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It’s cold.
There’s a certain level of cold Dean can stand. California winters, the pathetic excuse the South uses to get out of school for the day, even the chill after it rains in the spring and fall. But this? Torture, to the highest degree. For God knows what reason, Sam conveniently forgot to mention that the temperatures across the Smokies—especially in the mountains—had dropped significantly in the last week, leaving both him and Castiel stranded in light jackets and jeans against forty degree weather.
In the middle of nowhere.
At least it wasn't all bad. Gatlinburg had more than enough shops to outfit them so that Castiel’s first winter as a human didn't involve his fingers falling off from frostbite, and Dean needed more socks and another pair of jeans that didn't have threadbare patches and stitched holes. That, and the bed back in their cabin on the outskirts of the downtown area had been a godsend, more blankets than they ever needed draped over their shared bed, Castiel’s warmth never quite close to him but always within range, if he decided to reach out and touch. Even in a room in the Appalachians, he still can’t bring himself to feel peace with it, with the solitude, the proximity.
It’s quiet there, from what he remembers. For the most part, he sleeps while Castiel wanders their four-bedroom cabin, footsteps barely audible in the living room and wherever else he walks. There are too many rooms between the two of them, too much unused space they could be sharing if they allowed it, but he can’t even drag himself out of bed to try. They’re supposed to be hunting some sort of Angelic presence in town, supposed to be doing something that doesn't consist of driving the short distance into the tourist-packed streets of Gatlinburg and following Castiel around the supermarket while he shops for enough food to last them a week.
But instead, he’s here—staring up at the ceiling, wondering why in the last three days since they pulled into the driveway of Above the Clouds, all they’ve done is tour historic sites and buy things. Not even important things—curios, souvenirs, the stuffed bear that’s been sitting on Castiel’s pillow for most of the morning. It’s a miracle he hasn’t bought an entire shop by now, based on how many bells and postcards and wind chimes are stuffed into the bottom of Castiel’s bag. Where is he even planning to put them all, anyway?
They haven’t found anything even remotely related to a case, most of the ‘signs’ Sam claimed were there coming up empty. In the weirdest of places, as well. A waterfall two miles into the woods, a barn at the end of a one-lane dirt road, an abandoned tourist town—even at the top of a sky lift. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s being used, that Sam sent him and Castiel off to have a vacation or to get them out of his hair while he did God knew what around the bunker. He’s probably inviting every dog in Smith County to have a party and letting them prowl around in his room unsupervised. Twenty bucks says Dean goes back home to find a Pomeranian in his bed.
At his side, the stupid stuffed bear stares at him with beady black eyes that scream ‘you’ve been duped.’ He probably has—he can’t bring himself to hate it, though, can’t bring himself to feel anything other than the soft sheets that surround him and the chill seeping in through the half open window, light filtering through the blinds. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, but the first beams of the new morning greet him anyway, bathing the mountains outside in golds and oranges, trees already hitting their peak.
It would be beautiful if he weren’t freezing. Dean tucks himself under the covers further by the time footsteps echo from stairwell, stopping briefly to push open the bedroom door. Castiel wanders in with a tray in hand, the smell of bacon and eggs and whatever else he’s managed to cook since he left the bed an hour ago wafting through the room. “You’re awake,” Castiel says, oddly chipper as he slides onto the opposite side of the bed, setting the tray at the foot. He runs a hand through Dean’s hair, warm from sleep yet chilled at the tips. “How are you feeling?”
Dean looks to him, green eyes wary and dark with fatigue, eyelids threatening to droop given the chance. “There’s no case, is there?” he asks, Castiel’s eyes widening at the accusation. There was never one in the first place, he figures, from the way Castiel has been coddling him since they left, never truly leaving his side, catering to whatever he wanted or needed, always with too-gentle touches and lingering looks, always too close to be anything but intentional.
For a long while, Castiel doesn't answer, just stares down at his hands in his lap. Dean struggles out of his cocoon just enough to reach out and pat his knee, warm through his sweatpants. “C’mon, Cas. Can’t keep it up. I mean, you took me to a—a fuckin’ pioneer village claimin’ you thought your brother was healin’ people in a barn. You ‘n Sammy sounded pretty sure of yourselves, too.”
“We’re worried about you,” is all Castiel can say, head bowed, almost sheepish. Dean can’t find it in him to fight his words, just settles back into the sheets with a sigh. He hasn’t fought back much lately, considering. “You haven’t stopped moving since we destroyed the Darkness. You’ve been on more hunts in the last month than you can physically handle. You’ve…” He pauses to look at Dean, softness in his eyes; Dean closes his own when Castiel pets his hair again, trailing his fingers behind his ear in a caress. “You don’t have to fight anymore, Dean. You’ve already won.”
“…Doesn’t feel like it.”
They sit like that for a few long minutes, Castiel stroking his fingers through Dean’s hair while Dean stares at his knee, his nails scratching the fabric when he tightens his grip there, just to know that he’s still alive. That they’re there, together, breathing. The heart that would normally fight off such tender touches stays quiet in his chest, content in its exhaustion, beating a calm rhythm. Letting out a sigh, he pushes himself to sit, blankets bunched around his waist as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, shirt hanging haphazardly off to the side.
It shouldn't calm him as much as it does, being there. Sure, they’ve been sharing the same bed, but it’s different. They sleep opposite of one another, never touching, never making a move to. But there’s still an intimacy behind it, knowing Castiel is there with him, that no one knows what they’re doing aside from the bears and the deer in the forest outside. That there’s no one to disturb them, especially Sam.
He can do anything, be anyone he wants. Erase his identity and live the life he wasn't meant to for whatever time they have left there, until they pack up and head for Kansas, for a bunker that has felt more like home to him than anywhere in the country. And the worst thing? He can’t even come up with the words to express it. Whatever he means to say is cut off by Castiel cupping his cheek for the briefest of seconds, thumb stroking beneath his eye. “I made you breakfast,” he states, nodding his head to the tray at the end of the bed, food probably already cold. “I promise I didn’t burn anything this time.”
Dean snorts under his breath, letting his head hang while Castiel leans over to pull the tray to them with two fingers, narrowly missing spilling the glass of water he set out. “Tryin’ to fatten me up?” he joshes.
Castiel rolls his eyes in reply. “Because I know you won’t eat otherwise.”
Which, oh. Dean just closes his eyes when Castiel leans over to kiss his temple, leaning their foreheads together long enough for Dean to fall into it, to feel something other than the total numbness that has become his life for the last month. Maybe more, if he lets himself dwell on it. He hasn’t felt much of anything in a long while, not since before the Mark, before the Angels fell. Before Castiel started living with them full time, with his own bedroom and eclectic hobbies.
He wishes he could allow himself to feel, anyway.
He eats in silence while Castiel sits and kneads his fingers into his shoulders, loosening the knots there until his bones feel close to jelly, body reveling in the warmth and the affection of such small gestures. Later, after he finishes and Castiel retreats with the tray, he joins Castiel in the kitchen downstairs, socked toes curling as he stands on the linoleum, unsure of what to do with his hands, settling for wringing them together. At the sink, he watches Castiel wash dishes by hand, placing plates in the small rack to the right and scrubbing clean dirtied pans, letting them dry on a dishrag, movements practiced, controlled. Like it’s the only thing he knows.
“I bought us tickets for a scenic train in North Carolina,” Castiel announces, wiping his hand dry with a free washcloth. Dean swallows the laugh he knows is there, the one he would normally give when Castiel can sense his presence, Angel and otherwise. He can’t even bring himself to say anything when Castiel finally turns to face him, previous calmness morphing to concern across his face, lips turning down at the edges. Dean sucks in a breath, holds it while he speaks. “…Are you alright, Dean?”
For the first time, he shakes his head. Because despite the quiet, despite how safe he feels in their solitude, it doesn't feel real. He doesn't feel he deserves it, after all this time. And Castiel senses his insecurity, soundlessly tugging Dean into an embrace and just holding him there, arm in arm in the kitchen, the fireplace crackling in the background, going unobserved.
He buries his face in Castiel’s neck and breathes him in, fingers absently wringing his nightshirt, the fabric soft against his skin. “I’m tired,” Dean finally admits, Castiel rubbing between his shoulder blades with enough pressure to be soothing. “I figured, we gank the Darkness and we slow down a bit, maybe go hunting whenever we get antsy. But—I tried that, Cas. It’s all I know, but…” He stops to exhale, hating how shot his voice sounds, how hard his hands shake. “I guess I really am broken.”
“You’re not.” Castiel pulls away just enough to palm his cheeks, Dean falling into the touch, unbidden. He can’t breathe, can’t look Castiel in the eye knowing that when he does, he won’t be able to stop. The emotion, the tears, the sadness—all of it wells behind his eyes, threatening to break free. “You’re nothing of the sort.”
Dean coughs out a laugh at that, smiling despite the ache in his chest. “Trust me, dude,” he says, frail. “If I ain’t broken, then there’s gotta be somethin’ else wrong. ‘Cause this?” He lowers Castiel’s hand to his heart, lets it linger. “I haven’t felt anything for a long, long time.”
“So say you are.” Castiel tilts his chin up with the same hand, Dean looking down at him half lidded, silent. “So say you’re broken. So say you’ve finally hit your lowest. That doesn’t mean you've lost in the grand scheme of things. Don't—Don’t roll your eyes at me.” Dean laughs despite Castiel tapping his cheek, hollow in his throat. “You’re a great man, Dean. The greatest I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. And seeing you like this, after all you’ve accomplished, after everything you’ve done to save your family, your friends… To save me. That’s what you should feel proud of.”
“…I really wish I could,” Dean says, barely a mumble.
Castiel hears him all the same, drawing him into another hug, this time warmer, with more intent. They sway there for a while, faces buried in necks, just breathing, existing together for that one moment. They make their way to the living room after a while, Dean leaning on Castiel’s shoulder on the couch while they watch the fireplace, logs splintering amidst the quiet. “Have you ever ridden a train before?” Castiel asks eventually, stroking patterns in Dean’s hair.
Dean hums something akin to a ‘no,’ closing his eyes as he softens with every touch, every time Castiel pets over his knee or behind his ear, lulling him into a quiet contentment. “There’s a scenic train in Bryson that I’d like for us to take. It’s a few hours from here. I think you’d enjoy it.”
“’S it gonna be cold?” Dean complains, and Castiel chuckles, a quiet thing, enough to let his heart skip, almost unnoticed.
“Probably,” Castiel confirms, letting his hand drift to Dean’s shoulder. “I booked the open air car.”
Dean groans into his neck, a faint smile on his lips. “At least bring your coat.”
-+-+-
The drive from Gatlinburg to Bryson takes about two hours from when they start the next morning, the sun still far below the horizon by the time they pile into the car, the ever-permanent chill at bay for now. As long as they can keep the heater on and the Impala remains faithful in the face of an early winter, maybe he won’t freeze to death before they get back. It’s nice, though, driving before most of the motorists have hit the roads, just the two of them winding through the curves of the Tennessee mountains into North Carolina. It’s quiet, peaceful; Castiel holds his hand throughout, occasionally brushing his thumbs over his knuckles, little touches that stop his breath when he allows it, when he can actually feel it.
Their scheduled departure, according to their tickets, is at eight, giving them enough time to idly wander the gift shop and buy another postcard while they wait. Dean buys a keychain while Castiel goes to wait on the platform, a stuffed bear with button eyes and a brown, yarn-stitched body, a few links of chain sticking out of his back. He stuffs it in his jacket pocket before Castiel notices, keeping it in hand while they hand over their tickets and board, taking their spot amongst jacket-clad families and children on red-leather benches, both rows facing outwards to either side of the parking lot.
And it’s cold. “Your hands are freezing,” Castiel tells him once they start moving, the car jerking its way forward as they stabilize, traveling at a brisk pace of a few miles per hour.
Dean allows him to take one of his hands and rub life back into it, Dean more interested in their hands than the fog-laden trees, reds and golds peaking through the cloud layer. Around them, people wander the aisles and chat amongst themselves, children yammering on about the temperature and the dreaded ‘are we there yet’ conversations. Dean hides his smile in Castiel’s shoulder. “That used to be Sammy,” he mumbles, Castiel grinning into his hair. “Before he figured out dad didn’t like gettin’ asked that.”
“I can imagine,” Castiel whispers and leans his head atop Dean’s, letting their fingers twine together. “You sure you don’t want my gloves?”
“’M fine,” Dean sighs, eyes closed. “Hands’re warmer this way, anyway.”
It should be something to be ashamed of, he knows, allowing someone to rub the life back into his fingers amongst strangers. But no one pays him any mind, and he can’t find it in himself to care—about anything, really. Even with Castiel pressed close with their hands curled up in one another, he can’t feel anything beyond the numbness in his soul, the frayed strands clinging desperately to whatever remnants of hope he has left. But it’s nice, having Castiel nearby, feeling his touch and the affection his hands provide.
Beyond the train car and the morning air seeping through their coats, he watches the trees and empty fields pass through half-lidded eyes, more concentrated on the slow thrum of Castiel’s pulse in his wrist than the idle chatter and the child watching them a few seats away. It grounds him for the time, the near-permanent stress perched on his shoulders alleviated as long as Castiel is near. As long as Castiel cares. “What’s there to do when we get there?” he bites through a yawn, flushing a bit at Castiel’s laugh, a soft thing, just between them.
“They’re having a chili cookoff,” Castiel says, letting go of one of his hands and laying his own on Dean’s thigh, petting there, just enough to get his attention. If anyone else notices, they don’t speak a word of it. “There’s also a pumpkin patch.”
Now that’s an idea. He hasn’t done anything with pumpkins since that night in Tupelo where he and Sam snuck out of their motel to go raid the farmer’s crop for whatever they could find. Sam never got to celebrate Halloween before, at least not past halfhearted attempts at trick-or-treating in costumes their then-classmates let them borrow, always last year’s fashions and never the right size. After a while, all the holidays began to blur into one another, all fading off the radar until they got their own place that they could actually decorate. What does Lebanon even do for Halloween, anyway?
Castiel hasn’t gotten to celebrate it, either, now that he thinks about it. “You sayin’ you wanna carve pumpkins?” Dean asks, pulling away enough to look at Castiel—actually look at him, with his cold-reddened nose and flushed cheeks, scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck. Dean tightens it without thinking, heart skittering at his smile.
“There was a program on ABC last night,” Castiel starts, Dean settling against his shoulder again with one of Castiel’s hands on his thigh. “The boy in the red shirt seemed oddly distressed when his sister cut the top off of one.” A pause. Dean’s lips quirk at the edges. “Though, I don’t see how an eight-year-old can carry a pumpkin indoors when it’s easily twice his size.”
Dean snorts, loud enough to scare the woman next to him into a startled laugh. “You’ve been watching Charlie Brown when I’m asleep, Cas?”
Castiel shakes his head with a grin; Dean twines their fingers together, letting his thumb brush the side of Castiel’s hand. “You were asleep for a while,” Castiel admits, watching the bridge supports pass, the river beneath them lazily flowing amongst the rocks. “I still don’t understand everyone’s preoccupation with Halloween.”
“You kiddin’?” Dean glances at him, Castiel’s brow furrowed in concern. “Halloween’s like, candy Christmas to kids. Give ‘em an excuse to dress up and a bucket and they’ll run up and down the street till you tell ‘em to stop.” He shrugs at Castiel’s unchanging face, turning back to the passing field. “Kinda goes with the whole fall thing. Y’know, decorations, pumpkin carving, haunted houses. Everything’s dying so everyone has one last party before we get our asses snowed in.”
At his side, Castiel nods, unsure. “Is that what you and Sam did, when you were younger?”
“Not really.” Lowering his head, Dean looks to their joined hands, still idly tracing his thumb over Castiel’s fingers. “We went trick-or-treating twice. Sam had to dress as Clifford one year. Wasn’t thrilled ‘bout that at all.”
A smile cracks Castiel’s lips, and Dean beams at the beauty of it, Castiel’s eyes alight with humor. “I’m sure he was a happy red dog, Dean,” he chides.
Dean just laughs, muffling the sound in Castiel’s shoulder. “Sure we can find him one that’ll fit him when we get back,” he adds. Against him, Castiel exhales and squeezes their hands tighter. “You wanna go get some pumpkins, Cas?” he asks.
Castiel nods despite Dean’s hesitance and just leans closer, continuing, “We could bring one back to your brother, too. If you think it would last that long.”
“Probably would,” Dean shrugs, eyes closed. Castiel can wake him whenever they arrive; for now, he lets their fingers rest together, a warm spot amidst the chill surrounding them, the grinding of the train’s wheels beneath their feet.
There’s a numb period between when he nods off and when Castiel nudges him awake, filled with white static and the occasional pulse of something thrumming through his chest, lulling him into a sense of security he hasn't felt in a long while. It’s a dream, he figures—a futile attempt at calming his heart, at healing his soul from the inside. Yet, away from responsibility and the memories of events long past, he feels more content now than ever before, knowing that there, in that space, there’s a warmth to hold on to, something there to steady him that hasn’t existed in reality for as long as he can remember.
At least, until he wakes up. Bleary eyes opening to the stationary world, he feels Castiel tapping his cheek, their hands now separated. Around them, riders climb down from the train’s two steps and onto the sidewalk, many of them leaving for the town center, another few heading in the opposite direction to a large field dotted in orange. “How long was I out?” Dean slurs, Castiel not having the heart to laugh at him.
Instead, he helps Dean to his feet and hooks their elbows together, leading him off the train and towards the patch. “An hour, maybe,” Castiel says, a shiver in his voice. It’s still cold, the temperature having risen a few degrees, still not enough to take the chill out of the air even in the sunlight now beaming over their heads. “What were you dreaming about?”
He doesn't answer—he doesn't know how, can’t explain the feeling of nothing, of being so alone inside himself that he feels nothing but relief for all of a few minutes. Castiel doesn't press him further, just leads them both into the field decorated in ivy and scarecrows, children running through the rows of pumpkins and squash and shouting to their parents about which ones they want. He feels out of place, having only Castiel as his company. At least they’re not alone; a few others are seated on the opposite end of the field chatting amongst themselves while they walk, heads lowered.
Castiel lets go of his arm long enough to borrow a knife from the stump by the gate, Dean inwardly cringing until Castiel holds it out of sight, worry etched across his face. “This is supposed to be fun,” Dean grits out, mostly to himself. He can’t fight the shake in his hands, even when Castiel reaches out to take one, threading their fingers together again.
“Come with me,” Castiel says, voice soft. Dean follows with an unsteady breath, allowing Castiel to lead him farther into the patch, away from screaming children and their watchful parents. It’s quieter here—he can actually think, can feel the cold nipping at his skin beneath his coat, the warmth of Castiel’s skin bleeding into his own. “You should pick the one you want,” Castiel tells him, letting him go.
They wander within each other’s space for the next few minutes, Dean’s eyes to the rows of orange gourds beneath his feet. Some green in spots, others too small to do much with, all connected to intricately grown vines rooted in the soil. A few catch his attention, one an adequate size for Sam if they brought it back, another large enough to carry comfortably around town if necessary. Across the field, Castiel has two of the smaller pumpkins stacked atop one larger than his head, too busy cutting it from the vine to notice Dean watching him.
For the first time in a while, his heart aches.
He looks away in fear at the sight, unsure of the reason; he centers himself by pulling the switchblade from his boot and kneeling into the dew-soaked earth, cutting both pumpkins from their vines. Castiel joins him with his trio afterwards, the smaller ones shoved in his sweater pockets, a thin layer of mud caked onto his boots. Not that Dean’s are faring any better. “Looks like you had fun,” Dean smirks, working to hoist both pumpkins under his arms, nearly dropping them along the way.
Castiel just watches him with a faint smile, eyes soft around the edges. It leaves Dean with half the urge to run, purely from the realization that sits heavy in his chest, the weight dragging him down. Looking at him shouldn't hurt, shouldn't make him feel like the world is simultaneously ending and growing anew at their feet, the distance between them closing in, a scant breath between lips. Castiel kisses him with a hand to his cheek, and Dean almost sobs from how much it feels like relief. His fingers itch to drop the pumpkins and return the touch, but Castiel pulls away before he can, the glimmer in his eyes almost reminiscent of hope.
Dean nearly chokes on his tongue. “What’d you do that for?” he asks, throat clicking when he swallows.
“Because I love you.” Castiel leaves a smaller kiss on the corner of his lips, thumb pressing there afterwards, too tender to be real. He must be dreaming—he’s still stuck in bed at the cabin, hallucinating what’s not there, what could never be there. But Castiel strokes his cheek in the aftermath, the touch rooting him to the mud he stands in, the gourds in his hands. The chill in the air.
He’s alive. He’s alive, breathing—he’s here.
Solemnly, he nods and closes his eyes; Castiel draws him into a one-armed hug, Dean nosing his face into the crook of Castiel’s neck, and together they sway.
-+-
They make it back to the cabin by six that afternoon, Dean hauling all five pumpkins inside in an oversized tote bag, Castiel carrying several grocery bags on both arms before depositing them on the kitchen bar. Outside, the temperature has begun to drop to its nightly low, somewhere in the upper twenties. Castiel starts the fireplace while Dean unloads their haul from the Food City closer into town, placing a few logs in along with crumpled newspaper along the bottom, setting them alight with a match. It’s warm inside by the time Dean finishes throwing ingredients into a pot on the stove and returns to the living area with the rest of the newspaper, Castiel already having rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and slipped his shoes off, tossed in a lazy pile by the stairs along with his socks.
It’s been a few months, and he still can’t fathom how entirely human Castiel is, how quickly he’s taken to the norms, like he never was an Angel in the first place. One minute, he’s smiting Demons with his bare hands, and the next, he’s sleeping in too late and learning how not to set the kitchen on fire when he cooks for himself. Dean just never expected it to happen so fast—and the fact Castiel hasn’t left is a miracle in itself. He’s staying of his own volition, a point he made clear the day after they arrived back at the bunker, the three of them bruised and scared and hacked to Hell and back.
Castiel picked his bedroom, and stayed.
And he’s still here, arranging the newspaper between them, Dean laying out two of the pumpkins afterwards along with two steak knives, a scraper and a few cheap carving knives from the instruction packages they bought along with tonight and tomorrow’s dinners. While the soup simmers in the next room, Dean teaches Castiel how to gut a pumpkin, demonstrating on his own by cutting a jagged pattern into the top of the gourd, Castiel attempting with an eerily practiced hand. “Angel blade’d probably work better,” Dean comments, Castiel laughing under his breath.
“I don’t think it’d be appropriate to use on this,” Castiel replies, successfully cutting a hole and removing the lid to his pumpkin. He sniffs the seed-filled contents, crinkling his nose. “Do I have to touch it?”
Dean tilts his head back with a laugh, clutching his stomach. “Dude, yes,” he wheezes, handing over a spoon. “That’s half the fun of it, gettin’ your hands dirty. It’s only weird at first. Here.” He demonstrates by reaching into his own pumpkin and pulling out a stringy mass of seed and pulp, scraping it off onto a designated patch of newspaper.
Castiel barely chokes back a gag. “I’m beginning to see Linus’ predicament.”
Dean goads him into cleaning out his pumpkin anyway, both scraping the innards into the same pile until they’re left spooning the remnants off the walls, the smell of burning wood and pumpkin wafting throughout the room.
They handle the designs next, Dean taking one of the stencils from the book at his knee and drawing the design with a permanent marker, Castiel already free-handing with a contemplative look on his face. They end up with two completely different concepts an hour later—somehow, Castiel has managed to construct a cat on a picket fence, back arched high in the air. Dean, meanwhile, has a ghost waving its arms with a terrified look on its face—as it should. “How’d you think of that?” Dean asks while Castiel takes Dean’s pumpkin, holding it above his head.
“I saw a pattern this morning that I thought was interesting,” Castiel answers, setting it down and then turning to his own, detailing it a bit more. “I’ve always admired cats.”
Dean stands and stretches his legs before wandering to the bar, taking two tea lights from their package and the abandoned pack of matches. “Surprised Sammy hasn’t tried to convince you to get one,” he says once he sits down, picking up both of their pumpkins once Castiel is finished and setting them on the coffee table, now pushed out of the way into the bend of the two couches.
Castiel takes the tea lights and, on his knees, places them inside, using the same match to light them both. They glow bright in the diminishing light, the candles flickering with each breath. “He asked if that would make you feel better,” Castiel ponders, casting him a sheepish look. “Or a dog, considering your allergies. We never could come to a decision.”
In all honesty, he’s never considered it. Even after clocking out earlier in the year, the thought never crossed his mind that they could have things like cats or dogs or hamsters wandering the halls. As long as they didn't hurt anything or wander into any rooms they didn't belong in, it could work. They were home enough now to take care of them, take them to vet visits and do food runs. Even watch them in the yard if the weather was nice enough.
He nods, somewhat, looking down at his crossed legs. “We can go look on our way back, if you want,” he says, and his heart swells at the sight of Castiel’s grin, face flushing when Castiel leans over to kiss his cheek, wetter than probably intended. “Geeze, Cas. It’s just a cat.”
“Yes, but it’s something you’d also be interested in.”
He stays close, bringing his hands up to Dean’s cheek as he pulls him in again, fingers still wet with pumpkin remnants. For the most part, Dean ignores it, opening his mouth with the insistence of Castiel’s kiss, hands wandering for whatever skin is available. His own end up rucked up in Castiel’s shirt, Castiel’s in his hair, tugging his head back until they’re breathless, Dean laughing against his lips.
“You smell like pumpkins,” Dean smirks. He taps Castiel’s cheek, earning an eyeroll in reply. “C’mon. Food’s probably ready. I wanna get this funk off my hands, too.”
The discarded remains of newspaper and pumpkin guts end up in the trashcan by the back door, leaving them with a clean floor and more than enough space to sprawl out in front of the fire, the steady light of their pumpkins and the fireplace their only company while they eat. It’s quiet, just the occasional clink of cutlery and crackling logs, an owl hooting in some far off tree. He ignores most of it, too concentrated on filling the void in his stomach and ruminating on just what Castiel meant hours before, those four words reverberating in his head.
Because I love you.
“I never got to… thank you, for this,” Dean starts, stirring his spoon in the last dregs of soup in his bowl. He gestures to the cabin and the night beyond the windows, eyes downcast. “Didn’t think—I haven’t had a break in so long, I kinda forgot what it feels like to just… sit here.”
“You deserve that opportunity,” Castiel says, simple. And it’s true—Dean knows as much, knows that after everything in his life, he deserves to relax. To do what he wants, let someone tend to him for a change. But even then, his hands itch: to hold something, to drive, to fight, anything to keep his mind still. For the last few days, they’ve done nothing but drive or move from place to place, always something to keep him distracted.
Until now. “I don’t know what to do,” Dean breathes, feeling the air rush out of him. Distantly, he knows Castiel is taking their bowls, now empty, back to the kitchen, a pair of hands covering his shoulders afterwards, warmth pressed to his back. He doesn't recognize it at first, the touch foreign until Castiel starts kneading his skin, the tension flowing from his veins. “I don’t… What if we fuck this up, Cas?” It’s an honest question—one he doesn't want an answer to. “What if… What if this isn’t real? What if I’m dead—.”
“You’re not.” Castiel kisses his nape, steadying him. “You’re alive. You’re alive, and you’re with me. Take my hand.” Dean does, clutching the hand that grips his hip tight. “How do you feel?”
“Tight,” he murmurs, strained. “Like—I need to move, but I don’t want to. I can’t stop shaking—.”
Castiel shushes him with a kiss to his ear, warm breath panting onto his skin. “You’ve exhausted yourself,” he tells Dean, his other hand snaking around his waist, settling low on his stomach. “You think you’ve lost your purpose.”
He closes his eyes to tilts his head to the wood-paneled roof, fighting back the tears that threaten to overflow. “I’ve never had one,” Dean sighs, forcing the tremor in his voice to die. “What do I do, Cas?”
“I don’t know.” It’s not what he wants to hear, but it’s agreement. Confirmation. “I don’t know, Dean. But the least I can do is to help you find it.”
“What if I can’t?” Castiel doesn't give him the chance to continue, instead urging Dean down onto his back parallel to the fireplace, knees straddling his waist. Wetness streaks into his hairline when he finally opens his eyes, taking in the look Castiel gives him, their foreheads pressed together. “What if this is it for me? What if it’s never gonna change?” His attempt to cover his eyes ends with Castiel pulling his hand away, letting it rest on the carpet. “Lived a half decent life, made sure Sammy survived… What if I can’t after this?”
“You can.” He falls into Castiel’s kiss with ease, a broken sob escaping when they break apart. “You’ve always been able to, Dean. You’ve just never let yourself.”
He nods despite himself, emotion fluttering in his chest, terrifying and beautiful. “Help me,” he pleads, and Castiel kisses him quiet.
Dean loses track after that, too enraptured in the warmth spreading through him to care that Castiel is everywhere, hands working to pull off his jacket, tugging his shirt over his head once it’s gone, slung in the corner where Castiel’s shoes ended up earlier. Castiel’s sweater is next, Dean working to yank it off without separating their lips, ultimately failing in the end. Castiel is just as tan as he imagined him, miles of skin freed from the confines of that stupid gray top, a faint dusting of hair spread across his chest; he places a hand over Castiel’s heart, the rhythm there driving reality home.
“I’m here,” Castiel tells him, the arousal in his voice abated temporarily, just enough to calm him. Dean initiates it this time, cupping the back of Castiel’s neck and dragging him closer, Castiel’s lips full, tongue imploring. With every touch, every press of fingers across his skin, Dean moans, fire burning through him with the first brush of Castiel’s erection against his own, half hard in his jeans yet aching, straining. “I’m here,” he says again, mouthing at Dean’s jaw. “I’m here.”
He can’t bring himself to speak, not now—not when Castiel pushes him flat and works to unzip his jeans, sliding them down his legs along with his briefs, until he’s bare in the warmth of the fireplace, flames licking bright trails across his skin. Castiel watches him briefly, almost considering, before he runs his hands over Dean’s chest, one settling over his heart, beating a wild rhythm against his ribs. He flushes with the attention, unbidden. “Looks like you’re thinkin’ ‘bout something,” Dean huffs with a smirk.
Castiel flicks Dean’s nipple much to Dean’s embarrassment, soothing the abused nub with his tongue; Dean lets his body fall lax into it, Castiel now content to map out his body with more than his hands, lips sucking wet marks down his chest to the softness of his stomach. He turns his eyes up, Dean meeting the question in his gaze, that ever curious stare now applied to him and him alone. “I was wondering what you like,” Castiel muses, kissing the jut of Dean’s hip. A shiver runs through him the closer Castiel ventures to his cock, now full against his belly, weeping. “Do you have anything?”
Um. “Probably not the best time to ask that,” Dean groans, arm over his eyes. Hell, any time would’ve been preferable to when Castiel is inches from his dick, looking every bit mischievous. “In—fuck, probably in my bag. Haven’t really used it in a while.”
And with a nod, Castiel leaves him there, body half warmed from the fire and more than enough turned on, just from anticipation. The whole thing with Castiel should terrify him, should scare him into a dead sprint. But for once, he knows what he wants—knows he can get his hands on it and keep it there, bury it close. In a way, he’s always needed Castiel like this. Always wanted him like this, at his side, in his heart.
He doesn't know why he didn't think of it before.
Castiel returns before he can have second thoughts, dropping a towel and a pocket-sized bottle at his hip and a few condoms; Dean laughs and sits up onto his elbows, smiling against Castiel’s lips when they kiss again, Castiel’s bare legs straddling his waist. “Hopin’ to get lucky?” Dean asks, humorous.
“I intend to take my time with you,” Castiel confesses, and Dean can only nod his reply, cheeks flushed bright red in the light of the fire.
With reluctance, he lifts up at Castiel’s insistence, Castiel unfolding the towel and setting it underneath him, something oddly clinical about it. “So not sexy, dude,” Dean complains, earning a slap to his thigh, skin turning red where Castiel’s hand lingers.
He shouldn't laugh; Castiel doesn't move to stop him, either way. “I’m not ruining their rug,” Castiel says instead, and Dean huffs out a disgruntled breath. With careful hands, he palms up Dean’s thighs and rests them on his hips, a silent plea.
After that is a blur of wet skin and skilled fingers, all raking down his body to between his legs where Castiel’s mouth laps at the tip of his cock, barely more than a caress. It’s sweeter than he imagined, the way Castiel toys with him with just his lips, tongue tracing the vein beneath and dipping into the slit; he writhes with the feeling, hips following him when he suckles the head, all with a mischievous grin. If his cock wasn’t in his mouth, Dean would’ve kicked him.
“God, you’re a tease,” he grits out instead, regretting it seconds later when Castiel pulls away, only long enough to grab the lube and slick two fingers. He jerks away at the first touch to his hole, too unused to the feeling, too out of practice. “It’s—Haven’t gotten off that way in a while.” He hasn't; he’s been too lost in his thoughts to even consider jerking off, all of it feeling so wrong lately.
Castiel kisses his cock as an answer, no words necessary; he doesn't know if he could handle whatever he said, anyway. It takes him a few seconds to settle, to familiarize himself with the feel of Castiel’s lips on his skin, of his mouth taking him inside while the first finger slips in, gentle and coaxing, never too much pressure. He falls into it after that, hips chasing the duality of the sensations, little whimpers escaping when Castiel catches him at the right angle or sucks too hard, until he’s moaning with every touch.
Castiel’s free hand works its way around his waist, and Dean grabs hold of it, threading their fingers together while Castiel works him open, a second finger slipping in next to the first. Absently, he knows he’s moaning, knows his body is practically begging for it by the way he’s arching, the way his chest and neck heat up. Between his legs, Castiel looks pleased with his work, lips quirked into a smirk around Dean’s cock—Dean has half the mind to thump his ear or do something to wipe that look off his face. He settles for fisting Castiel’s hair, petting the sweat-matted strands every time he goes down and pulls back up, sometimes to breathe, others to lave wet trails up his cock.
He hurtles towards orgasm before he can stop himself, coming the instant Castiel pushes in a third finger with little more than a whimper, thick and warm as the rest; his stomach caves with the force of it, most of his release caught on Castiel’s tongue, the rest smeared over his lips and chin, a fleck caught on his eyelashes. Somehow, he flushes deeper at the sight, even moreso when Castiel pulls free and shifts up enough to kiss him, sharing the taste of his own cum.
“You enjoyed that,” Castiel tells him when they separate, a lube-slick hand palming his cheek; Dean laughs at him, turning his head away. “You’re beautiful, Dean.”
“You’re just sayin’ that,” he chides, but doesn't deny it. Castiel kisses his neck while he calms, sucking purpled marks down to his collarbone until he’s satisfied. He must look a wreck, skin red and sweating from exertion and the fire, still burning at their side. “You wanna fuck me?” he asks, stroking his hands through Castiel’s hair, Castiel too busy lapping at his nipples to immediately answer.
“This was for you,” Castiel says after a long second, letting their foreheads rest together. Dean blinks, slow, hands wandering to Castiel’s hips, one curling under his belly to his cock, hard and leaking in his grasp. He doesn't expect the moan he gets or the fully-body shudder that accompanies it, and he grins from the knowledge that he did that, with just one touch. “Dean—.”
“’S not fun if you don’t get to enjoy it,” Dean chuckles and gives him a few strokes before pulling away. He parts his legs in invitation, toeing at Castiel’s feet. “C’mon. Want you to feel good.”
Whatever reason Castiel had to possibly stop right there flies out the window after that. He pushes three slicked fingers in again once Dean is settled, taking his time feeling him out, occasionally brushing against his prostate; he could probably come again if he let himself, his cock already twitching with interest, still too soft to do much. Castiel kisses it in the interval, rolling the head across his tongue and earning several muted whimpers in return. “I think you’re ready,” Castiel says and pulls his fingers free, wiping them dry on the towel.
“Fingers felt good,” Dean says when they kiss again, just a small one before Castiel takes a condom and rips open the packaging with his teeth. It’s hotter than it has any right to be, watching him pinch the tip and roll on the rubber until it’s secure, slicking it with more lube than probably necessary. Now or never. “C’mon, Cas.”
There’s patience in the way Castiel pushes into him, small thrusts that build until he’s fully inside, warm and hard and nothing like he ever expected. “Cas,” Dean murmurs in his ear when Castiel lowers himself, elbow on either side of his head. “Cas,” he says again, softer now, hands stroking down the planes of Castiel’s back, scraping his nails down his spine. “Castiel…” A third time, imploring.
Castiel finally answers with a roll of his hips, and Dean just holds on, clinging desperately to Castiel’s back when he picks up the pace. For a while, all he hears is the soft grunts Castiel pants out and the slap of skin against skin, overshadowing the fireplace and his own moans, louder, pleading. His cock lays in a hot brand against his stomach, dripping down his flank with every push. “Beautiful,” he hears Castiel tell him, lips pressed to his ear. “Perfect, Dean. Perfect.”
For a while, all he knows is the feeling of Castiel thrusting inside him and the hands tugging his head back by the hair, the lips kissing his mouth, jaw, neck; he can barely bring himself to open his eyes through it, fearing the tears welling there, a few escaping and trickling into his hairline. Castiel licks them away, gentle, kissing his eyelids after. “Love you,” Dean whispers, barely audible, but Castiel hears it all and tells him the same, sealing it with a kiss.
Castiel comes before Dean can get a fist around himself, his hips twitching insistently to bury himself deeper, pulsing warm inside the condom with a look on his face like he’s found home. Dean strokes himself while Castiel pants through the aftershocks, head pressed to his sternum when Dean comes again, wetness streaking his fist and up his stomach until there’s nothing left, nothing but the two of them and the mountains, their shared breaths the only noise they hear.
“’M hot,” Dean manages, finally, once Castiel has pulled out and tossed the condom in the trash, now intent on wiping them both clean with a washcloth. “Seriously, why not the bedroom? We got like… four.”
“Here seemed more romantic,” Castiel shrugs. “You’ve never wanted to make love in front of a fireplace?
Make love—he would laugh at the thought if it didn't make sense. “Always looked cool in the movies, but now?” He looks to the fire, squinting at the brightness. “Think I need a shower.”
Castiel laughs, mirthful. “We can do that.” Extending a hand, he helps pull Dean to his feet, afterwards bringing his arms around his neck and tugging him into an embrace. Dean does the same, clinging to his back tight, never to let go. “I’m glad you’re happy,” Castiel whispers, a secret between them.
Dean nods, burying his face in Castiel’s neck. “Thank you. For everything.” And he means it.
-+-
They return to Lebanon after another day at the cabin and two driving, unloading their duffels and the five pumpkins before Sam can even figure out what to do with himself. “…You brought me a pumpkin?” he says, bewildered, and Dean just shrugs, hands in his jacket pockets and a grin on his face.
“Figured you can find somethin’ to go with ours,” Dean says, patting Sam’s shoulder on his way to leave the war room. At the last second, he stops, squeezing Sam’s shoulder tight. Grounding—Cas is here, Sam is here. I’m here. “I’m alright, y’know,” he breathes, looking over his shoulder to see the look on Sam’s face, caught somewhere between shock and worry. “It’s just… gonna take some time.”
Sam nods, a smile teasing his lips. “I’m glad,” he says, relief in his voice. “You know I’m here if you ever need anything. Cas too.”
He smiles despite himself, eyes wrinkling at the edges. And they’ll always be there, too. “…Thanks, Sammy.”
For everything.