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“You get that this is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had, right?”
Sam barks out a laugh, “I think you’re exaggerating.”
Dean rolls his eyes because, okay, fine: trusting Ruby was a fucking stupid ass idea, and agreeing to let himself be possessed by Satan was not exactly the most intelligent decision ever, and Sam kind of rolled the dice on hiding from Samhain, and also that time he had Dean lead a freaking Racist Ghost Trucker on merry chase through rural back roads, and also, that time with the—
“Fine, whatever, I’m still not doing it, man.”
The puppy eyes that Sam lobs at Dean are no less immolating for being launched through a computer screen.
“C’mon.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“I’m not doin’ it, Sammy.”
“Dean.”
“Jesus, Sammy, I am not bringing Cas as my fake husband to your freaking wedding.”
“Why not?” Sam sounds so fucking plaintive that Dean has the urge to reach through the screen and shake his stupid face.
“Why not? Are you--? Why not? In what universe is that a reasonable plan?”
He gets up from the table just to dispel some of his almost suffocating annoyance—of all the stupid, moronic, impractical, fucking dumb ass, fucking ideas…He bangs around the kitchen—bringing Cas to Sam’s wedding, as if it were that fucking simple…He opens the oven door to check on the chicken pot pies he has baking (made from scratch, thank you very much)—just cause he averted the apocalypse and tag teamed on shutting The Gates of Hell doesn’t mean he can just…He wipes a non-existent spot on the counter with his dishcloth—and another thing, just cause Cas is human doesn’t mean that Dean can just take him to Sam’s wedding like a fucking…He grabs plates and digs for cutlery—just cause Sam is a happy little love bird doesn’t mean it’s that easy for everyone else, he and Sam are different and Cas and Sarah are not even remotely...Dean realizes belatedly that Sam’s been talking this whole time, ranting through the laptop perched on the table, and Dean tries to tune back into what he’s saying.
“—and Sarah’s dad hates me, Dean,” he concludes with a despondent, almost anguished sigh.
Dean glares, more at Sarah’s dad than at Sam, “Sarah’s dad hates everyone who isn’t Sarah.”
Sarah, who has apparently been lurking off screen somewhere in Sam’s kitchen, laughs and pops her head briefly into frame.
“No offense,” Dean adds with a shrug.
“Believe me,” Sarah smiles ruefully, “none taken. He’s kind of a hard ass.”
Sarah winks at Dean, kisses the top of Sam’s head, and disappears, presumably to go pick up the Thai food that Sam had mentioned earlier.
“Now that we have all agreed that my future father-in-law hates me,” Sam continues with the air of long suffering, “Will you please do this for me?”
Dean lets out a deep breath, “Sam, Sarah’s dad hates me more than he hates you. Literally all this will do is make him hate Cas by association.”
“Or,” Sam counters, and Dean wonders if he’s always been this insufferable or if it’s a side effect of domestic bliss, “Cas will make him like you by association.”
Dean swears he’s getting a migraine. He slumps into a chair at the table.
“Dean, please, it would mean a lot to me,” Sam is using the voice that matches the puppy dog eyes, “Daniel thinks that I’m awful for Sarah—”
Dean glares at that, “Because Mr. Hoighty Toighty Art Collector is a stuck up prick—”
“—and it would go a long way to smooth things over with him if he could see that there was a stable…family presence in my life—”
“—Jesus, Sam, that’s fucking ridiculous. You don’t have to bend over backwards to get this asshole’s approval. You’re ten times the man that jackass will ever—”
“—Dean, like it or not, this is the guy that you will be sharing your nieces and nephews with,” Sam lays down the trump card, and Dean’s jaw snaps shut. Dean pretty much instantaneously adopted Sarah’s (and now Sam’s) daughter, Lily, as an honorary Winchester within five seconds of knowing about her. He had given her piggy back rides and played hide and go seek with her for hours when they all came out to visit this summer. There are no other nieces or nephews yet, but Dean knows that rugrats are part of Sam and Sarah’s plans for the future, which means that…
“That’s playing dirty,” Dean admonishes with a glare and an accusatory finger.
Sam shrugs, “It’s true: we are stuck with this guy for the rest of our lives, and, Dean, seriously, this this would go a long way to make things easier.”
Dean rubs his hands over his face, weary.
“Please, Dean, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
Dean can feel his arguments crumbling in the face of Sam’s pleading tone, the extra strong puppy eyes. He wishes that Skype had some kind of filter for this shit. It would make his life so much easier.
“Look, Sam, even if I agreed to do this, which I’m not,” he hastens to add, “It takes two to fake a freaking marriage. You’d have to get Cas on board.”
“Get me on board with what?” Cas asks, scaring the shit out of both Dean and Sam.
Dean quickly arranges himself like he hadn’t almost just fallen of off his chair, “Jesus Christ, Cas, when did you get home?”
“Just a second ago,” Cas says, unwinding his scarf, a garish orange thing that Dean knitted him for Christmas, and Cas has worn every single day since.
“Hello, Sam,” he adds warmly, resting a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tries very hard to repress a shiver both because Cas’ hands are freaking cold and because it’s Cas’ hand on Dean’s skin, “It smells wonderful in here, Dean.”
“I made pot pies,” Dean says resisting the urge to squirm in his seat, fully aware that Sam is watching this exchange like a hawk.
“Thank you,” Cas smiles, the lines around his eyes crinkle up, and Dean feels a familiar flutter in his stomach, “Now what am I getting on board with?”
Luckily, he addresses the question to Sam, leaving Dean to bustle over to the oven. He takes the pot pies out, arranges them to cool on the counter, and generally moves around as loudly as possible to ignore the exchange going on behind him for as long as humanly possible. His ears burn; he can actually feel the flush creeping up his neck, knowing that Sam is essentially negotiating a marriage agreement five feet behind him.
By the time he turns around, Cas’ easy smile has turned into an extremely concentrated frown.
“I think this is something that Dean and I should discuss between us,” he says, “We’ll call you back after we’ve talked it over.”
Not an outright rejection. Huh. Dean’s not sure whether he’s relieved, elated, or ready to run for the hills.
“Yeah, sure,” Sam says easily, “I’d say take as long as you need but...”
Cas gives a somewhat rueful smile, “You need to finalize the seating plans, yes, I know.”
They both know, in vivid, minute, freaking exacting detail Sam’s wedding plans. It’s been front and center in almost all of their conversations for the past six months.
“We’ll talk to you later,” Cas says, “Please, give Sarah and Lily our love.”
“Yeah, of course,” Sam replies, “remind Dean to be open minded.”
Dean rolls his eyes, “Remind yourself, bitch.”
Sam laughs and then disconnects the call.
The next ten minutes pass as if there had not been a ludicrous proposal (ha) thrown abruptly into their otherwise normal Friday night. Dean sets the table while Cas puts together a salad. Dean asks about Cas’ students, and Cas asks about Dean’s day at work. They move seamlessly around the kitchen, a familiar dance, executed numerous times over the past two years, since they left the solitude of the bunker for the fresh air and sunshine that could be offered by an actual house with actual windows.
Shortly after they completed the trials, Sam had stumbled upon an “in case of emergencies” stockpile of gold bars in the very back of the Men of Letters Archives. Retirement money, plus interest, Dean had figured. A tiny fraction of it had given them a solid savings account each. They’d stayed based in the Bunker for a while, even after Sam had healed from the trials, and Cas had adjusted (more or less) to human limits. Cas and Dean remained, even after Sam reconnected with Sarah and eventually moved in with her a year later. Then one day, sitting outside in the very tiny, but flourishing garden that Cas had created, watching him tilt his face towards an early spring sun, Dean realized that Cas deserved better than living underground, that Dean liked how even the weak light illuminated Cas’ face, made him smile, and that he, Dean, wanted something more. The bunker would always be there, he reasoned, didn’t mean they had to stay there permanently. It wasn’t designed for that, it was never meant for that. So Dean and Cas, after lengthy discussion, loaded up the Impala and drove: they drove to up to Washington and down to California. They stuck their toes in the Pacific Ocean and spent a weekend in Vegas. They cut through the southwest, spent a night camping under the stars, Cas mapping out constellations until they had fallen asleep. Dean finally saw the Grand Canyon, looked over that precipice at sunset with Cas by his side. They went to a rodeo in Texas, and Cas listened enraptured to almost every street musician in New Orleans and Nashville. Dean bought Cas Mickey Mouse ears in Disneyworld, and Cas bought Dean board shorts in North Carolina, dragging him to the ocean with glee. It wasn’t until they hit Massachusetts that Cas and Dean decided to settle. It wasn’t anything in particular that happened. They stopped in a small town like any of the hundreds of others they’d visited over the past months, but something about this one felt right, felt like home. They spent a few days casing the town, like they were on a job, but eventually they found a little house, just on the outskirts, slightly wooded, secluded, with a huge space for a garden, solid foundations, and bright windows. That had been that. They bought the place, set up shop. Cas had gotten a job (after some documental fudging) as a professor at a local college, and Dean had found work at a carpentry shop in town. They set down roots. It was hard at first, odd, but gradually, they made the space their own: clothes found their ways into drawers and knickknacks onto end tables. Hell, end tables found their way next to the sofa, once a sofa found its way into their living room. Cas brought home quilts and pillows that he found at a local artisan market, and Dean carved them a kitchen table.
They established routines. Castiel brews coffee every morning, makes breakfast on the weekends, packs a lunch for Dean Monday through Friday. He writes esoteric poems and dorky quotes on the napkins he tucks into Dean’s lunchbox next to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and painstakingly sliced seasonal fruit. Dean makes dinner, fresh and filling, experiments and improvises, every night. The pantry is stocked with food they like, and Castiel chops enough fire wood in the autumn to last them through until spring. They visit the farmer’s market on Sunday mornings, watch Netflix on Saturday nights. They go for occasional road trips when one or the other feels restless: they made a weeklong trip to the Cape in June and went again for a long weekend in September. Dean has barbeques for their friends, people from work, family, like Jody and Donna, Kevin and his Mom, even Garth and his new wife, during the summer. When Sam came out with Sarah and Lily for a week last August, Dean and Cas set up a kiddie pool in the backyard, and built a swing set, just in case.
They have a rhythm, they have comfort here, it’s been peaceful and warm and bright. This suggestion of Sam’s feels like a challenge, like the precipice overlooking the Grand Canyon, stark and sharp and frightening.
Cas brings it up once they’ve finished eating.
“You don’t like the idea.”
Dean fiddles with his fork, moving an errant pea around the plate, his heart beating fast in his ears, “It just seems stupid, you know?”
“You perceive marriage with me to be stupid?” Cas raises his brow, and Dean scrambles to backtrack.
“No, of course, not, Cas, jeeze,” he sputters, visions of Cas in a tux, gold rings, a deep voice saying “I do” make him clumsy, “That’s not what—I didn’t mean that at all.”
Cas squints at him, searching for the lie and finding the truth, “You dislike the ruse.”
Dean sighs in relief and shrugs, “It’s a big lie to tell.”
Cas’ gaze turns soft and his voice careful, “It’s not the first time that we have told this particular lie.”
He has a point. Neighbors, co-workers, Cas’ students, hell, random strangers at the market, they all assume that Dean and Cas are married, or at least partners. A few of them have even said as much: “So you’re brining your husband to the party, right, Dean?” or “Oh, that Cas is such a lovely man, you are so lucky to have snatched him up.” Dean doesn’t correct them. He would have, once upon a time, when he was younger, stupid, scared. He’d have denied it vehemently, viciously, but now…things are different, Dean is different, and when people refer to Cas as his husband, Dean can’t help but puff up his chest, say thank you, and agree that, “Yeah, I am a lucky son of a bitch,” because he is. Because Cas is in his life and his home, hell, Cas is his home, and Dean ain’t gonna get luckier than that. It’s a lie of omission, it’s a secret wish, a happily ever after he’s never gonna get, but he’s closer than he’d ever thought he’d be and that’s enough.
“This ain’t like that,” Dean argues.
“Why?”
“It’s not a white lie, Cas, it’s not just rollin’ with it. This is a con, for Sam’s in-laws.”
Cas doesn’t disagree. He looks pensive, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms over his chest, thoughtfully touches a finger to his chin.
“Sam seems to think that this will make it easier for him to integrate into his new family—”
Dean squirms, Sarah’s great, he loves Lily, but the rest of those people…they aren’t Sam’s family, they don’t even know him…
“—that this will make things easier for us, for Lily and for Sarah.”
“Cause Sam’s future father-in-law makes Crowley look like a goddamn philanthropist.”
Cas rolls his eyes.
“You don’t think this is a stupid idea?” Dean shoots back.
Cas twists his mouth to the side, pauses for a moment before responding, “I think that this is something that is very important to Sam, but I won’t do it if it compromises your comfort in anyway.”
“So you’d be okay with this?” Dean quirks a brow.
Cas shrugs, “I don’t particularly care about Daniel Blake’s perception of our relationship, no. But Sam seems to care a great deal. I’m not opposed to helping him.”
“Huh.”
Cas smiles at that, “Huh, indeed.”
“Well,” Dean leans back, “I guess it’s two against one.”
“Dean, this isn’t a vote,” he reaches a hand across the table, earnest, “we won’t do this if you’re not completely okay with it.”
Dean huffs inside because yeah, there’s not a universe where he’s completely okay with anything really, especially not pretending to be married to his best friend and quite possibly the love of his life. Still. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“Nah, man, it’ll be fine. We’ll dress up, dance, make nice with the in-laws, and then everything can go back to normal. Easy-peasy.”
Cas frowns at him, “Yes, easy-peasy.”
“Now that’s settled,” and the butterflies in his stomach are at a base line flutter rather than a raging cyclone, “You wanna help me clean up, or what?”
Cas smiles; his face relaxes.
“You wash, I’ll dry?”
“Deal.”
*
They have six weeks until Sam’s wedding. Plenty of time before they have to don their tuxes and smile and hold hands for the in-laws. Time to adjust to the idea, time to ignore it until the last minute, so much fucking time. Which is what Dean tells himself when he wakes up the morning after The Proposal. It’s what he tells himself while he showers and shaves and brushes his teeth. Plenty of time, he repeats as he pulls on his jeans and woolen socks (March in Massachusetts is still bitter cold), as he tugs on his Henley and shrugs into his flannel. Six weeks, he thinks as he laces up his boots, as he trundles down the stairs, as he comes into the kitchen, where Cas is drinking (what is presumably his first cup of) coffee with bleary eyes and sleep tousled hair. It’s plenty of time, he tells himself as he stands on the threshold, the smell of coffee and cinnamon in the air, the sight of Cas, still half asleep, bundled up in sweatpants and a hoodie and a bathrobe that Dean stole from the Men of Letters cache and Cas has taken to stealing from Dean, shifting from foot to foot on the tile because the dork was so eager for his caffeine that he forgot his slippers upstairs. Plenty of time, he reminds himself, swallowing.
“Morning,” Cas greets, voice rough and deep.
“Mornin’, good lookin’,” Dean rejoins, pasting on a bright, easy smile and winking, “Whatcha got cookin’?”
Cas shakes his head, but he’s grinning, “Baked French toast. It’ll be ready in another few minutes. Coffee?”
Cas always offers coffee like it may hold the secrets of the universe, like he’s sharing a holy communion, or his last hit of something good. It makes Dean want to hug him, makes him want to ruffle his hair, makes him want to hold his hand and pull him close and keep him forever.
“Sure thing, Cas, thanks.”
Cas smiles beatifically and then turns to start fixing up the French press, “Get a cup.”
Dean pulls down a mug from the cabinet, green earthenware, sturdy and rough. He rubs his thumb against the rim as he cradles it in his hands. Plenty of time, he cautions as he turns around. Cas continues his work, pouring hot water over coffee grounds and stirring, eyes and hands intent on their task, careful, like he always his, meticulous, focused. No time at all, Dean counters himself.
They have a dance, a routine, the two of them. They can move around the kitchen seamlessly, passing things back and forth, going around the stove and the oven and the table without colliding once. It’s how they used to fight together, graceful, even elegant, on the same wavelength. That’s transferred to retired life. Dean and Cas could spend hours in this kitchen cooking, cleaning, doing home repair, and not run into each other once. Hell, they’ve done it on hundreds of mornings just like this one. Cas fixes the coffee while breakfast is cooking, Dean fetches the mug he wants from the cabinet, passes it to Cas, then goes to get table settings while Cas adds cream and sugar. Dean could do that today. Easy, natural, he could do it with his eyes closed, rely on muscle memory, follow that sixth sense that knows where Cas is at all times.
Dean doesn’t.
No, that morning, Dean breaks pattern. If he didn’t absolutely know better, he’d say he was possessed. It sure as fuck feels like he’s disconnected from his body, because instead of placing the mug into Cas’ outstretched hand on his way to get some plates and forks, he follows the momentum that seems to be coming from the region of his heart, urged on by the frantic fluttering of those damn butterflies in his stomach, and instead of giving Cas the cup and moving away, he follows the motion through to an almost inevitable conclusion. His hand transfers the mug to Cas’ but instead of drawing away, he lingers. His fingers wrap around Cas’ (chilly and smooth), and his other hand, seemingly of its own volition, comes to rest on Cas’ hip. It feels natural, it feels like a trespass, and they both freeze, as though Dean has missed a beat in their dance, stepped on Cas’ toes, and they need to find their count again.
Cas turns to look at Dean, his face frozen in an expression that Dean can’t read, doesn’t recognize. His eyes are fire bright.
The butterflies transform into hawks, eagles, swooping in wide circles. His body runs hot and cold.
“Dean?” Cas prompts, his voice hasn’t lost its sleep roughened timbre, but his eyes and expression are wide awake and avid.
“Cas, I—” so much time, he reminds himself, not enough, “practice.”
Cas blinks exactly once, “Practice?”
“Yeah, we’re gonna be married, right? If we’re gonna make it look convincing, we should, ah, practice, acting, ya know…married.”
Cas searches Dean’s face keenly, his expression shifting through a whole range of emotions, without actually moving at all, before finally settling on a strange sort of calm. An odd almost distant look that Dean hasn’t seen Cas wear in years.
“Yes,” he agrees, “that seems prudent.”
“Right,” Dean agrees.
“Right.”
“Right.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah?” Dean leans closer.
“Your coffee is done.”
Dean releases the mug, Cas’ fingers, and Cas’ waist slowly, trancelike. Loathe to let go, even if Cas’ fingers are cold, even if Cas looks oddly angelic. He steps back and Cas turns to fix the coffee.
“Thanks, Cas.”
“Of course.”
*
You can’t live with someone without touching them. People need human contact, no matter what John Winchester said to the contrary. Dean is wise enough, or desperate enough, in his old age, to realize that. No man is an island, blah, blah, blah. They touch. Dean and Cas touch. They’ve been living together for years. It happens. Casual things. Platonic things (Dean is always careful to keep it that way). Dean’s arm around Cas’ shoulder when Cas says something funny or endearing, and Dean can’t fucking hold it back anymore. Cas’ hand, gentle and soothing against Dean’s forehead or his shoulder when he’s had a bad dream. Playful shoves and nudging elbows. Cas’ head on Dean’s shoulder when he falls asleep on the couch; Dean’s head on Cas’ when he konks out himself. That is the baseline, that’s the limit. There is a line that they don’t cross, haven’t crossed, even though Dean spends a lot of time feeling like he can see the line, painted neon green with a flashing sign to match, daring him, inviting him to transgress.
Dean has never stepped over that line, never once, until that morning in the kitchen, when Dean moved towards Cas instead of away. He saw the glaring, visible line and he stepped blithely over it. He had always worried crossing it would fuck things up, would break the camel’s back, would send Cas running off into the night with a glare and a packed bag and a disgusted look on his face. That’s…not what happens.
Dean called it practice, and Cas took him at his word. It starts small. Cas nudges Dean’s foot under the table that night at dinner. Dean thinks it’s an accident, a mistake, a practical joke (he almost bites off the tines of his fork when Cas’ foot rubs up the inside of his calf), but then, like a mirror to Dean’s action that morning, Cas rests a hand on Dean’s waist while he washes the dishes (Dean just barely manages to not break the plate he’s holding). When Dean turns to look at Cas with wide eyes, a heart beat that he can actually hear pounding in his ears, and an embarrassing amount of blood rushing south, Cas searches Dean's gaze and then gives him a small smile, gently laying a warm, dry hand against Dean’s cheek.
“Practice,” he reminds him.
“Practice,” Dean agrees, voice cracking as if he were still a half grown teen and not a man rapidly approaching middle age. He struggles to regulate his breathing, ignore how lively and blue Cas’ eyes look from this close.
Touches start to linger. They start to multiply. The first few times that Cas lays a hand on Dean, Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, but it doesn’t take long for him to start leaning into them. The hand that Cas rests on Dean’s thigh on the drive to the grocery store, the hand that Cas lays on top of Dean’s on the handle of the shopping cart. The way that Cas lays his head on Dean’s shoulder while they watch Scandal, not because he’s drifted off to sleep but because he chooses to. Cas wakes Dean from a nightmare a week after The Proposal, and he soothes Dean the way he always does: soft words in the dark, nonsense and old stories and songs, a comforting hand on his forehead, a cool rag to wipe his face. But instead of leaving to return to his room, as he always does, he pulls back the covers.
“May I?” he asks.
Dean’s jaw snaps shut and he nods frantically, too grateful, too moved to speak. He’s afraid that he might cry with how much he wants this. Permission is all Cas needs to climb beneath the blankets. He pulls Dean into the solid warmth of his chest, holds him close, intertwines their fingers and cradles them against Dean’s heart, presses his nose into Dean’s shoulder, and embraces him through the night.
Dean gets bolder. He loses his hesitancy and his timidity. He feels like a drowning man taking his first breath of air, and he keeps breathing deep and full. He blossoms under the attention, under the physical affection. He runs his fingers through Cas’ hair, and Cas looks like a contented cat, just this side of purring. He holds Cas’ hand when they drive to town or when they walk through the Farmer’s Market, when they’re sitting on the couch after dinner. He toys idly with Cas’ fingers, memorizes their size and shape by touch. He drapes his arm around Cas’ shoulders at every opportunity. Runs his foot up the inside of Cas’ leg when they eat at the table. He smiles when he catches Cas’ blush. When Cas falls asleep on the sofa, he pulls a blanket up over his shoulders, and instead of extricating himself like he usually would, he stays, pulls Cas closer to his chest, and rubs a hand along his spine.
When Cas complains of cold, Dean piles the blankets from his bed on top of the ones on Cas’ and then pulls Cas down into the resultant nest, wrapping his limbs around him and rubbing his scruff against Cas neck, while he squirms and laughs (Cas, as it turns out, is very ticklish).
The weeks until Sam’s wedding fly by marked, of course, by Sam’s reminders and anxiety, by Sarah’s pragmatism and exasperation, by Lily smiling and insisting with toddler delight that she’s excited to see them. They are marked with winter chill and early spring sunlight, with trips to the garden center so select seeds and bulbs. Most of all, they are marked with Dean and Cas becoming more deeply entwined with one another. Neither of them calls it practice anymore, neither of them calls it anything, when Dean falls asleep with Cas in his arms or Cas’ arms around him, he feels warm, content, impossibly safe. But as the days pass and the wedding looms near, an edge of fear creeps in: not the fear of touching, not the fear of crossing the line, but the reminder that crossing it was only ever temporary. Soon he’ll have to go back, they’ll be partitioned once more. The swoop in his stomach feels like falling, feels like dying. Six weeks, he reminds himself as Cas snores and snuffles against Dean’s collar bone, is no time at all.
*
True to Dean’s prediction it seems like barely the blink of an eye before they’re pulling into Sam’s driveway and walking up the cobbled pathway to the front door. Sam’s got giant octopus arms around Dean before he even has time to cross the threshold. Hugs are exchanged all around, smacking kisses placed on Lily’s cheeks, and Dean and Cas are shown to the guest room that they’ll share. They’re barely there long enough to drop their bags on the plush carpet, hang their tuxes in the closet, and appreciate that they’ve got a memory foam mattress with like sixty down pillows before they’re being shuttled back downstairs to help with wedding prep. Dean doesn’t even notice that Cas’ hand has been in his the whole time until Cas is pulling away, giving Dean’s fingers a squeeze before going to help Sam craft centerpieces and review the seating chart one final time. Dean stares down at his empty palm, cold and oddly bereft until Lily starts tugging on his fingers and drags him to the kitchen.
Dean spends the afternoon coloring with Lily and chatting with Sarah. The latter pesters Dean about exhibiting some of his ‘side projects’ in New York, and Dean rebuffs her as always: “You wanna exhibit something? What about this masterpiece Lily’s working on, huh? Looks like we got a little Michelangelo here.” Lily giggles and Sarah warns Dean that their discussion is not over, hanging Lily’s latest piece amongst the others already pinned to the refrigerator.
Dean is at ease here, in Sam and Sarah’s kitchen, spending time with his niece and his (soon to be) sister (in-law). Joking and teasing, commiserating over how type A Sam is, honeymoon plans (a week-long tour through Italy and France), Lily’s favorite parts of pre-school, and the new friend she made at the park, and all the fun things she’s gonna get to do with her uncles while mom and dad are out of town. Nevertheless, when Cas comes in with Sam, eyes crinkling in the corners, a tiny tension Dean didn’t even realize he was holding melts away. Sam’s hair is standing up like a veritable bird’s nest (a clear sign of stress), but he kisses Sarah and fawns over Lily’s new drawing, while Dean watches. There’s a blinding brightness in his chest, he feels warm all over, and when Cas rests a broad hand on Dean’s low back and says, “It’s good to be here,” Dean’s throat is so tight that all he can do is nod.
They maintain contact while they eat (Cas’ thigh lies warm and solid against Dean’s), while they tuck Lily into bed so her parents can have a minute to themselves (Dean lifting Lily onto his shoulders and Cas lacing his fingers through Dean’s belt loops on the way up the stairs). After they’ve sung Lily songs and given her and Mr. Bear kisses, they join Sam and Sarah in the living room for drinks. Dean slings his arm around Cas’ shoulders on the couch, and Cas rests his on Dean’s knee, and it’s so perfect that Dean can almost believe it’s real. Sam beams at them like the giant dork that he is and Sarah winks.
They talk about this and that: Sam’s latest research project at the NYU library and Sarah’s latest gallery exposition. Cas rambles on about his students this semester; Sam and Cas go on a long academic tear, before they eventually come back around to Dean and how badly Sarah wants him to do an exhibit in the autumn.
Later that night, Dean and Cas curl into bed like a foregone conclusion, like an inevitability. They slot together like puzzle pieces, Cas pulling Dean into his chest, tracing sigils gently against his back. Dean falls asleep with the sound of Cas’ heartbeat loud and steady beneath his ear.
*
The next morning, after Lily wakes them by leaping onto their bed, and Cas staggers to the kitchen and gulps down three cups of coffee, Dean grabs Sam, ostensibly to go finalize things with a florist and pick up Sammy’s tux from the tailor. They leave Cas making pancakes and Lily showing Sarah a picture book.
“So,” Dean leads once he’s behind the wheel of the Impala, “last chance to make a break for it.”
“Dean,” Sam scoffs.
Dean grins and shrugs, “Just sayin’ you, me, the open road, this is your last chance, you just say the word and we’ll be on the highway to back to bachelordom.”
“You’re not funny, jerk.”
“I’m fucking hilarious, bitch.”
Dean drums his fingers on the wheel.
“You happy, Sammy?”
Sam’s smile is almost radiant, takes ten years off his face, “Yeah, Dean, I am.”
“That’s really good, man.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?” Dean rebuffs.
“Are you happy?”
Dean grips the wheel and thinks about his house in the mountains. Thinks about Cas’ hair sticking up in every direction when he’s grading papers, thinks about the vegetables that Cas will plant out back and Dean will turn into stews and jams, and the flowers that will line the front walk come spring, thinks of the summer sun on Cas’ shoulder, and the smile on his face, sleepy and ruffled first thing in the morning, he thinks of the weight of Cas’ fingers and the warmth of his gaze. He thinks of making dinner and curling up with Cas in his bed, their bed, every night, waking up with him every morning. He thinks that might be what happiness looks like.
Dean sniffs, “Gettin’ there.”
“You know it’s funny,” Sam says, looking out the window.
“What?” Dean answers, turning in to the florist’s.
“You offering to run out before the wedding,” Sam replies as Dean parks, “like I’d leave Sarah any more than you’d ever leave Cas.”
Sam gets out of the car before Dean can say a word.
*
Neither Sarah nor Sam wanted a bachelor/bachelorette party—“we have a mortgage, Dean, a daughter; a night of drunken debauchery isn’t really necessary”—the compromise had been a pre-wedding dinner party with friends and family, most of whom have arrived from out of town by this point. Sarah’s artsy friends from the city and Sam’s research colleagues are present, so are some married friends that they’ve met through Lily’s preschool class. Sarah’s family lives mostly along the East Coast, so they’ll be driving in for the actual ceremony tomorrow, but the Winchester family has arrived in all of its beautiful, mismatched glory. Jody is having an animated chat with Donna and a couple of Sam’s friends, while Alex and Claire seem to be making several art students highly uncomfortable. Krissy and Aiden are still en route, but Josephine is over in the corner flirting with Kevin Tran, and Mrs. Tran is having a lengthy conversation with Sam. Garth and his wife are mingling with the preschool crowd, and Dean is making the rounds, hugging his people, and getting to know Sam’s new friends, but he never, not once, loses sight of Cas, loses awareness of him. Cas looks absolutely gorgeous, more so even than usual. He’s dressed up for the occasion in shades of blue and grey and white, a tie and waistcoat. Dean can’t help but notice the way that it frames Cas’ torso, lending him an air of trimness and professorial elegance, making Dean feel hot around the collar. He’s sure Cas can feel the weight of his gaze; he glances over every so often, unerringly meeting Dean’s eyes, and giving him a small, secret smile
Dean is grabbing another glass of champagne when he runs into Daniel Blake. How is it that he every time Dean runs into the asshat, he’s holding a glass of champagne? At least Scrooge McDuck is footing the bill and this time Dean’s got a legit invitation to the shindig that’s serving the free drinks.
“Dean,” Daniel greets.
“Daniel,” Dean returns.
The older man’s mouth purses, probably expecting Dean to call him “Mr. Blake.” Dean smirks into his champagne glass.
“Funny how we always seem to meet like this.”
“Hilarious.”
They share a moment of awkward silence, while the party continues around them.
“I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Daniel Blake’s face is a snide rictus; Dean feels a strong desire to annoy the shit out of him just for the hell of it.
“I could say the same to you. Sammy’s quite the catch.”
Daniel opens his mouth, but gets distracted by something to Dean’s immediate left. A warm hand comes to rest against Dean’s low back and Cas is there suddenly, as if drawn by a preternatural sense that Dean was about to get himself into trouble.
Cas smiles politely, “You must be Sarah’s father. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you are…?”
“This is Cas,” Dean offers, standing up straighter, wrapping his free arm around Cas’ shoulders, “Castiel.”
“Winchester,” Cas finishes, and a flush of pleasure darts through Dean’s sternum, “Dean’s partner,” Cas’ hand wraps almost possessively around Dean’s waist and he squeezes, eyes issuing a strange sort of challenge, spine and shoulders straight.
Daniel Blake’s eyes almost pop out of his head, and it takes all Dean’s self-control to keep from busting out laughing.
“Oh,” Daniel responds, “and how long have you been together?”
Dean looks at Cas, who unerringly answers, “Over ten years now, isn’t that right, Dean?”
Dean smirks, pulls Cas tighter to his side, “Twelve, babe.”
“Of course,” Cas replies, as if he didn’t know down to the second when he first laid a hand upon Dean’s shoulder and dragged him up out of hell, changing his life in the process, “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Blake.”
Dean pulls a face, but Daniel either ignores or doesn’t notice it, caught up by Cas’ whole warrior of god meets protective spouse combo.
“Some of it good, I hope,” he jokes, “I’m sorry that I can’t say the same about you.”
A tiny smile ticks in the corner of Cas’ mouth, “Sarah and Sam speak very highly of you.”
Cas squeezes Dean’s side, a warning that actually tickles, and forces Dean to mask his laugh as a cough.
“Cas is a professor,” Dean says with the same tone of voice he’d use to say “he’s an angel of the freaking lord” or “he’s my best friend” or “he’s a nerdy little dude”: equal parts exasperated, impressed and fond as fuck, “Linguistics and Physics. He’s a genius.”
“Dean, please,” Cas says, cheeks faintly pink.
“Just proud of you, babe,” Dean says, rubbing his hand gently between Cas’ shoulder blades. Cas represses a shiver and leans into the pressure, “Cas and Sammy are a regular brain trust between the two of them.”
Daniel’s eyes are fairly popping out of his skull
“Dean,” Cas’ thumb rubs a circle against Dean’s side, making him wish there were fewer layers separating them, “is being modest. He’s actually quite an accomplished engineer and metalworker. He’s had several offers to exhibit his work both from Sarah and other artists locally and internationally.”
“I had no idea.”
Castiel turns suddenly serious, all wrathful celestial fury wrapped up in blue eyes and a waistcoat, “How could you when you seek to judge someone based on an impression made over a decade ago under trying circumstances. Dean,” Cas continues, “and Sam are both incredibly gifted and honorable men. It is a privilege to be a part of their family and I am certain that Sarah feels the same.”
It is now apparently Dean’s turn to stare at Cas with wide-eyed wonder.
Daniel gapes at them, flabbergasted, lost for words, Cas as good as slapped him upside the head.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Cas continues, “my husband’s run out of champagne.”
“What…what he said,” Dean agrees as Cas steers them away.
*
“Dude,” Dean says when they’re back in their bedroom, stripping off of his suit jacket, “you were awesome.”
Cas grins, unbuttoning his waistcoat, “Thank you, Dean.”
“No, but seriously, man,” Dean continues, shrugging out of his shirt and kicking off of his shoes, “you almost gave Sarah’s dad an aneurysm, it was great.”
Cas huffs a laugh and unbuttons his shirt, laying it neatly on the dresser, “We both almost gave Sarah’s father an aneurysm, though thankfully only almost. I don’t think Sarah would appreciate her father’s hospitalization on the eve of her wedding.”
Dean snorts a laugh, stepping out of his pants, kicking them into a corner, and pulling back the down comforter; it feels like heaven sliding into bed. Cas looks at the bed and then over at the duffle bag, clearly debating the pros and cons of putting on pajamas.
“Ugh, Cas, c’mon,” Dean groans, throwing the blankets down on Cas’ side of the bed and making grabby hands in his direction.
“You’re drunk.”
“A little,” he agrees, it’s been a long time since he’s had anything to drink, the free champagne has him feeling fizzy and floaty and warm, “c’mon, Cas, come t’bed.”
Cas shakes his head fondly, rolls his eyes.
“We haven’t even brushed out teeth,” he grumbles, crawling beneath the covers, Dean immediately sidles closer, like a moth to a flame, drawn to Cas’ warmth, all of Cas’ skin. Cas pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, as Dean wraps himself around Cas’ torso, slots a leg between his thighs.
“’s okay,” Dean mumbles, patting Cas’ arm.
Cas’ broad palms rub up and down Dean’s back, along his arm from shoulder to wrist, “Is it?”
“Yeah,” Dean hums: Cas smells nice, smells like Cas, like home. He rubs his nose against Cas’ bare chest, and Cas’ breath hitches, his hands still for a moment before resuming their ministrations.
“’s not practice,” Dean mumbles into Cas’ skin, “don’t need any practice, y’r ‘ready perfect.”
“What?”
“’practice makes pefect, y’know?” Dean’s eyes are screwed up tight, and his lips brush Cas’ skin with every word, “’don’t need practice, y’re ‘ready perfect, just wanted to be close t’you. Always wanna be close t’you.”
“Dean,” Cas’ voice sounds rough or maybe it’s just that Dean is drunk and tired and close to sleep. God knows he’d never have the balls to say this shit sober. His eyes burn and he’s beyond the point of giving a shit about how needy he sounds, how stupid. He feels warm and safe in this nest with Cas, soft blankets and firm skin and warmth all around. This is his last night like this, last night with Cas like this, it feels like his heart might be breaking.
“’s okay, Cas,” Dean says, “don’t have t’say anything, jus’ go t’sleep.”
He feels Cas sigh, feels fingers card through his hair.
“Goodnight, Dean,” he hears. He thinks that Cas might press his lips to Dean’s head but he’s too far gone to be sure.
*
Dean wakes the next morning before Cas with a killer hangover and far too clear a memory of his confession the night before. His cheeks burn, his head pounds, but he somehow manages to extricate himself from Cas’ arms without waking him. He swallows hard, looking down at Cas: his sleep mussed hair, his morning stubble, the way that the pillows have left creases pressed into the skin of his cheeks. His time’s run out, he thinks, he had his six weeks, six awesome fucking weeks where touching Cas had become second nature, as natural as breathing, lighting him up from the inside, warm and golden. It’s over now, this is the last of it. He will have to content himself with what he has, let go of stupid wishes for things that are beyond his reach, beyond his grasp. He carefully pulls the blanket up to Cas’ chin, gently runs his fingers through Cas’ hair, course and thick, and before he can stop himself, because this is his last chance, he presses a kiss, just the gentlest brush of his lips, against Cas forehead.
Downstairs, he runs into Sarah and volunteers to make a run to the local bakery to pick up pastries for Sarah’s family and coffee for the bride and groom to be. Sarah gives him a heartfelt thanks. Sam is out running to burn off his nervous energy. Dean takes Sam’s minivan and Lily with him; the kid is beyond excited for the day’s festivities, chattering away happily from her booster seat in the back.
Lily has Sarah’s dark hair and grey eyes and is cute as a freaking button. Her chatter reminds Dean of Sam at her age, inquisitive and insistent.
“—and mama’s gonna let me wear flowers in my hair, like a fairy,” she smiles brightly.
Dean sets aside his personal feelings about fairies for the sake of his niece, “That’s really cool, Lils.”
“Can I be a flower girl?” she asks, and Dean frowns in confusion.
“You’re already the flower girl, munchkin.”
Lily rolls her eyes in exasperation, “I know that. I mean when you and Uncle Cas get married.”
Dean very nearly slams on the breaks, coughing hard enough that he has to pound on his chest.
“You are gonna get married, right?”
Dean, still sputtering attempts to figure out what to say: “Your Uncle Cas and I are just pretending to be married to appease your asshat of a grandfather and even though I would fucking love to marry Cas, I’m pretty sure that’s not something that he wants,” doesn’t seem like the appropriate response for his four year old niece.
“I don’t know, Lils,” he says gently.
Lily frowns at him, the ferocity of her gaze is physically palpable.
“You should,” she pronounces, “You love each other.”
Dean swallows hard and thanks god that they’ve pulled into the bakery, “You want a cookie, Lily?”
*
Dean somehow, almost miraculously, manages to avoid Cas for most of the morning. It helps that they’ve been assigned a myriad of pre-wedding duties. They pass Sam off between them like a relay race baton: Cas’ brand of soothing brotherly stoicism and dry humor making way for Dean’s affability and teasing charm. Sam needs both of his brothers today. The kid is a nervous wreck. Dean knows it’s not the wedding itself: Sam loves Sarah, loves their daughter, is happy and ready for their life together to be cemented and celebrated publicly. Hell, you can’t prep for a wedding with Sam’s degree of single-minded, kind of obsessed attention to detail, if it’s something you don’t actually want to go through with. Wedding planning has become a close second to arcane facts about serial killers in terms of minutiae that Sam has acquired and stored in his giant brain. Dean has mockingly suggested on more than one occasion over the past seven months that Sam should quit his day job and go into the wedding planning industry, god knows he’d make a killing.
No, Sam’s worried about the same thing he was worried about the first time he got together with Sarah. He’s worried that he’s an epic harbinger of doom; the human equivalent of smashing a hundred mirrors on Friday the thirteenth, destined to bring nothing but bad luck to the people he loves. Dean gets that. He gets that intimately. You don’t go through the shit that they’ve been through, seen the things they’ve seen, without developing this kind of emotional baggage, and, frankly, a pretty rational fear for your loved ones. Dean was there when Sam lost Jess, when he lost Madison, when he lost Amelia, when they lost their mother and their father, Bobby, Cas, Ellen, Jo, the list goes on and on and on. It’s normal for Sam to feel that weight today, but Dean takes it as his brotherly duty to keep his mind off of it. Keep him focused on the good shit. To remind him that the people they’ve lost would be happy for him, proud of him, would have wanted this for him. That he loves Sarah and Lily and that he’s making a family just like he always wanted. That he’s lucky as fuck to be marrying a girl like Sarah, that Bobby would have called him an idjit twenty times over for getting cold feet. That mom woulda loved those girls like her own. Something he says must strike a chord because eventually Sam is smiling, at the very least looks less manic.
Dean gets the kid pressed and dressed and at the front of the church in one piece and on time. Hell, he’s even grinning.
The ceremony is beautiful. Lily is the cutest damn flower girl there’s ever been. Sam gets weepy the second the Wedding March plays and stays that way throughout. Sarah is radiant in dove gray silk, and her father nods at Sam and Dean almost respectfully when he walks her down the aisle. Lily sits with Cas during the ceremony and it’s a kick to the gut every time Dean looks over at the two of them. Dean does not cry when Sam and Sarah say their vows. He doesn’t. Sammy ordered too many damn flowers, the pollen is irritating his sinuses and his eyes. Cas catches his gaze while Dean rubs at them obliquely, and he smiles soft and kind, which somehow makes the burning worse.
It seems like no time at all before Sam and Sarah are kissing and everyone is clapping and cheering, and then the happy couple, their beautiful baby girl, and the rest of the wedding party and family (Dean and Cas included) are being swept off for photos and then shuttled to the reception. They’re all wearing real smiles, Dean claps Sam on the shoulder no fewer than five times telling him “I’m proud of you, man”. He hugs Sarah tight, lifting her off the ground, “Gonna be the best brother you ever had,” he promises her.
By accident or design (ie Dean being an avoidant asshole), Dean doesn’t find himself alone with Cas once during the whole lead up to the reception. He thinks he’s being subtle about it, but Dean is also not really a master of stealth despite what he might like to believe to the contrary. Physically dragging people into the conversation or ducking out of situations when he finds himself near Cas is effective but doesn’t go unnoticed.
He’s not surprised when Cas finally catches him in the atrium of the art museum that’s hosting the reception.
Cas’ long fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist, warm and grounding, keeping him from running away again.
“We need to talk.”
Well, that’s fucking auspicious. Exactly what he wants to hear. Shit. He can actually feel his body go into fight or flight response, adrenaline floods his bloodstream, his skin erupts in goosebumps, he breaks into a cold sweat. It’s only Cas’ grip that keeps him from running for the hills. His pure, unadulterated panic must show on his face because Cas quickly places his other hand on Dean’s shoulder, grounding him.
“Breathe, Dean,” he says, slow and gentle, “Breathe with me.”
Dean does, and, while he starts to get a handle on his heart-rate, Cas steers them off the main hall into something that looks like a coat room, away from the crowds of wedding guests.
“Just get it over with,” Dean says, once they’re alone, “No hard feelings, man, just, like a Band-Aid, Cas, just rip it off.”
Cas stares at Dean with a frown. The “I have no idea what the ever loving fuck you’re talking about” frown. Cas deploys that one less and less as the years go by, it’s become an only for special occasions facial expression rather than an everyday occurrence, nevertheless, it’s immediately distinguishable from all of his other frowns including the “Dean, I despise you frown” which Dean has never actually seen, ever, but believes exists, and was bracing himself for while he was hyperventilating not five seconds ago.
“Dean,” Cas begins slowly and carefully, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, though I assume it has something to do with what you said last night.”
“About that…Cas, I’m—”
Cas’ grip tightens considerably, urgently, no longer grounding Dean but himself.
“Dean, please,” Cas starts and his voice is warm and sure, “don’t apologize. Not unless you truly want to.”
Dean blinks at Cas, confused. He’s pretty sure he’s wearing his closest approximation of Cas’ “I have no idea what the ever loving fuck you’re talking about” face.
“Dean, I was foolish,” he begins carefully, “I thought that you knew that I would welcome any form of…closeness between us.”
Dean blinks again, “What?”
Cas lets out a deep breath, almost a sigh, “Do you remember when I Fell?”
“’Course I do.” It’s not exactly something that he could forget.
“Do you remember what I said to you?”
Dean recalls Cas’ face, ashen and weary, but broken by a hesitant smile, staggering out of those woods. Dean was so relieved to see him that he almost dropped Sam, still sick from the trials, but miraculously alive, as they staggered to the car.
Once he managed to secure a semi-conscious Sam in the back seat, he’d run over to Cas with his heart beating fast and a knot in his stomach, half afraid that Cas was a hallucination brought on by stress and exhaustion.
“Thought you were beaming back up to the mothership.”
“Naomi and I were able to stop Metatron,” Cas said, “We closed the Gates of Heaven.”
“Then why are you still here?” Dean growled, confused, relieved, angry at being relieved, afraid, hopeful.
Cas looked down at his hands, he opened and closed them, watching carefully the movement of bone and tendon, “I used my grace…to seal off heaven, I used my grace.”
Dean felt like he’d been hit by a truck, “So you’re—”
“Human,” Cas’ mouth twisted into a smile, “yes.”
“Why the hell would you do that?!” he’d demanded.
Cas had laid a hand on Dean’s arm, and Dean felt all of the fight bleed out of him.
“It was my choice, Dean,” he had said, eyes boring into Dean’s, searching his face, “I chose this, to close the Gates, yes, but to live a human life. To be with you.”
Dean had worked his jaw, at a loss, before he pulled Cas into a hug.
“Fucking stupid decision, Cas,” he’d muttered into his trench-coat clad shoulder.
“I disagree,” Cas had replied with his hand resting on Dean’s back.
In the present, Cas watches Dean, waiting for him to put the pieces together.
“When you said you fell “to be with you”, you meant ‘you’ like me ‘you’, like you wanted to be with me.”
Dean feels like he tripped going down a flight of stairs, like he sat up too quickly after getting tossed around by a werewolf, light headed with a drop in his stomach.
Castiel smiles at him, “I always want to be with you, Dean.”
Dean rubs a hand over his face, he can’t blame flowers for the prickling in his eyes.
“I’m privileged to have built a life with you, and I am content to be with you in whatever way you’ll have me,” he continues as he slides his hand down, laces his fingers through Dean’s and squeezes, “You shouldn’t feel guilty for enjoying this new closeness, Dean, I…I was happy to have the opportunity to touch you, to be near you—”
“Cas,” Dean starts, voice scratchy, Cas’ eyes look over bright, his gaze so focused, so intent.
“—I share the desire to be always close to you,” Cas continues, “You are perfect, Dean, to me, you are worth falling for,” Cas smiles almost wry, “in every sense of the phrase.”
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says.
He reaches a hand cradles Cas’ jaw, feels the faint hint of stubble, the warmth and roughness, he uses his thumb to brush away a tear, and Cas sighs, “I—”
A knock sounds on the door and they both jump, Sam’s voice rings loud and clear, “Sorry to interrupt, guys, but we’re getting ready to go in.”
Dean rolls his eyes and shouts “Be right there!”
Cas brings their joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to Dean’s knuckles, maintaining eye contact the whole time, “We’ll finish this later,” he promises, and Dean struggles to repress a shiver.
To say that Dean feels like he’s walking on air would be something of an understatement. It’s almost like he’s floating as he enters the gallery and takes his place as the table. He feels like a love song brought to life, like a sonnet, like a cheesy dollar store romance novel, like he’s flying. He feels fucking alight with happiness, besotted. It’s ridiculous. Between Cas’ bright smile and warm hands on one side, and Sam beaming like a dork on the other, Dean is in a feedback loop of joy. It’s actually the most surreal thing that’s he’s experienced in a life filled with surreal shit.
When it comes time to make his Best Man Speech, he’s almost forgotten that he even needed to give one.
He squeezes Cas’ fingers and lets go, ruffles Sam’s hair, winks at Lily and Sarah, and stands.
“The first time I met Sarah,” he says to the room at large, “I told my brother he should marry her. I’m glad to see that he took my advice for once.”
Everyone chuckles appreciatively.
“Now, for those of you who don’t know,” he continues, “Sammy and Sarah met for the first time almost fifteen years ago. They were just a couple of kids. Just out of college, trying to figure themselves out. They had chemistry, sure, but the timing wasn’t right. They both agreed on that and they went their separate ways.
“They did a lot of growing in those years apart. They had successes and they had hard losses,” he nods at them both, pauses a minute to allow space for the dead, sees Sam and Sarah take each other’s hands, “More than any person should have in their lifetime.
“That Sarah and Sam ran into each other a few years ago, that we find ourselves here today, some people would call that fate, say that it was meant to be,” he grins, “I wouldn’t. Sammy and me, our whole family really,” he smiles at his brother and Cas, “we don’t put much in stock with destiny and fate, we believe in making your own future.
“Sam and Sarah aren’t here, standing up in front of you, building a life together, ‘cause their ending was already written out for them, or because some arbitrary force decided that it was meant to happen. They’re here because they saw something in one another that was worth loving, worth holding on to, worth all the struggle and all the work because they make each other better,” he glances over at Cas and meets his gaze unerringly, “make each other happy. It takes a brave person, to see something in someone else, to take a chance on that person, to believe in them, build a life together. It’s the bravest thing that you can do.
Cas smiles at him and Dean smiles back before he turns back to his brother and new sister, “I’m proud of you both, for taking that chance on one another, for going on that adventure together. I hope it’s the best one you’ve ever had.”
He raises his glass, “To Sam and Sarah.”
“To Sam and Sarah!”
Sam hugs Dean, Dean hugs Sarah, and everyone is a little weepy. When Dean sits down, Cas immediately pulls him into a hug, which Dean returns, and Dean presses their mouths together, for the first time, right there, in front of everyone.
“Practice?” Cas asks, dazedly, fondly.
Dean shakes his head, rubs his thumbs along Cas’ cheekbones, “You’re already perfect,” he says and leans in again.
*
They reception is a blast. Cas twirls Lily around and around as many times as she wants. Sarah and Sam are incandescent, glowing with joy. When Dean congratulates Sarah, she leans close and congratulates him back: “I’m happy for you and Cas. I couldn’t ask for better brothers.”
Sam assures Dean that he and Cas getting together for real is “The best wedding present you could have given me.”
Dean rolls his eyes, “Glad I spent three months making that canopy bed, then.”
Sam and Sarah slow dance with Lily sandwiched between them. Dean and Cas dance, first with Lily between them, then with just the two of them, flush together from head to toe, rocking to the cadence of the music.
Dean spies Daniel Blake and Sam talking in a corner at some point, he doesn’t know what gets said, but it ends with tacit smiles and a hand shake between them, so Dean has to concede that Sam’s plan was a success. Looking at Cas’ flushed, smiling face, he has to admit that it was a success in more than one way.
Dean dances with Jody and with Donna, with Krissy and Claire. Alex maintains that she would rather “gouge out my own eyes with a wooden stake” than dance, but he catches her later twirling (or being twirled by) Josephine. The Trans come to chat with him and Cas, and Dean is not ashamed to admit that he shows Cas off to literally every single one of Sarah’s relatives.
Before too long, the last song is played, the guests leave, Sam and Sarah bid farewell to everyone, but lastly to their daughter, Dean and Cas.
“We’ll take good care of her,” Cas promises.
“You two crazy kids just enjoy yourselves,” Dean encourages, “Make sure to go on some adventures outside of the bedroom.”
Sam and Cas roll their eyes in perfect synchronicity.
*
They get Lily out of her flower girl dress and into her pajamas. They tuck her carefully into bed.
Dean showers in Sam and Sarah’s master bath, and Cas showers in the guest bath, and they meet in their bed wearing flannel pajamas and soft smiles. Cas leans over, takes Dean’s face in his hands, looking at him so closely, so lovingly, as if he were memorizing every detail, before closing the distance between them and kissing him.
Cas’ kiss is like honey, slow and sweet. He tastes of peppermint toothpaste and smells like shampoo. He’s warm and beautiful and here, and Dean feels Cas’ presence like a steady pulse, radiating from every point they touch through his body and down deep into the core of him.
“Cas,” Dean whispers, almost whimpers, as Cas kisses him deeper, pulls him closer, wraps around him like a climbing vine, “Cas.”
“Yes, Dean,” Cas smiles.
“I want it to be real.”
“What?”
“Will you marry me?”
Cas pulls back, startled enough that it’s almost comical.
“I don’t mean like Sam and Sarah did,” he adds quickly, “I don’t want all the muss and fuss and caterers and shit, I just,” he picks at the edge of his t-shirt, “I just want it to be you and me. Don’t want it to be a lie anymore. I’d be proud to be your husband.”
“Dean,” Cas’ eyes crinkle at the edges, the best kind of smile, “Of course. I already…I mean, we are bound, you and I…I would gladly promise myself to you.”
It’s so cheesy, it’s so sincere, that Dean can’t help but lean forward and kiss him, over and over and over again, until his lips are sore, until he’s breathless, until he’s memorized the shape of Cas lips, the line of his jaw, the slope of his neck.
“Marry me, Cas?”
“Of course. Of course.”
They make love together that night for the first time in the darkness of Sam and Sarah’s guest room. They couldn’t call it anything else. It's tender and slow, something that had built between them for years, like magnets pulled inevitably towards one another. Afterwards they lay entwined, kissing languidly, and fall asleep so close together that it’s impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.
*
Dean and Cas marry two weeks later. In the quiet morning, they walk out into their garden. It’s just starting to show signs of life, everything a soft, quiet green with the promise of fresh starts.
They stand barefoot in the damp earth, facing one another. They take each other’s hands, their only witness is the other, the birds and the plants and the sun. It’s all Dean needs, truly.
“Castiel,” Dean begins, “I promise to always have your back, no matter what. To trust you. To love you. To do by right by you. To be faithful. I promise to be with you and to love you. Always. Will you have me?”
Cas smiles, “I will.”
Dean slips a ring onto Cas’ finger, simple and silver, it catches the early morning light. Dean kisses Cas knuckles.
Cas wipes at his eyes and smiles, “Dean Winchester, I promise to be true to you. To protect you. To stand by you. To have faith in you, always. I vow to love you with all that I am. Always. Will you have me as your husband?”
Dean has to clear his throat before he can get the words out, “Hell yes I will.”
Cas beams at him, slides a ring onto Dean’s finger, places a kiss to the inside of Dean’s palm.
They search each other’s eyes, hold each other’s hands.
“Married,” Dean says.
“Married,” Cas agrees.
“Does this mean I can kiss the—?”
Cas doesn’t let him finish the question, he swoops in and claims Dean’s lips with his own. He dips him down into the kiss, as if Dean were an old time starlet. When they come back up, laughing, Dean lifts Cas up and kisses him again, soundly, spinning him around.
By they time they come back to earth, they’re breathless, and laughing, and Dean rests their foreheads together, breathing the same air, staring at Cas' blue, blue eyes, rubbing their noses together.
“Now what?” he asks.
“Now,” Cas grins, “we go on our honeymoon.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“There’s a restaurant fifty miles north that specializes in pie, I thought we might make it our first stop.”
“I fucking love you.”
“I know,” Cas grins cheekily, “It’s why you married me.”
*
They hit the highway for the first time as husband and husband, holding hands, with a radio station that Cas chose playing power ballads on the radio, and “Just Married” written in the back window of the Impala in Dean’s scrawl.