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“You should duck under the big waves. Pass right over you instead of knocking you over.”
Cas looked uncertain, shifting as small waves splashed against his stomach. He held out his hand. “Would you do it with me?”
A hundred innuendos flashed across Dean’s brain, followed by another hundred sarcastic chick flick moments retorts, but he looked at Castiel standing in front of him with the grey-green Atlantic licking at his skin and the moon reflected in those unearthly eyes and the sea breeze doing things to that stupid fucking hair, and he was privately sure in that moment that if Cas asked him to rebuild the Byzantine Empire and give it to him in a shoebox he’d be booking a flight to fucking Istanbul tomorrow.
Instead he reached out and grabbed Cas’ hand.
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