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Frankly, it’s probably been a little too long now.
Which is a friggin’ fantastic excuse, Dean’s gotta say. Not every day that your excuse to not do something just gets stronger the more days you don’t do it. Real rare for an excuse, that, and Dean knows cause he’s the king of excuses.
Pro of not getting what he wants. Real no-getter.
It’s actually sorta sad.
What’s sadder is the fact that he’s happy.
Actually, that part makes sense. Cas has been back for—Dean checks his watch—eight days, two hours, and like. Twenty minutes, give or take.
He came out dripping black goo and got it all over Dean’s shirt when Dean hugged him. Dean still hasn’t figured out how to get the stains out, but he’s never gonna get rid of the shirt itself, because suddenly that was the luckiest piece of dime-store fabric in the entire world, gross stains and infectious lingering feelings of numbness and fatigue be damned.
Dean probably could have got away with not saying anything when Cas was saying something. End of the world and all. Little too focused on the Cas dying part to focus on the Cas loving him part. Cas coulda forgiven him for that.
And the fact that he didn’t say anything first thing, with Cas still covered in goo, that mighta worked too. Sam and Jack were both there, and were also in on the hug, and frankly if Dean could have spoken even a single word they all would have been surprised.
But he definitely lost the chance to say something the first time they hung out alone. 100%. Once Dean went for showing Cas one of the Star Wars series they missed instead of, like. Kissing him or whatever? Totally over it. Blew his shot.
That was six days ago. Now it is six days later.
Way too late to say anything. What’s he even gonna do, ask Cas if he meant it? Say he means it?
Say it, outright?
No way. There’s a point where he could, and now he can’t. Simple as that. Best excuse in the world not to have the conversation.
So Dean does what he can. Since he can’t say it, since there’s no way they can talk about it. Since the only way he can sleep now is with Cas also on the couch, politely pretending he doesn’t see that Dean’s dozed off during a Dr. Sexy marathon.
He’s always been the show not tell type anyway.
Dean is surveying the bottles in his room. Many of them—most of them—are empty. Courtesy of Dean himself. And it’s one of those scenes that won’t make Cas angry but it will make him disappointed, in that Cas way where he barely frowns and squints and levels a look at Dean that’s totally like, “You’re better than this,” except Dean isn’t better than this.
Cas hasn’t figured that out yet though.
Apparently.
That’s its own can of worms though, so Dean’s ignoring that.
Dean’s not better than this, hence the sheer number of empty bottles. The full ones, he hasn’t touched in eight days, two hours, and give or take twenty minutes, so he’s pretty much past the worst parts of the shakes and headaches and all.
Luckily he barely noticed that. First couple days was the worst, but they also had Cas in them, so Dean doesn’t think he coulda been knocked out of his good mood even if he tried.
It’s only now that he’s even willing to leave Cas’ side for long enough for the nausea to feel bad, so.
Two hours, or thereabouts. He knows himself well enough. Two hours—any more and the tight ball of worry and doubt in him will get big enough to start controlling him like a Gamecube controls Mario.
So the empty bottles go in their own garbage bag, first thing. Goodbye, El Sol. Goodbye, Jackie D. Goodbye… well, he doesn’t know what that one was. Ripped off the label at some point, who knows why. Smells like something hard though.
Into the bag it goes. That’s step one, the empty ones. The full ones are harder.
Dean knows himself too well to indulge in one last glass. In no world is he gonna just have one, and in no world is he gonna then work through all that withdrawal again for a ritual no one’s even sharing with him.
The full ones, and the half-full ones, get opened, then poured down the sink in his room. Next is the crap in the kitchen, which all goes down the sink, too. He keeps the beers Cas likes, because they’re Cas’, and he lets Sam keep whatever shit he might be hiding in his room, but everything in the kitchen, the library, the Dean Cave, the war room, all of it, goes away.
It doesn’t take him nearly as long as he thought it would.
The last of the bottles goes down the drain, and Dean stands in front of the sink a couple seconds, realizing he’s smiling down at it.
He’s definitely a little pathetic.
But, hey, done so quick means more time with Cas, which is good because now that he’s done with the active cleaning, the sense of where’s-the-angel gets worse quicker. Two hours mighta been giving himself too much credit.
Sam’s voice startles him out of that, though. “What’re you doing?”
Dean knocks one of the bottles into the sink, turning. “Oh, uh.” He shrugs. “I’m getting rid of it.”
“Getting rid of it.”
“What.” Dean turns back to the sink, mostly so he doesn’t have to pay attention to Sam paying attention to this. “All my stuff, anyway. There’s still Cas’ crap beer and anything you or Jack have got in your rooms.”
“You think Jack’s got something in his room?” Sam asks, taking the bait.
“Who knows? Kid’s due for some teenage rebellion,” Dean shrugs.
“As a four year old. Sure.” Sam scoffs from behind him, then, all too good at not being distracted, damn him, keeps pressing. “So you’re, what, going cold turkey?”
“I went cold turkey eight days ago,” Dean says, tapping the spout of a strawberry margarita mix against the lip of the sink just for something to do with his hands. He did have a problem. He drank something pink. “Threw up all day Saturday.”
He can practically sense Sam blanching, though it makes no noise and he isn’t looking at the kid. He moves his own lips in a mime of Sam’s concerned little, “Dean…”, and then caps the marg mix.
“I drank water in between. Don’t get your own whale-tail up the flagpole, Sammy.”
Sam huffs, and Dean ignores him with the practice of just under forty years an older brother, tossing the newly-empty bottles in the trash bag with the rest.
Instead of keeping on Dean’s case, Sam visibly switches tracks. “Was Cas with you? Did he help?”
Like that’s a question Sam’s gotta ask. Dean’s neck is gonna freeze at a 45 degree angle if he keeps sleeping six hours a night upright on the couch. Dean ignores the sore pull of it to shrug again. “We were doing Star Trek. Lizard sex episode’s a good distraction.”
Sam picks up two more of the empty ones by the sink to dump them in the bag, too. “So he knows about this?”
“That or he thinks my immune system’s finally realized God’s gone and it can get 24 hour bugs again.”
This is true, to be fair. About a month ago Dean spent more time praying to porcelain than Cas, because it’d been something like… oh, eight or nine years, since he’d gotten a stomach bug. Bad experience. Kept thinking that if Cas was here he’d fix it in a jiff. Accidentally started crying. Threw up mucus. Drank. Threw that up too. Passed out. Woke up in bile. Things happen.
“And he didn’t offer to fix it?” Sam asks, getting Dean back to Houston.
“Jack’s got him on no-meddling ‘til Heaven’s up and running properly,” Dean shrugs. “If it helps, I could tell it killed—” No, bad word choice. “Tore him up to ignore it.”
“You know, detoxing can be dangerous,” Sam warns.
Dean waves him off. “Got it, Dr. Phil. Think I’m through the woods now.” He holds up a hand. “See? No shakes.”
His hand is shaking. Sam raises an eyebrow, and Dean amends, “Okay, well. This is the worst of it, but the Internet says it’ll probably go away in a couple weeks tops.”
“Just keep an eye on it,” Sam says, after a second. Dean can tell he’s gearing up for having feelings. Sure enough, “It’s good you’re doing this.”
Dean drops his eyes. “Well. Didn’t want Cas to yell at me.”
“He’s never yelled at you.”
He’d be right to start, Dean doesn’t say. “A, not true, but two, he’d do the I’m disappointed in you soulful gaze, and we all know that’s a whole lot worse. Sam, look in that bag and tell me how many bottles I’ve drained since he’s been gone.”
“I don’t need to look to know it’s too many.”
“Exactly.” Dean clicks his tongue, then starts tying up the bag so no one can tell how many bottles it’s been. “Cas’d think the same, and I ain’t giving him the chance.”
“So, that’s why you’re stopping? So Cas won’t look at you a little sad?”
“Shut up. It’s more than that.”
“Will it last?”
That question actually surprises Dean. “What?”
Sam shrugs. “Will it last? Like, even if Cas leaves, will it last?”
Dean hates the immediate thing his heart does. Like a damn trigger being pulled. “What do you mean, if Cas leaves?”
“I don’t know, man. Just. In general.” But there’s something there. Dean can see it. He’s spent too much of his life with Sam.
“Has Cas said something?” he demands.
Sam just throws his hands up. “Listen, don’t ask me, man. I don’t know what he’s planning now. I’m just wondering how long this’ll last. If you want it to last, or if you just want Cas happy.”
Dean hoists the trash bag up onto his shoulder like Santa. “Cas isn’t going anywhere.”
He ignores Sam’s, “That’s not an answer,” and goes to trash the bottles.
“Are you leaving?”
Dean does not say hello often. Castiel, thinking back on it, cannot pinpoint the reason he enjoys telling Dean hello, because unlike many of his habits, he did not get it from Dean.
“Hello, Dean,” he says, then looks up from his Sudoku phone game. “I can go pick dinner up without you if you’d like, but I’ll need car keys.”
Dean is, unfortunately, quite beautiful when he’s bothered. “Don’t play dumb. I mean, in general, are you planning on leaving?”
Castiel looks back down at his game of Sudoku. “My wings are still filling in, as is my grace. I can’t go to the future to check that for you.”
Dean scowls. “Guess for me, Cassandra.”
Castiel, who gets that reference, replies mildly, “Cassandra didn’t guess.”
The scowl deepens. Cracks a little. “I’m serious.”
“I’d be serious as well, if it wasn’t a ridiculous question,” Castiel tells him. “Cassandra didn’t guess, and I am not currently planning on leaving.”
This is true. He wasn’t entirely certain how Dean would react to his presence after his confession and concurrent death, but Dean seemed to have taken the pathetic inevitability of Castiel’s rejection as a challenge, and Castiel doesn’t believe he’s been left alone for more than a few minutes since his resurrection. While it does make the timeline of exactly when the rejection would happen, and if it would happen officially at all, very confusing, Castiel has at least tentatively come to the conclusion that Dean does not want to be left alone.
“Currently? But you are planning on maybe leaving sometime? Or, planning to plan, or whatever?”
Castiel tries his best not to look at Dean as if he is stupid, when possible. It is not possible this time. “I don’t know, Dean. I’ll refer you to my earlier comment about not knowing the future.”
“I ain’t looking for the future, I’m looking for a— a forecast,” Dean all but snarls.
Castiel looks back to his phone. Pauses his game of Sudoku. “Dean, sit down.”
Dean narrows his eyes, but obeys, perched on the edge of his seat like he might have to flee. Castiel thinks he might like to catch him, one day. An idle, hopeful, unattainable thought. “You’re not going to lose me, even if I did leave.”
Dean stands up, a trap sprung. “So you are leaving.”
Rolled eyes accompany Castiel’s, “Yes, maybe, eventually. Far in the future.”
This doesn’t seem to be the right answer. “No.”
Castiel places his phone on the table, face-down. “No?”
“Yeah. No. You ain’t leaving.”
“No, I’m not. Not yet. But eventually, maybe.”
“Why?”
The question takes Castiel a second. Why would he want to leave? He doesn’t. But when Dean inevitably— when he’ll be— “I might want to move out, Dean. Have another child, or,” embarrassingly enough to admit, “get married.”
Dean blanches. “You’re getting married?”
“Maybe.”
Castiel is probably lucky that he plays off shame well. Dean has never seemed to notice it on him.
“Since when are you getting married?”
Castiel wishes he hadn’t put his phone down. He would like to be able to look at it instead of Dean. “Have you thought about your future, Dean?”
The question seems to stump him. “I mean, yeah. A little.”
Castiel nods. “So have I, Dean. Even more since I made the deal with the Empty. Knowing I wouldn’t have one made me very invested in figuring out what it would be if I did.”
“So you’ve been planning on leaving for years?”
“No, Dean. I’ve been imagining it for years. I’ve been planning for less than a week,” Castiel snaps.
It’s a bit cruel, perhaps. He knows Dean doesn’t want to be left behind. But he’s still a bit— he’s surprised at the depth of irritation in him, because Dean has simply ignored everything Castiel said to him. He didn’t respond then, and won’t respond now, and Castiel is, admittedly, ashamed and irritated.
Dean gets his legs under him to be irritated right back. This is better, because Castiel would feel guilty if he was hurt by it. “So you get back and immediately wanna fuck off.”
“We will still see each other,” Castiel replies. He couldn’t live without that. Not even when Jack was dead could Castiel live without that, not for long.
“Yeah, what, when I take Jack on holidays and weekends?”
“Jack would spend holidays with me,” Castiel tells him, matter-of-fact. “You could see him whenever you wished. You’d be invited to holidays.”
“Gee, thanks,” Dean says, sarcastic. “Aren’t you gracious.”
Castiel glares. “It’s not a full plan, Dean.”
“Seems pretty fully formed to me.”
“Idle plans, born of daydreaming. I didn’t think I’d actually be back. I have been thinking about this for years, Dean, of course I have a plan. I’m just not sure of how it will be achieved yet.”
Dean just looks at him for a few seconds. “So, what.” He swallows. Castiel curses himself, damns himself for watching the way his throat bobs. “So were you just lying, then?”
“About?”
“You know.”
The thing they still have not talked about. That Dean doesn’t wish to talk about. To a point, Castiel is grateful to not have to hear the rejection. To another, he is angry that he is not being given the dignity. Luckily, he has been human enough for years to understand the contradiction in himself.
Yes, Castiel knows. “No, Dean, I don’t know.”
Dean glares, too. Switches tactics. “Who are you marrying?”
“I don’t know yet.” True.
“How are you getting the kid?”
“I don’t know.” Also true.
“So why are you so gung-ho about it?”
“I’d like to be married when you are.” Somewhat true. A better answer would be because I can’t imagine how it will feel to see you fall in love without the distraction. “And because I would like more children.”
Dean nods at that part, at least. Castiel thought he might understand. But, “I’m not gonna get married.”
“You would like being married.”
“Who says?” Defensive. Unnecessarily defensive, considering how obvious the answer is.
“I know you, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is much more patient than he feels. “You should have someone to take care of you. You fall in love easily. And you would love more children.”
The confidence with which he says so seems to have Dean pause. “I take care of myself,” he says, after a second.
Not entirely true, but Castiel will allow it for the time being. He’s been lying in this conversation too, to make it go over more easily. “It’s not just that. You would love the security of marriage. I know you never meant to marry Amara—”
“What does she have to do with this?”
“She’s the last woman you showed any kind of serious interest in.” Though, granted, that might have been the fault of the low-cut dress she wore constantly. Castiel never truly understood her draw, but he did come to despise that dress. Just in case.
“That wasn’t me wanting to be married to her.”
Castiel hums. “So someone else.”
“I’m not getting married.”
“Fine, Dean. You may do what you like. I’m only telling you that I might get married, one day. That I might, someday, for the right person, leave.” Castiel picks his phone back up.
He doesn’t see Dean’s face when Dean accuses, “So you loved me a week? All that talk and you— this had a half life of four friggin’ days?”
Castiel is quick to look at him, though. He’s surprised Dean mentions it at all. Perhaps he took the hint that Castiel wouldn’t be baited into talking around it in metaphors, wasn’t ashamed of it, not in that way. “I haven’t stopped loving you, Dean.”
This is said very seriously. Irritated with Dean as he might be, he died to tell him. Castiel isn’t about to allow him to think it was trivial.
Dean seems to take it seriously, too, anger giving way to something else. Resignation? “So why’re you… planning.”
Castiel breathes, and tries not to let any of it hurt. “I want to be loved, Dean.” Shame creeps into him, making him wish he could leave. But he has yet to heal his wings entirely. To leave would shred them all over again. “I’m planning for a future where that might be possible. Have you thought about your future, Dean? What would make you happy?”
“Are you still on the marriage thing?”
Castiel still thinks he’s correct, but he shakes his head anyway. “Have you?”
Dean hesitates.
Castiel waits.
“A little,” Dean admits. “Day to day, I guess. Not exactly going as fast as you, I guess.”
He means that as a jab. Castiel takes it about as well as he took the knife during their first face-to-face meeting. “It’s only been a week, like you said.”
“Didn’t realize I was going slow.”
Castiel gives him a smile, and allows, “I’m going very fast.”
“A little,” Dean admits, and sits down again, with a distinctly guilty air.
Castiel wonders, not for the first time and probably never for the last, how they got from incredible irritation to this type of easy fraternity. “I didn’t mean to have this conversation with you yet.”
“When?”
Castiel shrugs. “A few months, I suppose. I wanted to relax a bit. Get my wings and grace back. I wanted to be happy here.”
Dean’s mouth draws downwards. “Well, you gotta give me a little time, here, Cas. It’s only been a week. I’m gonna do better, honest. Haven’t given me long enough, here.”
Castiel cocks his head. “Long enough?”
“To make you happy. Like I said, I’ll do better. You can’t expect me to do everything in a week, but I can make you happy. I swear, dude. I’ll do better.”
“This isn’t about you, Dean—”
Dean talks over him. “If you’re planning on leaving, then I’ve just gotta convince you otherwise. But you gotta give me more than a week, Cas, I only just started.”
“I don’t need you to do anything, Dean.” Castiel won’t say that he’ll leave either way. Dean is practically begging and he doesn’t want to start the argument up again.
“Sure. But give me a month. Okay? To make you happy?”
Castiel shakes his head. “It’s not a matter of my happiness here, Dean. I’m happy. And I’m not planning on leaving for months.”
“Okay, but just. Wait.” Dean’s leaning over the table. Pleading. “Give me… a month. Gimme a month to convince you to stay. Okay?”
Because this is getting dangerously close to what Castiel wants, he warns Dean, “I wouldn’t go far.”
Dean shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be the same.”
That’s true, at least. Castiel hesitates.
“C’mon, Cas. Don’t make me beg, here. I’m embarrassing myself enough as is already.”
Castiel looks Dean over, and loves him. He wants to stay. Dean wants him to stay. The former means he should leave as soon as possible, but the latter means he should at least give the impression that he’s not leaving because of Dean.
“Fine. A month.”
Dean grins so wide Castiel has the strange urge to wince. “Awesome. You can’t go anywhere.”
“Does that mean I don’t have to go get dinner with you later tonight?”
The grin only brightens. “Means you can’t go off to Turks and Caicos for two weeks when your wings stop growing.”
“You don’t want to come with?”
Dean makes a so-so gesture. “I mean it’ll only count as part of the month if I’m actually there with you, so you better plan around me.”
Castiel hums, nods. “Then I’m not allowed planning of any sort, without you.”
“Not for my month, no. You’re stuck in place or to my side. That way you can’t get excited to leave.”
“I’m hardly—” Castiel stops himself from that admission, and instead says, “Fine, I’ll agree to those terms.”
“And this last week doesn’t count as part of the month.”
Castiel nods, to more or less agree, then adds, “You do know, Dean, that I’m not asking for you to change anything? Especially not about yourself, not to make me happy.”
“Bullshit,” Dean says, his tone strangely jovial. “I’ve gotta get you to stay, don’t I? I was already gonna.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I was already gonna.”
Castiel takes the bait. “Meaning?”
Unexpectedly, Dean flushes, looking down at his hands. “I mean I already was, y’know, changing some things up. I, uh.” He takes a second. “I guess I was going too slow, but I, y’know, dumped out all my crap today. Everything in my room and everything in the fridge.”
“Oh, Dean,” Castiel says, a slow smile blooming across his face. “That’s— that’s.”
Dean squirms. “I kept your crappy beer in there. Don’t think it’ll tempt me. And I didn’t wanna get rid of it without telling you.”
“You can dump my crappy beer,” Castiel allows.
“It won’t tempt me. I already detoxed.”
Castiel remembers. Dean was pretty badly off the first few days of his being back. “Call it solidarity.”
Dean gets over his embarrassment enough to smile up at Cas. “You don’t have to do that.”
Castiel returns the smile, though certainly his isn’t half as beautiful as Dean’s. Then, “What made you decide to quit?”
Dean shrugs. “Nothing specific? I mean. No one wants me to drink, so I won’t.”
A bit more external a motivation than Castiel was hoping for, but still very good. “I’m very proud of you.”
Dean gets embarrassed once again. “It’s only step one.”
“It’s an enormous step one. I’m still very proud.”
“I thought it wasn’t bad for week one,” Dean mumbles. “But, I mean, like I said. A month. I’ll do better.”
“Mm. I’m glad for your own health and wellness, more than worried about the month.”
“Well, then awesome. Easy. No problem. Maybe I can plan the Turks and Caicos trip, slide you that itinerary.”
“Will that be your step two?” Castiel asks, curious.
“Uh. I dunno. Maybe. I’m still deciding.”
“Okay.”
Dean looks up, and a little frantic. “Well, you have to give me more than ten minutes to plan this kinda stuff, Cas.”
“I’m not rushing you. I’m only curious as to if there’s a strict plan.”
“Not yet, no.” Dean relaxes a little. Is silent for a bit. Then, “I’m not gonna get a wife, Cas.”
“You would deserve it, Dean. You do deserve love.” Castiel says this gently. Sometimes Dean accepts it better that way. He responds well to gentleness.
“It’s not— it’s not about what I think I deserve.” Dean’s looking at him now, intense. Willing. “Can’t you get it?”
“Clearly not,” Castiel deadpans.
Dean frowns. “C’mon, Cas. It’s you for me.”
Castiel ignores the flutter in him. “Dean.”
“C’mon.”
“Dean. You can’t just say c’mon and expect me to be satisfied.” It’s Castiel’s turn to look away, embarrassed. “I want to be loved, Dean. It’s not that I want to leave you. I just. I couldn’t fall in love with anyone else with you just down the hall. And you wouldn’t like anyone I chose.”
“So you know I’d be jealous. You gotta know, Cas.” Dean’s pleading again. “You have to know.”
Castiel doesn’t. Hesitantly he says, “You have the month, Dean.”
Dean’s lips press together. “I’m gonna convince you.”
“I know you’ll try. I’m sure I’ll love the attempt.”
“Okay, but.” Dean’s agitated again, but not angry. His leg is bouncing. “But you’re talking like there’s no way it’ll work, but you wouldn’t have agreed to it if there wasn’t. So there’s gotta be something I can do, right? Or else you wouldn’t have agreed to it.”
Castiel sighs. “You asked me. I love you.”
Dean’s lips go thin again. “So that’s it? I get a month, cause I begged? And that’s it?”
Castiel doesn’t want to do this anymore. Irritation rears its ugly head again. “Tell me I can have what I want here. Tell me I could have a partner, a life, another child.”
“Well, this coulda come with a fucking disclaimer,” Dean all but snarls. “Now you’re telling me I get a month and a week, cause I begged, cause you took pity or whatever, then you’re gonna fuck off and fall in love with someone else immediately, cause I can’t do good enough for you?”
“Do you regret having me here, then, Dean?”
This shrinks Dean’s anger. “No. That’s not what I’m saying.”
Castiel picks his phone back up. Puts it down again. “I can’t, Dean,” he says, quietly. “I would never— how could I fall in love with someone else, when every day I’m waiting for you to come into the kitchen and make coffee, just woken up? When I spend every movie night praying to everything I rebelled against that you will be tired enough to fall asleep there with me, that maybe in the night you will shift to touch me? How could I fall in love with anyone else without first divesting myself of all of you, all of the time? At least trying to?”
“Why are you trying to, though, Cas?” Dean asks. “I mean, I would at least hope you would wait and see how good a kisser I was before, like, unilaterally breaking up with me. And I don’t even think we’re dating which makes this so much more embarrassing for me.”
The facetious wording sparks something ugly in Castiel. “Why are you being so difficult? If I am breaking up with you, let me.”
“No. You gave me a month, I’m getting my month.”
Castiel pauses. Something in him shifts, roots him in place. Shakes off the shame enough for him to ask, “The month is— are we dating? For this month?”
Dean doesn’t reply.
Castiel presses. “You’ll kiss me, during this month?”
His face burns with the question, ashamed with the force of the wanting. But Dean just mutters, “I mean. Sure. Yeah, if you’ll have me.”
Perhaps Castiel is blinded by wanting, because he says, stupidly, “Are we dating for the month, Dean?”
Dean’s head snaps up. “I dunno, Cas, are we? I don’t make unilateral decisions, unlike some.”
“Dean, you command everyone in this house and then some.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, then. Yes, we’re dating. I get a month to convince you to stay. Done and done.”
The first day, they probably won’t do much different.
Dean’s a little embarrassed about it, but it’s been something like ten years since he’s dated, and even that was accompanied by living in her house and driving her kid places so dating might not have even been the word for it.
He makes breakfast, and he says to Cas, “This counts as day one, okay?” while he makes pancakes before Jack wakes up. Sam’s already eaten and Cas doesn’t sleep, so even though Dean’s on a deadline, for breakfast he’s not exactly trying to wow and amaze. Cas doesn’t eat, either.
Both of these things kind of mess with Dean’s normal plans. To get Cas into bed he’d have to ask him into bed, which blows, and he can’t even cook for the guy, which blows harder.
And with the hardness and the state of the kitchen floor, Dean’s definitely not gonna bridge their gap by blowing, or he’d probably never get back up again. Hunting’s hard on the knees, especially when the angel who takes care of the worst of it has been dead and then on no-grace mode for a while.
So anyway. Dean says it’s day one, and Cas nods, careful, watching him make pancakes like he’s keeping an eye on a particularly twitchy bomb.
“What do you want to do?” Dean then asks, because that’s the first thing he knows about dating. Do what your girl wants.
God, at this rate he’s gonna need to start buying up Teen Vogue.
“Wasn’t it you, who has the plan?” Cas asks.
Dean hasn’t technically come up with a plan yet. His this-is-what-makes-Dean-Winchester-a-fuckup list is miles long and all of Cas’ asks were a little hard to do in a month, though Dean’s not gonna let that stop him. Married, house, kid. Probably Cas won’t agree to the married thing but they might have known each other long enough for it to count common-law, which would be super useful. House, well, Dean’s gotta do some research. Kid, that’s a luck thing. He’ll have Sam sound the call out, see if anyone comes across a hunt that parents got killed and kids didn’t.
“I’m always open to suggestions,” he says, easy like he does have a plan.
“Very untrue,” Cas tells him, propping his arms up on the table. “You are the most stubborn person I know.”
“I’m rubber and you’re glue, so,” Dean says. “You want coffee?”
“Yes,” Cas replies. He does like his drinks more than his food. Something about the molecules being less spaced together. Not so overwhelming. Still drinks like a bird, though, one cup of coffee lasting well into the afternoon, long after it’s gone cold, which he also likes because he’s a freak. “So what is the plan?”
“Well, for today, I’m keeping it simple,” Dean says. Meaning he has no plan, but Cas hasn’t picked up on that, it seems. “Figure we should ease into it. This being day one and all.”
Cas picks up his phone, starts fiddling with it. “Yes, I’m quite aware of what day it is already.”
“So… let’s do a normal day today, and then, like. Dinner and a movie, tonight.”
“Outside or inside the bunker?”
“Outside.” That seems obvious for the date. Dean’s gone to dinner with Cas before. Movie, even. The second new Star Wars, they’d gone to. Cas’d been Lucifer round the time the first one had came out, so that was a no go. The second one was much worse but they’d actually had a little time in between apocalypses when the second one had come out, and Cas’d pretty much just come back from the dead, so Dean was pretty damn concerned with spending as much time with him as possible.
Cas nods. “Okay.”
Dean abandons the pancakes for a sec to sit across from him. “Well, it’s just, y’know, to ease us in.”
“You think we need to be eased in?”
Secretly, it’s probably only Dean who needs eased in, but he’s gonna blame it on the both of them. “Yeah. I mean, it’d be weird if we just started… making out immediately, right?”
Cas’ eyes drag down to Dean’s lips. Dean wets them, and the way that Cas tracks the movement leaves his throat feeling dry.
He amends, “Okay, so… not weird. But I mean, we wouldn’t know where to start.” Weakly, “Right?”
“I imagine at the lips,” Cas says, dragging his eyes back up. Dean feels the gaze like a feather up the lines of his cheekbones. “Though I wouldn’t call myself experienced, as such.”
“Bullshit,” Dean says.
“Hm?”
“I saw your ‘first kiss’,” he says. “Remember? With Meg?”
“What about it?”
Dean’s throat’s definitely dry. “I remember her moaning. That’s all.”
“Well,” Cas says, bit of a smile on his face that brags way more than Dean ever has about his conquests. “You have a notoriously unreliable memory.”
“Don’t forget a thing like that,” Dean says, because he is, first, imagining the two of them together—kinda hot—and second, still in the stage of the conversation where he brought up the idea of the two of them making out, and thinking about just how not-weird that would be.
Especially since Cas seems to be— he’s kind of—
“So, then, you’d start at the lips,” Cas says, and takes a sip of coffee. “Probably at this table, considering both of our positions.”
Dean’s a little frozen. Cas is meeting his eyes over the rim of his mug. Belatedly, Dean realizes he’s being challenged.
“Your pancakes are starting to burn, by the way,” Cas says, after a second more of watching Dean’s mouth.
Dean swears, and pushes himself up from his chair, then pauses, leans down to kiss Cas, and goes to flip the pancakes.
Which are burnt.
And it doesn’t actually fix the problem of thinking about making out with Cas.
Or— Dean realizes this after he puts the pancakes on the plate for Jack—that he just kissed Cas.
Like, for real. Lip-touching and everything.
He sneaks a look up to Cas, still sitting at the table, stock-still and hand up to his mouth, fingers on his lips like he’s still feeling that. Dean, if he thinks about it, can, too. He wonders if that’s an angel thing, the way his lips feel a little buzzy, or if it’s just been years since he’s had a first kiss.
He turns the griddle off, after a second, because no freakin’ way was he gonna be able to make good pancakes while thinking about this, though he stays behind the stove for a second, looking at Cas, who is looking at the wall.
Then he clears his throat, and says, “Thing you might not know about me.”
Cas looks to him, lowers his fingers.
“I, uh—” King of excuses. King of excuses. Gotta do his magic. “I hate, uh, odd numbers.”
Not that magic.
God, he’s gotta stick to this one, huh? Cas ain’t getting it, eyebrows drawing together. He didn’t used to have all those wrinkles. Dean sticks to his guns. “So, just, uh. You know. One kiss. It’s, uh, odd number.”
This is worse than losing his virginity. This is worse than accidentally drooling on Robin that second time cause he didn’t know how much tongue to use when making out. Dean’s gonna die here.
Cas doesn’t move for a second, angel-still, then, “You want… an even one.”
Like Dean’s stupid. Not all wrong. He shifts. “One’s odd, right? Cause, y’know, it’s— been a second since I was in a math class.”
Cas gets the don’t-play-me look to him. “You know that already.”
“I’m trying to make it less weird.”
“For us to—” Cas swallows, restarts. It’s Dean’s turn to watch his mouth, his throat. “For us to make out. In the kitchen.”
Okay, Dean thinks, so maybe this first day’s gonna be a little different than the normal. “Yeah.”
“So we.”
Dean nods. Makes his way to the other side of the counter. Feels like he’s on his tiptoes but he knows he ain’t.
Cas stands. “Because you hate odd numbers.”
“Two’s always better than one,” Dean says, though anyone could be talking at this point, using Dean’s mouth against him. Cas takes one step closer. Two. “Sandwiches. Guns. Drinks.”
“You don’t drink anymore.” Third step.
“Girls,” Dean offers weakly.
Fourth step. “And?”
Cas’ got decently long strides, even slowed down. Just a couple inches away now. Dean couldn’t get his eyes off Cas’ lips with a gun to his head. “Dates,” he says, forty-some light years away from the plot of this conversation. “Kisses. Though. Yeah, for sure.”
Sometime soon after that—unfortunately a couple seconds—he gets the memo that he’s gonna have to bridge the gap cause Cas got here all the way from the table, and he presses forward, presses his lips to Cas’ the second time like a guy who doesn’t know where his third, fourth, etcetera is coming from.
Which. To be fair.
Dean definitely moans, but not immediately. He’s first and foremost a little more preoccupied with the idea of, okay, he’s kissing Cas. That’s happening, for sure.
And it’s awesome.
Cas is a good kisser. Cas is a great kisser. Dean’s got no idea why they haven’t done this earlier, that’s how good a kisser Cas is. It’s awesome.
Really can’t overstate that.
He doesn’t know if it’s Cas who’s desperate about it or if it’s him or both, but it puts an urgency to it that gets Dean grabbing for the back of Cas’ neck and the collar of his shirt, and gets his back pressed up against the lip of the counter with just enough force to make him wince.
So. Yeah. Awesome.
Dean quickly has to remember how to breathe through his nose while kissing—and he must be old, now, because it’s been so long since kissing someone new that he has to remember an easy skill like that—because Cas has straight up just stopped pretending he has to breathe, and he is not laying off to let Dean.
There’s a quiet part of Dean that’s a little worried Cas might snap and start, like, biting, like he’s gonna stop pretending he’s human and just start chowing down on Dean, if only to get him closer.
The louder part of Dean is pretty sure that’d be hot as hell.
Still. Dean figures it out. Cas doesn’t eat him at all, though he does start to suck on Dean’s bottom lip a little and Dean does very much like that.
It could be ten seconds or ten minutes or ten hours later when Cas pulls back, eyes blinking open to blown-out pupils. Dean realizes, a little late, that they’re in the kitchen and that he’s got chubbed up a little, and that this is a problem because he’s meant to be making breakfast.
“Two,” he says after a second. His voice feels a little croaky.
Cas looks like he’s on a runner’s high, a little bit. Dean very much regrets not paying attention to whether Cas got hard, because— because.
“When I’m wrong, I’m wrong,” he admits. “Not weird at all. I gotta.” He jerks a thumb back at the pancakes.
Cas doesn’t look that way. It’s looking like he might never look at anything except Dean ever again, which Dean is finding he’s actually pretty okay with. “Yes. You should still eat.”
This is said with a reluctance that makes Dean think that probably he missed that Cas did get hard, and subsequently regret that he wasn’t on the lookout for that.
“Let’s—” he swallows. Don’t look at Cas’ crotch. Don’t look at Cas’ crotch. “Four, after breakfast. Or six. Or.”
Cas nods. Takes a step back.
Dean looks at his crotch.
He cannot immediately tell if he’s hard, which is awful, but he retreats to behind the griddle again. He’s got not-burnt pancakes to make.
But, hey. Good start. Day one.
Awesome.
Awesome.
“Did Dean talk to you?” Sam asks one day, over a lore book about spell grammar—his—and The Ladies’ Home Journal from January 1953—Castiel’s.
“Almost constantly,” Castiel replies.
He was insistent that he did not need Castiel’s presence in order to go to the grocery store with Jack. Castiel has his phone on and next to him in case he is called regardless, Dean “just checking in”.
“I mean,” Sam says, and taps his fingertips against the tabletop. “Like. Lately.”
“What should I be on the lookout for?”
“Dean thinks you’re gonna leave, I think.”
Castiel draws his attention back to Diane and Guy’s rocky marriage. “We’ve talked about that, yes.”
A pause, wherein Castiel reads Guy’s side of the story. Then, Sam asks, “So?”
“So, I am not leaving. I have been expressly forbidden to.”
“Forbidden to.”
Castiel thumbs to page 82 to get the rest of the story. It seems, unfortunately, like it might have a happy ending. “Forbidden to. For a month at least.”
“I’m gonna regret asking this,” Sam tells himself, then, “Why a month?”
“That is how long we have agreed to date.”
‘Agreed to’ might be a strong turn of phrase, but Castiel has no desire to explain it any further. ‘Dean forced his hand’ is not something he wants to admit to. It feels pathetic, like he doesn’t have the strength to deny himself something he wants even if Dean doesn’t want it.
And while that’s true, Castiel doesn’t want to admit to it.
“Wait, why have you only agreed to a month? Aren’t you, uh.” Sam waves his hand.
Castiel assumes that the gesture means devastatingly in love with my older brother, to the point that it has affected your eternity? and nods. “He is under the impression that the month will prove my affections wrong. That I’ll ‘get over it’ if I’m actually subjected to dating him.”
An idiotic notion, but Castiel imagines Dean thinks he’s doing Castiel a favor. Castiel is just hoping that he’ll be relieved at the end of the month when he is broken up with. The instinct to indulge Castiel will hopefully be faded by then, at least enough for Dean to allow it. Otherwise Dean’s sense of guilt will probably follow them all the way down the aisle.
Castiel isn’t entirely sure why else Dean would be offering to date him, and though they have been taking advantage of the ability to kiss now—and Castiel has become a fan of the habit—it hasn’t become any more clear what, exactly, Dean is expecting out of the month. In fact, he might be becoming a bit obsessed with counting the days.
A countdown, perhaps?
Either way, Castiel isn’t going to put a stop to it, not yet. He isn’t a good enough person to not take advantage of Dean’s guilt—and at the very least, Dean does seem to be enjoying kissing him.
“What if he, y’know. Just wants to date you?” Sam asks.
The idea is laughable, in a sad way. “Then I suppose dating me would be the time to tell me, no?”
Sam inclines his head, gives Castiel that point. Castiel starts to admit to himself that perhaps Diane and Guy are better suited to each other now that they have a fulfilling sex life and shared interests. But they still should not have been married at 16 and 19.
“Well, uh. Good luck, then.”
“Thank you, Sam. Have you found anything helpful in that book?”
“Mm, not yet.” Sam’s lips quirk. “You?”
“That it was not well-known in 1953 that women derived pleasure from sex,” Castiel deadpans, “and that marital counseling is occasionally helpful.”
Sam finds out, of course.
Six days in, actually, which is a little embarrassing.
And Dean would be more embarrassed by the whole can’t-hide-they’re-dating-to-save-his-life thing, if it weren’t for the way Sam finds out only six friggin’ days in.
Which is Dean pressed up against Cas against the kitchen counter, both their pants around their ankles.
It had taken them two days and four and three-fourths arguments to figure out that both of them were actually totally cool with touching each other’s dicks like adults, but since then, well. Cas doesn’t seem to have a refractory period and Dean’s apparently got twelve years to make up for with him.
So this has become a normal-ish thing, which is friggin’ incredible because Dean’s forty-two and under no circumstances should he be able to get it up three or four times a day. Physically speaking he’s almost certainly getting juiced up by angel mojo, but Cas hasn’t copped to that, so it’s either that or lingering Chuck luck, and Dean’s decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, no matter how many times he’s planning on cumming in it.
So that’s happening.
The worst thing about it is that the sound Sam makes is so girly and hilarious that Dean could make fun of it forever. Except, it’s now forever inextricably tied to his sex life and his brother finding out about it. Unfortunately.
“Damn it,” Dean groans, soon as Sam is out the door. “Lemme go, Cas, I gotta go take care of that.”
“No,” Cas says. Because he’s spoiled. Which, granted, Dean has been encouraging lately.
And Dean, who has his pants around his ankles but Cas’ hand vice-tight around his dick, is admittedly more interested in finishing what he started than having a feelings corner with his little brother. So, performatively, he rolls his eyes and twists his hand in a way that he’s finding makes Cas stop pretending he needs to breathe. “Then fast, okay?”
Twenty minutes later he’s adjusting himself in his jeans as he makes his way down to Sam’s room. He knocks, then pushes in, saying, “See, that’s how you knock, Sammy. Since apparently no one’s ever taught you.”
“You guys were in the kitchen,” Sam says, voice flat like he’s talking to a mark as he twists around in his chair to face Dean. “You know, a public space?”
Dean, who has decided not to act embarrassed about this, shakes his head. “Kitchen’s my zone, Sammy. You gotta knock coming into my zones.”
“I thought it was fine! You called him pal! It sounded safe!”
Dean did call Cas pal. He’s been trying to kick the habit of calling Cas things like buddy and pal in bed, but not very hard because Cas hates it and it makes him go harder. So.
“Cas is my pal,” he insists, rather than admitting to that.
If bitch-faces could kill, then Dean would be clutching his gut and spitting up blood again. If pitying looks could also kill, Dean woulda been blown into next week. Cas and Sam would find him rigor-mortised somewhere in the bunker and have to take care not to grind the maggots into the tile grouting.
“Don’t give me that,” he complains. “It’s good, dude. I’m good.”
“I don’t think I have to lecture you about how dumb it is if you’re doing, like, a friends with benefits thing,” Sam replies.
Dean considers this. How bad it would go immediately. Sam’s got a point. Luckily, “The benefits is that we’re also dating. Cas’s made an honest man outta me.”
“Really?”
“Don’t appreciate the skepticism in that tone there, Sammy. Yes, really. We’re dating. I’m his— boyfriend.” Sounds weird. “Partner.” Better. Like cowboys. “He gave me a month to prove I’m good at what I do.”
Sam’s lips do a thing. “And what happens at the end of the month?”
“I do a good enough job, he buys the farm,” Dean says. They didn’t technically talk about that part of it, but it’s pretty easy to suss out—no reason for Cas to give up a good guy. Especially considering the in-love thing.
“You think he’ll marry you. After a month.”
Dean’s head goes squirrelly at the idea. “I dunno. Probably not immediately. I mean, he’s in love with me. Apparently. No reason for him not to.”
“Except if you don’t wanna get married,” Sam points out.
“I’d totally marry Cas,” Dean says, immediately on the defensive. He’d do it no problem. He’d do it tomorrow if Cas asked. Kansas doesn’t even have a thing where you have to have a marriage certificate. Common law marriage is apparently legal if husband and wife consider themselves married and people know they’re married. Convenient, cause Dean doesn’t think the little church in Lebanon would marry them.
“Okay, but do you want to?”
“What kinda question is that?” Dean picks up the shirt and pair of jeans Sam’s left on his floor cause he’s an animal. Drops it into his hamper, which is four feet away. “Just told you I’d do it.”
He hears Sam’s bitchy huff, but the kid changes gears. “Does Cas know he’s buying the farm?”
Truth is, Dean doesn’t know if Cas knows much of anything. But they’re only a quarter into this. Way Cas was moaning against Dean’s jaw five minutes ago, Dean’s thinking he’s liking the dating, at least. He’ll want that more than a month. Dean’s getting really good at this stuff.
“Sure he does. Least, he wants to and I ain’t gonna stop him. Least I owe him, you know?”
“Well.” Sam huffs. “Stop making my bed. You don’t need to make my bed.”
“Pigsty in here, Sammy. What’s your girlfriend gonna think?”
“She’s in Montana, so probably nothing.”
Dean lets go of Sam’s sheets and meets his brother’s eyes instead. Sam lets that linger a couple seconds, then shrugs. “Listen, I don’t wanna get involved in this… honeymoon period. That scarred me for life. You guys are clearly, uh. You’ve… got this. And I don’t wanna get involved, frankly, in whatever it is you’re doing, so. Are you… good?”
“Good like how?”
“Like, if I left for a while, you’d be okay with Cas and Jack here?”
“What, with Eileen?” Dean goes back to tidying Sam’s room. He knows which drawers to avoid. He’s done enough snooping over the years.
“Yeah. I figured we’d do some hunting, maybe try and set up a more, like… centralized hunter network. More than just us and the girls and Garth, you know, in terms of people we actually talk to, call for help.” Sam seems unsure about it, looking down at his hands.
“That’s a great idea.”
“You think so?”Sam looks up, and Dean’s a little struck for a second. Sometimes Sam seems so much older. Always Dean’s little brother, but not always Dean’s little brother. Other times, Dean can see the snot-nosed six year old who thought Dean was the coolest thing in the world. Sam’s leaning a little more towards the latter this time.
“Man, you were great with the Apocalypse World people, you kidding? As long as you actually let yourself sleep this time? It’s a great idea.”
Sam gives him enough of a smile that Dean feels okay about the pep talk. “Eileen’ll be helping. So I’m less worried about not sleeping. Plus, this is kinda a… vacation? We’ll be hunting, but like, super lazy.”
“Good call. Actually enjoy not having Chuck around.”
Course, it’d been a couple months since Chuck actually got defeated, but Cas was gone, so it didn’t really count.
Sam nods. “Yeah. I’m just asking, cause… I mean, I don’t wanna leave and have you—”
Dean holds up a hand. “Gonna stop you there, Sammy. I’m good. Even if I wasn’t, Cas is around to keep an eye on me. Not exactly on suicide watch here.”
“Okay, but what if— I dunno, what if you guys break up or something?”
Dean’s head refuses to process that idea. “He won’t break up with me.”
“You were saying you were only dating a month.”
“Yeah, and then extending the limited-time offer, only 199.99, call within the next 5 minutes, Sam. I’ve got this. We’re not breaking up,” Dean snaps.
Sam holds his hands up. “Okay. As long as you’ll be good, I’m good. You guys are clearly communicating and whatever. And fucking in the kitchen. So I’m probably best getting outta here.”
Dean considers kicking his brother. “I’ll be fine, asshole. Go cross-country with your girlfriend. I’ll keep the fort here.”
Castiel enjoys dating Dean.
Not surprising, considering the fact that he is in love with him, but he is a little surprised at how well he settles into it.
For an impossibility, it’s very comfortable.
Dean’s mattress is just as good as Dean brags, and that’s not all because Castiel has worked up to having sex with Dean on top of said mattress. He is mostly of this opinion because he is now permitted—expected—to stay his nights in Dean’s bed, on the mattress, at Dean’s side.
He is under strict orders not to watch Dean sleep, but he disobeys those orders almost every single REM cycle. Dean snores at night, and sometimes mumbles in his own private language, and when he dreams he draws closer to Castiel’s thighs where Castiel is stationed sitting up next to him.
His sleep is a bit disjointed, probably a symptom of his alcoholism recovery and his other generalized traumas, so every once in a while he jerks awake and takes a few minutes to get back to sleep.
Castiel thinks it might be his favorite part of the night. He had no idea what he was missing, but now that he knows, it’s going to be a real problem for him to lose two weeks from now.
“What’re you thinking about?” Dean asks, voice foggy.
Castiel looks down at him. Dean’s eyes are closed. He decides to lie. “Heaven.”
Dean makes an ‘mm’ sound. “Fun or not fun?”
“What’s the difference?”
Dean shrugs, though the movement isn’t much distinguishable considering he’s still tucked underneath the blankets. Castiel reaches out, tugs them down, presses a few fingers between Dean’s shoulderblades. He’s gratified with a quiet moan. Dean usually has knots somewhere in his back and shoulders these days.
“Neither,” Castiel decides to answer. “Just thinking about some of the details.”
“Is Jack ever gonna make good on the ask to bring you up there to supervise it?”
Castiel has told his son not yet. It’s selfish, but the souls in Heaven won’t notice the difference of a month, and Castiel wants all the time he can get with Dean while they are still dating. Even if he only went up while his human was asleep, he would be missing out on this—Dean, stretched out, already falling back asleep, tucked up against him.
“Not yet,” Castiel replies. “When you’re ready. I know you don’t like the idea of me going.”
“Never,” Dean mumbles again, hand searching at Castiel’s side. Castiel indulges him, and Dean’s hand squeezes his lazily.
Castiel brings their joined hands up to kiss Dean’s. Dean’s snoring again by the time he lowers it.
Another good thing about these few stolen minutes. Dean tends not to remember them happening. Castiel has said most of his I love yous with Dean mostly asleep.
And, automatic, Dean will reply, “Love you too,” if Castiel has timed it right, voice on the verge of sleep.
Castiel likes that. It’s a secret he keeps close to his chest, pretending like he can make Dean mean it with just a bit of trickery. There isn’t a chance of it being anything more than learned rote—Castiel knows as much—but logic doesn’t apply in this situation, and Castiel wants to hear it. Over and over, he wants to hear it.
He has found a way to keep himself in check, at least. He hasn’t forgotten that Dean is here out of guilt. Obligation. Perhaps he does like the kissing, and Castiel has had to wash off enough proof of their less godly activities to accept that Dean also enjoys their physical relationship, but an eager-to-please Dean does not a romance make.
Which is unfortunate, because Castiel has been enjoying the fantasy.
Dean has taken to touching his shoulders and biceps more. He will hold Castiel’s hand or link their arms together while walking. He has taken to leaning against Castiel in restaurant booths and propping his feet up on Castiel’s lap when watching movies, or videos on his phone.
Castiel, again selfishly, hopes that it will accidentally become a habit of his. Castiel is used to living starved, but he isn’t sure how he will survive on it so well after being fed.
Or perhaps it will be an issue, once they’ve broken up, a reminder of what Castiel had but never properly.
Castiel shifts to lie down next to Dean.
He wakes, the barest hint of eyes checking on the movement in the bed next to him, and mumbles a questioning, “Mm?” Why? or something like it.
“I love you,” Castiel says, instead of answering the question.
“Love you,” Dean replies, and shifts to tuck his face against Castiel’s neck.
Castiel thinks, You don’t mean that, for his own bleeding heart’s benefit, and stares at the ceiling the rest of the night, Dean’s breath hot and even against his jaw.
Despite the sex and everything, Dean has not lost sight of the end goal.
So: Vacation itinerary. Everything an angel on the run needs, to… not be on the run anymore.
Dean’s got kissing down pat. Sex is the greatest he’s ever had so he can check that off Cas’ list too. They’ve done dates, they’re sleeping together, non-euphemistically even, and Dean’s gotten told off by Sam that it’s super immoral to try and get a kid by taking one from murdered parents even if the murderer was a monster, but Dean’s ignored that.
He’s half-through a second mixtape, too.
It’ll make the first one super obvious as, like, romantic, which will be embarrassing, but, well. Dean’ll just put it on his bed or something and hopefully Cas will let him pretend like it’s nothing.
He’s to the point of vacations and grand gestures, now, while he tries to figure out the house part of Cas’ to-do list, too.
And vacations are easier when he isn’t really letting himself be more than twenty feet away from Cas for more than twenty minutes at a time, cause it’s hard to watch romcoms for research on the grand gesture thing if Cas is right next to him.
Plus, all the romcom type grand gestures are when they’re, like, about to break up, or just broken up, or something, which is not the vibe Dean’s going for.
Dean’s never done a vacation itinerary. All the stuff on Pinterest is, like, really pretty, and he’s not sure if it’s the calligraphy that’s intimidating or the fact that he’ll need to find hotels and activities and restaurants that aren’t diners. It doesn’t matter the actual getting there, because Cas has got his wings back, officially, but the other crap definitely matters.
Dean decides on a legal pad and pen. Writes “Dates”, “Hotel”, “Stuff To Do”, and “Food” on the top and draws them columns. That’ll get them through most of the vacation, for sure. Not the prettiest itinerary, but he can turn it into a spreadsheet or something when he shows it to Cas and Jack.
This would be much easier if Cas was doing, like, a scorecard. Or a report card, that’d work.
Seriously, if Dean knew how he was being graded, he might freak out about this less.
After thirty minutes of glaring at a bunch of different travel websites, Dean finally just says “Screw it,” to himself and goes to find the angel.
Cas, now that he’s got his wings back, has been honor-sworn to not flap half across the world without telling Dean first, and seems to be sticking to that. He’s outside, feeling the energy of the universe or something a couple hundred feet from the door. Dean’s pretty sure he’s enjoying the fixed-up grace more than he’s letting on. Must be nice getting to experience shit with all his senses now, cause Cas is spending most of his time outside when Dean lets him outta his sight.
Dean’d be more worried about it, except the guy doesn’t seem to be straining at the leash to leave or anything. Makes sense, cause Dean’s really doing pretty good with the boyfriend stuff. Cas is a soft touch, easy to ply into kissing and whatever now that they’ve gotten into all that.
So Dean’s pretty sure Cas just likes being able to be an angel properly again when he goes to experience the sun all melancholy-like. Or, hell, maybe he just likes the feeling of how whenever a tick bites him now, it fizzes and pops like popcorn.
Cas sees him coming as soon as he’s out of the door, turning to face him even as Dean tramples through the scrub to get to him. “Hello, Dean,” he says, innocent even though he totally coulda come and met Dean halfway.
Dean smiles at him anyway. “Heya, Cas. Got a question for you.”
Cas waits, and Dean comes up to his side, giving him a peck because he’s allowed, before continuing, “What d’you wanna do on vacation?”
“Where’s the vacation?” Cas asks, after a second.
“No idea. I wanna do something beachy, though. Let’s call it coast, latitude of 30 degrees or less. Anywhere with a language you speak.”
“That’s everything, Dean,” Cas says, like Dean doesn’t already know this. “What kind of things are there to do on a beach vacation?”
“Depends on the beach, I guess?” That’s kinda the problem Dean’s running into. He’s never actually been on a real beach vacation. “Prissy umbrella drinks and, uh, suntanning. And swimming.”
Cas hums. “I wouldn’t mind swimming.”
Dean nods. “And?”
“I don’t care about suntanning, and you don’t drink anymore.”
Dean’s more than aware of this, and it’s the worst thing about his life right now, but it’s cute that Cas likes to remind him. Cause Dean’d get in big trouble if Cas ever found out Dean fell off the wagon. “I’ll get everything virgin. The umbrellas are the point.”
“Then sure,” Cas agrees. “As long as they taste good.”
“Mostly fruit juice and ice,” Dean says, like he’s an authority instead of a guy who worries anything less manly than brown liquor or at least less boozy than over 80 proof might make his Dad come back and kick the glass out of his hand.
“What else?”
“I was thinking a nice hotel? Type that’s got room service?” They’re rapidly approaching the last of Dean’s knowledge about beach vacations, or pretty much any vacation at all. “Big beds and shower stalls. Or jet bathtubs. And balconies.”
He might be laying this on a little thick, but it does make Cas’ eyebrows go up all considering-like. “Would the vacation be just us?”
Dean grins, shrugs. “I figure we can send the kids out to do their own thing, one day or another.”
Just like he’s been getting squirrely with Cas not around him too long, they both would probably get weird with Jack gone too far too long, and they definitely couldn’t exclude, like, Sam. Dean’s alright with sneaking in sexy times in between family fun.
“So, beaches and sex,” Cas concludes.
“I know you’re the authority here and all, but it sounds like Heaven to me,” Dean jokes.
“How long will the vacation be?”
“Week or two?”
“You’ll get restless,” Cas points out. “With nothing to do for that long.”
“That’s part of why I’m out here,” Dean admits. He produces the folded-up bit of paper that’s got his shitty planning on it, shows it off like a second grader to a crush.
Cas regards the next-to-nothing on it with the seriousness afforded to holy texts, and says, “Beaches will have… shopping. And nature tourism.”
“So, what, one day of souvenirs for the girls, another day of…” Dean’s not sure what ‘nature tourism’ is. “Snorkeling?”
“We will need to choose somewhere, to learn exactly what they offer,” Cas says.
“Do you even like snorkeling?”
“I’ve never been in the shallows of the ocean,” Cas says, zen. Makes it way funnier when he adds on, “When I observed oceanic life, I was usually well past the depths where sunlight carried.”
“So lots of glowfish for you,” Dean quips.
“And whalefall,” Cas nods, like Dean knows what the hell that is.
“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me what that is,” he prompts.
“Dead whales, that decay and fall to the ocean floor for other species to feast on. They strip the carcass. The process creates almost its own ecosystem.”
“This one of your things?” Dean asks. Cas gets into some weird crap. Dean’s been conscripted into… he guesses it was a roleplay—where Cas described in pretty vivid detail how he rebuilt Dean’s body. Real vivisection-level stuff.
Sure, Dean got into it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t weird crap.
Cas huffs. “Not every interest of mine is erotic, Dean.”
Dean throws his hands up. “We’re going underwater. I gotta check, cause again, Cas, the minute you get into tentacles…”
“I will tell you,” Cas promises. “Though I’m not convinced it will happen.”
Dean’ll keep trying. It’ll be way more than worth it when it eventually works.
This one isn’t a Dean-trying-to-be-a-good-boyfriend thing, though, to be fair. This one’s just fun for him.
“We’ll take the vacation either way,” Dean allows. “How far are you willing to fly me?”
“Across the world,” Cas says, taking the planning paper from him. “Do you know where you want to go?”
“You know I don’t. Long as you’re around and we don’t get arrested, I don’t need a passport or anything, and I don’t wanna fly unless it takes five seconds tops.”
“The Mediterranean would have beaches. And a lot of history, on-land. The Caribbean is more likely to have snorkeling, and to speak languages you understand.”
Dean does years-old seventh-grade geometry in his head. “Mediterranean,” he decides. “Way more likely to be able to ditch Sam there, all the history.”
“And more nude beaches,” Cas muses.
“Horndog,” Dean accuses.
Cas shrugs, not bothering to deny. “When are we leaving?”
“I’ll check hotel openings,” Dean says. “Couplea weeks.”
Cas turns back to the ticks, taking the paper with him. “Let me know.”
Little weird that his voice goes deadpan like that, but Dean doesn’t let himself worry about it that much. All he can do is promise, “I’ll get a good place,” and hope that’s enough to get him back whatever points he just lost.
He really does need a grading system for this one.
Least he’s pretty sure he’s doing better than his flat 1.9 high school GPA.
Castiel is glaring at the wall calendar.
Jack got one from a show he liked, and though the calendar itself has done no wrong, and the cartoon Moomin is similarly blameless, it serves as a reminder that the fifth is fast approaching, and with it the one month anniversary of his and Dean’s relationship.
Dean has not made any motions to extend the month. Castiel isn’t surprised by this, but it does intensify his glare at the calendar.
Objectively, it’s better that this comes to an end. Dean has been making so many gestures, pulling so many obvious strings in a bid to get Castiel to stay, that it’s only a matter of time before he figures out a way to trick Castiel into signing a home mortgage, or taking a page out of the plot of Dr. Sexy and faking a pregnancy in order to entrap Castiel into a marriage.
Luckily, it’s impossible for that to happen without Castiel directing his grace to change some things, but Castiel will still be wary of anything Dean asks him to sign in the next few months.
But even if it is better that this ends before Dean gives into his guilt any further, it doesn’t mean that Castiel will enjoy losing it. Though he’s been vigilant about getting used to dating Dean, he has a suspicion that he hasn’t been very successful.
He lets Dean touch him between the shoulderblades now.
He’s come to enjoy the stroke of fingertips across skin, soothing him into a body that was never meant to be his. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to lose it, how he’ll train his wings not to wrap around Dean, now that they don’t hurt to move.
There’s a small mercy, he supposes, in not having to sleep without all that. To not having to wait for Dean to finish the food he will be eating every day. He doesn’t need the coffee that Dean makes for him every morning, and doesn’t need to sleep next to him. He just likes it.
Loves it.
Dean could make it easy—just say— but of course he won’t, because he doesn’t, and it turns out that Castiel isn’t quite as okay with that as he thought he was originally.
Castiel wonders how easily Jack can see his conflict on him when he approaches. “What are you looking at?”
Castiel feels the brush of wings against him, soft. Though Jack has the power of God, now, his wings are still as soft as a fledgeling’s, giving away his youth even more than his fresh, smiling human face. Castiel’s own wings move to bump against them, and he turns, willing himself to put away his self-pity for the sake of his son. “The calendar,” he replies, truthful. “I’m thinking about the future.”
Jack regards him, then ducks forward to give him a quick hug. Castiel accepts, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Jack glows a bit brighter. He’s always enjoyed such affection.
He pulls away, then, “I know I’m not meant to pry.”
Castiel nods. “Have you been?”
He tries to say this with no judgment, though Jack still looks a bit guilty, like he’s been accused of something. “No! Just.” He makes a noise. “You don’t seem that… happy.”
Castiel says, automatic, “I’m happy.”
He is. Dean asks him all the time, and he can answer honestly.
Jack doesn’t seem convinced. “Not always.”
“No one is happy all the time.”
“You should be,” Jack says, sounding convinced of that. “I mean, you weren’t for practically two years before the Empty actually took you.”
Castiel wraps a wing around Jack’s shoulder. The brothers’ penchants for guilt have clearly rubbed off on Jack, over the years. It’s one of the worst traits Castiel thinks his perfect son could have picked up. “I would do it again.”
“That’s not the point,” Jack says. “I can— I can see it on you. Like… cobwebs.”
“See what?”
Jack’s clearly a bit frustrated. “You being unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy,” Castiel insists.
“Then you— will be. Or. You are but you don’t know you are. Or you— were and will be again? Or it’s staining you? I don’t—”
Castiel takes Jack’s face between his hands. “Is it an effect of your new power? That you can see this?”
Jack hesitates, then nods. “I don’t know how to turn it off. I know I’m not meant to pry.”
“It’s okay,” Castiel assures him. “There’s only so much you can do.”
Jack seems to relax a bit. “It still seems like you’re unhappy.”
“I’m… not,” Castiel replies, after a second. “Though… I am unsure about the future. I wonder if that’s what you’re seeing.”
Jack hums, uncertain. “Maybe.”
Castiel smooths his hair back. “I appreciate you being worried. I can’t promise I’m going to always be happy. But you know I’m meant to worry about you, not the other way around.”
“You don’t worry about yourself enough,” Jack complains.
Castiel shrugs. “You’re my son, God or not. It’s not your responsibility.”
“Everything’s my responsibility.”
Privately, Castiel thinks that’s the problem with these new powers. They sit much to heavily on his son’s shoulders. Publicly, he says, “Not me.”
Jack seems to switch tactics. “What are you unsure about?”
It takes Castiel a half-second to recall what he might be talking about. “About the future, you mean?” He makes the decision to not talk about Dean. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Heaven, and your new power.”
Not lies, just not recent enough to be truths.
Jack hums, casting his eyes to the calendar. “I know you’ve said you’re not gonna do anything about Heaven yet.”
Until at least the end of their month. Then Castiel thought he might reassess. “Unless there’s an emergency, no. Though I will help. In a few weeks, I’m sure Dean and I will be ready for me to leave every once in a while. He’s gotten less…”
Clingy is the word for it, but Castiel doesn’t like to use it. He wants Dean to express what he wants—but what he wants is for Castiel to be around him all the time, and to call and text him every hour when Castiel isn’t. Though he’s extended that time to an hour instead of thirty minutes. It’s progress.
Jack shrugs. “It’s okay. The new angels are helping, and so am I. It’s stable, it just needs renovating.”
Castiel nods. “And when it is?”
Jack shrugs.
Castiel nods. “Well, it’s your choice. As long as you know you have a place here, with me.”
Jack nods, then gives him a smile. “I thought this was going to be a conversation about you, not me.”
“You’re much more important to me,” Castiel tells him. “And I always want to talk about you, and with you.”
So much like Dean, this embarrasses Jack, who drops his gaze and whose wings fluff with badly-disguised pleasure. “As long as you’re happy,” he mumbles. “You promise?”
“I promise,” Castiel says.
He casts an eye back to the calendar, counts the days he has left. He isn’t lying, after all. He just has a bit of a timeline to it.
Dean’s actually kinda forgotten about the deal when the alarm goes off.
Or, well, he hasn’t forgotten about it—too much at stake for that—but he’s stopped tracking the days.
It’s a literal alarm, because of course it is, because it’s Cas. He must’ve picked a special alarm from his phone’s list, because it sounds different than the default one that Dean got used to hearing whenever he was sharing a motel room with Sam, who woke up at ass o’ clock to go run or whatever he does at ass-fifteen in the morning.
Dean’s looking over some real-estate ads that he printed out a couple days ago, cause he finally thinks he’s figured out exactly what home equity is and he should probably figure out where they might be going before he figures out how they’ll pay for it.
Cas has a coffee and some random ladies’ magazine—apparently he’s getting through the stash of personal effects that were left in the various bunker bedrooms, which includes a couple months worth of magazines—and his phone right next to him. Him and Claire have been texting since, like, five AM. Dean woke up to the initial ding before Cas had remembered that his phone had a little switch that made it vibrate instead, so he knows exactly how long they’ve been going for.
Apparently alarms ring through the vibrating setting. Cas has probably had this one queued up since day one. Dean looks up from his egg sandwich and printed-out real estate ads and clocks the following:
1. Cas’ hot I’ll-smite-you glare down at his phone.
2. “Break up with Dean.” in big letters across the home screen of said phone.
He rolls with the punch initially.
Dean’s about halfway through a chuckle—the glare puts him too much at ease, and, if he’s honest, he’s getting a little overconfident—when Cas looks up at him, and though the guy’s expression hasn’t changed all that much, Dean suddenly understands the lack of irony in that alarm.
“You set a non-default ringtone for this?” he asks first.
“It’s called ‘Silk’,” Cas answers, as if that’s what Dean cares about.
Dean does not care about.
They stare at each other for a few seconds, then Dean prompts, “Well?”
And what he’s planning on doing is asking if he made it. If he was a good enough boyfriend to make this work. To make Cas rethink the whole thing. He made Cas pause his plans a whole month to prove it, that he could get better, that he could be a decent enough boyfriend. That he could make Cas happy in more ways than just being a gape-mouthed spectator to the most important five minutes of his own stupid life, his best friend confessing his love for him, because apparently Dean couldn’t manage to make him happy anytime before that.
Cas talks first. “I have never broken up with somebody before.”
And if Dean were actually smart, he probably wouldn’t have said, “Then don’t.”
If Dean were smart, he wouldn’t have made Cas look at him with the sort of deep-set-eyed sadness that he was so damn good at. “Don’t make this difficult, Dean. I am breaking up with you.”
“Right.” Dean looks down at his sandwich. He’s 99% sure it didn’t taste like sulfur and spoil before this, but he opens his mouth and spits out the food in it regardless, because it’s suddenly disgusting.
Cas regards the new wet lump on Dean’s plate with little feeling, which is at least better than the… pity or whatever that happens whenever he looks at Dean. He does not continue. Dean doesn’t know if that means the breakup is done or what. He’s never actually broken up with anyone properly, he doesn’t think. Maybe Lisa sort of counted, but then he definitely messed that up by having Cas wipe all her memories of him, so, like, retroactive not-breakup.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Broken up with. Gotcha. Dumper and dumpee. Loud and clear.”
Suddenly furious at the half-eaten sandwich on his plate, suddenly blindingly furious at Cas, he pushes himself back from the table, the chair making a satisfyingly unpleasant squeak that makes Cas flinch. Dean takes the plate and the real estate papers and dumps it, sandwich and papers and ceramic all, directly into the kitchen trash. Then he leaves the room.
There isn’t nearly enough stuff in his bedroom for him to break. He hopes Cas hears it from across the bunker when he goes to the shooting range and shoots at one of the walls until his hands hurt with recoil.
Castiel has never thought much about whether he is avoidant.
He supposes he must be, at least right now, as he is avoiding Dean.
This is, according to many websites and advice columns, relatively normal for a breakup.
Dean is now his ex-boyfriend. The word sits badly in Castiel’s mind, “ex” prefix poisoning an otherwise quite agreeable idea.
He is avoiding his ex.
This is a difficult thing to do when sharing a home and a child. Castiel is nonetheless persisting.
It is helpful, admittedly, that Dean is angry with him and also avoiding him. Castiel is not sure of the best way to navigate that anger. He does not expect an apology, but he doesn’t think he can give one, either. This breakup was well-announced. Dean knew it would happen. He agreed to the time limit of one month.
Castiel has not found any advice column that specifically addresses the issue of how to make an ex less angry at you when they had been told that the breakup would happen from the advent of the relationship. Though he is sure the Internet would have opinions about such a thing, the only advice forums he knows about are the Reddit ones that Dean frequents, and it seems like it would be a bit like poking the bear if he posted about his angry ex-boyfriend in an arena that said angry ex-boyfriend was a part of.
It seemed a bad way to make Dean less angry, and it also was worrying if Dean decided to comment on the post saying that Castiel was, in fact, YTA.
Of course, in another world Castiel can imagine Dean loving the post, were he not involved. He would flag Castiel down sitting at the kitchen table or perhaps one of the couches, and he would say something like, “Hey, Cas, listen to this. Am I the asshole. Listen.” Dean would clear his throat then continue, reading from his phone, “I, 4.543 billion years old, male, recently broke up with my boyfriend, 42 years old, male. We had dated exactly one month, which we agreed to when we started the relationship. The relationship was quite good, as far as I’m aware, and lasted 30 full days. I broke up with him on day 30, as agreed. Now he is angry at me. I have to assume that this is because I broke up with him. Reddit dot com, am I the asshole for breaking up with him, even though we did agree to a month-long relationship?”
Castiel would have listened intently, and delivered his judgment. “In this case, not the asshole.”
Dean would have looked up at him, grinning, and disagreed. “What? Total asshole.”
The issue with this imagined scenario, however, is that Castiel is not sure that Imaginary Dean is only disagreeing because he enjoys being contrary, or because he has actual reasoning. This is unfortunate, because if Castiel knew the reason that Dean thought he was the asshole in this scenario, he would have a better idea of how to navigate it.
As it is, however, he is simply avoiding Dean, and his Reddit opinions, and his many easy grins and contrary stubbornness.
Castiel is avoiding Dean. Castiel also misses Dean.
It’s very annoying.
It would be better if, for instance, they did not live together. Then Castiel would not need to keep an eye on the clock, stay away from the kitchen three times a day and from a certain hallway once it hits evening. Of course, then he could not stay ever-vigilant, looking for signs that, indeed, the kitchen was being used three times a day minimum and the door to Dean’s room was actively being opened and closed.
Jack has recruited himself into the cause, and he tells Castiel if Dean has missed a breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Castiel has taken to preparing plates of snacks for Jack to take into Dean’s room along with puzzles or board games.
Many of the advice columns mention chocolate and ice cream as ways of recovering from a breakup. Dean, luckily, is usually happy to accept these snacks from Jack. Jack is happy to share in them. Castiel does not see much of Dean, but he at least is secure in the knowledge that he is still being taken care of.
Jack isn’t quite sure the why of the breakup—and Castiel believes he would sooner die than admit the shame of his weakness, agreeing to a one-month deal simply because he thought Dean might kiss him during, taking advantage of his friend’s guilt for his own selfish gain—but his son has resigned himself to the mystery of the full story.
Castiel is quite proud of him for it. It can’t be easy to have the power to know something that you’re curious about and allow the curiosity to go unaddressed, potentially forever.
That doesn’t always mean that Jack is content to keep quiet on his own opinions on the matter of avoidance.
It has been eight and a half days since their breakup, and Castiel has only seen Dean four times total, which, Castiel thinks, is a fairly good record, considering they are still sharing a space.
That is why it surprises him when he finds a cassette tape on his room’s bed.
Cas Trax(oxo), it reads, handwriting giving away its author.
Castiel cocks his head down at it. Picks it up, flips it over. The other side is blank.
It could be a peace offering. It’s a bit early in Dean’s anger to be considering forgiveness very seriously, but, Castiel thinks with a bit of dread, it wasn’t as if the relationship was real to Dean. There wasn’t much to “get over”.
The idea spoils in Castiel’s mind. Why he was the one who apparently had to be forgiven when it was Dean who had made their relationship a month in the first place. When Dean couldn’t take the idea of Castiel loving him without scrambling to make a mockery of it.
Castiel lets the impulse to break this tape into pieces wash over him, but he knows better than to submit to it. The original mixtape had been lost already. Dean had rescued it from Castiel’s pockets when Lucifer had stabbed him at Jack’s birth, but it had been in Castiel’s pocket when the Empty had taken him, and not returned with Castiel.
Castiel thinks it’s a small price to pay to be alive again, but he still does miss the little gift.
There’s no way on Earth he’ll break this one, especially not with that one lost.
So, instead, he goes searching for something that can play it.
He takes the keys to the Impala and pulls it out of the garage to avoid any buildup of gasses that might hurt Dean if he came down. He only goes as far as the driveway before putting the car in park and putting the tape in. It runs for a second or two, and then the tape catches and out comes the first couple bars of the first songs.
By the chorus, Castiel has identified it, Say You Love Me by Fleetwood Mac. It’s followed by Night Moves, which Castiel knows by the first couple bars because Dean liked it whenever he wanted songs playing during sex.
Castiel attempts not to hold that against the rest of the tape, which plays Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Frank Sinatra, Zeppelin— all songs Castiel recognizes.
All love songs.
Castiel listens through all ten songs on the first side with a deep frown, then flips it over. Another love song starts playing—Come to Me by the Goo Goo Dolls.
When the next song is a love song as well, he retrieves his phone from his pocket and types into Google, What does oxo mean?
Once he filters out results that are about chemistry nomenclature, almost every single result says that it stands for hugs and kisses.
Castiel spends the next few songs—all love songs—asking Google things. Some answers are more illuminating than others.
What does it mean when he sends you oxo?
What does it mean when he sends you love songs?
What does it mean when he makes you a mixtape?
What does it mean when he says he needs you?
What does it mean when he says you’re dating?
What does it mean when he’s called you a brother but likes having sex with you?
What does it mean when he doesn’t say anything when you confess love for him?
What does it mean when he doesn’t mention your love confession but wants to date you?
What does it mean when you fall in love with him after rescuing him from Hell, and you are friends for twelve years, and you die after confessing that you’re in love with him, and he rescues you, then he declares you dating but specifies only for a month, and he doesn’t seem to like it when you break up with him, but didn’t seem to fight you on it when he fights you about everything?
Google restricts his query to only the first 32 words for the last one, so it’s not very helpful.
Castiel listens to another two love songs, then, lost, asks Google, What if he loves me?
Quizzes and lists pop up as results. Castiel scrolls through three pages, reading, as Fields of Gold by Sting plays.
The last on the second side is A Case of You, Joni Mitchell.
“One of Mom’s favorite artists,” Dean had admitted, years ago, just the two of them in the car in a dim motel parking lot. They’d been waiting to meet someone, and still had hours to go, and Castiel supposed that the mixture of a dark night and heavy rain had made Dean feel safe enough to retrieve one of the Tupperware boxes of tapes he kept in the car and fish out an almost new-looking tape box and the tape inside.
“It’s usually not my thing, but…” he’d said, popping it into the player. They’d sat silent for almost forty minutes, the chill seeping in with the heating off, and Castiel remembered watching a slow drop of water from Dean’s wet hair make its way down his neck behind his ear as Joni Mitchell had sung you’re in my blood like holy wine and remembered the way Dean had met his eyes with a shy smile, just for a few seconds, just long enough for her to mention love is touching souls before dropping Castiel’s gaze for her to sing the rest of the song.
Castiel listens, now, the full song, watching the grass on either side of the bunker’s driveway sway.
There’s a click after it fades out. Castiel is about to take the tape out, because his first step should be returning the car to the garage even if his second step is flying to the deepest point on Earth, when Dean’s voice fades in.
“Hey, Cas,” the recording starts. “Uh. Never recorded on a mixtape before, so this might not even work. Got a whole machine for it, but, uh. You know me and new tech. Just in case, though— I hope, uh. I hope you like this one. You’ve definitely heard all of these by now. Maybe not like this, though? Least I hope not. If some guy’s been giving you a bunch of love songs I’m gonna need to introduce him and my gun. Or the business end of Baby, if you know what I mean.”
He pauses. “Okay. So, uh. You’ve heard all these. I know you have, cause I’ve made you listen. Remember that one time, we were waiting for… jeez, it mighta been Crowley? Anyway, he was really making us wait for it, and I got bored and I made you listen to all my mom’s favorites? I, uh. The one Joni song, it’s from that. That night.”
The recording goes soft on the next line, like Dean is muttering to himself. “Jeez, I thought this might be easier just recording…” He clears his throat. “Anyway, these are all love songs. Uh, for you. I mean, they make me think about you. Cause they’re— I’m. Uh. I’m crazy about you, you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” Castiel tells the recording, feeling frantic about it. “Why would you tell me this now?”
Dean’s recording keeps talking over him, oblivious of the reply. “Seriously. Didn’t know if I could— well, you don’t need to hear about all that. Suffice it to say, I’m really fucking glad you’re back, man. And I’m sorry I’ve gotta— I’m trying, you know that. That’s the whole point of this. And I’m pushing myself, and hopefully you already know by all the doing what I mean before I can do the saying.”
Castiel starts driving the car back into the garage. He has a feeling he needs to go see Dean. Now. Or fly into the ocean. He’ll decide on the way.
On the tape, Dean continues. “In case you haven’t picked up on it, though, I’m compromising. Recording this now, sort of a delayed landmine kinda thing. I get to prime it then walk away, which is, uh. Easier. For some reason. I’m stalling.”
“Yes, get to the point,” Castiel instructs, wondering if the Impala has a fast forward button that just speeds up the tape, not skip.
Dean on the recording clears his throat again. “Cas. Jeez. Cas, I’m— I’m in love with you.”
“You can’t be,” Castiel tells him.
“Now when I manage to say it out loud, you can Han Solo me. That’ll make me— you saying I know when I finally manage saying I love you? I’ll hit you, but it’ll make my friggin’ life. You’ve pretty much already got all my top points on lock, but. I— you make me so happy, Cas. I love you. Tell me you like at least one of these songs, okay? Even if you’ve gotta lie. I love you. I’m gonna tell you. I promise.”
The tape whirs a second or two more, and then clicks, final.
Castiel is left in the car in the garage.
He turns it off.
Dean knows he might be sulking at this point.
It’s been… what, over a week? Since Cas dumped him.
Still feels just as bad, though. He’s like a teenage girl, losing his prom date. Seriously, it’s embarrassing. Jack keeps bringing him ice cream and doing shit like asking him how he’s feeling. Dean keeps telling him he needs to join an after-school club or something instead of worrying about him.
Still, even with all the babying, Dean doesn’t really feel any less like a fourteen year old girl. He’s still lounging around watching action movies and turning them off whenever there’s romance. Oh, and he’s made his way through, like… six seasons of Dr. Sexy. He’s finding he doesn’t even like Dr. Sexy and Dr. Piccolo together that much anymore, which sucks because he’s usually such a gung-ho guy for them.
It’s way better than how he was when Cas was dead, but…
So, yeah. Ice cream and crappy TV. Like the nerdy girl in the movies losing the football quarterback.
‘Cept Dean here can’t exactly lose any glasses and frumpy clothes, cause he’s forty-two years old and his only push-up bra got lost when he died the first time, probably when Sam was going through his stuff after he got buried.
This, he, is the kinda thing movie directors look at and declare FUBAR.
He just doesn’t know how to get over it.
He’s never, like. Gotten over anyone, not really. He’d probably go just as slack-jawed over Cassie if he got to see her again today as he did fifteen, twenty years ago.
Lisa, well, seeing her would have some other mixed feelings, but he definitely doesn’t dislike her.
So he’s got no clue what to do about Cas, now. He’d never even planned for getting him, not really.
It wasn’t that Dean didn’t know he was in love, before all this. He did. Well, sort of. He knew around the shape of it.
It was just, like. Some things, he got comfortable about. Maybe a little too comfortable. He starts taking some shit for granted. He got comfortable in their first house, before Azazel and Mom. He got comfortable in the rented houses, the first couple years, while Dad still held jobs a couple months at a time. He got comfortable thinking Sam would follow him to hunting once he graduated high school. Got comfortable on the road with Dad’s calls every couple days until he stopped calling altogether. Gets comfortable every time Cas stays longer than a day or two, like maybe this time the guy won’t leave.
It’s his fault thinking that. His fault for getting comfortable. His fault getting cocky, thinking maybe he could keep covering the rotten core of him with air freshener like Cas hadn’t smelled it twelve years ago, the whole way up.
But he’s gotten comfortable with it. The shape of Cas in him. There’s only so long love can be new before he gets comfortable there, and no matter how many times it happens he can’t seem to stop it.
So he knew. For himself, he knew. Got comfortable with the staring and the squinting. Comfortable with looking at his best friend’s lips and comfortable with how said friend didn’t know how weird it was. He got used to figuring out reasons to touch his hands, got used to choosing the smallest booths in the diners to sit in so Sam would take one side and he could shove in close next to Cas. He knew what it meant, more or less, when he thought about how there was only two layers of denim and cotton between their bare thighs, just barely touching in too-small booth seats.
But he got used to it! That was just Dean. He didn’t think about it, because there wasn’t anything to think about. Dean thought about Cas when he thought about love. There was an of-course about it that meant there was nothing to it. Less than nothing. Dean’s spent the whole time in this rebuilt body doing nothing but digging out a hole for Cas to fit in.
And Cas has spent the last month filling it in.
And Dean got comfortable.
That’s where he went wrong, he guesses.
Because, okay. Whatever, when he was the one digging the hole. He hollowed himself out slow. Didn’t hurt a bit. Liver? He hardly knew ‘er! Kidneys? Only good for stones anyway. Heart, lungs, blood vessels, goop and glue and all, slowly scooped out so Cas could slip in if he ever wanted.
Dean got comfortable on the idea that one day, if everything went the way it would never go, Cas would be comfortable filling the space left Dean left for him. A second pillow on his bed. A second nightstand. Never needed to be filled, that wasn’t the point. Dean just liked the maybe-one-day about it.
Needed to do it so he didn’t have to think about it ever again. Already a space for Cas so Dean didn’t have to think about how there wasn’t.
The shittiest part about it was that Cas went for it. Dean spent all those nights not thinking about it and now there was Cas, who doesn’t even need to sleep but breathed slow and even against the back of Dean’s neck. Twenty-eight days in a row. Breath against Dean’s neck.
Cas’ breath was warm and now Dean knows exactly how it feels to lose it.
Knows exactly how he loved it, too.
Wasn’t that he didn’t know, but he got comfortable not thinking about how he wanted it. Then he got it and got comfortable.
Dean’s eyes are closed. He is attempting to sleep. He’s trying to remember what the actual feeling was like. Cas against his back.
He used to imagine it and not think about it and now he can’t remember if Cas inhaled with his nose or not, and it’s all his fault for being too fucking comfortable to commit it to memory.
Still, he’s pretty sure he’s not asleep enough to be dreaming when Cas bangs into his room.
He startles and grabs his gun from under his pillow, but is lowering it even before he’s consciously processed who it is coming in.
Cas looks a little wild, and he’s soaking wet.
Waiting for the emergency, Dean looks at him.
Cas looks back.
Dean blinks first. Of course. “You’re dripping on my floor,” he points out.
“Oh,” Cas says. Unrepentant. “Yes. I was underwater.”
“Right.” Dean gathers his blankets up around him then sits up against the headboard.
Cas doesn’t elaborate.
“And do we wanna share with the class?” Dean prompts, after the silence has stretched too long.
“Yes,” Cas says, then goes silent again. Just watching. If Dean hadn’t gotten used to it years ago he might’ve been squirming under the gaze. As is, he meets it, annoyed.
Finally, Cas gets with the program. “I listened to your mixtape.”
Dean nods, unsure. “I mean, I would hope. Gave you it, what, four years ago?”
Cas shakes his head. “Your new one. The love songs, for me.”
Dean freezes. “I didn’t—”
Cas, still dripping on his floor, waves his hand. “If you didn’t give it to me, then Jack did. It doesn’t matter. You made it?”
Dean can’t do anything but nod. He has no idea when Jack might’ve even seen the thing, but maybe he was snooping with God powers. Little shit.
Cas stalks forward, a hunter going after something tangled in a trap. “Your recording. You said all these things?”
“My voice,” Dean mutters.
Cas climbs into bed. (Still wet, unfortunately.) “Answer me.”
Dean nods again.
“And you meant them?”
Dean picks at the part of his top sheet where it’s started unraveling a little, dropping Cas’ gaze, finally. Cas is gonna soak his bed at this rate. He’s probably gonna need to start a load of laundry, like, immediately, once Cas gets whatever it is he wants out of Dean. “Sure,” he finally mutters.
“Don’t sure me,” Cas says, his voice going low and warning. Dean wills his dick not to get too excited about it. Pavlovian. “Did you mean it when you said you loved me?”
“What’s it matter?” Dean finally snaps, glaring back up to Cas to find him—closer than Dean was expecting. He swallows hard. “You broke up with me, dude.”
Cas glares right back. “Because you didn’t tell me that it was a genuine relationship.”
Dean sputters a little. “Not gen— Dude, we slept together! We told Jack!”
“And you still call me dude,” Cas says, coolly. “And buddy. And pal. And you called us partners.”
“Like cowboys,” Dean offers.
“Like cowboys,” Cas agrees, with derision.
Dean gets the incredibly mature urge to stick his tongue out at Cas, who is still fucking dripping on his sheets. “I like cowboys.”
“I’ve noticed.” Which, fair. Dean’s put him in a hat once or twice, you know, for a good time. It’s fun. Cas doesn’t care one way or the other. “But you also don’t agree with me about the homoeroticism of the partner trope in most of your Westerns—”
“Just because I don’t think you should need a sexuality studies major to watch a movie—”
“—and there’s no reason I should assume that when you call me your partner that you mean anything different than what you mean when you call those cowboys just partners.”
Dean points out, “Except that me and you bone.”
Cas cocks his head, a bit of wind taken out of his (still wet) sails. “Yes, that part differed.”
“And we kiss.”
Cas just drips water on him. Waiting.
Dean finally gives into curiosity, because Cas clearly isn’t planning on telling him about the whole wet kitten thing, and gets a couple drops of water from their place sliding down Cas’ jaw dripped onto his fingers instead of his bedspread. He sticks them into his mouth.
He grimaces. Saltwater. Yuck.
Where the hell is Cas going to get covered in saltwater in rural Kansas?
“Don’t do that,” Cas instructs.
Dean pops his fingers out of his mouth. “Do what?”
Cas flicks his eyes to Dean’s fingers, and Dean goes, “Dude. You broke up with me! You can’t get all… lustful. Over that. You still haven’t told me why you’re soaking wet. With saltwater, no less.”
“I can’t control what I get lustful over,” Cas says, primly. “And don’t call me dude.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Baby. Tell me why you’re wet.”
Cas’ eyebrow hitches up, and Dean hears it too.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
“I spent a bit of time underwater,” Cas tells him, finally. “Watching whalefall. I needed to…”
He trails off, and then shrugs. Dean nods, figuring it’s a good enough answer, then grimaces again. “Wait, I just put whale water in my mouth?”
“It’s no more unsanitary than any other ocean water,” Castiel says. “Possibly more sanitary, considering the pressure is so high and the temperature is so low that only some specially-evolved microbes can live down there. In free water, anyway.”
“Yeah, but they’re probably a bit more resistant to antibiotics that way,” Dean counters. “Blegh.”
They fall silent, staring.
Cas drips some more.
Dean finally sighs, breaking their silence after a couple seconds, and prompts, “You didn’t know this whole thing was genuine?”
“Well, you never said.”
“I figured the whole kissing and sex and future-planning thing cinched that for me, yeah.”
“You future-planned with me a lot even before we started dating, to be fair,” Cas points out.
Dean levels him a look, and deadpans, “Wonder why.”
Cas’ mouth screws up a little. “Don’t blame me for not making assumptions. You knew how I felt, I told you. Then you said nothing in reply.”
“I said we were dating!”
“You asked for a month, Dean. I assumed you wanted to give me a chance to realize I was mistaken in my love for you. A free sample that I would hate when I actually tasted it. You do have abysmal self-worth, and a guilt complex that motivates you to do a lot of things you don’t want to do.”
Cas delivers this stuff about him so matter-of-fact that Dean’s quiet for a couple seconds, like he’s waiting for a punchline, or at least a little bit of judgment or poking fun. Neither comes.
“Well,” he says, weakly, “that doesn’t mean you had to break up with me.”
“You’re very concerned with the breakup,” Cas replies.
“I’m not exactly the dumpee in most situations,” Dean argues.
Cas hums, doubtful, and this time Dean does stick his tongue out at him.
“Well, if you truly are in love with me, then I’d like to retract my breakup,” Cas tells him.
“Can you do that?” Dean has to ask.
“It’s my relationship, I don’t see why not,” Cas replies. “You’re clearly not a fan of it, and I would like to be able to kiss you and have sex with you again.”
“And the future-planning?” Dean asks, then winces at how stupid he sounds.
Cas takes it in stride. “Yes. You’ve already booked a hotel for our trip, right?”
“Uh.” Dean tries to remember. “I can double-check. Probably I have.”
Cas shakes his head. “I’ll remind you in the morning. It can wait.”
“For?” He can’t resist asking.
Cas shakes his head again. “First, you’d like to retract the breakup, too?”
“Totally, dude.”
“Dean.”
“Totally, sweetheart,” Dean amends, obediently.
“Good.”
Cas nods to himself, then kisses Dean.
Dean goes for it, even though Cas kinda tastes fucking disgusting the first time Dean opens his mouth and sucks on his bottom lip.
Then again, it’s been over a week since Cas has kissed him, so Dean resigns himself to some saltiness and deep-sea microbes.
“If I get a weird infection from your ocean bacteria you’d better heal me,” Dean warns.
“Your weird infection won’t be resistant to antibiotics, most of them have never interacted with human flesh to need to confer any resistances,” Cas says, which isn’t helpful. “But if you do beat the odds, I’ll see if Jack will let me meddle for that, at least.”
“Damn, God’s grace flows through ya in all things, huh?” Dean mutters.
“Shut up, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean kisses him again.
He indulges himself in Cas for… a while, before remembering that they should still probably talk a little bit, and pulls away.
Cas cocks his head.
“Now that we’re not broken up,” Dean says, “I’m calling for an indefinite extension on the dating. No more breaking up with me. Ever.”
Cas nods, slowly. “Only if you don’t break up with me either.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right. Like I’d ever do that.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
“I said not to!”
“Well, I wasn’t going to listen to that,” Cas tells him. It’s his turn to roll his eyes, apparently, which Dean didn’t give him the go-ahead for, but whatever.
“So what do I gotta say if you try and be dumb like that in the future?”
“Tell me you love me.”
Dean, a little stricken by the sudden seriousness, nods.
Cas rests his forehead against Dean’s. Definitely getting Dean’s hair wet with his, a little. Dean might have to make them shower together.
He gets the memo after a second or two, though. “I love you, Cas.”
Cas heard the tape already. It was alright. He was asking, so Dean could do it. One of the most powerful monsters out there, Cas was, especially now that he had all his grace back. Not like anyone could use this against them, either of them. Not anymore. They were good. They were good.
“I know,” Cas says, through a smile Dean doesn’t have to see to be able to hear.
Dean hits him. Cas doesn’t even move. “Alright, Han Solo, feeling good about yourself?”
“I love you, Leia,” Cas replies, which gets him hit again.
He doesn’t seem to take it to heart, though, kissing Dean again.
Dean goes more than happily along with that train of thought.
“Dean?” Cas says, after some amount of minutes Dean doesn’t bother to track.
“Yeah, Cas?”
“I may have lied, a few weeks ago.”
“About?” From his tone, this ain’t something Dean really has to worry about. Cas actually might be trying to be sexy, from what Dean knows about that tone.
“Whalefall not being one of my ‘things.’”
Dean chuckles. Shifts so he can get Cas closer. “Alright, alright. Talk me through it, angel. Convince me. What’s sexy about it?”
They’ve still got plenty of time tonight.
And, if Cas is to be believed about the no-breakups clause, they’ve got plenty of time, period.