#tequila asks

They had the emotional reunion kiss, and the "I love you -- of course I love you, too" that Cas still can't think about without the feeling of soaring -- like there are still wings attached to his back. But Cas never thought to ask Dean about the aftermath of that night.

When he spilled his heart on the floor, thinking those words of love would be his last.

Cas had been okay with that. Accepted it.

Watching Dean's pain now, he's not feeling so sure about his choice. The guilt pools in his chest, heavy iron weighing on the ribcage.

Dean's sobs grow louder, like they're cleaving his body in two. "What am I supposed to do now?" it's a broken whisper, and it slices through the sinews of Cas' heart, tearing it into small shattered pieces.

"Please come back. I keep waking up, and you're gone. Please come back," it's practiced now, a litany. The chant of mourning, slow and bitter cadence of Dean's syllables reverberating on Cas' ear drums.

The dirge of a funeral march.

Cas counts the minutes in his head, estimating how many of them Dean spent saying these words while he was gone. His heart squeezes as he tallies them.

Too many.

Dean's body jerks to a sitting position, startling Cas out of his mental mathematics.

"Wha-?" Dean tugs on the collar of his sweat-soaked t-shirt, rubbing a knuckle into one eye. "Cas, that you? Why are you in the hall?" He flips on the lamp on the nightstand, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light.

Cas looks at the little spikes of Dean's hair that stick in opposite directions. Lines from his pillow run across his cheek, cutting through the sprinkle of freckles.

He's beautiful.

"I'm sorry," Cas says quietly.

Dean's eyebrows wiggle together in sleepy confusion. "S'okay," he mumbles quietly, patting the spot next to him. "C'mere."

Cas tucks himself under the covers, and Dean slings an arm around his waist, pulling him close. His shirt is still a little damp, the warmth of him radiating on Cas' back.

"You don't even know why I'm apologizing," Cas mutters to the wall.

"Doesn't matter," Dean says, nuzzling the back of his neck. "You're here."

"Your nightmares, Dean." Cas whispers sadly. He twists his body despite Dean's grumble of protest, turning to face him.

Dean bumps their noses.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," Cas says back, before continuing, the words tumbling out quickly:

"I should have thought about it. What that would feel like for you."

Dean shuts him up with his mouth. "Stop," he murmurs against his lips.

"I'm used to bad dreams," Dean says, cupping Cas' jaw in his palms. "It was the good ones that hurt, when you were gone."

Cas stares at him, puzzled. Dean nuzzles his face into Cas' neck. "That's what the nightmare was. I would dream you were here. Then wake up, and you weren't. Like a hole in my gut."

Cas drops a soft kiss on Dean's hair, not sure what to say.

He goes with "I'm sorry" again. The words feel flat and meaningless.

Dean hugs him.

"Just be here. And real. When I wake up."

Cas thinks to himself that they should probably talk about it more, but Dean's nimble fingers seem to have other plans.

They don't sleep for a while.

When they do, the only sound Cas hears in his ear is the soft buzz of Dean's happy snore.

The cold cocoa tastes just fine when warmed by their morning coffee.

Cas watches Dean flip pancakes.

"I wont leave again," he says softly.

Dean looks at him, something wet shining in his right eye. "Okay," he says.

They're here, and they're real.

It's enough.

Cas' bedraggled form showing up on the bunker doorstep, Dean greeting him with equally bloodshot eyes, bleary from hours spent emptying bottles of liquor and shooting errant bullets at the walls.

Cas hadn't managed a word, collapsing into his arms like a frail, wet autumn leaf. Dean carried him to his bed unceremoniously, more akin to a bag of sand than a bride over the threshold.

The night itself was spent sleepless. Cas pressed into Dean's neck, his dry sobs echoing in his ears. He'd held back his own waves of grief to comfort him, stroking the angel's hair.

When he grazed a hand over his back, Cas winced, a tremor running through his body.

"I'm okay. They'll grow back," he whispered. The sound of it was so broken it immediately plummeted Dean's heart into the pit of his stomach.

"Sweetheart..." was the only word Dean could manage after Cas, in a series of shuddering breaths, explained the extent of the damage to his celestial wings. A scar left behind by the Shadow as penance for Cas' escape.

Dean's fists twitch menacingly just thinking about it.

So, no. Dean's not really dying to remember that.

And that's why they head to the park on a random Thursday and Dean absolutely forgets to check the fucking weather forecast beforehand.

He spares a moment of mourning for the soggy slices of cherry cheesecake, having foregone his beloved pie for what he knows to be Cas' favorite, despite Cas always letting Dean pick the dessert.

He watches a bird feast on the wet hunks of bread, doused by the streams of rain pouring from the sky, their glittering strands like glowing streamers in the sunlight.

At least someone gets to enjoy it, Dean sighs despondently before turning to Cas.

And seeing them.

They're still not back to full capacity, little tufts of regrowth sprouting along the joints, the lines of the feathers uneven and ragged. But the raindrops dancing across their surface reflect the sun in myriads of dazzling lights, tiny rainbow prisms filling in the gaps the Empty left in its campaign of destruction and ruin.

Cas' face is turned up to the sunlight, eyes closed against the water streaming down his cheeks.

Wetness clings to his lashes when he turns his gaze on Dean.

Cas smiles, tentatively.

It's the first smile Dean's seen in weeks that's not tinged by sadness or fear.

Embarrassingly, this leads to Dean bursting into tears like a damn thirteen year old girl.

Cas is at his side immediately, arms holding him tight. Dean tries to steady the breaths ricocheting through his ribs, his stubble catching on the wet cotton strings of Cas' soaked gray t-shirt.

"Fucking stupid," he mumbles into the indentation of Cas' clavicle, shame flowing out along with the warmth of his breath.

"Nothing about you is stupid," Cas says quietly.

Suddenly, there's something surrounding Dean's body, a small bit of shelter from the rain.

Oh.

Dean strokes a feather gently with a finger, fist of his other hand knuckling at his eyes.

"Why can I see them?" he says, and dammit his voice is hoarse from the crying.

Cas gently tugs them both down to the ground, managing to arrange Dean face to face on his lap easily, like he's some sort of rag doll.

"I don't know," he remarks. "Maybe they want you to. It appears they have a mind of their own."

Dean blinks up at him. "Huh. Castiel, Angel of the Lord and his Wayward Wings." he cracks, the lump in his throat slowly dissolving. "Sounds like a weird graphic novel."

Cas rubs his back a little, like he knows Dean's trying to joke himself past the tears.

'I'm sorry it took so long," he says. Dean jerks his head up quizzically.

"To get home to you," Cas clarifies. His chin dips.

Dean shakes his head tightly. "Should've gotten to you first," he mumbles, the pricks back in his eyes again, sonofabitch.

Cas bumps his forehead to Dean's.

"Shhh," he whispers.

The rain stops, and Dean can see the clear blue of the sky through the spaces in Cas' wings.

Cas follows his gaze. "They'll heal," he murmurs.

Dean thinks the words he wants to say - "So will we."

He pulls Cas close instead, letting his lips do the talking.

"Hello, Dean." Cas says brightly, shouldering the orange toy shotgun.

Dean swivels to point the barrel of his plastic weapon at Cas' sternum. "You know it's not an ambush if you announce your presence, right?"

Cas smiles warmly. "I wasn't going to shoot you."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Not really how you win, sweetheart."

Cas frowns, peering at Dean's face. "You're not having any fun," he murmurs.

The seep of guilt is instantaneous, pouring into Dean's chest and choking the insides of his throat. "Sure I am," he says, injecting the words with cheer.

Cas tilts his head, that little bird-like gesture that always gives Dean the fuzzies in the pit of his stomach. He tugs on the bottom of his threadbare AC/DC t-shirt. "Dean, this is my part of the celebration. You don't have to participate if you aren't enjoying yourself."

Dean guffaws, but the laugh feels as fake as the pellets in his gun. "Erhm. No, I'm great. This is great, Cas."

It's not great. His bones ache, and his ass hurts, and he is fucking tired. Dean's been shooting guns for over thirty years, and the last thing he wants to do is play pretend at a job he recently left behind, forever. But saying that -- even thinking about it, feels selfish.

Cas is watching him knowingly. Dean frowns.

"Thought we talked about you digging around in my brain," he says, a little accusing.

Cas' mouth twists slightly to the left. "I don't have to," he says softly. "It's written all over your face."

Dean's shoulders sag. "Jack wanted this..." he starts, but Cas interrupts him.

"No, Dean. I wanted this. And yes, because I knew Jack would enjoy it -- but also because I'm enjoying it too." His gaze is tender. "But you aren't."

Dean sighs. "Don't want Jack to be disappointed," he mumbles, feeling like a failure.

Parents don't just do what they want. He thinks about John, the seep of ice in his belly expanding.

Cas gently brushes a piece of grass from Dean's hair, smiling softly. "Love's not a transaction," he murmurs. "Jack will understand."

Dean blinks at him.

Cas smiles. "Go inside," he says nudging Dean firmly with a palm on his back. "Take a bath. Ice your knee. We'll see you in a few hours."

When Jack bounds in for Dean's portion of the evening -- pizza and video games on the couch -- he doesn't say a word about Dean's disappearance from the nerf gun battleground.

Instead, he looks at Dean with shining eyes, and tells him he loves him before swiftly stuffing his face with two slices of pizza at once.

Cas gives him an "I told you so," eyebrow raise as he slides in next to him on the other side.

"See," he whispers, his warm breath tickling Dean's ear. "You don't have to do a thing to keep us." He squeezes Dean's knee and dumps a forkful of salad on Dean's plate despite his protesting groan.

Dean starts to realize that love may be about 'just being,' after all.