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After--after, after, Dean finishes wiping the black goo from his hands, his arms, his face, his hair, and exhales into the sink. He’s dressed in a soft Zepp T-shirt, and a pair of his hotdog pajama pants, and he touches the doorknob before he retreats to tug on a flannel shirt, an extra layer of armor.
He tiptoes across the hall and pushes the door open without knocking. He goes inside and closes the door behind him, then stays right there, back firm against the solid wood.
Cas is sitting on his bed, staring at him with wide eyes, frozen. Cas is wearing his slacks, and a white undershirt, his trenchcoat and suit jacket and dress shirt all piled on top of his chair, the tie draped on top like a ribbon. Dean glances at Cas’ exposed forearms, exposed elbows. Has he ever seen the sliver of skin between Cas’ elbows and the hem of his sleeve before?
“I--” Cas says, and Dean’s eyes snap back to Cas’. He looks kind of terrified.
Maybe the sight of Cas’ arms shorted out Dean’s brain, because he says “You love me?” in this stupid, pleading little voice. Quiet, like he’s some kind of fucking kid. The terror doesn’t pass from Cas’ gaze, but he swallows. Dean tries not to get distracted by the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“Yes,” Cas says, quiet and sure. Dean feels his heart give out, and he steps away from the door. Closer to Cas.
“Like brothers?” he asks, even though he knows.
“No,” Cas says. He tilts his chin up. His eyes are still scared, but he’s firm in his resolve. Dean takes a few more steps. He nearly bumps into the bed.
“For real?” Dean says--or he means to say, but his voice comes out so quiet he isn’t sure he’s said it at all.
“Yes,” Cas says. And Dean--
Cas would let Dean do anything. Cas has let Dean beat him half to death before. This is nicer, softer, but beating him half to death was easier.
Dean crawls onto the bed. He swings a leg over Cas’. And he just--he sits himself right on Cas’ lap.
“You’re staying?” he asks.
“Do you want me to?” Cas says, and Dean drops his face into the place between Cas’ neck and shoulder, wraps his arms firm around Cas’ chest.
“You’re staying,” he declares, and Cas puts his arms around Dean’s back. For a moment, Cas holds him, as Dean attempts to physically hold Cas down. He can’t leave if Dean’s all over him.
“I’m staying,” Cas agrees, quiet, and Dean exhales. Cas lifts a tentative hand up to Dean’s hair. “Dean.”
Dean likes when Cas says his name. “Cas.”
“What are you…”
Dean nuzzles Cas’ neck. “Making sure you don’t leave.”
“Dean,” Cas says again.
“You gotta know,” Dean says. It’s easier to confess like this, directly into Cas’ skin, in the soft darkness where he can’t see anything. “You gotta know, man. You--you can have me. You’ve always had me. I--It’s been fucking years, man. I can’t even remember what it was like before I loved you. I tried to tell you--in Purgatory, and--and--and that crypt, but you--you always left and I can’t--”
Dean chokes on a sob. Cas clutches him tight, tighter, buries his fingers in the short hairs on the base of Dean’s skull.
“Oh, Dean,” he says. “Oh, my dearest love. My Dean.”
Dean is probably getting the neck of Cas’ shirt all wet with the tears that sprung up, sudden and bright, but he shudders and holds Cas tighter. He doesn’t know how he will ever be able to let go.
He hasn’t--he hasn’t been held, really. Not since before the fire, anyway, and that was so long ago--so, so long ago. Dean feels so old. Cas presses a kiss to the top of Dean’s head. God, Dean loves him so much. He cries harder.
There’s a soft woosh, like the rustle of teleportation, and something soft and heavy drapes across Dean’s back, along his sides. He tenses, but Cas hushes him, rubs a hand up his back.
“It’s just my wings, beloved,” he soothes. “Holding you safe. Don’t worry. You can stay here as long as you want.”
God, Dean wants to reach out, brush his fingers across those feathers, but his arms refuse to let go of Cas. So he stays, face tucked into Cas’ neck and shoulder, breathing deep. Cas smells good. Cas smells like home.
Eons later, Dean croaks out a single “Sweetheart.” Cas’ fingers dance across his spine, and he hums in response. “Let’s--can we--let’s get married.”
Cas freezes.
“What?”
“I wanna be with you forever,” Dean says. “Been in love with you for, jesus, something like ten years. We already got two kids and a dog. Can we just…skip the other stuff and just….belong to each other?”
“We haven’t even kissed,” Cas says. He doesn’t sound upset, though. With great difficulty, Dean extracts his face from Cas’ shoulder. Kissing Cas sounds like the greatest thing Dean’s ever heard of. He probably looks like a mess, all puffy and runny and snotty and wet, but even through his stinging eyes he sees that Cas looks even more beautiful than ever. The most beautiful he’s ever looked, maybe, with eyes all blue and mouth slightly open and love, love, love shining in his gaze.
“That’s an easy fix,” Dean whispers, and then he wants to say something like darling but he chickens out and adds, “sunshine,” instead. But sunshine is good too. Sam’s always whining about how Bunker doesn’t have any sunlight, but the way Dean sees it all the sunshine’s right here, about to be kissed.
Dean leans down, and Cas leans up, and their lips meet and something settles inside Dean, something like oh I get to have this for real. They don’t use any tongue or anything, but Dean thinks it’s the best kiss he’s ever gotten. When he breaks away, Cas is beaming. Dean is pretty sure everything beautiful and lovely and perfect is bottled up in Cas’ eyes. Screw before the kiss, this Cas is the most beautiful he’s ever looked.
“Yes,” Cas whispers. For a second, Dean doesn’t know what he’s saying yes to, but then he remembers, and he has to kiss Cas again, and again, and again.