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Dean can’t stop thinking about it.
He should be stronger than this. He’s watched himself be torn apart by hellhounds; took thirty years to crack under torture in Hell; crawled his own fucking way out of his own fucking grave; resisted the forces of Heaven and the pull of Destiny with a capital-fucking-D; helped avert the motherflipping apocalypse. And that was just to start. He shouldn’t be conscious at three-nineteen in the morning, trapped in that dull area between awake and asleep, with a small, useless thing like want keeping him from his well-deserved four hours.
This is stupid.
Dean Winchester is not a man who wants.
He’s been lying in bed for hours staring at the ceiling and thinking. Obsessing. He tries to make himself focus on something—anything—else, but it’s impossible. He mentally takes apart and rebuilds each weapon in his arsenal; recites the nine hundred and eighty-six ways that he knows how to kill something; catalogs every last nut and bolt in Baby’s engine. It does nothing to help.
He runs a hand through his hair and down over his eyes. Tries to scrub the thoughts out of his mind; focuses instead on how many days it took for his stubble to start qualifying as a full-on beard. His restless fingers trail down his chest to tap a sweet Ozzy riff against his soft stomach. He’s noticed that his belly button has gotten deeper lately. For reasons he’ll never understand—curiosity, maybe—he dips his index finger up to its first knuckle, then retracts it and sniffs at the finger. Terrible choice; whatever’s in belly buttons is fucking nasty.
He pulls in a large whiff of air in a futile attempt to clear his nostrils. The air is stale.
Fuck, he shouldn’t be surprised. Everything’s stale in this underground life. Always stagnant, temperate, and artificially lit. Whatever ancient system the Men of Letters rigged up didn’t come with the ability to adjust comfort controls. Not like Dean should be bitching about living conditions—the fact that he’s living at all is an honest-to-fuck miracle—but you think the dudes could have at least installed a thermostat.
This constant sixty-eight-degree bullshit is probably fine for the white-picket-fence types, but it’s starting to grate on Dean’s nerves. There was a time when he thought he wanted that life—the house and lawn, the beautiful wife and two-point-five kids. But that dream was technically from two or three lives ago. Now he feels a little too stuffy when he’s not adapting to anything; a little uncomfortable in the comfort.
“It’s fucking bullshit,” Dean tells the empty room.
He shouldn’t feel trapped in his room. Shouldn’t feel like he needs to hide and deny himself. That’s never been the Dean Winchester way. When he wants to drink, he drinks. When he wants sex, he… well, it’s actually been awhile. And the same always went for a sandwich or a fight. But he doesn’t really fight too much anymore, not since the Mark. The point is that Dean Winchester shouldn’t deny himself what he wants.
Not that he wants anything.
Besides, it’s not a crime to walk around his own goddam place of residence whenever he goddam pleases. Who cares if it’s three-twenty-six in the goddamn morning? You can’t tell the fucking difference around here anyway. So what if his late-night-slash-early-morning-slash-who-the-fuck-knows wanderings take him towards the kitchen? No one has to know.
Really, he’s just going to look.
Dean makes for the bedroom door just as the forced-air heating kicks in, right on fucking schedule. The sudden thunk of the furnace reminds him that he’s not alone in the bunker. He used to bother with pyjamas when he was on the road. A t-shirt and boxer briefs, at least. But these days, with the luxury of a double-bolted bedroom door and a distinct lack of nighttime visitors, he rarely sees the point. Even still, he reaches for his Dead Guy robe to preserve what’s left of his threadbare modesty.
He meanders down the hallway, making excellent use of the light step that a lifetime of stealth affords a man (recent extra poundage notwithstanding).
When he reaches the kitchen, he doesn’t even need to flip on the light. He knows the route by rote. Two steps down, four strides forward, put your hands on your hips and bring your knees in tight. In moments, he’s leaning over a cold slice of brambleberry pie. Whatever the fuck brambleberries are, they’re fucking delicious.
If he were the type of dude to want shit, he maybe would have stayed up all night thinking about something like this.
He doesn’t bother to reheat the pie; he likes the taste when it’s cold. Somehow the crust tastes better when it’s just that little bit softer; the filling creamier when it’s not running down his lips. It still smells wonderful, of course, that strong bouquet of berry and butter and brown sugar. And to be honest, even without the white picket fence, there’s something to be said about being in the same spot long enough to be able to enjoy day-old leftovers.
Dean’s surprised by the things he still considers luxuries.
Dean feels the press of a hand in the small of his back, but he doesn’t jump like he should. Instead, he feels grounded. A puff of air ghosts across his neck. Dean turns his head to the right to see Cas leaning over him, reaching for the bite of pie poised halfway between his plate and his mouth.
Cas doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask permission, just takes Dean’s hand and lifts it—fork, pie, and all. Dean watches, paralyzed, as Cas’ lips part, his pink tongue darting out to lick up a dab of filling about to drip off the fork, before closing his mouth around the tines. Cas’ eyes flutter closed. A short, low hum marks his approval of the pastry.
Dean stares, gape-jawed, wondering when the fuck he got so comfortable with Cas that the bastard can eat his fucking pie and he doesn’t say a damn word in protest.
“Thought Sammy said all you could taste were molecules.”
Cas’ eyes open and he offers a shy grin. He slides the fork free from his lips and lets go of Dean’s hand. “These are good molecules.”
Cas grabs the plate off the counter and a fork from the rack, then seats himself at the table, facing Dean.
Dean stares after him, but doesn’t make a move to prevent the thievery. “That was my pie.”
“I made it. Think that means it’s my pie.”
Dean goes back to the fridge and cuts himself another slice. He sits down across from Cas and they eat in silence.
When Cas finishes, he picks up his plate and moves it to the sink. “Want another piece?”
Dean looks at his fingers, slowly pressing into the crumbs left on his plate and lifting them one-by-one to his lips. He’s still hungry. Sort of. At least, he’d really like another slice. A crumb falls from his finger and lands in the fold of his robe. He reaches after it on instinct, pulling aside the lapels and peering down onto his stomach.
Fuck.
His stomach.
Seated, he can see the situation is even worse than he thought. It’s huge. He can’t remember the last time he saw an ab. Any notion of six-packs have been traded in for a keg. Large and round and… insulated. Okay, maybe not huge, but it’s more than he’s used to. Dean was the guy who could eat anything because each meal might be the last and running for your life was a hell of a workout. Now he’s mentally chastising himself for not knowing what the fuck a brambleberry actually is because what if they’ve got too many calories?
The clatter of a dish slamming in front of him drags Dean from his thoughts. He looks up and stares directly into the eyeline of one pissed-off, scruff-faced, semi-retired Warrior of God.
“Eat the fucking pie, Dean.”
Dean’s more surprised by the f-bomb than the attitude. Being a dick is practically Cas’ default setting these days. Like if he tries hard enough he can still be this colossal, multi-dimensional asshole, minus the wings. If it were anyone else speaking to him this way, as if they have any fucking say in how Dean lives his life, Dean probably would’ve given them a bloody nose by now. But this is Cas, and Cas has always had a weird way of getting a pass in Dean’s book.
Still, nobody tells Dean Winchester what to do.
“I don’t want it.”
“Bullshit.” Cas leans over to push the pie infinitesimally closer to Dean, crowding into his space in the process. “Eat.”
Dean clenches his jaw and stares straight at Cas. He wants the pie, but he knows he shouldn’t. That he should be stronger than that. So he leans forward on his elbows, pushing his chest up enough to bring them eye-to-eye, “You gonna make me, Cas?”
Dean holds his breath, willing himself to be as still as possible. Even after all this time, he can’t bring himself to admit weakness around Cas.
Neither of them move for a full three seconds. Then, a muscle twitches next to Cas’ eye and Dean knows he’s won. A slow smirk pulls at the right of Cas’ mouth. He leans back in the sort of relaxed pose that he never could quite replicate as a proper angel, all folded limbs and casual indifference.
“I’ve never been able to make you do anything, Dean.”
Dean grabs his fork and digs into his second slice with the special kind of shit-eating grin that comes from a solid win. It’s not like he’s doing this because Cas is making him; he just wants some pie. Dean Winchester does want some things, apparently. He hums a satisfied groan around the cool slice of berry-flavored Heaven. Suck it, Cas.
Dean revels in his celebratory dessert until he hears a low, rumbling chuckle from the other side of the table. He cocks a brow at Cas in challenge. What’s so fucking funny?
The bastard is smiling a lazy, arrogant grin that makes Dean rethink the validity of his victory.
“Of course,” Cas says, “I still usually get what I want.”
Dean huffs and digs into his pie. He’s not about to let some smarmy Heavenly dropout, whose current occupation is slumming it in an underground hovel with humanity’s greatest reject, ruin what was an otherwise perfectly reasonable midnight snack. Four a.m. snack. Whatever.
“What are you even doing awake?”
“I don’t sleep.”
Dean can practically hear the eyeroll. When the hell did Cas learn that shit, anyway? There was a time when the dick was more stoic kitten than petulant teenager. Probably been spending too much time with Claire. Not to say that the little chick isn’t cool, but Cas doesn’t exactly need lessons in how to be a subversive shithead.
“Okay, smartass, then what the fuck are you doing out of your sty?”
“It’s not a sty, Dean. It’s a bedroom.”
“It’s a fucking health hazard, is what it is.”
“You told me I could make it mine and I have. Pardon me for not knowing the correct procedure for collecting and cataloguing my first personal possessions after millennia of existence.”
“Balled up grocery store receipts are not personal possessions, Cas.”
“Neither is a decades-empty can of motor oil, Dean. But that hasn’t stopped you from hauling it cross-country in the trunk of your car for the better part of your adult life.”
Dean swallows a bite of pie off his fork, then points it accusingly at Cas, “You leave Baby out of this.”
Cas narrows his eyes and sinks that little bit lower in his seat, grounding himself for the inevitable shitstorm Dean knows the fucker’s about to release. Of course, the dick echoes Dean’s own challenge right back at him— “You gonna make me?”
Before Dean can think to react, he’s already sent the remainder of his pie flying in the air towards Cas’ smug, shitty face.
Cas’ expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t frown or squint or tilt his head in adorable miscomprehension. He just calmly unfolds an arm from across his chest and swipes a single finger through the mess on his face. Keeping his eyes completely trained on Dean, Cas sucks the finger into his mouth and cleans it of the smattered pie.
He doesn’t blink or smile, just restrains what must be every last ounce of his desire to perform some biblical smiting and instead bores that intensity into Dean’s already terrified eyes, a single eyebrow arching in lieu of a full body smirk.
“You think that was wise, Dean?”
Dean feels his eyelids retract further than should be physically possible. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Dressed in his hand-me-down band tees and thrift store jeans, it’s so fucking easy to forget that Cas is still a mostly-juiced wavelength of multi-dimensional whatever-the-fuck strapped into a custom creation Jimmy suit.
Well, what the hell. How’s that saying go? In for a penny, in for a motherfucking pound. Dean drops his eyes in faux-reverence and leans forward, bookending his forearms on either side of his dessert plate.
“Maybe not,” Dean shakes his head, sits back a little, drags the plate towards the edge of the table. He knows Cas is following his every move without needing to look up. “But, hey, ‘wise’ doesn’t exactly sum up most of our life choices now does it, Cas?”
With the smooth, practiced moves of a man who’s spent a lifetime either fighting or flighting, Dean cups the pie into his right hand, sweeps the plate into his lap, chucks the pie smack into Cas’ chest, and drops down behind the table. Dean’s crouched on his knees holding the dessert plate up as a makeshift shield before he realizes that half-mad wheezing sound is his own laughter echoing against the walls.
There’s barely a split-second before Cas clues into what’s happened. Dean feels the table scrape against the floor with the force of Cas jolting out of his seat. The fridge rattles open and Cas rifles through the contents for acceptable ammunition. Dean half-expected Cas to just mojo a vat of filling onto Dean’s head or something, but ever since he moved in, Cas is really taking this whole I am entirely capable of living successfully as humans do, Dean thing pretty seriously.
Dean tries to crouch-run his way out of the kitchen, but Cas is already blocking the entranceway, pie plate balanced with angelic precision on the tips of Cas’ long, perpetually tanned fingers. A lopsided, gummy grin spreads across Cas’ face and he looks practically Leviathan again. Maybe Cas isn’t playing entirely mojo-free after all.
“Going somewhere, Dean?”
Dean doesn’t even have time to think of a quip before half a pie is smearing down past the folds of his Dead Guy robe. There’s no time to appreciate how the cold filling feels kinda nice on lil’ Dean before muscle memory has him barrel-rolling under the table for protection, looking for anything that can be used for attack or defense.
He hears Cas stalking around the perimeter and realises the plate is still in his hand. Dean uses it to sweep at Cas’ ankle as he passes by, but fucking Angel McGee doesn’t even react. Of course, Cas used to take stab wounds to the chest and keep on truckin’. Obviously a plate’s not gonna inflict the necessary damage.
Dean sweeps out a foot between Cas’ legs, trips him up just long enough so that he can spin out from under the table and use the momentum to carry him up onto Cas’ back. Dean reaches over Cas' shoulder, grappling for the pie plate while Cas does his best to shake him off. It’s not exactly the most manly of moves, but he rationalizes that anything goes in a food fight.
Cas dips a shoulder low and manages to throw Dean off, but not before Dean gets a fistful of pie filling, and for a split-moment they’re face to face, both heaving breaths and loaded with ammunition.
“Stop!” Dean gasps, dropping his pie to the floor. He buckles over with realization of just how ludicrous gooey purple filling looks when it’s dripping from the chiseled jawline of a Chrysler-sized Seraph’s meatsuit. “Stop, okay? Man, you win.”
Cas’ menacing grin drops into something more akin to a bemused smile. “What was the purpose of attacking each other with the food, Dean?”
Dean collects a handful of mangled fruit and pastry from the crevices of his robe and smooshes it into Cas’ hair. Cas doesn’t even try to stop him.
“I don’t know,” Dean wheezes between gulps of laughter, “I’m just making it up as I go.”
Dean looks up at Cas and is caught by the genuine happiness being reflected back at him from Cas’ eyes. It’s been a long time since they’ve laughed like this. Dean just cups a hand on Cas’ shoulder and pushes himself past Cas into the hallway.
“C’mon, dude,” Dean calls over his shoulder as he makes towards the bedrooms. “If you’re not gonna use your mojo to clean this shit up, you’re at least gonna lend me your towel.”
Cas jogs a quick two-step to catch up to Dean, causing their shoulders to bump together as they fall into step. “Why would I do such a thing?” Cas asks.
“Well, you made this mess,” Dean answers, gesturing at the purple-blue filling smeared across his chest and… elsewhere. “I figure it’s your responsibility to clean it up.”
“I made this mess?” Cas hisses at Dean. “You started the fight!”
“Me!?” Dean cries, with all the fake-indignation he can muster. “All I wanted was a little midnight snack and you interrupted me!”
“If I recall correctly,” Cas starts, with the heavy implication that he abso-fucking-lutely recalls correctly, “You went to bed without dessert, claiming that you didn’t want any pie. I believe you claimed, ‘Dean Winchester doesn’t want anything.’”
Dean scoffs. How dare Cas repeat his own words back to him just to win an argument?
“Furthermore,” Cas continues, “It is well past midnight. You might as well have called that breakfast.”
Dean rolls his eyes so hard that it hurts, then pushes the door open to Cas’ room. He steps in, Cas crowding right up against his heels.
Compared to the austerity of his own room, Cas’ space feels nearly claustrophobic. It’s like he’s being entirely surrounded by the inner madness of Cas. The thought makes Dean flush a bit beneath his dangerously loose robe. He cinches the front together and ties the waist snug.
Cas has piled every conceivable surface of his bedroom with crap. Books, dishes, weapons, scraps of paper, cursed objects, diner menus—they’re all here in teetering towers. Cas swears each and every future fire hazard serves a purpose, but Dean thinks the dude’s nothing but a packrat.
Dean runs a finger along the edge of the nearest dresser, inspects the tip of it for dust. It’s filthy, which is no surprise. Angels don’t exactly grasp the importance of basic housekeeping. Dean suppresses the urge to cringe and reach for the nearest bottle of hand sanitizer. It ain’t Cas’ fault he’s still learning this shit.
For the second time tonight he can feel Cas breathe behind him. “I’m not a maid, Dean.”
“Never said you were, Cas.” Dean smirks, turning to dust Cas’ nose with the dirty finger. “You’re shit at cleaning.”
Cas smacks his hand aside in surprise and Dean doubles over laughing, backing into the dresser and knocking the top layer of tchotchkes onto the ground. Dean struggles to catch his breath between wheezing gasps, but laughs harder than ever when Cas scrambles to chase after a runaway bowl.
It takes him a solid minute to compose himself before he starts to pick up the papers that have scattered on the floor. He lets out an honest-to-fuck giggle when he hears Cas grunt in his struggle to reach the dish that’s now well under his bed frame.
Dean puts the papers back on the dresser in an approximation of their original organized chaos, but who fucking knows what that even was. When he’s satisfied, he sweeps the ground for any strays.
His eyes land on a single, large word scrawled on the top line of a crumpled sheet of purple paper: Dean.
He frowns and bends down to pick up the page. “What’s this?”
The only response is silence. Dean looks back towards Cas.
Cas is sitting on his haunches, next to the bed, rigid, gripping the errant bowl in white-knuckled fists. All the comfortable ease that he’s acquired over the past six months living here has vanished. The dude’s faced down hookers, demons, and Lucifer himself, and this is the first time Dean’s seen true fear reflected in his face.
Dean thought he’d seen every possible facet of Cas at this point. Apparently there’s a few surprises left.
“Cas?”
Cas barely whispers, “That’s mine.”
Dean tries to lighten the mood; bring back the careful banter from the kitchen. “It’s got my name on it. You sure it ain’t mine?”
Cas’ Adam’s apple works around a swallow and his eyes drop to the floor.
Dean furrows his brow and looks back to the note in his hand. Looping, sloppy handwriting scrawls across the page.
I should have kissed you when I had the chance. Ran my hand down your cheek and brushed the hair from your brow. By the car. That was the time. When you looked at me and I knew.
We both knew, then.
But you just smiled, tight-lipped. I raised a hand, turned my back and walked away.
I should have taken your hand when I had the chance. When you gripped my arm and I looked down at you. But you were scared. Confused. Trusting. Maybe I was too.
I should have held it then. But I didn't.
I’ll never forgive that.
The last line is scratched out. Dean furrows his brow, confused. He flips the page over, looking for more to the story. There’s nothing there.
“What is this, Cas?”
Cas is looking right at him, slumped back against the mattress. He looks devastated. Dean can’t stand it.
“It’s mine.”
Dean takes a step towards Cas, letter still loosely gathered in his hand. “Still kinda seems like it could be mine.”
“You don’t mean that,” Cas tells the floor. “You’re teasing me.”
Dean kneels down beside him. He reaches out, gently takes the bowl from Cas’ clenched fingers and places it on the ground.
“Cas, look at me, man. You think I’d joke when it comes to the important shit?”
Cas’ brow furrows. His eyes don’t raise from his softly curved fists.
“All the time,” Cas says.
“Okay, smartass.” Dean shoves Cas in the shoulder. Watches as Cas, this powerful being that can withstand shotgun blasts, allows himself to rock back on his heels and fall onto his ass. Dean flips himself around to settle next to Cas on the floor, backs resting side-by-side against some other Dead Guy’s boxspring. “You know what I mean.”
Cas looks at the side of Dean’s face—Dean feels his shallow breath puff against his neck—but he doesn’t say anything. Dean knows he’s waiting for him to continue or leave or sit in endless, tension-filled silence. Dean can’t figure out why Cas has deemed him the paragon of humanity from which to mold himself, but here they are.
“I mean—” Dean starts, then stops. He tilts his head back and lets a loud sigh out towards the ceiling. Cas is right. He never takes this shit seriously. But this time feels different, somehow more earth-shattering than all the world-ending apocalypses they’ve faced. Cas has laid whatever crazy, misplaced feelings that he has out on that paper, and Dean, for all the bullets he’s dodged in his multiple lifetimes, feels like this one is worth taking straight to the chest.
"I can't believe you're gonna make me say this, man."
"We've already established that I can't make you do anything, Dean."
"Fine. Maybe I want to, then. Okay? Maybe I want to explain. Maybe I want a lot of things. But maybe every time I want something it just blows up in my face, or it comes with these fucking raw deal strings attached like some sick cosmic monkey's paw. Maybe every time I think I've done the right thing long enough, that I've saved people enough, that I want a little something for me, maybe that's when everything goes wrong. So maybe I've been teaching myself not to want anything. That maybe dudes like me don't deserve to want anything."
Dean takes his eyes off the ceiling, turns to see how Cas is reacting to his confession. Cas just stares at his hands. Can't meet Dean's eyes. Dean doesn't blame him.
A moment stretches forever and Dean thinks about leaving. Getting up and walking away like every time before. But he thinks about Cas' note, and he waits.
"There are no other dudes like you."
The words come out so soft, so broken, that they could be confused for the rattle of an air duct. Dean's not sure he actually heard them at all. That it wasn't just a trick of his desperate mind.
Cas bites at his lower lip, worries it between his teeth before he speaks again, just a little louder. "There are no other dudes like me, either. Technically, I'm not even a dude at all."
Dean huffs a silent laugh.
Cas picks up the discarded bowl, turns it over in his hands. "The only time I feel we've truly done right is when we've done it together. Together with Sam and Bobby, we saved the world. As a team, we did right for the world. But when I've— when I lusted after things, things like power and honor and righteousness, I tried to hide it. And I've always fallen short when I sought those things alone."
Dean reaches over and stills the bowl in Cas' hands. Lets his fingers rest on top of Cas'.
"I told myself I was doing it for the right reasons," Cas says. "To protect you. To give you the rest that you deserved. The things you really wanted..."
Dean squeezes Cas’ hand and leans down to catch his eye. "You never asked what I really wanted, Cas." He smiles softly when their fingers thread together. "You never even asked." He lifts their joined hands, bowl and all, and places his lips gently on Cas' knuckles. "I coulda told you we wanted the same damn thing."
Dean will take the beautiful sound of Cas' surprised giggle with him to his final grave. He didn't know that giggles came in the baritone variety.
"Something funny, Cas?"
"I had no idea that facial hair could feel so soft."
Cas smiles a full-mouthed smile and Dean smiles back and that's it. The heavy stuff is over and lifted just like that. There they are, one oft-resurrected man and one not-quite angel, covered in pie and dust and poorly-groomed body hair, just sitting on a floor in a secret underground lair and giggling.
Dean allows himself a minute to sit in the moment, not thinking about what comes next or what this confession really means. He’s not thinking about consequence or whatever catastrophe is right around the corner. Doesn’t worry about Sam up in South Dakota or Claire off in college. He isn’t even thinking about the way his robe has fallen open, leaving all of him bare to Castiel. He just lets himself hold Cas’ hand and smile.
“I, uh,” Dean says, finally, “I should probably go take that shower.” He doesn’t move to get up. Doesn’t let go of Cas’ hand.
“Yeah,” Cas agrees, crooked grin back on his face. “You’re a disgrace.”
Cas doesn’t let go either. Instead he shuffles closer; adjusts his body so it’s leaning more against Dean than against the mattress.
“I’m a disgrace? You’re the bozo who gave up your wings for some human schlub.”
Cas sighs. Tightens his grip on Dean’s hand.
“So you’re admitting that now?” Cas asks.
Dean swallows. Wonders if he fucked things up already by bringing up the one last thing they never talk about. It wouldn’t be a surprise, but at least they had a good fifteen seconds together before he ruined everything.
“Although,” Cas continues, “Technically, I still have my Grace. I was only asked to relinquish my wings in order to stay with you.”
A wave of warmth and regret and gratitude and what-might-have-been and all the things just beyond his descriptive ability comes crashing over Dean. He shuts his eyes tight, pulls their joined hands back up to his mouth and kisses Cas’ hand all over, stupid clenched bowl and all. He barely even notices the way his lip wobbles.
“You always did make stupid choices.”
“Yeah, well,” Cas stands, pulling Dean up with him, “I was stupid for the right reasons.”
Cas pulls Dean in for a hug. A proper hug, not one of those stiff, one-sided hugs, and Dean absently wonders if he’s been practicing with Sam again. It’s warm and comforting and almost perfect, if not for the damn bowl being trapped between them.
“Cas, man,” Dean says, “let’s lose the fucking dinnerware already.” He grabs the bowl and tries to toss it onto a pile of discarded laundry in the corner. It bounces off a loose sweatshirt and Dean hears the tell-tale sound of stoneware cracking as the bowl hits the wall.
Ah, fuck. Now he really has fucked up. Cas looks like someone kicked his puppy. Dean tugs a worried hand through his beard (fuck, it really has become a beard) and his mind races for solutions.
“Look, Cas, we can, uh, we can get you another bowl. Okay? There’s gotta be a million of the damn things stored somewhere in this dump. Look, you’ve even got another one under this pile of socks! Good as new, right buddy?”
Cas looks at the second proffered bowl with suspicion and vague mistrust, but at least they aren’t in danger of any angel tears flooding the joint.
“I thought you understood.” Cas speaks in careful monotone. He raises his eyes from the dish to Dean’s face and Dean is reminded of all the Righteous fury contained in that mop-headed vessel. “It’s not about the bowl, Dean. It’s about you.”
Cas takes a step forward. Takes the bowl from Dean and replaces it on the dresser. Pushes Dean forward; pushes the robe from his shoulders. Stares into Dean’s eyes with a look that dares Dean push back.
“It’s about us.”
Dean still doesn’t fucking understand, but lil’ Dean has received a message loud and clear.
Cas pushes Dean backwards and lays him down carefully onto the mattress, piled high with every conceivable pillow, blanket, and comforter. It’s like being pushed into a cloud. Or a marshmallow. He’s laid down with such tenderness—strong hands cradling him with such surprising softness—that he almost forgets about lil’ Dean entirely. Almost.
Cas follows Dean onto the mattress. He runs his soft, strong hands over Dean’s face; down his sides; up his thighs. He leans forward, then pauses with his eyes still trained on Dean, asking silent permission to continue. Dean nods, unable and unwilling to let this end.
Dean tries to lift his own hand to touch Cas back, but Cas grips his wrist in a gentle hold and places it back against the mattress.
“You’ve done so much for me, Dean. You do so much for everyone. Let me do this for you.”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to tell Cas that he’s only ever been doing his job. That Cas has done just as much and more for him and for the world. That they’ve fucked things up as much as they’ve fixed ‘em. But Cas’ lips are on his chest, and every protest dies inside him.
Cas kisses a slow path along Dean’s body. Pays extra attention to each nick, each scar, each tired wound. Lets every press of lips linger against his skin, wet and soft. Everything is so soft: the bed, Cas’ lips, Cas’ hands, Cas’ quiet whispers of, “Dean, it’s okay,” and, “Dean, I’ve got you.”
Dean can’t remember the last time he was so comfortable. So at ease. He feels as though he could close his eyes and drift to his first peaceful sleep in decades.
Cas licks a dollop of pie filling off of Dean’s stomach and Dean is jolted from his reverie.
“Uh, Cas,” Dean flushes, embarrassed to even have to say this, “Do you mind, um, just ignoring that area for a a bit? I’m not exactly at fighting weight, ya know?”
Cas lifts his head, that smitey look back on his beautiful fucking face. Dean’s as turned on as he is taken aback.
“Dean.” Cas clips out his name like it’s a curse. “I need you to understand me fully, so pay attention. There is nothing, nothing, in Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, or whatever other great beyond may exist that would stop me from loving your spirit and the vessel that carries it.”
Cas dips his head back down and begins to punctuate his words with touches and kisses ven gentler than before as if to prove the depth of his adoration. As if Dean were worth something that grand.
“You are perfect as you are. As you have always been. As you will ever be. All of you. You are beautiful in your flaws, Dean. Your mistakes, your scars, your intolerable self-deprecation. These are the things that make you human. And I don’t just love you despite these things; I love you because of them.”
Dean will never admit to the warm, wet tracts trailing over his cheeks.
“It was never about the bowl, Dean. It was always about you and your heart and what that makes you capable of doing. Of being. Of giving.”
Cas’s hands push Dean’s thighs deep into the comforter below as he kisses and licks and tenderly nips the entire expanse of Dean’s tummy. He makes sure to clean every last crumb of pie using nothing but lips and tongue. He works his way back up Dean’s body until he’s speaking his words directly into Dean’s mouth.
“The first morning, after you gave me this room, after you asked me to stay, after I thought that I’d fallen and neither of us knew what would come next, that first morning was when you gave me that bowl.”
Dean tries to make a noise of confusion, but Cas kisses him hard.
“You handed me a bowl of Lucky Charms. Told me it was your favorite thing to eat as a kid. Told me it was the best thing about being an adult, the ability to eat whatever you want for breakfast.”
Dean’s kissing back now. Trying to reach any bit of exposed skin that Cas will allow him to touch. Trying to show with his hands what Cas won’t let him say with words.
“I asked you why you weren’t having any, if they were so great. Do you remember what you told me? You told me that there was only enough left for one, and you were saving it for me. That I was important and I should get what I want.”
Cas stops kissing Dean. Grips his face between those long, gorgeous fingers and speaks his next words with the entire gravity of his fucking millennia of existence.
“You are important to me, Dean Winchester, and I have wanted this for a very, very long time.”
When Dean comes, he doesn’t even make a sound. Just pulses against Cas, holding him tighter than he’s ever held another living thing.
Cas holds Dean through it all, only reaching for a loose t-shirt when Dean stops trembling. He gives a cursory wipe of the mess on Dean’s stomach and the filling on his face. Kisses the tip of Dean’s nose as he leans over to place the shirt that Dean vaguely recognizes as his own back on the ground.
“K’I sleep here?” Dean mumbles against Cas’ shoulder, having already decided that he’s never moving again.
“Is that what you want?” Cas asks.
“Yeah.” Dean says. “S’what I want.”
Cas pulls one of his many comforters up around them. Cuddles them up warm and safe in a way that Dean has never felt before.
Dean tucks his face into the crook of Cas’ arm and begins to drift to sleep.
“You’re what I want.”
Dean sleeps.
Cas watches.