Five years. Feels longer.
Five since that moment hung between them — that breath, that look, that oh.
Since the thing they didn’t talk about finally crawled into the light and refused to leave.
Now, half a decade later, he still feels it some mornings, that dark crack between his ribs, sucking, pulling, sinking. Like the moment never really stopped echoing.
Dean splashes cold water on his face, stares into his own eyes. Here we go.
The door closes behind him with a soft click. The air in the bedroom is warm, undisturbed. A quiet snore curls through the dark.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, sitting on the edge of the bed, hand sliding under the blanket until it finds warm skin. “You plannin’ to sleep through the whole damn day?”
Dean chuckles, the lines around his eyes soft.
“C’mon, breakfast’s waiting,” he offers. Then, after a beat, “And Sam’s definitely not holding his breath in the kitchen.”
Cas lets out something between a sigh and a groan, burrowing deeper under the blanket like it might save him.
“It’s been five years,” comes the muffled protest. “I don’t think this is necessary.”
Dean tries, and fails, not to laugh.
He tugs at the blanket until a ruffled shape appears: messy hair, blue eyes half-open.
“If anyone’s gotta celebrate today, it’s Sam,” Dean says, grin tugging at his lips. “No one suffered more for it.”
Castiel blinks up at him.
Dean pauses, amends, “Indirectly suffered?”
Cas rolls his eyes, muttering something incoherent, trying to reclaim the blanket.
“Castiel,” Dean says, voice dropping low — that line between teasing and too damn honest. “I know how you see yourself. Soldier. Savior. Pain in my ass.”
He pauses, eyes softening. “But me? I see a guy who somehow made sleeping late an art form.” His mouth twitches. “Though, gotta admit — I might love the bed a little more. You just… happen to come with it.”
“I hate you,” Cas mumbles, shoving at him.
“No you don’t,” Dean grins.
Because even such a fundamental truth, after five years, became just that — the truth. Finally found its place and stayed there.
Dean bends down, kisses him. Quiet, unrushed.
“Happy truth-bomb day,” he murmurs.
Cas’s eyes soften. He props himself up, catches Dean’s mouth again — this one deeper, hungrier.
“Oh, and there’s cake,” Dean adds against his lips. “Something about truth setting you free.”
Cas groans, flops back onto the bed — but under it, Dean hears laughter.
And yeah, maybe it was the worst day of his life back then. But damned if it didn’t open the door to every one of the best that followed.
