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To say that things had gone back to “normal” would be an overstatement, because who knew what the fuck that even meant anymore. “Normal” had gone out the window with the first apocalypse, let alone everything else that happened in the decade that followed. But things had found an equilibrium. Sam was safe. Claire was safe. Jack was God and therefore, presumably, safe.
And Cas—thank fucking everything, Cas was safe, too. Alive and whole and home. Home with Dean, right where he ought to be. So things weren’t normal, maybe, but they were steady. They were good.
Then Cas says, “Let’s get married,” and the thready equilibrium that Dean had found was lost again, just like that.
After Cas was resurrected (a-fucking-gain), and after the ensuing joy-filled delirium of his reunion with everyone had concluded, Dean had had to— He’d had to. Well. He’d had to take some real time with himself and think, which was about the last fucking thing he ever wanted. But he knew, at that point, he owed it to himself. It was past time. And he was old. And, fuck’s sake, he was tired.
Christ, he’s seen the absolute worst of it, and still nothing held a goddamn candle to the bone-crush, knife-gut, soul-suck feeling of losing Cas again, like that, and seemingly for the very last time. Dean Winchester has stood over the cliff of The End who knows how many times, watching everything tumble over the edge with no ability to catch it. Sometimes he found himself slipping over that edge, too, if the need called. But that time—that End—had him strolling right up to the edge and staring down, just waiting for some featherlight breeze to tease his back and give him an excuse.
Then Cas was home. And Dean stepped back to solid ground. And he knew he had to look that feeling in the face, because it was time, and he was tired, and he thought (and this was the first difficult thing to admit to himself in earnest) maybe he fucking earned it. Deserved it, even.
Anyway, his pussyfooting and hand fluttering and lingered gazing lasted for all of two days before he knocked on Cas’ door at three in the morning and let himself unravel at Cas’ feet. Cas had done what he’s always done and folded Dean back together. And then his words, so lead-heavy before because of their context, floated like dandelion fluff on a Kansas summer wind around Dean as he said, again and again, I love you, I love you, I love you.
And Dean, finally, had time to say it, too.
So it’s been three some weeks since then, and it’s been steady and good and Dean feels— he feels— god, does he ever feel. Just… right. After who knows how long, Dean feels right.
And then Cas says Let’s get married, and Dean’s hands freeze in their unbuttoning Cas’ shirt, and his mind falls silent and empty.
Then his head fills full of buzzing noise, echoing that word: married.
He doesn’t know where the anxiety is coming from, or why, just knows that suddenly it’s there and has crowded out every warm feeling he’d been floating in a minute ago. The panic starts to congeal and crawl up his throat, and Dean coughs it out how he always does: on a reedy laugh. And he says, “Whoa, uh, don’t you—We’re skipping a couple steps here.” He’s going for casual, but his fingers have twisted into Cas’ shirt and this, he knows, betrays him.
Cas’ expression flattens with disbelief for a moment. “Are we, Dean?” he says, tone this side of sardonic. “Really? After twelve years? Which is, admittedly, not that long of a time from my perspective—but that aside,” he presses on at Dean’s incredulous look, “listen to me.” Cas brings his hands up to cover Dean’s, gently untangling them from his shirt so he can hold them. “Through some— some strange twist, I’ve already been married once. And it wasn’t to you, and I hate that.
“So I— I really want— I want to be with you in every single conceivable way on Earth. I, I want it to be known, by everyone we meet. I want our bond to be indisputable fact, on all planes of existence. We know, and that is enough. But everything I can have with you, I want to have.” Cas stares at him with a singular focus, unwavering and imploring and so blue-beautiful. And he asks, “Don’t you?”
Dean swallows. Really he ought to be accustomed to Cas’ intensity by now, but it still hits him like a sledgehammer every time. His heart is rattling around in his chest so hard it’s making the whole rest of him vibrate; to his embarrassment, he’s nigh jittery. The panic has quieted some, at least, and he’ll take embarrassment over genuine anxiety any day. Married, he thinks again. Him, married. Never in his life had he ever thought to put those two concepts together in any real, honest way. He’d played house, sure, but it had never been an actual option for him. But then, a lot of things hadn’t been, before Cas.
They had only reached this mutual understanding three weeks ago—but Cas was right, wasn’t he? It’s been twelve fucking years of living and dying for each other, so why was he getting spooked now? A ring and a pretty piece of paper weren’t going to make or break them; at this point, Dean knows nothing in any universe could. It would just be, like Cas said, making it known. And, hell, it was enough with the waiting around and talking himself down and denying himself things, wasn’t it? Least of all this. Especially if it was something Cas wanted.
Then he pictures Cas with a little gold band around his finger, one that connects him straight back to Dean, who’ll be wearing that ring’s mirror on his own finger, and Dean feels— He feels… Shit, does he ever feel. Lit up and burning, and quiet and settled, all at once.
So Dean starts, “Well,” then stops. He swallows again, and when that still doesn’t feel like enough, he clears his throat. “Well,” he repeats, “if you’re gonna ask me, then you better ask me…”
Cas’ smile is without comparison. Fit to launch a thousand ships and then some, that’s for goddamn sure. “Dean Winchester,” Cas intones. Dean’s blood sings at the sound. “You are the most frustrating, challenging, impossible person I have ever—”
“—Wha— Hey, ain’t this supposed to be a marriage proposal? Christ!”
Cas laughs. “—I have ever had the fortune of meeting. There is no one else like you.” He drops Dean’s hands and brings his own palms up to cup Dean’s face, his skin a cool comfort on Dean’s burning cheeks. “There will never be anyone else but you, Dean. It’s only ever been you.” Cas’ eyes are bright, twinkling like stars in the low light of the room. “My beautiful, wonderful Dean. I want to be married to you, and I don’t want to wait another second. Will you marry me?”
Dean covers one of Cas’ hands with his own, the other gone back to gripping into his unbuttoned shirt, down at his waist. HELL YES! Dean wants to yell. FUCK YEAH I WILL! He wants to shout it so loud it shakes the foundation of the bunker, the very earth itself. Dean opens his mouth, and through the knot of his throat he manages a quiet, strangled, “Yes.”
A thousand more ships launch. Cas’ smile is unlike anything known to humankind, a celestial action all its own, entirely outside of earthly comprehension. This holy being has fought with Dean, saved Dean, died for Dean—and now he was Dean’s fucking fiancé. Oh, christ. Dean wasn’t going to survive this. He thought he’d found the ceiling of his happiness, and he was content with that, but fuck if that ceiling hadn’t turned out to be made of brittlest glass.
“I think you’re allowed to cry from a marriage proposal,” Castiel says gently, running his thumbs along Dean’s cheek, like he’s preparing to catch the inevitable tears.
“Shut up,” Dean chokes out. Cas just laughs, a watery and bright bell-chime sound. The acknowledgement of Dean’s holding back does, unfortunately, serve to break the dam, and cries like he’s never cried before; not hot, angry tears or the thick suffocation of grief, but like some glowing, golden thing inside is trying to manifest itself tangibly in the world. He can’t keep it in, and he doesn’t want to, so it flows down his face and into Cas’ waiting hands.
Dean drops his other hand down to Cas’ waist, anchoring himself. He closes his eyes and breathes out.
“Dean,” Cas says, so softly. His name has always been more than just his name in Cas’ mouth. Fuck. He feels every unspoken thing curl sweet and warm through his body, just from the way Cas says it.
Dean lets out another breath.
Cas touches his thumbs beneath Dean’s eyes now, soaking up the last of his tears. “Dean,” he whispers against Dean’s mouth, then kisses him. Dean’s whole body is electric, his heart racing so fast it’s fit to pop out of his chest. He could probably bend metal with his bare hands right now. Married. Married to Cas. He grips tight against Cas’ waist, pulling them together close close close. Cas’ fingers slide up into Dean’s hair, holding him in place for kiss after reverent kiss.
“Oh, fuck,” Dean breathes when he pulls away, “I love you so fucking much, Cas. You know that?”
Cas touches their noses together. “I do know,” he says, “but it’s always nice to hear.”
Dean opens his eyes so he can watch Cas’ expression soften when he says it again: I love you. He kisses Cas on the mouth and his nose and his forehead. Then he pulls him into a hug, Cas’ arms coming up around his shoulders. They hold each other, warm and safe and swaying together in their little room, just breathing in the scent of their togetherness.
Then, with one more lingering kiss to Cas’ neck, Dean finally goes back to his important task from before he got engaged: getting Cas naked. “Man, I can’t believe you proposed. Holy shit.” He pauses in his fussing with the last of Cas’ shirt buttons to point a finger at him. “No take backs.”
Cas snorts as he allows Dean to push his dress shirt off. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’re just excited to finally be an official Winchester,” Dean says, pulling Cas’ undershirt over his head.
“Oh, of course, Dean,” Cas replies drily, rolling his eyes. “You caught me. That’s been my angle all along.” He shucks Dean’s plaid shirt off and makes a hasty grab at the black tee underneath. His impatience and total lack of grace makes Dean grin stupidly. God, he loves him.
“Cas, man. You make me so happy.”
Cas stops unbuckling his belt to bring a hand up to Dean’s cheek. “Dean,” he says in that grave tone, “I am going to spend the rest of our lives making you happy. And then I’m going to spend our afterlives making you happy, too. I promise you that.”
“So will I,” Dean says, quiet but firm, resolved. “Cas, I swear, I’ll work to make you happy every damn day.” He wonders if this counts as vows, and if he can use it again at their wedding (fuck! he’s going to have a wedding!).
“I know you will,” Cas says. He runs the back of his knuckles along Dean’s jaw, just smiling, soft and content. Then he adds, “Now would you get your pants off, please?”
Dean laughs and does what his fiancé tells him, and damn, there it is again. Equilibrium. Dean Winchester, engaged and feeling steady, and good, and right.
Hell yeah.