Archive of Our Own

When everything ends, they start again.

An end might be an overstretch, seeing how they’re all here, after all. It’s fair to say it’s the end of several ends, spanning four decades of being in the flesh for Dean. Good, that’s good. It’s a start, in all ways of speaking, that he’s thinking of this as a beginning and not the way to another end. 

 It’s quiet at first, incredibly so, as if they are muslin stretches of fabric soaking in whatever silence they can, while they can. Content sighs every time they sit together at the kitchen table, lips softening into smiles when they pass each other in the corridors, pats on the back and pecks on the forehead. The TV nights are the loudest, as they are. There’s the dialogue, then there’s Sam nuzzling into Eileen, her nails scraping and scratching his scalp in slow strokes. Dean sees this. Sees Sam not breaking the fence he’s inside, but instead letting Eileen in. Kid’s always been smart. Jack never knows when to giggle or gasp, but he does so in infrequent intervals. That’s good too, great even. Dean could get used to the sound of that. Wants that, if he’s being honest and perhaps a little greedy. And there’s the seven inches of space between Dean and Cas screaming to be filled. It does, shortly, when the snacks come out and the packet of beef jerky is placed strategically between the only two people in the bunker who eat them. Then there’s the chewing, the crunching, the swallowing. The credits roll, and there are yawns, whispered goodnights and four doors clicking shut. 

Dean has quite grown to appreciate it, although it does seem a bit of a drag some days. But after decades of gunshots and blades slicing through skin, after a series of never ending cosmic consequences, a static silence is nice.

It’s quiet, and it’s not the quiet of mourning, so it’s nice.

Then one morning, the bacon’s sizzling, and toaster pops, and the drip of coffee is accompanied by Dean humming along with Robert Johnson through the tinny speaker on his phone. He’s alone, an apron hugging his torso, and Dean doesn’t see Sam walking in and sitting on the bench.

Dean’s not singing, not really, just murmuring along, “See my baby, tell her, Tell her hurry home, had no lovin', since my baby been gone,” and Sam joins in, “See my baby, Tell hurry on ho-ome” , making Dean turn around and grin.

In a mutual unsaid agreement, the next line is louder, together.

“I ain't had, Lord, my right mind, Since my rider's been gone.”

Dean laughs, but Sam’s belting it out, teeth-wide-on-display smile on his face all the while, and he wiggles his eyebrow. Dean turns around, scrambling the eggs in the pan and they sing.

Dean is turning off the stove when Sam pitches his voice lower and goes “Why don't you come into my kitchen?” at Jack, who is followed by Eileen who has her eyebrows twisted in amusement. Dean goes higher, almost a falsetto, “She's a kind hearted lady. She studies evil all the time. She's a kindhearted woman. She studies evil all the time” and winks at Eileen making her snort, Jack makes a weird sound of glee.  

But then Cas comes in, scratching his jaw, looking absolutely wrecked with grogginess, with slits for eyes and mouth a little agape, and Dean stops. He has to stop. There’s this, okay, see, Cas is a good looking dude, right? That’s a fact. He’s built up over the years, and he’s got nice blue eyes and Dean can appreciate a square jaw and sharp nose if he wants to. That’s okay. But. 

Cas ain’t a fucking model walking the ramp. Not right now. Right now he’s walking into the kitchen and he has a blue robe secured too tight for Dean’s taste around his waist, leaving a V of chest that ends right where his chest starts. One of his pajama legs is drooping around his ankles. His hair, jesus fuck, it’s a fucking mess, like a tangled spool of yarn curling around the ends and some fucking how spiky at the top right. He looks ridiculous, probably the only person other than Eileen to be as comfortable presenting himself just the way he is after waking up. Dean thinks, not singing anymore- he knows he won’t be able to if he tries, if he weren’t Dean, he’d have laughed at Cas for looking so ridiculous. ‘Cause he does. Looks ridiculous, with his hair a mess, his clothes and the very noticeable absence of them a mess, his face too, damn it. Cas is so fucking ridiculous it makes Dean’s throat tight.

“Squeeze my lemon 'til the juice runs down my leg, squeeze it so hard, I'll fall right out of bed

Squeeze my lemon, 'til the juice runs down my leg, I wonder if you know what I'm talkin' about.”

Sam fills in for him while he plates the food, his voice smudged with a hint of silliness he hadn’t thought he’d ever seen in anyone in his family. Dean fills the coffee mugs, and when the music ends, pockets his phone.

It’s suddenly not quiet, something shifting, something better than just nice, and leaning on the countertop, Dean smiles at his family. Jack is telling Eileen about some youtube channel he’s gotten into, and Sam and Cas are listening in. Then Sam says something, fingers twisting into shapes and the four of them burst into laughter. Dean swallows the last of his coffee, and asks, “So. Who’s gonna come with me for the beer-run?”

“Me!” Jack shouts in response almost before he’s finished.

“We leave at ten, then.”

At seven minutes past ten, when he reaches the Impala, Jack is already there. And so is Cas. Wearing his clothes, trenchcoat ‘n all, thank god. Whatever that means. 

Cas smiles. “Jack said it’d be okay if I joined you two.”

It’s more than okay. “Sure dude. Get in.” 

...

Okay, so. Let’s get to it. Dean Winchester is in love with his best friend. What a cliché.

No. Dean Winchester is in love with the ex-angel of a douchebag lord: wings, halo, harp, okay, maybe not the harp, who is now a practicing human extraordinaire, but yeah. The whole deal.  Not so banal now, is it? 

He doesn’t have a word that establishes the magnitude of what he feels, and language is constricting like that. But yeah, perhaps, love will do. It’s difficult for him to say it though, not when he has only failed the people he has admitted to loving out loud. Sounds like a shitty teenage romance flick, but when you break it down to the basics, aren’t the teens right? Like, isn’t it a thing with him? It is. Wasn’t that Chuck’s whole deal? Exactly. Maybe that bastard’s stint with Becky messed up his writing, or maybe he just was a shitty writer. Who gives a damn? It all narrows down to this result, amongst many others: Dean can love but he can’t say it. 

But now? When he sees Eileen smack Sam on his giant forehead making him grin dopily, Dean wants to tell her he loves her. When Sam makes a mock pout moose face when Dean tells him to shower before entering the kitchen, he wants to call out an obnoxious “love you” at the end. When Jack sits with him, just sits there, Dean wants the kid to know he loves him. When Claire texts him a “Take care old man ;)”, Dean wants to send back a “love you” with the usual “you too.”

When he looks at Cas stirring honey in his coffee, he wants to say I love you. When Cas tilts his head he wants to hold his face in between his hands and tell him, Cas, I love you. When Cas smiles at Dean’s bad jokes when everyone else groans, Dean wants to climb on top of him and head butt him like a cat and whisper, I have never loved someone the way I love you in his ear. When Cas tries to make a joke, when Cas’ words are soaked in snark, when Cas starts explaining the cause of a historical event like a story, or why earthworms exist, his clasped hands moving as he narrates and indulges Jack and Sam, while Eileen and he share eye rolls, Dean wants to huff I love this nerd. When Cas looks at him like he is worthy of love, and not any ordinary love, Cas’ love, Dean wants to say, to promise, I love you, too. 

It’s easier now, somehow, this acceptance, and Dean wants to cling to this feeling. It’s freeing, and it’s addicting, and at the same time- very unfamiliar. For one, he doesn’t know where to start. He’s a ceremonious guy like that, and he- 

He doesn’t know.

The thing is, Dean probably could churn up some declaration. It’s not that hard. He’s probably done it a coupla times, been honest in his own way, and hell, Cas of all people deserves his honesty. But, there’s always a fucking But. 

See, the thing is, Dean is just a guy, and not the best of them. And Cas is, well, he’s not ‘just some guy.’ He’s Cas. And he ain’t sure if Cas would appreciate precise reciprocation, summoning a suicidal deal for something as stupid as happiness. Fuckin’ hypocrite.

If he angles his thoughts a little further, Dean doesn’t know what he wants to tell Cas. He had so much to say and now he doesn’t know. There’s always been this giant monster between them, and it has chewed and spit both of them half a dozen times already. He’s not afraid of this monster, not really, because Cas has a ridiculously bad taste, but he keeps what he loves. Throughout deaths, re-births, boughs of unfaithfulness, he keeps, he loves, and he doesn’t, that fucking idiot, he doesn’t give up once . 

Dean has. Given up, that is. It’s just easier to be a hamster on a wheel, ya know, as much as he has fought against the direction. After forty odd years that feel like centuries, you tend to get used to it. He doesn’t like to think about it too hard, would rather not at all if he could, but he’s just not wired like that. You just fight and fight and keep fighting for something, and when you  get it, you realize you never took time to think about what you would do with your win. You never learnt how to make the win count. Dean doesn’t want his trophy to gather dust. There’s something about the win this time, something that unearthed only after he spat out and rubbed his gums clean of tar, only after Jack stirred slow and flexed his fist, and confirmed that He was gone, that gives this one an air of permanence. The hunts haven’t stopped, but it’s about time they did. So, with a win so big, Dean can’t settle into a warm sleep and let it rust along with the guns and blades.  

 Cas could help him, if Dean lets him, because if there’s one thing made clear, it’s that the guy fucking nails being free willed. There’s gotta be a start, though. An opening Dean could take, because trust him or not, he really could use some help. Could being the keyword here, because despite everything, despite all the affirmations and promises made, Dean still doesn’t will himself quite so often to simply take. It’d be easier if he were a can-do kinda guy, instead. Well, could is as possible as it gets for a loser like him in love with Mr. Constantine in beige, as it turns out.

The trenchcoat from the Empty, heavy with slick and sagging on his shoulders, went straight in the can, along with Dean’s three shirts and Claire’s two. Dean remembers Jack shaking his head like a wet puppy, a pout and visible disgust as he cleaned himself shiny. There is a trench coat somewhere in Cas’ room, but it’s not the trench coat Dean kept in his car all those years ago.  Dude’s got a dealer somewhere, which Dean hadn’t given a thought before, and that sure says something about the pickle they were in, because Cas’ every speck was a sharp stinging detail he committed to memory, even when the air was greying.

 He sees the coat for what it is, a habit, much like his: three layers of the cheapest shirts that are just thick enough to be useful. Cas too, dresses up differently now, a wannabe Winchester attire, if you will. Shirts too big if they are Sam’s, a little tight around the chest and his arms, buttons over the stomach just ready to pop off if they belong to Dean. Dean doesn’t like him wearing Sam’s clothes though, and Cas wearing his just-a-bit-small-on-him shirts is outright indecent. Additionally, if he had a style statement so, uhm, iconic all this time, why flannel and denim now?

 So they go shopping. 

It’s just the two of them, Dean makes sure. He’s onto something, he doesn’t really know what, but nevertheless, they leave a little after noon. Cas is in one of his grey henleys, and Sam’s shirt over it. His jeans stretch almost impossibly tight around his thighs, threads struggling to keep it together. If Dean’s tongue makes home at the roof of his mouth, then that’s on Cas, for sure. 

...

Dean helps Cas choose. Shirts. T-shirts. Jeans that fit, slacks, two pairs of sweatpants. A blue and a maroon tie, just because. Cas ushers him to the far end of the shop and holds two eccentric sweaters drooping from plastic hangers.

Dean laughs, “Aw hell no, Cas. For you?” 

Cas’ forehead shrinks. “Yes.”

“You wanna get these?”

“Should I not?”

No, obviously, Dean wants to say. But does he really? Sure, he is used to Cas draped in a coat too big for him, and sure he’d rather not get out of his comfort zone if he can, but Cas deserves having what he wants. A better alternative, or, maybe an improved version of the trench coat. Something that he likes, that he likes because, not in spite . 

Cas has bad taste, sure, but Dean wants to let him have whatever he wants. Whatever he thinks he can never have.

Everything, perhaps.

“Sure you should. Gotta tell you though, shitty taste.” Dean scrunches his nose in a way that clarifies there's no contempt, and Cas narrows his eyes, taking the playfulness in stride.

“I quite like my taste, thank you.”

He must have meant it simply about the sweaters, or he meant other things as well, but Dean notices. See, this is what Dean meant by noticing and analyzing, then less guiltily than he should, over-analyzing every breath Cas takes. He probably notices him noticing, and adds, angel that he is, “Which one of these though? I can’t choose.”

“Then don’t.” Dean says, taking both sweaters from him and throwing them in the basket. 

Cas beams, and yeah. Dean’s gonna give him everything, if he lets him. 

“D’you wanna grab some burgers?”

...

Cas drums his fingers along the pane of Baby’s pane, not in sync with the low thrum of music. He does that these days, now that he’s one of them non celestial apes. He circles the rim of coffee mugs, taps his foot when he’s watching TV, chews his bottom lip when he’s thinking, flexes his fingers when he walks. These ways, the uncertain way he’s human, that Dean has seen in many but never watched for, feel like a fist to the gut. Then he remembers the alternative, and the same fist caresses his ribs. He doesn’t tell Cas though, that he sees how his body is constantly moving, among many other things he wants him to figure out on his own. Dean simply drives, further into the town than they usually go, until the silence simmers into comfort. And it does, as always.

.

Hollie’s looks like a known joint from the buzz it has got going at two in the afternoon. The seats are cheap lemon yellow leather covered couches, and singular booths for not more than two people. Dean thinks of getting one of the latter, but decides against it when he spots a good seat by the window in the far right of the room. 

He doesn’t think about his hand on the small of Cas’ back, guiding him towards their seat. His palm feels like it fits where it’s placed, and Dean doesn’t think about how he could pull his hand away when they sit so that his ploy is inconspicuous. They’ve been going back and forth, touches always convoluted, but every brush feels intentional, illegal. He doesn’t think about how he’d like to sit with his arm folded into that awkward angle just to have his palm press absently atop Cas’ back. For a follow up thought, he doesn’t think Damn that’s gay, nor does he recoil in panic. This is stupid, it’s something he has done, for almost as long as he’s known him; being as close as they are, it’s kinda unavoidable, but still. He’s baffled at himself that he’s going chicken now, when this is, well, what he wants to be a-

Y’know. A date.

The separation of his palm, not sweaty thankyouverymuch, with Cas’ flannel-covered back is not as ceremonious as the gears in Dean’s head made ‘em out to be, but Dean realizes the distance immediately. His hands are suddenly grasping at air, checking his pockets, clenching into a loose fist under the table, but Cas is sitting across from him, captivated by the menu already.

This is familiar territory. Dean feeding Cas, especially now that he’s started to appreciate food for what it is, and not amused by abstract collections of facts about human intricacies meddling with need. Cas has a thing with textures and flavors, as is with Jack. He’ll help himself to seconds, and on one occasion, thirds, when the sauce of gravy or meat is soft on the tongue, but just last week he scraped his fork across the flat of his plate because the charred chicken recipe didn’t go so well with him. He likes vegetables on his plate when they’re included in the dish, and makes the same scowl as Dean when Sam eats baby carrots and kale and other filthy food just because. He likes having choices, and he’s rather adventurous in his palate, if you ask Dean, for all he’s picky in his taste for. 

When the waiter appears, Ivy, their name tag reads, Cas orders a club sandwich sans tomatoes, and Dean orders the burger of the day, and fries to go with, obviously. 

“You sure you don’t want fries?”

“Yeah.”

Dean raises his eyebrows comically at Ivy, who smirks back. “The meatloaf here is,” they bring their pinched fingers to their lips, and blow a kiss, “mwah!”

“Then we’ll have the mwah-loaf too,” Dean grins at both of them, “Cas, you sure you don’t want fries? Are you really sure?”

“That’ll be all, thanks.” Cas smiles at them, and when Ivy leaves with a glint in their eyes and a curt nod, immediately snaps his head at Dean to glare at him. “What was that for?”

“What! I was just asking. ”

“Asking?”

“Mm hmm,” Dean nods, mock serious, but Cas looks aggravated, the twitching of his lips giving away an insecurity Dean knows too damn well. Dread rises like dam water under him.  “Hey, I was- That was okay, right? I wasn’t-”

Cas holds the hand Dean has encircled his wrist with, which, when did that happen, and sighs. “I know you’re joking, Dean. Just, sometimes. You know?”

He knows Cas, the way he talks, deadpan and dry and too sincere for his own good. But then again, he doesn’t know Cas . He doesn’t- didn’t- know Cas felt. Could feel, at all. All the things he’s said, all through the decade they’ve closed on, never once did it gnaw on Dean if Cas was affected by the stuff he told him, the thoughts he let out. Assumption is a funny bitch, Dean’ll give her that. 

Because the dude feels, and so much it’s frightening, but Dean wants to not be the Dean he himself doesn’t like. He wants to be the Dean Dean thinks Cas should love. He wants to be a better, newer attire. A soft sweater, ridiculously colored but well worn, soft and comforting. 

Maybe, Dean figures, it’s a conundrum. He knows, he doesn’t know. It’s just Cas, but it’s Cas. Still, it doesn’t help to assume, as established multiple times already. So he gives himself a chance.

Sandwiching Cas’ hand holding his with his other hand, Dean, and it’s taking a lot out of him, says, “I will if you tell me.”

Cas looks at their joined hands, and without raising his eye, says, “It’s harder to feel like I’m one of you, even more so now than before.” He stops, but Dean figures he’s not done yet. He squeezes Cas’ palm just so, skin soft in his, and Cas huffs a laugh. “Angels, they thought of humans lowly. You know I’m not, um, I don’t remember a lot from before, but there are things that I... do. Sam says I don’t have to- uh. Talk about it if I don’t want to.”

 Dean hums. “You don’t wanna?”

“Not really, not now, at least. Now, I just want to be-,” he pauses, chuckling, “normal, I guess. Fitting in, with you and Sam and Eileen, and Ivy.”

There’s a pause, and then Ivy’s walking towards them, smirking. “Y’all talkin’ ‘bout me?” Cas pulls his hand away, Dean doing the same, and they both stare at her before Cas ducks his head, eyes bogging, and Dean doesn’t make a joke out of it. Not now. “Yeah, this guy,” he says, patting his stomach, “was growling.”

They leave the two to be, after a delighted chuckle, and Cas mutters a quiet sorry, separating the slices of his sandwich to inspect the contents. Dean grimaces, and instead of saying something like, why are you sorry or you don’t have to apologize, dude, takes a bite of his burger, and clears his throat. “Nobody fits in, Cas. It’s just us, stupid people, like patchwork on a jacket. And that’s. That’s okay. That’s nice. Wouldn’t be nice if you were like me, I was like you.” Cas looks up at him then, bottom lip between his incisors. “We’re- you an’ me, we’re just people, and, yeah, our normals or what we know about that shit is a little different than others, but me and that guy,” he points at another patron, a man in his sixties with a balding head, “We fit in. You and that chick, you fit in. You don’t know what she’s going through, maybe she’s telling her Dean how she doesn’t fit in.” 

He squirts ketchup on his plate, and dips a fry in it. “But,” he says, pointing the fry at Cas, “I think she's doing a pretty fine job of fitting in.”

Dean thinks he’s managed to get his point across, because Cas maybe perhaps definitely is, uh, embarrassed, and in an attempt to disguise his reaction, takes a big bite of his sandwich, chewing scrupulously. 

“Thank you.” He says finally, Dean watching all the while he chews with a badly hidden grin on his face.

“Sure thing. Hey, Cas?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you really sure you don’t want fries?” 

Cas flicks the salt shaker at him, and white flakes stick to his neck, under his shirt, and Dean laughs, and laughs and laughs, the plastic scowl and lips twitching into a smile on Cas’ face making it to the list of his favorite things in the whole fucking world. 

.

The sun is high when they leave Hollie’s, a breeze picking up. Cas squints and holds a hand over his face to save himself from the glint, and Dean takes out his and Sam’s sunglasses out of the dashboard drawer, offering Sam’s to Cas. He turns the goggles around in his hand a couple of times, then puts it on, then looks at Dean, as if asking for approval, looking the same way Jack does when he gets something new. And well, when has he ever needed approval from Dean? 

“Lookin’ good there, buddy.” He coughs, then puts on his own. Checks himself in the mirror, and puts his arm across the bench while reversing. He chooses to ignore the way Cas’ body stiffens, then heaves in realization. 

“You look good too.” It’s so quiet Dean thinks he’s imagined it. 

“Huh?”

Cas clears his throat and points towards his own glasses. “You, uh, look good. Also.” 

“Oh, um.” The last time someone told Dean he looked good, it was- man, he doesn’t remember. He’s done plenty of  complimenting himself, so he can tell when someone actually means what they say. He smiles at Cas, a sideways uptick of his lips, and murmurs a soft, “Thanks.”

...

Dean stops the car around a clearing in the woods. He’s only been here once before, maybe twice, when Jack was gone, and Mary was… gone. Cas, too, though he wasn’t gone as much as Dean shoved him out. He’d been full of guilt and anger and there was a lot of internal screaming, the need to break a bottle in his hand until the fingers bled through the shards- and what came out when he found himself alone in the woods was sobs congested in his throat, and tears in abandon. Dean doesn’t know why he chose this place, especially when even after everything he can never tell what will send him rolling down the steep hill towards fucking things up again. But Cas gets out, curious eyes scoping the place. 

“This is a...nice place.”

Dean smiles in spite of himself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Do you come here often?”

“Nah, just- this one time.” He settles on the fallen log, dusting off the place beside him with his palms and wiping it on his shirt. “Take a seat, man.” 

It’s like a kid’s ritual, is what this is. Dean is showing his lame hangout spot to his not crush but definitely a crush crush, and in his head he’s fluffing up the throw pillows and spraying room freshener in abundance. In reality he just stands there, as awkward a forty something can possibly be, waiting for Cas to plant his ass on the tree log he was not quite mourned in. 

The guy doesn’t even wait for Dean to get over the overworked theories in his head before he asks, “I believe you are attached to this place,” except it isn’t really a question. “You know these woods.”

“Could say so,” Dean replies. “Not many isolation chambers around here, you gotta manage.”

Cas raises a brow, and squints his other eye while he’s at it. “You’re forgetting about the Dean Cave.” 

“That’s not the poi- dude, change of scenery. That’s all. There aren’t random shit you’re attached to?” 

Dean regrets it before it comes out of his mouth. Of course he had to go there. Now Cas will go on an earnest spree telling him about how he has had nothing his whole billion years of life except Dean and whatever little love Dean can afford to give him, unless Dean wants more, which he does, but it’s not like he’s built like that, right? See, he knows his shit. Girls, hot. Guys, also hot. Girls- easy, boys- well, Dean hasn’t even tried wooing one yet, but god damn is it hard. But he had to go ahead and open his big stupid mouth for Cas to offer himself to him again and for Dean to be not able to accept, except-

“Sure I am. There’s my trench coat. There’s a- well, you know the place Jack insists on stopping for frozen yogurt?”

“Yeah?”

“So, um, there’s a tabby there. She’s very sweet.”

Wait. Code red, code red. “Who’s uh, what’s a tabby?”

“It’s a cat, Dean.” Cas huffs, fond exasperation in his face. Good. “Her name is Leila.”

Okay, Dean had that coming. “A cat, huh? You sayin’ you emotionally attached to a furball?” 

“Yes. For a while, a remarkably long time, I had no, um, ‘attachment’ feels too shallow for what I actually mean, but I wasn’t attached to anything. I was as a soldier should be. Then I was given a task,  and I latched on to the job.” His eyes are crinkled adorably, despite him being a hundred percent serious, and Dean doesn’t know why he rolls his sleeve up, grazes his finger along the seam of the mark not quite there, not quite gone.

The skin that was once crimson and felt like a blister, is now his skin, a light pink trajectory on his bicep. “I’ll tell you this, you latched on pretty tight.”

If this were a date, and duh, shopping, then lunch, ‘something else, and they could probably ad lib a movie night tonight as well, Dean thinks it’s going pretty well for all the flustered looks he has been able to score from Cas. “I didn’t, sorry, I wasn’t supposed to.”

Dean laughs, “Sure you were.” He doesn’t know why he said that. Why did he say that? Cas has a look on his face, again, and at this rate Dean thinks the guy could star in an art film with all the ticks and fractional pulls on his eyes and mouth. He’s so fucking gone on this guy, he has no idea. If he could, and he hopes to, one day, he’d only look at his face all day. Man, he’s fucked. 

Cas simply hums, considering, then continues, “Perhaps. That wasn’t Chuck, I’m sure. But it was the first time I had any connection to you. To, uh, to humanity. An attachment, perhaps.” 

Dean clasps his hands, unclasps it. The breeze has picked up, a shiver slicing against the edge of his chest. 

Cas takes it as a cue to continue. “When I first started to feel...you taught me how to, Dean, so I forgive myself for, um, believing you’d teach me how to navigate through emotions. Then, the feelings began turning towards, about you, and subsequently I learnt shame, and guilt…and I-”

Oh damn, not this again. Not him, again. It’s gotta be Dean now. It’s gotta be him this time. He owes Cas that. He makes a show of shivering, patting himself on the back for the abrupt halt of Cas’ declaration: Take-II. “You cold?”

Cas pulls at his collar, calculating. “A little, I think.”

“Alright. Hold up.” Dean gets him his new sweater from the backseat, for which Cas gets rid of his over shirt, putting the sweater over his t-shirt and bunching the shirt into a ball.

His ankles brushes against Cas’ shoe when he hops on next to him, so Dean kicks at it, soft. Cas smiles at their feet. “I did think, especially after, when Hannah asked me to, ah, kill you. Do you remember that?

“Your angel girlfriend, yeah.” Dean nods. 

 Cas scoffs, “She wasn’t- she was only a subordinate, Dean.” Then, is he smirking , says, “Although I admit I suspected her having an affinity for me.”

Dean huffs. “Alright Casanova, what of it?”

“I used to think you were my all. It wasn’t a lie, you were everything I had, you and Sam, but it was never just that. You’ve given me so much more, Dean. I feel like I have a family, I feel like...i’m so proud of Jack, and Claire, and, and your friends treat me as one of their own, and Sam, Eileen. The reason I said you were my everything is because everything I have, I have got from you.”

Dean makes a choking noise inside somewhere, which Cas, that bastard, seems to ignore. “Of course, that doesn’t make them an extension of you in any way, and that maybe one thing I’ve been meaning to differentiate.

“Hey, now,” Dean pleads, “please, dude. Shut up.”

“You can deny it all you want, Dean,” Cas says, folding his arms around his chest, shirt covering his lap, “but I have learnt most of what I know from you.” With a small curl of a grin, he adds, “Well, maybe not everything, like, you know, losing at Risk, but most of it.”

Dean doesn’t have a comeback to that. He does lose at Risk every time, and as it happens, he cannot deny Cas anything. 

...

The sweater, unsurprisingly so, looks good on Cas. The sleeves stretch over his arms, taut and- Dean has half the mind to say tasty, but he’s not on such levels of depravity yet. May be. You’d know if you could see how good the weird maroon-orange knit sitting smug on his only slightly golden skin looks. And because he has no mind to action to mind communication these days, he pulls at the sweater bunched below his elbow down his wrist. Then, like a fucking moron , pats the back of his palm. 

“There. Better.”

Cas just. Looks at him. 

“ What? ”

Cas stares even more, incredulous, and then, without breaking eye contact, bunches his sweater at his elbows again. Dean follows the movement and huffs, because, what the hell, and scoots closer to tug at the cloth, but Cas circles his wrist with his hand, and- Well. he has big hands, okay? Dean clenches his jaw and doesn’t think about how Cas’ fingers encircle almost all of his wrist. It’s just not what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that in no way is he gonna look back at Cas. 

“What?” It comes out a bite, and Dean clenches his fist in Cas’ hold. Spreads his fingers and squirms, but Cas doesn’t let go.

Cas is still looking at him. “Nothing.” Maybe if Dean asked him to not do that . He doesn’t though. Instead, he takes his free hand and in a moment of genius, pulls down the sleeve again. 

And then he fucks up. He grins at Cas.

Cas, and fuck he’s strong, pulls up his sweater sleeve again, and squinting, takes ahold of Dean’s other wrist, putting them together to form a cross.

Dean’s grin falters, and in a move that will be blamed on his primal instincts, surges forward at Cas, making him topple sideways on the bed. Cas loses control of his wrist and Dean, taking the opportunity of retaliation, climbs atop him, holding his wrists up above his head, as if they’re wrestling. 

Guess what? It looks like Dean’s winning.

Cas is still trapped beneath and he’s blinking at him, like an adorable freaking owl or something, and in a moment that feels like a goddamn revelation: his legs are on either sides of Cas’s thighs, and he’s holding both of Cas’ hands, and if he could just- fold himself a little and bend ahead, their chests would touch and if he leans even further, he could be kissing Cas. Dean revels in the agony.

Cas is still batting his eyes in a I-am-not-sure-what-I’ve-gotten-into way, and Dean says, “Fuck it,” or maybe it’s his internal monologue, or perhaps someone else gave him a green light, because then he’s kissing Cas.

And Cas isn’t kissing back. Bummer. And an extremely double standard for a guy who’s in love with him, actually.

Dean pulls back, looks at Cas, and he’s still fucking blinking, and Dean loses it. Loses it, as in, lets himself fall back on his haunches, and zooms out of the bedroom off and into the next bedroom he finds, and locks himself in.

Resting his head on the wood of the closed door, he breathes. No, he breathes. The way a teacher in high school taught him to, during a detention. Inhale. One, two. Exhale. He thinks about the stout man with a receding hairline that Dean would have made fun of otherwise.

They’d been in the town for two weeks, and Dean punched a douche in recess just because he could. And because he was a douche. You know how it goes. Dad had left them at dawn with a wad of cash he knew would run out by day five, and a loaded gun heavy in his open palm. Money in his right palm, gun in his left, a twelve year old Sam still asleep. 

Getting handed things he didn’t ask for. Keeping them anyway.

Dean flinches when there’s a rap on the door, right on the other side where his forehead was resting mere seconds ago. He lets himself sit on the floor, with his back to the door, a leg sprawled and another folded up to his stomach. It’s then that he realizes it’s Cas’ room he’s in. 

“Dean?” Cas’ voice is hesitant. 

Inhale. One, two. Exhale. 

“You ever shot someone, Cas?” He asks.

“Dean?” Cas repeats. 

Inhale. One, two. Exhale. 

“Humor me, man. You ever use a gun?”

“Ah, um, yes?” Cas says, the confusion in his voice apparent even with the wooden door a solid barrier between them. Dean can, if he wills himself, see his head slightly tilt to the left. “I’m not very good at it, though, I think.”

Dean chuckles, “Good. That’s good, actually.”

Sam has always been a handful, but he was what one might call multiple hands-full as a tween. Sometimes John would leave to get a drink when he started yapping, leaving Dean to deal with it. Dean would, as it was, listen to him go on and on about how ‘weird’ and ‘not normal’ their lives were, and interact enough to tire him out before Dad came back, lips black and smelling rotten. He’d grunt at Sam’s sleeping silhouette, and pass out on the other bed. Dean never let Sam get better at shooting than him. Even if John gave Sam hell for that. It might have been something to do with making John see him as good enough for something, it’s what he told himself as a lanky boy of fourteen, but now that he thinks about it, he thinks it was because he didn’t think a kid deserves to learn how to shoot. Besides, Dean was always there to take one for Sammy, if need be.

“I punched a guy once. In high school.” he says, without a prelude.

“Oh.” Dean realizes Cas, too, is settling against the door. In a way, they are sitting with their backs pressed together. In another, they are lost on two ends of a forest with no centre. The trees are dense, and Dean just wants to fucking give up. His thoughts stop trudging around the metaphorical creepers and plants lining the earth, and he braces his metaphorical palm against a metaphorical tree when Cas says, “I believe it’s one of your identifying traits.”

He means it as a joke, ofcourse. Dean knows that. It’s just, he’s not wrong, is he? It is one of his identifying traits. His identity, even, to be precise. 

The forest is buzzing with insects, and his body is covered in stings. He doesn’t really mean it to reach Cas’ ears when he says, “Kinda wish it wasn’t,” but it does.

“Dean. Please, open the door.”

Inhale. One, two. Exhale. “No.” Inhale. One, two. Exhale. 

“Dean, please.”

Inhale. One, two. Exhale. “It’s so,” he chuckles, “so heavy , Cas, a gun. Even a small one, like the one I had. In- in highschool.”

“Dean, I was- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You don’t think I meant it, do you?”

“Cas, it’s- doesn’t matter, man. I’m not- I ain’t mad.” He means it. He’s growing old, and he’s getting better at not throwing punches when a boy gets very curious about the weight of metal in your backpack. He’s not mad, he’s- fuck, he’s afraid. 

“Then please, Dean , open the door.” His voice is so soft, so full of nothing but love , that Dean is left with no choice but to comply. He doesn’t look at Cas when he crawls in on his knees, and Dean doesn’t know why he shuts the door, but if anyone asks, he’ll tell ‘em it’s to lean on the door. Cas sits criss-cross applesauce next to him, shoulders an inch apart, and from what Dean can see in his periphery, he’s not looking at him either. He’s looking straight ahead, solemn in his attempt to not make eye contact, and Dean follows his lead. 

After a while, Cas clears his throat, “So.”

Dean’s foot entangles in the loops of vines of little white wildflowers, the reminder of why he escaped Cas making him trip on the mossy, wet ground. He drags his palms across his thighs, and they feel like they’ve been scraped. “I don’t know why I-I did that, really. Shouldn’t have-”

“Why did you punch that guy?” Cas interrupts.

Oh. 

Dean gulps, and gets up from the damp forest floor. There’s a light, a buttery golden thing, peering through the gap in the bushes, and he walks towards it. “My bag clanked against the locker. Because of the, uh, metal.”  Inhale. One, two. Exhale. “He was tryin’ to see what it was. Pushing at it. So I. Gave him a nosebleed.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, but he nods at Dean in a gesture that says Continue. 

“The Principal called my Dad, and he didn’t pick up. Obviously. ” Dean doesn’t tell him that he wanted John to pick up and not pick up the call equally. That’s fucked up, and very unrelated. “So. I got detention.”

Cas nods again. “I find the concept of detentions very, ah? Amusing?” He says, turning a right angle to face Dean, his side pressed against the wall. “Although, I cannot tell the psychological impact it has on a child in that very series of moments. I’ve never,” he smiles just barely, “been a teenager who punched another teenager.”

Dean chuckles. “No, you’ve not.” 

“What was it like? The detention?”

Inhale. One, two. Exhale. “I don’t remember, actually. I was angry, teenage blood and all, and Sam was alone back in our room. And I kept thinking he gotta be hungry and what if he’s hurt and I have to go back, all that.”

“And then?” 

The question snaps Dean into focus. Cas is not listening to a random high school story to live vicariously via Dean’s uneventful detention. He’s here, just because. Because of Dean. The light between the crowd of trees is glowing brighter, and Dean’s steps feel less heavy. 

“I’m sorry I kissed you.” Dean says instead. 

Cas shakes his head. “Don’t be. What happened next?”

So he continues, a faint smile on his face. “Had one of my first public breakdowns. Punched the desk, as I do, went into hornet mode, shaking and everything. Was, fuck, that was so embarrasing . Then the teacher, uh, he told me to breathe.”

“To breathe?”

“Yeah. uh, like this.” He breathes in, then holds up two fingers; puts one down, then the other. Breathes out. He thinks, nah, he knows he looks stupid, but.

But Cas is looking at him. Dean’s out of the woods, foliage no longer in sight, and there’s Cas. He’s made his way out. He’s found the light, and the light’s looking at him. 

“It’s okay,” Cas whispers. “Thank you.”

Huh? “Huh?”

“Dean. Do you, uh. Would you want to kiss me again?” If Dean knew better, he’d think Cas was blushing. The room’s dark, though, and it could be the lighting. 

Dean looks away.  Inhale. One, two. Exhale. Swallows a No. Swallows the following You should find someone less fucked up, Cas. Asks, instead, “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Cas breathes in. Then, like a dork, holds his fingers up. One down, two down, exhale. “For so long, you have no idea.”

Dean smiles. “Don’t be so sure, Cas. I might have some idea.”

“Oh?”

They’re so close now. They’ve always been, Dean thinks, physical proximity all but a formality at this point, but they’re so close, and Cas wants Dean to kiss him, again. Cas who is a four leafed clover in an open palm of someone who has held death and the dead alike, Cas who is the light guiding him out of a forest, towards himself, Cas is a red furred fox, the kind Dean’s only seen in pictures. Cas is, heh, a rainbow slinky, maybe, and Dean gets to kiss him. To keep him. 

Cas is looking at him, eyes big and soft, and Dean touches their noses together, sharing the same breath. Cas flattens his palm above his chest, and Dean’s eyes shut close, and he pushes in, lips brushing with a violence that feels nothing less than holiness. Presses their lips together, until Cas comes even closer, legs falling atop each other, and holds him by the jaw. His thumb is running like a feather on Dean’s face, and Dean lets his lips part, an opening for Cas to take, which he does, his tongue warm and electric in his mouth. Inside his mouth, they fight like old lovers, unashamed and free, and when Cas lets go of his shirt to cradle his face in his hands, Dean lets go of the kiss. 

“Wanted to do that for a very long time.” He murmurs in the finger-long space between their faces. 

“Me too,” Cas says, and tugs at his collar for another kiss, soft and unhurried, hands lazily pushing at the flannel around his shoulders, and there, with him almost in Cas’ lap who has his back pressed against the wall of his room, Dean realizes three things. 

One, Cas is perhaps the best damn kiss, no, strike that, kisses of his damn life, two, they’re alone at the bunker, and with the way one of his many layers of clothing is almost out of the way, things could go only in one direction, and three, Cas doesn’t even know . 

He does, but, y’know, Dean’s gotta say it, right? He knew about Cas loving him; makes sense, doesn’t it? Guy gives up everything for you, again and again and again until it breaks him, there’s gotta be some kinda love there. He didn’t know it was this kind, like right now, Cas sucking on the underside of his chin, his eyes closed. So, sure, he knew, but that knowledge didn’t count until Cas took the plunge. Dean doesn’t ponder over that anymore, having done enough of that already with Cas away. 

So, Cas must know too, but Dean hasn’t told him. Well, that has to change. Now, preferably. 

What could be a possible hindrance in this, uh, desire of Dean’s, is Cas’ insistence on not letting go of Dean’s mouth, which Dean's not complaining about. But then Cas latches on his jaw and his lips feel like they’re on fire, but that leaves Dean to fend for his wants.

“Cas. Cas, hey.”

Cas doesn’t even look up, that horndog. “Mm, yeah?”

“You, uh. Fuck , you know, right?”

“Know what?”

“That- y’know.”

“That you-” Cas breathes in. “Yeah, I- I know.”

That’s good, right? That’s good enough. Cas knows. That’s good.  Dean holds him by the neck and pulls, biting his bottom lip and pushing his tongue, and Cas gets back on track, swivelling them around and putting Dean to the wall and, jesus fuck Dean needs to get him outta this stupid sweater.

He does. He does, and boy is this overwhelming. He does and stands there, not gaping but also not not-gaping, slightly overwhelmed by the way things have taken a turn. He can’t tell though, if for better or worse. Cas too, just, stands there, his top naked and the button of his jeans popped, looking at Dean and assessing the situation. Tilting his head to a side, Cas smiles, and holds up three of his fingers. By the time he puts his third finger down, Dean finds himself on Cas again, legs on either side of his body and hands framing his chest on the sides, and in no time Dean shucks his pants to a side, leaving Cas naked except for his white boxers.

Dean flicks on his nipple, and Cas groans, burrowing his head in Dean’s neck. Jesus, the effect he has on Dean.

“Man, Cas, ya know what you do to me?”

Cas sweeps his palm across Dean’s back and hip, and replies, “I’m assuming that’s rhetorical.”

It is, of course, because Dean doesn’t know what Cas does to him. It’s just that he does. Cas happens to him, is happening to him, and Dean lets him. Dean is asking for Cas to happen, to keep happening. It only gets fuzzier when Cas adds, voice unwavering and firm, “Because I haven’t done anything yet.”

He says that and he pauses his ministrations on Dean’s neck, pushing upwards on his elbows and peering at Dean, and holy fuck are the wires going haywire in Dean’s head. Who says things like that? 

Dean swallows and it’s loud in the air around them, and gets off his shirt. Swiping his fingers through his hair, and watching Cas’ eyes trail his tongue wetting his bottom lip and chewing on it, it’s a lot. As in, it feels like Cas would stay simply on his forelimbs and look at Dean if he has to, and the show needs to get on the road. Like, right now. He clears his throat, lowering his voice so it could compete with Cas’ and asks, “You gonna?”

“Gonna?”

“Gonna do somethin’? To me?”

Cas falls back, and Dean takes it as a cue to crawl over. Cas simply holds him by his hips, and not once does that bastard break eye contact. “Hm?” Dean asks again, and Cas digs his thumb under the waistband of Dean’s pants. 

“Do you want me to do something with you?”

Dean nods, and Cas doesn’t do anything, so he nods again, “Please.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And before he can plead again, he’s flipped, their stances reversed and Cas is hovering over him like a floating electric blanket. He kisses the side of his chest, making his way to the centre, and traces his finger along his stomach, palming the flesh at his waist. By the time he’s unbotting Dean’s jeans, Dean is ready to crawl outta his skin. His mind is whirring with a lot of things and yet he can’t say what’s going on in his head. Cas licks a stripe from his belly button to his waistline, and Dean shuts his eyes, canting his hips so Cas can take off his pants.

He keeps his eyes shut, doesn’t want to open ‘em yet, or at all, but Cas is suddenly very still and not touching him and-

And he’s sniggering. Cas is sitting on his haunches and he’s looking at Dean’s dick and he’s fucking sniggering. 

“Dude, what-” but Cas interrupts him with a doubled over laughter, and he gets it suddenly. Damn it. 

“Hey, okay, that’s enough,” he tries, but the damage is done. He groans into his hand, and mutters a shut up, but he can’t help smiling. “Scooby Doo is valid, dude.”

“Of course. Shaggy too? ”

“Shut up, ‘tleast I don’t wear white old man boxers.”

“They’re off-white,” Cas says, nipping at his hip, “and white’s classy.”

“Oh, is it now?”

“Mm-hmm.” Cas says, and digs his fingers in the waistband of the boxers, then chuckles on the skin there, hot breath fanning over. “Not as classy as Shaggy and his great dane, but yes.”

Dean can’t hold back his laugh at that, and Cas laughs with him, face pressed to his stomach where Dean can feel him exhale out huffs of laughter. “Fuck Cas,” he’s giddy with joy, thoughts sorting into a litany of Cas-Cas-Cas-Cas which only means Joy-Joy-Joy-Joy, “I love you so much.”

And then the whirring and the buzzing and the chainsaw in his brain starts. It’s a commotion, and his body reacts by going very still, and Cas’ eyes are probably as wide as his are, and in another moment, he’s out of his goddamn boxers. 

Cas kisses him, all over, and Dean’s mind once again starts chanting Cas-Cas-Cas-Cas, which is, in a way, a never ending saga, and in another way, Dean feels like this is the first time he’s had an orgasm. 

…

Cas is like a furnace, and Dean is not above exploiting it to the damndest. With his arms under and around his armpits and his face smushed into the flat above Cas’ chest, Dean wakes up, stilling in dissociation for a second, then sighs into the skin he’s cushioned on. Cas smacks his lips, still out of it, and his grip around Dean’s waist loosens. He pulls on his boxers, sticking out from under the pillow that wasn’t used, and stares at the ceiling, mind buzzing, but it’s like a white noise buzz. Squinting at his watch, he realizes they’re late, but they can catch up on dinner preparation by the time the kids come back.

“Hey. Cas.” Dean pokes at his chin with a finger. “ Cas. Wakey, dude.”

Cas does wakey, grumbling incoherently, and absently clutches Dean from around his waist, again, then freezes. His eyes widen, the same way Dean’s did, but Dean kisses his sternum, making Cas hum.

“Earth to, Cas?”

“Mm, this is… really nice.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah, sure, huggy bear.” 

The quip doesn’t land as intended, though, with Cas simply flattening his lips and looking over to where Dean has himself plastered all across his body. Before Cas smirks, Dean mutters an indignant “Shut up.” End of discussion.

Apparently not. “How long, Dean?”

“How long what?”

They’re so close now that Dean can see the way embarrassment flushes Cas. He wonders how he missed it before, the way the man is so open, even when shut closed and taped down.

Cas looks at him. “This. You.”

“Me? What,” Dean shuffles upwards, resting his cheek on his fist and propping his body towards Cas on his elbow to face him better. “Dude, make sense.”

“How long have you been. You know,” Cas looks away, running his tongue across his teeth, and. Dean taught him this, didn’t he? Poor guy. Poor fucking guy.

“Cas, at least look at me when you start the pillow talk, man. Way to make a girl feel special.”

Cas does, and for a moment he repents asking him to, his eyes almost too close to not see the guarded insecurity, the fucking potential of hurt, the fear of being too open. Wonders if Cas can see feelings and stuff in Dean’s eyes as well. Deduces that he can, and well, as much as that’s disconcerting, that’s the plan, ain’t it. To open himself up and let Cas walk all over him if he so wants to.

 As much as he hates it, each tendon and fibre telling him otherwise, telling him to not stray too close to vulnerability, not even if it’s Cas, especially if it’s Cas, Dean persists, too into it to back out now.

“I dunno.” It’s an honest answer, believe it or not. Not to be a chick about the rom-com minus the laughter that is their story, but this thing with Cas, loving the guy, it’s- well, take it this way. Why does the sun rise in the East if it could very well not? Then again, maybe that’s not for the Sun to decide. Maybe, if the Earth wasn’t so hell bent in turning around the way it does. 

It does, and it happens, and will keep on happening. The Sun can’t help it, the Earth won’t budge, and well, who’s Dean in a scheme as grand as this?

Cas hasn’t replied, so Dean repeats, making eye contact, willing Cas to dare him to elaborate. “I don’t know. I just do.”

He does look at him, and Cas is looking at him with a reverence that makes Dean want to flee buck naked outta here. Instead, he smacks his chest. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

Dean gestures his hand around vaguely in a motion that surely means that, the way you looked at me just now, but Cas only scrunches up his brows in amusement, eyes glazing even more. 

“You?” He deflects, but that doesn’t mean he’s not curious. Cas might end up saying shit that will make him regret not fleeing to Australia the minute he fucked up and kissed him if only for the way he’ll say it, as if loving Dean ain’t a chore but a privilege,  or he could just say something that Dean already knows now, which will still make him want to run away.

“How long?”

“Yeah.”

“As long as I’ve known you, I think.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up. Tell me, really.”

Cas pouts. “I am telling you, really. ”

“No way.”

“Yes way, Dean. I already- I told you. Since I know you.”

“ Why?” It’s out before he knows, and Cas starts before he can ask him to not.

“Because, you were blinding. In a way, all of humanity, this world, all of it- it can be overwhelming for someone not born into it. Before, before you , I had no regard for any of it.”

“Cas. Stop.”

Cas does, but not before adding, “And now I do. You?”

Dean folds his arms around his chest, pulling a face. “What’s this? 20 questions?” Dean falls on his back, putting his hands behind his head. 

When Cas just shrugs, Dean rolls his eyes at him, and gets up. “Because, well. You’re hot. You know that.” He smirks as he tosses Cas’ shirt at him. “Plus, uh. You’re you.”

His t-shirt is stuck under the leg of the chair. Why does he love Cas? There’s a fuckload of reasons why, but really, doesn’t it come down to this? It’s Cas. How could he help it, and boy did he try not to. The t-shirt goes over his head,  and his words come out of his mouth. “Because you’re Cas, Cas.”

Not really ready to read into Cas’ expression, he says, “You hungry?” He doesn’t think he’s up for cooking right now. A snack would have to do. Sam and co aren’ back yet, anyway. He’ll ask them to get takeaway for dinner. Eh, who knows, he feels like cooking today. A five course meal. 

“C’mon,” he crawls up to Cas, pulling him up into a sitting position and plants a sloppy kiss to jaw, then cheek, and finally one on his nose, making him giggle. He’s so damn cute, this guy. That’s why. This is why Dean’s crazy about him. “Let’s fix ourselves a sandwich.”

He tugs at Cas, but Cas encircles his wrist as he stands up, looking at Dean intently. “I want to- to ask something, if that’s okay.”

Dean knows what’s coming. For the first time, he knows. And although it’s shit-scary, Dean will, he wants to let Cas have whatever he wants. “Anything, Cas.” He hopes Cas gets the already made promises in the two words he’s said, and he hopes Cas promises him back. He shouldn’t but okay, Dean’s selfish, he hopes. 

“You….” Cas breathes in, then looks up at Dean. “You put the faces of all your friends on your boxers?”

Dean stares at him for a couple seconds, bewildered, then loses it. It’s back again, the Cas-Joy-Cas-Joy litany, and boy does it feel good to know what to do next, take the reins of his own actions. “Fuck off,” he says, still wheezing lightly, only it means i love you, you dork. He knows, wishes Cas gets it, the way he always has. With the way he’s grinning, he probably does.

...

They’re sitting with their shoulders brushing, whatever little clothes they have on rumpled. Cas is feeding Dean slices of tomato he said he was sure he wanted but doesn’t want to eat anymore, one at a time, when Dean startles by a commotion, his bare knee bumping into the table. 

It’s Sam. The commotion, it’s Sam, with more than half a dozen bags slung on his wrist and eyes that promise to pop out. “What’s going,” he coughs. “Guys, what’s going on here.”

Dean squints and cocks his head, “What does it look like, Sam? Sandwiches.” 

Cas huffs out a laugh, then peels a slice of tomato and holds it in front of Dean’s mouth. Sam is still shuffling around the doorway, until he drops the bags on the counter, huffing at them and making a beeline for Eileen, probably to blurt out the big reveal. 

“Sam appears to be having a meltdown about this.” Cas says, then looks at him, “Are we to tell him anything yet?”

“Mm, he’ll figure it out, whaddaya say?”

Cas chuckles. “I hope so.” Pulling another thin ringlet of tomato and grimacing, he adds, “ Remind me I don’t like tomatoes next time.” 

Dean takes the entire slice in his mouth, and chewing, says,“Sure.” He knows he won’t. He’s gonna be here to pick ‘em off Cas’ sandwiches every time, as long as Cas hates tomatoes and loves him.