KylinLupinLovesDavidTennant

TW: internalized homophobia, homophobic language, past child abuse, religious imagery/vaguely implied trauma, explicit language

A more detailed TW + explanation can be found here on my AO3

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Pale moonlight trickled into the dusty motel bedroom through cracks in cheap curtains as Castiel watched Dean from the edge of the bed; he was painted in shades of blue, and his rapid, stressed breathing was the only sound besides the motel settling. The alarm clock on the nightstand to his right sat broken and coated in a layer of dust.

The worst part of it all was that Castiel found him so beautiful then. As he grit his teeth and shivered on the thin mattress of a 1-star motel, he was still so beautiful. Wrapped in the threadbare sheets of the shitty motel bed and lying in a halo of sweat, Dean Winchester was still damn near perfect. He supposed that was his first moment of true weakness: finding a simple creature to be enchanting — tactile hands and tender flesh, eyes that catch and reflect light. The human form was so simple to him until he had seen it up close, truly admired its texture and imperfect edges. The full spectrum of sensory experience.

In Hell, Dean had come to know pain and fear better than anything or anyone. Castiel did not need to look into his mind to understand that was precisely what he was feeling then. Brow knit, a glint of sweat at his temples. It was clear as day. Castiel had come to recognize those human emotions well, as they were the first he had witnessed up close. The first he felt.

Lying a hand on Dean, even to ease his restless dreams, felt as though it were an overstep. Attraction may have been his first human experience, but guilt was the first emotion to stop him in his tracks. An action once routine had taken on a heavier weight. He could have spared him from the routine nightly torture minutes ago, but deep down, he understood that Dean wanted the pain. Felt as though he deserved it even, as repentance for his time in Hell. Castiel’s motivations, his allegiance, had become murky, and the tension between him and Dean was growing as a result of his growing sense of humanity.

All he could bring himself to do was to watch, as if witnessing Dean’s suffering made up for it on some level. He couldn’t absolve him of his pain, but he felt it was his duty to share the burden.  

In Dean’s dream he was screaming, begging his father to stop beating up the poor boy he’d been chatting up in an alleyway behind some shitty dive bar. There was no motel room, no Sam, and certainly no Castiel.

He was too cowardly back then, too afraid of John, to fight back or push him away. Instead, Dean watched in horror as John pounded the same face that had just been smiling from ear to ear at him straight into the concrete.

He’d barely known him. Not really. The very first date he’d taken the poor guy out on ended with a free front row seat to the fire and brimstone that was Dean’s father. He should have known better, and he should have been home with Sam – that’s what his father said.

John finally gave up his assault and turned to Dean.

“You,” He said, trying to find the words to express the very depths of his disappointment. Dean winced.  

He’d satiated his rage, at least for that time, and what enacted what he felt was justice. All that was left was disgust.

“Get in the car, boy,” John said, eerily calm.

Dean dared to send the poor boy a look, only to his dismay, it wasn’t some redheaded boy from Gary. That night, it was Castiel, his perfect face beaten to a bloodied pulp and bruised by John’s hatred, staring back at Dean.  

Then, he was running away from his dad, himself, and worst of all, Castiel. Thin, sharp branches ripped at his flesh as he tore through a dark forest; vines wrapped themselves around his ankles, threatening to trip him with every frantic step. Tears streaked through the dirt, blood, and sweat that painted his face. Bravery felt as if it were a distant memory, perhaps an old friend lost to time, as he ran from the thunderous roar of his father. He’d left the poor boy from Indiana, or Castiel or whatever ghost had decided to haunt him that night, on the side of the road.

Dean just had to come along and put him in the line of fire. Put him in danger. He was selfish, he thought, for being foolish enough to think that his father wouldn’t find out. That he wouldn’t be punished.

“No,” Dean whimpered, although in his dream it was a scream as he begged, “Please.”

The sweet stench of rot flooded Dean’s senses as he felt the hot breath of the hellhounds on the back of his neck. He could hear the snapping and gnashing of teeth echoing through his skull as he realized their knife-like claws would soon be upon him. His father would soon be upon him.

John had come with the hounds to drag Dean back to Hell, where filth like him belonged.

Castiel allowed himself another second to bask in the glory of God’s greatest creation and to feed Dean’s need for punishment. The lines between selfishness and selflessness had blurred in a way the angel had never had to navigate before making direct contact with humanity. All people were and would only ever be composed of blurred lines — painting grey where there was one clean black and white.  

The only truth in the heart of his vessel was that he loved Dean. The grey area they had painted was mutual, and yet they both suffered because of it. Castiel had yet to make sense of it all.

He took a step closer and placed a single finger on the center of Dean’s forehead, saving him from the horde of Hellish monsters hot on his tail.

“Another night terror?” Castiel said, careful to create some distance between them by the time Dean had come to.

It was easier for them both that way.

“Bad dream,” Dean replied. He didn’t like the implications of ‘night terror’ but found himself taking deep breaths as though he had just surfaced from beneath dark, murky waters. He supposed it was terrifying. “Yeah.”

Dean looked to the second empty full-sized bed to his right. Sam had still not come back from his bar hook up, abandoning him to chase his own escapism in the form of a pair of long legs and high heels — quick and fun, free and without consequence. Dean was not afforded the privilege of leaving a bar with a partner in the open. They were doomed to leave instead in separate staggered windows, ducking around the revealing glow of streetlights as they stumbled into a backseat or an alleyway. There was never a tomorrow, a phone call, or even cash on a dresser. Just grit teeth under the cover of darkness, and two strangers fighting for pleasure in the wake of tremendous pain.

Instead of taking solace in the comfort of another warm body, Dean turned once more to the bottle and drank himself into a stupor. Dean remembered a time when the work his father did – his only meaningful contribution to humanity besides Sam – was nothing more than fantasy. When it was his turn to take on the mantle, to pick up the gun and the salt, he hadn’t expected it to be quite so painful — He thought that it would have been his freedom, his ticket out. He let his mind wander, trying to envision John in his position.

Did his hands ever tremble quite as his did?

He doubted it.

His father was never afraid, never hesitated – not when faced with monsters, not with ghosts, and certainly never with Dean. It mattered very little to him that he was gone, as sitting in the middle of his hometown, he could feel his disapproving eye peeking out at him from every dark corner. The same streets that had laid the foundation for the strong man that John Winchester had been, laughed in Dean’s face as he sat alone with his angel, his saving grace. He’d been dead two years when Castiel pulled his oldest son straight from Hell and first marked him as his own. Two and a half by the time he started to visit more for pleasure than for business.

Silence filled the room as dust settled in the air between them, the air still disturbed by Castiel’s abrupt appearance in the small space. Dean rubbed his eyes as Castiel approached the bed.

He thought he had gotten used to the spontaneous visits, the sort where Cas waited until Sam was out or asleep to make his presence known. However, as it stood then, He could no longer bring himself to look Castiel in the eye. They had caved and nearly satisfied the flesh, in such a small, insignificant way, and Dean wasn’t sure if the voice gnawing at his subconscious was that of God or his father or something worse entirely.

They hadn’t even kissed. They had just come close, and that alone was enough to undo years of purposeful repression. Of hiding.

Or more aptly — forgetting.

Dean told himself he would not let it happen again, that he would be stronger the next time Castiel appeared and tempted him with sin. Yet there they were again, sitting just an inch or two apart on the same bed. Motel room to themselves. Castiel’s hands were lying limp and defeated in his lap, and Dean had his on the mattress.

He imagined kissing Castiel in that room, the way his stubble would feel against his skin, and what it felt like to indulge himself somewhere other than a dive bar bathroom.

The fear of being found out prevented him from doing many things he would otherwise enjoy. It was like John was there in his head, whispering to him about how a real man, a real hunter, lives. He could almost hear him rolling in his grave at the very mention of his son allowing another man to defile him. To ruin him.

In a way, he felt as though Castiel had done precisely that, the voice of his father continuing to ravage his psyche even in death. Blaming Cas for feelings he was experiencing rather than addressing that they had always, in fact, been there was far simpler.

Dean watched Cas from the corner of his eye. Stuck alone with an angel he owed more answers than anyone else, he was forced once more to confront the blunt forces of reality. All he wanted was to kiss Castiel, to love and be loved in a way that strangers at the bar or nobodies from an app could never give him.

Only when he was drunk enough to dampen his father’s voice in his head did he allow himself to feel it, to feel himself. Dean was performing for a critic that was no longer watching and had lost himself almost entirely in the role.

"You're uncomfortable," Cas, impervious to the forces of social nuance, "Why?"

A beat of silence passed between them, the thick air of the motel room filled only with the soft buzzing of the miniature refrigerator leaking underneath the corner desk. Dean contemplated ignoring him, but knew that his watchful eye would continue to bore holes through him if he did so. He wanted another drink, but he had already emptied the 12-pack he'd brought in from the Impala.

"Thought you were a mind-reader?" Dean replied, still refusing to look at Castiel directly. “You tell me.”

He dared to look at Castiel’s dress shoes as he crossed the room and closed the gap between them.

The angel wasn’t fond of watching Dean suffer, even in minor ways, and a look of anguish had briefly flashed within his eyes upon the angel's arrival. Absolving Dean's self-hatred was the problem, not taking note of it in the first place. Castiel had felt the internal conflict firsthand, the pain deep in Dean’s chest practically crying out with a mind of its own. Only God knew just how long he’d been ignoring it. Denying himself.

Castiel hesitated a moment before joining Dean at the bedside, careful to leave some space between them.

"You asked me not to read your mind," Castiel reminded him, the confusion in his subtle yet palpable.

Dean was certain that if Cas were to move any closer, his father would find the cosmic power to return and drag them both straight to Hell himself. It would have been one hell of a homecoming for his dear old dad to find his oldest boy sharing a bed with another man. He could feel his palms sweat as his chest tightened. The proximity was sudden, and he was out of his element entirely.

“I’m not…” Dean said, pausing as he realised he was fixing his tongue to lie to a soldier of Heaven, “Forget it. Just forget it.”

Castiel slowly began to piece together the source of his trepidation — the same hands that sat idly folded in his lap, itched to hold Dean together. He wanted to touch him softly, place a single hand on his knee, and let it rest there, but Cas knew better. The hunter was terrified of him, and Castiel could not understand why.

He hated the idea that Dean was a drunken mess to cope with the emotional wreckage he had disturbed. Years of repression washed away in an instant.

“I’m sorry that I am the source of this… discomfort,” Castiel said, as much as it pained him.

He could keep his hands and his heart to himself for the time being if it meant Dean wouldn’t ask him to leave again.

Dean swallowed hard.

Castiel’s apology hurt more than any insult his father had ever hurled his direction. He was sorry too, and he did not know how to tell him. The words didn’t flow off his tongue quite as easily as they did for Castiel. Dean was never taught how to forgive — only about punishment or its absence. Good deeds were only good enough and never worthy of praise. Pleasure was to be secondary to his duties as a hunter and avenging his mother.

“It’s not you,” Dean said, finally finding the courage to look into Castiel’s eyes. Only for a second, but it was enough. He felt that if he couldn’t bring himself to explain, he at least owed them both that much. “It’s just, it’s not your fault, Cas.”

John’s way was Dean’s for so long that he was not even sure what he really wanted. All he knew for sure was that he wanted to feel Castiel’s lips on his own and that he could not bring himself to do so. He had trapped himself in a prison of his own design, and in death, his father had taken the key. Dean sighed and gave the back of his neck a tentative rub. With John dead and gone, he wasn't really sure what was stopping him — certainly not Sam and definitely not God. An angel of the lord had even appeared before him, and he still could not bring himself to admit that just maybe there was nothing wrong with him.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Castiel said. “But you might feel better after a bit of confession.”  

Castiel didn’t have to ask to know that Dean preferred to operate as a closed book, protected by a veil of charm and obscenity, but he couldn’t help but push the envelope just a bit further each time. He had been studying human romantic conventions, paying attention to the way Dean got waitresses to blush with just the slightest change in intonation. If he was feeling especially low, he might even tilt his head, really pretend to care about the soup of the day as he stared up at her, eager for any attention at all.

Dean looked down for a moment, taken aback by what he believed was Castiel’s attempt at flirting. He could feel the angel looking at him, looking in him, lit only by the streetlights outside the window and the glow of the moon.

He could never do it, could never bring himself to, but he would think of Castiel pulling him in and placing his lips on his any time they were close. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly weak, he would imagine kissing him first — taking that leap of his volition, without fear. Dean never pictured any semblance that fantasy would actually come to fruition, that he would have ever allowed himself such an indulgence.

He’d almost forgotten just how hard his heart fluttered at the thought of breathing in the exhale of another man — his father had almost succeeded in beating the very desire out of him.

Almost.

Castiel moved closer to Dean, their legs side to side on the thin mattress. As if it were nothing, he leaned over and brought his face just inches away from Dean’s. Any efforts Dean had made to deny himself the simple fact that he was gay went out the window as his eyes dropped down to Castiel’s lips. The smell of Earth and fire and electricity when he was close — Dean found everything about him equal parts intense and beautiful.

They kissed, and for just a moment, Dean was able to push his father’s voice into the same box he had forced himself into for all those years. Despite John’s best efforts, there, his oldest boy was, allowing himself comfort in the shape of a man who protected him from things as small as a bad dream. Castiel was surprised by Dean’s hunger, and his hands sat unsure between them. He placed an inquisitive hand on Dean’s knee and began to mirror his actions. Angels did not kiss in heaven as there were no lips, no simple forms; such a human ritual was viewed as beneath them, even when in a vessel on Earth.

All Castiel was thinking of in that moment was the fact that he was struggling to keep up with the pace of what he had started. He’d never kissed anyone before – angel, vessel, human, or otherwise – but Dean was starved, having found confidence for the first time in ages only under the cover of darkness and with a holy stamp of approval. He needed orders, permission, approval — never once was he taught that his own satisfaction was enough. Castiel could taste how badly he wanted someone to love him, and he’d been able to smell the desperation for months, even though Dean would never admit it outright.

Once he’d found his own footing, Castiel decided that he needed more of Dean. He needed to be closer. They needed to be one again, just as when he raised him from perdition. All he had felt since the moment he released his grip on Dean’s soul was a profound loneliness. He might not have been sure what exactly to do, but he was certain that his heart was content being shared with Dean. A nothing motel in the middle of Illinois was never a paradise he envisioned them sharing, but in that room, he felt closer to salvation than he ever had in Heaven.

Then there was the key in the door. The rattling of the knob as drunken hands fumbled an off-kilter lock. Castiel felt Dean lock up, and he pulled back, only to find the hunter’s green eyes wide in fear. In shame.  

Dean turned to face the door, preparing himself for Sam’s eyes to fall on the scene before him. His secret would be out for the world, or what was left of it, to see. Castiel watched as the hunter braced for impact, as if instead of Sam getting home late, it was the Devil himself missing the lock with his key in the dark outside.

It was far from the first time Castiel had seen that look, but until that night, he’d never been able to take direct responsibility for putting it there. To blame himself so fully.

“Uh,” Sam said as Dean took a sharp, deep breath in, “You all right?”

He turned to his left, and where an angel had been just seconds ago was nothing more than a disheveled bedsheet. Castiel had vanished once more. Deen had never been much of a man of prayer, but he figured it was time to start.

“Yeah,” He replied, clearly hiding something. “Fine. Why?”

Sam looked around the nearly empty room, hoping for any other explanation for the voices he had heard through the door than Dean losing his mind for good. All he found besides the furniture and a couple of half-functioning discount appliances was his older brother.

“And it’s just you in here?” He asked, a brow raised, confident that he had heard something from beyond the door.

“Yeah,” Dean said, the inflection not quite confident enough for it to sound like a statement, possessing an air of question.

“Hm,” Sam said, flopping down onto his bed, “You sure you’re fine?”

“Peachy,” Dean said, flashing Sam the same forced smile he’d offer after a scolding from John. A beating when he was unlucky.

He always liked to keep a brave face for Sam.

Sam didn’t ask more questions, and he pretended not to notice the way Dean refused to meet his eyes as he entered the room. The disheveled bed — his brother’s puffy undereye, or the sharp, clean smell of electricity. Living with Dean full-time meant picking his battles, and he knew asking about his feelings was a losing one.

“Whatever,” Sam said, “Get some sleep, we’re headed up to Bobby’s tomorrow.”

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

One Hour Outside of Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean couldn’t bring himself to look at Sam. All he knew was that to stay in motion, he had to exist separate from himself; doomed forever to a life on the run. He'd never been more thankful for the open road as a distraction, an excuse to ignore that concerned look in Sam's eye or the weight of the world ending that was pushing down on their shoulders constantly. 

“I just — I’m just gonna say it,” Sam said, the firmness of his statement pulling Dean’s attention away from the route. “Can you just get over yourself already?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked, shooting his brother a look.

Dean knew it to be true within himself, but hearing the affirmation from Sam placed a specific pain in his chest. Someone, anyone, seeing through his act so fully, so suddenly, had caught him off guard. Let alone his own flesh and blood.

“Seriously? I mean, it’s not exactly the best-kept secret in history,” Sam said from the passenger, hoping to get a laugh out of his brother. Anything to lighten the moment. 

Truth be told, he was never very good at hiding it. That was always the source of John’s shame, his frustration. He needed two soldiers, and instead, he had reared a scholar and a faggot. Rather than nurturing the gifts in each of his children, their hearts, he forced them into shoes they could never hope to fill.

“Drop it, Sammy,” Dean said, “Come on, man.”

“I didn’t have a problem then, and I don’t now,” Sam replied, “Just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

Dean sighed, “Please.”

“Doesn’t change a thing for me,” Sam said, “Or Bobby.”

“You’re gonna tell Bobby about this?” Dean asked, an anger more familiar than any pain bubbling up from his depths. “Oh, you fucking —,”

Sam exhaled sharply, “No!”

He remembered the beatings just as well as Dean — the way the light was gone from his eyes as he desperately tried to keep Sam’s aglow. He didn’t push his brother any further. They had been through enough.

They drove in silence until the next exit, and Dean pulled off. There was a rest stop, and he was worried that he was going to drive them both off the road if he didn't stop and take a breather. He could not pretend any longer; the act of hiding his true self was killing him faster than any demon deal, hex, curse, or mystical poison ever could have. He held his head in his hands as he attempted to ground himself.

He ignored Sam again as he hastily parked, leaving him alone as he tightened his jacket and ran up the walkway to the truck stop.

He'd been in so many filthy bathrooms in the middle of nowhere that they didn't faze him anymore, and he quickly found himself in a single locked stall with a flickering bulb. Dean figured they were about an hour out from Bobby's. There, he could really take a deep breath and hide away from the world. Hunters (except for Sam) didn't ask questions. Especially when they knew the answer. Looking in the bathroom mirror, he wasn't sure if he could hold it together if his brother doubled down and interrogated him further when he returned to the Impala. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, and whether it was intended for Sam’s ears, or Castiel’s, or God’s, he wasn’t exactly sure. He looked horrible in the mirror, and he felt even worse.

The cold water running over his hands did little to calm him. He splashed it on his face for good measure and squeezed his eyes shut tight as he gripped the sink’s edge. He didn’t want to see himself anymore.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

The Singer Salvage Yard

The skies above the scrapyard were painted in bright hues of orange and purple when Castiel appeared before Dean next. He was elbows deep in the Impala, a half-finished beer sitting on the rusted shell of the less fortunate vehicle to his right.

Whenever Dean was unaware of Castiel’s presence, he was looser, more natural. The angel observed him from a distance as if he were some sort of exotic creature rather than a common human man.

Unbeknownst to Castiel, who had about as much knowledge of cars as the average dog, Dean was performing a routine oil change. He’d always taken peace in such a ritual.

“Pass me a rag, would you, Sammy?” He said. He hadn’t emerged from under the Impala to identify his companion, merely heard the shuffling of careful feet from his current position and the hesitation of someone who knew better than to bother him when he was working on his car.

They were so protected on that property that the presence of someone other than Sam or Bobby was entirely out of his mind.

Dean felt safe there, untouchable. Even more so shielded by Baby’s steel frame. He still had to wipe everything down before replacing the drain plug. Even when the rest of his life was a mess, Dean’s Baby would always be in near-perfect condition. Almost spotless.

Cas spotted a rag he was certain had once been white and quickly crouched to pass it to Dean.

Dean’s smile fell as he emerged just enough to grab the rag he’d forgotten and saw Cas. His feet were no longer tapping out the beat alongside the old radio playing from somewhere behind him.

“Oh,” Dean said, emerging from underneath the Impala after replacing the plug, “Cas.”

Castiel frowned, his fears that he was the direct source of Dean’s discomfort seemingly confirmed. If he hadn’t already touched Dean’s soul, his eyes would have deceived him entirely. He stopped taking it personally a while back, and he knew that even if his actions did not match his heart, Dean wanted him there.

Eventually, they hit a point where Dean was no longer working and had begun to look for things to touch or tighten to look busy. He’d long since replaced the oil, verified the fill level, replaced each moved part, and tightened everything with the mind not to strip either tool nor precious bolt. He hadn’t done a single important task for the last fifteen minutes or so of Castiel watching him, and despite having exactly zero knowledge about classic cars, he had correctly determined that Dean was stalling.

“I came here to talk to you,” Castiel started, “about our last meeting.”

Dean turned carefully, trying his best to continue to appear just as casual as he had been just a moment ago. Casual still as he cast an anxious glance towards the house and prayed that Bobby was nowhere near an empty window.

“I’m sorry if I was unsatisfactory,” Castiel continued, casting a glance at the grass between them. Dean had never seen him nervously break eye contact until that moment, when he thought that Dean’s emotional unavailability was related to his skill level. “We don’t exactly kiss in Heaven.”  

Dean tensed as he realized that he had been Castiel’s first kiss. Once again, Castiel was apologizing for things beyond his control and certainly not his fault. He didn’t understand why Dean was so uncomfortable, and of course, he wouldn’t have without an explanation. Gender, sexuality – they were benign in heaven, mere abstract concepts reserved for making sense of complex life on Earth. He was frozen; the sincerity of Castiel’s needless apology had pierced his aching heart.

Dean closed his eyes, keeping his back turned to Castiel, and he could feel the hum of his grace reverberating through his ribcage. His presence.

His touch.

He wanted to tell him he got it all wrong, to assure him that the discomfort was not his to apologize for. Instead, he stared back at the angel and prayed that the sun would set, and he would be absolved from having to face the weight of his shortcomings in the daylight. Dean felt Castiel step closer, felt his trenchcoat brush his side as he peered into the Impala’s innards alongside him.

He could tell the angel wanted him to look up, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“No,” Dean started, before being abruptly cut off by a floodlight illuminating them both fully under the dusky setting sun. Dean jumped out of his skin, cutting himself off as he jumped.

One of Bobby’s motion-sensing lights — It wasn’t Sam or Bobby catching him in the act of what he was unsure of. Fortunately, it was merely a raccoon that had decided to run across the lawn.

Dean tried to play off the way he had bumped his head on the popped hood of the Impala.

“Take a picture,” He said, with a wink to hide the nausea taking residence in his gut, “It’ll last longer.”

It was not very convincing, judging by the look of disapproval on Castiel’s face. He parted his lips as if he were about to speak before closing them quickly, taking a moment to figure out his next step, and Dean realized he’d never seen Cas so uncertain of himself.  

Castiel sighed, “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” Dean asked with a sigh. “Working on my car?”

He wanted to reach out and touch Dean again, to stroke his face and tell him everything was okay. They could figure it out. But Castiel knew better than to touch Dean once he put his mask back on; push too hard, and Dean would pull back. He had already learned that the hard way once, and thus self-control was a virtue he had honed.

“No,” Castiel said, “Hiding.”

Dean scoffed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Silence.

Not for long, but long enough. Dean knew what was coming next. He had been through that part before, where the other guy realized he wasn’t just shy. He was incapable of being himself.

“You don’t have to keep the brave face,” Castiel said, a voice crack having betrayed him despite the calmness of his tone. “I understand quite well that you are afraid to be seen with me.”

Dean wasn’t sure what he hated more:

Castiel thinking that he was ashamed of himself instead of himself, or the fact that he was a grown man who still lived in fear of a man who was nothing more than particles of dust on the breeze. He looked down in shame.

“You sure won’t get tired of this — of me?” Dean asked, his eyes fixed firmly on the wilting grass beneath their feet. “Go find some twink and fuck off into the sunset?”

Castiel paused. Dean held his breath in fear that he’d finally done it, touched one too many nerves, and exhausted his patience.

“I don’t know what a twink is,” He said finally, immediately earning a chuckle from Dean. Concluding with a metaphorical punch straight to Dean’s chest, Cas added, “But I know that the best sunsets I’ve seen on Earth have been with you.”

Dean exhaled sharply and finally looked up from Castiel’s shoes only to find in his icy blue eyes what he had feared most for the longest time…

Courage.