Dean Winchester is stupidly attractive, and Castiel is stupidly attracted to him. It’s a fact of life. It’s a fact of life, just how sometimes Dean needs to use his day off to drive the two hours out to his favorite shooting range in the middle of nowhere and not talk to anyone for the whole day. (He always sends him and Sam at least one picture of his targets, though – perfect clusters of holes showing off his scarily-accurate marksmanship.) He takes another shot of amaretto (courtesy of Gabriel, of course) and then instantly remembers why he doesn’t like it. It’s like drinking soap. Sugary soap, but cheap public bathroom soap nonetheless. “What, reaching your limit already?” Dean asks, nudging his ribs with his mandala-elbow and slightly slurring. Cas nails him with one of his patented Skeptical Looks™ and Dean laughs, hands up in defeat. “Yeah, okay. What was that, anyways?” Dean plucks the shot glass (which says KRAKÓW, POLSKA proudly on the side) out of his hand with a little less of his usual grace than normal, wipes at the inside with his index finger, then licks it. Pretty pornographically. At this point, though, Cas is mostly glad that Dean didn’t try to lick the glass itself, because then he would have had A Problem of the I’m going to pin you against a wall and make you scream variety. Dean then makes this face like a cat who just got offered a lemon and washes down the amaretto-taste with what smells suspiciously like Everclear. “Jesus christ,” he mutters, then turns towards the kitchen, where Sam seems to either be dying, laughing, crying, or all three. “Dude, Gabriel, how the fuck did you find alcohol that’s pure sugar?” There’s a part of him furiously cataloguing the way Dean slips more and more southern the drunker he gets, drops the pre-nasal short-a raising and doesn’t so much break his front vowels as smash them with a hammer. Gabriel then twirls out from the kitchen, wearing a ridiculous fake mustache and those tacky New Year’s party glasses that have the year on them, and waggles his eyebrows. He must be much more drunk than he’d originally assessed, because the next thing he knows, he’s doubled over laughing and nearly drops the shot glass. Dean actually falls into a chair laughing, wiping at his eyes, and Sam stumbles out of the kitchen, looks at Gabriel again, then goes into another fit of laughter complete with stomach-clutching. Cas pours himself a shot of the Everclear that Dean had helped himself to earlier because, well, why not? He doesn’t get too many chances to show off his really pretty spectacular tolerance, and the look of disbelief on Sam’s face is so worth it, even though he slides from drunk to hammered in a matter of three minutes after that. By the time the ball is dropping on TV, all four of them are one hundred percent past the point of smashed and when the new year hits, Dean yells loud enough to deafen him, and then he laughs himself to goddamn tears when Sam actually goes and kisses Gabriel. On the mouth. Full-on. He’s bent over laughing and he can’t breathe because this is legitimately the funniest thing he has ever witnessed in his entire life and then Dean is laughing with him, deep and loud, one arm draped across his shoulders and head thrown back. Cas fights back the urge to kiss him with every last tiny drop of sobriety he can muster. Somehow they end up playing poker and Cas finds himself winning (again) but he’s not really sure what’s going on, because things are hazy and everything is so stupidly funny and Dean’s watch beeps that holy shit, it’s three in the morning and Sam stumbles sort of towards the bathroom area after letting his cards drop to the floor and Gabriel just laughs and chucks a poker chip after him. Dean has this dreamlike smile on his face and it looks like he’s zoning out, staring at a spot right behind Cas’s head or something. It’s such a soft, unusual smile, and Cas can’t help but reach out and clumsily touch his fingers to Dean’s cheek. It’s warm, soft, covered in stubble. Gabriel starts laughing and that sets him off laughing and then Dean is laughing at Cas laughing at Gabriel and wow, they’re going to be really fucked in the morning. Apparently another thirty minutes pass (somehow, some-fucking-how, and Cas is still cognizant enough to revel proudly at how versatile the word ‘fuck’ is in the English language – the only infixable thing there is, how fucking cool is that?) and Gabriel decides to actually go looking for Sam, because things have been suspiciously quiet from the direction that he’d disappeared in. Cas peeks over Gabriel’s shoulder as he opens his bedroom door, only to find Sam sprawled magnificently over the  bed, still in all of his clothes and snoring. Dean giggles – giggles – but Gabriel just bounces his eyebrows, drops his pants to the floor, and kicks the bedroom door closed. Cas hears an indignant hey! through the door and attempts to walk away rolling his eyes, but somehow a wall ends up in his way. Dean’s in the living room, looking like he’s attempting to open the sofa bed, and Cas freaks out for a second before realizing that Dean’s not crying, he’s laughing so hard that he’s gone silent. Cas just walks up and shoves him over and then it just gets worse because Dean starts rolling around, clutching at his stomach and giggling like a fucking maniac. “If you don’t move, I’ll open the bed on you,” Cas says, as sternly as someone can say anything while slurring horribly. That sobers Dean up (or, at least, makes him stop laughing) because he actually gets up and helps clumsily make the bed and by the time they’ve managed to wrestle the sheets on, Cas has been way too close to Dean way too many times. He stumbles towards the light switch, laughing self-deprecatingly to himself, and when he turns the lights off (holy fuck, that’s dark), Dean’s voice cuts through the blackness. “You bastard,” he says, and Cas isn’t sure if it sounds so loud because it’s dark or because it’s night or because they’re both way, way too drunk. “Quieter,” he hisses back, and it sounds so absurd that he starts laughing quietly again and then Dean’s laughing and they’re lurching towards each other and Cas is reaching out because he needs this, he needs to be touching Dean so badly it hurts and then Dean’s chest is against his with an almost-inaudible huff, one hand curling helplessly into his shirt and he can feel Dean laughing. They’re clutching at each other like teenagers in the dark and Cas keeps pulling Dean forward and Dean keeps walking forward, the idiot– Dean makes this quiet, surprised noise when he bangs against the side of the sofa bed and then Cas is sprawled next to him, tangled up in limbs he’s really got no right to be touching – Dean’s knee is almost awkwardly jabbing into his thigh and his side is so warm against Cas’s. His hand is splayed across Dean’s hips somehow, one of his fingertips is accidentally touching Dean’s skin where his shirt’s ridden up, digging possessively into the soft give of his flesh. “We’re gonna be so hungover,” Dean chuckles giddily at the ceiling. Cas can feel every syllable vibrating through the hand that he’s still got on Dean’s stomach and then fuck it, his decision-making circuits are fucking fried right now. “Dean?” “Yeah?” He can feel the arm Dean has behind him shift slightly and then throws everything to the wind. He kicks a leg over Dean and slides over him and oh, oh, this is all he ever wanted – Dean’s body warm and pliant and solid against his and his fingers are skittering up Dean’s chest, wanting to learn everything there is to know, bumping over a shirt-clad collarbone, ghosting up a stubbly cheek, and Cas can’t help but nose along Dean’s neck. Dean’s pulse is halfway between sluggish and skyrocketing and he murmurs Dean again because that’s all he can muster, with the way Dean’s chest is heaving, the way his hand is molding itself to the curve of Cas’s cheek. But. But. Even through the haze of alcohol, Cas can see the walls that Dean is struggling to keep up and he knows that whatever is going on in Dean’s brain is important, so he files away everything he can for parsing tomorrow and makes sure to tread very, very carefully. In the meantime, he focuses on the way Dean’s arching up into him and he pushes himself even closer, wraps a much-too-possessive hand around the back of Dean’s neck and well, okay, that’s Dean’s jaw under his mouth and then a hand is in his hair, pulling him back just far enough for Dean to run a thumb along his bottom lip and holy shit, holy actual fuck, Cas doesn’t think he’s ever done anything this stupidly, ridiculously intimate. “I–” Dean licks his lips and swallows and no, no, Cas isn’t gonna kiss him. “I can’t–” And yeah, okay, there it is. Confirmation of his suspicions. Dean’s always been the type to not allow himself the things he wants. If it wasn’t evident from the stories he’s shared, it’s obvious from the way he acts. Cas quietly files away the knowledge that this is maybe something that could potentially be A Thing in some possible future, and presses his too-warm cheek against Dean’s. “You are insufferable,” he breathes, and lets himself roll off to the side. If Dean has inhibitions of any kind, it’ll be much easier for him to take a couple of steps back. Cas is pretty amazed that his brain can process all of this. He’s away from Dean for less than a full second before Dean’s arms are wrapping around him again and he’s struggling to stay conscious but Dean is so pliant and warm that in a matter of seconds, he’s gone.

Dean yawns and runs through a mental list of groceries. Some kind of meat (steak, maybe? or just a beef roast, he’s definitely feeling beef), the stuff that Cas needs to make that awesome rice he makes, pie, beer – there’s probably more but fuck it, he’ll write it all down tomorrow. Cas pulls the covers tighter over himself and Dean mentally rolls his eyes because even after nearly seven years, it’s still really fucking irritating that Cas is the biggest cover hog on the planet. He cracks an eye open to watch the moonlight dance through Cas’s hair and tightens the arm around him. He’s so fucking glad it’s the weekend. It means he’ll finally be able to spend some more time sanding down and staining the planks they’re gonna put up as bookshelves in the library-slash-living-room (it’ll get done this weekend, for sure) and Cas’ll probably be able to finish laying down the hardwood (especially if Sam and Gabe come over to help) and then they’ll fucking finally have a useable living room. Not that it wasn’t liveable before (for a cheap fixer-upper house, it was in really good condition, used and creaky in all the right ways) but if they’re gonna be in this house for– And then he sits bolt upright, because he is a grade-A moron. Cas makes an annoyed I Was Almost Asleep noise and buries his face even deeper in the pillow. “Cas,” he whispers, and his voice breaks, heart racing, nerves high-strung and adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Cas, look at me.” He heaves a sigh and sits up, covers bunching around his shoulders and eyes bleary; Dean can see the LET ME SLEEP, I TAUGHT A LECTURE AT 8AM THIS MORNING flashing above his head. “What, Dean,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and irritation and holy shit, Dean really loves this guy. He blurts it out, zero forethought, zero planning. “Marry me.” He watches all of the sleep disappear from Cas’s face, mouth falling silently open. And then he realizes (again) that he’s a total idiot because-- “Yes.” --because nothing else matters except for Cas pressing their foreheads together, because he said yes and holy shit, Cas wants to marry him. Cas wants to marry him. He’s ninety percent sure he’s having some kind of out-of-body experience as Cas strokes lightly across his cheek, floating, fucking elated, and then Dean’s fumbling with the ring on his right hand and pressing it into Cas’s palm. “I–” He swallows. “I mean, I don’t really... I wasn’t thinking, uh, and I don’t have a ring. But that was my mom’s.” He can feel Cas slipping it onto his hand, flexing his fingers. “And I want you to have it. Well, I mean– Uh, if you want.” The look on Cas’s face says everything. “We’ll need to get it resized,” Cas murmurs. “It’s a little loose. Dean, I love you.” And Dean can’t do anything else but take Cas’s face between his hands and kiss him and fall in love all over again as they push so close against each other that he’s really not sure where Dean ends and Castiel begins. “Dean?” Cas’s voice is small, a little muffled from under his chin, unusually unsure. “Yeah?” “I think...” Cas pauses for a second. “Well, it-- I’d like to take your name.”

It’s pretty warm for a Memorial Day weekend – warm enough for Cas to be out in one of his rumpled Led Zeppelin t-shirts, and god, Dean really loves it when Cas wears his clothes.

And okay fine, Dean also loves it when Cas wears his t-shirts because then Cas gets to show off some of his tattoos. You know, the ones that were done by some really incredibly awesome amazing handsome charming talented dashing gentlemanly artist who works down at that Physical Graffitea place. Point is, he really loves the way Cas looks in the stupid, faded Led Zeppelin shirt Dean’s had since he was twenty, two thick, black bands around his forearm in plain sight, frowning at the grocery list over by the bakery area. Dean remembers he’s supposed to be picking out some steak, and reluctantly turns his attention back to the rows and rows of meat in front of him. Fuck it – he’s feeling generous, so it’ll be filet mignon for everyone. Well, that and whatever Ellen decides to bring over. Cas cocks an eyebrow at him when he puts the three trays down in their cart. “I’ve left the decision-making as far as the pie goes up to you,” he says, and Dean grins. “Thanks, honey.” And because he’s feeling a little (okay, a lot) sappy today he leans forward against Cas’s back and sneaks in a kiss, right along his jaw. Cas hums in satisfaction. “We still need to get a few more things,” he says, and fine, Dean can wait the extra twenty minutes until they get home to act like a giant kitten. It’s not entirely his fault that he’s sort of madly, stupidly in love. Dean is staring down the row of Rice-A-Roni, Cas’s fingers slipping absently in between his as he marks off everything they’ve put in the cart already, when he hears the single most jarring combination of words ever, of all time. “Professor Winchester!” He jumps and turns at the same time Cas does to find a tall, scrawny dude with glasses grinning at them and wearing a shirt that, bafflingly, says ‘colorless green ideas sleep furiously.’ Yeah, he is so gonna Google that as soon as he gets home. “Alfie,” says Cas, amused, and glances at Dean. “I don’t believe you’ve met my husband?” Dean automatically extends his hand and introduces himself; he can’t help squeezing Cas’s hand tighter because even though it’s been close to half a year since they got hitched, Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever stop getting that dumb fluttering feeling in his stomach at the word ‘husband.’ Huh. Professor Winchester. Yeah, he can dig it. --- Later, Dean spends nearly two hours trudging through Wikipedia and the dregs of the academic internet, which culminates in asking Cas why this syntax stuff is that bad, man, I mean this X-bar stuff makes a lot of sense, you know? Cas threatens to make him sleep on the couch.

(Dean convinces him otherwise.)

See, Dean knows that Cas is really stressed and scrambling to balance grading stuff and doing classwork, and that’s why he’s going way out of his way to bring him his favorite kind of coffee. That’s the only reason.

Wooing Cas? Please. He wouldn’t do something as dorky as woo the guy who’s somehow become his best friend in the past few months. Regardless, he knows Cas has office hours right now because he’s gotten a stream of half-coherent texts from him. The poor guy’s been running on a grand total of maybe ten hours of sleep since Sunday, so yeah, Dean’s taking pity on him and bringing him some coffee. No wooing involved. At all. Cas Milton >> Im >> On top of y stole irk for neo >> School work for now >> Schoolwork. V >> Trying to grade in between helping students and not falling all seep. >> I apologize for the misspellings I. Am very tired Dean snorts and puts his phone back in his pocket before heading up the stairwell to Cas’s floor. Thank god Gabriel put four shots of espresso into the way-too-sweet coffee sitting in his hand. He nearly runs face-first into Zachariah when he walks into the hall proper, but unfortunately manages to not spill any coffee on him. “Ah,” says Zachariah, looking at him with a nice mix of disgust and forced politeness, “Dean. A pleasure to see you again.” Dean just shoots him a tight smile, doesn’t even bother articulating a reply. This fucker seriously gives new meaning to the phrase “magnificently pompous asshole.” One day, he swears he’s gonna introduce Gabriel to him. Now that would be a sight to see. Cas’s door is ajar and he’s about to knock when it’s pulled open from the inside and he’s greeted with a very nice female backside, cute skirt and prim blouse and long, wavy brown hair. “–should definitely get dinner some time,” she’s saying, leaning against the doorframe, hips curving out, and Dean clears his throat because he refuses to be the asshole who creeps on someone from behind. Cas’s tired eyes focus on him (and shit, he looks like he’s about thirty seconds from collapsing), and then his whole face lights up at the sight of coffee. Yeah, okay, fine. Dean brought the coffee just to see that face. The girl turns to look at Dean, and she’s pretty like whoa. Seems nice, too, and Dean is torn between really hoping that he’s not being a cockblock right now and wanting Cas to not ever get laid, ever, because he’s a selfish, jealous bastard. Cas moves forward. “I appreciate your offer, Connie,” he says, voice wrecked from lack of sleep, “but I have to decline. My schedule is a little overwhelming.” Dean’s surprised – not a lot of people would turn down a chick like this – but he gives him mad props for the gentle letdown. “Oh, okay.” She smiles at him anyways, then glances at Dean again. “Well, I’ll get out of your way, then. Good luck with grading.” “Thank you,” Cas says, and smiles back at her wearily. The girl – Connie? – smiles politely at Dean and heads out of the office. “Goddamn, Cas, you look like you’re gonna fall apart at the seams,” Dean chuckles. “Coffee?” Cas snatches it out of his hand with a grateful look and their fingers brush; Cas’s fingertips are icy-cold. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, after draining the coffee in nearly one go, and the gratitude in his face is clear. “So she seemed cool,” Dean continues with a wry grin, tilting his head in the direction that Connie disappeared. “Why not go on the date?” Inexplicably, Cas frowns. He looks like he’s contemplating something, eyes skittering to look at everything but Dean, and he’s about to apologize when Cas sets down the almost-empty cup and moves past him to nudge the door closed with his foot. Dean turns with him, eyebrows furrowed, waiting for something to start making sense. “Dean, I’m gay,” he says, deadly serious and shifting nervously and looking like he expects Dean to start freaking out. “Oh.” Dean shrugs. “That’s cool. So’m I.” Cas’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Well, okay, technically not gay. Sammy says my label–” He sneers because he fucking hates the whole label yourself into a fucking corner thing. “–is pansexual, but I like to think of it as I’m everyone’s type.” He grins lewdly at Cas and gives him a wink for good measure and oh, good, Cas doesn’t look like he’s panicking any more.

“Thanks for telling me,” he adds, much more seriously, because even though he’s much less shy than Cas is, he knows exactly how nerve-wracking and generally shitty it can get to tell someone you’re not straight. It’s Cas’s turn for a quiet oh. And just like that, the tension in the room fucking explodes. Dean is acutely aware of the fact that the door is closed behind them and Cas is – shit, Cas is less than a foot from him and his face is tired but his eyes are bright and Dean watches his mouth part slowly, sinfully, and he’s literally half a second away from either kissing him or dying from a sexual-tension-induced heart attack when a huge yawn wracks Cas’s whole body and the moment, or whatever the fuck it was, is over. Oh, yeah. Dean is so screwed. “C’mon, I’m getting you to the nearest bed, ASAP,” he says gruffly, and holds out Cas’s coat towards him. “Cas. Ground control to Major Cas?” He shakes the coat for emphasis; Cas just stifles a yawn and grabs it weakly. Dean rolls his eyes and starts neatly stacking up the papers on his desk. “Those too,” Cas mumbles, and gestures vaguely to another pile. “I still need to grade...” He considers, for a moment. “upwards of fifty exams. And I have two papers to finish.” “You can’t do any of that without sleep,” Dean fires back. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Cas actually falls asleep while grading something on his knee.

The TV is on in the background, low and quiet, and a rerun of The Dark Knight is playing. Dean’s got the rubric for Cas’s multiple-choice part on one side of his coffee mug and the exams on the other and he’s got most of them graded for him when he notices that Cas has stopped writing and his breathing is a little too deep. He smiles in spite of himself (he’ll never admit that it’s adorable) and gently eases the pen out of his hand. “Cas,” he says, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Cas.” Cas jumps slightly under his palm and looks at Dean, eyes all bleary and sleepy, then leans back against the couch. “I think I’ll take a nap,” he croaks out, and then proceeds to lie down behind Dean’s back, head pillowed on one armrest and thigh framing him on the other side. Dean closes his eyes and takes three deep, steadying breaths, then determinedly goes back to grading the multiple choice. Cas is warm against his back and close, so close, but he’s not going to think about it because Cas is passionate and intelligent and beautiful and kind and everything he’s not, everything he could never have and could never deserve. It’s just another one of the things Dean’s going to have to deal with, and he will deal with it. He’s got no idea why Cas wants his friendship but he does want it, and Dean is never, ever going to take that for granted.

It's a little astounding, how often Dean has to repeat this to himself.

Gabriel passes him a glass of eggnog while Dean’s got his back turned and winks; Sam takes a sip and score, this one’s got alcohol in it.

“Thanks,” he mouths, and Gabe grins back. Anna snares him into a conversation about So What Are You Majoring In and Dean rolls his eyes at that, exits stage left to go drape an arm over Cas’s shoulders. How cute. Dean’s excitedly talking about the Stairway to Heaven record, handling it like it’s pure gold and walking over to Gabe’s record player and practically freakin’ glowing, but best part of it is Cas – he’s got this serene smile on his face, like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing than listening to Dean ramble on about Led Zeppelin. The conversation starts drifting out of focus and Dean and Cas rejoin him and Anna and Balthazar, eventually, and Sam is totally not buzzed or anything. Gabriel goes into the kitchen (presumably) to get more drinks, but when he comes back, he’s got a hand closed around something. Sam frowns wordlessly at him and tilts his head. “C’mere for a second, Sam,” he says, and his voice is a little too casual. Sam sets down his eggnog on the coffee table and follows him away from the rest and into the hallway. His stomach lurches because this is definitely odd behavior for him; Gabe’s not meeting his eyes and he’s shifting his weight an awful lot and oh, wow, the gold in his hazel eyes is really standing out right now. The confusion must be showing on his face, because Gabriel smiles (a little nervously, weird, weird) and starts talking without prompt. “So I’ve got, uh, a bit of an unorthodox Christmas present for you,” he says, and Sam’s mind flies to absolutely the worst and most Gabriel-ish things he can think of. “Unorthodox as in–” Gabe rolls his eyes. “Relax, nothing like that. Gimme your hand.” Sam holds it out obediently and goosebumps fly all the way up his arm when Gabriel gently turns it palm-up, presses something hard but flesh-warmed into his palm, and closes his fingers on it. “Just– it just makes sense, you know?” he says softly, and Gabriel is never at a loss for words but he’s still got a hand cupped around Sam’s fist and he really doesn’t want to open his hand if it means losing that contact. His fingers uncurl slowly to show a spotless, generic brass key sitting in his palm. “Gabe, this–” He swallows and he can’t breathe, it’s like being punched in the stomach and there’s a flood of adrenaline in his chest. “Is this what I think it is?” Gabriel’s fingers are moving gently across the side of his palm, nearly distracting him from the answer. “Yeah, well, can’t have you sneaking in here like a criminal all the time, can I?” he responds, mouth quirking up in half a smile. “But I’m serious, Sam, you’re always welcome here.” God, he’s so overwhelmed. Gabriel’s hair is drenched with the smell of cinnamon and coffee beans and flour when he buries his face in it, and Gabe sighs into his collarbone. It’s been a couple of weeks since Sam had his Big Realization that there’s liking Gabriel and then there’s liking Gabriel and he’s been hyper-aware of himself ever since then, but he allows himself this, lets his palms press flat and needy against the solid span of Gabe’s back. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and he knows his voice is shaky. Gabe leans back just enough to gently tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and his fingers are slightly calloused, warm against his cheek, and then he’s leaning forward and– “Gabriel!” calls Anna from the kitchen, laughing, “when were you going to tell us you made marzipan?”

It’s eight days into winter break, and Cas can feel his brain comfortably turning to mush. The most intellectually strenuous thing he’s done so far is make a mental list of groceries (which included a lot of conveniently Christmas-themed sugary stuff) and he’s spent the rest of his time between Gabriel’s and Dean’s sides of Physical Graffitea, either eavesdropping or eliciting data or talking to Dean or Sam or Jo or Ash or (as a last resort) Gabriel.

He sets his mug down within easy reach on the end table and pulls up Netflix’s obnoxiously red screen, then makes it to Play Sherlock: Series 1: Episode 1 before his phone beeps at him. Gabriel Milton >> Taking Sam to the dollar theatre. All-night Terminator marathon, fuck yeah! See you tomorrow, loser. Sleep tight. Or get Dean to sleep with you ;) << Don’t be lewd. Have fun. He pushes his phone to the farthest end of the couch and turns back to Sherlock. A couple of people had recommended it to him, but what had actually pushed him into watching it was catching two of his undergrad kids arguing loudly over something called a johnlock, which had led to a very red-faced conversation about the unique and honestly intriguing register used by fanfiction authors. He’s nowhere near brave (or bored) enough to go looking up homoerotic fanfiction about Sherlock Holmes, but the register they’d described had been both more baffling and more robust than he’d expected. In the end, he suggested it as a topic for one of their later essays. Never has he ever seen two people more excited to write a paper. All in all, though, he’d plowed through all of the canonical Holmes novels as a kid, and this is supposedly a good ‘modern twist’ on the classics. We’ll see, he thinks, and presses play. Two minutes in and color him curious, this looks like it’ll be really good. At least, until there’s a quiet knock on the door. Cas pauses the episode barely five minutes in and warily opens his door to find– “Hello, Dean,” he says, eyebrows furrowed, because Dean looks utterly defeated on his doorstep, snow dusting his hat and scarf and even his goddamn eyelashes while the wind slowly howls itself into a blizzard past the sheltered porch of Gabriel’s house. “Hey, Cas,” he says quietly, then stomps slush off of his feet and edges past him into the foyer, drops his bag unceremoniously on the floor, kneels down to unlace his boots and half-heartedly toes them off. Dean makes to move past him but Cas catches him with a hand on his shoulder; Dean gives way under him and turns until they’re face-to-face. “Dean,” he repeats, “what’s wrong?” Because something is definitely wrong. Obviously, just like any person, Dean has his days where he’s ‘bitchy for no reason’ (as Sam puts it) but this feels like more. He looks worn and tired in a way he never does and it’s obvious that he came straight from work, not even bothering to go home or get anything to eat. Dean sags under his hand and his face is drawn tight, eyes hollow. “Bad day at work?” Dean tries, corner of his mouth twitching up, and Cas sighs. “Go sit down,” he says, and pushes Dean towards the couch. “I’m going to make you something warm. You didn’t eat, did you?” Dean shrugs sheepishly. By the time he gets back to the living room with a hot mug of cider and a plate of leftovers, Dean’s shoulders have loosened up a bit. He’s still wearing his (snowed-on) jacket and scarf, staring down at his hands. “Up,” he says, and when Dean looks up at him like he doesn’t understand, Cas first runs a mental check – yes, that was English – then sets down the makeshift dinner and hauls Dean up by his bicep. “Up. You’re making a wet spot.” “Oh,” says Dean, obviously yanked out of deep thought, “shit.” Dean goes to hang up his jacket and scarf in the coat closet; Cas sits down on the couch and tries his best not to fiddle. He’s not good at taking care of people – not the way Dean is, not by a long shot – but he’s still willing to do his damn best. Dean isn’t the type to talk about his problems or to need comforting, but Cas knows that leaving an open door for that kind of thing is never a bad idea. He watches as Dean starts on the fried rice and orange chicken with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm, but he’s not going to say anything – he flips through his notebook instead, takes another look at one of the data sets that’s been stumping him. “I was tattooing someone today,” Dean says slowly, after three minutes of companionable silence. Cas closes his notebook. “Last appointment of the day.” Dean’s fiddling with his fingers, rubbing them together and then against his palms, like he’s trying to get something off of his hands. “And?” Cas prompts quietly. Dean refuses to meet his eyes. “Getting tattooed hurts, Cas. It does. There’s nothin’ you can do about it, either. It’s just a part of the process. Different places hurt more, too. It’s gonna hurt less here–” He pats his thigh and god, the way his stupid fucking thighs look in jeans. Cas bites his tongue. “–than it’s gonna hurt here.” Dean’s hand moves up to the side of his ribcage and underarm. “This girl, it wasn’t her first tattoo or anything, but I was doing a piece on her side, and–” Dean closes his eyes; Cas can see his throat working as he tries to swallow. “She’d warned me she’s got a low pain tolerance but Cas, I hurt this girl.” He finally makes eyes contact and all of the air leaves Cas’s lungs, because Dean looks devastated. “Dean–” “She cried, Cas. I hurt her that bad. I–” Dean exhales, at a loss for words, and just looks at him like a kicked puppy. “You make art for a living,” Cas finally says, “and that’s something incredible. You said it yourself, that any tattoo is going to hurt. These people ask for it, Dean. They want you to make them beautiful, and they’re willing to deal with the pain. It’s not your fault, because you’re giving them exactly what they want.” He puts a hand on Dean’s knee before he realizes what he’s doing and Dean looks down at it, surprise flaring across his features, before looking back up.

It's heartbreaking.

Dean Winchester is an incredible person. He's an amazing artist and he's charismatic and good with people and he's kind and he's polite when he wants to be -- and he's only ever exactly himself, no faking for others' benefit -- he's unbelievably loyal and compassionate and caring and this, right here, convinces Cas that Dean must be some kind of angel, because only an angel would be this legitimately upset over hurting someone. It takes a great amount of humanity to not just brush this off as 'oh, that girl was a wuss and she cried' and to instead be so upset about having potentially hurt her.

Castiel is so, so far gone for him. “Thanks,” Dean says quietly, and the hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. Cas feels his chest flooding with warmth and no, that’s not supposed to happen. He’s not supposed to have unfortunately profound feelings for his closest friend. “It’s weird, you know,” he mumbles, “you kinda always know what I need to hear.” “I’d like to think I know you fairly well,” he says back, feeling a smile tugging at his mouth, and Dean is not supposed to be looking at him like that. He’s also not supposed to be somehow really, really close, close enough to where their arms are pressed together and he’s still got a hand on Dean’s thigh, shit, and he’s literally five inches away from kissing him when Dean sighs and breaks eye contact, leans forward instead to finish up the rapidly-cooling leftovers. Good going, Cas.

Gabe can hear the bells on the door chiming even over the hiss of the milk steamer, and yep, it’s just past three, so that’s got to be Dean.

“Two-pumps-chocolate extra-whip extra-caramel double caramel macchiato for Sasha,” he calls out, and winks at the blushing, adorably awkward, still-growing-into-her-limbs highschooler who picks it up. “Have a good one, kiddo.” He grabs a rag and runs it quickly across the counter, then heads over to where Dean is leaning over the register on his elbows, arms crossed and looking like he’s greatly overthinking something. “Wow, what crawled up your ass and died today?” he asks, already grabbing a cup for his large-coffee-black-no-sugar. Actually, he’ll sneak a shot of espresso in there. Dean’s definitely still jetlagged from California, even though he’s already had two nights to sleep it off. “Shut up,” Dean fires back, with no venom. Gabriel hands him his coffee and he takes a long drink, probably scalding his tongue in the process. “I hate people, you know that?” “It’s a wonder you ever became a successful businessman,” Gabe mutters. Dean is charismatic as all hell and good-looking to boot, sociable and great with people when he wants to be, but he so rarely wants to deal with people that the whole point is practically made moot. Gabriel loves him anyways, every stubborn damn inch of him. “Yeah, well, fuck you, too.” “Seriously, though,” he pushes, “somethin’s up, Deano. Sam’s not here to make a big deal out of everything, so spill.” Dean, hilariously, looks like he’s on the verge of panic at the thought of – god forbid – talking about his feelings. “Don’t you have customers to take care of?” he tries, eyebrows knit. “All taken care of, for now,” Gabe replies, spreading his hands and throwing on one of the grins he knows Dean can’t resist and yep, there it is -- Dean sighs and rolls his eyes at him. “Look, it’s not a big deal,” he says through gritted teeth, which means that oh yes, it is. “There’s this person I know, okay? And it’d be cool to be--” Dean stops dead and looks like he’s scrambling for works. “--friends.” He pauses to take another pointedly long drink of coffee, and Gabe is sorely regretting not having any whiskey and cream on him because Dean is way easier to coax shit out of when he’s had something to drink. “So? Go talk to said person,” Gabe says, shrugging, and gets a BitchFace™ in return. “Nice omission of gender pronoun, by the way.” “What?” “C’mon, you don’t spend most of your life around friggin’ Castiel without being forced to pick up linguistics jargon,” he snorts. “C’mon, dish. That’s not the whole story.” “I hate you so much,” Dean mutters, and drains the last of his coffee. “Fine. I kinda have a– a thing for said person. Smokin’ hot, we get along well, yadda yadda.” “So?” Gabe snorts. “I don’t see the problem here. You’ve never had an issue picking up a chick or a dude for a fling.” “Yeah, well,” Dean mumbles, swirling the dregs of his coffee, “what if I don’t want a fling? And, I mean, like–” Dean sighs, frustrated. Oh boy, thinks Gabe, the floodgates are open and he’s gonna have to do a lot of reading between the lines. “It’s useless to... I don’t know, feel the way I do. Uh, about them. This person is a– they work at the university, Gabe. Like, college degree and everything, and I don’t get why someone with an actual education would want anything to do with a loser who didn’t even properly finish high school.” Gabriel’s caught between two reactions. Firstly, glee. Oh yeah, Dean’s got it really fuckin’ bad for Cas, and it’s adorable. Almost as adorable as the fact that Cas also has it really fuckin’ bad for Dean. Being around them is like watching a terrible soap opera. Secondly, anger. Dean is also the most infuriatingly self-deprecating person Gabriel has ever met, which is completely fucking unfair. He’s charming and charismatic and ridiculously talented, on top of being intelligent and loyal and caring in ways that would blow most peoples’ minds. Option two wins out. “Why the hell is it so hard for you to get past all of the superficial horsehit you’ve wrapped yourself up in?” he snaps, a little more sharply than he’d intended. Well, someone needs to be the big brother to Dean. “I’ve known you for four years now, Dean. I watched you come here, half-drowned and barely keeping it together, and go from what you were in New Orleans–” Dean flinches and okay, that was a little insensitive. “–to being an incredible artist, a phenomenal businessman, a great friend, a– a–” He’s so worked up now that he barely registers the look of shock on Dean’s face in his scramble to find the right thing to say. “–one day, kid, you’re gonna march right up and kiss the shit out of him, or I’ll castrate you. You’re worth a hell of a lot more than what you give yourself credit for, and everyone else knows it.” Dean’s staring like he’s never really seen him before. “Get outta here,” he finally sighs, and flaps a hand at him. “Go home. Actually, no. Drag Castiel’s ass out of the house, because I’m pretty sure he’s been marathoning that ghost hunters show for the past 16 hours straight.” Dean adjusts his bag and blinks a couple of times, then looks down and smiles to himself, very small and very quiet. It’s not often that he’s actually struck speechless, but Gabe thinks it’s a pretty damn good look on him. “Shoo,” he repeats, and grins. “I’m pickin’ up Sam, so go and do something with the rest of your day.” “Yeah.” Dean shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “Uh, yeah. See you later, then.” He puts a hand on the door, stops, and then turns around. “Hey Gabe?” “Uh-huh?” “I never said it was a him,” Dean says, brow furrowed.

He just smirks back and winks at him because oh, man, that’s just tragic. He honestly can’t tell that everyone else in the whole fuckin’ world know he’s got the hots for Cas. Gabe pauses to actually rub his hands together in glee before helping the couple who just walked in. This is the greatest trainwreck ever. Sam Winchester >> Dude your bro just came in here to pine over Cas. Seriously I’m gonna win this bet might as well pay up now << Ha, keep dreaming. Dinner tonight? >> Hell yes :) Cassie >> Hey do me a favor. When you see Dean find a way to tell him how much he means to you << What on earth are you implying? >> Oh nothing. But really you know how he gets and he was feeling kinda crappy when he left work or something. You’re his best friend so do the best friend thing and tell him just how awesome he is << Oh. << He just messaged me. Evidently we’re going out to do something exciting. >> Cool cool. I was gonna grab some food with Sam when I’m off anyways. Have fun on your date ;) << Gabriel, for the last time, Dean and I are not dating. Making jokes about it will not magically make it so. >> Yeah ok whatever you say << I hate you. >> I know << That was a Star Wars joke. I understood that reference. Sam Winchester >> Dude seriously pay up. Cas just got a star wars reference << ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS

“Shit.” Dean looks up and half of Cas’s palm is smeared with red and he’s just sort of staring detachedly at it. “Dude,” he says. “Kitchen. Now.” Gabe rolls his eyes and sits down on the now-folded couch, then turns the TV on. “You know this couch is a death trap, Castiel,” he calls after them. “How many times has it hurt you, now?” “Oh, shut up,” Cas calls back, and sticks his hand under the tap while Dean fights his way through the pantry to a dusty, slightly yellowed box of assorted band-aids. There’s only the huge ones left, which is kind of a good thing since it turns out that Cas managed to slice the side of his hand open from the base of his pinkie all the way to his wrist. He manages to neatly put the band-aid over the cut without doing anything inappropriate like fondling Cas’s beautiful, beautiful fingers. Cas opens his mouth to say something and he’s interrupted, strangely, by the doorbell. Dean frowns. It can’t be Sam because that fucker’s got a house key, so it’s either Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses. Gabriel beats both of them to the door, proceeds to open it, and then stares. Dean’s still trying to get the edges of the band-aid to stick, so his fingers get caught in an iron grip when Cas’s fingers curl stiffly into a fist. “Hello, Gabriel.” Dean doesn’t know which one said it. There’s two guys standing on the porch outside, both in dark, handsome suits. One of them is slightly taller, a little leaner, and the other is more stocky, but they’ve both got messy sandy-blond hair and terrifyingly piercing blue eyes. “Castiel,” says the shorter one, and nods slightly. “I see you still haven’t changed your sinful habits.” His eyes flick towards Dean and whoa, something really fucking sketchy is going on here. Who the fuck says sinful? “Dean,” says Gabriel, eyes never leaving the doorway, “these are my brothers, Michael and Lucifer.” If Gabe’s voice wasn’t the most deadly he’s ever heard it, Dean would probably be laughing at the fact that Gabriel has a brother named after the Devil. As it were, Dean is floored because he’s only heard Gabe talk about his family maybe three times, and he’s never mentioned his brothers by name. He knows, though, that they’re responsible for the fact that Gabe isn’t living on the posh family estate. “We have family matters to discuss,” says... Michael? Lucifer? Fuck if he knows, but he’s on the receiving end of both of their pointed stares. The slightly taller brother flicks his eyes down to look at where Dean is still holding Cas’ injured hand between both of his. It’s totally just some self-indulgent extra touching that Dean’s allowed himself, but Cas isn’t doing anything to pull away, even after that snide comment Gabe’s other brother made. Which – if Dean’s interpreting it correctly – that’s beyond fucked up. He can feel Cas’s piano fingers shaking slightly against his hand. “Then discuss them,” Cas says, voice pitched low and dangerous. He turns to face Gabriel’s brothers in the doorway and gently pulls his hand out from between Dean’s, leaving just enough space between them to where their shoulders are almost brushing. “Father is dead,” says– fuck it, the taller one is going to be Michael. Zero inflection, zero emotion. He sneaks a glance at Cas to see that he’s tensed up even more, mouth a hard line and eyebrows knit. He can’t see Gabe’s face but if his shoulders are any indication, he’s not taking this news too well, either. “Send my condolences,” says Gabriel coldly. “You can leave now.” “Still no manners,” muses Lucifer. “What a pity. And you, Castiel. I’m ashamed, truly.” “You should be,” Dean interrupts. “Turning up with that kind of news, but you can’t resist calling your own cousin sinful.” Gabe’s fingers tighten on the doorframe and Cas’ hand just barely brushes against Dean’s. Tiny gestures from both of them, but Dean’s gotten way too good at reading their body language. “Dean,” Cas whispers. It’s more an exhale than anything else, meant just for his ears. There’s a warning there and Dean knows it, but he’s not about to let some stranger turn up on their doorstep and tell Cas that he’s living his life wrong. “You misunderstand me,” Lucifer says, with a cold smile like he’s fantasizing a dozen different ways to kill Dean. “Castiel has made lifestyle choices that are damning. We have prayed for him to find the true path during our time apart, but clearly he has not.” That’s when Dean decides he’s had enough. Whatever the hell is going on in this family, they’re treating Gabe and Cas like shit, and Dean’s not going to stand for that. He takes a step forward, putting himself between Cas and the two brothers. “Your sinful cousin teaches classes as a TA at an Ivy League school. You know that? He helps people, and it’s not just because it’s a job. You really think that someone’s success is dismissible just because they’re not perfect little soldiers? Or because, god forbid, they’re gonna fall in love with someone?” Both of the brothers just keep watching him like he’s an interesting specimen, something to be considered but ultimately disregarded. “I know what it says in your book, but I just can’t get behind a god who looks at someone who’s this caring and compassionate, and says ‘you’re wrong’.” Lucifer and Michael both sneer in unison, lips curling in that one way that makes Dean want to strangle something. “If you want to defend something unnatural then by all means, be my guest,” says Michael. “Dean, Castiel,” says Gabe, finally turning away from his brothers, “I need a word.” He follows Gabe and Cas through the hallway to the garage door, where they can’t be overheard. Oh yeah, he was way out of line with that. One one hand, whatever’s going on is obviously A Milton Family Issue but on the other hand, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he hadn’t said something. “I’m gonna go home,” Dean says immediately, and starts fishing his jacket out of the coat closet. “I shouldn’t have said that. You guys obviously need time to talk to them.” “Dean,” Cas murmurs, fingers curling around his bicep, “thank you for what you said.” Dean just sort of stares at him, jacket halfway on, and refuses to let his body close the distance between them even though Cas looks like he desperately needs it. “I wish we didn’t have to do this,” says Gabe quietly, looking tired and defeated in a way Dean hasn’t seen in a long, long time. “They’re...” He shakes his head and squeezes the bridge of his nose. It’s so un-Gabriel-like for him to be so helpless that Dean decides to do something very uncharacteristic in turn, and he leans forward to kiss the top of Gabe’s head. “Come over when you’re done,” he says, “and good luck.” Cas’s big huge stupid fucking eyes are wide and staring at him and his hair is all mussed and Dean leans forward and kisses his forehead, too, hand curling around the back of his neck, because it feels natural and like the right thing to do. Cas’s fingers tighten like steel bands around his arm. “Thank you, Dean.” Gabe practically whispers it. They turn to go, and so does Dean, but then he stops. “Gabriel,” he calls quietly. Gabe turns back to face him, and there is so much sadness in his eyes that Dean almost says fuck it and stays. No matter what those men in the doorway might mean to him, someone died and Dean can see that Gabe is feeling it, and feeling it hard. “I’m sorry about your father.” Gabe gives him a tiny nod and Dean thinks he sees his shoulders straighten, just a little. When he and Cas head back down the hallway, Dean’s whole heart clenches for them. They deserve the best family, and the got the worst kind instead. Actually, he thinks as he cuts through the garage and into the driveway, that’s not true. Gabe and Cas do have the best family. They’ve got him and Sam and Ellen and Jo and Ash, and damn if they don’t take care of each other. If there’s one thing Dean knows how to do, it’s family. --- He manages to catch Sam right as his last lecture ends and detours him back to their apartment, and he has to actually physically restrain his sasquatch of a brother to stop him from storming out the door to Gabriel’s place. It’s close to two in the morning when Gabe and Cas knock on their door, looking beat to hell. Dean’s really glad that he let Jo and Ash know earlier that he’s gonna be in late tomorrow, because there’s no way he isn’t sleeping in. Sam jerks awake from where he’d been drooling over homework on the kitchen table and immediately ushers Gabe into his room – gross, he better not hear anything – which leaves Cas standing, slouched, between the living room and the kitchen. “Cas?” Dean asks carefully. “You want a coffee or somethin’?” “I–” Cas looks lost. “I don’t know.” Dean moves in close and puts a hand on his shoulder; Cas is shaking, ever so slightly. “I think I just want to sleep,” he mumbles. “Yeah,” Dean says dumbly, “yeah. Okay.” He heads for their linen closet for the extra blanket and pillow but Cas intercepts him on the way back with a hand on his forearm. “I’d–” he starts, moving way too close, and then pauses. Dean’s never seen Cas so flighty, at such a complete loss for what to do. “May I sleep in your room?” His voice is absolutely tiny and he refuses to meet Dean’s eyes. “‘Course you can, Cas,” he replies softly, clamping down on and locking away the flood of adrenaline in his stomach. This isn’t a night for giggling like a teenager over sharing a bed, this is a night for comforting his best friend who is, obviously, very far from okay. (On a side note, Dean is ridiculously glad he’d changed his sheets in the morning. Not only is sleeping in clean sheets is fuckin’ bliss, but this means his bed is gonna smell like Cas. Hell to the yes.) Cas is still wearing his coat and his shoes because he and Gabe came over empty-handed save for phone-keys-wallet, so Dean customarily offers him a clean shirt that he’s definitely not going to sleep in like a creeper the following night. He lets Cas change in his room and have a few moments to himself, and heads to the bathroom. His fucking conch has been acting up ever since he accidentally snagged it on his bag a few days ago, so he juggles a saline soak between massaging his earlobes with jojoba oil and makes a mental note to have Jo check up on it again tomorrow. He’ll have to shave tomorrow too, probably, unless he’s gonna go for the lazy-stubble-beard thing, but Gabe says it makes him look like a hobo. Yeah, he’ll probably shave. He shimmies out of his jeans, kicks them towards the corner of the bathroom (for which Sam’s inevitably gonna yell at him tomorrow), takes a piss, and washes his face. By the time he’s done, the door to his room is cracked open and it looks like only his desk lamp is on. Dean clears his throat and knocks quietly, then pushes his door open to find Cas sitting on the edge of his bed, slouched over with an elbow on his knee, cradling his head in a hand. He looks awfully small in Dean’s shirt, hunched over like that, and Dean carefully sits down next to him. It’s like a sad mock-up of that night Cas came over after Anna and Balthazar were dicks but this is so, so different. Cas is wearing his turmoil like a blanket, draped heavy around his shoulders and weighing him down like a thousand pounds. It hurts to see him like this. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks quietly, and, for the record, those are five words he totally never said. “No,” Cas mumbles back, then slumps against his side and takes a shaky breath. “Not right now.” Dean’s arm is up and around Cas’s lean shoulders, automatic, exactly the way he used to do it when Sam was little. “Okay,” Dean murmurs, rubbing a slow circle into Cas’s back. He’s still trembling, breaths still uneven. “Go to sleep, Cas.” He’s expecting Cas to pull away and worm himself under the covers any minute now, but he just turns to press his forehead into Dean’s neck. Cas’s hand slides its way onto his knee and Dean lets him sit here and ground himself, lets Cas use him as an anchor because he sure as hell knows how it feels to have the proverbial rug ripped out from under his feet. After a few minutes’ silence, Cas reaches over and finds his left hand, turns it palm-up. Dean glances down at the mess of dark hair tucked into his shoulder. “So it goes,” Cas whispers, and gently presses his fingers against Dean’s forearm, right on Vonnegut’s portrait. Dean has never before in his life wanted to kiss a person more than in that moment. He doesn’t, though, because that’s probably the last thing Cas needs right now, so instead Dean just squeezes his shoulder and feels him take a deep breath before sitting up straight. His side feels so empty without Cas’s warmth and Dean’s probably staring way too much as he follows Cas’s movements with his eyes, watches him curl into a miserable ball under the comforter. He runs a hand down his face and gets up to turn off the desk light, then waits a couple of heartbeats for his eyes to adjust before moving back to his bed as quietly as possible. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure how to handle this. It’s sure as hell not the first time they’ve crashed on the same bed, but this is something new. Gabe likes to tease him for being a mother hen, but that’s not exactly it. Dean just knows how to take care of people. He’s good at it. It’s easy to put all of his hang-ups on hold and tuck away all of his problems and make someone else feel better. He spent his entire childhood (his entire life, actually) taking care of Sam and he knows exactly what Sam would want in this situation, like what happened that one time in Tennessee – Sam had been twelve at the time, and on their way back from school, they’d found a golden retriever that had been hit by a car. Sam had wordlessly crawled into his bed that night and Dean just put an arm around him, hummed ‘Hey Jude’ until he fell asleep. Cas reaches out to him the second Dean’s head hits the pillow; Dean loops an arm across his shoulders and lets Cas wrap an arm around his ribs much too tightly to be comfortable. He can feel Cas’s breaths making a warm spot near the collar of his shirt and okay, good, he’s stopped shaking. Dean exhales and shifts to get more comfortable as Cas buries himself close and he runs his hand up and down the length of Cas’s back a couple of times, slow and steady, then cards his fingers through Cas’s hair (it’s as short as Sam’s used to be those eight years ago, huh) until the hand fisted tightly in the back of his shirt relaxes and Cas’s breaths get slow and even.

  ---

  He wakes up at some ungodly hour (definitely before 6:30) with two problems. One: He has to pee, and he has to pee now. Two: A raging case of morning wood. Both of these are compounded by the fact that he’d somehow rolled onto his back in the middle of the night, so now Cas is draped across his front and dead to the world. One of Dean’s arms is still on his back, right over his lungs, and he can feel the rise and fall of his breaths. All of this would be really nice if Cas’s hip wasn’t currently fucking digging into his bladder and, by extension, if he wasn’t dangerously close to (read: on top of) his boner. Dean grits his teeth and slowly, painfully extracts himself out from under Cas’s limp limbs. A bleary glance at the clock on his way to the bathroom shows that yeah, it’s just past six, and Dean is so fucking glad he can just go back to sleep after getting rid of The Problems. Really, all it takes is a good long visualization of Bobby in a speedo before he’s crawling back under the covers with Cas, and fuck is it ever cold in the apartment. Cas is like a goddamn space heater and no one’s gonna notice if Dean gently levers himself back under Cas, right? Right. Dean’s asleep within seconds to the gentle rhythm of Cas’s breaths, one arm curved a little too protectively around his back.

  ---

  The next time he wakes up, it’s to Cas croaking out his name and shaking a shoulder. He opens his eyes and holy hell, Cas is propped up on one hand and still on top of him, handing him his phone. Right, okay, because it’s ringing and on vibrate and shit, that’s Jo calling. “Jo, hey,” he answers. Yep, he definitely sounds like he just woke up. Cas moves away (no, don’t do that, come back) and buries his face into the pillow next to him, leaving only their arms pressed together. “Damn, Winchester, sleeping on the job,” she teases. “Everything goin’ okay over there? Becky says Gabe’s taking the whole day off, so...” Dean glances at Cas, picking up the lines of tension that have wormed themselves back into his shoulders, and sighs. “Yeah, I’m not gonna come in today, either,” he says quietly. “Sorry, Jo.” “Hey, whatever you guys need,” she replies, a lot more gently than usual. “Come by the Roadhouse later, yeah? Drinks on me.” “Thanks.” He lets the phone slide off of his pillow and somewhere onto the sheets, then runs a hand over his face. “Hey, Cas,” he murmurs, “you awake, buddy?” Cas heaves a huge sigh and turns over onto his back, hogging the covers in the process. “Unfortunately, I am,” he rasps. “I’m... Thank you for what you said last night.” “What, telling you to come over?” Dean asks, brows furrowed, because he can’t really remember saying anything out of the ordinary. “What you said to Michael and Lucifer.” Cas’s hair is mussed and kinda greasy and his stubble is getting out of hand but holy hell, he’s still the most beautiful person Dean’s ever seen. Cas pushes a pillow against the wall and leans against it, keeping the comforter pooled in his lap and his long fingers folded neatly over it. “It needed to be said,” Dean mumbles, and scratches at his neck while trying to avoid staring at Cas. “Michael and Lucifer are the collective head of the family, as it were,” Cas murmurs, staring up at the ceiling. “Especially now, since Elohim is dead.” “Gabe’s dad?” Cas hums in agreement. “Gabe’s dad was named Elohim? Wow, that’s–” He clears his throat. “–that’s a little high-and-mighty.” “The whole family is,” Cas says. “Very traditional, very strict. The comment Michael made about my lifestyle choices, that was... well.” He takes a deep breath. “I came out to my family a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday, which was a lucky coincidence. It was just before I started college and my ‘college fund,’ so to speak, was legally in my name when Michael and Lucifer told me not to bother returning home for the holidays.” “Cas–” “Dean,” he says firmly, and Dean gets it. He’s started talking and he’s on a roll now, so if he gets interrupted he might not be able to keep going. Dean sits up, too, and stifles a yawn as he bunches a pillow between his back and the wall. He notices that Cas’s band-aid is starting to peel up so he reaches over without thinking and presses the edges down for him, because that’s one cut he definitely doesn’t want to see infected. Cas must’ve misinterpreted him (and Dean panics for a second because Cas really, really doesn’t need more to deal with) because he turns his hand to squeeze Dean’s, just briefly, then takes another deep breath. “Our family is very nuclear and kept on a very tight leash, and college is an escape if you play your cards well.” He smiles wryly. “Gabriel is a bit of a black sheep. He left the day he turned eighteen and hasn’t looked back since. Balthazar grew up in London with one of our aunts.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “It’s not as exciting of a story as you’d think. Anna joined him as quickly as she could, and I stayed with the family, obviously until they decided that I am... unnecessary.” Dean is pretty sure he hasn’t been breathing the whole time Cas has been talking. Never mind the stuff he’s actually saying, what hurts the most is that he’s so detached talking about this, like it’s not his flesh and blood that actually fucking kicked him out of the family because he likes a different kind of person. “Elohim’s death is... difficult to process,” Cas whispers. “For Gabriel, especially. Michael and Lucifer have a bit of a talent for opening up old wounds, and I–” He swallows. “They make me feel terrible for even existing. I feel worthless.” “Cas,” Dean says quietly, “you better not believe them.” Cas pointedly avoids his eyes, turns his head a fraction away from him. “Hey. Look at me, man.” Cas still refuses to make eye contact so Dean reaches out and curls his fingers under Cas’s scratchy chin, turns him so that Cas has no choice but to look him in the eye. “You are not worthless. You’re amazingly intelligent, you know that? You can pull facts out of that head of yours like I’ve never seen, and I’ve lived with Sam my whole life. You’re patient, and you’re such a fuckin’ good person, Cas, and you’re passionate about everything you do, and you’re loyal and you’ve got this huge heart and your family threw all of that away, just because they didn’t like one tiny little piece of who you are. They’re the worthless ones.” Cas’s eyes are wide and Dean can see the darker flecks in them from this close and both of them have pretty gnarly morning breath but he doesn’t care, because he’s so furious that Cas would ever think he’s worthless. “You’re incredible and thoughtful and–” And I’m so, so far gone for you. “Don’t you ever think you’re worth any less than the whole goddamn world, Cas.” Cas is staring at him, eyes wide in surprise, and then a small, almost bittersweet sort of smile tugs at his mouth. “Dean,” Cas sighs, and curiously, it sounds almost like a reprimand. He then proceeds to reach forward and cup Dean’s face in his hand and shit, Dean’s 99% sure his heart is thudding loud enough to be heard. “It really is darkest at the base of a lighthouse, isn’t it?”

  [ t-minus two days to dean's birthday ]

extended author's notes

Dean's Tattoos:

Jewelry I've mentioned:

Music (the ones with asterisks have been used in SPN):

Time for interesting facts!! The buildings used for the album cover of Physical Graffiti are 96 and 98 St. Mark's Place in New York City. Most of the inspiration for this fic came from the fact that there is actually a shop in that building called Physical Graffitea. I'm not joking.

Also, there actually is a statue of John Wayne in the baggage claim area of John Wayne Airport, airport code SNA. There's your fun fact from someone who used to live in Southern California.

In case you didn't catch it, the use of 'The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll' was 100% intentional as a nod to probably my favorite fic ever, of all time: Play It All Night Long.

Feel free to shoot me an ask if you've got any questions, though I prefer fanmail – it's easier for me to answer.

Please don’t hound me about whether I’m writing more or not! It’s stressful to have to answer that kind of question often, and I've lost count of how many people have asked me. If I write more, I’ll write more, and if not, then I won’t.

Update -- thank you AO3 user recklesss_princesss for letting me know that some of these links were broken. All of them should work now. The huge response I’ve gotten (and still get) to this fic is super overwhelmint, so thank you to everyone who’s left kudos and/or said something nice. I don’t have the energy to respond, but I read each comment. Thank you. <3

“Sweetheart, you’re gonna get nowhere if you keep stressin’ yourself like this.” He leans over Cas’s slumped shoulders to deposit a fourth mug of coffee on the desk, and Cas makes a muffled noise in response. “I keep finding mistakes,” Cas groans, head buried in the crook of his elbow, one hand still splayed over the keyboard of his laptop. “And my sentences are awkward and lacking. This is going to be an embarrassment to the university. To the whole field.” Dean sighs and drags the chair away from the desk, with Cas’s ass still planted firmly on it. Cas meets his eyes, weary and stressed and sleepless, and at least he has the sense to look guilty. “Cas, come on,” he says, and plants his hands on both arms of the chair. “You had how many people proofread your paper? And besides, you got picked to speak at the colloquium. You’re gonna do fine.” “Dean, UPenn is where William Labov teaches,” Cas says, voice tiny, and Dean nearly rolls his eyes because they’ve had this conversation at least nine fucking times in the past two days. “Yeah, and he’s done research on the shift, and you’re gonna faint when he loves your paper,” Dean huffs, standing up straight and crossing his arms. “I know. Now seriously, start getting all your shit together. I don’t want you to forget, like, pants, or something.” Cas reaches out absently to grab the coffee mug and takes a long swig, eyes closed, before slumping back in the chair. “You’re right,” he finally murmurs. “It accomplishes nothing that I sit here and let myself get stressed.” “See?” Dean fires back, grinning already, and leans forward to kiss him, nice and short and sweet. “C’mon. Start gettin’ a duffel together.” Dean runs through a mental checklist as Cas sets an alarm for tomorrow on his phone: hotel reservations have been made, his baby’s tank is full, they’re both packed up save for toiletries and phone chargers, he’s taken pity on Cas and put some Rolling Stones and Deep Purple and Floyd in the cassette box, Cas has his suit and he’s got– Oh. He stays unusually quiet as Cas puts his phone down and turns into his chest; the arm he wraps around Cas’s back is automatic. “Hey Cas?” Cas hums in response. “Maybe I should wear retainers.” It takes half a second for Cas to process this before he sits up, pulling the covers with him, and goddammit, he was just getting warm. “For your piercings?” Cas asks, flatly, and oh boy. That tone means nothing good. He props himself up on an elbow. “Well, yeah,” he mutters. “I mean, this is a big professional thing, and I don’t wanna be the hobo in the corner, you know? If you need to look professional, I do too.” Cas takes a deep, frustrated breath, and then hisses something that might be either Russian or German. “There’s a difference between looking professional and changing yourself,” he growls, obviously incensed and totally not aiming for sinfully attractive, but hitting it anyways. “If you show up to the colloquium wearing retainers, I will get Jo to castrate you.” “No, but–” Dean starts, frowning, but Cas cuts him off with a slow, light kiss. “Dean,” he says, a lot more softly this time, “I don’t want you to feel the need to change yourself, just because our work environments are different. The way I dress professionally is always going to be different from the way you dress professionally, and I promise you that you will never, ever be an embarrassment to me.” Dean’s struck speechless for a split second because how the fuck did he ever get lucky enough to find someone as perfect as Castiel? Jesus christ. So he does what he does best, and ruins the moment by rolling over to pin Cas under him. “You sure?” he murmurs, grinning. “‘Cause I could totally publicly embarrass you. In so many ways.” And then, because he’s twenty eight and still thinks he’s twelve, Dean starts tickling Cas right on the side of his ribcage where it gets him the most. He concedes the victory when Cas nearly shoves him off the bed and mutters that they need to sleep because they’re supposed to get an early start tomorrow and you know how I feel about Philadelphia, Dean, so he crawls back under the covers and falls asleep to the stately thud of Cas’s heart under his cheek. The hall is packed. Dean keeps checking his phone because he can’t see Cas’s messy head of hair poking above the crowd anywhere, but he was the last one to speak and now everyone is milling around and talking to each other and Dean would like out, please. It’s not that it was boring -- some of that syntax tree shit seemed actually pretty cool, even though he still doesn’t really know what an operator is -- it’s just that there are a ton of people here and he’s getting some funny looks, and he wants to feel Cas’s hand around his. In a totally non-sissy way. Cas’s presentation was fucking awesome. He was sharp and witty and he presented his data with amazing, infectious passion, and the entire hall was leaning forward in their chairs by the time he was done. His five minutes for questions and discussion turned into fifteen, and Dean’s heart is busting with pride like a soccer mom’s. He decides to hang out near the door and tries not to sulk like a delinquent, but regardless, one of the professor-types decides he looks like enough of a student to start a conversation with him about what did you think of that last one, huh? which somehow segues into talking about cars, because this dude’s restoring a fucking classic Mustang, and he’s got to have at least twenty years on Bobby. Yeah. Dr. Badass, Ph. D. It’s definitely at least twenty minutes before Cas shoulders his way through a group of undergrad girls, hair already mussed out of his careful work that morning and tie askew. When he sees Dean, he stops dead and the blood drains out of his face because it turns out that this dude is Cas’s fucking idol in the field, so Dean (feeling like a mom again) proudly says that yeah, Cas is the one who gave that fucking awesome presentation. He’s still dazed when they get back to the hotel, presentation notes crumpled in his hand, and Cas stares at Dean, saying “I met William Labov. William Labov liked my presentation,” until Dean kisses the stunned look off of his face, laughing. Cas opts for a bar that night, which is how they end up in a dark and slightly grungy (but still pretty damn classy) bar for dinner. He’s not usually one for bars so Dean’s pleasantly surprised, but the second they get in it’s obvious what Cas is here for. Dean knows way too well by now the kind of look Cas gets on his face when he’s eavesdropping, which is exactly the look he’s wearing right now, listening to the girl one seat over from them excitedly talking to someone on the phone, stirring her margarita with her free hand. The tables had all been either full or needing a wait so they’d taken seats at the mostly-empty bar instead, and Dean had tried really, really hard to keep a straight face when Cas had done his best to elicit data from the bartender, or whatever. Cas is fucking happy as a clam next to him, beer already halfway gone and fingers straying towards Dean’s fries, half listening to the bartender telling a story, half looking disappointed that Phone Girl is now patiently waiting for friends. “Still riding the presentation high, huh?” Dean says over the Grateful Dead that’s playing, leaning into Cas’s space, catching the excited flash of his eyes. “I feel fantastic,” Cas replies simply, a grin spreading across his face, and then kisses him, unabashed and open-mouthed. He loves Cas. He really, really does. Every goddamn little thing about him. His fucking pickiness over tea, the way he absolutely refuses to eat seafood because it’s just gross, his icy fucking cold feet that wake him up at 3am, the way he gets excited over his data when he’s talking about it over lunch with food in his mouth, his slightly unbridled (but well-concealed) obsession with a book-series-slash-TV-adaptation about two ghost-hunter brothers and their guardian angel, the way he cares about Sam, his utter faith in Dean. He loves the way Cas kisses him because it’s matter-of-fact, it’s there, and Cas kisses him like there’s nothing else in the world that’s of import except for the way their bodies are tangled together on a hotel bed. He’s never belonged to anyone like this – he’s never felt anything like this stupid, wild, tangled-up thing that’s been sitting in his chest for years now and he basks in it because this is his, he deserves every inch of this, and he’s never going to let it go. Dean shivers under Cas, under the comfortable weight of him and the smooth slide of their skin, whispers words against his mouth he’d never thought he’d be saying and Cas breathes them back to him, face flushed and eyes bright, hairline beading with sweat, and this is the point where Dean comes to the frightening realization that there will never be anyone else.

“Cas. Hey.” Eyelids twitch in the orangey light from the industrial lighting outside Bobby’s garage and Dean tries again. “C’mon, Cas,” he grunts, leaning over to shake him by the shoulder, and finally Cas opens his still-sleepy eyes. Dean winks and makes a shushing motion, then slams his palm on the Impala’s horn. “Jesus fucking christ!” Sam’s yelling nearly drowns out the sound of the horn but it’s so, so worth it, and Dean honks a couple more times just for good measure. Gabriel looks like he’s about to commit murder and Cas is grinning at him so yeah, it’s totally worth it. “You fuckin’ idjits tryin’ to wake up the whole state?” Bobby yells back from his porch, and flips on the floodlights. Dean’s still laughing when he gets out of the car and gives Bobby a short, rough hug. Sam gives him a longer, girlier hug after shooting Dean an A+ bitchface. “So,” Bobby rumbles, “you brought Charlie’s Angels along with you, huh?” He scrutinizes Cas and Gabe from under his hat and whoops, fuck, Dean didn’t tell him about the whole they’re-awkwardly-all-dating-each-other thing. He backs up towards the Impala, abort abort abort abort abort-- “You’ve got this, Sammy,” he says, then claps his brother on the shoulder. “C’mon, Cas, I’ll show you inside.” He and Cas take their time bringing in the luggage while Sam makes increasingly flustered hand motions outside. Dean walks Cas through all of the stuff that’s happened in the house – that’s where Sammy fell and broke his arm, right on that step and I puked green on the floor right there when I had the stomach flu as a kid and that’s the bookshelf I built when I was fourteen and that’s my fuckin’ hardwood floor, Cas, I spent half the summer laying it down before I moved to New York. He loves this house. It’s messy and old and creaky and stained but it’s his childhood, it’s three weeks in the winter when John was working in Omaha and their first real Christmas and it’s two months in the fall when John worked in Des Moines and it’s grinning at the guy who worked the deli counter because he remembered Dean from the last summer, freckly kiddo with a thing for pigskin scraps, right? It’s helping Bobby fix up the old junkers on his property and having something productive to do with his hands in between waking up from nightmares about Alistair’s shop and it’s driving Sam to his first day of high school and it’s getting up early to make coffee, watching dust swirl in the light passing through slightly grimy, warped windows. And now, as he dumps the duffels on his creaky little twin bed, it’s Cas curling an arm around his waist and it’s cupping Cas’s face between his hands in return and it’s kissing him slow and deep and it’s Cas’s hands sweeping up his back and it’s feeling like finally, finally, his life is complete. “Cas, I’m so happy,” he breathes, and Cas grins right back at him, reckless and open and so, so beautiful. A loud Dean Jonathan Winchester, you get your ass down here echoes up the staircase and he winces because he knows that tone and he’s definitely gonna get a lecture about either the car or not saying anything about Cas. (It’s a grumpy, gruff, I-gotta-pick-on-something lecture about the Impala, thank god, but Bobby still gives him a long look and a short nod when he lays his arm across the back of Cas’s chair in the kitchen, fingers fiddling with a seam on his shirt.) They end up crashing early, nodding off in front of the TV for a good hour before Bobby kicks them all upstairs with a stern warning about making noise and a reminder that the walls are thin. Dean’s full of food and drowsy and content and he spends a few lazy seconds trailing his fingers down Cas’s bare back, hooking his chin over Cas’s shoulder and nosing at his jaw from behind, before he kicks off his jeans and lets Cas pull him into bed with a loud groan from the mattress. The morning is slow and easy; by the time they’re done in the bathroom (sharing the shower for, you know, convenience) and fully dressed, Dean’s salivating at the smell of food and Cas’s stomach is growling like the Impala’s engine. They’re halfway down the stairs when Dean remembers that Bobby can’t actually cook and Sam and Gabe are still upstairs (because Gabe got in the shower right when they left and Sam complained about needing to brush his teeth), so he rounds the corner into the kitchen with trepidation, only to find Sheriff Mills making bacon and eggs and toast and pancakes in Bobby’s kitchen. She smiles at him and they exchange normal pleasantries – he’s never been close to the Sheriff, not the way Sam has – before she starts giving Cas the third degree. Dean raises his eyebrows at Bobby and Bobby, surprisingly, turns red before shrugging, but Dean isn’t able to ask about it until later because that’s when Sam barrels down the stairs and literally sweeps Sheriff Mills up in his arms. Dean’s pretty sure he hears something crack before he sets her down, grinning like a maniac, and starts talking a mile a minute. Sam and Cas waste the whole day plowing through Bobby’s library (Cas nearly faints at some old book that’s apparently relevant to linguistics) and Gabriel lazes around with them, occasionally flitting out to the garage, where Dean ends up getting roped into fixing up an old Ranchero for nearly six hours before getting dragged back inside for food and a shower. He’s not a Ford guy but the Ranchero’s sweet under his hands, and later that night Dean pulls Bobby aside and asks if he can fix her up for Sam’s birthday, ‘cause that kid needs a car. Bobby asks him if he looks like he can just donate a car, but his eyes are all crinkled up at the corners and Dean knows it’s a go. He spends the vacation filling up the blank spaces in one of his cramped sketchbooks (curled up on the far right end of the couch, on that one flat part of the armrest in perfect reach of the side table, where he’s logged hours and hours as a kid), tinkering around in Bobby’s garage, letting Sam excitedly take them to his favorite diners, drinking beers with Cas on Bobby’s roof, where he used to sit on nights when he couldn’t sleep. He teaches Cas how to shoot one afternoon, too, and he’s not half-bad for someone who grew up in a prim-and-proper house where they routinely used more than one fork at the dinner table. It’s lazy and it’s slow, like living in molasses, and it’s the best Dean’s felt in years.

Winters in South Dakota are brutal. They’re past cold, they’re arctic; the air freezes you right down to your bones, rattles in your lungs, makes your fingertips numb in two seconds, flat. Everything is glazed over with slush and ice and the wind slices right through every layer of clothing, no matter how many layers there are. Dean loves winters in South Dakota. They’re honest. They’re winter. His coffee is belching steam and it’s probably gonna be stone cold in less than a minute, but he plops himself down on Bobby’s porch anyways. Sam should be home soon; he checks his watch and yep, school got out for him thirty minutes ago. He takes a deep breath and savors the way it locks up his lungs and wakes him up, races through his chest like daggers. He’s on his third cup of coffee for the day. Goddamn nightmares again – they’d hit him early last night, and he’d been too sickened to go back to sleep. At least between the coffee and the cold, he’s staying awake. Away. At bay. Sam’s already-getting-shaggy hair appears at the far corner of the driveway, followed by a mess of bright blonde curls. Dean smiles and stands up. “Heya, Sammy. Hi, Jess.” “Hey, Dean,” Sam says, grinning wide, cheeks pink probably more from Jessica holding his hand than the weather. “Cool if we stay for dinner?” “‘Course,” he replies, and Jess gives him a shy, dimpled smile before Sam tugs her inside. They’re so goddamn adorable, it’s making his teeth rot. At two in the morning, Dean is staring down an old sketchbook in the living room, TV turned down and a “borrowed” beer on the table. He can’t sleep and he knows he can’t sleep so he might as well do something productive but he can’t, his hands are shaking and his mouth is dry and no matter how many times he’s tried to draw, he just fucking can’t do it. It used to be like breathing. He used to doodle on diner napkins and gas receipts and newspapers but it’s been nearly a year now, and it’s still a struggle to put pen to paper. So he sits and stares down an old sketchbook in the living room. He knows he needs to get his shit together (hello, he needs an income – Sam needs his income) and his only marketable skill right now is helping Bobby out with the garage, but that only happens on the days he either a) feels shitty and sick enough to need the structure and mindlessness of fixing a car, or b) feels miraculously semi-decently-okay enough to want to help Bobby just because he wants to help Bobby. Most of the time he’s just in limbo, walking around the house like a ghost, re-reading his battered Vonnegut collection with a cold sort of detachment. There’s a yawning pit in the middle of his chest and he’s stuck there with no way to crawl out and no light at the end of the tunnel, no ladder to the top. He knows he needs to get his shit together, he knows, but he just can’t fucking do it. So yeah, he sits and stares down an old sketchbook and barks out a self-deprecating laugh because he is just ninety percent crap. Bobby corners him in the kitchen at six in the morning, three hours of restless sleep later, and Dean knows he’s in for it when Bobby narrows his eyes. “Coffee?” he asks, offering the pot with his #1 Most Charming Smile. “Dean, look,” Bobby starts, and then fumbles, because this is Bobby and Bobby doesn’t Talk About Things and this is going to be awkward for both of them. “I know you weren’t exactly pickin’ daisies before you and Sam moved out here–” Dean’s throat locks up and his chest goes tight and the mug cracks loudly against the countertop when he sets it down; his hands are shaking and he can smell the blood, there’s bile rising in his throat. “Dean. It ain’t been easy for you, I know. But this sittin’ here, stewin’ in it? It’s killing you.” “What do you mean?” he manages to choke out; his voice is shaking, and he hates it. Bobby sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “You need a fresh start, kid,” he rumbles. “You got all this bullshit weighin’ you down, and you can’t start workin’ yourself out of that pit you’re in ‘till you get outta here.” Well. Dean can’t say he hasn’t thought about it – filling up the tank and driving, leaving everything behind in a cloud of dust under his baby’s wheels – but Bobby’s house is a comfortable sort of numb, a bog he can wallow in, an easy out. “Just– think about it, will ya?” Bobby ends gruffly, fixing his cap. “I know Ellen and Jo’d be happy to see you out in their neck of the woods.” Huh. New York. Every wayward high school dropout’s dream. Huh. Ellen and Jo, and Ellen’s pies, and cold weather, and hell, Crowley lives somewhere in upstate New York, too. He’d probably be able to get a job through him, and– And for the first time in a year, the thought of tattooing doesn’t make him want to vomit. But then there’s Sam – still not even through his first year of high school, head over heels for Jess and her blonde curls and dimples and adorably awkward braces, finally with a chance to have a stable home and able to stay in one school for more than a semester. “Yeah,” Dean whispers, and swallows down some coffee. “I’ll, uh... yeah.” Bobby clears his throat awkwardly and heads towards the garage. “Hey Bobby?” His voice cracks and he winces and he’s shaking and probably about to have a panic attack but if there’s ever a time for this, it’s now. Bobby look back from the doorway into the living room. “I... there’s something I didn’t tell you. Ab–” He swallows and closes his eyes. “About N’Orleans.” He crawls out of his window onto the roof that night, cradling another cup of coffee and not bothering to bring a blanket with him. It’s not like he can sleep, anyways. There’s latent nausea sitting in his gut and he downed two ibuprofens for the headache a while ago, he’ll be fine. The pros and cons of each decision each weigh a ton. The last thing he wants to do right now is leave Sam and Bobby, leave safety and his family, but Bobby’s right – he’s stagnating here. It’s different, hearing it out loud instead of banging around in his head. He’s comfortable here but he’s not happy, and he’ll be unhappy if he leaves Sam and Bobby, but he needs a kick in the ass to get his life back in one piece. He thinks back to that feeling in Bobby’s kitchen, the prospect of tattooing again, and how good it had felt to not be sick at the thought. He could start fresh and create something beautiful instead of destroying, and the the prospect burrows itself deep into his chest, a warm spark that makes the void seem much smaller. Dean shrugs off his jacket and his flannel, then takes a deep breath, lifts up his left sleeve, and takes a good look at the mangled scars on his arm that he’s spent almost a year ignoring. Worthless. And that’s it. He’s made up his mind. When he finally brings it up to Sam, he’s not prepared for the look of torn devastation on his face. Sam fumbles through at least twenty renditions of “I want you to be happy again but I don’t want you to leave” before he finally tears up and crushes Dean into a hug comprised of lanky teenager limbs and tells him that he’s scared of living without Dean. It’s a long, painful conversation, full of awkward pauses, but he finally gets it through to Sam that he needs to stay here in Sioux Falls – he’s got a house, he’s got Bobby, he’s got a stable high school career in front of him and he’s got an adorable girlfriend (Sam goes bright red) and he needs to stay, he deserves this, even though it’s tearing Dean’s heart to have to leave his younger brother. Bobby gives him a slightly wobbly smile when Dean finally takes a deep breath and says, “I’m moving to New York.” “C’mon, you guys didn’t have to get me anything,” Dean mutters, embarrassed. He doubts he’ll ever think of his birthday as something positive – not after last year – but the fact that Bobby and Sam remembered adds another tiny spark to the slowly growing collection in his chest. “Open it!” Sam blurts excitedly, smiling so big his face is gonna crack any second. Dean snorts softly and pulls off the wrapping paper to find a regular, brown shipping box. It’s got Bobby’s address on it and about seven different stickers on it yelling FRAGILE. Uh, okay. He has to use a pocketknife to get all the tape and bubble wrap off, and there’s another box inside, wooden this time. He’s fucking suspicious now, and raises an eyebrow at Bobby. Old fucker just crosses his arms. Dean opens the box, and his jaw drops. It’s a new tattoo machine. Dean’s never seen anything more beautiful. It’s custom work, it has to be – the metal is covered in delicate whorls and there’s even what looks like fucking ivory inlays. He’s so goddamn overwhelmed that he doesn’t even know what to do, just sits there and stares up at Bobby and Sam. “Matches your 1911,” grunts Bobby, and is he seriously going red right now? But then Dean realizes that he’s actually got tears in his eyes and he is so, so beyond emotionally compromised. He carefully sets the box aside and pulls Bobby into a hug – a real hug, like he hasn’t hugged his surrogate father in years, clinging to his shoulders like a six-year-old. “C’mere, Sammy,” he whispers, voice cracking, and when did Sam get this tall? Kid’s gonna out-grow him soon. Sam’s on the verge of tears and Bobby is avoiding his eyes and Dean is definitely not crying and this moment, right here, is when he knows that he can do this. He leaves later that month. There isn’t much to stuff into duffels -- some clothes, some sketchbooks, toiletries, his Vonnegut books. Sam makes him swear to call often and Bobby threatens his life if anything happens to the Impala, and then he’s behind the wheel of his baby with nothing but the road ahead of him. With every mile, the steel bands that had taken up permanent residence in his chest loosen up; by the time he hits the Nebraska border, breathing feels easier and his hands are light on the steering wheel. Manning, Colorado is a twelve-hour drive from Bobby’s, but he makes Denver in less time than anticipated and finds the cheapest roadside motel to sleep in. He’s at Elkins’ place before noon and he gets welcomed back like an old friend, regardless of the fact that he and John hadn’t talked for ten years. It takes every ounce of Dean’s willpower to stay calm at the shop, to not panic when he pulls off his shirt, to just breathe when Elkins looks at the scratches on his arm. Elkins’ voice is soft but firm when he tells Dean that he refuses payment for this cover-up, even though it’s a piece that’s going to take at least eight hours, with breaks. (Dean ends up “accidentally” leaving behind the money.) The next day, he’s in Lawrence, visiting his parents’ graves. He calls Sam from there, voice shaking as he stares at Mary Winchester, 1954 - 1983 and talks about how nice the drive was. Before he falls asleep in a motel just outside Chicago the day after that, he debates for a while about driving through Canada to get to Syracuse, just for shits, but staying in the States saves his baby 20 miles so he decides to stick to the southern shores of the Great Lakes. His first night at The Roadhouse, he’s woken up at four in the morning by the usual set of nightmares. The cold sweat and nausea is almost normal but he’s thrown off by the fact that he’s not at Bobby’s, not home, and there’s no window to crawl out of or coffee to brew in the ancient percolator and he panics. He’s halfway across the dark bar, keys in his hand, when the lights flicker on. “Dean?” It’s Jo. She’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, hair flat on one side and frizzy on the other, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, bare feet peeking out from under ratty sweats. “What are you doing?” she tries again, voice croaky, but there’s no condescension. “I–” He swallows and takes a deep breath. “You know, it’s–” He shrugs and Jo just wraps her arms around her chest and nods tightly. “So, you gonna go back to sleep or just stand there and panic?” she says, trying her best to sound snappy, but it’s completely undermined by the fact that she’s drowning in her clothes. He opens his mouth to attempt a snappy retort in return, but nothing comes out. The keys to the Impala are digging into his palm. “I can’t.” Jo’s eyebrows zoom into a frown in record time. “What?” “I can’t sleep,” he mumbles, and lets the keys dangle by the ring, nestled in the crook of his finger. “Was gonna go for a drive.” “With all your shit packed up?” Jo says, eyebrow cocked. “I’m not dumb, Winchester.” Her face softens and she walks over to (attempt to) tug the keys out of his hand. “Look, I know you–” “Don’t,” Dean barks, louder than he’d meant to, but Jo stands her ground. “Dean,” she says, crossing her arms even tighter, “I know what it’s like to lose your dad, okay?” And Dean just fucking deflates. It might not have been about John thirty seconds ago but it’s sure as hell about John right now, as Dean realizes that there’s still a hole ripped raw in the middle of his chest that’s got nothing to do with Alistair and everything to do with leaving his family. “I got nothin’,” he finally whispers. “No Dad, no Sam, no Bobby. I can’t even–” He swallows and shakes his head.

Rock fuckin’ bottom? Oh yeah, he’s here. Jo lowers her eyes and gently works the car keys from out of his fist, then sets them down on the bar and pulls him to sit down with her on the stairs, just like they used to when they were kids. “Dad wasn’t around much,” he mumbles, and the skin at the nape of his neck is starting to crawl. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss ‘m, y’know?” “I know.” “Life’s almost easier, now he’s gone.” Jo’s warm, leaning gently against him; he can smell her shampoo and the detergent that the Harvelles have been using for his entire life and it smells good, it smells okay, it’s childhood and a safe place. “Don’t need to scramble so much for money. Bobby’s been good to us.” He takes a deep, shaky breath but it’s crawling up on him and his fingers feel too sticky again, too warm, like they’re covered in blood that’s not his own. “D’you still sit in at shops and stuff?” she asks. Dean snorts quietly. Jo is one of a handful of people who know about his (admittedly pretty fucking illegal) “jobs” – said handful including Sam, Bobby, Ellen, and Ash – but he’s filled his quota for talking about what actually happened. Bile rises in his throat. “Can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t, I– I did some bad stuff, Jo. Some really bad stuff.” He doesn’t even realize he’d been wringing his hands, wiping at his fingers, until Jo carefully pulls his hands apart and wraps her small little palm around his. Her hand is warm and dry against his cold, clammy one. She’s quiet for a good few minutes, staring down at her bare feet, and Dean does his best to take deep, even breaths and keep his heart rate down, force the nausea away. “Everyone’s done shit they’re not proud of,” she eventually says, voice low. “Your dad might be gone but that doesn’t mean the rest of us disappeared, too.” Dean looks sideways at her and the corner of her mouth twitches up; she nudges his shoulder playfully. “I know you're allergic to girly feelings but we’re here for you, loser.” He’s still trying to digest this twenty minutes later, tucked into the corner of Jo’s bed, her slim little back pressed in a warm line against his. He feels safer here than he thought he would and safer than he felt an hour ago when he was quietly packing up his duffels and maybe, just maybe, this is gonna be good for him.

It hits him like a truck. No, that’s not entirely true. Consciousness hits him like a truck. This sneaks up on him like a predator, smooth velvet hiding knives, and clings like water in his lungs. He stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide, and he can feel the sweat beading on his temple; his whole body is trembling, fingers spasming, throat locked up in a choked half-sob. It’s dark in the room, no light coming in through the window, and he can’t even hear anything aside from his own ragged, shallow breaths. Closing his eyes does nothing but bring back the image of that leering face, burnt into the backs of his eyelids, and with it comes the smell of blood and a horrifying wave of nausea. Dean sits up and slides his legs over the side of the bed, runs a shaking hand down his face before attempting to take a breath and choking on it. He knows his eyes are wet and there’s nothing he can do about it except try to breathe, try to push Alistair’s laugh out of his brain. The faded scars on his left arm are burning. “Dean?” The covers rustle and fuck, Cas is awake now. He can’t even form a reply; the only thing that comes out of his throat is a strangled noise, something between a sob and a cough. Cas is by his side in an instant, eyes bleary but awake, hair tousled. “Dean, what’s wrong?” He just buries his face in his hands, still shaking, and lets Cas curl an arm around his shoulders. The echoes of screams are rattling around in his head and he can feel the give of flesh under his hands, smeared with blood and slippery, and then he finally breaks down and hunches himself over into Cas’s chest in a full-blown panic attack. Cas just sits there and holds him like the goddamn angel he is. He murmurs nonsense into Dean’s hairline, low and calm; those long fingers are carding slowly through his hair and finally, after what feels like hours, Dean’s throat unsticks, his breathing slows just enough to talk. “I had a nightmare,” he whispers, voice cracking. Cas presses a kiss to his temple. “I–” He swallows. “I dreamt about– you know, New Orleans, and– and Alistair.” He takes a shaky breath and digs his fingers into Cas’s back. “Cas, I don’t know how to live with myself. The shit I did, it’s inexcusable. I don’t know how you live with me.” Cas just sighs, takes Dean’s face between his hands, and kisses him on the forehead. “Dean,” he murmurs, “I don’t love you in spite of your past, I love you because you’re strong enough to overcome it. You’re only human.” “You love me?” Dean whispers, leaning back in disbelief, searching Cas’s eyes for anything other than absolute certainty. “I love you,” Cas repeats matter-of-factly, voice soft, and pushes a hand through Dean’s hair. “Do you want to go back to sleep or are we going to watch a movie?” “Cas, I–” Dean’s flabbergasted, he’s speechless, still shaking from the nightmare but his chest is filled with something incredible, warm and filling, chasing away the horrors that Alistair is whispering. He leans forward and kisses Cas, shamelessly urgent, eyelashes leaving wet trails on both their faces. “God, Cas, me–” He's mumbling against Cas's mouth, fumbling with words. “I do too, I lo–” And then Cas cuts him off with an open-mouthed kiss that leaves him dizzy, gasping, and he buries his nose in Cas’s neck and just breathes. It takes another ten minutes in slow kisses and gentle hands to get Dean’s heart rate back to normal; Cas is curled around him like a parenthesis, and isn’t that funny? Closing up all of his unspoken thoughts in a clean line, containing all of the things he can’t verbalize, and this is exactly where both of them belong. Dean never thought he’d feel like he’s part of someone but here he is, tracing lines down Cas’s skin, breathing deep against his throat, hoping with every atom in his body that Cas stays in his life, and it doesn’t even occur to him that thoughts like these used to be scary.

Dean opens the front door to see Cas sprawled on the couch next to Sam, four beer bottles between them, and unless he’s incredibly mistaken– “Terminator? Seriously?” Cas waves an absent hand at him in a sort of stop talking now motion; Dean snorts, then walks over to kiss Cas’s forehead and fuck up Sammy’s hair before walking to his room in order to dump his messenger bag. He stretches, cracks his back, gathers up his laptop and charger, turns around from his desk, and nearly runs face-first into Cas. “Jesus–” “No, I’m Castiel.” “And a dork, too,” he murmurs against Cas’s mouth before kissing him, slow and easy. Cas’s fingers are cool when they nudge up his shirt and this, Dean thinks, is definitely the best part of his day. “Seriously, guys?” comes Sam’s voice from the living room. “Get the hell back here, Cas.” “Don’t you dare,” Dean growls, mock-threateningly, but Cas pulls away and stands absurdly straight in the doorway, hands behind his back. “There is no fate but what we make,” he intones gravely, then marches into the living room. Ten minutes later, Sam still has tears in his eyes and Dean’s stomach hurts from laughing so hard. ------ “Still can’t believe you’ve never seen these, man,” Sam calls from the kitchen and damn, whatever he’s making smells terrible. Dean is torn between wanting to go make sure nothing’s burning and refusing to get up. “Hey, shush,” he calls back, “best part’s comin’ up.” He sits up to pick his half-finished beer out of the bottle forest growing on the coffee table and notices that Cas has been guarding an unopened beer for the last twenty minutes, staring at the TV, breathless, mouth slightly open. By the time Skynet had become self-aware, says John Connor, it had spread into millions of computer servers across the planet. God, Dean loves these movies. He’s got a thing for postapocalyptic messes – he loves the darkness, how raw these worlds are, but he’s also sane enough to never want to live in that kind of situation. In books and movies? Hell yeah. Real life? No thanks. Cas looks utterly transfixed next to him, bordering on distraught as he realizes he’s watching the apocalypse happen.

“The nukes almost look like falling angels,” he murmurs, sitting back for the first time in at least an hour, “don’t they?”

It sounds so solemn coming from him that whatever Dean was going to say gets bottled up in his throat. The thought makes something deep, deep inside him stir so he just runs his fingers through the hair at Cas’s nape, swipes a thumb down his shirt to run over the Enochian on his back, and tries to pin down why this resonates with him. By the time the credits are halfway over, he’s given up. “Next one?” asks Cas, raising an eyebrow, and with the familiarity Dean feels a weight lifted off his chest. “Next one,” he agrees, kisses Cas briefly before standing up. “How many hours have you guys been doing this?” asks Sam, finally walking in from the kitchen, and whatever the fuck is on his plate is lumpy and unrecognizable as Real Food. “Hey, no itching,” Dean snaps, derailed, swatting Cas’s hand away from where it was heading absently for his calf. “I wasn’t g–” “You were. You ain’t gonna ruin these tattoos just ‘cause they’re itchier than the other one.” Cas rolls his eyes and Sam rolls his eyes and Dean puts in Terminator Salvation and tries not to smell any of the questionable food and Sam starts making fun of Cas for looking like Sam Worthington (Dean doesn’t see it) and all in all, it’s a good evening. The forest of beer bottles ends up decorating the tops of their kitchen cabinets.

Dean falls asleep within seconds that night – between all the beer, a full stomach, and the kind of loose-boned feeling that comes after having really, really astoundingly great sex, it’s easy to pass out – but he wakes up disoriented and uneasy at least four times in the middle of the night, nerves humming, and keeps closing his eyes to a loop of angel-nukes falling, wings burning off mid-flight, blowing stars through his head before igniting the earth.