? How long has it been?

Sam tries to sit up but Cas holds him down. His hand flies up to grip the angel’s wrist. "Dean…?"

"Safe,” Cas assures him. “He was with Bobby last I saw. Though, that was a year ago.”

“A year?” Sam gasps.

“The Cage is deep in Hell. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Cas looks ashamed of himself, even though he fucking saved Sam. Saved him. He’s still processing that one. The warm press of Cas’s hand against his chest helps, skin on skin. A small corner of his mind realizes he’s naked but somehow it’s not important. He’s alive. He’s not in the Cage. It still feels impossible.

“Cas,” he says softly. “Pinch me?”

Cas’s brow furrows but he obediently pinches a spot next to Sam’s tattoo.

“Ow,” Sam hisses, batting his hand away. “Fuck. This is. Fuck.” He lets his head fall back against Cas’s arm. “I’m really out?”

“Yes, Sam.”

Sam manages a small smile, allowing that little spark of hope in his chest to grow. “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas returns the smile. “Happy to help.”

---

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—

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @manawhaat @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @emoryhemsworth @imsuperawkward

[hells-plaid-angel]

In theory, if Cas ever did realise he was in love with Dean pre-deal with The Empty and actually decided to shoot his shot, I’d imagine a string of hilarity and miscommunication would ensue. There’s no way Cas would try to flirt with Dean if he thought it’d be received badly, but every now and again, Dean gives him just enough hope he thinks maybe it’s possible Dean likes him back. 

Say Cas shows up unexpectedly and Dean’s doing their movie night alone since Cas was away,  on some plot-relevant side quest. Cas arrives back unannounced because it’s movie night and what he’s doing can wait a day. Dean’s too thick to realise Cas has come back for him, and royally puts his foot in his mouth by asking why Cas is there, making the angel feel like he shouldn’t be because the course of true love never did run smoothly and when given the opportunity Dean will screw himself over when it comes to affection. 

Cas isn’t sure where they stand and wonders if he should stay and watch the film or leave. After awkwardly standing beside Dean’s armchair, watching the screen for longer than what would be deemed socially acceptable, Dean lets out a huff and says, ‘Just sit down,’ meaning, of course, for Cas to sit beside him in what Dean’s deemed ‘Cas armchair’. Cas takes Dean’s words literally and plonks down on the arm of Dean’s chair, smacking their shoulders together and settling in. 

The thing is, Dean lets him. He might grumble, but he doesn’t get Cas to move. He’s had a long night, having also returned from a hunt hours before and he’s beat. Before Cas knows it, Dean’s face is smooshed up against his shoulder and he’s open-mouthed snoring. Cas still thinks he’s the most beautiful human he’s ever seen and is in awe because Dean’s being vulnerable with him. He knows the man has trouble sleeping, plagued by dreams of Hell and hunts. Cas knows Dean doesn’t sleep with just anyone, even when he has casual sex, he rarely stays long after the act, so Cas looks down at the sleeping man and for the first time he thinks, ‘maybe’. Maybe Dean likes him back. He has no idea what to do with that possibility. He sits there quietly for the rest of the night because Dean’s an angry sleeper (like a bear) and Cas isn’t going to wake him up. 

He decides to tread lightly and toy with the idea of trying to flirt with Dean, without overtly flirting with Dean. He has no idea how to do this. After all his years on earth, there are still a lot of things that confuse him. While he and Dean are on a hunt sometime later, they pull over to a gas station. When Dean’s paying Cas mindlessly flips through the magazine stumbling on some shitty Cosmopolitan article about romance and flirting. They mention one way to show you are interested in someone is by showing curiosity in their likes and dislikes. 

So for the rest of the journey, Cas becomes almost insufferable with questions. He knows Dean’s top 13 favourite Led Zeppelin songs, but is Led Zeppelin Dean’s favourite band? What are Dean’s top 13 favourite bands? What is Dean’s favourite number? Does he have a favourite colour? Why is that his favourite colour? He rattles off questions for the entirety of their 14-hour trip cross country and Dean is confused as hell but decides to humour Cas because he does love talking about bands and movies, plus it’s not like anyone’s ever taken so much of an interest in him. 

Sometime towards the end of the trip, Dean realises he has no clue what Cas’ favourite anything is- do angels even have favourites? Wasn’t that meant to be the whole thing  about angels? All men are created equal and all that. Still, Dean asks. For the most part, Cas doesn’t have answers. He’s not sure who his favourite band is, though he can hesitantly say a few songs he likes better than others. It’s like they discover his favourite things together, unearthing them. Cas says with conviction his favourite colour is green and when Dean asks why he simply says, ‘Because it reminds me of you,’ and moves on. Dean goes silent for a long time after that but Cas is still left thinking that maybe Dean could love him. After all, he showed interest in Cas’ likes and dislikes as the magazine suggested. 

Something Cas learned from Dean’s movies was that humans showed affection through nicknames, strange terms of endearment that reminded them of sugary foods or woodland animals. Dean reminded Cas of neither, so he was unsure what kind of word to use to show his affection. Dean shortened his name. Perhaps this was his way of using a term of endearment, maybe Cas had missed some sign and should have given Dean a nickname of his own.  In the end, he settles for something in his mother tongue, because he’s better at expressing himself in Enochian. 

He uses a word for Dean which is both very intense and oddly specific, something that translates roughly to ‘Evergreen lover, formed of star ash’. Like a golden retriever, after having the stilted cacophony of consonants and vowels thrown in his direction for long enough Dean simply shrugs his shoulders and answers to the name. I’m talking a name that trembles like a sub-bass and causes stray dogs to howl and Dean just looks up of a morning from his bowl of Fruit Loops and goes, ‘oh yeah that’s me. Mornin’ Sunshine’. Bonus points if others around him know exactly what the name means, other angels, demons, maybe even Sam when he gets curious and looks through the bunker’s archives for an Enochian Dictionary. 

After all this, Cas is no closer to working out if Dean harbours affection towards him or not. So after some exasperated brainstorming, Cas decides to meet Dean where he’s at and attempts to express affection the way he knows Dean does. He cooks Dean’s breakfast and makes his coffee every morning because Dean expresses his love through security, caring for others and he especially loves food. It should be noted the bacon is burnt, the egg is raw and the coffee tastes like dishwater, but each morning Dean gives Cas a goofy, lopsided grin and thanks him. He’s grateful, Cas realises but he still has no idea if Dean’s in love with him. 

With his one last-ditch effort, Cas decides to try physical touch. Dean’s a tactile creature. He loves touch. So Cas tries to give it to him. He rests his hand on his shoulder or his side as he walks past Dean. If they are parting ways Cas pulls Dean into a hug. He’s stunned at first, but he lets it happen and even gets used to it after a while, so Cas gets more brazen. He wraps his foot around Dean’s ankle when they sit together at the map table. He pushes his palm into Dean’s when they’re sitting alone in their armchairs for movie night and that’s what finally pushes Dean over the edge. 

“Look man, I know you’re not human and you don’t get how stuff works but you can’t do junk like that. It’ll give people the wrong idea,” Dean would warn because his self-loathing, self-deprecating, still very closeted self would never in a million years dare to let himself think Cas knows what he’s doing.

“And what is the wrong idea?” Cas would ask. 

“You know, dude. That you like me. More than a friend like me,” Dean would explain and Cas would give him the most world-wearied, withering look and  sigh, “That is very much the idea I’ve been trying to get across,” He’d explain. 

And Dean would need about an hour for his brain to stop short-circuiting, long enough for him to reply, 

“Oh.” 

[solitaryearthperson]

Support (sequel to Comfort)

Summary: Waking up from a nightmare and not being able to go back to sleep, Dean heads down to his man-cave. (Y/N) finds him and comforts him.

(The reader uses she/her pronouns and is 18+. The ethnicity is any.)

Again it happened. Another restless night. It was a normal thing for him now, having these nightmares. It started when he was younger back when he officially started hunting, and its continued ever since. He wondered if Sam went through this too. He wondered if his little brother suffered from nightmares almost nightly and like him never said anything. I don't blame him, Dean thought to himself. What good would it do talking about the monsters we hunt in our nightmares? He knew deep down that it wasn't healthy to bottle all of this up, but he didn't know what else to do. He could talk about it but he's made it clear many times that he doesn't want to do any chick-flick moments, and he knows that's what it's gonna lead to.

I'm fine with this, he decided, taking another sip from his beer. After he woke up sweating from his nightmare, he decided that he was gonna go down to his man-cave or as he liked to call it, his "Dean-cave". He sat in an old school recliner facing a TV on the wall, looking at whatever was on. He didn't really care what was on, just as long as something was on. Just as long as there was no silence.

(Y/N) was already up before Dean. Not because of another nightmare, but more because she just couldn't really sleep. The bunker was a large place with many different hallways, and their rooms were somewhat far from each other, so when she heard Dean wake up from his sleep with a small scream all the way from her room, she knew something wasn't right. She waited in bed in silence, wondering about what he was going to do. She didn't want to bother him if he was going through something, but she also wanted to help if she could.

She tiptoed through the hallways, following his footsteps to his "Dean-cave" and waited outside the room, not sure when to exactly come in or to announce her presence.

"I know you're there, (Y/N)," Dean announced, taking a sip from his beer, his eyes not wavering from the TV. "What're you doing up, kid?"

"Nothing," she answered, entering the 'cave' and making her way over to the side of the recliner and leaning against it.

"Another bad dream," he asked looking up at her tiredly.

"No, I just couldn't sleep," she looked up to the TV and frowned. " You're watching a cooking show?"

Confused, Dean looked back to the TV and frowned in disgust before quickly changing the channel to a football game.

"You sure you're fine?" He looked back to her, worry clear in his eyes.

She nodded her head. "Yeah, I am." She hesitated for a second, not sure how to ask her question in a way that won't make him uncomfortable. "Dean, are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I heard you wake up. I heard your scream." He turned his head back to the TV screen and was silent for a while, leaving (Y/N) to awkwardly wait for his response next to him.

After a silent while, he spoke, "Don't worry ' bout me, (Y/N). I'm good, I'm fine."

His voice had a slight tremble to it and she wondered if he knew how it sounded. He kept his focus on the TV, but she could see him swallowing down whatever it was that was eating at him.

"You know I'm here for you, so is Sam and Cas. We're here for you-"

"Yeah, I know. I'm good. I just had a bad dream. That's all."

He took another sip from his bottle and began changing the channels on the TV, the atmosphere in the room suddenly changing and she could feel the sudden shift in the air. She thought back to when she had her nightmare, how Dean told her to just cry it out and not worry about telling him what her nightmare was, and she realized what she should do.

She moved to sit on the arm rest of the recliner and slowly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, gently embracing him and sitting her head next to his. She could feel him tense up for a second before relaxing.

"You don't need to tell me. Just know someone's here for you," she told him.

She could feel him take a deep breath before exhaling loudly and she glanced over at his face to see a tear slowly rolling down his cheek.

"Dean?"

"It's fine," he told her, leaning his head slightly against hers. " It's fine."

[clairenatural]

i had a dream that sam and dean took cas to an art museum and showed him all these paintings of angels and it was like that scene in vincent and the doctor and cas said these paintings are beautiful because they depict the angels as human when a true angel could never be described as anything but monstrous and i woke up crying

anon i love this SO much. i love it so much i had to write it. this is 1.4k, destiel, human!cas

They’re making their way out of the city, monster killed and day saved, when Castiel sees a poster, pasted up on the side of the plywood wall of a construction site. It’s an angel—he doesn’t recognize the artist, but he’d guess late 19th century. Be Not Afraid: a History of Angels in Art, it proclaims, the logo of the city’s largest art gallery tucked into the corner.

Castiel stares at it. The angel on the poster stares back, wings spread and staff raised. Valiant. Something in his heart twitches, but it’s hard to place. He still has his blade, tucked safely into the trunk with the rest of their frequently used weapons, and he never had wings like that; even the shadows, the ones they showed to humans, were simply the closest representation to the real thing possible in this dimension (his back aches anyway, dimly, his human body reacting to the loss as if they were real severed appendages. He ignores it).

Dean notices, because of course he does. He stops, because of course he does, and flags Sam down before his long legs can carry him too far ahead. “Hey. You good?”

Castiel isn’t sure how long he’s been staring at the poster, but it’s long enough that Dean is obviously concerned. “Hm? Oh. Yes, I’m—I’m fine.”

Dean nods but doesn’t move. He considers the poster. “Art gallery, huh?” he asks, avoiding the obvious elephant. Castiel appreciates it. He nods back.

“I’ve never been to one,” he offers, as explanation. It seems odd—he can remember the painting of the Sistine Chapel, he remembers watching with fascination as humans began collecting the smaller paintings into collections and museums, but he’d never been inside one. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Humans collect art in large boxes to remember their history, but Castiel has seen it all.

Dean seems surprised by this. “Seriously?” Castiel nods, and there’s a pause, and he’s about to turn and keep heading towards the car, and Kansas, and home, when Dean claps him on the shoulder and turns to call over his own.

“Sammy! How do you feel about seeing some art?”

“You want to go to an art gallery?” Sam sounds incredulous, and is closer behind him than Cas expected. He hadn’t noticed him retreat the half-block he’d managed to gain on them.

“Yeah, why not? Come on. What happened to ‘a little culture wouldn’t hurt, Dean?’”

"What happened to ‘I’ve got plenty of culture, eat your damn burger?’”

“It’ll be fun, Sam,” Dean counters. Something in his tone has changed. Cas doesn’t think too hard about it.

There’s a long pause, and Cas knows there’s some sort of communication happening he can’t hear or see. “…Okay,” Sam concedes. “Okay, sure. Yeah. Let’s go.”

So they do.

Dean makes a comment about “haven’t been in one of these since I was a kid,” before they all fall into the hushed silence of the museum floor. It’s nice—nicer than Castiel had expected. Not in aesthetics; the building is sleek, and modern, and the art is obviously beautiful. But it’s nice to be there. It feels almost Holy—humans, funny creatures they are, with their habit of treating their own culture with the respect of something divine. Creating houses of worship out of museums and libraries and living rooms. 

He wanders through the various exhibits but doesn’t really pay attention until he ends up in the exhibit from the poster. He’d managed to lose the Winchesters halfway through the photography exhibit, when both the brothers had gotten distracted. Castiel had continued onward anyway, on a mission, and by the time he finds himself walking into the angel exhibit he’s on his own.

He comes to a stop in front of one of the largest paintings in the room. It’s not the same angel as the poster. It’s several, actually, looking over what appears to be Mary and a baby Jesus. The angels are beautiful—smooth, flawless skin. They have long hair that looks soft, even in paint. They’re wearing white robes, and their wings are white and dove-like. None of these angels have several heads, rotating bands of fire, or thousands of eyes. They’re beautiful, but they aren’t angels. The human who painted this didn’t know that, of course—none of them did. Humanity was faced with the concept of divinity and conceptualized it as a version of itself.

“The real things ain’t as cuddly, huh?”

Dean’s voice startles him, which he hates, both because he hates being startled and because he’s still adjusting to Dean being able to sneak up on him.

“I was just thinking,” he starts, pretending he’d known Dean was there the whole time, “you paint us like we’re human.” Not ‘us’ anymore, he reminds himself, but he brushes that thought off. Not now.

Beside him, Dean snorts. “Yeah, well. If you’d told any of those Renaissance guys that the real angels are dickhead balls of celestial intent, they’d’ve arrested you for heresy.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No.” he pauses. “Well, yes. But that’s—” he turns to face Dean for the first time. He notices Sam over Dean’s shoulder, focusing intently on a painting a few feet away and obviously pretending not to listen.

“My father—God—Chuck,” he cycles through, which will never not be weird, “created us first, but not in his image. We weren’t worthy of that. Only you were. Humans, his perfect creation, modeled after their creator. But then—” he turns back to the painting and gestures to it. “You created us in your image. You thought about divinity and you couldn’t conceive anything more Holy than yourselves.”

Dean shifts. He tries for a laugh, but it comes out short. “Well, damn, Cas. Way to make a guy feel self-centered.”

Castiel turns back to him. He blinks. He frowns. That’s not what he means. “Most of my siblings thought so,” he agrees. “But I always thought it was an honor. Look,” He turns again and reaches out for the painting, only remembering a few inches from its surface to not touch it.  “This one has a lyre. You always paint us playing music. But music, art….these are human things, Dean.” He lets his hand fall, but keeps his eyes forward.  “We’re soldiers. They don’t teach us to play the harp in Heaven, they train us to fight. But these angels are…soft. Kind. Angels you trust to protect. The kind of angels people pray to, build churches to.” He looks back at Dean, who is staring at him with a frown. He holds his gaze, steady, and takes a deep breath before finishing. “I wish I was—that any of us were—worthy of being depicted this way. I wish we were the angels you paint us as.”

There’s a long pause while Dean searches his face, obviously trying to decide on the right reaction. If they were at home, Cas thinks Dean might reach out and hug him. Instead, Dean reaches out to clap a hand on his shoulder—he lets it linger there, and Cas knows what it means, so that’s okay, too. “For what it’s worth,” he starts, and his voice is softer than the last time he spoke. “You’re the closest thing to those angels that I’ve ever seen.”

It’s a nice sentiment, but Cas smiles sadly as he turns back to the painting. “I’m not any kind of angel anymore,” he points out, and tries his hardest to keep his voice neutral.

Dean squeezes his shoulder and tilts his head, trying to recapture Castiel’s gaze. “Hey. Look at me.” Reluctantly, he looks back over. “Your wings weren’t what made you a good angel, alright?” he brings his other hand up to poke into Castiel’s chest. “That was all in here.”

He sounds like he’s quoting the Wizard of Oz, and Cas wants to make a joke about that, but he’s also never wanted to kiss Dean more. He doesn’t, because they’re in a museum, and they’re still working up to that, but he makes a note to do it later. Instead, he reaches up and pulls Dean’s hand away from his chest, links it in his own, and squeezes.

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s earnest, and it’s for everything.

Dean smiles. He understands. He squeezes back.

[myaimistrue]

sleep, pretty darling, do not cry (also available on ao3 here)

Dean wakes up screaming. 

He’d had a soul on the rack, flayed open before him. Everything was heavy with that rich-red smell of spilled guts and torture, the sick scent of Hell, and his favorite knife was in his hands. Now, he looks down at them, the way they’re shaking, and wonders how he doesn’t see blood stains.

Dean gets up, goes to the bathroom, splashes some cold water on his face. His breathing is starting to even out a little, and he white knuckles the edge of the sink as he tries to get himself together. He hasn’t had a nightmare about Hell in a while, but there was a time when he did this every single night. He’s good at this. He knows how to handle it. 

Eventually, he stumbles back to bed and flops down on it, the springs of the old mattress creaking beneath him. He closes his eyes, and he’s in the dream again, seeing the begging, twisted soul. And Dean tries not to feel it, god help him, he tries not to feel it, but like so many of his dreams of Hell, there’s a sense of homecoming. The weight of the knife felt so natural in his hands. Carving into the soul was where he belonged.

So he’s probably not falling asleep again tonight. Dean’s glad that Sam isn’t here, at least. He’s on a hunt with Eileen—because they’re serious enough that they hunt together more often than not these days—so Dean doesn’t have to worry about staying quiet to let him sleep. The hunt is finally over, too, after a slog of a week and four victims, so it’s not like he has anything to do tomorrow but drive home. He could turn on the television and watch infomercials until his brain plays static. He could read the old copy of Cat’s Cradle he’s got stuffed in the bottom of his duffle. He could jack off, even, if he could somehow get it up with Hell still dancing behind his eyes. 

Dean checks the time on his phone, and it’s almost two. He’s got a text from Cas, sent sometime after Dean fell asleep earlier. It’s a string of incoherent emojis, and Dean feels himself smiling. It feels strange on his face.

He doesn’t think very much before he clicks the call button. Cas doesn’t sleep, so it’s not like Dean’ll be disturbing him. He just. He just wants to hear Cas’s voice. He just wants to be reminded that there are good things in the world, things beyond this shitty motel and the mess in Dean’s head.

Cas answers on the third ring, and his rasping voice locks something loose into place in Dean’s chest. “Hello?”

“Hey, Cas.” Dean knows how he sounds, wrecked with exhaustion and emotion, and he knows it’ll make Cas worry. But he can’t bring himself to cover it. He doesn’t think he can.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Dean stares up at the ceiling and sees water stains in the shadows. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d call, if you weren’t busy.”

“I’m watching an episode of something called Storage Wars.” Dean smiles again at the perplexed tone of his voice. “It’s very strange.”

“Yeah, it’s crap tv,” Dean says. He doesn’t even have anything to say, is the thing. He just called Cas because he misses him, because he wants to see him, because he’s got this sick fucking thing where he wants to crawl inside of Cas and never leave him. Because he loves him. “How’s, uh. How’s the kid?”

“He’s good.” Dean can hear the smile in his voice, the smile that’s always there when Cas talks about Jack. It makes Dean’s heart ache. “He’s asleep. Though he did convince me to let him stay up late and watch a movie.”

“Oh yeah?” It doesn’t surprise Dean; Cas is a total pushover when it comes to Jack. “What movie?”

“The Little Mermaid. It was good, and Jack loved the songs. He was still humming one of them when he went to bed.”

Dean pictures it: Cas and Jack side by side in the Dean Cave, passing popcorn back and forth and intently watching Ariel swim around on the screen. He pictures them, cozy and happy and far from danger, and hot tears well up in his eyes. He wants to go home so badly. He wants there to be someone beside him in this bed. He doesn’t want to be alone.

“Sounds fun,” Dean says after a pause that he knows was too long, his voice cracking under the pressure of not breaking down crying like a child. 

“It was,” Cas says haltingly. “Dean, are you okay? The hunt’s finished, right? I know it was difficult.”

“Yeah, it’s finished. I’ll head back tomorrow.” A sliver of light is coming in through the motel room curtains, the yellow-orange beam of a streetlight right across Dean’s face. He drops his forearm across his eyes to block it out, to cover his face and hope that can hold him together. “Cas, I don’t—” He doesn’t say more. He can’t say more, not if he wants to make it out of this conversation alive.

“It’s alright, Dean.” And Cas’s voice is so gentle. “Whatever it is, it’s alright.”

Again, he sees rack. Screaming, burning souls, all of them writhing under Dean’s hand. “I don’t know why you saved me.” It comes out broken, shattered, and Dean barely manages to keep his breaths steady. “I’m fucking—I’m bad, man. All I do is hurt people, you and Jack and Sam, and—and I don’t know how to stop it. I tortured souls and liked it, Cas. Something’s wrong with me, and I don’t know why—”

And then he’s crying, these sharp, stabbing wounded animals sobs, and Cas is on the other end of the phone, murmuring things like It’s okay and I’m here and you’re alright. Dean thinks he’s coming apart, that he’s in pieces, but with just his voice, Cas keeps him together. 

Eventually, it subsides, like it always does. Dean sort of wants to hang up the phone and get so wildly drunk he forgets this ever happened, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and then Cas starts talking again.

“I saved you because you are good,” he says. He sounds steady. Sure. “In Hell, even in all of that carnage and ruin, your soul was shining. And I knew then, like I know now, that you are good, inherently. You are kind, and loving, and you are good, Dean Winchester. I saved you then, and I’ve saved you since, and I will save you until I can’t anymore. Because you deserve it. Because you always deserve to be saved.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. It’s beautiful, what Cas is saying, almost incomprehensibly so, and it hurts. It hurts to hear something lovely like that. “My soul was shining?” he asks before he can stop himself, and it comes out kind of small. Like a kid, almost.

“Yes,” Cas says, and again, Dean can hear the smile in his voice. The warm curve of it. “It still does, but it stood out particularly in the pit. It was the brightest thing I’ve ever seen. The most beautiful.”

Maybe it’s the clarity of the middle of the night, the stark vulnerability of their voices connected only by telephone lines. Maybe it’s that Dean doesn’t have the strength to hold it in anymore. Or maybe it’s that Cas sounds like he’s talking about something he loves—like Dean is something he loves. Whatever it is, things suddenly seem very simple.

“I love you,” Dean says. It comes out of his mouth easily, like the words have just been waiting for him to say them, and on the other end of the phone, Cas takes a sharp breath. Dean forges on anyway. “I don’t know if you—I don’t know. But I do. I love you.”

“You love me?” Cas is the one that sounds breathless now.

“Yeah. I do.” Dean looks at that light peeking in through the curtains and hopes desperately that this is going to be okay. That maybe, maybe this could work, that maybe Cas—

“I love you too,” Cas says, voice breaking on the words, and Dean’s heart sprouts wings and starts fluttering around in his chest. “Oh, Dean. I love you. I love you too.”

They both laugh, these tearful, happy sounds, and Dean thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. That maybe this is the best thing he’s ever done. 

“Cas, man, I really—I really wanna kiss you,” he says. “I wish I was there.”

“Me too. But you’ll be home tomorrow, and then we can…” Cas laughs again. Dean wants to hear him laugh like this for the rest of his life. “Then we can do everything. Anything. Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and his flying heart is banging against his rib cage. “Okay. Well, uh, I’ve got a few ideas, hotshot.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

It lulls for a moment, but it’s not weird—it never is with Cas. In the quiet, Dean thinks again of the nightmare, of Hell scraping around under his skin. He feels it all, still, but he feels Cas, too. And Cas loves him. Despite it all, Cas loves him.

“If it’s alright, I…” Cas trails off, and Dean can just see the way he’s furrowing his brow. “I’ll stay on the line until you fall asleep. If you’re okay with it.”

“Yeah?” The heavy fog of sleep would be less intimidating with Cas looking out for him, Dean knows it. “You wanna do that?”

“Of course,” Cas says like that would be anybody’s answer, like anyone would be lucky to listen to Dean’s unsteady breathing.

“Then yeah. I mean, no promises that I’ll actually fall asleep, but if you don’t mind, it’d be…” Dean feels himself flush a little, as if this is somehow more embarrassing or vulnerable than anything else that’s happened tonight. “It’d be nice.”

“Okay.” Cas sounds pleased, the rumble of his voice warm and golden. “Well, um. Goodnight, Dean.”

“Yeah. Night, Cas.” He turns on his side, tries to get comfortable. And then, face half-buried in his pillow, he adds, “I, uh. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Cas says. “Sleep well, Dean. I’ll be right here.”

Dean closes his eyes. He listens to Cas breathing, imagines how it would feel to hear him breathing next to him in this bed, how it would feel to kiss him in this kind of darkness. He thinks of Cas in Hell, seeing Dean at the worst he’s ever been and lifting him up anyway. Beautiful, Cas might have said. You’re safe now.

He’s not sure how much he actually sleeps. He drifts in and out, but every time he comes back to awareness, Cas is still on the phone. And when it’s finally light out and he’s awake for good, Dean opens the curtains up all the way and lets the early morning sunshine touch his face.

“I’m coming home, Cas,” Dean tells him.

“Good,” Cas says softly. Dean’s going to kiss him today. Dean’s going to do right by him. “We’ll be here.”

[estrel]

Are You Happy? (Save Them Some Pie)

HAPPY 42ND BIRTHDAY, DEAN!! this is my gift to him for being my comfort person that i would hug on sight if given the chance 💗 love you dude, may you indulge in copious amounts of pie. ~ 1.5k words.

also dedicated to marlo ( @heller-jensen ), jace ( @thiscastielhasflown ) and dee ( @castee-yel ) thanks for bein real ones <3

[READ ON AO3]

The day had already started out weird enough.

Dean had woken up drenched in sweat, mind racing with the last lingering thoughts of a nightmare. A vamp nest that he and Sam had been hunting, Dean dying in the most ludicrous way possible, and driving Baby down a long road for an indiscriminate amount of time in a supposed heaven that his father (his father) also co-habited. Needless to say, the dream had come out of nowhere, but it was easy enough to forget once the smell of bacon made its way into his room.

Breakfast was hardy and quick, with enough coffee to fuel him for the rest of the day as he skimmed the internet for a possible case. He had the itch, but apparently, looking around at the three sleepy faces around him at the table, no one else did.

He packed up anyway, preparing for what would likely be an easy salt-n-burn; he’d be gone for only a few hours, tops. On his way out, Cas stops him before he can scale the stairs, arm gripping his shoulder tightly. There’s a memory, briefly—the same hand, the same shoulder. Blood.

Dean looks down at it. Back at Cas.

“…Yeah?”

After a moment, Cas lets go. He steps back half an inch as if he had forgotten himself. “Just…be careful.”

Dean nods, moving to leave again, taking the awkwardness as both a Cas thing and a morning thing and content to leave it at that. 

“And,” Cas says. Dean turns back.

“Come home.”

//

Dean picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Dean, hey! It’s, uh. It’s me. Krissy?”

Dean feels himself begin to smile, mindful of the road ahead of him. He balances his phone on his thigh while he drives.

“Hey, kid! Long time no call. How are you? Everything okay?”

The case had been as easy as Dean had suspected, but he had that familiar muscle ache and heaviness to his eyes that solo cases usually gave him.

Besides that, he was getting a little confused about all of the calls he’d been getting today. Before Krissy, it had been Garth, and before that, Claire and Jody and…

“Uh, yeah, dude, everything’s good. Um. How are you? How’s Sam and that angel of yours?”

Dean swallows to keep from choking, or potentially crashing the car.

“They’re good. Yeah…good.” Alive, he wants to say, back from the dead, probably in the DeanCave watching Scooby Doo without him. “Sorry, Krissy, ah,” he steps off the break to make a left, “I’m actually on my way home right now. Was there something I could help you with?”

There’s a pause, and Dean chances a glance at his phone to see if the call had dropped off. It hadn’t.

“Krissy?”

“I,” she huffs in what sounds like a laugh, “Nothing, Dean. You get home safe, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

“And hey,” Krissy says, before he can say his goodbyes, “Uh, make sure you save some pie for everybody else.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow a bit, but he laughs. “I will. Take care of yourself.”

“Bye, Dean.”

“Ba-bye.”

//

Dean’s still mulling over the pie comment when he nearly falls down the stairs, squinting into the darkness of the Bunker.

“What the hell?” he asks, voice hoarse around the high note. “Guys?”

When there’s no immediate answer, Dean’s instincts kick in. He pulls out his gun and gently drops his bag, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust so he can try for the stairs.

Before he can, though, the lights kick back on. His gaze locks onto the scene below, and Dean slowly lowers his gun.

“Happy birthday!” Jack says, the sound of a party horn whining shortly after. Beside him, Cas pulls the string of a party popper, and he jerks as bits of confetti fall around him and into his hair.

Skeptically, Dean starts descending down the stairs.

“You…this…” he manages.

“It’s your birthday, dumbass,” Sam says, swooping forward to slap a party hat on Dean’s head as soon as he’s made the landing. He smiles.

“Oh…kay.” Around them, the Bunker looks pretty normal. The only difference is the array of pies on one of the library tables, next to what looks like home made rice krispie treats, and a couple of birthday-themed plates and napkins. That, and the confetti from Cas’ party popper that litters the floor. “Are you sure?”

Cas frowns at Sam. “Sam was certain. I can’t imagine he’d get the day wrong, but he has had quite severe brain trauma over the years. Perhaps…” Cas reaches out to Sam’s head, probably intent on searching his brain for said trauma, or for the date of Dean’s actual birthday. Sam swats his hand away.

“Hey, no. My trauma is fine. Dean,” Sam redirects his attention to him, “It’s today. Did you really forget?”

Dean shrugs, trying to piece the day together from the beginning. Shitty dream, good breakfast, the three of them weirdly insisting on staying at the Bunker…the calls. Save some pie for everybody else.

He laughs. “So that’s what she meant.”

“That’s what who meant?” Jack asks. He’s wearing a party hat, too, with ridiculous stripes of blue and pink and purple patterned onto it. It matches the one currently strapped to Dean’s own. He shakes his head.

“You’re telling me all of you knew? This whole time? And…and…” He looks around again, pointing vaguely at the table and the confetti. “You put this all together for me?”

Sam shoves his arm playfully. “Course we did. Now quit pouting and come eat some pie.”

//

Sam is fast asleep, sprawled out on the couch hours later with one of his hands brushing the floor. Dean thinks he spots drool on the pillow underneath him. 

Cas has been quiet next to Dean, at least since Jack had disappeared into the kitchen an hour ago and hadn’t come back, thoughtfully tracing the lip of his beer bottle with his finger. 

“Something on your mind?” Dean asks, because he wants to know.

Cas continues unbothered. Scooby Doo reruns play in the background. Dean almost repeats the question, but Cas eventually lifts his gaze to stare at him.

“Are you happy?” 

Dean presses his mouth shut. Licks his lips. He takes just as long to answer.

“You know what,” he smiles. “I think I am.”

Cas smiles back at him, soft and genuine. The skin around his eyes crinkling tells more than the gentle upturn of his mouth. 

Dean swallows, nervously putting his beer down and turning it a few times until his fingers are wet with the condensation. 

“What, uh. What about you?” He swallows again. “You happy?”

What he really wants to ask, though, is if they were good. If, after recent events, they were still the same. If Cas was still fine with “just being.”

He’s quiet again. Dean thinks he deserves that, and tries to pay attention to the TV, but the voice in his head is too loud. Cas has to tap his knee to get his attention again.

“Hm?”

“I was saying,” he moves his hand back, “that I’m sorry I didn’t get you a gift.”

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

Cas looks confused, like he’s about to repeat what he just said. Dean stops him short with a wave of his hand. 

“Dude, you just got back from the dead, alright? That’s—that’s gift enough to last me a lifetime. Don’t worry about a gift.”

Cas frowns, and Dean rolls his eyes. It’s another few moments of tense silence, until Dean breaks it, his heart pounding in his chest.

“But, uh,” he says, “I might have a gift for you.”

“Dean, we don’t share a birthday. It’s not customary to gift me something, especially when I haven’t given you—“

“Cas,” he groans, officially putting his beer aside and facing him. Cas’ features are lit up with the colors of the TV. Dean reaches a hand up to pluck confetti from his hair, a green piece that he’d been eyeing all night. Hesitating, he lets his hand fall to Cas’ face, smoothing over his cheek and jaw. The TV paints his cheekbone purple. Dean brushes his thumb over it. “Just...shut up and let me do this.” 

Cas tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed in that way of his, and Dean thinks he looks perfect. When he dips forward and presses their lips together, it’s perfect, perfect, perfect. He’s warm, his face is burning, eyes almost watering when he pulls away.

Dean lets his forehead rest on Cas’, heartbeat still crazy. He closes his eyes. “We can have it, Cas. This. We can have this.”

Cas takes Dean’s face in his hands, lifts it a little to bring them face to face again, so that he’s looking into Dean’s eyes.

“I’d like that, Dean,” he says, and his eyes are wet, too. Happy, Dean thinks.

“Your gift to me?” Dean manages, smile wobbly. He’s teasing, trying to bring down the weight of this without getting rid of all of it. He likes this type of adrenaline rush, different from any hunt he’s been on. Better.

Cas smiles. “I think technically it was you that gifted me, but, yes. My gift to you, if you’ll take it.”

“Gladly,” Dean says.

Cas hums back, brushing his fingers through the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck. “Happy birthday, Dean.” He leaves a kiss on his forehead.

Happy. 

Dean thinks, for the first time, as he pulls more confetti from Cas’ hair, that it actually is. 

—

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[dothwrites]

15.19--freedom

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose/Nothing, don’t mean nothing if it ain’t free, no, no”--Janis Joplin

---

Freedom. 

Dean rolls the word around on the tip of his tongue and tastes how it feels. Freedom. 

It’s a strange concept, especially since he always assumed that he was. Ever since Apocalypse Version 1.0 was averted, Michael and Lucifer locked in the cage, thanks very much, he’s always assumed that he was the one calling the shots. No matter how badly he fucked up (and he fucked up a lot), he could at least take comfort in the fact that those were his choices. No one’s hand up Dean Winchester’s ass, no siree. 

And then Chuck came and ripped that certainty away from him in one quick motion and then...everything was suspect. Sam, Mom, Jack...Cas. Every word, every action, every emotion... He couldn’t trust anything, so he trusted nothing.

He still wakes up from nightmares with those words echoing in his head: You’re dead to me. He bolts upright, almost puking, because he can’t believe his past self, he can’t believe that those words came out of his mouth, to Cas, to Cas of all people--

He splashes water on his face and notices that his hand is shaking. His stomach churns in warning, but he doesn’t think he’s going to puke. However, he also doesn’t think he’s going back to sleep tonight. 

He and Sam are in the bunker, but he knows they won’t stay. It’s too empty now, their voices echoing through the halls and rooms. Maybe once, he would have been all right with that, would have even enjoyed it, but now, he can’t bear it. He remembers all too well how it felt to have Jack’s voice bouncing through the kitchen as he talked about the latest movie they had watched, or how it felt to just feel Cas behind him as he moved through the kitchen. 

Every time he makes his breakfast, he’s reminded of what he lost. Every time he and Sam come back to the bunker, there’s the sinking disappointment to find themselves alone once more. Dean ends up spending most of his days in his room because anywhere else freaks him out. He can’t stop whipping his head to look over his shoulder, halfway convinced that he’ll find someone standing behind him. He’s always disappointed when he finds himself alone. 

He and Sam are going to leave the bunker behind. He doesn’t know when and he doesn’t know what for, but he knows that it’s going to happen. 

He asks Sam one afternoon why he hasn’t left yet. Eileen is waiting for him, biding her time a hell of a lot more patiently than Dean would, and Sam still isn’t going to her and starting the American dream life. And one afternoon, Dean either runs out of fucks and gathers up his last little shreds of courage, and asks him. 

“So when are you going to move in with Eileen? I can’t imagine that she’s going to wait for your gigantor ass forever.” 

Sam looks at him from across the table. There’s a book open in front of him, but Dean doesn’t think that he’s read a word. He knows that he’s been stuck on the same screen on his phone for several minutes. Without the pressing urgency of saving the world, things just seem so...pointless. Which is not necessarily bad. But it means that he and Sam spend a lot of slow, lingering afternoons like this, with just the two of them wandering through the bunker and occasionally bouncing off of each other like two very faulty pinballs stuck in a malfunctioning machine. 

“She’s fine,” Sam says, which isn’t an answer. “She understands what’s happening.” 

Dean’s glad that someone understands because he surely has no fucking clue.

---

His life falls into a kind of routine. Wake up, make breakfast. Find pointless chores to do around the bunker. Make lunch. Watch some bullshit shows on TV. Make dinner. Have a beer. Fall asleep. 

He feels like the worst kind of retiree, devoid of purpose. 

Sure, there are occasional hunts, but he doesn’t feel the need to go on them. The world is turning, same as it always did, and there are other hunters in the world. If that’s one thing that he learned through these past years, it’s that he doesn’t have to do everything. 

(Plus, he and Sam literally defeated God, so he thinks they deserve some time off.)

The forced retirement doesn’t make him happy. The bunker is the cleanest that it’s ever been and he doesn’t feel happy about it. There’s a gaping hole in his chest that’s shaped like the rest of his family, and he can’t sleep at night. He makes dinner and all he can think about are the empty places at the table. 

Sam sticks his head into Dean’s room. It’s a regular day, though Dean doesn’t bother to note either the actual date or the day of the week anymore. Time blends together in an endless cycle of waking, chores, and sleeping, because without a purpose to hold him together, he’s slowly falling apart. 

“I’m going to head out,” Sam says. Dean notices that he doesn’t put a timeline on his departure. “You should get out too.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask the obvious question: Where would he go? Sam, slightly chagrined, scuffs his feet against the floor. “Maybe go see Jody, Donna, and the girls? See if Charlie and Stevie want a third on their hunt? Bobby said something about building up his library here.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, with absolutely no intention of following through on any of those suggestions. He’s not quite wallowing in his own grief and filth (every time he tries to crawl back into a bottle, he just remembers the pinched look at the corners of Cas’ eyes whenever he would find Dean halfway through a bender, and that memory effectively nixes any desire he might have had to crawl into the nearest bottle), but he’s not exactly the poster boy for healthy coping strategies either. 

“Dean.” 

Dean hates that note in Sam’s voice, the oh-so-soft and sensitive tone that could soothe widows and lull children. He hates even more that it’s being turned on him, hates most of all that he derives comfort from it. 

“I don’t get it,” Dean finally says, because if Sam is leaving then he might be losing his chance to ask his question aloud. “I don’t get...I mean, Jack could have brought him back. He could have done it. I could have asked him. I was right fucking there, and I didn’t ask.” 

He’s dissected those moments in his head until there’s nothing left, and he’s forced to cobble them back together like some Frankenstein of memories just so he can take them apart all over again. Why didn’t he ask Jack to bring Cas back? Why didn’t Jack do it of his own free will? Jack knew how he much he needed Cas; hell, Jack brought him back once before when he wasn’t God. So why couldn’t he do it then, when Dean needed him the most? 

“I don’t know,” Sam says, still in that same soft voice. “Maybe...maybe it was like Mom? I mean, Cas made his choice. For better or worse, he made it, and maybe Jack thinks that we need to respect it?” 

A thick lump rises in his throat. Cas’ face replays in his nightmares, tear-stricken and yet smiling, peace and grief shining in his eyes. I love you. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to say at that moment. Like it was all he’d ever wanted to say. 

“I never...” Dean swallows, but he doesn’t manage to chase away the horrid feeling rising in his chest. “I never said it back to him, Sam. I never...all those times he said it to us, and I never...he died, thinking that no one loved him. The one thing I want, I know I can’t have, is what he said to me.” 

Dean doesn’t necessarily have a list of his regrets (there are too many to really list), but if he did, then he knows this would be at the top of it. Cas sacrificed himself, Cas let himself get taken, Cas died, and all to save someone who he believed didn’t love him back. 

How could he not know? 

Dean knows he’s not necessarily Mr. Subtle; he knows Sam knows. Their enemies damn sure have seemed to figure out through the years exactly where Dean’s heart lies. How could Cas, as brilliant as he was, as insightful, as compassionate as he was, not understand that Dean’s been lost on him, quite possible since the first time he walked through those barn doors? 

Sam’s face goes on a journey and it ends up at about the same place that Dean feels. Maybe now Sam understands why it’s so much effort for him to just make it out of his room. 

“He thought it was worth it,” Sam finally says. “Even if he thought...At the end, it was still worth it to him.” 

You were still worth it, is left unsaid, but Dean hears the echo nonetheless. There’s an accusation there which he doesn’t want to confront, but he has to nonetheless. 

“I can’t stay here anymore,” Sam finally says. “I can’t...” When he looks at Dean, his eyes are glistening. There’s a plea for understanding in his face. “There’s a whole world out there that I haven’t gotten to see since...since Stanford really. Since ever. I can finally go out there and walk around and not worry that something’s going to come after me. I can finally...” Sam rubs a corner of his shirt between his fingers. “You always said that I wanted a normal life, and I did, for a while. Then, when I figured that it was never going to happen, I stopped myself from wanting it, because what was the point? When everything we had got ripped away from us, what was the point of anything? But now...” 

“If you start now, then you can probably make Des Moines by night,” Dean offers. It’s all he can say, but it’s enough. 

Sam smiles, his eyes glassy. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

It’s not a goodbye, but it is. It’s the bonds of desperation and codependency snapping and shattering and reforming into something else. Dean doesn’t know how to love his brother in this new world. All he knows is that Sam deserves to live the life he’s deserved. 

Dean closes his eyes. 

When he opens them, Sam is gone.

---

That night, he goes up on the roof of the bunker. It’s cold, but not unbearable. There’s a light drizzle falling which strengthens to a gentle shower the longer he stays outside. 

Dean closes his eyes and looks up at the sky. Out here, the stars shine clearer than ever before, visible even through the rainclouds. 

He can’t help but think of Jack. His son. He can say those words now, acknowledge that Jack gave him everything he really wanted; the chance at a family, the chance to erase some of his father’s sins. Jack was gentle, he was kind, he was loving, he was theirs. And then he was gone. 

Cas, Jack, Sam...

“What am I supposed to do?” Dean asks the rain, the same wild pain rising up in his throat. “What am I supposed to do now?” 

---

He makes it back inside, damp and cold, and strips himself. He should shower, but he can’t be bothered, so he falls into bed naked and shivering. Not like it matters; no one is around to see him anyway. He falls into a fitful doze and is only awakened hours later by the soft sounds of someone moving around his room. 

He bolts upright, snatching his gun out from underneath his pillow, because old habits die never. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes as his heartbeat catches up with his adrenaline. “Sam?” he asks, and then, more tentatively, “Jack?” 

His desk lamp blazes into the life with a soft snap. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat. 

Cas smiles at him, the same as always, sadness always lurking in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Dean finally understands why he looks that way. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says. The sound of his voice sends shivers down Dean’s spine, but the hair on his arms doesn’t rise. Dean understands then. 

“This is a dream.” He lowers the gun. His heart slows to normal and disappointment is bitter in his mouth. “You’re not really here.” 

Cas’ mouth lifts in a lopsided smile. “It’s as real as you make it.” 

“Don’t fucking Dumbledore me,” Dean mutters. He rubs at his temples. Somehow, even lucid dreaming has lost its appeal. Talking to Cas isn’t appealing when he knows that he’s just talking to his own subconscious. 

“I fail to see what a fictional wizard of questionable sexuality has to do with this.” 

“Good to know that my subconscious has your sense of humor down.” Dean glares at Cas. “Why the fuck are you here, anyway? It’s a dick move, even for my brain.” 

“Maybe because I’m the person you want to see? I don’t know. It’s your head, not mine.”

“Yeah. No offense, but I think I’m just going to go back to sleep. Or wake up. I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t need to see you anymore. It’s just...It really hurts, all right?” 

“I’m not real, so you’re not really hurting my feelings.” 

“Good. Well, now that we have that sorted out.” Dean punches his pillow as a punishment for betraying him, before he turns back to Cas. “I miss you,” he says, because he’s weak and always has been. 

“Dean.” The sound of Cas’ voice always manages to make Dean stop and now is no different. He turns around and looks at Cas. 

Somehow, Cas looks more solid around the edges. The lines around his eyes are more pronounced, and if Dean turns his head at just the right angle, he thinks he can see grey silvering at Cas’ temple. 

“Sam was right,” Cas says. “I made a choice. That’s what this was all about, ever since the beginning. Making choices, running our own course, picking our own path.” 

“Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in,” Dean mutters. The last thing he needs is his subconscious reminding him that once again, Cas decided that he wasn’t good enough to stay with. 

“But that doesn’t mean that you can’t make a choice as well,” Cas continues, ignoring him. “There’s nothing to stop you. You can make whatever choices you want and take the consequences that come with them. And if you make the right choices, then maybe...” Cas bites his lip, looking almost nervous. “Then maybe I can make some choices too.” 

Dean opens his mouth to argue--Cas is dead, the time for making decisions has come and gone--but his subconscious is a dick, and before he can say anything, his dream fades away in a wash of black. 

---

Dean wakes up energized. His eyes open into the same room, but it’s different somehow. It’s ridiculous, because the bunker is underground, but it’s almost like he sees the sun shining through his windows. Even the air tastes different. For the first time in weeks, he gets out of bed without dreading every step away from his mattress. 

He glances at his phone. There’s a message from Sam along with a picture. In it, Eileen and Sam smile at the camera, their heads pressed together at the temple. There’s still a shadow of sadness in their eyes--they’ve all lost too much to be truly carefree ever again--but they look good. Happy. Whole. 

Cas’ words echo back at him, both from the dream and from those last, horrible, terrifying moments. 

Everything you did, you did for love. 

You can make a choice. 

Dean starts towards the library. 

---

It takes him three weeks of almost non-stop research to cobble together enough spells to make something that has the potential to work. This isn’t his strength; Sam is much more suited for this type of work, but he won’t bring Sam in on this. If this thing goes really damn badly, then it has the potential to wipe him off the face of the earth, goodbye Dean Winchester. If this thing does what he’s halfway expecting it to, which is nothing, then he’ll have gotten Sam’s hopes up for nothing. He’s not going to expose Sam to either danger or disappointment, not when Sam’s finally managed to get to some kind of happiness. 

If everything goes well...

Dean won’t let himself think about that. 

He spends two days smoothing out the kinks in the spell, double and triple checking his translations. He gathers his ingredients, and then spends another hour pacing around the library. His stomach is roiling, and his nerves are jittery. He can’t bear to stop, but he can’t bear to move forward. 

The memory of Cas’ smile spurs him into action. Cas went to his death a willing martyr for a man who he believed didn’t love him back. He can’t let that stand. If anything else, Cas has to know. 

The drive to Pontiac, Illinois takes him the better part of a day. The impala springs forward across the asphalt, almost like she’s eager to eat up the miles after her forced retirement. Dean pushes hard down on the gas pedal, urging her forward. One way or another, this is going to come to an end tonight. 

It takes him a while to find the barn. The last time he was here, he wasn’t in his right mind, still reeling from the horrors of Hell and the confusion of finding himself alive. He’d been scared and angry, lost and so very alone. And then an angel had walked through the door and told him that good things happened, that he deserved to be saved. The last little bit might have been a line fed to Cas by a bunch of dickhead superiors, but the sentiment behind it had stayed long after those superiors were all dead. 

They replaced the doors which Cas shattered and painted over the walls which Dean and Bobby covered with sigils, but if Dean looks carefully, he can see the shadows of them behind the new coat of whitewash. He touches them gently for a second, remembering Bobby and all of the years which led him back to this place. Then he pulls out his can of spray paint and proceeds to deface the barn all over again. 

When he’s done, he sets up the ingredients on the table. The table is where it was all those years ago, facing the doors to the barn. He doesn’t quite believe that Cas is going to pull the same trick, storming through the doors in a shower of sparks, but he can always hope. 

“God...Jack,” Dean corrects himself with a wry twist of his mouth, “I really hope this works. Cas, wherever you are, I really hope you have your ears on.” 

Dean looks at his translations and begins to speak. He’s hoping that intention counts for something as his tongue stumbles over the unfamiliar words. His heart beats an uncertain pulse in his chest. This has to work. It has to work. 

He puts every ounce of belief into his voice, every bit of the faith Cas once accused him of not having. I have faith, he thinks, putting force behind his voice, sending his words rocketing into the dimensions. I believe in us. 

What’s real? 

We are.

The last syllables roll over his tongue, followed immediately by a peal of thunder. The barn shivers, a ripple rolling through the air to settle over Dean’s skin. Electricity crackles in the air, filling him with potential. 

“Castiel?” he calls to the darkness. “Cas?” 

There’s no answer, but the spells and research had been unclear on whether or not there should be an answer. He would prefer knowing that Cas was listening, but in absence of certainty, he’ll have to have faith. 

“Cas, I really hope you can hear me,” he says. The words bring back the memories of Purgatory and a time when he and Cas could barely look at each other. He pushes those memories away and concentrates on the truth he can feel in his heart, the same truth which has guided him through the years and all the way from Lebanon, Kansas to the small barn where it all began all those years ago. 

“I know you made your choice. I know you were happy. But...it’s not the same without you. I’m not the same without you. I wake up and think about you, and you’re the last thing I think about before I go to sleep at night. Every moment, you’re there because you’re not there. I look at all the places you’re missing and I can’t help but think that everything would be better if you were there.”

Dean swallows. “I miss you,” he confesses to the night. “Cas, I miss you so much. And I want you to come back. Not because I need you or because there’s something to fight against, but just because I miss you and life is better when you’re around.” He thinks of what Sam told him before he went. “There’s a new world out there, and I can’t think of who I would rather explore it with than you, but in order to do that, you’ve got to make a choice, all right?” 

His heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might explode out of his chest. “I want to share my life with you. I want to figure out this world together. I want to be able to look at you and hold you and experience everything with you. Cas, I want to tell you what I should have told you every single day for years. I’m sorry that I never told you while you were with me. And I’m sorry that the first time I say it, I’m not going to be looking at you, but it wouldn’t be our lives if something about this wasn’t shitty, right?” 

Dean takes a deep breath. “I love you, Cas. Not because of what you can do or how useful you are. I love you because of who you are and how hard you try. And I want to say it to you, every single day, for years to come. I’ve made my choice, Cas. Now you just need to make yours.” 

Silence overtakes the barn. The only sound is the faint whistling of the wind through the slats of the barn and the quick rasp of his breathing. There’s no flap of wings, no deep voice growling in his ears, no pop of electricity. 

“Please, Cas,” Dean whispers, closing his eyes to try and stop the burning behind them. “Please.” 

Thunder rolls through the barn, shaking through the wood down to the dirt floor. Dean’s head jerks upright as he scans the barn. “Cas?” he calls, hardly daring to hope. “Castiel?” 

A thin, golden thread rips open in the air before him. It looks almost exactly like the rifts between worlds which Jack used to create, but that’s not possible. 

It’s not possible, but Dean dares to hope anyway. 

“Castiel? Cas?” 

A single hand reaches out through the golden tear, and then Dean is moving, he’s practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach the rift. “Cas, Cas, please,” he’s saying, not quite aware of the words which are tumbling from his mouth. “Please.” 

Until his fingers grip the hand, he’s not sure that it’s real, but that’s solid flesh and bone underneath his palm. Dean pulls, feeling resistance on the other end. “No,” he grunts, reaching into the rift. His hand touches skin, and his resolve grows. He didn’t come this far only to lose. They haven’t come this far only to fall apart. 

“I want you,” he says, as though the force of his words can rip through the veil. “Cas, please, come home, Cas, please--” 

With an almighty heave, he pulls once more and then he’s falling backward, another body tumbling against his in an ungainly pile of limbs and bodies. There’s skin and there’s warm, and there’s weight. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees the rift close up, as neatly as if it were never there at all. 

He doesn’t care about that. He can’t, not now. 

Dean looks down at the body sprawled across his lap. There are miles upon miles of naked skin for him to peruse, and he hopes that he’ll be able to do so later at his leisure, but for now, all he can concentrate on are those two luminous eyes blinking up at him. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, hardly daring to believe. His hands cup Castiel’s face, fingers sweeping a few locks of dark hair off of his forehead. 

Castiel blinks at him, his dark eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. A slow smile creeps across his face, like the dawn spreading across the horizon. “Dean,” he says, his voice the same as it always was, but this time it’s better, because it’s a voice that Dean never thought he’d hear again. 

“Cas.” It’s the only word Dean seems capable of saying, but words don’t seem important anymore, not when he can lean forward and press his lips to Cas’, not when he can taste the small sigh of surprise on Cas’ lips. “Cas, I missed you so much, oh god, Cas, there’s so much I want to tell you, there’s so much I want to do--” 

Cas interrupts him with another kiss, his arms threading around Dean’s shoulders to pull him closer. Gentle fingers tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, and Dean thinks that he could live in this moment forever. 

But before he does that, there’s something else which needs to happen first. Dean pulls away, ignoring the small whine of protest from Cas. 

“Cas, there’s something I need to tell you,” he starts, only to be interrupted. 

“I know,” Cas says, his face splitting into a wide, gummy smile. No shadow lurks behind his eyes, no hint of tears glisten in his eyes. There’s just happiness, radiant and absolute, gleaming from his face. 

“I heard your prayer.” 

Maybe once upon a time, Dean would have been satisfied with that answer, but not anymore. 

“I love you,” Dean whispers, pressing the words into Cas’ skin with gentle kisses over his temple and cheeks. “I love you, I love you, I love you, and I’m going to tell you every day until you get sick of it.” 

“You’ll have to try for a very long time,” Castiel answers, his fingers tracing along Dean’s jaw. “I like hearing those words very much.” 

Dean can’t help but kiss him again. As he does so, he feels the lost and scattered pieces of his heart knitting back together until he can finally breathe for the first time in months. “Come on,” he says, once he surfaces for air. “Let’s go.” 

It only hits him then that Cas is naked. Apparently rebirth and snagging people out of alternate dimensions results in a distinct lack of clothing. Dean’s eyes want to travel over the skin revealed to him, but he waits. There will be time, he realizes with a tiny thrill of delight. He and Cas have all the time in the world.

He manages to find a blanket to wrap around Cas’ shoulders. It will do until they get out to the car where he has a spare set of clothes. For now, he helps Cas to his feet. Cas looks around him, his eyes wide and huge, as though he’s overwhelmed with the world around him. 

“Where are we headed?” Cas asks as they head towards the door. The Impala waits outside, beckoning them forward once more. 

Dean grins as the cool night air washes over them. It’s gentle and soft, eternity held in the breeze. There’s a world held within the palm of tonight, a world held within the rest of their lives. 

“Wherever we want,” he answers, stepping out of the shadow of the barn and into the world. 

As they walk towards the Impala, a light rain begins to fall. 

---

“Before, I wanted to say: "I found love!" But now, I want to say: "I found a person. And he belongs to me and I belong to him.”― C. JoyBell C.

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

happy getting hitched day! 1.9k, (sort of) ft. this

Most days of the year, Sam's the optimist.

It doesn't usually fall on Dean to keep the spirits up in times of war anymore. Or worse, loss. And Dean, well, he thinks himself as enough of an in-the-moment kinda guy to not wallow when everything's not going to shit, right friggin' then.

Sam, on the other hand?

Beacon of light when there's a little Hell to raise, harbinger of hope when there's a God to defeat.

And losing his shit entirely when there's an aisle to walk down, leading to the girl of his dreams and the best decision of his life.

"Dean."

Dean fusses around Sam in compact little semicircles fixing his already perfect tux, while his brother panics in a way Dean only remembers from before the kid stopped having to look up at Dean.

But he's looking down at Dean now, wide-eyed and sweaty like the very first time Dean saw him off on a date when he was fourteen — with supple, bullshit eighteen-year-old advice, he bets — and thirty eight year old Sammy is, clear as day, losing his shit.

"Yeah?" Dean channels all the calm he's got into it.

"What if I forget my vows?"

"Well," Dean lifts his eyebrows, and picks up a linen thread from Sam's shoulder that caught his eye. "First of all, would kinda serve you right for writing six pages worth of them."

"Stop being a —"

"Front and back, Sammy. Front and back."

"Dean." Sam glares, more indignant than mad. Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam continues, replacing the look immediately with a troubled one that reflects the dilemma in his voice. "I mean, I've learned them, of course. At least I think I have — I practised twice last night, once this morning — but what's to stop me from fumbling, or forgetting —"

"Your gigantic nerd brain?"

"This is serious." Sam frowns, levelling another look at Dean like he's the one with the stellar proverbial cold feet. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean throws back immediately, and pauses in his shuffling around for effect. "Also, no. No, it isn't." And Sam goes to argue with a bitchface already surfacing, but Dean keeps going, sterner, more confident. This is something he's been doing all his life. He can probably talk the kid down from a panic high like this in his sleep. "And you're going to stop being a dumbass, and listen to what I'm saying."

"'M not a dumbass." Sam mutters.

"Yeah, you are." Dean shrugs, completely nonchalant, and Sam laughs in spite of himself, nervous, but a welcome improvement as he waits for Dean to proceed. (Big brother voice never lets Dean down.)

He's still got it.

"Here's what you're going to do. You're going to get out there," Dean continues, smiling now. "You're going to hold Eileen's hand while the minister marries you. And approximately ten to fifty minutes later, when he asks you to, you're going to look into her eyes, and you're going to say your vows. All stupid six pages of them, verbatim, 'cause I know you, and you're going to that's why."

"They're not stupid."

Dean hums in consideration, then smirks. "There's bravery in acceptance. They probably are."

"Cas called them exquisite." Sam crosses his arms, and Dean uses the opportunity to pick up a hair from his sleeve with a disapproving look.

(Dean had offered to give him a haircut seventeen times and gotten turned down, and now Sam was shedding.)

"Yeah, well, he's a walking-talking scrabble board with good manners, what is he supposed to do?" Dean rolls his eyes but instead of the expected response of Sam snarking back at him, bitchfacing him or something, Sam sighs.

The air thickens with something that's probably a bigger deal than having to wing a couple paragraphs of page three of the vows.

Dean watches Sam fidget with the buttons on his cuff.

"How did you know, Dean?" Sam asks, subdued, after a pause. "How did you know that Cas wasn't — that Cas wasn't making a horribly wrong decision."

Dean's almost halfway to making a joke about the other shoe but he stops himself.

Because this?

This, he gets.

This feeling of thinking — knowing �� you're not good enough, that you aren't right for the one you love, that you're somehow deceiving everything that your life has stood as proof of, in allowing someone else to bind themselves to you, forever, when you know that everyone who's ever meant something to you has lost, and died, and hurt.

And that is exactly why he also knows what to say.

"Because I trust him, Sammy."

Sam's eyes start glazing over. "I trust her too. I just, I'm just so scared —"

Dean winces at his words.

(That's Sam, but it's Sam in Dean's shoes. It was Dean's job — for better or for worse — to keep him safe. And he's failed, failed repeatedly, and now Sam — well, he's as broken as Dean.)

"I love her too much for anything to go wrong, Dean, and something — no, everything, always goes wrong." Sam grits his teeth, and Dean puts his hand on Sam's shoulder.

Squeezes. "I get it. I swear to you, I do. But I also promise that you might regret the things we've done, and the things that have been done to us, but you're never going to regret this."

Sam nods jerkily, eyes downcast.

"And I get being scared. Hell, I was more scared than you the entire week, dude. But you know how — and why, I pushed through?" Sam looks up again. "Because at the end of all of this, there's something more important than the promises of eternal happiness, and forever, and the Celine Dion lyrics I know you've stuffed in your vows. There's them. The ones we love."

Dean swallows.

"And who love us too, because our fucked up heads be damned, I've seen the way she looks at you, Sammy." Sam's face breaks into a small, wet smile. "So you better believe she does."

"I do." Sam slowly nods, again, eyes brimmed with tears.

(Probably about to start spilling. The only consolation for Dean is that at least his tears don't fall. Means as long as he doesn't mind a blurry view of everything, he might as well ignore their existence like he means it.)

"There, was that so hard?" Dean laughs instead, although it's weak until Sam joins in, surprised, and only then registering the words he just spoke.

"Thank you, Dean."

Is all he says, and anything Dean might've wished to say (or wisecrack) back at him is dismissed immediately because he's being pulled into a full Winchester hug by his door-sized little brother, and all he can do then is hold onto Sam as tight as he's holding him, and hold on.

(Because they made it.

They found free will, they found love, and they found their happy ending.)

Because Sammy's getting married today.

And they don't just get to be okay anymore. They get to be happy.

Sam doesn't pull back from the hug for at least a whole minute, but Dean doesn't mind, because the tears welling up in his eyes are gone when he finally smiles at Dean, earnest. "I'm —" He starts to say, but gets interrupted by Cas walking up to them with a cluster of carnations in his hand, wearing a rich navy blue tux (the same as Dean's) and a wide smile.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything," Cas beams, knowing exactly what he walked in on, and Sam shakes his head courteously while Dean battles the weirdly overwhelming need to kiss him right there — Cas is almost ridiculously beautiful when he's happy.

(He doesn't, though.

Cause he and Sam may've just had a moment but it's not like that means he'd be any less likely to be a pain in the ass about urgently requiring brain bleach and therapy, if Dean did.)

Cas carries on.

"Actually, Eileen's friend, Cara, brought her flowers and she suggested I should bring some to you."

"A corsage." Dean realizes out loud, beginning to grin at once, while Sam resorts to ducking his head like an overgrown teenage girl on her way to prom. Doesn't mean that Dean absolutely doesn't put on his best chickflick Dad voice (after he's taken over pinning the flowers to Sam's pocket from Cas, cause he was doing it wrong) and pat the corsage when he says, "Get 'er home by ten."

"The dynamics of that are all wrong." Sam points out with a traditional Sam smirk, and yeah, he's okay.

"The dynamics of your face are all wrong."

"Great comeback, yeah." Sam snorts, and Cas smiles. "Points for effort. I think."

"Whatever, you're the one wearing flowers right now."

"Dean, you wore an ascot on our wedding day."

"Ascot trumps flowers!"

"No, it doesn't." Sam bitchfaces, and Dean turns to Cas, and —

"No, it doesn't."

And Sam lets out a victorious "Hah!", and high-fives a (only slightly) confused looking Cas before pulling him into a sasquatch-sized hug as well, while Dean rewards the entire ordeal with a heartfelt eyeroll and absolutely doesn't look on at two of the most important people in his life while he pretends to be bristled about being ganged up against on his special day as Best Man.

Cas and Sam separate sooner than Dean and he did, and just in time for Jack to poke his head out the church door and remind them they're ready.

Then, Cas leaves to get Eileen, with another big smile and a signed Congratulations at Sam, and a fleeting cheek-kiss for Dean.

Then, Sam and Dean get in position behind the door and Sam refixes his tie.

(Then, Dean has to stage-whisper "Jack!" about seven times before the kid realizes he's being cued — the band had just started playing, he makes it a point to try to explain to Dean afterwards — and the great, wooden doors finally swing open to reveal a beautiful white aisle, and dozens of their friends and family smiling from both sides of it.)

And then, Dean finally walks the kid he's raised and the brother he's saved the World with countless times, down the aisle.

*

(Sam only messes up once in his vows. It's the last verse of Thank You, by Celine Dion.

Rumor has it, it was intentional.

Something about the first time they met.

Dean tells Sam, "You're welcome", the next time he sees him.)

[rainbow-shine]

i don't want to wake up lonely (so please stay the night)

Five times that Castiel watched over Dean as he slept + one time Dean watched over Cas.

READ ON AO3

1.

Castiel found the concept of sleeping fascinating. Humans were so fragile while sleeping, their bodies becoming soft and relaxed. Sleeping was allowing yourself a moment of extraordinary vulnerability. The human body needed a moment of rest both physically and mentally. A moment in which all the problems in the world disappeared.

Or at least that's how it should be, but Castiel found out that for the righteous man that wasn't always the case.

The righteous man was having a nightmare.

Castiel also found dreams fascinating. The way the human brain tried to process everything that it couldn't or it didn't want to process while it was awake was impressive. Seen that way, there was no escape of your thoughts, not really. Your own mind betraying you in your most vulnerable moments, when you couldn't do anything to run from what you had experienced.

The concept of dreams was incomprehensible to most angels, who had no need to sleep and therefore had never had the opportunity to dream. Although it isn't as if angels would have any reason to dream, even if they needed to sleep, being above having emotions, regrets or desires.

But then again, for the righteous man that wasn't the case.

Heaven had entrusted Castiel with the task of making sure that nothing happened to the righteous man until it was time for him to fulfill the role his Father had designated for him. So, the moment Castiel felt the flash of anguish and despair tear at his grace, he didn't hesitate for a second to fly to his side, prepared to find a battle.

Instead, he found the righteous man writhing on the bed, drenched in sweat and muttering incomprehensibly. The motel room was freezing and an unpleasant smell hung in the air. One of the two beds in the room hadn't been touched. Castiel took a second to make sure his charge wasn't in any real danger and without having encountered a threat, he spread his wings willing to let the righteous man keep sleeping.

Or at least that's what he was supposed to have done.

Instead, Castiel slowly approached the bed the righteous man was sleeping in, using a tendril of his grace, he decided to see what it was that was tormenting the human in his charge so much. The righteous man's mind was like a kaleidoscope of emotions and thoughts that for a second stunned and overwhelmed Castiel. The need to dive deeper and understand every minute detail of that mind was almost impossible to suppress.

The nightmare the righteous man had was about hell. About the torture he had been subjected to and the torture he himself had inflicted. Castiel could feel the waves of self-loathing, humiliation, and guilt emanating from the mind of the righteous man. Punishing himself for something that had never been his fault. Still believing that he didn't deserve to be saved, that he didn't deserve forgiveness and absolution.

Something inside Castiel shuddered.

Castiel then felt his grace pulse and wrap slightly around the anguished soul that seemed to cry out for him. For the comfort he had given him when he had rescued him from hell. A moment of communion between the two of them. It was surprising how despite the time the human had spent in hell, the soul of the righteous man, Dean's soul was still the most beautiful and brilliant that Castiel had ever seen in all the years of his life. It was pure and although it was damaged, the wounds had been healed with bits of Castiel's own grace. Castiel had personally seen to it that all the cracks in Dean's soul were filled with gold. A work of art in all its splendor and Castiel wanted—

No.

Castiel didn't want anything. Castiel wasn't designed to want things, much less something as trivial as understanding Dean's mind or feeling the warmth of his soul again. He was here only to fulfill a duty, a mission and that was exactly what he was going to do. Nothing more and nothing less.

Using his grace more deliberately, Castiel calmed Dean's mind. Also with more tenderness than he perhaps should have, Castiel let the exhausted soul rest in the center of his grace. A poor equivalent of the way Castiel had wrapped his wings around him when he was rebuilding his body, Dean's soul growing brighter and more wonderful the more time he spent away from perdition. Castiel built a quiet and peaceful dream, making sure Dean could get the rest he deserved tonight.

Untangling his grace from Dean's soul was more difficult than Castiel had thought it would be, but eventually he managed to completely detach himself, trying to ignore the way his grace seemed to miss the contact between them. Forcing his mind to cool and squeezing his grace into the deepest spaces of his vessel, Castiel allowed himself to stare at the now peaceful sleeping face of Dean —of the righteous man— for what was only a couple of minutes, but perhaps they could have been several hours before spreading his wings and leaving.

The next night, Castiel didn't even let the nightmare begin before making it disappear.

2.

Dean was sleeping with an angel blade under his pillow.

Castiel really couldn't blame him. Although that didn't stop a stab of hurt from taking over every part of his being. Born from the center of his body (A body that he didn't know when he had begun to think as his) and extending to the tip of each of his wings. Dean shouldn't feel threatened by him, not when everything Castiel had done had been for him, for wanting to save him and for wanting to take the weight of the world off his shoulders. The only thing Castiel wanted to achieve with this was to see Dean happy. See him be at peace.

But he had achieved just the opposite.

"You're like a brother to me," Dean had told him and Castiel tried to ignore the way his green eyes had shown so… earnestly. "So if I'm asking you not to do something… you got to trust me, man."

"Or what?" was the answer Castiel had given.

Castiel, at that moment, pretended he didn't see the hope evaporate from Dean's soul. Whatever had been born between them during the apocalypse, the most precious friendship Castiel had ever had the opportunity to build was crumbling in front of him without being able to do anything to prevent it. Dean had said that Castiel was like a brother to him and Castiel had no idea why that was the reason that ended up convincing him that he was doing the right thing. He was.

Of course things only went from bad to worse with what had happened with Lisa and Ben. Castiel had never wanted any of that to happen. He knew how important they had been to Dean and how much the fact that he made the choice to erase from their minds all the moments they had spent together had hurt him.

"I wish this changed anything," Dean had whispered, eyes wet with tears.

"I know," was the only thing Castiel could say. "So do I."

And now Dean was sleeping with an angel blade under his pillow.

Dean wasn't having a nightmare and Castiel really had no excuse to justify his presence here. By this time tomorrow everything would end, Castiel would use the souls of purgatory to destroy Raphael and his followers and thus stop their plans to restart the apocalypse. Maybe Castiel was here looking for a glimpse of another life, wanting Dean to smile crookedly at him, put a hand on his shoulder and tell him that everything would be fine, that they would deal with whatever the universe threw at them as long as they were together.

Castiel longed for that trust, that companionship. Castiel wished that Dean would look at him warmly and gently again. It was ironic, that Castiel missed the moments that had arisen during what he was now trying to prevent.

Dean rolled onto the bed, unconsciously turning his face towards Castiel. Despite being asleep, his face remained tense and his brow was furrowed. His cheeks were paler than usual and that only served to make his freckles stand out more in contrast. His lips were slightly parted and Castiel could swear that he felt the warm breath hit against his body despite the distance.

Castiel wanted—

Oh, how he wanted.

But Castiel had a new purpose. He couldn't allow Raphael and the other angels to destroy everything that Dean and Sam had fought so hard to build. This was the only way he could keep them safe. He was making sure to keep heaven and hell in line, letting the earth finally have the freedom it deserved. Correct the draft of the story that God had left for them. Doing a better job than his Father could have ever done.

Dean would understand then, when he saw the results of all his sacrifices. Dean would forgive him and the two of them would rebuild the bond between them much stronger and more lasting than before. Dean would look at him again as someone he cared about. Dean's soul would envelop him in warmth again.

Everything would finally end and everything would be alright.

Castiel had already lost a lot of time here, so, in an act that perhaps showed how much this whole situation was affecting him, he brought one of his hands to touch Dean's forehead as lightly as the movement of a butterfly's wings, sending out a wave of his grace to make sure that Dean slept without nightmares tonight. One last promise. One last blessing.

Dean's expression relaxed and a smile curved his lips.

Castiel felt like that made everything that will happened tomorrow worthwhile.

3.

Dean was shivering and he wasn't even asleep.

It had taken longer than Castiel would have liked to finally stop to rest. All the while being hunted by monsters that were drawn to his grace and Dean's humanity like moths to the light. Thanks to the fact that Castiel had spent the last few days before Dean found him flying in random directions to lose sight of the leviathans, at least for today they didn't have to worry about being ambushed by them.

But that didn't mean they weren't in danger, in fact, the mere presence of Castiel had increased the number of monsters hunting them so much that it was enough for Dean to decide that it was too risky to try to light a fire at night. And while neither he nor the vampire needed warmth to survive, Dean was shivering so violently that even the way he was curled up, hugging his legs against his chest and blowing warm air into his hands didn't seemed to help at all.

Purgatory was always cold, but during the nights, when the poor excuse for sunlight disappeared, it became practically glacier.

The vampire had left half an hour ago, asking Dean if he was okay with him taking the first watch, giving Castiel a suspicious look, clearly not wanting to leave them alone. Castiel tried not to take offense at the vampire's protective attitude, knowing that he had been the one who had abandoned Dean in what was probably one of the most dangerous places in the universe, but still he couldn't help feeling a surge of misplaced satisfaction to the way Dean had frowned and assured the vampire that he would be safe with Cas.

But the truth was that Dean would never be safe as long as he was with Castiel. He couldn't even stay warm while Castiel was here acting like a magnet to all things with sharp teeth and a hunger for human flesh.

Not for the first time, Castiel thought that maybe he should leave. He should fly as far away from Dean as he could, to make sure he was safe. Unfortunately, he knew his best friend well enough to know that if he did that, Dean would never leave purgatory, willing to spend the rest of his life here chasing Castiel until they could both return home. No, Castiel had to stay with Dean.

At least until the exact moment came.

"Cas?" Dean whispered, his voice trembling as much as his body. "Are you awake?"

"I don't sleep, Dean," Castiel replied softly.

"Right," Dean said.

Several minutes passed in awkward silence.

"Look, man," Dean began. "I'm freezing my ass here; can you get a little closer so I don't pathetically die of hypothermia?"

Castiel felt his heart take a very inappropriate leap into his chest, but he nodded anyway and moved closer to Dean, laying against his back until their bodies were completely close together. Dean stiffened and Castiel braced himself to be told that he had to move, that this was too awkward. Another invasion of personal space. However, after a few seconds Dean relaxed until he practically melted against Castiel's chest.

"You're so warm, why are you so warm?" Dean said, turning to bury his face against Castiel's chest and putting his icy hands inside his trenchcoat. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold ran through Castiel from head to toe.

"Because of my grace," Castiel answered in a whisper. "And my wings also keep me warm."

"Uh," was all Dean said, his eyes fluttering until they finally closed.

Castiel watched as sleep finally claimed Dean, his breathing deepening and his body completely relaxed against Castiel's. Something within him seemed to explode from a feeling that was too massive to describe, much less to name. Dean's soul seemed to pulse gently and almost shyly, seeking contact with his grace and for a moment Castiel felt that he might start to weep.

Taking a deep breath that he really didn't need, Castiel allowed his arms to wrap around Dean's body, pulling him more firmly against his body. Dean didn't wake up from the movement, he just snuggled closer into his arms. Castiel thought it was almost as if Dean wanted to merge with him. Castiel couldn't help but think that if he could, he would like to consume Dean completely, always keep him safe and warm at the center of his grace. Protected from all the dangers of the world, in a place where he would never have to suffer again.

Knowing that this was the first and only chance to have Dean like this, Castiel allowed his wings to curve around both of them, giving them an extra layer of warmth. Dean let out a contented sigh before falling into a deep sleep.

The next morning, Castiel again braced himself against rejection, but Dean woke up slowly, as if they were in one of the many motels on earth instead of on the cold floor of purgatory. Dean opened his vibrant green eyes and for a moment he looked at Castiel with something almost sweet before a smile curved his lips.

So of course the vampire had to choose that moment to clear his throat.

Dean broke away from Castiel instantly and shakily stood up. Castiel followed suit and after making sure they weren't being chased, they quickly set off again towards the portal that would take Dean back home.

Castiel was fully prepared to pretend that the night before never happened, when Dean took his hand and giving a light squeeze, he murmured: "Thanks, Cas."

"You're welcome, Dean," Castiel said.

Night after night the same ritual was repeated and the first time that Castiel had to spend the night alone after releasing Dean's hand on the portal, he no longer bothered to hold back his tears.

4.

Dean was dead and Castiel didn't want to believe it.

Of course he knew that Dean would eventually have to die. It was the final destination of all human beings, no matter how wonderful they were or how many sacrifices they made for the world, sooner or later all humans were going to die. Castiel had imagined that when the day came for Dean to take his last breath, he would take his soul and personally take it to heaven, where they could both spend the rest of eternity in peace.

Then, when Metatron stole his grace and Castiel opened his eyes as a human, his fantasy changed. Almost without his consent his mind began to devise scenarios where he and Dean would spend the rest of their mortal lives together, growing old together and, when the time was right, they would both enter heaven as one and share eternity as soulmates. Seen from that point, Castiel found himself embracing his new mortality almost warmly.

Daydreaming in the most indulgent way Castiel had imagined a future in which Dean would have wanted him by his side in the same way that a married couple would love each other. More realistically, he had imagined that Dean would live a long life in which Castiel would always be his best friend.

But that wasn't the case.

Castiel wanted to scream.

He wanted the stolen grace that was beating within him to burn away, to let heaven, earth, and hell feel the power of his affliction. He wanted to destroy the stars, reduce the world to ashes, and tear apart the veil of reality in order to get Dean back. Use his broken wings to fly to his side.

And that was the only thing he allowed himself to do. No matter that the pain was unimaginable, no matter that his very essence was being ripped apart. None of that seemed important as confirming with his own eyes what Metatron had told him. Castiel knew it was a futile attempt, that even though he was just a poor example of an angel right now, his connection with Dean was as strong as the first day, but now it was silent, cold and inert.

A sob caught in his throat as he landed in the bunker in Dean's room. Castiel felt something inside him break at Dean's rigid body. A part of him almost wanted to pretend that Dean was just asleep, that finally whole sleepless nights had caught up with him and that's why he was so still now. His body was shaking with an agony that came from both his broken wings and his shattered heart. Castiel approached the bed, sitting next to Dean and extending one of his hands so that he could place two fingers on his forehead.

Castiel cried when he saw that he couldn't heal him, couldn't bring him back.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel gasped, his hand reaching down to gently cup his cheek. "I'm so sorry."

Dean, of course, didn't answer.

It was unfair. It just couldn't be possible that the soul Castiel had fought to get out of Hell was now beyond his grasp. This wasn't the way things should be. If there was one thing his experience in purgatory had taught him, was that Castiel couldn't survive Dean going to a place where he couldn't reach him. Castiel could feel his heart, a part of him that was still stupidly human, clench at the fact that this was the end of their story.

Except this couldn't be the end.

Faster than Castiel thought possible, he felt anger quickly replace his sadness. The kind of divine anger that at some point would have been able to wipe out everything in its path. Castiel wanted to make Metatron suffer, he wanted to tear off his wings with a butter knife and take away everything he loved so that he would feel a pinch of the pain that Castiel was feeling right now. The need to avenge Dean almost blinded him and for a moment, Castiel knew that if he didn't calm down, no matter what Hannah had said, he would take Metatron out and finish him off and then spread the remaining pieces around the universe so that they could never get together again.

But again, it may have been Metatron who ended Dean's life, but it had been Castiel who had given him the power to do so. He had been the one who had trusted Metatron and given him the angel tablet and heaven on a silver platter. As much as Castiel wanted to pretend that all of his anger was directed towards Metatron, the truth was that much of that anger and hatred was directed towards himself.

Because this was his fault.

Dean had died trying to correct Castiel's stupid mistakes.

"I'm going to fix this, Dean," Castiel promised, leaning down to brush his lips against Dean's forehead. Trying one more time for a miracle. When nothing happened, Castiel's resolve only grew stronger. "I'll fix this even if it's the last thing I do."

The next time he went back to the bunker, Dean had left and this time there was nothing to stop Castiel from screaming.

5.

Dean was exhausted.

It had been a hard couple of months. Although if Castiel was being honest with himself, the truth was that it had been a hard couple of years. One apocalypse after the other, one tragedy after the other. No time to rest and no time to simply allow themselves to be happy.

Happiness.

Castiel was trying not to think about that too much these days.

Mind you, it's not as if Castiel at this very moment had many reasons to be happy. He couldn't even begin to think about relaxing when Jack had barely been saved from death, when they still had to deal with Michael and when Dean...

Oh, Dean.

The day Dean said yes to Michael was probably the worst day of his life. Castiel doesn't remember feeling as helpless as the moment when Dean offered himself to be used as a sword, as a weapon, as a vessel.

When Castiel rescued Dean from hell he didn't know that the mission that heaven had planned for him was to be a vessel. For months Castiel had believed that Dean, the epitome of humanity, would be the one to stop the apocalypse before it began. It wasn't until he was informed of the truth that Castiel was unable to continue following heaven's orders. He couldn't even begin to imagine the idea of Dean's soul fading behind the supernatural glow of an archangel's grace. Castiel rebelled against heaven to try to save Dean from the fate that they had planned for him and he had succeeded.

Until now.

"Hey, Cas," Dean's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel replied, feeling his heart ache at the shadows under Dean's green eyes, the way his signature flannel seemed to be two sizes too big and the forced smile that curved his lips. Castiel longed to be able to do something to ease the burdens Dean had, but he knew there was nothing he could do.

"How are you, man?" Dean asked, posture stiff and tense. Castiel tried not to frown.

"I'm fine," Castiel stated, standing up and walking over to Dean, who immediately looked away to the floor. "How are you, Dean?"

"I'm great," Dean lied.

"No, you're not," Castiel whispered gently.

Dean closed his eyes and his hands began to shake. Castiel wanted to hold those hands in his and bring them to his lips, kiss them softly. It was the kind of gestures that Dean deserved but that he would never allow himself to receive, at least not from Castiel.

"Cas," Dean gasped, clenching his jaw and shaking his head with a barely perceptible movement. "I…"

A couple of minutes passed in silence, both of them standing in the middle of the kitchen. When finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Castiel but was only a few minutes, Dean let out a deep sigh, bringing his hands to his eyes and rubbing them roughly before opening them and looking at Castiel.

"I can't sleep," Dean confessed. "He keeps pounding and pounding. He never stops and I'm terrified of going to sleep, letting my guard down and letting that bastard go free, so I thought maybe you could..."

Dean stopped talking.

"What, Dean?" Castiel said. "You know I'll do anything to help you."

After debating for a few seconds and with a slight blush washing over his cheeks, Dean said. "You once said that you would watch over me as I sleep and... well, I was wondering if the offer was still up?"

"Of course, Dean." Castiel didn't hesitate. "But are you sure?"

"I'll feel safer if you're there with me," Dean confessed, looking down again. "You know, in case something bad happens, I know that you will do whatever it takes to keep the others safe."

Castiel absolutely would not, but Dean really needed to sleep, so he nodded.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean sighed, some of the tension evaporating from his posture.

They walked silently to Dean's room. Castiel was having an internal debate with himself, in which one part of him was ecstatic that Dean trusted him enough to ask him to safeguard his sleep, while the other was mired in despair due to Dean not wanting Castiel to do it so he could take care of anything that might hurt him, but instead he wanted Castiel to make sure that Dean didn't hurt others.

Always thinking of others before himself.

It was oddly domestic. Dean went through his sleep routine with ease, as if Castiel wasn't even there. When it was finally time to go to bed, Dean turned momentarily to look at Castiel who was dragging the desk chair and a nervous smile (but a smile much more honest than the ones he had been giving the rest of his family during the day) appeared on his face and his eyes softened calmly, or at least as calmly as Dean could handle right now.

"I'm not going to make you sit in a chair all night, Cas," Dean said. "The bed is big enough for both of us and you don't sleep, buddy."

"Dean, are you sure?" Castiel asked, mentally cursing his stupid heart that gave a treacherous leap into his chest.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure."

This was definitely not the way Castiel had envisioned spending his night.

Dean lay down on the left side of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. Castiel thought that maybe it would be presumptuous to lie next to him after Dean reminded him that he didn't need to sleep, so he sat up on the bed, leaning his back against the headboard and with his hands in his lap.

Turning off the lamp, Castiel watched as Dean shuddered at the sudden darkness, so removing one of his hands from his lap, Castiel placed it on Dean's shoulder, not squeezing or anything, just keeping contact between them.

"I'm here, Dean," Castiel whispered. "You're safe. You're much stronger than him. I promise you that nothing bad is going to happen tonight."

Dean didn't say anything, but slowly he relaxed until his breathing slowed and sleep finally consumed him.

But Castiel quickly recognized that it wasn't a peaceful sleep, Dean didn't seem to be able to stay still, rolling in bed constantly as if he was trying to escape from something or as if he was constantly struggling with someone. After the third time in which with his movements he almost ended up falling off the bed, Castiel lay on the bed and placing one of his hands on the back of Dean's head with a firm movement he pulled him to his chest, surrounding him with his arms and forcing him to stop moving.

"You're safe, Dean," Castiel whispered. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You're safe, you're safe."

Something in Dean's sleeping brain seemed to understand what Castiel was telling him, for almost immediately he threw his arms and legs around him, clinging to him like Castiel was the last wooden plank that would save him from drowning in the ocean. Castiel continued muttering reassurances and gently stroking Dean's hair. The rhythmic movement and Dean's soft breathing lulled Castiel and before he knew it his eyes had closed and sleep claimed him too.

The next morning, both of them pretended that nothing had happened.

+1

For a brief moment, Castiel didn't remember where he was.

And, in less than a second, all the memories came back to his mind like a wave in the middle of a tsunami. Castiel tried to get up on the bed with a gasp of surprise escaping his lips, when surprisingly gentle hands held him by the shoulders and forced him to lie down again. Castiel opened his eyes and was immediately blinded by the light in the room, too used to darkness, to emptiness.

"Cas?" A voice whispered softly. It was a voice that Castiel knew. It was a voice that had haunted him through his most cherished dreams and through his most terrible nightmares. It was a voice that Castiel knew belonged to someone he loved. But that wasn't possible. Dean was safe, he was safe, he was safe. Castiel had saved him. Dean couldn't be here.

"I'm here, Cas," Dean continued, reading Castiel's mind (or maybe Castiel had spoken aloud), one of his hands brushing the hair from his forehead. "I've been here all this time, you stupid son of a bitch."

Castiel didn't understand anything of what was happening and before he knew it, unconsciousness had once again claimed his overwhelmed mind.

A new wave of memories washed over Castiel the next time he woke up.

This time, Castiel remembered all the things that the empty had forced him to see, the worst moments of his life. He remembered a sudden crack of light that disturbed the vast darkness. Castiel could now remember Dean snapping him out of his trance, dragging him towards the crack and telling him how stupid he had been and that it better never occurred to him to do something like that again. The empty appearing and reminding Dean that a deal was a deal and Dean giving him an apologetic look before pulling out an angel blade and directing it at Castiel's throat, who immediately nodded, not hesitating for a single second. This time, the pain of losing his grace was nothing compared to what Castiel felt as he was surrounded in Dean's arms and breathed in the fresh air of the earth.

He also remembered falling asleep as soon as he was inside the safety of the impala.

"Back with us, sleeping beauty?" Dean said, he was sitting in a chair next to his bed. Castiel felt the love inside his chest explode into a supernova at the way Dean looked so real, so alive. As much as the empty had enjoyed torturing him with the image of Dean, Jack and the rest of his family, Castiel could always identify that they were just imitations. And this, Dean smiling at him with shadows under his eyes and his freckled cheeks, was as real as could be.

"Dean," Castiel sighed, a prayer or maybe just a plea. "Dean."

"I'm here, Cas," Dean replied, holding his hand. A contact that made Castiel take a ragged breath. "I'm here and you can have me."

"Dean," seemed to be the only word Castiel was still able to say. His now very human heart was threatening to burst out of his chest.

"You know what?" Dean asked, his voice turning soft and shaky. Castiel felt vaguely comforted that he wasn't the only one feeling as nervous as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff. "During these last few weeks I planned and imagined a thousand different ways this meeting would be. But now that it's finally happening, I think there is only one thing I want to do."

"What?" Castiel whispered, hope treacherously rising inside him.

"This," Dean said, and then he kissed him.

It was a soft, chaste kiss. No more than a tender touch of lips that made stars explode behind his closed eyes. Castiel felt that in that moment entire universes were born around both of them. This was the reason why Castiel had rebelled against heaven so many years ago, this was the reason why he had fought so hard to keep the world safe. Everything Castiel had done, the good and the bad, boiled down to this simple moment. Everything Castiel had done, he had done it for love.

"I love you," Dean exclaimed against his lips and Castiel thought that was the most wonderful thing he had heard in all his millennia of existence. "I love you too, Cas."

"Oh, Dean," Castiel sobbed, tears flooding his eyes without his permission. "Oh, my love."

A sweet blush came over Dean's cheeks and Castiel had never seen something so beautiful.

They spent a few minutes just enjoying each other's company. Getting to know each other again. Learning to love each other. Sharing soft kisses that Castiel was sure he would never get used to. Dean smiling as bright as the sun, his eyes shining like the stars in the sky and his cheeks rosy like the sweetest of flowers. Castiel had spent years thinking that he couldn't love Dean any more than he already did, but the last few minutes had proved him wrong.

"Hey," Castiel said, smiling so much that his cheeks started to ache slightly. Feeling happiness running through his veins like honey. "I thought you said watching someone sleep was creepy."

Dean hummed softly.

"I was lying," Dean confessed, his eyes shining with amusement. "In fact, I think it's endearing and I'd like you to watch me sleep for the rest of our lives."

"I can't do that," Castiel said. "Now I need to sleep too."

"Oh, that's okay," Dean exclaimed, leaning back to place a brief kiss against his lips. "We can take turns watching over each other."

"Okay," Castiel agreed. "We can definitely do that."

More often than not, both of them fell asleep as soon as they touched the bed. But there were days when Dean would wake up earlier than usual, too used to the soldier routine that he had imposed on himself for years, and would spend the remaining hours until dawn watching Castiel sleep, sometimes singing softly to him and other times simply placing one of his hands over his heart, feeling its beat. Other times it was Castiel who took a long time to fall asleep, without being completely used to his new humanity yet, and spent hours reading a books, gently stroking Dean's hair and feeling the love explode inside his chest at the trust and love that Dean gave to him.

In the end, they both kept their promise to always watch over the other.

[rowyn-writes]

A Mother's Love Part Two

Warnings: Pregnancy, fluff, major angst, implications of depression

Pairings: Dean x Wife!Reader

Characters: Dean, Jack, Sam, Reader, Cas (Mentioned only)

Word count: 3k

You sat on the couch of your childhood home, staring blankly at the T.V. Your knees were pulled up to your chin as you had your arms wrapped around your legs. It had been three weeks since you left the bunker, and you felt empty inside.

Your mother sat beside you, a cup of tea and honey in her hand and a concerned look on her face. "Darling, you have to eat something. I know you haven't been feeling well, but you still need to stay healthy." You didn't respond to her as she set the cup of tea in your hands.

Everything felt numb. It was like you didn't feel any emotions at all. The world felt dull. Like all color had been stripped and it left you in darkness.

"Sweetheart, what happened?" She asked softly. Even though you had been with your parents for almost a month now, you had never fully discussed what happened with Dean.

"Mom, please-"

"No, Y/N." She put her foot down. "You call me one day, clearly upset saying that you and Jack were going to stay here for a while. You get here and you don't look like the daughter that I knew. You've changed."

You scoffed at your mother's words. "I'm getting a divorce, of course I've changed."

She sucked in a breath of air. "Y/N. What happened?" You gave your mother a brief rundown of what happened with you, Dean and Jack. "Oh, honey." She sympathized. "I am so sorry. You know that you and Jack are welcomed to stay as long as you like. I know your father is excited to have a grandchild."

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up to your mother. "What?"

"Jack, of course." She explained. "Look at them. Your dad's so happy. It's about time you give us a grandson."

"Lord knows you couldn't count on Chris for that." You rolled your eyes. "He can't keep a girl to save his life." Your smile began to fade slightly as your stomach did flips. Your mom noticed your green complexion and ran to grab a trash can. It was nearly too late as you felt your dinner from last night coming back up. She held your hair back as you did so, calling for your dad to get a wet washcloth.

You felt a cold cloth across your forehead, cooling your body. "Mom!" Jack said worriedly. "Are you okay?.

"She's okay, kiddo." Your dad assured him. "She's just not feeling too well." He mumbled skeptically.

You sat back against the couch, holding the rag to your head. "Jack," Your mom called. "Why don't you and I go make some cookies?"

Jack smiled at the idea, looking to you for approval. "You don't have to ask me, sweetheart. Go have fun."

You mother dipped down to whisper something unintelligible in your dad's ear before going to the kitchen.

"Y/N," He shook his head. "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

"Because I don't want it to be real." You muttered. "I don't want to think about the last thing that Dean said to me or the look on his face. I want to wake up and for this whole thing to be a dream. But I know it's not. I won't wake up next to him tomorrow and I don't get to tell him how much I love him." You chocked on a sob, covering you mouth with your hand so Jack wouldn't hear.

"Oh, my sweet girl." Your dad said softly, pulling you into his side. "I am so sorry, my darlin'." You rested your head on his shoulder as tears slipped down your cheeks. "That's not it, though. Is it? There's something else."

"Papa, I think I'm pregnant." You confessed. "I'm late and I've been sick all week."

"Have you taken a test yet?" He asked. You shook your head. "Okay, I'll tell you what. I'll go by the drug store and get a couple of tests, just to be sure, and I'll grab you some food on the way home. How does that sound?"

"Great." You said with a small smile. He kissed the top of your head before grabbing the keys and heading out of the house.

---

Five.

Five tests that had come back positive. Each one that you looked at made your heart sink more and more. "Oh god." You whimpered. "Damnit."

"What does it say, sweetie?" Your mother questioned from the other side of the door. You slowly opened it up and showed her the positive pregnancy test.

"Are they all positive?" You nodded.

"What am I gonna do?"

"I think you should call Dean-"

"No." You said firmly. "I'm not calling Dean. He made it very obvious that he didn't want anything to do with me anymore."

"Y/N," Your mother spoke firmly. "I'm not justifying what Dean said or did in the moment, however, he was just as hurt as you were because you were leaving with Jack and you didn't know how long you would be gone. I really think you should call him. I think he would want to know you're pregnant with his baby."

You sighed at her words. You knew she had a point. She was your mother, she's always right. "What if he doesn't care?" You whispered. "What if he hears my voice and hands up on me?"

"Then that's his loss, honey." She cooed. "The least you can do is try."

---

MEANWHILE, AT THE BUNKER;

"Dean." Sam shook his brother. "Dean. C'mon dude, wake up."

Dean groaned as his eyes peeled open. "What?" He grumbled.

"You've been sleeping in here all night." Sam said, crossing his arms. "You should probably get some rest in your own bed, or at the very least, the couch. And charge your phone while you're at it, it's dead."

Dean stretched add he looked at the empty whiskey bottle set on the table and the picture of your wedding day beside it. It had been a rough few weeks since you had left. "You know I can't go sleep in that damn bed." He growled.

"Dean, I offered to switch rooms with you-"

"I don't want to switch rooms!" He snapped. "I want my wife back."

Sam frowned as he looked at his brother. He looked awful. He hasn't shaven in weeks, his hair's a mess, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Why don't you call her, Dean?"

"Because, after what I said, she'll never take me back. I was too harsh on her. Plus my phone is broken."

"One, you have ten phones, and two, yeah, you were a complete ass." Sam agreed. "You should have seen her when she left here. I had never seen anyone so. . . Broken before. You know they sparkle she had in her eyes?" Dean nodded. "It was gone. Her entire face seemed dull, almost like she had aged ten years."

Dean put his head in his hands, feeling defeated. "What have I done?"

"I don't know, but you had better make it right."

---

"Still no answer?" Your father asked. You had called Dean three times now and still no answer.

"Nope. Not a sound."

"I'm sorry honey," Your mother sympathized, rubbing your back. It's that anything we can do?"

"Yeah," You nodded. "I need space. I need to spend more time with Jack before the baby comes. I just want to know what it's like to be a mother."

"Of course." Your dad agreed. "Take the keys to the cabin in Colorado. I know that's a lot of good memories there and no pesky neighbors to worry about "

"Thanks, dad." You smiled. "We'll be outta here soon."

"You don't have to leave in a rush, kiddo. You know that we love having you here."

"I know."

---

"Why are we going to your parents cabin in Colorado?" Jack asked curiously as he peered out the window.

"Uh," You bit your lip as you tried to come up with a suitable lie to tell Jack. You hated how much you were lying to Jack lately, but you knew that he wouldn't understand the things that you were going through. "I just wanted to show you the place and stay up there for a little while. It's nice and quiet, you'll love it. It's cold up there and it's snowy in the winter. I used to go sledding all the time when I was younger and then my parents would call me in for hot chocolate and a movie. We can do that together. How does that sound, Jack?"

"It sounds great, Mom!" He smiled goofily. Every time he called you 'Mom,' your heart melted. You loved that Jack felt so comfortable around you to call you his mother. You knew that you would never be able to replace Kelly, and you would never want to, but you did want to make him feel safe and loved. You wanted Jack to know what a mother's love feels like. Jack blamed himself for the death of his mother, and you understood his grief, but you had told him time and time again that it wasn't his fault. Kelly wanted to go through with the pregnancy and refused to listen to anyone else's opinions on the matter. You just wished he understood that.

You felt a tear roll down your cheek, quickly wiping it away. "What's wrong, Mom?" Jack questioned. "Is it about Dean?"

You glanced over at Jack in surprise. "Why would you say that?"

"Well, Sam and Dean aren't here, and Dean hasn't called you to check up on you since we left. I know that whenever you go on a hunt by yourself, Dean calls you everyday to make sure you're okay."

You sighed heavily as you looked at the road in front of you. "Dean and I are. . . Going through a tough time right now. That's why I wanted to get away for a while. And I didn't want to go by myself, so that's why I wanted you to come with me."

"Are we ever going back to the bunker?"

"I don't know. . . It's a difficult situation, Jack. Right now, I don't think that I will be going back home anytime soon. But if you want to go back, I'll take you back. I don't want to make you do anything you don't want to do."

"I want to stay with you." He said firmly. "But I also want you to be happy. You don't look happy anymore. You don't smile or laugh the way you used to. You sit on the couch watching reruns of Friends, and I've heard you crying at night. Sometimes I think you forget that I don't sleep very much."

You said nothing in response, knowing that Jack was right. You wanted to call Dean one more time, but you knew it was fruitless. He wasn't going to answer. But you did have Sam. When you finally arrived at the cabin, you sent Jack to unpack while you dialed Sam's number. After three rings, he finally picked up.

"Hello, Y/N? Are you okay? How's Jack?" He asked in one breath.

"Hey, Sammy. I'm fine, and so is Jack. I just wanted to call and make sure that you haven't gotten killed by anything."

"Nope, we're still alive." He gave a small chuckle. "How are you, Y/N, really? Don't lie to me, because I know when you're lying."

"I miss him." You sniffed. "Being away from him hurts me." Your voice cracked, forcing you to clear your throat. "We've been married for five years. And I know that to the average person that doesn't seem like a long time, but we're hunters, Sam. You know how hard it is to stay in a relationship in our line of work. I've been in love with him for half my life, and now, for us to be in this situation, it sucks, Sam. I can't think of any other word to describe it. It really fucking sucks."

Sam was quiet for a moment as he listened to you cry. "I'm sorry this is happening, Y/N. I never thought that this would happen to you and Dean. But I've known Dean my whole life, and I've known you since we were twenty, so I think that I'm entitled to make a judgement on this." You let out a small laugh. "You two have been in love longer than you've been together, but both of you have been to dumb to realize it. You argue like cats and dogs because you're so certain about what you believe in. You're both so passionate about things that you never let up. And now that you're finally together, you have been so happy. Dean has never felt this way about anyone that he's been with, male or female. He loves you so much, Y/N, that it kills him. You have both come too far to for things to end like this. I'm going to tell you the exact same thing I told Dean; fix this."

"I want to, Sammy, I just don't know how."

"Stop hiding, for one. You can't fix something when you're hundreds of miles away." You groaned as you felt a wave of nausea was over you. "Y/N?" You quickly made your way to the bathroom. "Y/N? What's going on? Are you okay?"

You leaned against the wall once you were done throwing up. "Yeah, yeah, Sam, I'm okay."

"What was that about, then?" Sam questioned. When you didn't answer, he began putting the pieces together himself. "You're pregnant."

"SHH!" You hissed. "Don't say that!"

"Why not? Because you don't want Dean to know?" He spoke coldly.

"Sam, please, don't say anything."

"How long have you known, Y/N? And how long do you plan on keeping this from Dean?"

You sighed as you pinched the bridge of your nose. "I've known for a couple of days, okay? And I don't know when or how I'm going to tell Dean. He made it very clear that he didn't want anything to do with me the last time we talked. Besides, I tried to call him and he didn't answer my calls, so don't try to pin me off as the bad guy here."

"When did you try to call him?" The hard edge in Sam's voice disappeared.

"Three days ago, when I found out I was pregnant."

You could hear Sam let out a small laugh. "Three days ago I came in the kitchen to find Dean passed out on the table, hung over as hell and holding on to the picture of your wedding day. And beside him was his broken phone. His main phone, which I'm assuming is the one that you called?"

"Yeah. . ." You said meekly.

"Hang up and call his second phone. Please, will you do that for me?"

"Yes," You nodded, even though you knew he couldn't see you.

"I love you, Y/N/N."

"I love you too, Sammy." You sighed as you hung up the phone. You were terrified to call Dean. You hadn't spoken to him since that night all those weeks ago. You were still hurt, and you knew that Dean was hurting as well, and all you wanted was to hear his voice. You took a deep breath as you dialed his second phone number.

It rang five times before going to voicemail, making your heart sink. Not a minute later, the number called back. "Hello?"

"Y/N." Dean's voice said gruffly. "Sam told me you were going to call."

"Did. . . Did he tell you anything else?" You asked.

"Just that I needed to talk to you. What's going on?"

"I miss you," You confessed. You needed to tell Dean everything, and that included telling him how you felt. "I hate the way things ended between us, and I know that it wasn't solely on you or me. But I love you, Dean, and I will never stop loving you. And I know it's unfair I left and this is how I'm trying to get you back; over the phone. I would much rather be doing this in person. But I love you, Dean, and I always will. No matter what you say or do, I love you."

You could hear Dean struggling to breathe correctly. "Where are you?"

"My parents cabin, wh-"

"I'll be tomorrow morning." And with that, he hung up.

---

You paced back and forth in the living room, biting your nails. Dean didn't say what time he was going to be here, but he just said that he would be here in the morning. You had stayed up all night thinking about him. About the way his hair fell into his face after a shower, and how he always smelled like whiskey and firewood. The way his eyes would crinkle at the edges whenever he laughed, really laughed. But your favorite thing was when you had just finished a hunt, and you would go to lie down in bed, Dean would pull you close to him and whisper how much he loves you.

A sharp knock at the door snapped you out of your trance. "Who is it, Mom?" Jack asked, peering around the corner.

"Why don't you come see, kiddo." You wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans before opening the door to reveal Sam and Dean. "Hi," You smiled. Sam was the first to come inside and hug you. He grinned as he pulled away, ruffling your hair.

"Why don't I take Jack into town for a little bit while you guys work this out?" He suggested.

"Yeah, yeah, that sounds good. Jack, go put on your shoes, you're going into town with Sam for a little while." Jack beamed at your works, hurriedly putting his shoes on a following Sam out the door.

"Hi," You said once more after Sam and Jack were gone. Dean didn't say a word as he hugged you tightly. You melted into his touch, feeling comfort in his embrace. The familiar smell of whiskey and firewood filled your nostrils. You closed your eyes to savor this moment. "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

taglist:

@vicariouslythruspn @mimaria420 @fofisstilinski @daphnen21 @katwed @anunstablefangirl @desimarie12 @alderpine @rebeccaitsnotwhatyouthink @akshi8278

Also, yes, there will be a part 3

[curlynerd]

Happy Birthday, Cas! Word Count: 3K Rating: T Summary: Appalled that Cas has never had a birthday party before, Jack drags Dean into his schemes to plan a surprise party for him. Dean finally works up the courage to tell Cas how he feels. Notes: love confessions, first kiss, lots of fluff, and lots of Cas' family showing up much they care

Also read on AO3!

"You've never celebrated Cas' birthday?!" Jack exclaimed by way of greeting at -- Dean groaned and rolled over to check the time. -- 6:47 in the morning.

"Jack..." Dean sighed, dragging his hand down his face and sitting up in bed. "We've been over this. You promised not to come barging in here until at least 8:30."

"Huh?" Jack titled his head at Dean before his gaze trailed over to the bedside clock. "Oh. Sorry. I forgot to check the time."

"All those God powers and you can't even conjure up a watch?" Dean grumbled as he threw the sheets off his legs and planted his feet on the floor. "Now what were you saying about Cas?"

"His birthday!" Jack's expression was too damn excitable for this early in the morning. "I was telling him about how we celebrated my birthday after Mrs. Butters left, and I asked him about his birthday, and he said he'd never celebrated one before!"

Dean frowned at Jack. This was what he was woken up for? "Kid, I don't think he has one. The dude's older than calendars."

Jack was undaunted. "Yeah, but he was born, right? Even angels are born."

Okay, it was way too early for existential questions. He needed coffee. Dean grunted his acknowledgment and dragged himself to his feet. "Did Cas say when his birthday was?"

"Well, no." Jack furrowed his brow for just a second before his face lit up in enthusiasm. "Why don't we celebrate today?"

Dean stared at Jack. Jack's eyes were wide and sincere and full of love, just like his dad's. And, apparently, just as effective. "Alright..." Dean said with a defeated sigh. Who was he to deny the kid a chance to make his dad happy? "Whacha wanna do for his birthday?"

Jack beamed. "A surprise party! With cake!"

"Yeah, I figured as much." Dean scrubbed at his hair and wiped the last of the sleep out of his eyes as he shuffled his feet into his slippers. "Coffee first, though. Then the store."

"What kind of cake should we make?" Jack asked an hour later, as he and Dean pondered every box mix the grocery store had to offer.

“Hmm…” Dean eyeballed the box of funfetti mix. Jack would probably like that one best. It had sprinkles baked in. Dean kind of wanted a classic chocolate cake. And Cas, well. He wouldn’t care. He’d probably take two bites at most, just to appease Jack.

“This one.” Dean’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he reached for a box and held it out for Jack.

“Angel food cake?” Jack read.

Dean nodded, his grin widening at his little joke. “Yeah! It’s special. Angels love it, ya know.”

Jack tilted his head at Dean, then the box, before a smile bloomed across his face. “You gave me angel food cake once. I really liked it! Is that why you got it for me?”

Dean thought back to that drive, and his little snack cakes morality test. “Yup. That was definitely why.” He snatched the box from Jack’s hand and tossed it into the cart before he could ask more questions. “Let’s wrap this up before Cas wonders why we’ve been gone so long.”

If Cas was ignorant of Jack’s birthday plans before, he wasn’t for long. Neither Dean nor Jack thought to do much to conceal the contents of their shopping bags when they returned home. Or figure out a way to keep Cas from wandering the bunker. So when he stumbled upon the two of them hauling bags toward the kitchen, both Dean and Jack traded suspicious glances.

“Dean and I will be in the kitchen for awhile,” Jack said seriously, cutting straight to the chase. “Do not come in there though!”

“Oh?” Cas’ gaze flickered down to their bags. A package of birthday hats stuck out of the opening of one. A canister of rainbow sprinkles was nestled at the top of another. His mouth twitched as his eyes softened with warmth. When they met Dean’s eyes, Dean’s stomach did a flip. Cas’ eyes grew even warmer.

‘He loves you,’ Dean’s thoughts helpfully supplied at the worst possible moment, ensuring Dean’s face burned with a fierce blush right as Cas looked his most adoring. Dean hastily averted his gaze.

Cas hadn’t been back from the Empty for long, only a couple of weeks really. But it felt like an eternity.

Because Dean hadn’t told him yet. He hadn’t looked him in the eyes and said ‘I love you too.’ Hadn’t dragged him in by the lapels of his stupid trenchcoat and kissed him senseless. Hadn’t held him close and promised him that he could have Dean, all of him, for as long as he wanted to keep him.

The moment had never been right. There were always people around. Jack. Sam. So many of their friends, eager to see them and celebrate their victory over Chuck and their newfound freedom. Things were only now starting to quiet down, and still Dean hadn’t worked up the courage to tell him.

“It’s for a surprise,” Jack continued, pulling Dean from his thoughts. “Er, not a surprise! We’re not planning any surprises!” Dean barely controlled his eyeroll. The kid really needed to work on his lying. “It’s something you can’t know about until later. So don’t even think about peeking!”

Cas and Dean traded knowing looks. Dean shrugged a little. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cas assured Jack.

Jack brightened. “Great! Come on, Dean. Let’s go!” He practically skipped toward the kitchen, radiating enthusiasm with every step. Dean sighed and followed after him, already anticipating the huge mess at the end of all this. At least it was just box mix. That was easy enough to handle.

As it turned out, even box mix wasn’t foolproof.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” Jack asked in concern. He poked at the misshapen mess of their cake.

“Probably not.” Dean shrugged. It was a disaster zone, is what it was. Apparently angel food cake required a special pan. It looked similar enough to a bundt pan, though, so Dean thought it was an okay substitute. Clearly not. Or maybe they overmixed it? Was that why it sunk into this lumpy, craggy mess and then fell apart when they tried to shake it out of the pan?

“But ya know, homemade cake never looks as fancy as the stuff you get at the store, but it tastes just as good.” He slapped Jack on the back. “Put some frosting on this thing, maybe some decorations, and we’re golden.”

And so they set to work. Jack clearly had a vision of what he wanted, pulling supplies from the pantry to add to the disaster cake. He insisted on covering it in a thick layer of chocolate frosting, even though Dean tried to tell him angel food cake didn’t usually need it. It was vital to what he was creating. A full hour passed, and somehow the thing looked even worse than when it first flopped out of the pan.

“Cas is gonna love it,” Dean said anyway, because he knew it was true. Jack beamed with pride.

“At what point am I no longer banned from the kitchen?” Almost as if on cue, Cas’ voice called out from down the hallway. “Am I allowed to walk past it? I’d like to go into the library.”

“You can come in!” Jack yelled back, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement.

Dean looked around at the decoration-less kitchen, the party hats and the balloons still in their packaging. “Wait, hold on--” he began, but it was too late.

“SURPRISE!” Jack shouted as Cas rounded the corner. “Happy birthday, Cas!”

“A surprise for me?” Cas didn’t even seem to notice that the only things in the kitchen were a weird brown blob of cake and a massive mess. He was smiling from ear to ear at Jack with that special, endeared smile parents reserved just for their children. “But I told you I didn’t have a birthday,” Cas said. Which he and Jack had talked about literally hours ago. Before Jack raced off to talk with Dean and plan an impromptu trip to the store before baking all morning.

Yeah. Cas definitely knew what Jack was planning today.

“Well, Jack decided today was your birthday. So, happy birthday.” Dean shrugged a little in a ‘Kids. What can ya do?’ sort of way.

Cas’ expression softened. “Today is a perfect day for a birthday.”

“We made a cake!” Jack bounded over to Cas and practically dragged him to the kitchen counter. “Do you like it?”

“It is…” Cas frowned and knit his eyebrows together at the monstrosity before him. “An inside-out hedgehog?”

“It’s a Sarlacc Pit!” Jack exclaimed while Dean clutched at the table, doubled-over with laughter. Jack pointed out the pretzel rods jutting out around the misshapen, lumpy hole in the center of the sunken cake. They’d done their best to make the chocolate frosting around it look like smooth sand, but of course it was way too brown. And bits of warm cake kept breaking off while they iced it. “That’s its teeth, and that’s the sand. It’s a Star Wars cake!”

“Oh, of course it is!” Cas said generously. He patted Jack’s shoulder. “It’s wonderful, Jack. And Dean.” He nodded at Dean, who was still trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah we’ve got ourselves the next Cake Boss over here. If the God thing doesn’t work out.” Dean’s voice rippled with laughter. He snatched up the bag of party hats and ripped it open. Cas looked exceedingly tolerant as Dean snapped one on his head with an impish grin. “So birthday boy, whacha wanna do on your special day?”

“Oh I know!” Jack exclaimed. His enthusiasm was infectious. “First we’ve gotta…”

The day wound up being more about Jack than Cas. Or rather, Jack doing all the things he loved to do with Cas. There was a Star Wars movie marathon. There was cake. There were more board games than Dean had played in a lifetime. Dean had a sneaking suspicion Cas let Jack win most of them.

But Cas had smiled almost non-stop the entire day, probably more than Dean had seen the entire thirteen years since he’d met him. And yeah, Dean knew why. What was better to do on his birthday than spend time with his kid?

By the end of the day, even Cas was looking a little tired. Dean was absolutely exhausted. He was half-tempted to drag himself to bed early, but when Jack finally retired to his own room to give Dean and Cas some time together, there wasn’t any hesitation about settling down in his favorite armchair, Cas beside him, with two glasses of Dean’s favorite whiskey to share.

The drink was warming through his limbs, but the light in Cas’ eyes was warmer. He looked content, if not a little overwhelmed by all the love his little family had shown him today. Dean leaned back in his chair and let the peacefulness of the moment wash over him.

“You know, it’s serendipitous Jack chose today for my birthday.” Cas smiled down at his glass.

Dean cracked a sleepy eye open. “Yeah? Why?”

“Well, today is the anniversary of the day I raised you from perdition.”

Dean stared at Cas. Cas eyes twinkled with nostalgia. “Really?” Cas nodded, and Dean laughed. “Well then I suppose it’s really my re-birthday.”

Cas chuckled. “I’ll remind Jack to bake two cakes next year.” They fell into easy silence, nursing their drinks as they reflected on the years.

“It really is a good birth date,” Cas said awhile later. “I may have been alive for eons before then, but the day I met you was when I changed...That was when I really started living.”

Dean’s heart leapt into his throat, Cas’ love confession ringing in his ears. “Didn’t I stab you?” he joked weakly, deflecting the spiraling nerves that bubbled up in his chest.

Cas laughed. “Yes. Yes, you did. I didn’t realize it at the time, but even then you were making me feel. Mostly confusion,” he added with a wry twist of his lips. “I saved you from eternal damnation, and you repaid me by stabbing me in the chest!” Despite his amusement, Cas’ eyes were overflowing with warmth and affection. Dean could almost read the thoughts going on behind them. ‘I fell a little bit in love with you right then.’

“What can I say? I have that effect on people.” ‘Now,’ his thoughts urged. ‘Tell him now!’ “I dunno what I’d have done without you,” Dean mused around a sip of whiskey. A little more liquid courage. A little more and he could do this.

“Another angel would have been sent. You would have been pulled from Hell anyway.”

“Not what I meant, Cas,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “All of it. All the crap we’ve been through. All the crap Chuck put us through. Put me through.” He watched the way the warm lamplight reflected off his drink. “I...I’m glad I had a best friend through it all. You know?”

“Yes,” Cas said, but there was a twinge of sadness in his voice that made Dean look up. He was smiling softly, but the longing in his eyes was impossible to miss.

Dean sighed. His gut churned with fear and guilt and yearning. He knew Cas loved him. And he knew he loved Cas. Hell, he’d known that for a helluva lot longer than he’d known of Cas’ feelings. He just needed one little push to make him confront those feelings head-on.

“Ya know, I think I have one more present for you.” Dean set his glass down with heavy meaning. He nodded to himself and stood up, his jaw set firm, his eyes determined.

“You do?” Cas started to ask. “What--” And before he could finish his sentence, Dean crawled into the chair with him, his knees straddling Cas’ hips, bracing himself against the backrest with one hand. Cas’ eyes went huge. “Dean?” His voice trembled.

Dean was pretty sure he looked even more nervous, but he’d be damned if he owned up to it. “Hey birthday boy,” he hummed, forcing a flirtatious smile despite the anxiety pounding in his chest. He was going to kiss Cas. God how he wanted to kiss Cas.

But instead of looking delighted Cas looked...hurt. “Dean, you don’t have to do this for me.”

Dean’s heart went cold. “For you? You don’t think I want this?”

“No,” Cas said simply. Honestly. His bright blue eyes were so close now, but the heartache in them was almost painful to look at.

Dean swallowed thickly. “Well then you’re dumber than you look,” he teased, forcing bravado he did not feel. Dean leaned in until his forehead rested against Cas’. He could feel Cas’ warm breath across his lips. “Cas, if I could pick anyone in the whole damn world to be with, it’d be my best friend. You know that, right?” Cas licked his lips. Dean yearned to tilt his head down and catch them with his own. “But I thought you didn’t...Couldn’t...Well, I thought love wasn’t something angels did.”

“But I told you, Dean. When the Empty came, I told you--”

“Yeah I know. But you know how I drag my ass for important stuff.” That finally elicited a tiny puff of laughter from Cas. Dean smiled. “Come on, man. Cut me some slack. Lemme use this as an excuse to nut up and kiss you.”

As it turned out, Dean didn’t need to, because Cas surged up and pressed their lips together.

Dean gasped into the kiss as his hand resettled itself on Cas’ shoulder. Cas’ glass clattered as he hastily set it on the table in order to hold Dean’s waist with both hands. Cas kissed like he was starving for it, voracious and desperate, licking his way into Dean’s mouth without preamble and moaning deeply into the heat he found there.

Dean gave as good as he got, letting over a decade of longing finally escape through the hot, greedy press of their lips together, through the long trailing kisses along Cas’ jaw while Cas dragged his hands down Dean’s back and up underneath his shirt.

“We should...do this in my room…” Dean whispered in Cas’ ear as his teeth nipped at the sensitive area. Cas nodded and, without warning, stood up with Dean still wrapped around him. Dean startled and reflexively jerked his feet down toward the floor, though he realized with delight that Cas could almost certainly carry him the entire way if he wanted. Later. He’d test that out later. For now Dean grabbed Cas by the tie with a lecherous twinkle in his eye and hauled him in the direction of his bedroom. Soon to be their bedroom, if Dean had anything to say about it.

Much, much later, when they were tangled together beneath the sheets with Dean’s head nestled on Cas’ chest, Dean realized that Cas had been wrong. Because his happiest moment wasn’t when the Empty took him away. It wasn’t in just saying how he felt.

Because it was in loving, yes, but it was also in being loved.

Because when Dean peeked up at Cas’ face, he was radiating so much happiness Dean’s heart ached from it. Today was the happiest he’d ever been. And perhaps tomorrow, if Dean had anything to say about it, tomorrow he’d be even happier.

Cas’ eyes were full of love as he carded his fingers through Dean’s hair. “I know I don’t have any others to compare this against, but today was a very good birthday.”

“Good.” Dean pressed a sleepy kiss to Cas’ skin as his eyes drifted closed. “You deserve it.”