#since i completely ripped off your posts it genuinely felt evil not to. anyway. oldhollywoodnatural

[samscompliment]

hi guys i heard we were talking about dean and cas getting one good movie kiss. @sunforgrace sorry for taking your old hollywood movie kiss concept and running with it but in fairness it made my brain buzz

under the cut / read on ao3

Jack, still hopped up on the God juice, stops suddenly, and cocks his head to the left. Dean looks up kind of blearily; alert enough to realise that something’s going down, but still too sluggish to actually sit up and take note.

“Oh,” Jack says, and sends Dean a small grin. “Castiel’s here.”

Dean blinks, tries to make sense of that. “What,” he says.

Jack’s smile, if possible, grows, showing off the gap between his teeth. “I stepped out while you weren’t looking. Here.”

He clicks his fingers, and the tell-tale thunk of the front door opening echoes down to where they sit, the sound reverberating around the too-empty bunker. Probably Dean should been concerned about the fact that the warding just doesn’t work on him, but he’s too preoccupied with letting his whiskey glass hit the map table, his hold just shy of shaky.

“Jack,” he says, voice hoarse and drowning in hope. It’s pretty freaking obvious, but he’s been pretty freaking obvious for days now. If Jack and Sam didn’t know before, they’ve got to have figured it out by now. Dean licks his lips, throws half a glance up to the balcony. “What’d you do?”

“What I had to,” says Jack, pleased. “It’s alright, he and I already said hello. I can do lots of interesting things with the fourth plane, now. I should probably go and get Sam.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond to that, but the footsteps hit his ears before he can get the words out, and he falters. Fuck. Fuck, goddammit. Dean’s got a good ear for this stuff, and you don’t spend the better part of twelve years with someone and not end up able to discern their footsteps from everyone else’s. Sam’s got a heavy step, kind of drags his left foot a bit, and Cas has always had the neat, rhythmic beat of a soldier, when he isn’t being a sneaky and silent little shit. Dean hears the one-two, ­one-two of work boots on metal and damn near gives up then and there.

This is it, man. He could live in this moment forever.

As it is, though, that’s not how life works. His trembling fingers slide off the glass, his gaze gets pulled up to the top of the stairs. One boot, two. The edges of a trench coat. Dean breathes out and thinks he’ll probably never stop.

Cas hesitates the moment Dean comes into view, faltering from one step to the next. The one-two, one-two carries on in the beat of Dean’s heart, and he looks at him. He just looks.

“Where’s Jack?” asks Cas, but there’ll be time for that later. Truth be told Dean didn’t realise he’d left the room, and even now he doesn’t pull his eyes away to check. He just takes Cas at his word and gets to his feet, pulled to the bottom of the stairs like a comet to a magnet, or something else in a metaphor that actually makes sense. “Dean?”

Dean shrugs. Sue him, but his voice has decided to take a hike. He forces it back into being. “Heya, Cas.”

Cas takes the extra couple of steps down, and Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t let him actually hit the floor, because if Cas wants to get past, well, he’s just going to damn well have to take him by the shoulders and move him. Maybe Cas' hands on him will fix that gaping wound in Dean’s chest.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, because it’s not like he could say anything else. Dean feels kind of delirious. The smile on his face feels shaky at best, a tremulous thing that almost certainly doesn’t convey a damn thing, or says too much. If too much is even possible, at this point. Honestly, Dean’s not sure he could ever say enough.

“You ever see a movie, Cas?” he asks, after a while.

Cas frowns, which was the goal. Any kind of reaction is usually the goal. “Yes,” he says, slow like Dean’s suffering a head wound. He might as well be. “Several.”

Dean reaches out and puts his hand on Cas’ chest, over his heart. His own is beating one-two, one-two, a broken drum in his chest that Cas must be able to hear, that the whole town must be able to hear. He curls his fingers into the fabric, eyes stuck on them, and then he finally forces himself to look up and meet Cas’ gaze, to bare his neck. He has to angle his head up, what with the stairs, but he doesn’t freaking care at all. They can figure out the details later.

“This is the kiss,” Dean says, and when Cas doesn’t say anything, he tightens his grip on the coat into a fist and tugs him down until he gets the picture. Both of Dean’s feet are planted firmly on the floor, Cas’ own half a foot above him, and the height difference is weird, and new, and exciting. “This is when you kiss me, Cas.”

“Oh,” Cas says, and smiles. It wouldn’t look like a smile on anyone else, just the barest uptick of his mouth, but Dean knows. “Alright.”

Dean almost says, alright? It’s better than alright, dude, it’s fan-frigging-tastic, but he doesn’t get the chance, because Cas is bringing his hands up, almost hesitant, to Dean’s face, and that makes his voice die in his throat. Or, no, not hesitant. Careful, maybe, in the most literal sense of the word. As if Dean's deserving of it. He lays them upon Dean’s cheeks and tilts his jaw up, brings his face skyward, and then he cranes his neck down and kisses Dean gently on the mouth.

Dean lets him. He lets himself be kissed, by Cas, and when Cas starts to pull away, his thumbs dragging slowly across Dean’s cheekbones, Dean pushes himself up onto his toes and makes sure he goes fucking nowhere.

It pulls a surprised noise out of Cas, one Dean’s going to keep chasing from now until forever, and so he does the only logical thing, and winds his arms round Cas’ neck, grip sure and certain because like hell is he letting this go. He drags Cas down to meet him, hears the sound of skin on metal when Cas slaps a hand on the railing to keep them steady, and he doesn’t even care when he winds up dipped, Cas’ strong arm around his waist.

Dean’s done a lot of kissing, but he hasn’t ever been kissed like this. He hasn't ever been loved, like this.

Cas pulls away slowly, and doesn’t end up actually going very far. They’re doing what Dean might call really, really close talking, the side of Cas’ nose still pressed against his own, his hands still curled in Cas’ hair. His breath rebounds off Cas’ cheek and back to him.

“Jesus, Cas,” says Dean, low, his eyes tightly shut, “You tryin’ to make my foot pop?”

He’s close enough that he actually feels Cas frown, feels the way the muscles move to make that little Meg Ryan crinkle above his nose. There’s a long moment in which Dean just breathes, and then Cas says, in his ridiculous, rumbling voice, “Is that meant to be a euphemism?”

Dean laughs. He pulls back from Cas the little distance he can, chin tipped back as high as it can go, and he laughs. “No. Well, yeah, actually, but. No.”

He opens his eyes and holds onto Cas’ shoulders as he gets righted, pulled back up so he’s no longer in danger of ending up sprawled on the floor. Cas gazes back down at him, eyes kind and patient and almost unbearably loving. He puts his hands on Dean’s face again, cradles it like he once did his soul, and Dean’s never going to move, not ever again.

Cas must know more than he lets on, anyway, the bastard, because he swipes his thumbs up and down again on Dean’s skin in that absolutely devastating way, treasuring and adoring and like Dean’s something to cherish.

“Perhaps I should try again,” he suggests.

“Sure, buddy,” says Dean, and so Cas does. He'll keep trying, probably, until Dean's foot actually does pop. He's stubborn like that.

It’s a good fucking kiss, anyway. Definitely one for the movies.