#destieldice

The sky isn’t literally broken. Just the projection system is misaligned, a star field spilling constellations where they don’t belong. Orion’s belt is halfway across something that definitely isn’t Orion anymore, and there’s a cluster of stars bleeding into the edge of the dome like they’ve decided that the sky is boring and they’d rather be down here on earth.

Dean leans back in his chair, squinting up at it.

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “That’s definitely wrong.”

The control panel in front of him is a mess of switches and sliders that all seem to do something slightly different than what they’re labelled as. He nudges one experimentally, and the stars shift. Worse.

“Great,” Dean says flatly. “Love that.”

Someone behind him sighs. Not loud, not annoyed. The kind of sound somebody makes when a problem has already been solved in their head and they’re just waiting for everyone else to stop being dumb and catch up.

“You’re projecting Orion in the wrong hemisphere.”

Dean freezes for half a second before turning around. He’s expecting his supervisor. Maybe a bored college kid who actually knows how this thing works. What he gets is something entirely different.

The guy standing in the doorway looks like he belongs somewhere quieter than this. Messy dark hair, big blue eyes, a dorky sweater vest. His eyes flick briefly from Dean to the ceiling, taking in the damage.

“It’s not supposed to—” Dean starts, gesturing vaguely upwards. “—do that.”

The guy steps past him without asking. “It’s not,” he agrees.

Dean shifts aside as the guy reaches past his shoulders and adjusts two controls in quick succession. The stars shift again, smooth this time. Orion snaps back into something recognisable. The rest of the sky follows suit.

He blinks. “Okay. Yeah. How’d you do that?”

The guy doesn’t look at him, just continues watching the ceiling. “What you’re seeing isn’t current,” he says. “The light takes time to arrive. Even in simulation, it’s modelled that way. You’re not projecting where the stars are. You’re projecting where they were.”

Dean blinks. “Isn’t that a design flaw?”

“It’s accurate.”  The guy finally looks at him. “My name is Castiel.”

Dean leans back in his chair again, glancing up at the now-correct sky before looking back at him.

“Dean,” he says eventually. “And, uh, thanks, man. For fixing my accidental cosmic disaster.”

Castiel doesn’t respond to that, just tilts his head slightly like he’s considering something that Dean can’t see.

“The projection drifts if it’s not recalibrated manually,” he says. “Most people don’t notice.”

Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. I did notice it was wrong, just didn’t know how to make it right.

Castiel’s gaze flicks to him again. “Most people don’t notice that either.”

--

Observation Log: Day 7

Dean doesn’t mean to stay late. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

It just… happens. The first couple of nights, he blames the equipment. Learning the controls, making sure the projections don’t drift into whatever abstract mess he made that first day, it takes time. After that, it’s easier to say he’s waiting on Sam to call. Or that it’s quieter here than the motel.

By the end of the first week, the excuses stop needing to make sense. The last show finishes, the recorded voice fades out. The artificial sky dims and resets.

Dean doesn’t leave. Castiel does.

Kind of. He gathers his notes, shuts down one of the side consoles, then walks towards the exit like the night is over.

Then he pauses. Looks back.

Dean stays in his chair, one boot hooked against the base of the console, staring up at a sky that currently isn’t showing anything interesting.

A beat. Castiel turns around and comes back. Dean doesn’t comment on it.

“Is that normal?” he asks instead, nodding towards the ceiling as the next projection begins to bleed slowly into place. Not a full show, just a scattered field of sprinkled stars, dimmer, less structured.

Castiel follows his gaze. “Yes. It recalibrates between programs.”

The stars settle gradually, not all at once. Points of light flicker into position, uneven, like the projection is assembling itself from memory rather than a computer instruction. Dust drifts through the projector beam, catching briefly, small yet bright interruptions that disappear as quickly as they appear.

Dean watches that longer than he probably should. “It doesn’t look finished.”

“It isn’t,” Castiel replies. “It doesn’t need to be.”

Dean huffs quietly at that, but doesn’t argue. He doesn’t understand most of what Castiel says, and that’s becoming as routine as his staying late. Words like ‘background radiation’ and ‘signal degradation’ and ‘observable remnants’ get dropped into the air between them like Dean is supposed to glean some kind of cosmic meaning from them. He doesn’t.

But he stays and listens anyway.

“You said the light’s old,” he says after a minute. “Like… already happened old.”

“Yes.”

“And we’re just—what? Watching it show up?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Dean shifts in his chair, glancing over at Castiel. “That doesn’t mess with you?”

Castiel considers the question like it’s the most profound thing he’s ever heard. “No,” he decides. “It’s simply the nature of observation. There is always a delay between an event and its perception.”

Dean looks back up at the ceiling. A cluster of stars sharpen into focus near the edge of the dome. Not a constellation he recognises, just points that seem spread out, uneven.

“Sounds like a bad deal,” he mutters. “Everything important already over by the time you get to it.”

There’s a pause, longer this time. Dean doesn’t look over, but he can feel Castiel’s attention shifting, settling on him instead of the projection.

“That isn’t how I would describe it,” Castiel says.

Dean huffs again, softer this time. “Yeah, well. You’re the expert, Cas.”

Silence stretches between them again, but it’s not empty. Not like that first night. There’s something settled about it now, like they understand each other. Even though they don’t.

The projection cycles again, faint adjustments clicking into place. More dust catches in the light.

Dean doesn’t move to leave.

Neither does Castiel.

--

Observation Log: Day 22 - 1169

Dean stops pretending it’s accidental somewhere around the third week. He still clocks out when he’s supposed to. Still does the rounds, checks the exits, powers down what needs powering down. On paper, his job ends when the last show does.

In practice, he stays.

The planetarium settles into a different kind of quiet after closing. Not empty, just held. Like the space doesn’t fully power down, just becomes something softer. The projection cycles low, slow transitions instead of full programs. Stars drift in and out of alignment without ever quite committing to a pattern.

Dean brings coffee now. Two cups. Doesn’t comment on it, just sets the second one down on the console without looking at Castiel when he does.

Castiel drinks it, also without comment. That, more than anything, is how Dean knows this is becoming a thing.

Tonight, the projection feels dimmer than usual. A wide sprinkle of stars across the dome, no clear constellation, just points of light spread unevenly across the dark.

Castiel is already there when Dean finishes locking up, standing near the edge of the control booth, looking up like he’s trying to solve a problem, to make order out of nature’s chaos.

Dean leans against the console, nudging the second coffee towards him. “You ever just… not?”

Castiel glances at the cup, then at Dean. “Not what?”

“Not think about it,” Dean says, gesturing upwards. “All of it. Space. Time. Whatever you’ve got going on in that head?”

Castiel considers that, then picks up the coffee. “No.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Didn’t think so.”

They fall into silence again, but it gets more comfortable and familiar by the day. Dean doesn’t even feel like he has to fill it anymore.

The projector hums softly. Light spills across the room in slow, uneven passes, catching on the edge of the console and the curve of the dome. He watches as it illuminates the line of Castiel’s shoulder where his coat has slipped slightly out of place.

It doesn’t hit him all at once, it’s not that kind of realisation. It’s smaller than that. Quieter.

Dean notices that the light doesn’t settle on Castiel evenly. It breaks across him in fragments, like it’s trying to map something that doesn’t hold still long enough to be understood.

He looks away. “Sam texted,” he says, because that’s easier. “Says the case he’s on might take a few more days.”

Castiel nods once. “I see.”

“You say that like you don’t,” Dean mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

Castiel lifts his gaze back to the projection. “You’ve remained here,” he says after a moment. “Despite the absence of active work. And your case wrapped up days ago.”

Dean huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. Don’t act so surprised. I can commit to a low-stakes gig when I want to.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Dean glances over at him. “No?”

Castiel’s attention shifts—not to Dean’s face, not fully, but closer than before. “Most people don’t return to the same place repeatedly without a clear objective.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You say that like I’ve got some kind of grand plan.”

“Do you?”

The question lands softer than it probably should. Dean opens his mouth to deflect. Habit, reflex, it’s easy for him. Yet nothing comes out. He ends up looking back at the ceiling instead.

“Yeah,” he says finally, quieter. “Guess I do.”

Castiel doesn’t ask what it is. He doesn’t need to.

The projection adjusts again, a faint recalibration that sends a beam of light across the dome. For a second, it catches between them, suspended long enough just to be seen. Dean watches it, then without really thinking about it, he shifts a fraction closer. Not enough to make a point of it.

Just enough that if Castiel moved too, they’d notice.

Castiel doesn’t move.

--

Observation Log: Day 40

It’s colder in the planetarium tonight. Not enough to matter to anyone else, but enough that Dean notices when he pushes through the side door, shoulders tensing against it before the warmth from inside catches up.

The place is empty, same as always. Last show done, lights low, the dome already mid-transition. The stars are bleeding slowly into place, not yet settled.

Castiel is there.

Dean doesn’t think about the fact that he expects it now. Just drops into the chair like he belongs there and sets a coffee down beside the console without looking.

Castiel takes it. They don’t speak for a while.

The projection is crystal clear tonight. Sharper, more defined. Like the stars have decided what they are instead of hovering in between.

Dean leans back, watching them. “You ever get it wrong?” he asks eventually.

Castiel glances at him. “In what sense?”

“All of it. The data. The readings. Whatever you’re pulling meaning out of.”

Castiel considers that. “Yes,” he says. “Frequently.”

Dean snorts. “That’s reassuring.”

“There is an expected margin of error,” Castiel continues. “Observation is limited by many factors. Distance. Delay. By the fact that what we are measuring has already changed by the time we perceive it.”

Dean’s gaze stays on the ceiling. “Yeah,” he says. “You’ve mentioned.”

There’s a pause. Castiel steps a little closer to the console, setting his untouched coffee down, attention shifting fully to the projection.

“Most of what we study is no longer in the state we observe it in,” he says. “Stars collapse. Systems decay. Entire structures cease to exist. The light persists regardless.”

Dean frowns slightly. “That’s bleak, man.”

“It isn’t,” Castiel says, calm as ever. “It’s simply accurate.”

The projection shifts again, subtle, almost imperceptible changes. A cluster near the centre flickers, then stabilises. Castiel watches it like it matters.

“Meaning is not diminished by distance,” he continues. “If anything, it is clarified. Stripped of immediate distortion. What remains is… truer.”

Dean goes very still. It’s not obvious, no sudden movement or sharp intake of breath. Just a quiet kind of stillness.

“What, so—” he starts, then stops. He takes a breath and tries again. “You’re saying it matters more once it’s over?”

“I’m saying its significance is not dependent on proximity.”

Dean exhales slowly, something like a laugh caught in it. “Right,” he says, not looking at Castiel.

The stars above them hold steady, fixed in a way they haven’t been the past few nights. Less drift. Dean notices that too.

“Sounds like a great system,” he adds after a moment. “Nothing real sticks around, but hey, at least you can analyse it better once it’s gone.”

Castiel turns his head slightly, frowning. “That isn’t—”

Dean shakes his head, cutting him off. “No, I get it,” he says. “Distance. Perspective. All that.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still on the projection but not really seeing it anymore. “Just… seems like a bad way to live.”

The words hang that. Castiel doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter than before. Adjusted for the intensity of what they’re not-talking about.

“It isn’t intended as a method of living,” he says. “It is an observation of what is.”

Dean gives a wry smile. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”

Silence settles between them again, but it’s different now. Not as easy or as comfortable. The space between them feels as misaligned as the projection on the night they met. Technically functional, but off in a way that’s hard to ignore once you’ve noticed it.

Dean doesn’t shift closer this time. Doesn’t reach for the controls. Doesn’t say anything else.

He just sits there, watching the light that doesn’t belong to the present, and thinks about how none of it ever actually stays where it should.

After a while, Castiel steps back. It’s subtle, small enough that most people wouldn’t notice.

Dean does.

Neither of them says anything about it.

--

Observation Log: Day 58

Dean notices something is off before anything is said.

It’s small—Castiel is already there when he arrives, which isn’t unusual, but tonight he’s not standing near the console. He’s not watching the projection start up. He’s just still, beside the edge of the control booth, like he’s already halfway elsewhere.

Dean sets the coffee down anyway, noticing that Castiel takes longer than usual to pick it up.

“That’ll be the last time you need to do that,” Castiel says eventually.

Dean pauses mid-sit. It takes him a second to process the sentence properly, like his brain refuses to make sense of the words that only really have one meaning.

“What?”

Castiel doesn’t look at him immediately. His attention stays on the dome as the projection begins to cycle, the stars moving across the sky away from them. Pulling away.

“I’ve accepted a position with a deep-space research facility,” he says. “The transfer finalises at the end of the week.”

Dean lets out a short breath through his nose. It’s not a laugh.

“Okay,” he says instead. “That’s… cool. Congrats, I guess.”

Castiel finally looks at him then. There’s no expectation in it. No waiting for a reaction. Just observation. It’s infuriating.

“Thank you,” he says.

Dean nods once, like that settles something it absolutely doesn’t.

The projection continues above them. The stars tonight are dense—clusters overlapping, like the system is running multiple projections at once, hasn’t quite separated them out.

They both stare at it.

“Deep space,” Dean repeats after a moment. “That’s far.”

“Yes.”

He shifts in his chair, leaning back. “When did you decide that?”

“Some time ago,” Castiel says. “The confirmation only arrived recently.”

Dean nods again. Too quickly.

“Sure,” he says. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Castiel takes a sip of his coffee and sets it down after. “I will be leaving in three days,” he adds.

Dean’s jaw tightens, just slightly. He keeps his eye on the dome. The stars above them drift through a slow recalibration cycle. A faint scatter of light passes through the air between them, dust caught in the projection. Dean watches it fall.

He doesn’t look at Castiel when he speaks again. “You gonna miss it?”

A beat.

“I will not be here to miss anything,” Castiel says.

That hits harder than it should. Dean exhales slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That makes sense.”

He doesn’t move for a long time after that. Neither does Castiel. The projection overhead stabilises, cleaner now, finalised. Stars locked into place like they’ve decided what they are and stopped shifting.

Dean watches them, then finally leans forward and picks up his coffee.

It’s cold.

--

Observation Log: Day 60

The planetarium feels emptier than it should.

Not because there’s anything physically missing from it. Everything is still where it always is. The console, the chairs, the faint hum of systems powering down between programs. The dome overhead still holds a sky that isn’t real and never has been.

Dean watches it anyway. Like always.

Castiel is already there when he arrives.

For a second, Dean just stands in the doorway and watches him—not because it’s unusual anymore, but because he knows it won’t be like this again.

Castiel doesn’t turn right away. He’s looking up at the projection, hands loosely at his side. Two coffees sit untouched on the console beside him.

Dean steps inside. The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes far louder than it should.

Neither of them say anything immediately.

Dean walks over and takes the second cup of coffee anyway. It’s still warm.

“You’re really doing it,” he says finally.

“Yes.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Figured.”

He sits in his usual place, in the same chair he always does. Same angle, same habit.

Above them, the projection begins a slow transition—stars fading, reforming, breaking apart and reassembling in patterns too large to track at once. Light spills unevenly through the dome, scattering across the room in fragments.

Dust catches in it again. Small brief points that never hold still long enough to become anything whole.

Castiel steps closer. “I did not expect you to be here,” he says.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I know.” Dean doesn’t look at him yet. “I was gonna say something smart. Something final. Like I’ve got a whole speech ready or whatever.”

Castiel waits, and Dean finally meets his eyes. Then shrugs, a little less confident than usual.

“But I don’t,” he admits. “So. That’s probably for the best.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth shifts, barely perceptible.

“You have been here consistently,” he says. “Despite having no obligation to remain.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Funny how that works.”

Silence again. The projection shifts into a denser field. Light layers over light, fragments cross paths but never merge. For a split second, it looks like the night sky is made of scattered pieces that only pretend to be connected.

“You ever think you’re wrong?” he asks.

Castiel’s response is careful. “In what way?”

“All of it,” Dean says. “The distance thing. The… everything already being gone before it matter thing.”

Castiel looks at him properly now, his gaze knowing. “I think,” he says slowly, “that I misjudged the necessity of proximity to significance.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth tugs briefly. “That’s one way to say it.”

He reaches for his coffee, but doesn’t drink it, and after a moment he sets it back down untouched. He stands, stepping closer to Castiel.

“You’re still leaving,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Yeah.” Dean nods once. “I know. I just… didn’t want it to be nothing.”

Castiel’s gaze holds steady. “It is not nothing.”

Dean exhales, then he reaches out. There’s no hesitation, no testing. He catches the edge of Castiel’s coat like he’s grounding himself, reminding himself that while the stars themselves are not tangible, this is.

Castiel doesn’t move away.

The projection continues overhead, scattering light in broken waves.

Castiel leans in first, just slightly, but Dean meets him there. The kiss is quiet, not urgent. Just the moment where proximity contributes to significance.

When they pull back, neither of them fully steps away. Above them, the stars keep shifting.

But for once, neither of them look up.

A slight caress of the wheel, and Dean coaxed the Impala off the main road and onto a snowy dirt trail, leading towards a thick, heavy canopy of trees. Despite his control, there was nothing to be done about the uneven route, mounds of rock and snow and bumps rocking them from side to side as they were forced to brake abruptly.

“This is gonna wreck the tyres.” Dean announced, flicking off the engine and turning his collar up in preparation of the cold once they left the safety of the car. “Looks like we’re on foot from here.”

He paused long enough to retrieve what they needed from the trunk, a couple of flashlights and a dagger coated liberally in a thick, viscous blood. Just in case, he also slid the vial of blood into the pocket of his jacket. At the last moment, Dean’s hand caressed the flamethrower.

“Cas--”

“No.”

“But--”

“No, Dean. There are too many trees here for an open flame.”

“But you said she was scared of dragons, right? Dragons breathe fire, c’mon, you’ve seen Game of Thrones .”

Castiel sighed. “Dean, you’ve seen dragons. Did they breathe fire?”

“No.” Dean huffed, and slammed the lid of the trunk. “Alright, damnit, I got the dagger. Let’s just go before it gets any colder.”

He tossed the flashlight to Castiel, who caught it deftly, flicking it on. It was getting darker now, the flashlights only illuminating about twenty feet or so in front of them. The hail was melting slowly, making the ground underfoot wet and slippery. As they trudged forward, mud splashed up their legs, leaving a grey-brown soggy coating to the bottom of Dean’s jeans and Castiel’s slacks.

The wind howled around them, growing louder as they moved ever closer towards the eye of the storm, and the Ala’s lair, until even three feet apart, they had to shout to be heard.

“Why do creepy monsters always make their lairs in woods, dusty attics, and creepy cabins, man? Why can’t something just, you know, check in at a spa once in a while?” Dean gestured to a rickety cabin with jagged looking strips of wood masquerading as walls.

“What? I can’t hear you over this wind.”

Dean just shook his head and stepped forward, stumbling over a tree branch. As he righted himself, Castiel’s hand on his shoulder in a reassuring grip, he realised the world had gone quiet.

The wind had stopped. Despite the raging storm he could see all around, bolts of lightning shooting down, thick pellets of hail, there was nothing but deadly silence around them.

“I think we’re in the right place,” Dean breathed, turning his head when Castiel didn’t reply. “Cas? Cas !”

The angel was suspended, three feet in the air, held aloft by a bright white swarm of snow and crystals of ice. His head was thrown back, and Dean could see his veins glowing as ice was pushed through them. He jumped forward, closing one hand around Castiel’s wrist, but was forced to snatch it back as the cold seared his skin.

His jaw clenched, Dean cast his eyes around in the dim glow of his flashlight. “Let him go,” he ground out. “Now.”

No response greeted him, nothing but the deafening sound of silence echoed back at him as Dean began to turn slowly, shining the beam all around. As it brushed over Castiel, Dean could see how violently he was shivering, his lips beginning to tinge blue.

“I know you can hear me. You got until I count to three to let him go, and then you’re gonna wish you’d listened.”

“Foolisssh boy. You think a ssseraph and a ssstupid hunter could hurt me? You are outmatched, outwitted, and when I finisssh with your angel, you will be next.”

Dean wheeled around, looking for the source of the voice, slipping his free hand into his jacket pocket. “I don’t think so. You know why?” He didn’t wait for a response, squeezing the vial of blood so it shattered, the shards piercing his skin. He yanked his hand free and held it up, pointing the flashlight towards the open wound. “Smell that, bitch? Dragon blood.”

There was a hissing shriek, and out of the darkness charged the Ala. In ordinary circumstances, she might be striking to look at. Long, flowing hair, stormy eyes, russet skin that held tints of purple under the night sky. Dean was more concerned with the waist-down, where she was pure serpentine, rippling navy scales that were charging towards him with top speed.

She didn’t even get close. Dean reached for the dagger in his back pocket and propelled it forward, embedding the blade deep into her solar plexus. He half-expected her to roil and screech and thrash around, and it felt almost anti-climactic when that wasn’t the case, she just dissolved into particles of ice and snow.

Castiel dropped to the floor with a thud.

Dean moved before he’d even realised it, crouching down at Castiel’s side. “You alright?”

Castiel wheezed, gasping for air as the ice began to recede, the white streaks of his veins fading away. “C-cold. Is she dead?”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Dean let out a huge sigh of relief, hauling Castiel up. “Yeah, I got her. Whoa, your hands are like blocks of ice. C’mon, we’ll never make it back to the car like this. We’ll hole up in that cabin, get a fire going. Can angels get hypothermia?”

“No.” Castiel replied curtly, but his teeth chattered, lessening the effect of his tone. “Though I admit, a f-fire would b-be welcome.”

Dean wrapped his arm around Castiel, keeping him upright and supporting most of his weight as they edged towards the cabin. Thankfully, despite Dean’s earlier reservations that the cabin was barely holding itself up, it seemed to be well insulated. The windows were thick glass, unbroken, and the walls were strong and complete. The door was locked, but a blow to the lock fixed that problem.

“What, you want to just walk back to the car? I’ll leave the money for the locksmith.” Dean huffed, feeling Castiel’s silent judgement. “Sit,” he added, ripping a dust sheet off an armchair and lowering Castiel down. “I’ll get a fire going.”

It took him longer than he liked to get the fire going, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with matches, then struggled to position the logs so the fire caught evenly. He crouched in front of the flame after it was lit, cupping his hands and blowing into them, warming his fingers.

“I should…” Castiel struggled to get up. “Take off my clothes.”

Dean blinked, and lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Uh.”

“They’re wet,” Castiel stripped off his trench coat and twisted it, watching puddles drip onto the oak floor.

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Dean cleared his throat and stared as Castiel carefully placed the coat to one side, shrugging out of his suit jacket. When the tie was next to go, Dean forced himself to turn away, looking around the cabin. “Blankets! I’ll see if I can find some.”

He searched around the adjacent room, eventually finding a thick woollen throw that wasn’t really big enough to completely wrap around Castiel, but would cover him for now. When Dean returned, Castiel had stripped off his boots and socks, his bare feet pointed towards the fireplace, but--thankfully--had kept his shirt and slacks on.

He looked… well, miserable. There was no other word for it.

Dean rested a hand on his shoulder, patting it gently before nudging the armchair closer to the fire, tucking the throw around him firmly. “You doing okay, buddy?”

“I’m fine. Just… it never gets any easier. When you save me,” Castiel clarified. “I was sent to rescue you, and since then I think you’ve done most of the rescue.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Dean’s mouth. “I think it’s pretty even. Besides, who’s keeping score? That’s what family does. Didn’t the other angels all look out for each other? Your Garrison.”

At Castiel’s wince, Dean felt guilty for even bringing it up. “They did,” Castiel admitted, although there was a slight downturn to his mouth that Dean wasn’t sure was entirely attributed to the guilt Castiel harboured about the other angels. “But this is different. You’re different, Dean.”

Castiel shifted again, his head tilting back into the armchair, his eyes closing, oblivious to the sudden thudding in Dean’s chest. “Do you think we could stay here for a little while longer? I think I want to sleep.”

“Yeah, I think we can swing it. I’ll see if I can try your boots in the meantime. Make the drive back a little less uncomfortable.” Dean offered gently, bending to scoop them up.

There was no response, and Castiel’s breathing was even, steady, his eyes closed.

Dean hesitated for just a moment, and then reached out, carding his fingers gently through Castiel’s soft, dark hair. “You’re different too.”

It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but they weren’t there yet. In that moment, it was all he had the courage to confess.

“No, no, no.” Dean tsked, cutting him off with a stern wag of his finger. “You should know the drill by now.”

Castiel felt a burst of annoyance but tried his best to reign it in. “Must we go through this every day ?”

“I don’t make the rules.” That was a lie, and they both knew it. “Come on. You know what to say.”

“Morning sunshine,” Castiel ground out, the words torn from him only because he knew Dean would delay his order the longer he resisted, and he’d be late for work. “A medium black coffee and the special of the day. What is the special of the day today?”

“A millefeuille of nutmeg poached pear, rose diplomat cream and topped with a candied rose petal and a dusting of vanilla nutmeg sugar,” Dean announced proudly.

Beside him, the redhead—Charlie, Castiel remembered—was already ringing his order through the register. “That’ll be seven dollars exactly.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Or free, if you give me your phone number.”

Castiel ignored him, passing some crisp dollar bills to Charlie and pushing a few singles in the tip jar. “I don’t know why I keep tipping you,” he told her. “You subject me to this every day. You could just not tell him I’m here.”

Charlie shrugged, but a smile tugged at her lips. “He’s the boss.”

“I’m right here,” Dean replied, clutching at his chest and pretending to be wounded. “C’mon, Cas, just give me your phone number. We’ll go out once and if you don’t have a good time, I’ll never ask you again.”

Charlie reached across the counter to take the coffee and boxed-up pastry that Charlie was offering him. “No, thank you. Have a lovely day.”

He pursed his lips and left, his steps hasty as he hurried to work. It was nearing eight, and he had a few things to prepare before his class of eager first graders arrived for the day.

The millefeuille was delicious, the flavours subtle and balanced, and more than made up for the exertion of ordering it.

[read the rest on AO3]

Green was grief. Grief manifested itself in the most varied shades, Castiel had noticed. Depending on the level of pain or anger, grief could appear from a pastel mint green to an eye-straining lime. It also tinged other colours. People who experienced a huge loss always had their colours tinged slightly green. Even when they were happy, their sunflower hues never managed to shrug off the tinge of sage.

Castiel tried not to understand the colours. He’d tried to explain it to countless doctors, numerous therapists, but nobody had ever been able to give him an explanation. Which, in Castiel’s eyes, made it a thing of beauty. Beauty was inexplicable, just like colours. Just like art.

Even now, in his early twenties, the colours were still new and exciting to him. The walls of his crappy studio apartment were all decorated with blocks of colour, each new shade that he encountered found a place on his wall, after hours of attempting to recreate that shade until it was perfect. Just like he was right now, he often spent hours out in the quad, filling in what amounted to an abstract mosaic with his watercolours. Castiel mixed and diluted until the colour matched exactly what he could see, and only then was it added to his sketchbook.

A disturbance in the form of someone joining him on the grass threatened to tug his attention away from a particularly sienna-looking professor who had just been bowled over by two students on hoverboards. When the kiss was pressed to his cheek, Castiel softened and eventually looked over at his boyfriend.

Dean didn’t mind the colours. Didn’t think it was weird that Castiel’s gaze was drawn to everyone they passed, mesmerised by strangers at inopportune moments. In fact, he almost seemed to find it endearing, as crazy as that was. But Castiel often came out of his reverie, three new colours in his sketchbook, to find Dean smiling at him.

It never failed to create a rush of emotion that rivalled even the brightest of yellows.

A freshman student to Castiel’s junior, Dean was actually the same age as Castiel. He’d started late, due to the loss of his parents forcing him to abandon his dreams of college in favour of raising his younger brother. A scholarship had put Dean’s dreams back on track now Sam was applying for colleges himself.

On Dean’s first day, he’d walked into the administration building almost neon yellow with happiness. Castiel had followed him, brazenly trying to mix the shade until Dean had noticed him. The resulting explanation had seen Dean staring at Castiel, thoughtfully.

Sounds like you should buy me dinner first, he’d said.

Okay, Castiel had replied when his tongue had remembered how to speak.

The rest was history.

As Castiel turned to face his boyfriend, the greeting he was forming died on his lips and he found himself reaching for his sketchbook.

“What colour is that?” Castiel demanded. “What are you feeling right now?”

Dean was the most beautiful shade of pink he’d ever seen. Not as dark as cerise or as bright as magenta or as pastel as candy floss. But somewhere in the middle and all three and it was breathtaking. But even amidst the new colour, Castiel could see the edges of Dean’s silhouette tinged with spring green.

“Why don’t you guess?” Dean asked, his tone light and teasing.

“Well, it’s not happiness… because happiness is yellow. Contentment? No, that’s wrong… amusement?”

“No,” Dean smiled. “Try again.”

Castiel tried to reconcile the colour with shades of pink he’d seen before, and shook his head. It didn’t make sense. He’d seen couples with varying hues and tones of pink and red but never something this vivid.

“I feel love,” Dean said simply.

“I’ve seen love,” Castiel objected. “It’s usually pink or pale red. It’s never been… that colour. That shade. That brightness.”

Dean just shrugged, almost as if he was waiting for Castiel to catch up. Which he did, a few seconds later.

“Wait, why do you feel love?” He asked, head tilting to the side in curiosity and with a glimmer of hope. They hadn’t really expressed how serious this relationship was yet, but Castiel had fallen hard and fast from their very first date.

A matching glimmer of hope in Dean’s eyes showed him he was on the right track, but the smile tugging at Dean’s lips implied that wasn’t the right question he should be asking.

“Why is the love I see on your face different from every version of love I’ve seen before?”

Dean laughed, shaking his head as his hands came up to cradle Castiel’s face, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbone with a gentleness that Castiel had come to know and adore. “Because this one is for you.”

Castiel surged forward and kissed him, fervently and with his whole heart. With carefree hearts they tumbled down into the grass together, laughing and kissing. “I love you too,” he whispered against Dean’s lips.

The sketchbook was pushed aside and forgotten, and for the first time in Castiel’s life, the spectrum around him passed by unheeded in favour of a colour that was all his own.

“Who’s coming?” Castiel sighed, feeling frustrated and unnerved by coming face-to-face with Dean without any prior warning. It left him with a whirlwind of emotion that he had yet to sort through. “What are you talking about?”

Fists grabbed the front of Castiel’s cravat, but the gesture was not an attack. Dean stared at him fiercely, and Castiel fell silent, knowing that this wasn’t some trick or play on Dean’s part. Something had happened, something that had brought Dean back to him after so long.

“Everyone is coming. The people. The revolution.”

“There is always a revolution.” Castiel froze, his shoulders locking with tension as he heard the reply come from behind him, recognised the authoritarian tone of his father, a  Comte  that was used to his every order being obeyed. “The people will fail and learn their place as they have always done before. You will release my son.”

Dean clenched his jaw in anger and opened his fist, letting Castiel’s cravat slip from his fingers. “They took the Bastille a little under an hour ago and freed the prisoners. Then they put the Governor's head on a spike.”

Castiel’s father swore under his breath and opened the door wider. Castiel felt himself being tugged inside and he reached out blindly, hands finding Dean’s sleeve. He clung on tightly, refusing to let go, hauling Dean in with them.

“You’re sure?”

Dean nodded. “They’re coming here next. The victory has given them confidence. Not immediately, good men were lost and they plan to mourn. But your name was mentioned. They’re stopping all exits out of the city and then they’re coming. You don’t have long.”

“How do you know all this?” Castiel cringed as his mother joined them in the entry hall, having overheard every word of their conversation.

There was a moment of awkwardness, where Castiel could see Dean brace himself and knew the answer to the question before Dean even opened his mouth.

“You joined the revolution?”

“Of course I did,” Dean snapped. “You wouldn’t understand, living here with your titles and your money, you’ve never had to worry about where your next meal was coming from. But you’re judging me for joining a movement that promises me a better life?”

Anger flared inside Castiel, replacing the hurt that had risen at Dean’s poor opinion of him. “Of course not. You know I’ve never felt like that.”

Dean scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me, Cas. You—”

“Enough!” Castiel’s father thundered. “You’ve done your duty and informed us of the threat to our lives. We will take the appropriate action and you can be on your way. In the future, you would do well to remember yourself and treat my son with the respect he deserves.”

Beneath the dirt and freckles, Dean’s face turned an unflattering shade of puce. His lips mouthed the word ‘duty’, but no sound came out, as if he was fighting back a thousand responses before eventually settling on, “Oui,  Monsieur le Comte. My sincere apologies,  Monsieur le Vicomte,” he spat at Castiel, the words filled with poison and bitterness.

“Stop that.” Castiel wanted to take hold of Dean by the shoulders and shake him, to rattle him until he saw signs of the boy he’d fallen in love with. This cold man before him, this angry person was not the kind-hearted boy he’d grown up with. “Stop that, Dean. There have never been titles between us.”

Dean shook his head, his anger fading as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a resigned sadness. His eyes were averted, and he seemed to be avoiding Castiel’s attempts to catch his eye. “You’re wasting time. And you’ll never make it out of the city without me. I’ve arranged passage out of Paris, from there you’re on your own.”

Castiel felt the breath knocked from his lungs at the finality and dismissal of Dean’s tone. He stared numbly, struck with the knowledge that life as he knew it was over. But he would not mourn for that. Instead, he would mourn for a childhood love that had been doomed to failure.

It seemed that even love could not conquer a class divide.

The  Comtesse  placed her gloved hand on Castiel’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “My son, make your farewells. We must prepare.”

“Maman,” Castiel whispered, his eyes closing in a desperate attempt to block out that last expression on Dean’s face. He wanted to remember the happier times they had together. “Please forgive me. I can’t go with you.”

“Castiel—”

Her objection was lost as Dean’s eyes once again turned to him, surprise clouding his expression. “Don’t be an idiot, Cas. You’ll be killed if you stay here.”

“But if I go, I’ll never see you again.”

“You were never going to see me again anyway,” Dean sighed. “We’re not the same, Cas. You’re a fool if you think it didn’t matter that you’re a  Vicomte. Of course it matters.”

“To  you,” Castiel burst out. “Not to me. I  loved you. I’ve always loved you. It wasn’t me that decided it wasn’t worth it, Dean. It wasn’t me that abandoned you. I’ve always been right here.”

Dean clenched his jaw and said nothing, just stared directly through Castiel as if he wasn’t even there.

“He was undesirable,” Castiel’s father spoke up. “An unsuitable match for a future  Comte. I knew his brother was sick and he needed medicine. We gave him money and told him not to come back.”

And that answered every question Castiel had. Why Dean had argued with him, told him that Castiel was just another stuck up aristocrat, that he never wanted to see him again. While it didn’t surprise him that his parents had taken steps to remove Dean from his life—they’d never made a secret of their feelings towards him—it was like a blade to the chest to hear that Dean had let them. That he’d been party to it.

Castiel buried his face in his hands and tried to compose himself, trying to hide tears that stung his eyes, even though he couldn’t stop them falling. Then hands were encircling his wrists, pulling his arms down and away from his face, a familiar, almost tender touch that just made the ache in his chest worse.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean whispered, and there was a soft kiss pressed to his knuckles. “Sam was sick, we didn’t think he was going to make it through the winter. I had to, Cas. I’m so sorry. It was the worst choice I ever had to make.”

“You could have told me.” Castiel pulled his hands away from Dean and dried his eyes. “Instead you made me believe that this was all my fault.”

Dean swiped at his own eyes, taking Castiel’s hands again, refusing to give up now that everything was out in the open. “It was the only way you’d believe me. The only way you’d let it go.”

The years fell away between them as they stepped towards each other. There were no signals, or words spoken, but in unison they fell into each other’s arms.

“I love you,” Dean whispered, and Castiel kissed him. It was a brief moment of understanding and devotion, but it was all theirs and nothing could take that away from there.

“As I love you.”

The  Comte  cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Castiel, we can talk about this later, but we have to go.”

Castiel straightened to his full height and turned his reddened, but furious eyes on his parents. “Then go.”

“Castiel, you cannot stay here—” His mother began desperately, but Castiel cut her off.

“I can, and I will. I never needed any of this to be happy. I just needed Dean.” His icy blue eyes turned on his father. “You interfered with that once before, but you will never do so again. Leave. Take my mother and never come back.”

“There’s a carriage out the back that will take you as far as Lille. It will be a long journey. From there you should cross the border.” Dean told them, quietly. “Good luck.”

Castiel watched expressionlessly as his parents listened for the first time, rushing up the stairs to pack whatever they could carry.

Dean’s fingers laced with his own, drawing his attention. Castiel squeezed lightly. “You’re not going to make me go with them?” 

“Never. But you should pack too, but light. Is there anything you can’t live without?”

Castiel looked at Dean, observing his beautiful green eyes. His freckles. The dirt smudges that were still smeared across his cheek. “Yes,” he said eventually. “But it’s right here.”

“No problem. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it. Michael again?”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s fine. How did you find me?”

“I followed you from school. I tried to call out, but you didn’t hear me. I guess I was too far away.” Dean shifted awkwardly. “You should tell someone, you know.”

“That’ll just make it worse,” Castiel mumbled. “I can handle it.”

Dean shook his head, but Castiel knew he was just upset with the situation and how neither of them could think of a way to fix it. It wasn’t like he enjoyed being slammed face-first into his locker door every day.

“You want to come over to my place?” Dean asked, eventually. “My dad will help patch you up, then your mom will never know.”

Castiel nodded, brightening instantly at the invitation. He took Dean’s hand to pull himself up and didn’t let go immediately, taking an extra second of comfort before they ran down the hill to start the long walk home.

 2.

Castiel swiped quickly at his eyes as he heard footsteps approaching behind him. He knew who it was. Only one other person ever came out here—only one other person knew he came out here—and he’d already heard the rumbling sound of the Impala.

Dean sat down beside him, shrugging out of his leather jacket and draping it over Castiel’s shoulders. The warmth and familiar scent were a relief in the cool evening, and Castiel let more tears flow from his cheeks until there was nothing left to cry.

“Thanks,” he rasped finally, leaning back against the huge trunk of the oak tree.

This was his hiding spot, whenever Castiel needed to get away from things he would come here. Far on the outskirts of town, Castiel had found this little piece of paradise completely by accident. Atop a large hill, under the shade of a towering oak tree, Castiel had a perfect view of the luscious green fields dotted with wildflowers and red brick buildings of his hometown.

It was his sanctuary.

Only Dean knew of its existence, and he’d pinkie-swore to keep it a secret. He hadn’t even told Sam about this place. It was their secret, Dean’s and Castiel’s, and they’d commemorated that six months ago, etching their initials into the old bark with Dean’s penknife.

“Any time,” Dean said simply.

“How’d you even know I’d be here?” Castiel muttered.

Dean shrugged. “You didn’t answer my texts, so I stopped by your place. Gabriel told me your parents had been fighting with him again, and I guessed you’d be here.” He hesitated. “You want to talk about it?”

Castiel shook his head, feeling moisture threaten his eyes again but he was all cried out. He didn’t think he could talk about it, not even to his best friend. His parents taking their fury and bad moods out on his brother was too much to deal with right now. Gabriel was just about to finish up his senior year, and his GPA hadn’t quite met their parent’s standards.

Castiel, in his sophomore year, had a perfect GPA. His parents doted on him just as intensely as they excluded Gabriel. It strained the relationship between Castiel and his brother, but he did everything to fix it.

“You want me to go?” Dean asked softly.

Castiel shook his head again and shifted closer so his head tilted, resting on Dean’s shoulder. “Stay?”

“You know I will. As long as you need me to.”

Silence descended upon them, but neither of them felt obligated to break it. After years of friendship, they were used to companionable silences. They didn’t feel the need to force conversation. Just being in each other’s company was enough.

Dean being there for Castiel was enough.

 3.

“Mr. Novak, you absolutely cannot go in there!”

A ruckus in the hallway caught the attention of the entire senior AP Literature class and Castiel’s eyes widened when he heard the sound of his brother being addressed. He rose, intent on seeing what was going on, but it appeared Gabriel beat him to it.

The door to the classroom burst open and Gabriel strolled in. His usual trademark grin was gone, his expression solemn except for a slightly manic look in his eyes. He scanned the classroom, his gaze finding Castiel easily. His head jerked back towards the doorway, signalling for Castiel to follow him.

“Mr. Novak, you’re no longer a student here, you cannot just barge into a classroom!” Principal Adler shrieked, his pompous, smug face now apoplectic.

Gabriel barely spared him a glance. “Just did, big boy. You might want to come too,” he added, his eyes fixed on Dean. “He’ll need you.”

Castiel was already stalking towards his brother, and he heard rather than saw Dean get up and follow him. He felt a rush of affection for his best friend, even over all of the confusion and anxiety he was feeling. What was so urgent that Gabriel had just driven here and stormed into his classroom. Was it something to do with their parents?

Trying to quash the rising tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Castiel ignored both his teacher and principal screaming at him that he would be suspended if he left the classroom. Instead, he just focused on following his brother out to the parking lot, having to almost run to keep up with Gabriel.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m leaving.” Gabriel told him, gesticulating wildly. “I can’t take it there anymore, Cassie. I can never do anything right, they hate me. I can’t do it anymore. I just came to say goodbye.”

Castiel blinked in confusion, and then he registered Gabriel’s meaning. “Gabriel, what happened? You—you can’t just leave. They don’t hate you—"

Gabriel let out a scornful laugh, harsh and broken. “Yes, they do. I’m the black sheep of the family. You’re the only son they’re proud of.”

They reached his car and Castiel stood in front of the driver’s seat, blocking Gabriel from getting inside. Even from here, he could see all of Gabriel’s belongings scattered in the back seat and overflowing from the trunk. He wasn’t kidding around.

“Don’t go,” Castiel pleaded, his voice breaking. “Please don’t go. You’re my brother, I need you.”

“You’ll always have me,” Gabriel promised, a hitch in his own voice. “I just… need to be on my own for a while. I just have to get out of here. I would have gone years ago if it wasn’t for you. I tried so hard to stay until you went to college, but I can’t do it. Every day I’m around them, a little more of me dies. I have to leave.”

Castiel’s lip trembled and he threw his arms around his brother. “Where will you go?” he whispered.

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll call you as soon as I’m settled. Six months. Maybe a year, tops.” Gabriel nudged Castiel to one side, easing him out of his way so he could get into his car. He pulled back from the embrace. “You take care of yourself, you hear me?”

Stunned, unable to believe this was really happening, Castiel could do little more than nod. He stared at Gabriel the entire time he was in sight, watching the car drive away until it rounded the corner and was gone. Castiel didn’t truly know how to react in that moment. His chest felt hollow, lost, his attempts at breathing didn’t seem to fill his lungs with enough oxygen.

Castiel was distantly aware of an arm wrapping around him, leading him further into the parking lot. “M—my car,” he began, and stopped quickly. Was that stammering sound coming from him?

“We can pick it up later,” Dean soothed. “Come on.”

From that point on, everything was a blur. He was sure Dean spoke to him, but he couldn’t remember anything up until the point where Dean pulled up at the bottom the hill, the towering oak tree a familiar sight above him. It felt like only seconds had passed. Castiel sank down in the grass at its base, staring down into his lap.

“You’ll get in trouble at school for ditching with me.”

“Cas,” Dean sighed, winding an arm around him. “Don’t worry about me. You just had a big shock, you know? You should process that.”

Castiel nodded, tiredly. “I will. I just don’t really know how to right now.”

Dean didn’t say anything, which Castiel was grateful for. He didn’t want to talk yet. He just wanted time to make sense of everything that had happened. Castiel had no concept of how much time passed up there on that hill. He just felt Dean’s presence and clung to the support offered to him as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky.

He knew Dean should be at home by now. That he’d no doubt be missing family commitments or spending time with Sam, but if Dean even thought about it, he never said a thing. Didn’t even make an attempt to move, or leave Castiel to it.

“He was right, you know. Gabriel, I mean.”

Castiel could feel Dean’s eyes on him as he eventually broke the silence. “About the way they treated him.” It wasn’t a question.

Castiel nodded. “Nothing he did was ever good enough. They called him a disappointment. They were ashamed to have him as their son. Why wasn’t he more like me? What he endured… I can’t imagine how hard it must have been. I’m surprised it took him this long to leave.”

“He stayed for you,” Dean said simply. “He loves you and he didn’t want you to think he resented you.”

“He’s my brother.” The tears came all at once, unbidden. Castiel couldn’t stop them if he tried and he didn’t even have the strength to attempt it. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. How I’m supposed to forgive my parents when they drove him away.”

Dean pulled him into a fierce hug. “You will. And if you don’t, that’s okay too. You can’t help how you feel, Cas. And I’m here for you no matter what.”

Castiel sobbed into Dean’s shoulder. Despite the pain, the loss, the frustration, Dean’s presence helped. Just knowing that he had someone he would always be able to rely on sewed the initial sutures into Castiel’s broken heart.

 4.

The evening was cold, like the chill that had settled in Castiel’s stomach as he climbed the hill. When Dean had called and asked to meet him here, instead of either of their homes, he knew something had to be wrong. The second phone call had confirmed it.

They were jetting off to college in two days time, both of them accepted into Georgetown—Dean being pre-med, and Castiel being pre-law.

It was the beginning of the rest of their lives.

Castiel stood in the shade of the oak tree, squinting in the darkness. “Dean?” he called out. “Are you here?”

No words greeted him, but there was the sound of a stifled sob that answered his question.

Castiel approached the trunk of the towering oak tree and peered around the side. Dean was sitting on the floor, his back against one of the lifted roots. Silent sobs were shaking his shoulders.

Dropping to his knees, Castiel pulled Dean into a hug. Fear tendrils spread across his insides, pushing the chill through his body. He’d never seen Dean cry before, not once in all of their years of friendship. He didn’t ask what was wrong, knowing Dean would talk in his own time. Castiel didn’t even tell Dean that he already knew, that Sam had told him, just saved the words for when Dean was able to speak.

He might not have seen Dean cry before, but Castiel had seen him upset, and he knew Dean had problems with talking when he was grieving.

After his mom had died, Dean hadn’t said a word. Castiel had a vague memory of their teacher in kindergarten saying something about him working through his feelings. Lots of Dean’s former friends had abandoned him, too young to understand his grief. Castiel, at least according to his parents, had toddled up to Dean with some paper and crayons and chatted enough for both of them. They’d been inseparable ever since.

Now, Dean had another parent to grieve, and the complicated relationship they’d had meant Dean was no doubt feeling a veritable cocktail of emotions.  

“Dad died,” Dean pulled back, swiping his hands over his face. He couldn’t look Castiel in the eye.

“I know,” Castiel whispered, carding his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Sam called me. Who’s looking after him now?”

“Missouri. She’s… she’s helping make all the arrangements and stuff.” Dean fell silent.

Castiel didn’t know what to say. His own eyes grew wet, his best friend’s anguish settling over him like a blanket of emotion. “I’m sorry, Dean. You know if there’s anything I can do, you just have to ask, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

They lapsed into silence again and Castiel continued to stroke Dean’s hair, hoping to convey any comfort he could through touch alone.

“I have to look after Sam now,” Dean broke the silence eventually, staring off into the distance. “Dad didn’t have a lot of money to leave us. I won’t be able to come with you to Georgetown, Cas.”

Castiel’s stomach lurched. He pushed away the feeling of horror, guiltily. This was about Dean. “There’ll be some sort of scholarship or financial help you can get for having a dependent—”

Dean shook his head. “I thought about that already. I can’t uproot Sam from his life, not when he already lost my dad. He has friends here, he’ll need them. I gotta think about Sam. Maybe college is something I can look at in the future. I… I guess it just sucks that it’s not something I get to experience with you.”

“Then I’ll stay too,” Castiel told him gently. “And apply to KCU. We might not be there together, but I’ll still get to see you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Dean sniffled. “All I want is for you to be happy.”

Castiel’s hand slipped from Dean’s hair and he touched his cheek, feeling a tear slip down his own cheek against his best efforts. “Dean, you’re the only person in my life that has always been by my side. What makes you think I could be happy without you?”

The profound nature of the words echoed around them in the silence, crackling with energy. For the first time since Castiel had arrived, their eyes met, charged with a tension that had always hung between them. They were teetering on the precipice of something huge, something that would change and define them.

But this was not the moment for that.

Castiel let his hand slip away and he looked down at the town. In the darkness it was almost impossible to see, but for the lights. Signs of families settling into their nightly routines.

Dean’s head tilted down and rested on Castiel’s shoulder, a flare of warmth in the cold, cruel world they lived in.

 5.

Castiel dried his eyes angrily, stalking back and forth in front of the oak tree and trying desperately to find the rationality that he clung to most of his life. But in this moment, it seemed to have deserted him, leaving him twisted and overcome with petty jealousy.

He knew he was out of line, acting this way. Dean had never made him any promises. They’d never even talked about the feelings that had been lingering between them since their last year of high school.

Technically, Dean was free to pursue someone else if he wanted to.

Castiel had just never expected him to. It had been more than a year since John Winchester had passed away. The moment that had burned between Dean and Castiel on this very hill was still fresh in Castiel’s mind, as if it had happened only yesterday. It was the closest either of them had ever come to acting on it, but Castiel had never dreamed that Dean’s feelings may have changed.

But everything had changed since then. Castiel had other friends, college friends. Dean had started working at Bobby Singer’s autoshop to pay the bills and had his own circle of friends too. Naturally, it hadn’t affected their friendship at all. Castiel had still carved out the majority of his social time for Dean. He’d naively thought Dean had done the same thing for him. He’d barely mentioned his work friends.

He’d never mentioned her.

She wasn’t even that pretty, Castiel thought bitterly, although he couldn’t deny her pale complexion and cropped red hair were a striking combination. He just hadn’t thought she was Dean’s type at all.

The roar of the Impala’s engines caught Castiel’s attention and he floundered. After he’d run out of Dean’s place, terrible excuses about a prior engagement on his tongue, he hadn’t expected to be followed. But it was clear that Dean hadn’t been fooled by his lame mutterings at all. Not that Castiel had expected him to be.

Oh God.

Panic gripped him as he fumbled for any reason at all why he’d felt the need to run out of Dean’s birthday party. Anything that would stop Dean from hating him forever.

Castiel looked up, dumbly, as Dean cleared his throat. He opened his mouth and closed it again, swallowing audibly. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Dean leaned against the tree, fixing him with an almost-amused look. “You finish your prior engagement?”

Castiel felt a flare of anger. Was Dean finding this funny? He straightened up. “You—,” he began heatedly.

“I only ask,” Dean cut him off, talking loudly. “Because you rushed out of there because I could introduce you to my friend, Charlie. Her girlfriend couldn’t make it today.”

Castiel blinked, owlishly. “Her—?"

“Girlfriend,” Dean supplied helpfully. “You know. Lesbians,” he pronounced the last word slowly, significantly.

Dean was giving him an out, a way to save face. By addressing Castiel’s issue without actually addressing it, he was giving them a means to avoid the long overdue conversation they’d yet to have. As everything clicked into place, Castiel felt smaller than an ant. The redhead was a lesbian. She wasn’t Dean’s girlfriend. Dean wasn’t interested in her.

He wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh. I see.”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged. “You ready to come back with me so I can introduce you properly?”

Castiel stepped forward, his legs shaky. “Not yet.”

Frustration flitted over Dean’s face and he sighed. “Cas—”

“Wait,” Castiel interrupted. “Please, just thirty seconds. I just… I want to give you your birthday present before we go back.”

Dean’s expression cleared and he looked mildly interested, even excited. His eyes darted around, looking for something that Castiel might have hidden.

Castiel took the opportunity to close the distance between them in a single stride, capturing Dean’s lips in a tentative first kiss. It wasn’t exactly the gift he’d planned to give Dean that morning, but his heart had always truly belonged to Dean and it was more than time that he made that abundantly clear.

Even though he had to have been taken by surprise, Dean caught on quickly, responding to the light kiss. His lips were coaxing against Castiel’s, igniting a low flame and extinguishing it into a thousand butterflies of steam all at once. His hand snaked around Castiel’s waist, pulling them flush together even as their lips parted.

“Happy birthday to me,” Dean smiled, pressing their foreheads together. “Would it be too much of me to ask for a second gift?”

Castiel laughed breathlessly in response, pulling Dean in for a second kiss, and a third, and a fourth, until he lost count entirely.

 +1.

The sun shone down on the old oak tree, thin beams of light streaming down between its leaves and illuminating the ground below.

Castiel brushed his fingers along the bark until they reached the familiar etchings. His initials and Dean’s, carved almost ten years ago now. While Castiel regretted their secret act of vandalism, damaging the beauty of the magnificent oak, there was something profound and warming about the eternity of their story. Their initials would still be here long after they were gone.

“I’m getting too old to climb this hill,” Dean grumbled, trying to catch his breath. “We need a clandestine meeting place at ground level.

Castiel tilted his head back and laughed. “You’re not even thirty, Dean. Besides, this isn’t a clandestine meeting place anymore. We’ve got thirty guests and a minister arriving in a couple of hours to set things up.”

He turned to see Dean in his tuxedo, looking uncharacteristically nervous. His tie was all askew, no doubt from where he’d been tugging on it all morning. Castiel sighed in mock-exasperation and reached out to fix it for him.

“I thought it was unlucky for you to see me before the service,” Dean mumbled.

“Neither of us is in a dress,” Castiel pointed out wryly.

“Unfortunately for our guests. I’ll have you know I look fantastic in a gown.”

Castiel laughed again and pecked Dean on the lips. “I’m sure you do. But I much prefer you like this, in a dashing suit. What time is Sam getting here?”

“Any time now. What about Gabriel?”

Castiel checked his watch. “In about an hour. How are you feeling?”

“Me? Fine…” Dean paused, narrowing his eyes at Castiel. “Are you asking if I have cold feet?”

“Well, do you?” Castiel asked, hesitantly. “This is your last chance. If you run away after Gabriel gets here, he might shoot you.”

Dean smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. You?”

Castiel shook his head, returning the smile. “My feet are toasty warm.”

“Lies. They were pressed against me all night and they were anything but toasty. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you refrigerate them before coming to bed.”

Castiel laughed again and took Dean’s hand in his own. In a matter of hours, they’d be married, ready to start the rest of their lives together. It was only fitting that they have the ceremony here, a place that had seen them through so many times of sadness, but also joy.

 “What are you thinking?” Dean asked, curiously. “You’ve got that look on your face like you’re thinking of something sappy and poetic.”

Dean knew him so well. Castiel glanced over at his soon-to-be husband, his eyes filled with love and happiness. “I was just thinking that I can’t wait to marry you.”

He cut off Dean’s attempt at reciprocating the sentiment with a kiss, that was soon followed by the kiss that marked the beginning of the rest of their lives.

And it all happened beneath the old oak tree.

Dean still wouldn’t look at him, so Castiel narrowed his eyes as he waited patiently for Dean to speak. “You know what my dad is like. I just… wanted proof so I could stop him needling at me to find a girl to settle down with.”

Ah. That same old song and dance again. Castiel was tired of having John Winchester belittle their relationship. It wasn’t even the worst kind of homophobia – he’d been truly supportive of Dean’s bisexuality all through high school and college, by all accounts. He just didn’t like the idea of Dean finally settling down with a man.

“Right,” Castiel’s voice came out harsher than intended. “Come on then.”

Before Dean could react, Castiel had guided them both inside the shop. It was surprisingly warm inside, for a cold night, and it smelled strongly of herbs. Spots of light danced along the ceiling, as the low candlelight reflected in the hanging crystals that swung in the breeze. The outside had looked dingy and in need of repair, so Castiel was surprised by how clean it was inside.

An enthusiastic redhead greeted him from behind the counter. “Good evening. Can I help you guys find anything?”

Dean cleared his throat and approached her. “Hi. My brother said you sell this… packet of herbs that you burn that helps you identify your soulmate?”

Castiel, who had been looking around the shop with suspicion, now focused his attention on the owner, noting the name badge that identified her as Charlie. She didn’t look like his idea of a charlatan, but then, if it was so easy to identify a finagler then nobody would ever be duped.

“We do. They’re fifty dollars each. Please be aware that we cannot be held liable for any damages from separation, divorce or bankruptcy fees incurred by the results of this test.”

Castiel would have snorted at the legal jargon if he wasn’t floundering at the price. Fifty bucks?! Finagler was too sneaky a term, this was daylight robbery.

But Dean looked disheartened by the price so Castiel reluctantly handed over a couple of folded bills, already readjusting their bills for the month in his head. They should be fine, as long as he was frugal until his next pay check.

He tuned out all the instructions for how to burn the herbs, knowing Dean was paying close attention. Castiel couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a big mistake. That their relationship was going to suffer no matter the outcome. But he was equally as tired of Dean being constantly harassed by his family to look for his soulmate. If there was even a chance of putting an end to that, Castiel would take it. For Dean.

The ride home was quiet, both deep in contemplation. Castiel was antsy, half wanting to throw the small package out the window but also a little curious in himself. When they pulled up at their small apartment, Castiel was jolted out of his thoughts by Dean’s fingers entwining with his.

“This won’t change anything,” Dean promised.

Castiel smiled weakly, nodding, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. “Did you want to do it now or wait until after dinner?”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Dean shrugged. “If that’s okay with you?”

Castiel shrugged in response. “Sure.”

Dean talked him through it, how the herbs would burn to ash, and a subtle scent would rise from the ashes and trigger three distinct memories that would help them identify their soulmate. It was a novel idea, quite romantic, Castiel supposed. But he didn’t need to know that Dean was his soulmate to know that he loved him with everything he was.

He pulled the coffee table towards the couch, taking a seat on the right side as Dean sat on the left. They placed a small bowl in the middle of the table for burning the herbs, just as a precaution. They didn’t want a house fire.

Dean lit a match and Castiel’s hand grasped his arm, stilling it for just a moment. “I’m scared.”

“Me too.” Dean admitted, and lit the paper on fire as Castiel’s hand slipped away.

Castiel screwed his eyes closed, waiting for the scent of burning to hit his nostrils. It did, but it was quickly followed by a strong scent, of oregano, sage, lavender, lemon notes. His mind began to wander, transported back through his life, first to elementary school, then to high school, then to freshman year of college.

He opened his eyes at the same time as Dean, numbly.

“So…” Dean cleared his throat.

“We’re not soulmates,” Castiel whispered. He wasn’t sure what to even do with that information.

Dean shrugged. “Apparently not. I kinda already suspected. So, who’s your soulmate?”

Castiel felt a lump rise in his throat, tears stinging his eyes. “She died. Overdosed at a frat party in freshman year. Yours?” He didn’t even try to disguise who he was talking about. Dean would know.

“Meg. Yeah, you two were always close.” Dean nodded, averting his gaze. “Mine’s Benny. He went back to Louisiana in junior year of high school. He didn’t ever believe in that soulmate crap anyway. Least my dad has to accept my soulmate is a guy now. Nothing he can do about that.”

Castiel nodded, not sure of what to say. What he even could say. They weren’t soulmates. They weren’t meant for each other. They were meant for other people, but life had gotten in the way and fate clearly had other designs for them.

“So, do we break up now?” He asked, eventually.

Dean’s head snapped around to look at him, mouth falling open. “What? No! Unless you want to?”

“No, I don’t want that,” Castiel shook his head, and lifted his hand. Somewhere during their memories, their hands had met and entwined. Even amidst the knowledge they weren’t destined to be together, they had clung to each other. Comfort, familiarity, love.

“I love you.” Dean told him, quietly. “I do.”

“I know,” Castiel replied, fiercely. “Just as I love you. I don’t need you to be made for me, Dean. I never needed you to be my soulmate. That’s why I never wanted to know. I’m happy with you. We might not be a perfect fit, but we fit perfectly enough. That’s good enough for me.”

Dean smiled. “It’s good enough for me too, Cas.”