#nestingdean

Dean had shrugged.

“I…” he’d said slowly. The touch of their soles was a warm reassurance. Dean had cast a nervous glance over at the door to the kitchen, where Mary could be heard clattering pots and cutlery as she emptied the dishwasher. “OK. I – I took a bite out of my birthday cake early this year. It was just sitting on the table before my party and I just lifted it up off the plate and scooped out a bit with my hand and…” Dean had thrown another furtive look towards the kitchen. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Cas had said seriously.

Dean had looked into his eyes for a moment, and then smiled, satisfied. “Your turn.”

Cas remembered blinking slowly, tilting his head at Dean. Dean had grinned and mirrored him, tilting his own head comically far to the left.

In the end, Cas had said simply, “I want to be friends forever.”

Dean had wrinkled his nose.

“’Course we’ll be friends forever,” he’d said.

Cas could still hear Dean saying it, now. He smiled to himself, wrapping up in the warm-scarf memory as he trudged through the snow on the way to Dean’s house. That hadn’t been the last time they’d sat opposite each other, bare feet pressed together. They’d remembered how it had felt, to touch in such an unfamiliar place, to press their tender and sensitive soles together and feel – accepted, and understood, in a way that no one else could make them feel. Cas would never press his soles against anyone else’s but Dean’s. Throughout the years, that had never changed; it was a special place on each of their bodies, saved just for the other.

They’d ask to do it, sometimes, with weighted looks and raised eyebrows, knowing each other well enough to communicate without the embarrassment of words – they’d strip off their shoes and socks with a kind of slow, relaxed ceremony, and press their soles with a familiar kind of wonder. Once, they’d done it at school, tucked away into a quiet backroom, when Dean had come to Cas in panic, a tightness in his shoulders, his breath coming fast. Fifteen years old, dwarfed by his leather jacket.

“Tell me,” Cas had said, when they were braced against the dusty walls of the dingy backroom, surrounded by stationery supplies in cardboard boxes and several mops and buckets. Dean’s feet had been cold, and he couldn’t meet Cas’ eyes – but it had still been there, the intimacy, the sensation of strange closeness. Dean’s face had been slotted in light, the lattice of the backroom door leaving strange shadows over his features.

“Cas – Cas, I – I just – I – God, this is so – I can’t tell you,” he’d said, and almost pulled his feet away, but Cas had caught his eye, stilled him with a look. Dean had let out a sigh, and relaxed his legs. “God. OK. I’m just gonna say it. Cas – shit, God, OK – Cas, I – you’re not gonna think of me differently, are you?”

Cas had said nothing, only looked. Dean had blinked down at his lap.

“Yeah. You’re right, I’m being stupid. Cas – Cas, I’m – I don’t know for sure, but I think I might be – I might be gay. Or, uh, I dunno. Because I’m – I think – I like, uh, looking at some guys, but I still like some girls, too…” He’d been blushing furiously; Cas had been able to feel the way he’d been shaking through their feet.

Cas had only been able to stare at him, his heart thudding.

After a moment, Dean had looked up at Cas. “Well… that’s it,” he’d managed to say, desperately shy. “Um. Your turn, I guess?”

Cas had sighed.

“I don’t care who you like looking at and who you don’t,” he’d said. Dean’s eyes had jerked up to meet his gaze, his eyes filling up with tears as he’d looked and looked, disbelieving.

“You – you don’t mind?” he’d said. Cas had shaken his head. The idea of disliking Dean was alien enough, but disliking Dean for something like this? It was unthinkable – and Dean could read that on Cas’ face. His shoulders had shaken, hands over his eyes, his relief too great to hold inside. Castiel hadn’t said anything, hadn’t demanded anything, had only sat still and quiet and as calm as he could. After a little while, Dean had choked out a laugh.

“You know, um. That doesn’t count as your deepest, darkest secret,” he’d said. “It’s still your turn.”

Cas had opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say. He’d looked right into Dean’s eyes – even today, he could still remember the exact way Dean had looked, tear tracks still on his cheeks, grinning shakily, a mess of nerves and happiness.

“It makes me happy that you told me first,” he said softly. He wasn’t sure why this felt like a secret, but it did – perhaps because he wouldn’t normally say it out loud. “I like being the person you trust for something like this.”

Dean’s face had relaxed into surprise, and then his smile had returned, all the wider.

“I’m glad I told you first, too. God, I was so scared. I know I shouldn’t’ve been, but… it’s a thing, you know? I’m all twisted up about it anyway, let alone having to tell people. Or, I was. I, uh. I don’t feel so bad about it anymore. I think I wanna tell my family, maybe. Definitely Sam. And Mom. I just wanted to ask you… how you think I should do it? I have no idea.”

They’d grinned at each other, soles still firmly pressed together. They’d accidentally skipped their English class that day, just talking and laughing in that tiny backroom, surrounded by blank paper and unused staples and pens and scissors. They’d been so easy in each other’s company, giving advice and sharing their thoughts with bare truth, no need to hold back.

It never occurred to either of them that they might someday not be the person they went to first with news, with worries, with questions.

They were right not to be concerned about it. They were far too good to each other, every day, in the tiniest ways, to ever grow apart.

And down the years, they’d shared so many things with their soles together. As Cas walked on through the snow towards Dean’s house, he ran through the memories like touching the tips of his fingers over the spines of his favourite books; all the secrets they’d shared…

I’m failing Math. I don’t like Led Zeppelin like you do. I don’t want to work at my dad’s auto shop. I want to be a writer someday. I didn’t really kiss that girl, but she told everyone I did and I just went along with it. I tell everyone I lose my phone every time we hang out, so that it can just be you and me. I ate the whole of the pie that Mom baked in one sitting and I told her Sam ate half. I told Gabriel I dropped a book he lent me in a puddle and I never gave it back to him because I loved it so much. I’m scared about college, because it means we won’t be in the same place every day. I’m going to miss doing this. I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss you, too.

Castiel’s throat tightened when he thought of those last ones. The earnestness in Dean’s face… the sadness – it was giving him the courage to do what he was going to do now. To say what he was going to say, before it was too late.

The snow was thick on the ground, but Cas still managed to make it to Dean’s house in fairly good time, his hands deep in his pockets to keep them from turning blue. He was wearing the bright blue beanie that Dean had given him for Christmas, and it was keeping his ears warm. He rang the doorbell, and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

It was Dean who opened the front door, grinning as soon as he saw who it was. His expression shifted when he saw Cas’ face; as usual, he was unconsciously attentive to the language of Cas’ body, the subtle signs of nervousness and hesitation. Today, as always, he knew what was needed.

“Come on,” he said, smiling reassuringly. “Bedroom.”

They headed upstairs, Cas kicking off his snowboots in the hallway and shedding his thick coat and hat as soon as he walked through the door to Dean’s bedroom. A lot had been added to it since Cas had first walked in, all those years ago – different posters, new books, clothes on the floor, pictures of the two of them in more places – but underneath those layers, the room was still the same. Cas touched the back of his hand to the side of Dean’s wooden wardrobe as he passed by, knocking on it for luck, like he always did.

Dean, meanwhile, was already sitting on the floor and taking off his socks.

“We’ll never get over doing this, will we,” he said, as Cas sat down opposite him. “Eighteen years old and still going strong.”

Cas couldn’t seem to speak past the nervousness, tight and cold in his throat, so he responded only with a smile. What Dean had said was, of course, quite true. For Cas, at least. He would never get tired of doing this – of feeling… well, whatever the opposite of alone was, even though they weren’t quite together.

And that, today, was what he was hoping to change. He and Dean had always been close enough to live inside each other’s pockets, speak for the other with assurance, trust each other without hesitation. But more and more often as the years went by and the deep, dark secrets came out, Cas found himself feeling as though he were walking along the edge of a sheer cliff face – with a chasm beyond, a secret that went deeper and darker than any other he had ever shared. Recently, with the threat of separation looming over them, Cas had come to understand the nature of this secret in its entirety; it had all added up, the moments of tension between them, the sensation of nervous excitement in his stomach when they were together, the warmth of his skin wherever Dean touched him… and the ache all over when he wanted more, more, more.

Now, here he was. Sitting on the floor of Dean’s bedroom, about to tell him the truth.

“So, Cas,” Dean said, leaning back against the wall and stretching out his legs. Cas sat up against Dean’s bed, and pressed the soles of his feet against Dean’s. “What’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

And Cas’ brain stalled. He’d only resolved to actually tell Dean about an hour before, and on the walk over to Dean’s house he’d been far too occupied with the butterflies in his stomach and the whirling in his head to have actually figured out how he was going to phrase this. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t think that he’d have the courage to make it this far; several times on the walk, he’d almost turned back.

A large part of Cas now wished that he had, in fact, turned back.

Dean was watching him, letting him think out whatever he had to say, obviously concerned but not putting any pressure on Cas to speak before he was ready. Cas let out the breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. This was Dean. He could tell Dean anything. He just had to… start talking.

“D-Dean,” Cas said, unsticking his throat with an effort. Dean’s feet were warm against his own, the same twin points of strange vulnerability that they’d always been. “Dean, I… I… we’ve been friends for so long, and – and you know how much I value that. And normally I would never do anything to jeopardise it. But there’s something… something that I feel like I have to tell you, something you don’t know yet, and…” he trailed off. He was making this sound very dramatic, but it was dramatic, he was terrified and his heart was pounding and his fingers were shaking…

“Cas, man, you’re scaring me,” Dean said, his face caught in a nervous half-smile. “What’s going on?”

Cas frowned down at his hands, clasping them together to stop them trembling. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again, looking into Dean’s eyes. There was his comfort, his courage, his best friend. Cas wanted to tell him the truth.

He opened his mouth to speak.

“Dean, I’m in love with you,” Cas said. His voice didn’t shake, not even once, and he was proud of that, at least. “I – um. I almost wish I didn’t have to tell you, because I know this will change things between us. But I can’t keep hiding things from you, because that’s changing things between us too. I want to be open with you, like I’ve always been, and I…” Cas shrugged, his throat closing up again as the magnitude of what he’d done set in. Dean’s face seemed frozen, his mouth open, his expression unreadable.

After a little silence, Dean finally spoke.

“Cas, you – you really – you’re not just, uh, playing a joke?”

Cas blinked at him.

“Why would I say I loved you for a joke?” he said. “No. I mean it.”

Dean swallowed hard, seeming to be looking for the right words. Cas could only watch, feeling a small part of himself crushed down to nothing – the part of himself that had… that had actually hoped that maybe, just maybe…

He’d been a fool. And now Dean was uncomfortable, and he was thinking things that he wasn’t saying, which was the opposite of the point of soles together, and –

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper, still looking stunned. “Cas, I love you, too.”

The world stopped. Everything slowed down to a strange, soft, dreamlike pace. Cas watched Dean’s eyes flicker down towards his lap, and then back up to Cas’ face, in gentle slow-motion. He felt his own mouth falling open, registering his own shock from a long, long distance.

“Dean, you – you –? This isn’t – you’re not…?”

“I’m not joking,” Dean said. His feet, still up against Cas’, were a steady, reassuring weight. “I’m not. Cas, I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you for years. I… God, Cas, I think about you all the time, and before it was – well, you know, we were kids, but then – then I, uh, you know – figured out I was into guys too, and – Christ, Cas, do you have any idea how attractive you are?” The last sentence came out strained with Dean’s emotion, full of feelings that he’d kept to himself for too long, hiding them just like Cas had hidden them. Now that Dean could speak freely, the dam had been broken and the river water was bursting through; Cas’ heart was thudding furiously in his chest, his disbelief slowly melting away…

“If it’s anything like how attractive you are,” Cas managed to say, “then I think I understand. I thought – I used to think that I would never get together with someone, that I would never get married. Then I realised that I was just too busy being in love with you to even see anyone else.” Dean was pressing his lips together in the way that he always did right before he was going to cry; Cas’ own eyes were filling up with tears. Could this really be happening? Did they really both feel the same way? His heart was soaring, and he could believe it, he could believe it – because really, after all – it had always been him and Dean, hadn’t it?

“I think you already had your turn,” Cas said, moving his left foot slightly, taking Dean’s with it. Dean pressed harder against his soles, his tears beginning to fall. “So I’m not going to ask for your deepest, darkest secret, because I feel like you told me already.”

“I guess so,” Dean said, bringing up his hand to wipe at his face. “God. This is ridiculous.” Cas lifted his feet away from Dean’s and crawled over to him, one hand and one leg on either side of Dean’s legs. When he was up close, Cas sat back on Dean’s thighs. He wasn’t sure exactly what spirit of bravery or madness had possessed him to think taking up this pose was a good idea, but he had to thank that wayward entity for the way that Dean’s jaw loosened with surprise, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted. It felt so good, so right, to be this close…

“Kiss me,” Dean said, bringing his hands up to rest on Cas’ hips. “Cas. Just – kiss me. Please.”

Cas reached up, his fingertips tracing the lightest patterns over Dean’s face. He leaned forwards, and kissed Dean’s cheek, his heart beating fast but steady. With one hand cupping Dean’s face, he leant back.

“You said we’d be friends forever,” he said. Dean swallowed hard, and nodded.

“We will,” he said. “And – and I’m gonna be in love with you forever, too. God, I love you so much.”

And Cas couldn’t resist any longer, couldn’t bring himself to tease out the sweetness of this moment for a single second more; with one hand still touching Dean’s cheek, he leaned forwards and kissed him.

The press of their lips was like the press of their soles, a strange vulnerability, a new way to touch skin that was special, and only for each other. They relaxed into it, finding themselves at home at once in the taste and feel of the other’s kiss. When they were together like this, there was nothing between them, no secrets, no dark and hidden dangers, nothing left unsaid. In the light of their love, they kissed each other warm.

Except tonight, their very own Christmas night, Cas’ name meant close, close, cinnamon, fire, gifts. You, me, close.

Cas blinked down at the flames, and then looked over at Dean, a solemn warmth in his eyes.

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean wondered whether his own name meant anything to Cas. Whether Cas enjoyed saying it, too. Maybe he did. Maybe it was exactly the same for both of them–

Dean broke off. It was obvious, he thought, that the Christmas decorations were definitely doing things to him. He cast an evil eye at the baubles on the tree. Those were influential baubles.

“How exactly did we end up with all – this?” Dean said, refraining from calling it ‘crap’, because – well, because he didn’t quite believe that it was crap, himself. He was pretty proud of how the tree had ended up looking. Cas smiled, and lifted one shoulder.

“Well, we were supposed to just be staying here for the case,” Cas said, taking Dean’s rhetorical question literally, and answering it. “And we went shopping for fuel for the fire, because it’s – um – ‘cold as balls up here.’” Dean grinned. He could stop Cas talking – after all, he didn’t need to hear the story, he’d been there for all of this – but there was something good about hearing it from Cas. He let Cas go on. “But when I told you that I’d never experienced a traditional American Christmas, you decided to change that. First you wanted tinsel, and then a tree, and then lights, and it all just…”

Dean noticed a small white bauble that they’d missed earlier, lying by his knee. He picked it up.

“Snowballed?” he said, finishing Cas’ sentence with a smile and a wave of the snowy bauble. Cas returned his smile.

“Exactly,” he said. Dean took a sip of his cinnamon hot chocolate. It was still too hot, his tongue zinging, but it was delicious.

“Sam should be back soon with the food,” Dean said. His stomach gave a grumble of anticipation. Cas dipped his head in acknowledgement, silent, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“This – this is okay, right?” Dean said, watching Cas’ seriousness, a sudden swoop of apprehension in his stomach. “It’s not – not too much? Or too little? I know we didn’t get the best baubles, but they still look pretty good, at least, I think they do –”

“Dean,” Cas said, and there was something about the weight of the word in his mouth that told Dean everything – that told him without question that Dean’s name did mean something to Cas, something important. Dean’s certainty had nothing to do with the influence of the baubles, this time, and he knew it.

“Good,” Dean said, before Cas said any more. “Good. I wanted – you know, we didn’t get this kinda thing much, either. So it’s new for us both.”

Dean looked over at Cas, who was watching him with a quiet, affectionate intensity. There was something – something about the way he looked, about the way the firelight played over his face, about the softness of his lips – that had Dean spinning, his mind misted over, he was suddenly leaning forwards and his hand was coming up and cupping Cas’ cheek and –

And Dean kissed Cas.

He kissed Cas.

The kiss lasted just a fraction of a moment, before Dean came to his senses and drew in a sharp breath as he pulled away – a breath of cinnamon, and pine, and something sweet and undefinable that could only be – Cas, Cas’ mouth, the way he tasted –

Dean was frozen, caught and blinded between a thousand stars of panic and happiness and heart-thudding, terrifying hope…

“That’s new, too,” he finally managed to get out, in a tone that wanted very badly to be casual. “Uh. For both of us.”

Cas’ expression was unreadable. For a long, long moment, the balance held steady, tipping between victory and disaster…

“I like new things,” said Cas, eventually, and reached up his own hand, wrapping his fingers into Dean’s green shirt and pulling him in for another kiss, a longer kiss, a warm, happy, joyous Christmas kiss.

Dean wasn’t usually into Christmas. But if Christmas meant trees, and lights, and cinnamon, and – and kisses, and feeling as though the whole dark, dark world were just a little brighter because he and Cas were together – well.

Since Dean had been the victim of this ridiculous and childish prank, he’d had far too much time to spend thinking. Seriously, he thought, no one should ever be forced to sit with themselves for longer than thirty seconds. It did things to people. The effect it had had on Dean, in particular, was definitely to be taken with a pinch of salt. Rock salt, just in case this was some kind of… demonically-influenced… thing.

Hey, maybe it was a demon who had put the glue on the chair, and forced Dean to look at Cas’ face for two hours, and make him think about how easy it would be to walk over there and… and tell Cas how he felt.

Well – well, not – not how he felt, because he didn’t feel anything specific, per se, that was to say, he felt something, yes, but it wasn’t… there was no point blowing it out of proportion. It was just because he’d been sitting in this chair and the light was all low and Cas looked so happy and gentle and kissable and –

Oh, God, Dean hadn’t really just thought that. 

Sure, the echo of the thought was still in his mind, but he hadn’t just said those words to himself. He really, really hadn’t. There was no way that he’d sat here for two hours staring at Cas because he looked kissable. Dean didn’t do… kissable, for crying out loud. And he didn’t do that thing that people did in the movies, getting all gross and gooey-eyed over kisses. He didn’t. He didn’t look at people and wish he could kiss them just for the sake of kissing them and feeling… emotions. And he didn’t wish he could hold their hand in his, and lace their fingers together, and look into their eyes and hope that they wouldn’t look away, would keep watching him…

Ugh.

Across the room, Cas blinked solemnly and turned a page. The way his fingers moved over the book, and the way his lips pressed together slightly as he read… his whole Cas-ness right now was doing things to Dean. And not the usual things, either. Dean had got used to those things. After all, come on, who didn’t look at their friends every now and then and think about – well, going there? That was totally normal. Happened all the time with Cas, so it had to be normal.

But… this was something else. This wasn’t imagining taking Cas to bed, this was imagining taking Cas to bed and then tucking him in and pressing a kiss to his forehead and getting in on the other side and spooning with him all night. And waking up next to him, with pillows that smelled like him.

God, that sounded – well, it should sound ridiculous. With absolutely anyone else, right now, it would have been a nightmare. So awkward and cliché and – performed, somehow, acting out a part.

And yet with Cas, Dean thought that maybe it wouldn’t be awkward at all.

It wouldn’t be a big deal. It would be so natural. And so… good. Dean had a strange fluttery feeling in his stomach just thinking about it, like being scared, but – in a good way. He really wanted to do all those things.

But that was impossible. It didn’t make any sense. It just – it didn’t make sense.

Dean looked over at Cas, who was frowning slightly down at some fine print, a footnote at the bottom of a page. Maybe he needed glasses. Dean wanted to kiss him until everything else in the world just faded away.

And somehow, it felt like that did make sense.

But the problem was, of course, that Dean didn’t know whether Cas would – whether he would want to – 

Oh, God, no, this was ridiculous. This whole train of thought was crazy. It was just because Dean was… tired, and – and stuck to this goddamn chair. He didn’t really want to go over there, right? Cas would probably be totally freaked out. Well, not freaked out because Cas didn’t really do freaked out, but he’d probably squint up at Dean in that adorable way he had, and say, “Angels don’t feel for humans like that, Dean.” Stupid, pedantic bastard. I know, Dean told the Cas in his head. I know, stop acting all high and mighty about it. I just wanted to tell you how I felt, in case… in case you wanted to make… an exception, maybe, or…

Dean resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He was pretty sure that Cas had forgotten that Dean was in the room at all, totally lost in reading, and he didn’t really feel like putting a stop to that. 

That is, sure, Dean wanted to get up and leave the room and be done with sitting on this stupid chair, of course, but… 

In a minute or two would be fine. When he’d made up his mind whether or not he was going to go over there, and… and ruin his friendship with Cas.

Or maybe – maybe –

Ugh.

Maybe.

Perhaps.

What if.

Ugh.

Words like that were pains in his ass. They made everything difficult. If only there could be no what if, just yes or no. If only there were some way of making sure Cas liked him back that Dean could control… if only Dean could take a test, could prove himself by – fighting a – a bear, or something, or running a marathon… saving Cas from a dragon, wasn’t that how it used to go?

Dean kept himself amused for a long few moments imagining Cas in a floaty pink dress and pointed purple princess hat.

He sighed.

He couldn’t do any of that. There were no real-life monsters to fight between him and Cas; no way to win Cas’ heart, ugh, with a quest for glory. All the bears were in his head and the marathon was the seven or eight steps it would take to cross the space between them. The only way for Dean to prove his bravery was to – to walk over there. And Cas wouldn’t even know what Dean had done, wouldn’t even know how much it had taken for Dean just to unstick himself from the glue on this chair.

It would be the smallest, quietest bravery he’d ever shown.

And Dean didn’t want to show it. He didn’t want to. He wanted to slink back to his room and be miserable and think about missed opportunities and put on sad music and feel the reach of the empty side of the bed next to him. He wanted to be familiarly desolate, disconsolate in the way he knew best, with his closest friend sleeping on his chest – the weight of his own loneliness.

That was safe. And easy. Not brave, but Hell, who was brave anymore? Who did anything that wasn’t selfish, and straightforward, and sad?

He wasn’t going to speak to Cas. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He was going to get up and leave the room without a word, right now...

He was still stuck to the chair. His legs wouldn’t move. Damn – damn glue.

What if he just did it, though. What if he just had one mad moment of quiet bravery, and stood up, and walked over there, and said to Cas...

Well, said something to Cas, anyway. He didn’t want to script it in his head, if he was going to do it, because he’d just sound stupid and prepared, like an actor playing himself. He wanted to feel it as he said it. He wanted the words to come out mixed and blunt and wrong, because the way he felt – well, it was all of those things, too, probably. And anyway, Cas wouldn’t be able to prepare what he was going to say, so it felt like an unfair advantage to map all of his own parts out.

So there was nothing left to do but go over there. Nothing left to say to himself but okay, let’s do it – or no. He could still say no. Everything would stay the same.

If he said no now, he’d say it again ten thousand times, that was for sure. He’d never tell Cas how he felt. How he felt. Because he did feel. He did. He felt so much.

Ugh.

Ugh.

Ugh.

“Uh, Cas?” Dean stood up, feeling the glue on the chair set him free easily, as though it had never been there at all. Cas blinked once down at his page, finishing his sentence, before pressing the book closed with his thumb still inside it to mark his place. Dean took seven steps towards him, his legs feeling like white noise beneath him.

“You’ve been quiet,” Cas said, looking up at him. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Dean said automatically, his voice a little gruff, his mind a sudden blank. He swung his arms back and forth, just once, and then held them stiffly by his sides, frowning.

“Is something on your mind?” Cas asked, lowering his book down to rest on his lap, page still carefully kept. He was wearing an old t-shirt, one of Dean’s own, Dean realised, which made the fluttering in his stomach double.

“Uhh,” he said, his fingers curled up tight into nervous fists. “Uhhh. Well, yeah, I guess. I was just thinking about how, uh… how…” he trailed off, his courage waning. Maybe he could still back out of this?

Cas was looking up at him, his eyes soft and puzzled. The feeling washed over Dean again, the attraction that wasn’t just attraction, the feeling of desire, and affection, the feeling of – of –

“Cas, I’m in love with you,” Dean said, the words tumbling out of his mouth even as he realised the truth of them, the absolute, obvious truth. His heart was pounding madly in his chest. Cas blinked, once, and said nothing at all for one long second, for two...

Dean’s panic set in, his eyes dropping to the floor, his cheeks reddening, heart still thud thud thudding against his ribs. Oh, God, he was mad, he was absolutely insane, why had he just – why had he just said it, just like that, with no build-up, no warning? Should he run? Should he just –

Cas got up.

And his book fell to the floor, landing face down, open to the wrong page. 

Dean’s breathing seemed to stop.

“Dean,” Cas said, in a tone that Dean knew so well – a complexity of fondness, and surprise, and total lack of surprise, all at once. “Dean, I – this isn’t… this isn’t a joke, is it?”

Dean’s gaze, which had been still locked on the floor, jerked up. He met Cas’ eyes, and knew that his expression had answered the question without words; Cas’ face cleared.

“I - I mean it,” Dean said hoarsely, even still. There was no point in lying, now. He shrugged, a little helplessly. “I really mean it.”

Cas was standing strangely upright, his arms held just a little away from his body. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were bright and solemn and intense as he took a small step closer. Was he - Dean swallowed. He didn’t look... like Dean had expected he would. It was almost as though...

“I…” Cas began. “I didn’t think you would – that we would ever…” He lifted a shoulder, and let it fall.

“Well, we don’t have to,” Dean said gruffly. He could feel even his ears turning pink.

“I want to,” Cas said, very, very quietly.

For a long moment, they only stared at each other.

Dean’s body swayed forwards, and he took a step. Cas followed his lead; they slid into each other’s space, as naturally as could be.

“Cas,” Dean murmured, his head bent down, eyes lowered, speaking to Cas’ cheek because they were so close, so close. “Cas, I don’t – I don’t normally do this very well. I don’t know what – I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to do – all the things that…” He broke off, and swallowed. “I just want to be real with you,” he said, hearing the strung-out tiredness in his own voice. “I just don’t want to pretend.”

Cas nodded, his expression still serious, gentle, with an edge of bright, glowing happiness to his eyes that made Dean’s lips curve upwards in a smile he couldn’t stop.

“It may surprise you to learn,” Cas said softly, and Dean could feel the warmth of the breath on which Cas’ words rode touching his own lips, “that I don’t normally do this, either. I don’t feel things the same way that humans do, Dean. I don’t know what I will be able to want to do, either.” He drew in a breath. “All I know is what’s in front of me. All I know is that I - I want to be with you. All I know is that… I love you, too.”

Dean couldn’t seem to control his own face. He was smiling and his eyes were starting to fill up with tears – tears – and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He pressed his hands to cover his face, and half-laughed into the darkness.

He felt Cas’ hands come to rest on top of his own, and then pull them down and away. He expected Cas to let go when his hands were back down by his own sides, but Cas didn’t; instead, he held on.

It felt so right that Dean really did cry, then – just a few tears sliding out in a rush down his cheeks.

“Will this be enough?” Cas said seriously, his eyes tracing over Dean’s features, his expression full of tenderness. “Even if we don’t –”

“I never thought I’d feel... this much - or this, uh, in this way,” Dean said thickly, his forehead creasing as he tried to get himself under control. “I didn’t think I wanted to, anymore. But when I l-look at you, Cas, I just… if you want to – want to be with me, too, in whatever way, then – then that’s enough for me.”

Cas did smile, then, just the slightest upward curve of his lips, the smallest of expressions that expressed an infinity of feeling.

“Cas,” Dean said roughly, and cleared his throat, and tried again. “Cas, could we – can we kiss?”

Cas’ hands dropped Dean’s.

For a terrible second, Dean thought that he’d misunderstood everything.

And then Cas’ soft touch was on both sides of his face, drawing him in, bringing him close. Dean was a mess; he only remembered to close his eyes at the last second and he didn’t angle his head right and he kept his hands awkwardly between them, but –

But they kissed.

And it meant so, so much. Dean could feel himself melting, thawing, turning to pure happiness inside.

The kiss meant, I love you.

And it meant, I love you, too.

It meant, I don’t know what shape our love will be. I don’t know how we’re going to make it work. But I know I love you, I love you, I love you.

Castiel nodded mutely, and took a sip of cider.

“Huh.” Dean paused for a second. “So… what’s it like, having a famous writer for a father?”

Castiel looked down into his drink for a long couple of seconds, and then looked up at Dean. Dean blinked. There was something in Castiel’s eyes, something… quietly judgmental, as though he were weighing Dean, wondering about him. Dean swallowed. He knew that look – it was the ‘how much do I tell you’ look; the one that spoke of a history, a thoughtfulness, possibly a certain level of damage. For the first time since he’d sat down, Dean was aware of Castiel as a person, rather than a body and a voice and a pair of blue eyes: a person as complicated as he was, himself. Dean raised his chin and watched Castiel right back, wondering if he’d get a good answer, or a true answer, or even any answer at all.

Castiel opened his mouth, dropping his gaze.

“Like being chained to a comet,” he said quietly, not looking into Dean’s eyes. Honest, then. Honest enough that he only wanted to confess it, didn’t say it to provoke a reaction.

“Chained to a – comet?” Dean pressed, when Castiel said nothing more. Castiel raised one shoulder.

“Being dragged around,” he said. “And never having any say in anything. Never making your own choices. And never getting a chance to –” He broke off, with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to… I don’t get to talk about it much.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said quickly, automatically – but he meant it, he really did. There was something about the way Castiel spoke that was complex without being untruthful, and it was actually – Dean was kind of confused to admit – very attractive. Not in a physical way – the guy’s deep and delicious voice was still taking care of that – but in an ‘I want to sit here and hear your thoughts about everything, ever’ kind of way. What the hell?

Dean was so alarmed by the novelty of it that he almost slipped right off his stool and walked away, then and there. But then Castiel sighed, and it was so natural, and so tired, that Dean settled back into his seat, back into the conversation, somehow reassured.

“You mean, he takes you around for book signings and stuff?” he hazarded. Kind of a stupid question, not on the same figurative level as Castiel and his chains and comets, but Dean wanted to understand. Castiel lifted one shoulder.

“He used to,” he said. “Then, one day, he left me behind. Never spoke to me again.”

Dean’s throat seemed to seal over. He cleared it a couple of times, wanting to reach out and put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, but not quite having the courage. He didn’t know if the touch would be welcome, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to make the words strong enough and deep enough to hold a little of his empathy, a little of his own sadness. To his ears, they came out sounding just as vapid as any other apology offered by one stranger to another. But maybe there was something in them for Castiel, who blinked over at him with an expression of slight surprise, and then tipped a little more cider into his mouth.

He swallowed it thickly, and shrugged again.

“So it goes,” he said, with a dry little glance that Dean caught. It made him smile.

“So it goes,” he agreed, and took a more measured sip of his whisky. It tasted like poisoned soil, but he liked the way the amber liquid looked inside the glass in his hand on the bar, the way the sight of it fitted neatly with the croon of music from the juke, the thin straining ache in his shoulders and up his neck.

And so the evening passed: in quietness, mostly, an oddly-weighted mixture of silences and cut-off sentences. The significance of every word seemed to be intensified. Dean had never had an evening that felt so important, even though they didn’t talk about much: their drinks, the music, the rain, the promise of snow – at one point, the way that they felt as though something they desperately needed was missing, but they could never tell what it was, because it wasn’t there, and the only way to understand it was to feel all around the place where it was missing and find out the shape of it so they could look for it but that hurt – and then they went back to the weather. It had been a dark, leafy October.

“It’s late,” said Castiel, finally. Dean glanced at the clock, blinking at it twice when its hands smiled a crooked twenty to one. He felt slightly giddy, though he’d long since switched his whisky for a light beer. He took the final draught of it now, wiping his mouth afterwards and looking over at Castiel, who was looking at him. Dean could feel his heart actually stutter in his chest, flustered.

This hadn’t been how it was supposed to go; he was almost embarrassed at himself. He’d come out for a cruise, and now – well, now he found himself pretty much falling overboard, with heartbeats skipping and cheeks reddening and everything. Crap.

Castiel was still looking at him, waiting for him to say something.

Dean wanted to say, I’m not ready to go home. Let’s find another bar.

Dean wanted to say, I’m not ready to go home. Let’s go for a drive.

Dean most wanted to say, I’m not ready to go home. Where do you want to go?

Dean opened his mouth.

“We should go home,” he said. Coward. Coward, coward, coward. What was he even afraid of? That Castiel might say no? That Castiel might say yes?

Castiel nodded, slowly.

“We should,” he said.

There was a pause, a long one. Dean wanted to imagine that it was a tense pause, full of words unsaid, but Castiel didn’t seem bothered by the idea that they were going to go their separate ways in just a few moments, and never speak to each other again. Dean didn’t know what to do with his hands; he kept shifting them on and off the bar, twisting them one over the other. He wished he had a pen, so that he could scribble his number on Castiel’s hand and leave with a suave smile. He wished he had the courage to just reach over and take Castiel’s hand in his own. He wished… oh, but wishing was for cowards. Damn it, all he’d wanted tonight was a cheap hook-up, not… whatever this was.

Castiel turned to look at him, and smiled slightly. How was Dean going to be able to say goodbye to that? He was opening his mouth to speak; Dean tried to focus.

“Yours, or mine?” Castiel said, and Dean’s heart almost stopped.

“Either,” he managed to say, and then thought of the bareness of his little apartment. “Yours.”

Castiel nodded. There was something in it, some kind of soft smile around his mouth, some releasing of tension in his shoulders, that told Dean how nervous Castiel had been about asking that question. His eyes were still a little wide; maybe he was even surprised that Dean had said yes. That thought alone made Dean want to take Castiel’s face in his hands and kiss him. His heart was thudding out a happy beat in his chest, and he wondered if Castiel’s was playing a matching rhythm.

“I live not far from here,” Castiel said, standing up and pulling on his coat. “It’s up a hill.” He looked at Dean, both eyebrows slightly dipped, as though concerned that the topography would somehow be a deal-breaker. Dean smiled and shrugged, trying to put Castiel at his ease.

“I’m down for going up,” he said, resisting the urge to say, and the reverse, too, if you know what I mean. Normally the line would have been out of his mouth before he’d thought twice, but… it just didn’t seem right to be flirting so cheaply, not tonight. Not on a night that was worth its weight in gold. Castiel smiled at him, and they turned to go.

Outside, the coldness swept over them, chilling Dean’s skin but not coming close to taking the edge off the giddiness and the warmth in his chest. Castiel was walking beside him, setting off down the sidewalk at a steady pace. Dean could feel himself practically skipping along, and tried to calm down, or at the very least wipe the grin off his face.

Castiel looked over at him, and caught him smiling. He smiled, too, a gentle thing, eyes bright and familiar as though he’d known Dean for years – and now Dean didn’t want to stop beaming, not ever, because if there was even the slightest chance that it’d make Castiel smile at him like that, he just couldn’t pass that up. What was it about this guy that made his heart thud in his chest, in the best possible way?

They followed the road, mostly in silence, Dean enjoying the simplicity of the passing moments. His mind was full of Castiel and nothing else, a breather from his troubles and cares. When they started to climb the promised hill, Dean found he was too short of breath to say much, anyway. The road was winding, with trees on either side that murmured to each other, leaves whispering and kissing in the dark. Dean’s hands were loose by his sides, and so were Castiel’s. Dean wondered if Castiel felt the spaces between his fingers as a lack, or a freedom. And he wondered whether, if he were to put his own fingers into those spaces, it would be a cage or a comfort.

He hadn’t the courage to find out. If Castiel’s hand went limp beneath his own, didn’t hold him right, everything would be different. Everything would be ruined.

“We’re almost there,” Castiel said, just as they emerged out of the trees. The road continued a little way and a hundred metres or so up it, Dean could make out the lights of a cosy little house tucked in next to a grand old tree, whose branches dripped down in tearful strings. Dean thought of his own shabby apartment, and was glad that they’d come here, instead.

“Looks like a nice place,” he said to Castiel. Every time he spoke, he was worried that Castiel was going to roll his eyes – everything he said was so boring, so obvious – but Castiel only nodded solemnly.

“Being the son of a rich author has its upsides,” he said, a sudden gust of wind almost swallowing his words. Dean shivered, and thought he noticed Castiel step up the pace a little.

“He pays for your house, even though…?” Dean said, breaking off a little too quickly, because ‘even though he never speaks to you’ seemed like a harsh thing to say. It was an even harsher thing to do, Dean thought with a tiny clench of anger, as Castiel mentally filled in the rest of Dean’s sentence for himself, face pinched with sadness.

“I don’t understand it either,” he said. Dean wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, again, but they were almost at Castiel’s house and the moment slipped into the past as the lights drew them forwards. The house had a porch made of white-painted wood, which looked a gentle lacquered orange in the light from the lamp above the door. As Castiel fumbled for his keys – a weirdly normal gesture, Dean thought, from someone so generally other-worldly – Dean turned around, scuffing his feet against the wood beneath his feet. The road they’d walked up was a grey tarmac river flowing naturally down the hill. The trees were still sighing, peering up towards the house. And above them…

“There’s not so much light pollution from the town up here,” Castiel said, as Dean heard the click and thunk of the door being unlocked and opened. Castiel came and stood beside Dean, looking upwards with him. “That’s why you can see them so clearly.”

Castiel’s face was smooth and relaxed, but the expression in his eyes was complex, beyond Dean’s understanding. For the hundredth time that night, Dean wanted to kiss him.

“It’s beautiful,” said Dean, and he wasn’t looking at the stars.

He didn’t know why he was still hesitating, still waiting for the right moment to actually touch Castiel for the first time. Maybe it was the fact that every other person he’d ever hooked up with, he’d ended up losing – the morning after, the week after, sometimes even on the same night, when they’d shimmied back into their jeans and left his bed half-empty. And he didn’t want that to happen with Castiel. He really, really didn’t want that to happen. He couldn’t even explain to himself why. Sure, he and Castiel had a little in common, their conversation flowed easily, their silences were mutually appreciated and not awkward. They worked well together, or at least, they had so far. But that wasn’t really enough to justify the horrible tightness in Dean’s chest when he thought of Castiel closing the door on him, or of walking back down the hill alone, with the trees muttering amongst themselves as they watched him disappear. Why did he even care?

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just tricking himself into caring because… because he wanted to, wanted to have an attachment to someone, and Castiel spoke little enough that Dean could paste whatever personality he wanted into the silent spaces. Dean could imagine that Castiel was… serious, and calm, intelligent but still kind, deep but without pretensions, with a dry sense of humour and bright, bright eyes, and a vibe to him of having a story about himself constantly unfolding, a story that Dean wanted to write himself into in big, important letters…

Yeah, sure, Dean was just imagining the way that he liked this guy, it had nothing to do with who Castiel actually was.

Dean swallowed. It had been five hours since he’d met Castiel. He needed to take a seriously big step back.

“Coming in?” Castiel said, finally taking his eyes off the stars, turning round and making for the inviting light of the doorway. Dean didn’t hesitate. He stepped forwards, and into Castiel’s home.

Inside, the place was a comfortable mess. Every surface was littered with books, with coffee cups, with stray papers and coins and newspapers folded untidily. The hallway led straight through into a large living room, where Castiel gestured to a big, ungainly couch, switching on a lamp.

“I’ll make us some drinks,” he said. “Alcoholic, or…?”

“Let me help,” Dean said quickly, not wanting to be left in here alone, tapping his knees together and waiting. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Castiel smiled and led him through to the kitchen, a pokier little room – or perhaps it only felt that way because of the plants dripping waxy leaves down from the top of every cupboard, making the place smell of Italian pizza and peppermint gum.

“Basil,” Castiel said as he put a pan of water on to boil, answering Dean’s unspoken question. “Oregano, coriander, mint, rosemary and thyme. I use them in cooking.”

“Wish I could cook,” Dean said wistfully, rubbing a twisted basil leaf between his fingers, releasing the delicious scent. “Always wanted to learn, but there was never time.”

“One day,” Castiel said, not a platitude, but a statement of fact. Dean could almost believe that Castiel had taken a peek into his future, he spoke with such certainty.

“Yeah,” he said, almost believing it himself. “One day. I’ll probably – heh, I’ll probably be bad at it, though.”

Castiel did no more than throw him a look – one that said, quite eloquently, shut up, Dean. But in a good way. Dean grinned. God, he wanted that look in his life.

The water on the stove was bubbling, and Castiel was opening a cupboard, brushing aside rosemary to pick out two mugs. Dean picked up a green oven glove lying on the counter and picked up the saucepan by its metal handle, and Castiel turned off the gas.

“Hot chocolate?” he said, as Dean held the saucepan steady.

“Hell, yeah,” Dean said, and Castiel ran his hands over a huddle of jars and pots on the counter next to the fridge, selecting a purple one with white swirling letters on the side. He spooned out cocoa powder, and then Dean poured the water on top, steam swirling, while Castiel replaced the purple jar and opened another cupboard.

“Would you like some rum?” Castiel asked, retrieving a bottle of amber liquid and holding it up to Dean, eyebrows raised.

“Well, now you’re talking,” Dean grinned. “Dirty hot chocolates for two.”

“Dirty?” Castiel said, squinting over at Dean as he unscrewed the bottle lid.

“Yeah, you know. Like, spiked with alcohol. Dirty.” Dean smirked, and this time he couldn’t resist a wink – his heart fluttered – but it was alright, Castiel was smiling back at him, and maybe there was even… was that a little heated glint in his eyes?

Dean felt a little hunger unfurl inside him, at the sight of that glance. He licked his lips and watched as Castiel turned away to put the saucepan into the sink, taking in his broad shoulders and strong, thick body and tight jeans all over again. Fuck.

“We could drink them in the lounge,” Castiel said, coming back over to pick up his mug. “Or we could go out onto the porch.”

“The porch?” Dean said sceptically. “Dude. It’s freezing outside.”

“I have blankets,” Castiel offered, with a shrug. “I like to sit out there sometimes. But if you’d prefer not to –”

“No, no,” said Dean. “It’s cool. The porch sounds good.” He didn’t even know why he was agreeing. The porch did not sound nearly as good as cosying up together on the big cushioned sofa in the living room. But there was something in the way that Castiel had said it… his tone had been weighted strangely, as though he’d been hoping to tip the balance towards that option, or perhaps as though – as though sitting on the porch were somehow important, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he wanted to show Dean why. For some reason, it mattered to Castiel that they did this, and Dean… Dean couldn’t seem help himself wanting to understand that.

They made their way back through the house, Castiel hooking a bundle of blankets under one arm as he passed a large pile of them sitting on a table in the living room. Dean clutched his hot chocolate tightly as the front door opened again, spilling them out into the coldness of the night. Castiel sat down first, and Dean hesitated over distances between them for a few seconds before deciding on a neat thirty centimetres. He could almost feel his usual self groaning at him as he sat down; a ruler’s width? He was a high-school teen all over again. He set his hot chocolate down on the step beside him.

Castiel passed him a blanket, which Dean gratefully wrapped around his shoulders. It smelled of basil, and washing powder, and most strongly of something that Dean didn’t recognise – a person smell, presumably Castiel’s. It smelled good, really good. Comforting, but also… good, in a way that Dean couldn’t entirely explain, but which had something to do with the hunger sitting low inside him and growing a little stronger, and a little needier, every time Dean took a breath of that smell. Or looked over at Castiel, who was looking at him.

Their gazes held for a long, breathless moment, and then Dean blinked, and Castiel turned his head away. Round both of their lips was a smile, soft and sweeter than words could have been.

“I like being out here,” Castiel said, after a moment. His face was tilted upwards, towards the stars. “It makes me feel… small.”

“Small?” Dean said, reaching down for his hot chocolate and cupping it in his cold hands. “Why’d you like that?”

“You don’t?” Castiel said, not taking his eyes off the skies above, so he must have understood the shake of Dean’s head without seeing it.

“I guess it is a little strange. But it makes a good change.”

“From what?” Dean asked, breathing in the scent of his steaming hot chocolate. He traced his eyes over the skies, the great midnight cloak of the night kissed with tiny glints of white. It truly was beautiful.

Castiel paused for a moment before answering, and Dean turned to look at him.

“I feel… large, somehow. All the time. Caught up in a box that I can’t escape.” He fell quiet, but Dean could sense him thinking, and waited. “I feel as though my existence is a set of parameters and rules that can’t be broken. But when I look up…” Dean watched him swallow. “I remember that I am not large. And I am not trapped. And there are no rules, not really. Only people who think there are.” He looked over at Dean. “And people who think there aren’t.”

It was the perfect moment to kiss him. Castiel’s lips looked soft and his head was tilted just right. Dean swallowed hard.

“You think about things a lot,” he said. “You should write a book, or something.”

Castiel dropped his gaze, half-smile fading.

“My father writes books,” he said.

“Dude. It’s not like there’s a limit on the amount of books in the world,” Dean said, frowning. “You like to write?”

Castiel said nothing for a long moment.

“I like to tell stories,” he said eventually, in a voice that was small, and flat.

“Yeah?” Dean said softly. “What kinds of stories?”

Castiel shrugged.

They sat in silence for a little while, sipping at their drinks, pinching their mouths tight because they were still hot enough to scald a little.

“There’s one I’ve been thinking about a lot recently,” said Castiel suddenly, the words spilling out through a broken dam of lost resolve. “While I’ve been sitting out here in the evenings.”

Dean said nothing, but shifted around a little, tilting his body towards Castiel, waiting. He sensed that if he spoke, it’d spoil it somehow. So he kept his mouth shut.

“It’s about that star,” Castiel said, pointing up, and Dean followed the line of his hand, noticing the length of his fingers, the size of his palm. “Or perhaps that one… or that one. They’re all the same, you see. From here, anyway. But when you get up close, you can see that they’re all different. And the story is about one specific star that’s completely different from all the rest. Because the star doesn’t have a name.” Dean was trying to keep his eyes on the stars, but he couldn’t help watching Castiel as he spoke; the look on his face was one of sadness, and Dean’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing together in sympathy. “Every star in the whole universe has a name, except for this one. Because, you see, stars are given their names by other stars. When one loves another, it will give it a name. A special word that only works between them, to hold them both together. But this single star didn’t have any names, not even one. No one had ever loved it.”

“Why – why not?” Dean couldn’t help asking. Castiel barely seemed to hear him, going on speaking and answering his question seemingly more by chance than choice.

“It was because nobody could see the star. It was just as bright as the others, just as unique. But there was something about it that made it invisible. It was a ghost star. It couldn’t be touched by any of the others, couldn’t be heard, couldn’t be seen. And no one can love something they can’t see. Nobody loves a ghost.”

Dean pulled his blanket in closer around himself, shivering ever so slightly. His hot chocolate was still steaming, the scent of cocoa warm and comforting.

“For millennia the star existed, alone. It drifted through the heavens, hopelessly. Wishing it had a name to fill the terrible void at its core. And then, one day, it realised something.” Dean was chewing his lip, fingers tight around his mug. “It realised that right in front of it, all along, there had been another star. A star that was just as bright and unique as all the others, but which couldn’t be seen. A star just like itself. A ghost star.”

Castiel took a sip of his own hot chocolate. His voice was steady, his eyes still watching the stars above, gaze moving in soft curves over the heavens.

“For the first time in the course of their existences, the ghost stars were seen. And once they were seen, they could not be ghosts, anymore. And they loved each other at once – for being eyes that saw. And for understanding the most important things immediately, because they were utterly different, but also entirely the same. One star named the other ‘Lost’, for what they had been. The other star named the first ‘Found’ for what they were now.”

The breeze was starting to pick up. Dean huddled his blanket closer around himself, his eyes still watching Castiel’s face, the way that it shifted subtly as the story unfolded; it was like watching thin shadows of great giants on the wall of a cave.

“Lost and Found existed for many millennia in happiness. And when the end of their lives approached, and they appeared to be burning out, they made a decision. Refusing to let one pass away before the other, they chose instead to leave the world together. One night, with the rest of the universe as oblivious as ever, the two stars collided.” Dean drew in a breath, feeling the cold air hit the very bottom of his lungs. “They fused messily, matter flinging far across the cosmos. Most of it was burned away by other stars, but specks of stardust still flew far and wide, into new galaxies, new solar systems. Through the pathways of planets and moons, and down to Earths. And on those Earths, they landed in the upturned eyes of the humans who were looking up – up at the stars.”

Castiel finally dipped his head, blinking his eyes as though to rid them of dust.

“And that is why some humans have a feeling that something is missing, sometimes,” he said. “They have a little of the Lost and Found about them. They can’t be seen by just anyone. They’re missing another person who is a little bit the same – a person who will see them. Will really see them, and be seen by them. And will love them for it at once. And will give them a name, a word spoken just between them, to bind each other together, until it is time for them to pass away from this universe, and on.”

He glanced over at Dean, who was gripping his hot chocolate without drinking it, as though he’d forgotten what it was for.

“The end,” he said dryly, lifting up one shoulder.

“Dude…” said Dean, aware that nothing he could say would convey the feeling he had inside – a feeling of understanding, of uplifting, of – shit. He couldn’t even begin to express it. “That was amazing,” he tried, though it wasn’t nearly enough. And the fact that Castiel had all of that tucked up inside his head? He couldn’t believe he’d somehow managed to get lucky enough to run into him in some random dive bar. On a night when he would have gone home with just about anyone cute enough, with a liar or a waster or a complete loser, he’d somehow ended up going home with a… a Castiel.

Castiel, meanwhile, had ended up going home with him – a liar, a waster, and a loser, all rolled into one. Crap. Guilt settled over his shoulders like a second blanket, a colder one, inside the first.

“Guess one of us really lucked out tonight,” was all he could manage to say to Castiel’s questioning face. Instead of the expression of badly-disguised agreement that he was expecting, however, Dean saw Castiel’s face twist into immediate and genuine confusion.

“What does that mean?” Castiel said, though Dean thought that Castiel must at least understand where he was coming from, even if he didn’t understand why. After all, Dean hadn’t told Castiel anything about his life. For all Castiel knew, he could be some kind of storyteller or deep thinker, too.

A large part of him really didn’t want to spill the truth – wanted to let Castiel keep thinking of him as someone also probably hiding some kind of great talent. Someone who deserved his attention. But… but that would be a lie by omission, and God, more than he wanted anything else in this moment, Dean wanted to do this right. He wanted to do this thing between him and Castiel right. He couldn’t lie. Even if it meant losing – Dean bit his lip – losing a little of Castiel’s respect. Or even a lot of it.

He opened his mouth, not even knowing what he was going to say, how he would even begin to explain.

“I just… I mean… I mean, wow,” Dean said lamely, raising his hot chocolate mug in Castiel’s direction. “And I’m sittin’ here just… just being me. And me… being me, that is, I, I am, uh, really nothing special, at all. So.” Fuck, he sounded pathetic and he knew it, whiny and insufferable and begging for reassurance. “I don’t mean that self-pityingly,” he hastened to add, almost slopping a little of his remaining hot chocolate over the side of his mug as he shifted uncomfortably. “I just mean…”

“It’s alright,” Castiel said calmly, and Dean fell silent. “I understand. You don’t think you deserve to be here.”

He said it so bluntly that it almost took Dean’s breath away. He tried to reply, and found that he had nothing to say. Castiel, meanwhile, was frowning reflectively.

“I like you,” he said bluntly. “And I want you to be here. But I understand that on its own, that is not enough.” He turned to Dean with thoughtful eyes. “What is it that you’re good at?”

Dean could feel himself cracking like thin ice under too much pressure.

“Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “Nothing.”

He saw Castiel’s hand stretch out of the corner of his eye, and understood that Castiel wanted to comfort him, wanted to place a hand on his arm. He didn’t know how to show that he wanted it, how to angle his body to accept it, and before he could find a way Castiel had already clenched his hand back into a loose fist.

“What’s your job?” Castiel asked. “How do you make money?”

Dean shrugged.

“I – I fix cars,” he said.

“You’re good at it?”

Dean said nothing. Good at it? He’d never thought of it in those terms. It had only ever been a job that needed doing, one broken car that needed to be fixed after another. Sure, he did get them all fixed, and pretty quickly, too, but… that didn’t mean he was good. It just meant that he did what every car mechanic could do.

Except for Garth, over the other side of town, who couldn’t so much change out a spark plug without calling Dean to check he was doing it right, no matter if the sign over his door said The Best Mechanic in Town. And Ellen, who’d been in the business far longer than he had, still said he did the neatest paint jobs she’d ever seen – and when she’d challenged him to fix her Old Unfixable, a big 1974 Chevrolet Pickup, he’d done it two weeks and trimmed her out all pretty, too.

So maybe he was – sort of, maybe – a little bit good at it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, soft as leaves kissing. “Maybe.”

“Being good with your hands is a talent,” Castiel said, lacing the fingers of his own together.

Dean wanted that to be true, so badly. He wanted to be interesting, he wanted to have a talent, he wanted to be just a tiny bit special. So that he could match up to people like Castiel. So that he could match with Castiel, specifically.

“What do you feel when you fix a car?” Castiel asked, with quiet curiosity. Dean frowned.

“Hungry, mostly,” he said. “Lunch never comes soon enough, I’m telling you.”

Castiel smiled at that, sidelong, his eyes narrow and bright.

“No, I mean… what does it feel like to accomplish something physical? To make something work? I’ve never…” Castiel looked down at his palms, as though chastising them. “How does that feel?”

Dean hunched his shoulders up awkwardly.

“I dunno,” he said. His voice felt thick and too loud, awkward, too… big. He remembered Castiel’s advice, and looked up, up into the skies. Not too big. Not trapped. No rules. He didn’t have to live by his own rule of not knowing things, not saying things. He could try, at least. He cleared his throat, and began again.

“I guess – I guess I f-feel good. Because, say, I get this car, it comes in to me, and it’s broken.” He held his hands out in front of him, eyes focused on something that wasn’t there, seeing the car before him. “And the car, she needs me to help her. And I can do that, so I do it. And it’s like, when I can help, when I can make things better, it’s like – like I’m needed, you know? Like I’m in the right place, working at the shop, and people can come see me, and they know me and they know I’ll fix their car for them, and it’s like – like I belong, I guess.” Dean downed the last of his tepid hot chocolate, tasting the bitterness of the cocoa dregs. He licked his lips. “Yeah. Like I belong.”

Letting out a half-shaking sigh, Dean turned to look at Castiel. He had one eyebrow raised, mouth and nose scrunched up awkwardly to one side, awaiting his verdict. That’s the best I’ve got, man. No stars or anything. Sorry.

But Castiel was blinking at him thoughtfully, apparently considering what he’d said with real solemnity in his eyes. It took Dean aback; he’d half been expecting marks out of ten, or an elimination round. Dean Winchester, you are the Weakest Link. Goodbye. But apparently, he’d done alright. He’d got Castiel thinking, if nothing else.

“So, you like that?” Castiel said. “That sense of belonging?”

“’Course,” Dean said, a little shyly. “Doesn’t everybody?”

Castiel was still for a moment, before shaking his head.

“Not me,” he said quietly. “I know that I should, but… I don’t. I worry that I am not unique enough, not special enough. Belonging somewhere, not feeling strange or – or somehow different, it makes me feel so – average. I don’t want to be average, I want to be – unusual. I want to be a little bit removed, a little bit… lost.”

Dean placed his empty mug down on the wooden board beside him, to give himself time to think.

“You’ve got it backwards,” he said. “Or mixed up, man. I mean, I don’t want to challenge the word… guy… on the whole words, uh, thing, but. I don’t think belonging means what you think it means.”

Castiel turned to him, and the expression on his face was intense enough to make Dean gulp. He looked so beautiful, his face painted in orange and shadow, and when Dean looked at those full lips and wide blue eyes, his mind was half in the gutter, and half in the stars.

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked, softly. Dean cleared his throat, looking down and away before he did something stupid.

“I – I dunno,” he said gruffly. “Just, uh. You know, maybe. Maybe you’re thinking of belonging as like, I dunno – conforming, or something. But, actually, it’s not like that. Belonging means… well… well, you would belong somewhere that makes you feel special. And still a little bit, uh, lost, or something, even though you have a home. Like you could go away, but it would be the place that you could come back to.” He swallowed. Castiel’s eyes were flicking over his face, his expression unreadable. “Me, I’m not like that. I belong somewhere I feel useful, or whatever. Needed, maybe, or –” Loved, supplied his brain, but he wasn’t going to say that. He cleared his throat, and spoke a little faster, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Point is, we’re different, but we both could belong somewhere. And be happy to belong there.”

Castiel’s eyes were still on him, he could feel them. He wondered what Castiel was thinking. He wished he’d been able to say all of that better, without all the dumb stops and starts and shrugs. He wished he had a way with words. And more than anything else, he wished that he’d known Castiel all his life, or at least longer than one single night, so that it wouldn’t be completely crazy for him to turn round right now and say, You and me, we should try belonging together.

“I could… belong somewhere I feel different. I never thought of it that way,” Castiel said quietly. “Never. And I never would have done, I don’t think.” He turned to Dean, who shivered slightly under his gaze.

“You’re cold,” Castiel said, frowning. “We can go inside. Come on, I’ll put on the water for another hot drink.”

They stood up in unison, Dean only remembering his mug after he was on his feet, and bending over to pick it up. For a few moments, they stood facing outwards together, looking up at the stars for one last time that night. And then, as one, they turned – both inwards, so that they ended up facing each other, and Dean had fully intended to keep turning towards the door, but then suddenly Castiel was close and directly opposite him and there was just a little of his scent in the air between them and his eyes were on Dean’s and everything stopped – Dean’s movements, his breathing, his heart, everything.

“Dean…” said Castiel, in that voice that reached Dean in all the right ways, with those eyes that ran back so deep that Dean could get lost in them – or perhaps looked so intensely, so knowingly, that Dean could only be found by them. “Dean… I’m lucky to have met you tonight.”

And Dean didn’t know what to say to that. All of the words he’d ever known flew out of his head, and he was just staring at Castiel with big wide eyes and a stupid half-open ‘o’-shaped mouth and nothing at all to say – but he had to say something, because Castiel was looking at him searchingly, wanting to know if he felt the same.

He was tongue-tied, and wordless, still.

And so finally, finally, with no other way to reciprocate but this, Dean took in a deep breath… and stretched out his hand. Being good with your hands is a talent. Gently, gently, he touched the back of his curled fingers to the cool skin of Castiel’s cheek.

It felt – it felt like skin, slightly scruffy with past-midnight shadow. And it felt like coldness against coldness, the night chilling them both to the bone. And more than either of those two things, it felt heart-thuddingly, terrifyingly, amazingly, shudderingly good, the simplicity of the touch, the way Castiel’s breath sighed out through slightly-parted lips, the way Dean stroked, ever so slightly, letting his fingers trail softly down Castiel’s cheek and over his chin, with the pad of his thumb brushing over Castiel’s lips…

Castiel breathed in, and then out, the cool and warm inrush and outrush of air sweeping over the backs of Dean’s fingers –

And suddenly he couldn’t wait any longer. He couldn’t bear for a single second more to do anything but slide his hand around the back of Castiel’s neck and lean in close and barely pause for a single, breathless second to allow Castiel to close the gap between them and then – oh, and then…

Oh, God, it was like nothing else Dean had ever experienced in his life. There was kissing, and then there was this… it was as though the Earth stopped moving, and the only way Dean knew he was alive and that time hadn’t stopped was because his knees were shaking and his fingers were trembling and against his lips, Castiel’s were moving, slow and gentle and loving, and then – fuck, then – oh, God, Castiel’s hand was on his cheek, was in his hair, was tugging him in deeper and Dean didn’t hold back; he almost dropped his hot chocolate mug as he wrapped one arm around Castiel’s waist, keeping the other hand pressed firmly to the back of Castiel’s neck and holding him close, close, close, tasting bittersweet chocolate on his tongue.

When at last they pulled apart, it was only to press their foreheads together and sigh into each other’s mouths, Dean’s eyes still closed, each breath an indrawn Castiel. Dear God. That had been – that had been the best kiss of his entire life. How was he – how was he ever supposed to enjoy kissing again, after that?

And yet – when he slid his eyes open, finally, and looked down at Castiel’s lips, he thought that he could probably give it a try.

Castiel leaned in, and pressed a gentle kiss to Dean’s cheek. He said nothing, and Dean understood. Nothing needed to be said. It had been the same for both of them.

“Castiel?” he said, pulling away just a little – barely an inch, but almost an inch too far. “I – I want to do this right.”

His eyes searched Castiel’s, trying to see what Castiel was thinking. It was impossible; his face was inscrutable.

“I know how I must’ve come off at the bar, at first, but…” Dean swallowed. Castiel wouldn’t kick him out for this, right? Surely not. Not after that, not after everything they’d said to each other tonight. “I want to take this slow. And you know, not… well… yeah. Not tonight, straight away. Because I want to do it right. Is that – is that OK?”

Castiel’s eyes were changing, suddenly becoming softer, and sadder, Dean thought at first with a little clutch of horror – but then he saw the smile lines around Castiel’s mouth, and realised that Castiel wasn’t sad. He looked… he looked relieved, he looked happy in the way that was so profound, it was almost sad.

“Slow is the only way I do things,” he said softly. “I want to do this right, too.”

He squeezed Dean’s hand, and together they walked inside. They drank some more, they talked some more, they kissed a great deal more. And when morning came, it found them curled up together upstairs in Castiel’s bed, Dean’s cheek pressed to the back of Castiel’s neck, Castiel’s hand gripping Dean’s firmly against his chest, intertwined legs running smooth lines of warm, pressed-close skin down the soft sheets of the bed.

In a few more hours, Dean would wake up with a sleepy smile to find Castiel rolling over, eyes blinking open, hands reaching out to cup Dean’s cheeks and pull him in for their first kiss of the new day.

But they’d been up all night, and that wouldn’t be for a while yet.