#leknope

The Impala purrs as they breeze along the highway, a quick burst of the rumble strip when Dean takes his eyes off the empty road for a second too long, and the radio murmuring quietly. Some talk show or shipping forecast or something--they just wanted the background noise, really.

Castiel feels at peace. With Lucifer locked up and the Angels back in Heaven, there's little to be at war with these days. Occasionally a haunting pings up on their radar, or Sam will call them with news of a suspected vamp nest or rampant werewolf that he and Eileen are too busy to handle, but things are mostly quiet. Settled. Comfortable.

Of course Dean and Castiel don't know how to deal with comfortable very well. So here they are, driving with no endgame in sight, just them and the car and the wide open road. Twin duffel bags sit on the backseat; Castiel’s has clothes spilling out of it where the zipper broke, the corner of a book getting bent out of shape. A plant is wedged against the door, fastened securely with the seat belt; a philodendron, one that Castiel bought for 75 cents from a stall at the side of the road because it was brown and dying. Dean had told him to throw it on the compost heap at the time but then the plant started growing again, its leaves getting greener and smoother as it stood proud in its little yellow pot.

“You're like the Doctor Doolittle of flowers,” Dean said one day, when he caught Castiel gently stroking the leaves.

Castiel replied, “I think it’s found some trace energy left in me, some small part of what I used to be. It's feeding from me.”

“Gross.” Dean had pulled a face, but his fingers were affectionate, playful at the back of Castiel’s neck.

He couldn't leave the plant behind.

Now, Dean’s humming something tuneless as he drives, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the wheel. He glances over, once, twice. The Colorado state line looms in the distance.

“You're sure about this, huh?” he asks, anxiety barely hidden just below the surface of him. It ripples there, faint blotches of purple-blue and gray bleeding into Dean’s usual bright gold and green. Castiel takes Dean’s hand, runs the pad of his thumb over the small mountain ridge of knuckles. The gray starts to fade.

“I'm sure,” he says.

Dean looks at him again. The corner of his mouth quirks.

“Okay then.” He squeezes Castiel’s fingers and puts his foot down on the accelerator a little heavier.

The Impala roars. The road whips past, endless and full of potential.

     “No fucking way.”

Castiel scowls. “Yes way.”

Dean scrutinizes him across the sticky tabletop, like he wants to call bullshit. His burger, poised in midair, is slowly dripping sauce down his wrist.

“You're telling me aliens are real.”

“Yes.” Castiel slurps his Coke from a bright green twisty straw. It fizzes, makes his nose burn. “I've met them.”

“Yeah, okay, Mulder,” Dean shakes his head, his burger back on its trajectory to his mouth. He takes a huge bite and adds with his mouth full, “Little green men in silver suits? Impossible.”

They've been having this argument since they crossed the border into Nevada and saw a sign at the side of the road telling them to watch out for low-flying UFOs. Now they're in an alien-themed diner and Dean's stubbornness is back in full-force.

“Dean, you've met vampires and angels and God Himself, and yet you refuse to admit that there's life out there other than what's on this earth? There is more to the universe than humans can possibly imagine or ever hope to see. There are planets out there which hold life, intelligent life, surviving just as humanity survives. I'm several millennia old, I've met more than one species of extraterrestrial.” He shrugs. “But if you think you're right, go ahead and think you're right.”

Dean flicks a ketchup-dipped fry at him. “You're such an asshole.”

It's nice, being with Dean like this. Not having to worry about one of their lives being under threat or the next big bad coming to destroy the world. They can just be. And what they are is wonderful. Dean is wonderful, glittering gold, like something precious, something to be treasured.

The paper placemat underneath Castiel’s plate has a press-out alien mask in it. When Dean goes to the bathroom Castiel pops it out and holds it up against his face. He steals one of Dean’s fries, putting it in his mouth so it sticks out like a cigar.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester,” he says in a funny voice when Dean sits back down.

Dean blinks at him then bursts out laughing, throwing his balled-up napkin at his head.

“Oh my god. You're so fuckin’ lucky I love you,” he grins.

Well. Okay then. Dean loves him.

Lucky indeed.

“I love you, too,” Castiel says, still in the stupid alien voice, and at this point they're making complete spectacles of themselves, being far too loud and boisterous for the quiet diner, their feet knocking under the table, but Dean is glowing, beaming, an entire spectrum of colors almost too vibrant to look at. Castiel wouldn't want to dull that for anything.

   They roll into Vegas not long after dusk has fallen. It's warmer here, the desert air dry and dusty and getting caught behind Castiel’s teeth. Lights flicker and splinter in his peripheral vision; amber and red, green and blue and harsh pinks. People are out on the streets, laughing and drinking and flagging down taxis. Night doesn't really seem to make a difference here. Castiel pulls at his shirt, restless, his knees pleading for a break from the car. Dean is yawning, jaw cracked wide.

They head west to avoid the snarl of traffic downtown and end up in Sun City. Dean says it's just so they can find a motel that actually has a vacancy, but he seems relieved to be away from the hustle and bustle. Everything is softer out here, quieter. The set of Dean’s shoulders is more at ease.

The El Camino is a shabby little motel wedged between a Fuel-and-Go and a Denny’s, making the parking lot smell like gasoline and greasy food. Castiel wrinkles his nose as he leaves Dean to get the bags and heads into the lobby, waving away a cloud of cigarette smoke from a man with a beer gut pressing quarters into the vending machine beside the door. Inside, Castiel asks for a king and a wifi pass so he can watch Netflix on Dean’s laptop. The woman behind the counter smiles habitually at him, purple plastic nails clacking on the formica as she slides his key over.

A waft of stale, cold air hits them when they shoulder into the room. Dean sighs and switches the heater on and after a few seconds of clunking protest it huffs to life with a whine and a rattle. Castiel stands by the door and watches Dean for a minute; the tired curve of his spine, the way he toes his boots off and stumbles a bit. He takes his neatly folded pajamas out of the duffel and puts them on the end of the bed then looks at Castiel. An easy grin spreads over his face when he realizes he’s being watched.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Castiel shrugs. A smile sneaks into his lips though and Dean laughs. As he passes to get to the bathroom he brushes the back of his hand over Castiel’s stomach, his fingertips catching lightly on a belt loop, a soft and intimate gesture that leaves Castiel feeling warm all over.

While Dean’s showering he gets changed and climbs into bed. The blankets are scratchy on his arms but he's cold enough that he doesn't care. Dean's laptop sits on his stomach, its cable trailing across the brown, threadbare carpet to the outlet, the plastic casing of which is cracked in one corner and yellowed with age.

Navigating to their shared Netflix profile is easier now than it used to be--practically second nature. They're slowly working their way through several series together; most recently, Parks and Recreation. He pulls up the next episode and then clicks over to his emails while he waits for Dean.

Nothing from Sam, but there is a brief reply from Mary in response to a query Castiel had about the Baku, a monster of dream manipulation that she had mentioned once encountering. Castiel would like to plug all gaps in his knowledge to assist Dean as best as possible now that he's human, or as good as.

He’s typing a reply of thanks and best wishes when Dean appears beside him, freshly showered and in his pajamas, his skin slightly flushed and damp still, his hair towel-dried ruffled.

“What are we watching?” he asks, bouncing down on the bed and jostling Castiel. Rolling his eyes, Castiel presses send and switches tabs back to Netflix.

“Nothing yet, I was waiting for you.”

Dean narrows his eyes at the laptop. “Wait, was that Mom? What were you talking about?”

It's so easy to tease Dean that Castiel can't resist doing so, just a little. “That's for me to know.”

“Ugh, that's not worrying at all,” Dean says, but he actually sounds rather fond. Of Mary’s attempt at conquering modern forms of communication, maybe, or possibly the fact that two of the people he loves most get on so well. That last thought makes Castiel heart swell in his chest.

They burrow in together to watch Parks and Recreation, Dean’s head on Castiel’s chest. His laughter echoes in the space behind Castiel’s ribs, a fierce, lovely thing.

 It’s the early hours of the morning when Castiel stirs. He’s not sure what disturbed him; the blare of a big rig’s horn, or the tipsy giggles of some women outside on the breezeway, or maybe just an instinctive awareness that being awake would be a good thing right now.

He rolls over and into Dean, who grunts and mumbles, “You ‘kay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and kisses him.

Dean’s slow, sleepy, but gradually comes to live under Castiel’s touch. The kisses get deeper and more urgent, laced with a faint hint of peppermint toothpaste. Dean shivers when Castiel places his palm on his chest, warm through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and rolls onto his back, bringing Castiel with him. Soft ultramarine light from the buzzing neon sign outside creeps around the gap in the curtains, highlighting the lines and ridges of Dean’s profile, illuminating a path for Castiel’s lips to follow.

Hands grip his waist tightly, cling there for a moment then slip underneath Castiel’s shirt and skim up and down his sides. Dean’s hands are steady and sure, capable of great destruction but also incredible gentleness. It’s the latter with which he touches Castiel, his fingertips alone making heat pool in Castiel’s gut.

A quiet moan escapes Dean when their cocks brush through their pants so Castiel rocks lazily into a rhythm that leaves them breathless and shaking. Dean’s thighs are trembling either side of Castiel’s waist so he runs his hand down Dean’s arm and threads their fingers together, squeezing, pressing them into the lumpy mattress.

He doesn’t let them go, even as the headboard starts smacking the wall, and their kisses become little more than their mouths sloppily meeting in between gasps, and when Dean comes it’s with a choked mantra of “Cas, Cas, Cas” followed by every muscle in his body contracting, before he goes boneless with a long, contented sigh.

Castiel can feel the wetness, even through two thin layers, and it’s more than enough to tip him over the edge into headless, blissful oblivion. Starbursts explode behind his eyes as he groans into the damp skin at Dean’s shoulder, a hand curled around the back of Castiel’s neck and scratching at the sweaty hair there sending aftershocks of tingling pleasure up his spine.

“I love you,” he tells Dean, like it’s a fundamental truth of the universe, the thing that keeps the stars in the sky and the ocean tides anchored to the moon.

Dean lets out a sob, fractured, bone-tired, and holds Castiel close.

  The end of the line turns out to be San Diego.

Sand tickles Castiel’s bare feet, warm on his soles and gritty between his toes. As an angel he saw oceans being created, beaches unfurling from crystalline waters, plants blossoming and creatures evolving, but in retrospect everything pales in comparison to this: walking down a beach in South California, hand-in-hand with Dean Winchester while the sun sets ahead of them.

The sky is awash with pastels, the sand golden and the water a deep green-blue. Few people are around and those that are don’t pay Dean and Castiel any attention. Which is just as well, as Dean has decided to talk about the time he and Sam hunted a banshee in Florida at the top of his voice, eyes alight and free hand gesturing wildly as he tells Castiel about Sam falling into a swamp and screaming about alligators.

A shiver trickles its way down Castiel’s body; it’s cool out, a cold wind blowing in off the water and whipping at their hair. He presses closer to Dean’s side.

He squeezes Dean’s hand, smiles because Dean’s grin is infectious, pauses to kiss him, sugar-sweet from the ice cream they ate while huddled in hoodies back on the pier. Dean’s arm comes around Castiel’s back, trapping him there. He hums happily into the kiss, then breaks it to rest his forehead against Castiel’s.

“I never thought I’d get to have this,” he whispers, a secret just for them. “I gave up hoping. Every time I reached for it, it just seemed to get further away.”

“I know,” Castiel says, because he does, because it seemed impossible to him too.

“But now--God, me and you, Cas. I feel so…” Dean shakes his head, apparently unable to complete that sentence.

Castiel kisses the bolt of Dean’s jaw. “Yes,” he agrees, because the words won’t come to him either.

The sun continues to fade. Twilight inches in around the edges, painting the water a glossy bruise-black. Castiel doesn’t pay it heed. Dean exudes warmth, happiness, unwavering affection; the sun at the center of Castiel’s universe.

The hurt in his voice makes Castiel pause for a moment.

Dean starts talking again before Cas gets a chance to, “I know - believe me, I fucking know about Sam’s new moral code of ethics or whatever but Cas.” 

He wonders if his friend can tell how genuinely concerned he is.

“That guy?” Dean lets out a slightly incredulous laugh and starts pacing, “Fuck that guy. After everything he’s done? The world isn’t gonna stop spinning without that piece of shit.” 

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts, his voice inexplicably fond. “I just... I couldn’t.” 

The look Dean gives him makes Castiel huff a laugh and shake his head sadly, “He’s human, Dean. He’s human and defenseless and I...”

Cas frowns and looks down at the table, “I’m not ‘100%’ as you say.”

He looks visibly uncomfortable and unnerved by the topic and Dean feels like the world is spinning. 

“He said I was scared and -” Castiel’s frown deepens, “Damaged. Broken.”

Dean’s heart clenches in his chest and his hands twitch with the desire to reach out and touch him, “Cas...” His voice is soft and more than a little concerned. 

“Please don’t,” Castiel murmurs back just as softly. “He wasn’t wrong.” 

The words hang in the silence for a few minutes. Cas can’t take his eyes off of the table and Dean can’t take his eyes off of Cas. 

Fuck, are they really doing this?

“If you’re broken-” Dean starts and stops, feeling helpless and out of his depth. He has to clear his throat to get the words out and his voice still cracks. “If you’re broken, the hell does that make me?” 

Castiel smiles and it’s half fond, half bitter, “Strong.” 

“Well,” Dean laughs somewhat breathlessly and tries to ignore the way his eyes are prickling, “That’s - that’s bullshit.” 

“If I was -” Dean hates how his voice keeps cracking. It makes him want to hide.

“If I was so strong -” the word comes out dripping in sarcasm and disgust, something deep inside of Dean snapping. “- I wouldn’t -”

Dean’s shaking with the effort to get the words out of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t have hurt you.” 

He keeps his eyes firmly on the ground and pretends his hands aren’t clenched into fists at his sides. He pretends that there aren’t a few stray tears of frustration and grief sliding down his cheeks.

He’s so busy pretending that he misses it when Cas walks across the war room. He misses it when Castiel stops in front of him, close enough that all he’d have to do is look up and their faces would touch. 

“Dean,” Cas murmurs quietly, his voice making it evident this conversation isn’t any easier for him. “I...” 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and prepares himself for a blow that doesn’t come.

“I know -” He reaches out hesitantly and brushes a finger against Dean’s sleeve, testing the waters. “I know there’s - there’s nothing I can say that will make this any easier for you.” 

“God,” Dean lets out a slightly incredulous laugh that’s marred by a sob and resists the urge to yank his arm away. “Stop doing that.” 

Castiel huffs and moves his hand away, “I’m not doing anything, Dean.”

“Stop being understanding,” Dean snaps, his voice rising with his level of panic. “Stop letting me touch you, stop trying to make it up to me like you’re not the one who I beat to a half dead bloody pulp!” 

That seems to give Castiel real pause because he takes a step back. 

“You...” Castiel takes his time choosing his words, ignoring the way his borrowed heart is hammering in his chest. “Dean, I did hurt you.” 

“Christ,” Dean laughs again, verging on hysterical this time. “It’s not the same thing, Cas.” 

Castiel makes a frustrated noise and looks up at the ceiling, “Dean.” 

Dean opens his eyes at that and chokes a little on the words that are trying to come out of his mouth, “Don’t you dare say it’s not my fault.” 

It earns him a glare.

“Fine,” Castiel snaps, losing his temper a little. “As long as you stop pretending that everything’s okay now because we’re ‘even.’” 

“Cas I don’t give a shit about that,” Dean tries to explain, his hands coming up to grab at his own hair. “I don’t - it wasn’t you. It was the spell. I know you and I know -” His mouth works but there’s no sound coming out, just a slightly desperate and wild look in his eyes. 

God, he’s terrible at this. 

Castiel’s face is blank as he watches Dean, giving nothing away. 

Dean swallows thickly and manages to get out, “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Something in Cas’ face softens and he lets out a shaky breath, finally looking away.

It’s unnervingly quiet in the bunker for a few minutes. The only sound Dean can hear is his own heart thudding wildly in his chest and his ragged breaths. 

“That’s why.” 

Castiel doesn’t look up when he says it. His eyes are still trained on the table, anywhere but Dean. 

Dean must make a confused noise because then Cas is laughing and it’s sad, a little broken, but it’s a laugh. 

“That’s why I’m not upset with you, Dean.”

He looks up after a moment and offers a tentative smile, “I know it wasn’t you.”

Dean shakes his head and starts to back away but Cas steps forward, feeling a little bolder, and grabs his wrist loosely.

It makes him stop in his tracks, his heart stop beating for a few seconds. 

“I know...” Castiel watches the top of Dean’s head and prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’ll be able to communicate this properly. “I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling... but I have been in similar situations.”

He can feel Dean’s pulse jump at that. 

“And I know that -” He lets out a breath and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the vivid memories of everything. Every swing, every order from Naomi, every splatter of blood. “I know that it’s - it’s impossible to forget.” 

Dean’s shaking a little bit when Cas opens his eyes again. 

“Does it...” Dean licks his lips, clearly restraining himself from running away from this conversation, “Does it ever get easier?”

He doesn’t want to lie to him.

“No,” Castiel admits carefully after a few moments. “Not in the way you would like it to.” 

He keeps talking before Dean can spiral too far, “But it does get easier to... allow kindness from the ones you’ve hurt. It...” Castiel’s hand slides down Dean’s wrist until it’s loosely wrapped around his fist. 

“Touching,” he murmurs, “Gets easier. You’ll never stop wondering why they’re letting you touch them, but you...” 

He’s not sure how to explain it without it sounding weird.

“Perhaps greedy isn’t the right word, but you’ll start to savor every touch. You’ll commit every touch to memory. Everything you’re allowed.” 

Dean actually huffs a laugh and smiles, his hand unfolding a little in Cas’ grip. 

“I have yet to look in the mirror and not feel guilty for the things my hands have done at the bidding of others,” Castiel admits quietly, his eyes focused on their hands. “I suspect that will never get easier.” 

“You know,” Dean licks his lips and steps a little bit closer to Cas, his eyes still closed. “Bobby told me one time -”

He smiles despite himself and deepens his voice, “Son, good hunters know that they ain’t always good people. That’s what makes ‘em good hunters. Because they look in the mirror and they know all the shit they did and they know it all ain’t so cut and dry. The second they stop knowin’ that?”

Dean’s smile slips a little and his voice softens, “That’s when they stop bein’ a good hunter. That’s when they stop being a person.” 

Castiel watches Dean’s face for a few moments of silence, allows it when Dean flattens their palms against each other and twins their fingers together. 

“You’re a good person, Cas,” Dean says eventually.

It makes his Grace flare momentarily, stupidly filling with pride and affection. 

“I’ve had a good teacher,” he murmurs, squeezing Dean’s hand. 

Dean leans forward finally and rests his forehead on Cas’ collarbone. He lets out a shuddering breath when Cas’ free arm comes up and wraps around him. 

“I’m so sorry, Cas.” 

The words are whispered into his shirt so quietly that he almost misses it.

“I know that you don’t - you don’t blame me, okay? But I do. And I can’t promise that I’m going to... be okay with this. Ever. I just -” Dean’s breath hitches and his free hand grabs a fistful of Cas’ jacket, “I’m so sorry.” 

Castiel feels like there’s something caught in his throat and he has to clear it a couple times to actually get words out. 

“And I... I know you aren’t angry either. But I am... truly, truly sorry, Dean.”

They stay like that for a few minutes, touching in ways that scare the daylights out of them for different reasons. 

It’s not closure, exactly. 

But it’s more than they’ve ever had. 

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Dean says quietly into the half drained glass of whiskey.

He knows Cas just walked into the room. He can’t hear him, but he knows the signs. He knows the way the air moves differently when Cas shows up in a room. Even without the Mark, he can feel the shift in the atmosphere. 

Dean doesn’t look up from the table and he doesn’t get a response.

It’s fine, he wasn’t expecting one.

“I know why you let Metatron go and I sure as shit don’t agree with it, but I get it.” 

He takes a sip of his drink and frowns, “I was just... I was scared.” 

One of the chairs across from him gets pulled away from the table and then he can just make out Cas’ shirt. He still doesn’t want to look up from the table. 

“I know you can take care of yourself, Cas,” Dean sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I know that I’ve got no reason to be worrying about you as much as I do.” He purses his lips, swirling the liquid in his glass around aimlessly, “But I do. I worry.” 

“I know,” Castiel says quietly, a little guiltily. “I worry about you too.” 

Dean smiles and it’s a little bitter, it tastes a little sour in his mouth. “I’m not the one who’s still on the mend.”

Castiel gives him an unamused look, “Dean.” 

Sometimes Cas leaves Dean a little speechless with his ability to pack so much into one word. He doesn’t have to look up at him to know that Cas is exhausted and concerned and ready to lecture Dean on taking care of himself. 

“Me?” Dean keeps talking, ignoring it for right now because there’s nothing he can say that will make Cas stop looking at him like that.

“I’m broken.” He drains what’s left of his glass and finally glances up at Cas for a moment, giving him a tired smile, “I’m holding it together with duck tape and gorilla glue. But I’ve been falling apart and slapping myself back together for years now. I’ve got practice.” 

He stands abruptly and goes over to the liquor cart and pours himself some more, “You’re not broken, Cas. You don’t need duck tape, you need time to rest.”

Castiel huffs an exhausted, slightly indignant laugh, “I feel broken.” 

“I know what broken looks like...” Dean turns around to smile tiredly at Cas and leans against the bookshelf, “And it ain’t you.” 

Castiel shakes his head fondly, a small, pleased smile on his face. “You’re very kind.” 

Dean ignores the way his heart flips at the smile. 

He pushes himself off the bookshelf and walks over to the table, “Look, I could tell you to suck it up, swallow it down and keep on keepin’ on.” Dean sets his glass down on the table and ignores the way his cheeks flare up, “But hell, if there’s anyone in the world who deserves to hole up at home and watch shitty TV all day, it’s you.” 

Castiel meets his eyes and Dean wonders if it’s possible to feel his Grace like this. Wonders if it’s possible that the way his whole body lights up when Cas looks at him like this is because of that.

“Why did you let Amara get away, Dean?” 

It’s a fair question. Really, it is.

But Dean’s tired and he’s had too much to drink and he’s not expecting it. 

He straightens up abruptly, his face closing off. The soft smile he’d been wearing melts into something blank and not-quite cold. 

“I...” Dean looks away from Cas and takes a long drink of the whiskey. 

“I don’t know.” 

He looks down at his socks, the ones that Charlie had given him with the Starfleet insignia on them. His chest aches all over again with thirty different emotions and the biggest, loudest one is grief. 

“You two...” Castiel keeps his voice quiet and doesn’t push, doesn’t try to get Dean to look at him. “You two have a connection.” 

It’s not a question so much as it is a statement. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers without thinking, hates the way his voice cracks.

“And you...” He can feel Cas’ eyes boring into him, wonders if Cas is checking to see whether or not his soul is still there. “You want to protect her.” 

Dean downs the rest of his glass in one go and sits down in the chair next to him, “I don’t know.” 

The war room is silent for a few minutes at the admission, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

The chair scraping against the floor barely registers with Dean until Cas is right there, standing in front of him. He looks up a little dazed and is abruptly reminded of Stull and how Cas had looked so heavenly, had given him a glimmer of hope. 

Castiel’s hand reaches out and hesitates, hovering in the air between them until Dean gives a slight nod.

His eyes close when he feels those familiar hands settle on his cheeks, his heart stutters when Cas’ thumbs brush over the lines of his cheekbones.

“We make quite a pair,” Cas murmurs thoughtfully, his thumbs not stopping.

Dean snorts despite himself and leans into the warmth, “Yin and Yang.” 

“No...” He hums and settles one hand on the back of Dean’s neck when he feels him leaning in closer and closer, “Not quite.” 

“I swear, if you start singing Katy Perry...” Dean finally gives in and lets his face fall into Cas’ stomach, resisting the urge to rub his face against the soft shirt. 

Castiel huffs a quiet laugh and runs a hand through Dean’s hair, “Are you implying that being a missing puzzle piece would be inaccurate?” 

Dean actually thinks about it for a moment as one of his arms wrap around Cas’ waist before he mumbles a little petulantly, “No.” 

There’s something easy about this.

It’s always easy with the two of them, even when it’s not easy. Even when they’re both scared to touch each other, it’s still easy to do something so sentimental like press a kiss to Cas’ chest. 

No matter where they are in their relationship, what they’ve done in their lives - they fit. Cas dropped into Dean’s life and slipped into a hole he hadn’t realized needed filling. 

“We’ll figure this out,” Cas promises quietly, runs his fingers over Dean’s scalp. “You’re not alone in this, Dean.” 

It doesn’t mean much in the long run - they can’t predict what will happen with the Darkness, they can’t stop Amara. Cas can’t protect Dean from whatever Amara has planned for him, not if she’s really God’s sister. 

But it makes him breathe a little easier, at least for right now. 

“For what it’s worth, Cas,” he mumbles into the shirt. “You’ve got me for as long as you want me.” 

It’s a little more honest than he intended to be.

Castiel’s Grace flares up so much that the lights flicker for a moment. Dean laughs fondly, tightens an arm around Cas. 

He almost misses it when Cas says, “Does forever work for you?”

If he’s surprised by the invitation, he doesn’t show it.

“Of course.” 

Dean smiles to himself and goes down the hall to his room, leaving the door open as he kicks his shoes off. 

He goes over to the dresser and groans as he pulls his shirt off, his shoulders sore from everything that happened today (and almost 30 years of abuse). It makes him feel old and he kind of can’t help but smile at that thought. 

He hears Cas step into the room as he’s pulling his shirt over his head and Dean doesn’t bother turning around, “You feelin’ okay?” 

“Better,” Cas answers after a few seconds. “Less...” 

“Murderous?” Dean supplies helpfully, flashing Cas a weak attempt at a grin once his shirt is on. 

Castiel rolls his eyes but it’s fond, loving even. “Yes. I appreciate you pointing that out.” 

Dean snorts and tries to pull on some PJ pants, something in his chest loosening when he hears Cas doing the same. He feels warmer than he has in years, that little sliver of hope in his heart. That Cas will stay. That Cas is here. 

Cas puts a hand on his shoulder, interrupting that thought process, “Dean, do you need any help?” 

The pants are stuck around his knee and his ankle and he’s just been standing there with a really doofy smile on his face for the last couple minutes apparently.

“Um,” he clears his throat as his cheeks turn a little pink. “I - sure?” 

He tries not to stare when Cas smiles and kneels down, pulling Dean’s socks off one by one.

His hands move to the PJ pants next and Dean swallows nervously, resting a hand on Cas’ shoulder to help the process along. Tries not to think about the last two years. 

And then Cas is standing again, his face only a few inches away from Dean’s.

He smells like Dean’s shampoo and coffee and light. Dean’s never known how to describe that smell, no matter how many times he’s tried. Cas just - he smells like light. He smells like sunshine breaking through the clouds. 

Dean smiles nervously, pretty sure Cas can hear the way his heart his hammering in his chest. “Thanks...” 

Cas holds eye-contact for a few moments before looking away, his cheeks a little pink, “I... believe you were going to bed.” 

It takes him a few seconds to snap out of it. It usually does.

Dean clears his throat and nods, “Yeah. Um - right. Yeah. Bed.” 

He starts and stops a couple times, his feet never leaving the floor. They haven’t done this in a while and he’s still not sure where he stands with Cas after - after everything.

Luckily Cas saves him, like he always does, and gently pushes Dean towards the bed. He lets him and stumbles over to his side of the bed, trying not to trip over his own feet.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t the...” Cas sounds pained, “Werepires you were excited about.” 

His heart skips a beat or two (or twelve) and he turns around slowly, his eyes wide.

“...dude.” Dean gapes, trying to fight off the manic smile that’s threatening to break out on his face, “You said it.” 

“I did,” Cas mumbles as he tries to pretend he’s not smiling. “Let us never speak of it.” 

Dean sits on the bed, grinning up at him, “Say it again.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes and sits down next to him, “Werepires.” 

Dean shivers a little.

Castiel watches him, calculating, before he seems to notice something and he groans. He looks up at the ceiling tiredly, as if it will save him from this, “Really?”

“One more time,” Dean asks hopefully, trying not to bounce too much on the bed.

Castiel mumbles something in Enochian and lays back against his pillow, “...Werepire.”

Dean looks nothing short of gleeful as he pumps one fist in the air.

Castiel chuckles, shaking his head fondly, “I take it you’re happy?” 

And the thing about it all? Yeah - he is.

For once he’s happy. And Cas is here and Cas is humoring his bad jokes. Cas is safe and laying on the bed next to him in Dean’s old sweatpants and an undershirt. Cas is here. 

Dean moves before he can really think about it and then he’s cupping Cas’ face in his hands, kissing him slow and gentle. 

Castiel returns the kiss without hesitation, his own hand coming up to rest on the back of Dean’s neck. 

They haven’t talked since Rowena reversed the spell. They haven’t really had a chance to talk and they’ve both been so nervous around each other that they haven’t really tried to push it.

They’ll have to talk at some point but right now, this feels like coming home. 

“Thank you,” Dean whispers into the kiss. He tries to move into Cas’ lap without breaking the kiss but it’s awkward and Cas just ends up picking him up instead.

"You’re - mpfh,” Cas grunts when Dean shifts and pushes him back more against the pillows. “Welcome.” 

Dean laughs and kisses Cas until his eyes start drooping, exhaustion hitting him like a truck, and Cas has to get him tucked in to bed.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face for the first time in a long time.

When Dean walks into the kitchen in the morning and sees his brother, he can’t help but blurt it out.

“Cas said it!” 

Sam blinks at him tiredly, a spoonful of cereal hovering in between the bowl and his mouth. “O...kay?” 

Castiel walks into the kitchen in his PJ’s and Sam almost chokes on his food.

“Cas!” Dean is way too awake this morning for someone who didn’t get laid last night, “Say it again.” 

He sighs tiredly and rubs a hand over his face, “Werepire.” 

Dean crows triumphantly while Sam watches them with a small grin.

Dusk has fallen completely when they arrive. Dean kills the engine and for a few seconds the only sound is the chirping of the cicadas outside and the push and pull of the ocean just beyond the trees. It’s real fuckin’ nice, actually. There’s no screaming in his head anymore now that the Mark’s gone, no buzzing in his ears or blood roaring through his veins. He's missed the quiet.

He reaches over and gently shakes Cas’s thigh until he stirs, stretching and rubbing his neck.

“Are we here?” he asks blearily.

“Yep. C’mon, dinner.”

 The cabin is musty but functional. Dean makes spaghetti, because he can and because they need something other than diner food. He has to grate carrots into the sauce because Cas will eat entire raw ones with a whole pot of hummus but cook them and he refuses to put them near his mouth if they’re bigger than his thumbnail, like some kind of little kid. Dean doesn’t mind. He’d grate all the carrots in the world if it meant getting to cook for Cas every night.

They share quiet conversation while they eat. It’s easy. Comfortable. Back at the bunker meals are usually noisy nowadays; often Jody will be there, usually with Alex and Claire in tow, occasionally Donna. Sometimes Krissie and her pals will show up to make use of the bunker’s archives. Dean loves it, absolutely loves it, but this is nice too. Just getting to be with Cas in the solitude of the wilderness.

“Hey,” he says after they’ve finished, and Cas is carrying the dishes to the sink, “let’s go sit outside for a while.”

Cas smiles at him, and Dean knows exactly what he’s thinking. After he became human for good, after they’d gotten rid of the Darkness and Metatron and Crowley at fucking last, Cas would disappear for a couple of hours every evening and it wasn’t until Dean started freaking out about where he was going and if he was coming back that he followed him and found him on the roof goddamn stargazing, of all things.

How he convinced Dean to stay and stargaze with him, they will never know.

"I knew you liked it," Cas says triumphantly as he grabs the moth-eaten old blanket from the couch.

“Yeah alright, whatever, Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Dean snarks, shoving his feet back into his boots.

The darkness out here is solid and oppressing without the light pollution from the cities but the stars are so, so bright. They walk a little ways down to the beach where the ocean glitters in the moonlight, like there's a whole galaxy trapped under the lapping waves. Dean spreads the blanket out and sits, reaching up to grab Cas's wrist and pull him down too.

Cas is bundled up in one of Dean's hoodies and he's a soft warmth at Dean's side where they sit hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder.

"We should do this more often," he says, nosing into Dean's temple, "I like vacationing with you."

"Jeez, Cas, it ain't exactly a five-star hotel in Hawaii," Dean scoffs, tips of his ears pink.

"I don't think we'd enjoy that very much. This is more us."

"You underestimate my love of a complimentary robe," Dean tells him, and Cas gives him one of those fond looks that makes him feel like the Grinch, like his heart is swelling too big in his chest. Christ. He lets his head rest on top of Cas's for a while until it passes. His hair smells like the raspberry and tea tree shampoo he gets from the hippie store Sam's always dragging him to and Dean refuses to admit that it's growing on him but he presses a kiss there anyway.

He falls backwards and takes Cas with him until they're lying as comfortably as they can on the scratchy blanket that's rapidly being swallowed by the surrounding sand. He tucks his chin into Cas's chest, the way he's got used to doing at night. Through the skin and muscles and bones he can hear his very human heart beating.

"You can't possibly see the stars like that," Cas chides, but his fingers are dancing up and down Dean's back. Dean shivers, and not just because of the ocean breeze.

"'M exhausted," he mumbles, rubbing the cold tip of his nose into Cas's hoodie.

Cas hums. "It's been a long few months."

"Try a long few decades," Dean huffs, arm tightening around Cas's waist. Although. Well, it's not been all bad. This--having Cas like this, like he's gonna for the rest of his life, has been pretty fucking great, actually.

"C'mon then, tell me 'bout them stars," he orders sleepily.

There's a jostle where Cas moves, folding one arm behind his head. "Have I told you about Ophiuchus?"

God if Dean knows. He can't remember all the shit Cas spouts off when he gets going, but it doesn't sound familiar. He shakes his head.

"He was a great physician," Cas’s voice is a low, soothing rumble, “he would make medicines from the poison of snakes and plants, until one day he figured out a way to bring back the dead. Of course, Hades couldn’t allow that…”

 Dean didn't mean to fall asleep, yet here he is opening his eyes to the pale light of dawn and Cas's morning wood pressing against his ass.

"Fuckin' yeah," he mutters, shimmying backwards shamelessly. He aches from sleeping on the beach--whose stupid idea was that--but he can ignore it for a little while.

“Dean,” Cas grunts, voice thick with sleep.

Dean rolls over to face him, grinning at the irritated little scrunch between Cas’s eyebrows. He kisses that spot, then his forehead, the line of his hair, down over his cheeks until he finally sucks Cas’s lower lip into his mouth in the way that really gets him going. It’s totally filthy and hot, because Cas is totally filthy and hot, and Dean’s not ashamed to play a little dirty to get what he wants.

“Your hands are cold,” Cas complains when Dean shoves them up under his hoodie, but Cas’s body is a furnace all the time so whatever.

“What do you expect, we’re on a beach in the Pacific Northwest at 7am,” Dean reminds him, before diving back in. He rolls them so he’s on top of Cas, pressing him down into the blanket, soaking up the warmth of him. “Jesus, we slept out here. What are we, teenage fratboys?”

“Would a teenage fratboy do this?” Cas asks, plunging his hands down the back of Dean’s jeans, under his boxers. Dean very manfully doesn’t yelp in surprise.

“Probably, to be honest,” he grins, dropping a lush open-mouthed kiss to Cas’s lips. Cas’s hands squeeze his ass and heat pools in Dean’s stomach. He moans and his toes curl inside his boots. “Fuck, Cas.”

Cas smiles against his jaw. “If you want.”

God, does Dean want. He always wants Cas, has wanted him for so long it almost feels surreal that he’s actually allowed this now, allowed to drag his fingers down Cas’s sides in that way that makes him shiver and fumble with the button on his jeans until it finally pops open. He drags his own shirts off and then rucks Cas’s hoodie up under his armpits, kissing the tan skin exposed to him, working his way down until he hits the edge of his boxers and then he stops, because they’re an eye-searing neon green covered in little pink flamingos. They were a gag gift Dean got him a couple of Christmases ago; he wasn’t supposed to actually wear them.

“Fuck,” Dean says, and starts laughing. He laughs with his forehead pressed against Cas’s tummy and his mouth close enough to his raging hard on that he can feel it nudging into his chin. “God, Cas, you--”

Even with his hips subtly rocking up into Dean’s face, Dean knows Cas is scowling from the way he says, “I didn’t have any others clean and the last time I borrowed yours you told me off being unsanitary.”

“Damn right,” Dean agrees, but he’s still chuckling as his lips travel over the soft material, hot breath making Cas cry out as he feels out the hard shape of him with his mouth.

“Dean, Dean,” Cas pants and Dean grips his thighs through his jeans then slides his hands up to tug those and his underwear down fully.

“We’re not having sex here,” he says, even as he kisses his way back up to Cas’s mouth, red and swollen already. “I refuse to get sand in my ass crack, man.”

“Ugh,” Cas groans, his hands clamping down on Dean’s shoulders. Dean takes pity on him. He takes him in one hand, teasing, his fist curled too lightly for Cas to feel any real pressure.

“But when we get back to the cabin,” he whispers, and he can’t resist looking down to see where Cas’s dick is dark and leaking in his fingers, and fuck, that's hot, “you’re gonna fuck me. Open me up with your fingers and your tongue, get me ready for you--and then you're gonna pound me into the mattress six ways from Sunday. That sound good to you?”

Cas’s answer is an incoherent whine and before Dean knows it he’s been rolled over so he’s the one on his back and Cas is a trembling, panting wreck above him. He kisses him, hot and heady and fast, tongue all up in Dean’s mouth with little finesse. Good. Dean loves this side of him, loves seeing Cas a little messed up and a lot turned on. Knowing he did that is the best part.

"C'mon, Cas, c'mon," he goads, not really sure what he's asking for, but sighing in relief when Cas finally tugs his pants out of the way. "Yeah, that's it."

The slide of dick-on-dick is so good Dean's vision goes fuzzy and when Cas's long, steady fingers encircle both of them and start to stroke he hears himself make an unholy noise. He starts to babble nonsense, shit like "yeah baby c'mon, so good, you're so good, fuck" that he's gonna pretend to be embarrassed by later.

"When we get back," Cas growls into his ear, his whole body writhing on top of Dean's in this fucking amazing way, even though they're both still half-dressed and they're on a beach, for crying out loud, "I'm going to fuck you nice and slow, really make you feel it."

Jesus fucking christ.

Then there's pressure behind Dean's balls, a single slick finger trailing a path down there, and Dean gasps out Cas's name as that finger circles his hole and slips inside, pressing and twisting until Cas finds his prostate with expert precision and then he's merciless, teasing Dean non-stop until his whole body is a sweaty, shaking mess, strung-out and desperate.

"Yeah, yeah, want it, want you," Dean moans, then slams their mouths together just as that roiling, building heat inside him reaches its crescendo.

He doesn't so much as tumble over the edge as he does soar, pleasure ripping through his bones and making his blood sing. Faintly, he hears Cas saying his name, can feel the soft kisses pressed to his chin and eyelids and temples, but he's lost, gone, riding the high of his orgasm.

When he finally comes back down he finds that he's got one hand buried in Cas's hair, the other palming his sweaty lower back, and Cas's dick is still heavy and unsatisfied between his legs, he's still breathing unevenly and practically humping Dean's thigh, so Dean pulls him up until Cas is straddling his waist and rasps, "Come on me, Cas."

Cas's eyes roll back as he groans, fisting his dick furiously over Dean's bare chest, one hand planted on the blanket by his head as he leans over to kiss Dean again.

It doesn't take long. Dean pulls out every trick he knows while Cas jerks off; pulling gently on his hair, kissing that spot behind his ear, lightly scoring his fingernails down his spine, and then Cas grunts and breaks the kiss to gasp as he spills warmth all over Dean's collarbone.

With an oomph, Cas collapses on top of him. Dean feels shivery with pleasure and curls his arms around Cas's waist, open mouth pressed to his shoulder while he tries to catch his breath.

"You're beautiful," Cas tells him quietly, exhausted. They've not even had breakfast yet, Dean thinks a little hysterically.

"You're heavy," he says, and Cas pinches his ribs before rolling off of him. He swipes up Dean's discarded flannel and wipes them both down with it, smiling all the while.

"We should head back," he says after he's done, and yeah Dean's not gonna argue with that. Despite what he'd said he's still got sand where sand should never be and he's sticky and sweaty and stinks of spunk. He wants a shower and a huge plate of eggs and bacon, stat.

As they retrace their route through the trees, Dean grabs Cas's hand and admits, "You were right. We should definitely do this more often."

A slightly smug smile graces Cas's unshaven jaw. "I'm always right."

"You're a fucking dick, is what you are," Dean tells him, but he can't resist pulling him in for a quick kiss. "So, what d'you think? Road trip? Hawaii? Goddamn Europe?"