#dicespn

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.