Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You’ll be here all week? Terrible that you’re workin’ on Valentine’s Day,” Doris tuts disapprovingly, “you ought to be spendin’ it with your special someone.”

“I ain’t got a special someone right now,” Dean assures her kindly, leaning back in his chair, tapping the table that separates him from Doris and her husband, “and I don’t mind working.”

“Well, of course you do!” Doris exclaims.

“I work most holidays, I really don’t mind –”

“No, you’ve got a special someone,” Doris corrects, eyeing him critically, smirking in a way that crinkles all of her many wrinkles, “a woman like me can tell.”

“That so?” Dean humors her.

“Oh yes, you live long enough you start to know the signs — George, don’t you agree?”

George sighs and admits, “I’ve never been as good at it as you, so I dunno. Think maybe you just got a special touch, hon.”

Doris rolls her eyes despite smiling, and then she leans across the table and says, “you know when a heart’s wantin’ — it shows in your eyes and face, even how you carry yourself. You’re a young man in love, I know that much.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, still not taking her seriously, “how can you tell?”

“I think maybe when you live as long as we have, and you know love like an old friend, you just know how it looks and sounds. You got that ache around you, agent. That ache only comes from lovin’ someone who ain’t closeby. And you got that look around your eyes, like you’re holdin’ tight to somethin’ — so I don’t think you’ve told your special someone how you feel. Keepin’ that in isn’t good for your health, ya know.”

Dean’s brow furrows and his heart thuds kind of nervously.

“You keep love a close friend, is what you said — you sayin’ I got it on me? I… are you sure that’s what it is?”

Dean doesn’t usually take the long-winded talks of elderly witnesses or civilians too seriously, but ever since Amara, Dean’s just not sure what he feels about Cas anymore, and he hates the wrong-footedness of Not Knowing.

Everyone’s always been so weird about Cas and him, and Dean never took it too much to heart, never thought about it too hard until he was up late at night, staring into the dark, grappling with the difference between attraction, love, desire, and being compelled, and realizing that he kept comparing his feelings for Amara to those he has for Cas.

Amara had a hold on him, she dug her claws in deep, but Cas was still what broke through to him, like light splitting the darkness that shrouded his every sense, and whereas Amara made Dean feel cornered, Cas has this way of continuously freeing Dean. 

Cas doesn’t have a hold over Dean, even, he doesn’t have claws in Dean — if anything, Dean’s got his own claws in Cas and refuses to let go, and Cas just takes it because he can withstand it where any mortal person would tell Dean he clings too hard, he’s too intense, too much to handle, wants and demands too much of them.

Cas doesn’t demand anything, and whatever Cas is to Dean, it doesn’t hurt the way it did with Amara, and it doesn’t feel forced the way it did with Lisa, and it doesn’t feel adolescent the way it did with Cassie.

And Dean doesn’t mean to keep comparing Cas to past lovers, but those are the people that came closest to knowing him in a meaningful way, and Cas does know him in ways they never did, never could. In truth, that makes Cas incomparable to anyone else altogether.

Dean wants someone else to look at the scrapbook of information he’s cobbled together about his feelings about Cas and tell him what it all means so that he doesn’t have to draw his own conclusions.

He hates even that this entire conversation is making him think of Cas at all — Cas shouldn’t be coming to mind when some very old woman tells him that she can spot from a mile away that he’s yearning.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Doris answers, “... oh. Maybe you’re not – is that the trouble, dear? Don’t know your own heart?”

“I—” Dean is kind of insulted by that, but he can’t say she’s wrong; he actively avoids going looking in there (the place is a mess).

“Well, that explains plenty,” Doris declares, leaning back from the table so she can put more of her weight on her husband seated next to her.

George is eyeing him now, and Doris notices; she watches George watch Dean, like she’s trying to predict what he’ll say.

“You part’uh the family, agent?” George asks.

Tripped up momentarily, Dean doesn’t immediately know what George means, but the meaning isn’t lost on him long.

Are you queer?

Face going cold, Dean finds he can’t answer because every word he knows in the English language is bottlenecking in his throat, and then Doris is smacking George’s arm excitedly, going, “oh, I didn’t think to ask! That can definitely make things harder — FBI can’t exactly be a nice social climate for that sorta thing. Oh, don’t worry, dear – look how pale he is – George and I met at a drag club, you know.”

“What?” Dean half-laughs, “... seriously?”

“Mhm,” Doris says, “I was nineteen and so sure that it was only ladies for me, but then I met George, and well — I guessed it wasn’t just ladies for me. He wasn’t too sure about anythin’ at all, and I still don’t think he is.”

They both look to George and he shrugs, telling them, “I didn’t get it then, and I don’t get it now. Don’t really need to, though. I got Doris here, and since the day we met, I haven’t really wanted anyone else any kinda way. Doesn’t need a label, really, not for me, anyway. Wouldn’t serve me any. I got what I like and what I need. Labels meant to make life easier, y’know? I got it nice and easy here, so it didn’t need anymore figurin’ out once I knew I wanted Doris.”

Eyes crinkling up at George, Doris nods and says, “now we’ve spent just about every day of the last sixty-three years together.”

“Sixty-three years?” Dean follows up, heart swelling up with nauseating sentimentality, “and you been married for how long?”

“Fifty-nine years — sixty come April,” Doris answers with a smile.

“Wow,” Dean breathes out, reaching for his neglected glass of water, “that’s – incredible. What’s your secret?”

Just as Dean takes a drink from his glass, Doris and George look at each other, and then George, entirely straight-faced, tells Dean, “lotta oral.”

Instantly choking, Dean sputters and fights for air while Doris just gives him a ‘what can ya do’ type expression and nods in agreement.

As Dean is catching his breath and thumping his own chest, George expands, “talkin’ too. I ain’t ever been bored’uh Doris. Just last week I learned somethin’ new about’er —”

“I don’t know why you were shocked I knew The Beach Boys —”

“I wasn’t shocked, I was just surprised you had a favorite song, I didn’t know you even liked ‘em —”

“It’s The Beach Boys, George! Everyone likes The Beach Boys!”

“Point is,” George sighs, smiling at Dean, “we talk plenty — we thank each other a lot. We never left the house angry, never left an argument unresolved. Doris is my best friend. I didn’t like bein’ at odds, so I didn’t stay at odds. I wanted her to be happy with me. Still do. Still look in her direction when I’m wantin’ her to tell me I’m alright. Still wanna make her proud’uh me.”

“I’m very proud of you,” Doris assures him.

“I know, sweetheart,” George answers, kissing her temple.

The two of them are sickeningly cute, and Dean stays as long as he can stomach – it goes against the grain for him, but he knows it’s because he was just never exposed to loving couples like this. 

Academically, Dean has always known that happy couples are out there, people who last forever and love each other to the nth degree and that love never falters or fails, but Dean so rarely gets to see it in real-time like this.

He stays because he knows it’ll be a long time before he meets a couple like Doris and George again, and he wants to see that softness in the world and watch it just a little longer, even though it feels so strange and foreign. 

He commits it to memory, to reflect back on when the Life makes him question what the point of any of his efforts are.

Eventually, Dean wraps up his questions for them and gets going, despite being invited to stay for dinner roughly six times.

Doris shows him out, and at the door, she tugs on his jacket sleeve.

Dean turns around to look down at her (she’s a tiny lady), and she asks, “what’s’is name?”

Flushing, Dean stops the knee-jerk compulsion to insist there’s no such name floating to the surface of his mind, and answers with a long sigh, “... Cas. His name is Cas.”

“Lemme tell you somethin’ before you go, dear,” Doris says, “it’s been sixty-three years, and I ain’t ever been scared of anythin’ like I am of all that time comin’ to an end. I don’t get scared of dyin’ — but I get scared when I think I might exist some way or another without George next to me.”

To Dean’s dismay, Doris’ eyes fill up with tears behind her thick lenses, but before he can comfort her, she soldiers on, “this time I got with him is everythin’ to me, and it’s still not nearly enough. If I could live forever with George, I would. I’d spend all eternity just gettin’ older and smaller and wrinklier with him. I don’t mind any’uh the aches or pains — I just wish I had more time. Wish I could live a whole new life all over again with ‘im, I’d go right back to the start and do it all again if I could.”

“Life’s short,” Doris tells him, “even when it’s long and happy, it’s short — too short. And Valentine’s Day might be cheesy these days, maybe it’s too commercial now or what have you, but it’s a day for tellin’ the people you love most that you love ‘em most of all. And that’s a nice thing to set aside a day for, don’t you think? Not such an ugly, cynical thing — it’s a day on the calendar tellin’ you ‘make sure all that love gets said out loud.’ I think you should go home and tell Cas how you feel, Agent Jones. Tell’im he’s loved. Ain’t nothin’ so good as that in the world — lovin’ and bein’ loved. That’s what makes it all worthwhile. Don’t be scared it won’t be perfect, nothin’ ever is — the only thing to be scared of is that it won’t be at all. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, throat constricted; he clears it, nods and repeats more assuredly, “yeah, I hear ya.”

Doris watches him drive off, and when Dean arrives back at the motel, Sam’s telling him that he thinks he knows where to find their monster-of-the-week, and that if he’s right, they can pack it up and head home quickly in the morning.

In a sort of daze, Dean just follows Sam’s lead — going home sounds good, it always sounds good, but Cas is at home (more or less babysitting his mother very much against her wishes), and that’s somewhat anxiety-provoking.

As it turns out, they do kill their monster that night, but Dean doesn’t sleep well afterward like he usually does on a successful job; he tosses and turns in his motel bed for hours. 

He’s restless, can’t stop thinking about Doris, and George, and Amara, and Cas.

He eventually gives up on trying to sleep.

After twiddling his thumbs across his belly for ten minutes straight, he buckles, picks his phone up and texts Cas.

Dean: hey you up?

Cas: Of course. [Angel emoji] [flex emoji] [check mark emoji]

Dean: how’s mom? She giving u hell?

Cas: She is unhappy and largely unpleasant, but I don’t think she’s holding a personal grudge against me. [slanted mouth emoji] [shrug emoji]

Dean: and you? How are u holding up?

Cas: I’m fine. [content emoji face] I have the distinct feeling you’re not as well as I am, though. It’s past four in the morning where you are. I am getting the impression you haven’t slept. [frowning emoji] [sleeping emoji]

Dean: yeah. Idk it was a weird day

Cas: How so? [emoji with a monocle] 

Dean: sometimes I feel like idk myself and other people experience me some way i can’t even imagine. I can’t tell if they know me better for it or worse for it

Cas: I don’t know what the experience of knowing me is like either. Perhaps it’s something we’re not meant to know about ourselves. If it’s any consolation, I very much enjoy the experience of you. I highly recommend it, if you ever figure out how to experience yourself. [100 emoji] [red heart emoji] 

Dean blushes to his hairline.

Dean: i’ll take your word for it. 

Cas: Will you be home soon? [eyes emoji] [clock emoji]

Dean: yeah. Supposed to leave here in like four hours.

Cas: Please drive safely. Don’t drive if you feel you’re at risk of falling asleep behind the wheel. [car emoji] [sleeping emoji] [fire emoji] [ambulance emoji]

Dean: yeah, no, i know. I’ll be careful.

Look inside my head and untangle this for me, Dean wants to say, just gimme the answer. Crack my head open like an egg and tell me what this is. Is this… love? Is this what being in love is like and I just haven’t ever felt it before? Have I only ever been in love with you? It’s never felt like this before, otherwise I’d recognize it… I hate this. I feel like I’m too close to an erupting volcano… do I surprise you still? Will I surprise you still in fifty years? Sixty? Do you ever want me to say I’m proud of you? That feels weird… but maybe no one’s ever said that to you… has anyone ever said that they love you?

Dean’s heart sinks.

He feels sure suddenly that no one has told Cas he’s loved, and despite the urgent need to rectify that somehow, Dean thinks texting it to him is wrong. Besides, texting those words isn’t really the same as hearing them out loud.

And all that aside, Dean has no idea how he means it.

He probably shouldn’t say it until he knows what the fuck he means by it.

“Hey,” Dean whispers over to Sam, “hey.”

“Mm?”

“You ever tell Cas you love’im?”

“What?”

“You ever tell Cas you love’im?”

“...guess not,” Sam slurs back, “why?”

“Thought maybe you did,” Dean mumbles, going back to staring up at the ceiling, “you’re more… feelings… than me…”

“... more feelings.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

Sighing deeply, Sam gets up out of his bed to go pee and when he’s walking back from the bathroom and throwing himself back on his bed, he grumbles, “what’s got you thinking about that?”

“That couple I interviewed today,” Dean tells him, “... I dunno. I… I dunno.”

“What were they like?”

“Crazy in love,” Dean recounts, “super old. They’ve been together nearly sixty years, man. It was weird seein’ two people that old not be grouchy ‘n shit. They were happy and still nuts about each other.”

“That’s sweet,” Sam mentions with a smile in his voice, “glad their son wasn’t our guy.”

“Mm,” Dean hums back.

“... you ever tell Cas you love him?”

“No,” Dean answers, cheeks hot, “you know I don’t usually — saying stuff like that is…”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam assures him, “but if neither of us have, odds are he’s never heard it said at all. Might be worth getting over the discomfort to make sure he knows.”

“Mm.”

A few beats of silence pass between them, then Dean says, so quietly he thinks Sam won’t hear him at all if he’s even still awake, “... do you think I’m in love with Cas?”

“... what?”

To Dean’s dread, Sam sounds very much alert and awake now.

“Just… you’re the smartest person I know,” Dean confesses helplessly, frowning up at the ceiling where the headlights of passing cars move like searchlights across the shadow, “... do you think I’m in love with him?”

“... I… uh… do you think you’re in love with him?”

All Dean hears in his head is static.

Do you wanna be called terms of endearment like Doris and George use? Do you even think about stuff like this? You must have — at least with Hannah, Dean’s stomach roils, ugh. God, was that jealousy? Is that why I hated her? I didn’t have a great reason to dislike her as much as I did other than the fact that she so obviously wanted you. Did you want her? Did you even notice her wanting you? 

“I – what I can say is that for years now, I’ve figured that you and Cas are probably gonna just stay together forever.”

Dean turns his head on his pillow to face Sam’s direction, but Sam is talking at the ceiling now.

“It’s — I think the life we’ve led makes it hard to share ourselves. Not like we’re doing it on purpose, we’re not being difficult to connect to on purpose, it’s just like there’s this big wall inside us that blocks out everyone else. Might be self-preservation, might be to preserve everyone else, but either way… I think we both struggle to let people in at all. You more than me, but that changed with Cas. When Cas rescued you, he saw your soul, and he knew you in a way that you couldn’t stop him from knowing you. The wall didn’t prevent him from knowing you, because he was dealing with the raw materials of you, right? It was against your will, so that’s not great, but… it happened. He saw you, all of you. And I mean… he left everything behind for you.”

Dean’s heart thuds.

He generally doesn’t like thinking about this stuff, and it’s weird and unnerving to know that Sam has put thought enough to it to verbalize it well.

“Cas was never gonna give half a shit about any other person as much as he gives about you. You’re his first person. The human he cared about before any others. And he knows you best. And — if we’re being real honest here — you’re the human he likes best. He likes me well enough, but he can kind of be a bitch to me sometimes.”

That works a chuckle out of Dean and he hears Sam breathe out a laugh too.

“Yeah, you like, rarely suffer his bitchiness, but he’s a little bit of a bitch,” Sam goes on, “like, unwarranted at me. He is not shy about telling me how much I annoy him. It’s — stop laughing, dude, shut up — he just likes you best. I think Cas is generally a kind of prickly guy, but he’s not so prickly around you. He likes you too much, he wants you to — like him back. So he isn’t as prickly with you. So… the point of all this is to say that you guys are each other’s most important relationships. Like, ever. Dean — Cas held his regard for you above God Almighty.”

Dean isn’t laughing anymore.

“So, yeah, I figured he’d stay with you until the End Days. Where else is Cas gonna be interested in going, right? He wants to be where you are. And I get it, because — you’re my brother. And… I love you. So. I also wanna be where you are. Or at least near enough to see you regularly. Cas — I always figured he’d be the Rufus to your Bobby.”

“Would’uh loved for Cas and Rufus to get some time in.”

“That would’ve been a sight,” Sam laughs, “... but seriously, Dean. I dunno if it’s romantic love, that’s — only you can know that, y’know? I can’t tell you what it is —”

“But you can tell me what you think it looks like,” Dean inserts, “... I just… what’s it look like, from the outside?”

“... I…” Sam sighs again, troubled, obviously nervous about sharing his opinion, but he does, “... yeah, I mean… sometimes it looks that way. It’s — that’s inevitable, though. Your connection with him is really deep, Dean. That only means however much you want it to, though. Just ‘cause it looks some way to other people doesn’t mean that’s how it is.”

Dean wonders at how nonchalant Sam is about Dean possibly being anything other than straight, but he’s scared to ask why Sam is so unfazed. 

“... right.”

“... you’re doing that thing where you ask someone to tell you your own feelings so you don’t have to do the leg-work, aren’t you?”

“You’re also kind of a bitch.”

“Yeah, and you’re sort of a jerk,” Sam laughs, “... I can help, though. If you want?”

“... help how?”

“Help you with the leg-work, I mean,” Sam explains, “sometimes it helps to have a sounding board or whatever. So – what do you feel about Cas?”

“He’s my best friend,” Dean answers, immediately remembering that George and Doris refer to each other the same way, “I… care about him.”

“Right, okay,” Sam replies easily, “are your feelings about Cas — good? I mean, do they make you feel good?”

That stumps Dean for a while.

When he thinks about What He Feels About Cas, he mostly feels nauseous. Not in an imminent-vomit kind of way, but in an about-to-be-dropped-from-a-great-height-on-a-roller-coaster type way.

Cas makes him feel safe, but the fact that Cas makes him feel safe feels dangerous in and of itself, and he likes Cas a lot, just spending time with him even though he’s sort of a huge weirdo, almost never gets any of Dean’s jokes, and Dean nearly resents him for being endearing despite being immune to charms Dean’s honed over his entire life, so everything he feels about Cas feels a lot like chasing his own tail.

It's a struggle, but eventually he answers, “... can’t really be narrowed down like that. I dunno. My feelings are… I dunno, man. Intense? They’re — they’re a lot. I dunno if it’s good or bad or simple like that. It’s a lotta complicated stuff all knotted together.”

“Okay… do you ever think about stuff like — holding his hand? Hugging him just ‘cause you feel like it?”

“That’s — we live a dangerous life, it’s — wanting that stuff isn’t weird, it’s just —”

“I’m not saying it is,” Sam reassures him, “I’m just asking if you have those thoughts.”

“...”

“Do you think about kissing him ever?”

“Sam, Jesus Christ —”

“What?” Sam asks defensively, “it’s a legitimate question! Do you ever imagine what it’d be like to kiss Cas? Or touch him in — not platonic ways?”

“... I dunno,” Dean groans, pressing his cellphone into his forehead where he shoves his hands against his face, “I don’t know.”

“... do you work hard to actively try not to think about those things?”

Dean hates how sharp Sam is sometimes.

When silence pours over them again, Sam tells him, “you should. Think about it, I mean. Think about what it’d feel like — what it’d change between you two. If it’s a change you want. And, y’know… maybe consider that actively trying hard to avoid thinking about those things might be a sign in and of itself.”

“Alright, alright, I got it, thanks,” Dean grouses, face hot enough his freckles may burn off.

“Get some sleep, Dean,” Sam encourages gently, “sweet dreams.”

“Yeah, yeah, sweet dreams.”

Once Sam is snoring softly, Dean deems himself truly alone enough to actually try thinking about it.

He shuts his eyes, ignores the pins and needles under his cheeks and in his ears, and tries to focus on conjuring Cas in the theatre of his mind.

He knows Cas’ hands well — Cas touches him plenty to heal him, and he’s clasped his hand with Cas’ before to help him up off the ground and stuff, but that’s not what Sam meant by holding hands.

He knows Cas’ hands are wide, kinda square, and he’s got long, dexterous fingers; he’s always spinning his Angel blades and blotting out demons’ faces with just the width of his palms. Those hands are always gentle with Dean, though.

Holding Cas’ hand…

As soon as he tries to imagine it, it’s like an error screen pops up, not allowing him to access that part of his imagination.

Great, I’ve put actual blockers up.

He’s hugged Cas before — Cas is strong. His arms are big, he feels broad and strong under the frumpy coat and ill-fitted suit. Dean’s always liked hugging Cas, but that usually has to do with the fact that his hugs are accompanied by a profound sense of relief at seeing Cas alive and well.

He was hugged twice by Cas recently, and even that felt like a lot.

It was hard to hug Cas before facing Amara; the way Cas clung to him made him feel like Cas was trying to delay him. It felt like a betrayal when he had to break free of Cas and pull away; he knew Cas wanted him to stay, and walking away was one of the most difficult things he’s done to date.

“I could go with you.”

Dean feels butterflies in his stomach.

When Cas hugged him after seeing he was alive in the bunker, Cas had this ridiculous face — Dean remembers that when Sam was really young, his face could only scrunch up in so many ways, so he’d be insanely happy to see Dean after a hunt and he’d come running up to Dean looking kind of furious, but only because his little kid face couldn’t articulate anything more nuanced.

Cas sort of looked that way when he hugged Dean — almost like he was furious to see Dean, but in shock too, and then he was in Cas’ vise-like grip and it was such a glad thing. 

Maybe Cas was feeling too much so it just showed up on his face like anger, like a kid that’s too happy and doesn’t know how to move their face yet.

Hugging Cas just because he can…

No image comes to mind, he’s fully cut off from even that.

He scrunches his eyes shut more tightly and tries and tries to imagine holding Cas’ hand, hugging him just because he’s there to hug — maybe even kissing him — but he keeps running into walls.

He opens his eyes and blows out a frustrated breath.

“Don’t be scared it won’t be perfect, nothin’ ever is — the only thing to be scared of is that it won’t be at all…”

“Okay,” he whispers to himself, “doesn’t have to be perfect… just has to be.”

He shuts his eyes again, gently this time, and moves one of his hands across his abdomen to touch the other, pretending it’s Cas’ hand.

It’s stupid, but — Dean freezes up. It’s like he’s suddenly forgotten how humans hold hands or something. 

His mind supplies him this semi-helpful image of Cas lying next to him on this bed, toying with his hand and fingers, watching him even as Dean keeps his eyes shut.

He traces his index finger down the length of his palm, imagining it’s Cas doing that, and then his hands are suddenly ticklish and he needs to shake out the pins and needles by rubbing his hands across his bedspread. 

He decides he doesn’t know what it might be like to hold Cas’ hand, and all he’s really discovered is that the idea of doing that makes him uncharacteristically nervous.

With his eyes still shut, he takes the second pillow out from under his head and curls onto his side; he wraps both his arms around it and curls into a mostly-fetal position, hugging the pillow and trying to put Cas there instead.

Since he’s hugged Cas recently, it isn’t hard to remember what it felt like for Cas’ arms to come around him, but Cas’ arms always go around his neck and shoulders — never around the waist. Which is a little ridiculous of him, because he’s slightly shorter than Dean, and it tugs Dean down just a smidge and it’s — cute. Which a many-feathered, thousand-eyed, ancient celestial wavelength shouldn’t be capable of being.

He curls his body in more tightly around the pillow, imagines the warm width of Cas’ broad hands smoothing up the sides of his nightshirt, holding him like lovers hold each other in bed.

‘Dean,’ he can practically hear the dreamt-up rumble of Cas’ deep voice, soft and inquisitive the way he is when they’re closer than necessity dictates and the night is surrounding them in secret.

Do you know what you want? Dean wonders, picking his head up out of the imagined crook of Cas’ neck so that he can imagine sharing air with him, their lips being close, do you know what I want? Can’t you just tell me? Or — show me? Just show me. Just give it to me so I don’t have to figure out how to ask…

Imaginary Cas’ hands start moving around on Dean, one pressing, almost massaging down toward Dean’s ass – he gasps without meaning to, hitches his leg up as if he could hook it up over Cas’ hip to draw him in closer, tighter.

Would you be hard? 

A thrill runs up Dean’s spine, imagining how Cas might gasp if Dean just rubbed up against him like this — he’s still pretty virginal, Dean could show him a thing or two. 

Dean’s stomach squirms pleasantly, like he’s fuckin’ fourteen years old or something.

He imagines Cas there, close enough to breathe in, how he might gasp, how he might sigh, not knowing what to expect next, at Dean’s mercy, trusting Dean to show him the meaning of Earthly pleasures — maybe Cas would let Dean fuck him.

Dean’s face is unbearably warm, but he turns over with the pillow anyway, putting it under him and imagining that his arms are criss-crossed beneath Cas’ back, and he grinds down on the mattress, hard and embarrassed and full of fucking butterflies.

I’m nearly forty, I’m way too old to be humping a mattress and pretending a pillow is my —

Boyfriend?

Everything about that is deeply embarrassing.

He imagines Cas under him, imagines being inside Cas, moving into him like this, holding him closely, how his face would wind up tucked into the space between Cas’ neck and shoulder — what would he whisper there?

Oh, Angel, oh, baby, you feel so good, sweetheart —

Groaning, Dean rubs his face further into the bed, trying to somehow outrun the writhing swarms of butterflies all over his body.

His mind offers him the hypothetical of Cas asking for more, pulling him aside on cases to kiss him when they stand in line for coffee or go to pick up dinner, to grab at him daringly when there’s the risk of getting caught in a government building, to feel at Dean whenever he wants to, just because he can, just because he knows Dean will let him.

Dean could be a good — boyfriend — ? — he thinks. 

Dean doesn’t have a ton of experience being a boyfriend; Cassie never exactly called him that in so many words, and Lisa seemed to veer away from the word, like any whisper of commitment might frighten Dean off like a skittish street cat.

Dean’s got loads more experience being a quick, anonymous, generally pretty vanilla lay between towns for women that didn’t ask too many questions and never expected more than a few hours.

There’s way tougher shit Dean’s figured out without any guidance, though, and being a boyfriend or partner or whatever — he could figure it out.

He’d share everything he’s got with Cas, he doesn’t mind that at all — in fact, usually, Dean wishes Cas would take more. More of Dean’s time, more of Dean’s space, more of Dean’s coffee and meals; the guy subsists off of scarce allusions to gratitude and then silent, blindingly grand gestures, with no in-between.

Cas never asks for anything, even though he should.

Dean could share his room with Cas, though, share his bed if Cas wanted to use it or just stay near him in it. He could wake up to Cas, circumvent victimizing Cas with his morning breath by kissing his hand, or his shoulder, or something.

Mornin’, Sunshine.

Maybe Cas would smile.

Maybe Cas would do that thing he sometimes does, where he makes Dean’s coffee while Dean’s getting ready for the morning.

Dean could kiss him for that, plant one on him with a sweet, ‘thanks, babe.’

He could let Cas ride up front with him in Baby.

You pick the music, Angel.

Sam would throw a fit about that.

Whatever. Spousal privileges.

Dean’s body locks up and his eyes snap open.

What the fuck? Do I wanna marry Cas? Am I out of my mind? I gotta stop this.

Shoving his pillow back where it belongs, Dean straightens out, flips onto his side, and angrily ignores how hard he is.

He grabs at his phone again and stares at his texts with Cas.

Cas isn’t a guy for stringing along; he may not even be a guy for dating.

Cas is the most important relationship of his life, regardless of what kind of relationship it is – platonic, romantic, familial, biblical — whatever.

Cas is too important to be a shitty boyfriend for. The only option, really, is to not fuck that up — their history is too intense, too long, too complicated, and Dean is never gonna land perfect ten’s. 

If Dean dates Cas, that’s the end of dating for Dean. It’s all or nothing; if he fucks it up irrevocably and loses Cas forever, his entire life is fucked for a multitude of reasons and he doubts he’d try again (it’s just too much effort, too much risk), but if it goes well…

If Dean were to kiss Cas, hold his hand, hug him whenever he wants just ‘cause he can, touch him in decidedly not-platonic ways, call Cas names like ‘honey,’ ‘baby,’ ‘sweetheart,’ ‘Angel,’ — it’s gonna be forever.

Dauntingly, Dean knows internally that he and Cas — if they could make it work — would be the end-all for each other.

It’s like Sam said — “...you guys are each other’s most important relationships… he’d stay with you until the End Days. Where else is Cas gonna be interested in going, right? He wants to be where you are…”

Cas isn’t human. He’s one of the few remaining sentinels of Heaven, crafted with divine purpose — Cas isn’t devout, he’s devotion. 

If he were a big enough idiot to choose Dean of all humans to stay with forever, to vow to keep in his charge until the universe completely unravels and everything fades to black, he’d do it with a fealty no human could really ever comprehend.

Cas wouldn’t budge, even if Dean just stayed his destructive, fucked-up self; Cas would plant a flag and just stay put, and Dean — Dean doesn’t know that he deserves that sort of thing.

He’s fucked up a lot.

A lot.

Dean’s not good for forever’s, anyway. He’s a drifter, transient even in his own life — what George and Doris have, that’s…

That sort of stuff just isn’t meant for someone like me, Dean tells himself, an impression of his father nodding along somewhere in the back of his mind, that’s the stuff other people get, people not in the Life, people whose fuck up’s are generally limited to lying and cheating, not dooming the world or failing innocents. That stuff is for people who get to grow old enough that they shrink and have any right left to ask someone to grow old next to them… and that’s not me.

That quickly kills whatever butterflies were still fluttering around in his gut and chest.

He doesn’t really fall asleep. He does that thing where he’s experiencing phantasmagoric snippets of unreality, but all while still feeling the scratchy pillowcase under his cheek, and being aware of his body and how it’s situated on the mattress.

Half-awake, he has these half-dreams about wearing rings with Cas, bringing Cas flowers, asking if Cas has ever listened to The Beach Boys, rutting against Cas in the dark, holding his hand under the table at meals, taking a mug of coffee from Cas’ hand in the morning and saying, ‘thanks, sweetheart,’ before kissing him on his lips.

He has half-nightmares where he fucks everything up, he yells and shouts, hurts himself, hurts Cas, lets his anger get the best of him, and he dreams of how he’d sit alone in the dark, drinking, too angry with himself and everything else to let Cas soothe him. And Cas would, given the chance.

Dean knows that well. 

Cas The Boyfriend would be even more dedicated to giving Dean comfort when he deserves it and wants it the least.

Dean would say shit like, ‘I keep trying not to be my fuckin’ father and I always am,’ and Cas would tell him shit like, ‘that isn’t true, you’re nothing like him.’ And he’d mean it. And Dean would — he’d hate it. And he’d love it and come to rely on it more than air or water or food and then he’d fuck up so badly, like he always does because he loves self-sabotage, and he’d eventually self-destruct so enormously that saying ‘sorry,’ couldn’t be enough and he’d lose Cas, or Cas would get hurt or killed on a hunt where Dean couldn’t help him or save him and Dean —

There are reasons not to tell him. There always have been, Dean tells the Dream-Doris floating around in his head like the Ghost of Valentine’s Past, I shouldn’t say anything. Even if he wanted it — even if he feels the same, and I don’t know that he does, I don’t know that he can, even, if Angels feel stuff like that — the risks are too much. The stakes are too high. I’m a good gambler, and I know when to walk. Getting involved with Cas like that is putting too much on the line. I’ve been selfish before, but this would really take the cake. I can’t do it. I shouldn’t. This stuff is for folks like you, not like me. Not me.

He half-dreams of Cas putting a hand on him to heal him of something and Dean could just lean in and start kissing him, pushing Cas into the soft grass of a graveyard and putting his tongue in Cas’ mouth, swallowing the happy, thunder-rumbles that might erupt from Cas’ throat and chest, telling him, ‘I might be in love with you,’ ‘Doris seems trustworthy, George said she’s got a knack for this kind of thing and Sam thinks it looks like love, I think it might be love,’ ‘you make me nauseous in a not-bad way and I can’t explain it better than that,’ ‘you should touch me more,’ ‘you should get closer – I know I always tell you to back up, but you shouldn’t, I don’t actually want you to,’ ‘I wanna touch you more, I wanna be allowed to, even when neither of us are bleeding,’ ‘I’m gonna hurt you,’ ‘I’m no good for this sorta thing,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘I love you.’

By morning, Dean’s heart aches where it’s undoubtedly yearning, his dick aches where he’s refused to touch, and his jaw aches from keeping it clenched and grinding his teeth through the night.

Sam, wisely, doesn’t say anything about the bags under Dean’s eyes, but he watches Dean worriedly while they pack up the car. 

They stop at a diner for a quick breakfast before hitting the road back home, Dean puts down three mugs of black coffee knowing full well that he’s going to pay for that unpleasantly in roughly three hours, and Sam does him the kindness of only asking if he ever got to sleep, and not whether he considered all that they’d spoken about.

Dean shrugs, tells him, “eh, enough,” in response about how much sleep he got, and then they’re on the road.

Sam reads for a while, they talk here and there but mostly drive in their familiar, companionable silence, and as soon as Dean’s black coffees have moved through his entire body, he stops for a bathroom break and to get some gas.

Dean’s on a toilet at a Gas ‘n Sip, elbow on his thigh, head in his hand, nearly nodding off when his phone buzzes near his ankle. He grabs it out of his jean pocket and blearily looks at the display screen to see that Cas has texted him.

Cas: Hello [waving hand emoji] how is the drive going? [car emoji] [eyes emoji]

Smiling sleepily, Dean thinks to himself, it’s cute that you’re checking in on me. It’s not like, strictly romantic or whatever, friends check up on each other, but… this is cute of you… with your stupid emojis ‘n shit.

Dean: never got out of bed. Wont be home for another 5 days u will unfortunately be stuck w my mother and idk if im ever coming back

Cas: False [person making ‘x’ with their arms emoji] you left roughly three hours ago. [clock emoji] [eye-roll emoji]

Dean: what did u check in w Sam before me or something?

Cas: I don’t need to text Sam to know where you are. I can sense you within 500 miles of me. [content emoji] Your soul is big, bright, loud, and smells familiar. [happy emoji] [Sun emoji] [megaphone emoji] [nose emoji] If I tune into your frequency, I can usually figure out precisely where you are. [map emoji] [red pin emoji] All I can tell right now is that you are within 200 miles of me, and you have stopped. [stop sign emoji]

Okay, being familiar with my soul and using that as a Find My Friends app is kind of weird. Bordering on too much. Kind of romantic too, though, because I’m also sick in the head that way. The shit about my soul is always romantic, though. Do you mean it that way? Do you know how it sounds when you tell me shit like that?

Cas: Also, I don’t like texting Sam. Sam is boring. I don’t text Sam. [thumbs down emoji]

Overly tired, Dean folds in half to shake with laughter; he’s glad that Sam and Cas get along well enough, nothing shy of that would’ve worked anyway, but it’s sometimes insanely delighting to have Cas remind him that Dean is, however nonsensically, his favorite.

Dean: ur fuckin funny, Cas. we’ll be home soon. Maybe 4 more hours? We stopped for gas and the bathroom.

Cas: Okay [content emoji]. You need to drink more water. [water emoji]

Dean cringes, laughs again and decides not to tell Cas that the emoji he used could be misconstrued. 

Dean: i don’t need to drink more water im fine

Cas: You need to drink more water. [angry emoji]

Dean: we didnt even stop bc of me! The bathroom was for Sam!

Cas: I feel very sure that is a lie.

Dean: no emoji?

Cas: [frowning, side-eye emoji]

Dean: ur being an idiot

Cas: I am being practical and helpful. [triumph emoji] You needing better water intake and currently being stopped at a gas station right now are almost certainly related truths. [cocked brow emoji]

Dean: remember when i was novel and u used to be impressed by me

Cas: Your novelty has not lost its shine, and I am always impressed by you. [red heart emoji]

Dean starts to smile shyly at his phone, like some idiot in love. 

Which he may be.

Cas: Like now, I am impressed that you remain obstinate and contrarian when I’m telling you something as benign as ‘you need more water, in general.’ [eye-roll emoji]

Dean: u need ur phone taken from u

Cas: Get one of those big water bottles from the gas station. Or a sports drink. You could use more electrolytes too. [shrugging emoji]

Dean: omg FINE

Cas: [smiling Angel emoji]

Dean stops by the rows of cold drinks on his way out and gets an oversized Gatorade before checking out, then he climbs back into the driver’s seat of Baby with a sigh.

“You okay?” Sam asks with a smirk.

“Yeah, just lost a lot of weight suddenly.”

“Gross.”

“Y’know when you come out of there, like, tired? Like, you just ran a marathon?”

“Okay, thank you, Dean, I got it —”

“You asked me if I was okay, I’m tryna tell you I was fighting for my life in there, and now suddenly this isn’t a ‘safe space,’ anymore —”

“Dean, you’re gross!” Sam laughs, shaking his head and clipping his seatbelt on, “shut up! I just noticed you had a sports drink and that’s weird of you!”

“Cas says I need to drink more water, but a sports drink would suffice because I apparently also need more electrolytes.”

“Cas is right, you do need to drink more water.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, buckling in himself, “see, this know-it-all attitude is why Cas doesn’t text you.”

“What?”

Laughing heartily, Dean just puts Baby into drive and gets going.

Once they’re back on the road, Sam furthers Dean’s growing concern that Sam has some form of undiagnosed ADHD because the energy drink he puts down only makes him fall asleep, and for the last leg of the trip home, Dean is very much alone with his thoughts.

Dean has never liked being alone with his thoughts. Comparatively, Dean thinks it’s not unlike leaving a normal person alone with a lot of pissed off grizzly bears that personally hate them.

He doesn’t nod off at the wheel, but he blinks slowly, and every time he does, all he sees behind his eyelids is Cas; Cas in memory, when he’s being a little bit of a bitch, when he’s funny, when he’s both of those things at once, when he aggressively uses air quotations, when he tells Dean he doesn’t understand that reference , when he spins his Angel blade before gripping the handle, when he glows holy and bright, when he smiles brilliantly with his eyes but only just barely with his mouth.

There’s Cas from his nightmares where he’s horrendously disappointed in Dean, where he’s angry, where he’s wounded and wondering where he fell short or why he wasn’t enough when that’s not the issue at all. The Cas of his nightmares withdraws, cringes away from Dean’s touch, won’t meet Dean’s eyes, won’t stay longer than he’s needed, but tells Dean that Dean deserves to be happy, that Dean deserves space and time to heal, that he’s not angry with Dean (even thought he should be) – sometimes worse than all that is Nightmare Cas telling Dean he’s sorry when Dean’s the one who’s fucked everything up.

Then there are visions of Cas from his dreams, where Cas is handsy with him, murmurs Dean’s name like it tastes good on his tongue, where he gets under the covers in Dean’s bed at night and reads while Dean sleeps with his head against Cas’ hip, where he hands a mug of coffee off to Dean in the morning and expects a kiss for his efforts because Dean spoils him with affection, as if Dean is capable of that kind of thing. 

Dream Cas sits shotgun in Baby, watches Dean watch the road; he insists Dean drink more water, kisses him when he slides back into Baby after stopping in a store or gas station. Dream Cas picks a lot of Taylor Swift to listen to and Dean pretends like he minds, even though he knows Cas can tell he enjoys it. 

Dream Cas alludes to giving Dean road-head because he has absolutely no shame and no sense of boundaries or societal expectations. Dream Cas scrapes dull nails up and down the back of Dean’s neck while he drives, turning his bones to liquid, making the drive feel longer, but more relaxing somehow.

None of these half-formed thoughts offer much in the way of clarity, but they make him feel good and floaty, and they’re all so fully colored and inspired that all of them start to feel like memories, despite most of them being outright fabrications.

Things wouldn’t be perfect with Cas, they’d fight still, they’d do stupid shit and make mistakes, but they’d probably have a lot of fun too, and Dean knows he’d laugh a lot. He always laughs with Cas.

Dean’s not sure he’s ever had that certainty of joy with anyone before.

He drives and dreams while awake.

Once they’re back at the bunker, Sam clambers out of the car like a newborn giraffe, stretching with loudly cracking joints, and Dean just about falls out of the driver’s seat, then shuffles like he’s geriatric all the way to the trunk to get his duffel.

Sam is behind him by a few steps, grabbing his own bag out of the trunk a few beats after Dean, and Dean’s yawning, internally going over all the maintenance he’ll have to do for Baby tomorrow when the door to the garage opens and at the top of the stairs, Cas is waiting.

“Hello, Dean,” he greets happily.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean mumbles, leaning up to kiss Cas’ lips.

He steps to the side of Cas, thinking nothing of the nearly violent silence left in his wake, and heads to the showers.

He drops his duffel off in the laundry room but doesn’t bother unpacking anything yet – he’s way too tired. He undresses while the water heats up in the shower, then once he gets in there, he really takes his time washing off the travel grime, standing there and just letting the hot water roll over him for a while too. 

Being in a moving vehicle that long can sometimes kill his appetite, so he’s not actually hungry, he’s just really excited to get into his bed. He’ll be starving in the morning, but that’s a Tomorrow Dean Problem. 

With eyes barely open, he brushes his teeth, nearly falls over stepping into fresh pajamas and sees no one on his way to his room, which is for the best really, because he’s dead on his feet and doesn’t want to socialize.

Dean gets under his covers, turns off his bedside lamp, and gets comfy, rubbing his legs together like a cricket before settling in and sinking into his pillow —

His eyes squint open into the darkness.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Dean kissed him.

Jackknifing off the bed, Dean scrambles for his lamp to turn his light on and he stares at his door in abject horror like someone will be already waiting there, staring at him in disapproval.

Cas said, ‘hello, Dean,’ and Dean, half-dreaming already, having spent a full twenty-four hours awake, consumed by thoughts of romance and Cas, just stepped up and kissed him on the fucking mouth — Sam saw it! Sam was in the room!

Dean’s heart is thudding so hard he thinks he may puke.

Wide awake now, Dean gets out of bed, slowly approaches his door, and opens it warily, possibly frightened that everyone he’s ever known will be standing outside to ask him what in the fuck he just did.

He finds no one there.

He steps into the hall and hears running water — Sam is showering.

He passes the kitchen and sees Mary, looking tired herself, sitting at the table with a mug of something warm.

“Hey,” Dean utters weakly, glancing around erratically, “uh — you seen Cas?”

“No,” Mary answers, “Sam said he was ‘experiencing an error.’ I … don’t know what that means, and I didn’t ask.”

“... right,” Dean replies, face hot, “that – I think I know where to go. Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Without much more thought, Dean heads to the garage, and, despite maybe two hours having passed since his arrival home, Cas is standing in the threshold to the garage, right where Dean last saw him.

He stares at Cas’ back nervously.

“... uh… Cas?”

Cas doesn’t move.

Of course I’d do this, Dean thinks to himself, wanting to punch his own stupid, overheated face, I’m such an idiot, this is — of course it would happen like this. I swear up and down that I’m not gonna do anything about it, I’m not gonna talk about it, I’m not gonna make any moves and I —

He kissed Cas.

He wonders why Cas didn’t hit him or something.

Cas wouldn’t do that, Dean thinks to himself, you do shit like that. Cas wouldn’t hit someone for kissing him. Well — maybe Crowley. Or Sam, apparently.

“Cas?” Dean asks again, cautiously rounding Cas to get a look at something other than the back of his head, “... you, uh… you okay, bud?”

When there’s still no reply, Dean walks around Cas until they’re standing face-to-face again, and Dean figures that if Cas’ life is indeed flashing before his unblinking eyes, it’s a long life, and may take a while to be done flashing.

“... Cas?”

Once Dean is in front of Cas, Cas’ eyes sharpen and snap to his, making Dean’s heart leap into his throat.

To Dean, it does sort of appear that there’s a multitude of things going on in Cas’ eyes, though he can’t make heads or tails of any of it from the outside of Cas’ head.

“H-Hey there, pal,” Dean stutters nervously, putting his hands in his novelty pajama bottom pockets, “there’s… uh. So… about earlier…”

He has no idea how to finish that sentence.

About earlier, sorry for planting one on you, big guy, I just haven’t slept in an eon and spent so much of the last twenty-four hours imagining being fuckin’ husbands with you that I forgot where and who I was for a hot second and kissed you on the mouth! In front of my brother! With no warning!

Blood pressure on the rise, Dean’s right hand goes to his forehead to rub worriedly; he shuts his eyes, sighs, embarrassed, aggravated, apologetic and with no idea where to start.

“Cas, listen —”

Before Dean can get more than that out, Cas is grabbing his face with both hands, around the mandible, and maintaining eye-contact with him when he closes in and kisses Dean.

Dean’s heart bumps so hard, there’s a reverb through his entire body, and Cas — Cas knows to shut his eyes for a kiss, but it’s like he’s keeping his eyes open to force Dean to reckon with the fact that Cas knows what he’s doing, and he’s doing it on purpose.

Dean’s not sure why, but he thinks he may cry if he keeps looking into Cas’ eyes — the kiss is nice, it’s gentle, Cas’ lips are plush, soft, dry, and Dean’s nauseous in that weird, exciting type of way, and Cas is looking at him with that insane, contradictory angry-happy expression.

“Dean,” Cas rumbles against his lips, and it’s very nearly precisely how Dean imagined it the night before; Cas’ searching eyes rove back and forth between Dean’s, “... sweetheart.”

A hot flash bursts across Dean’s skin, from his scalp to his toes, and some pathetic noise comes out of his throat, then Cas is pushing Dean further down the steps into the garage; Dean grabs hold of Cas’ forearms and walks backwards to keep from falling, but that doesn’t exactly serve him much, because he winds up being pressed back onto Baby’s hood.

Cas half-crawls on top of him, caging him in, draping them both under the expanse of his trench coat like Batman’s cloak.

“Dean,” Cas repeats lowly, pressing down to kiss Dean’s lips again, shutting his eyes now, “sweetheart…”

“I —” Dean’s so fucking embarrassed, he doesn’t know why Cas keeps repeating that other than that Sam might be right and Cas is experiencing some sort of coding error.

Dean means to fight him a little bit at least, he means to stop Cas and make them talk, because he’s got no idea what either of them are doing, but he just winds up looping his arms around Cas’ neck, shutting his eyes, and spreading his legs to better accommodate Cas.

Groaning appreciatively, Cas presses down harder against him, slipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth and — he’s a good kisser.

Dean gets hard and dizzy fast, and to his dismay, tears slide out of the corners of his eyes, and down the sides of his face.

Cas’ broad hands hold his face still, calloused thumbs brushing back and forth over his cheeks; Dean’s at his mercy, compelled to kiss him back, unable to consider any other option.

Cas is imposing above him; he’s one, long slab of muscle and restraint, but his face is warm like Dean’s is, his breathing is a little labored, his hands are shaking minutely, and he’s hard against Dean.

Would he fuck me, right here on Baby’s hood?

Images flash in the theater of Dean’s mind and he gasps, which very unfortunately makes Cas withdraw.

They stare at each other; Dean pants and wonders at how blown Cas’ pupils are.

“Say it again,” Cas tells him.

There’s really not enough blood in Dean’s skull, because it takes him a few seconds to understand the request, as if he’s forgotten absolutely everything other than the feel of Cas’ tongue on his.

“... hey, sweetheart,” Dean whispers back.

Cas’ hands flex and sort of twitch around Dean’s face.

Cas moves in to kiss him again, and Dean, panicked, crying, heart jumping around his entire torso like an excited rabbit, just blurts out, “I love you.”

Everything is so fucking stupid — as soon as Dean’s said it out loud to him, he knows exactly how he means it, and he’s going to fly apart at a molecular level.

Pausing above him, Cas’ eyes snap to Dean’s — they’re nearly all pupil.

“... it’s… no one’s said it, and I… it’s — I can’t — I won’t be able to, uh — I’m bad at the —”

I love you, I’m in love with you, of course I am, of course I’m fucking in love with you — that’s why Amara couldn’t have me. It’s why no one else can fucking have me, it’s because you have me, I’m too busy being yours to be anyone else’s and that’s been going on for years, I think, and it’s occurring to me now that how much I fucking love you has been saving me and Sam and the entire fucking world over and over again. That’s how big it is, that’s how much you mean to me, it’s everything, it’s the entire universe, it’s all of me, and all of me is so fucked up and gross and stupid, but the part of me that’s you, and loving you — that part is perfect the way it is, and that’s… 

“There — there are reasons not to,” Dean’s voice is shaking, “there are reasons not to do this, Cas. I… I had a whole list of reasons this is a bad idea and I can’t remember any of them…”

Cas lowers himself so their noses bump, his lips ghost over Dean’s and Dean’s mouth waters excitedly.

“Dean. Sweetheart,” Cas mumbles again, audibly breathing Dean in, “... I love you.”

Eyes squeezing shut, more tears slip out and Dean wants to get away, but he’s seriously stuck under Cas and can’t.

“You’re — I can’t even tell if you’re on this planet, man, are you just repeating whatever I say?” Dean opens his eyes again to look at Cas, to search him, “can you just — say something, so I know you’re — here?”

“I’m glad you’re home,” Cas answers, eyes shining now, “I miss you when we’re apart. I feel euphoric. I would like to keep kissing you, Dean.”

“You — so, you want — this?”

“I have wanted you before there was such a thing as desire, Dean,” Cas murmurs, lips moving against Dean’s as he speaks, “I will want you still when there is no desire left in all the universe. I love you.”

“You never — why didn’t you say anything?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“... I was scared.”

“That’s alright,” Cas tells him, tears sitting on the lips of his eyes, “I’m also frightened.”

Dean sits with that for a moment, he and Cas watching each other, teary-eyed and lovesick idiots.

“Okay,” Dean says, pulling on Cas to bring him back in for another kiss, “okay, sweetheart. We’ll be scared together… that sound good?”

“Dean,” Cas nearly whines, moving against Dean in a way that makes Dean’s breath catch, “... it sounds perfect.”

As Dean kisses and gropes at and grinds against Cas, he knows what Doris meant by it not being perfect — this is happening because he arrived home in such a state of exhaustion that he mindlessly kissed his best friend on the mouth, gave said best friend some sort of 404 crisis, and now his back aches, he’s fucking crying, his hands have no idea where to go, he’s hard and doesn’t know how far he wants to go or how fast, and this is bound to be messy, insane, ill-advised, and dangerous, with Cas.

It’s not perfect the way people imagine perfection, but it is perfect. It’s perfect because it is at all.

The way Cas’ mouth keeps veering off Dean’s lips to kiss his eyes, his cheeks, his ears, his neck and jaw, muttering over and over, “I love you,” “sweetheart,” “Dean,” — the way their bodies move together, the way their breathing syncs up even as the breaths themselves stutter clumsily, the way this feels like the most at home Dean has ever come — that’s perfect.

It won’t be perfect, because nothing ever is, but — it is. It is, it is, and so it’s perfect.