Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’re plenty of things Dean doesn’t want to think about, as he looks down at the little origami crane that he turns over between his fingertips. It’s not exactly precious because there’s dozens of them in the drawer of Cas’s bedside table to the right of the bed he never slept in, but rarity ain’t everything when it comes to value. This folded paper was creased by the edge of Cas’s fingernail. There’re plenty of things Dean doesn’t want to think about. He thinks them, anyway.

That look on Cas’s face in the fleeting moments before he was just- robbed from the surface of this Earth. And Dean feels cheated. Cheated, cheated, because Cas should still be here making these dinky paper birds as he sits with Jack in the library at night because neither of them sleeps like Dean and Sam do. Hours passing while Cas is alive to feel aggravated by this storyline because life fucking sucks and Chuck’s the reason why. But of course, Cas would never let Jack see that, see his anger. Instead, he’d rip the pages out of one of the numerous Bible’s they have lining the library bookshelves, and he’d turn those passages of his own existence into harmless origami.

Dean only knows this happened ‘cause he saw it once. One night when he’d gotten up to take a piss but he knew there’d be no going back to sleep after so he hadn’t even tried, just plotted his way out towards the kitchen. But the light that beckoned from further down the hallway drew on his dangerous curiosity and frankly terrible habit of being nosy as hell. When he’d peaked around the corner, Cas and Jack had been sitting there at the first library table, their profiles to Dean as he looked down the barrel of them where they were situated face-to-face.

“So now,” Cas had instructed gently, “you’re going to move this triangle over to this triangle.”

“Like this?” Jack’s eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he pushed whatever he’d been working on a few inches closer to Cas so that he could see it.

“Exactly like that. One more like this and then-” Cas held up a paper crane that had fit neatly into his flat palm. It was black-and-white from what Dean could make out, covered in a squiggly line sort of pattern that reminded him of text from a book. “Ta-da.” The tone of Cas’s voice had made Dean’s lips twitch into a half-smile.

Jack held up his own next for evaluation, and it was messier than Cas’s in about every way possible. Hell, it’d been closer to a frog-shape than a bird-shape, but Cas still said, “That looks great, Jack.”

“Awesome!” Jack had grinned with that little gap between his front teeth that Dean absolutely did not find adorable even in the slightest and definitely didn’t make him wanna pinch at Jack’s cheeks like a doting grandma. “Can we do more?”

“Of course.” Cas reached over for something on the table. It’d been a book that Cas had flipped open, the cover facing Dean’s direction, and making out the gold text embossed into the leather hadn’t been all too difficult even though it was sideways. Holy Bible.

Dean still remembers the exact way that his breath had gotten stuck in his throat as he watched Castiel’s eyes harden into some methodical and scathing thing that tore just as intensely as his fingers did, ripping out what seemed to be a random page. It was so thin that light had shone through it when he passed it over to Jack. Maybe not so random though, as immediately afterward Cas had flipped through the pages with a certain calculation before he landed on one that he looked at for a long moment. He’d torn that one out next and brought it down to the table in front of him.

Heart aching in his chest like a wild animal that was wounded at the same time that it had teeth, Dean had stepped away with his jaw clenched up tight. He wanted to turn back around and sit with the two of them and turn Chuck’s screwed up little God story into something less painful, he wanted to take the page out of Cas’s hand and unfold it to read whatever had put that hard look into his eyes… He wanted to give Cas a hug because Dean knows a thing or two about being fucked over by your dad and he knows it ain’t a pretty feeling.

He hadn’t done any of those things.

Now, though, as he looks down at a folded-up page that he’s pretty sure is from the Book of Psalms, he wishes that he had. Just one more memory. Just one more night because he doesn’t get any anymore, and he should have stayed. He should have made those precious minutes, hours, count more. Instead, he’d tucked tail and retreated to his bedroom.

Dean wants to pull the tiny crane’s delicate wings apart and finally read the words on the paper, but he can’t make himself ruin Cas’s craftsmanship. There’s dozens of them in Cas’s bedside drawer that Dean had found when he’d finally mustered up any sort of strength to go through Cas’s stuff, but that number is now finite. There is a cap on those dozens because Cas’s hands aren’t here to make more of them.

His fingers are getting rougher, restless where they handle the crane until he knows that if he doesn’t set it down now he’ll tear it apart by accident. And that- that can’t happen. Dean would never forgive himself- but, hey, that’s a good one. As if he ever forgave himself in the first place. He knows that Cas would have wanted him to, would have told Dean that there was nothing to be sorry for anyway, but Cas was always a hell of a lot kinder than Dean deserved.

He stands abruptly from where he’d been sitting at the foot of Cas’s mattress. Eyes watering and face pinched up into a scowl, he’s about to turn and leave when he sees it. The only thing that Cas had left in the room besides his Psalm cranes that Dean hadn’t noticed because he’d been too busy cradling the little bird in his hands and trying to give it warmth. Give it a nest. Little bird made out of the cruelest story known to man and inflicted on all of them, children of absent fathers and backhanded smacks across the face from the person who was supposed to love you. But there on the shelf over Cas’s bed that Cas never slept in is the familiar glint of gold coming from the spine of a book. One single book. Dean stares at it for longer than he’d like to admit before he reaches for it.

When he pulls it off the shelf, though, it collapses in his hand. Because- because- He turns back the cover of the hollow leather and sure enough there isn’t a single page left in it. Just the ragged edges still glued into the binding. Dean’s hands shake.

This was Cas’s life. This was Cas’s existence and his story and the hold that he broke out of to- what exactly? To end up dead for Dean Winchester either way. To become human enough to feel love and then have that love do the killing.

Dean launches the empty cover at the wall. It hits with a dissatisfying smack and falls to the ground. His teeth are on edge as he prowls to Cas’s bedside table to grab the lamp off of it. The light bulb shatters and the lampshade wilts when it follows the path that the Bible cover had just taken, lands on the floor in pieces that are much more fulfilling.

Cas is gone. Dean picks up the wooden chair of the desk and bashes it against the cement wall until it splinters. The main artery of his neck throbs and there’s a heartbeat in his temples, his jaw. Cas. Maybe this is the first time that Dean allows the hurt in. That he even briefly considers the fact that Cas isn’t here anymore- because he was supposed to be here. They were all supposed to get through this to the other side and retire and be the weirdest goddamn family that the world has ever seen. Goes to show that after all these years Dean is still chasing after hope during the hopeless.

He knows that he’s crying but that doesn’t seem very important. Cas is gone. Cas fucking- sacrificed himself like a chicken for slaughter. Like he didn’t even matter.

It mattered, Dean says with the beating of the shambles of wood and nails against the wall. You mattered, Cas. You mattered to everyone and you mattered to me and you weren’t expendable. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have done that for me, you-

“Stupid bastard!” Dean yells.

This life ain’t worth it without you, don’t you get it? Buy me a million beers and a thousand pies and I’ll choke on all of them in my goddamn misery.

“Come back!” He’s crying harder as his chest heaves. The force behind the impact of the chair that’s now very much not a chair grows weaker. It just clatters pitifully against the wall. “Come back. Come back.” Broken fragments of sentences.

He finally drops the splintered wood into a heap on the ground. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Cas wasn’t supposed to die. Cas wasn’t supposed to tell Dean he loved him and then die right after so quick that Dean didn’t even get to say-

No. Thinking like that would just pull apart the office staples holding Dean’s body together right now. So he doesn’t think it. There’re plenty of things he doesn’t want to think about.

Swiping a vicious hand across his eyes, he takes a step back from the carnage on the floor. This doesn’t matter. Nothing he can do about it. He stares at the gray of the cement wall until his fingers stop trembling, and only then does he turn towards the door to leave, the mess created behind him. But when he does, Sam is standing there in the doorframe. How long has he been standing there, watching Dean have a fucking meltdown?

There’s not exactly pity on his face, but there’s not not either. Sam’s lips pinched in a thin line and his expression too soft.

“Dean-” he starts.

Dean walks right past him like he’s not there, down the hallway, to his bedroom. Locks the door.

…

It’s been another week of this. Dean doesn’t leave his room much. Sam knocks on the door every so often, probably once a day, probably to make sure Dean’s still alive and hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor so severe he doesn’t wake up from it. It’s the only reason that Dean even hazards a grunt in response, so that Sam knows that Dean’s not dead.

At least, not in the physical sense. There’s nothing too lively about the unseeing eyes Dean trains on the concrete wall as he lays in bed, just so that he doesn’t have to think about anything.

As if on cue, a rapping, familiar knock sounds through the room.

Dean grunts.

“Dean.”

Go away. God, please, have a little mercy on your miserable sack of shit brother. I just lost everything- fuck- fuck- I know you’re trying to help. I know Cas wouldn’t have wanted this for me. Cas isn’t here. Neither am I.

“Dean-” again, more forcefully. “We think we might have something.”

There’s a zap to Dean’s bones, to his corpse body, so that he’s Frankenstein reanimated. He’s out the door in a second.

Sam leads him down the hall towards what Dean thinks is gonna be the Map room, but then Sam is taking a sharp left turn and they’re heading towards the infirmary instead. Dean is a zombie at the same time that he’s never been more alert. One thing in mind. One more thing he’s gotta do before he can rest easy now that the world is saved.

One more person who deserves saving more than the rest of the world combined.

When they walk into the infirmary, Jack is there standing beside one of the beds. His face lights up when he sees Dean, and Dean- he wants to hug the kid. He wants to do right by the kid- but he doesn’t know if he can right now. Every little emotion is so magnified that it fogs his brain out into wildfire smoke, burns his eyes the same way.

“Hi, Dean,” Jack says. He’s got this voice that Dean recognizes ‘cause it’s the voice Dean used to have when he thought there was still a chance of getting any sort of affection out of John. Hopeful and waiting and just to the south side of desperate.

Sam is giving him these puppy dog side-eyes like he’s willing Dean not to be an asshole. Dean doesn’t really blame him after the way Dean’s been treating him these last few weeks.

And Dean is a lot of things, but he is not his father. Cas said so. Dean doesn’t want to be John.

“Kid.” Dean greets. He’s shocked by the soft sympathy of it. “C’mere.”

Jack is beside him in a flash, and Dean’s not sure if it’s because of his God Powers or if Dean’s foggy brain just isn’t keeping up with things the way it should be. It doesn’t matter, though, because Dean is opening his arms and Jack is diving into Dean’s chest like coming home. He’ll never be what Cas is to Jack, never be the warm embrace that Jack is probably craving right now, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t Jack’s dad.

“Okay. I know, I know, kid. Hey, it’s alright.”

Jack’s skinny frame is shaking in Dean’s arms, and he looks twenty-three but he’s only four years old. Dean’s own lips pull down into a frown that pinches. He rests his chin on top of Jack’s head.

“I missed you so much.” Jack’s voice is muffled into Dean’s henley.

“We missed you, too. ‘Course we did, kiddo.”

“I’m sorry about Cas- I’m sorry-”

“Hey, none of that.” Dean closes his eyes and musters up whatever little scraps of strength are at the bottom of his belly, the meager offerings he has that were just created a minute ago when Sam had knocked on Dean’s door with something hopeful in his words. He gives Jack one final squeeze before he pulls away enough to look the kid in the eye. “This isn’t your fault, Jack. You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“But-”

“No but’s.” And that’s that. He lets go of Jack and his hands fall to his sides, clenching and unclenching in nervous patterns. “Sam said you thought you might have something. To get Cas back.”

Jack nods. “I do- I think. It’s- It might be something you wanna think about first though.”

“I don’t have to think about it.”

Dean can feel Sam’s eyes on him. This isn’t about Sam right now, or what Sam thinks happened between Dean and Cas, or what Sam thinks Dean feels. That is a sheep that Dean can shear once Cas is home. For now, it’s nothing.

Jack nods again like he gets it, like he’d do anything for Cas, too, if he were in the same boat. They’re on different sides of the circle’s radius but the center point remains the same: Anything for Cas. Then the kid’s eyes are flitting anxious between Sam and Dean’s faces.

“One of you is going to have to go get him.”

It’s me. It has to be me. I have to save him. He needs to know that I was the one who saved him, who got him out, because-

“How?” Sam asks from beside him. “Humans can’t get into the Empty.”

“That’s why it has to be one of you.” Jack hesitates, just for a second. “You’ve both have- sorta left-overs on your souls, from Heaven and from Hell. You’ve both been vessels for an angel and you’ve both…” Jack doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t really need to. “I think what’s still in there is enough for the Empty to accept you. I just have to hide the human part of your soul from it.”

Dean doesn’t like the sound of that one bit. He’s seen the whole no-soul thing, the whole friggin’ concert, and the encore of it damn near put him out of business. But it’s Cas- It’s for Cas- What does Dean even need his soul for these days anyway?

“Jack,” Sam starts gently, and he must be thinking the same thing Dean is ‘cause he says, “this soul stuff can get really complicated before you even know what’s wrong. I mean, you and I both have first-hand experience with- uh- not having a soul-”

“Who said anything about not having a soul?” Jack’s head is tilted to the side, like Cas-

Sam blinks at the kid. “You did. Just now.”

“I don’t have to take it out, I just have to hide it. Like Castiel hid you from the angels with the Enochian on your ribs.”

“How do you know about that?” Dean finally pipes in gruffly. Both Jack and Sam turn to look at him. He thinks he might be scowling, but maybe it’s just a tragic frown.

“I can see it. I mean, I couldn’t track you guys down or anything, before, but when I’m already with you I can see the words.”

What do they say? Dean wants to plead. He’d forgotten about them at some point, to be honest, and how come he never even thought about that? This whole time he’s been carrying a fragment of Cas right there inside of him- through everything- and it’s not having Cas here with him but it’s not nothing either. If that’s the last shred of fabric swatch that Dean can cling to, he wants to know what the words on his ribs say. Are they archaic and sterile, from a time when Cas was still Heaven’s puppet? Or are they warmer than they should be, a precursor to Cas’s rapid descent down the Holy Pinball Machine? Do they say Don’t touch, I am protecting this microscopic human being-

“So- so you’d basically be using some sort of sigil to mask our human souls from the Empty?” Sam’s voice interrupts Dean’s desperate train of thought and startles him back to the present.

“Yes.” Jack is nodding, smiling, all gap-toothed and kindergarten positivity.

“And the only parts of us the Empty would see are whatever dead leaves the angels and demons left in our gutters?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Exactly.”

He lets out a low whistle. There’s a living warmth finally coming back into his complexion. Not done yet, Winchester, still one more rescue mission. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt this sort of anxious hope for a rescue mission before, but it’s squirrely in his gut now as he walks closer to one of the cots. He reaches out to tap the mattress with the tips of his fingers. Takes a breath.

“It’s gotta be me. I’m going.”

There’s a large part of him that expects to get some flack. Sam telling him to not be so damn self-sacrificial or Jack asking if he’s sure he wants to do this. Neither of those things happens. The room goes quiet and stays that way.

When he looks up, both Jack and Sam are watching him. His stomach turns over as he wonders how much more they realized than Dean did about this whole thing; about how Cas felt- about how Dean felt right back. Like they knew even before Dean did and just never bothered to mention it. They look at him like they know, and they probably do. He frowns at them.

“So, how do we do this thing?”

“The preparation shouldn’t be hard- with the sigil for your soul, I mean. But…”

A beat. “But?” Dean prompts, and he sounds more annoyed than he means to.

“But in order for the angelic and demonic parts of you to get into the Empty once your human soul is hidden-” Again, Jack hesitates.

Sam has a look of dawning realization on his face. “Dean has to die.”

Oh. They both turn to look at him again. He clenches up his jaw and thinks that if this is how he goes, at least it’s for Cas. Maybe it’s even appropriate after Cas died for him and all.

But then Jack is saying, “It wouldn’t be permanent. Actually, bringing Dean back is the only thing I feel like will go right no matter what. I have the powers to revive people now, and once I take the sigil off of Dean’s soul the Empty will just spit him out. It’s getting Cas that’s… harder. I don’t know how many creatures are still awake in the Empty right now, or how the Empty is separating them. It might not even be possible to find Cas-”

“It’ll be possible,” Dean interrupts. “I’ve got spit full of shine and an elbow full of grease, and I’m gonna make it happen.” He ignores the expressions of concern and pity on Jack and Sam’s faces. “What do I have to do?”

“The sigil and the- um- dying part- that’ll be up to me. Once you’re in the Empty, the main thing you need to do is to find Cas. Like I said, I… I’m not sure how easy that’ll be. But if you-” Jack pauses and nods to himself- “when you find Cas, you’ll pray to me. I’ll still be able to hear you. And that’s when I’ll take the sigil off your soul, and you’ll be forced out of the Empty. You just have to make sure that you’re holding onto Cas when it happens. The Empty won’t have much of a choice of letting him go if he’s with you.”

Flashbacks of Purgatory from all those years ago come to him now. A hand dropped from not holding on tight enough, only later to find out that Cas had done it on purpose. Cas had trapped himself. And what if- what if Cas refuses to come with Dean this time, too? What if he doesn’t think he deserves to be saved?

Not an option.

“Wait,” Sam says, “is this happening right now?”

“It doesn’t have to,” Jack answers.

“It’s going to, though. No time like the present, right?”

“Dean, don’t you want to at least get a game plan together? At least- think this through first? It sorta seems careless to just go in guns blazing without-”

“Jack.” Dean ignores Sam’s pleading tone to address the kid instead. “Is there anything that we could plan for that we don’t already know? You said yourself you have no idea where Cas is or where the Empty is keeping him.”

“I don’t.” Even as Jack is agreeing with Dean, he looks sort of apologetic about it. “As much as I wish we had more to go on, Sam, Dean is right. Even if we wait… it’s not going to change anything.”

“And that’s why we’re not waiting,” Dean says with finality. If he’s the one dying, he’s the one who gets to call the shots. ‘We’re getting Cas now.”

Jack has this scared, little face like he misses Cas more than anything and he’s just as afraid as Dean is that they won’t actually be able to find him. Like if they wait on executing this barebones plan, they can still pretend that it’s going to work. A Schrodinger’s rescue mission.

“Hey,” Dean isn’t close enough to reach out to pat Jack’s shoulder, but he wishes he were. “It’s gonna work, Jack. We’re gonna get him back.” When Jack looks back at Dean and nods, Dean says, “Just tell me what I need to do.”

Jack takes a deep breath as though to steel himself. He gestures to the cot that Dean is standing to the side of. “You just need to lay down. Since you’re going to be- um-”

“Dead?” Dean supplies in a joking way that he hopes lightens the mood. He doesn’t wait for a response before he climbs onto the cot, laying on his back and looking up at the ceiling. Sam and Jack soon come into view as they stand to either side of Dean’s body, their faces tilted down at him. Sam still looks nervous, argumentative about waiting, but he doesn’t say anything to try to dissuade Dean now that he’s clearly made up his mind. Jack looks nervous in a different sort of way- in a not-finding-Cas sort of way.

“Will it- uh- hurt?” Dean can’t help but ask. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“No, not at all. And even if- Even if you can’t find Cas, I can still bring you back. You won’t get trapped there, I promise,” Jack reassures. He seems pretty confident in what he’s saying, actually, and not just like he’s saying it for Dean’s sake, which makes Dean feel weirdly better about this whole thing. “Just make sure that when you find Cas, you hold on tight. Are you ready?”

No. Yes. More ready than you could understand because Cas is on the other side of that unknown, and I’m gonna grip his ass tight and raise him from an eternal slumber.

“Yeah, kid. I’m ready.”

At the last second, Sam reaches for Dean’s hand and squeezes. It’s a chick-flick moment and it makes Dean’s beating heart settle a little in his chest.

He expects Jack to raise two fingers to Dean’s forehead in the Cas kinda way, and just- knock his lights out. Instead, Jack is leaning down over Dean, and his arms wrap around Dean’s torso in a hug. Jack’s body is warm. Suddenly, it feels like there's a stamp being pressed into Dean’s very being, a big THIS THING IS NOT HUMAN sign.

“So it’s just sorta like-” Jack says.

And then Dean is dead.

…

It’s dark here. Maybe that should’ve been obvious, but the idea of darkness compared to the reality of the absolute absence of light is a very different thing. Dean’s eyes strain against it, pupils darting back and forth searching for a point of reference to latch onto. There isn’t any.

And his body is wrong. Panic pulls at him before he can stomp it out completely and he whips his head down to look at the hands he has outstretched in front of him. They’re- Dean inhales so quick that air hits the back of his throat. Spindly fingers of some unknown creature grow out from his palms, overly long and tapering at the ends like icicles, while the color of them is closer to the gray of a stone. When he flexes them in slight horror, he almost expects them to break off or at least make noises of cracking apart. They don’t.

“What-?” he breathes.

Up his arms are irritated blotches of red and flaking skin, almost like- almost like he’s having some allergic reaction to himself. The same gray color of his hands peeks through the inflamed areas. It’s a little bit grotesque to look at, and that’s coming from a man who’s seen some of the ugliest ways a person can go, but it surprisingly doesn’t hurt. In fact, it doesn’t feel like anything at all. Still, he’s too afraid to try to touch the wounds.

Down his body is a hard barrel of a chest covered in feathers. They puff out as if they can sense the weight of his bewildered eyes, while a blue glow like Cas’s grace emits from between them. The only light in this place. This time, he actually does run his spindly gray hand over them, and a coo comes from deep in his chest even though he hadn’t thought to make a sound. He’s pretty sure the feathers feel soft, but he’s not entirely certain.

When he sticks his leg out to inspect it, he finds a similar sight as the situation on his arms. But where his foot should be… is a hoof. Cloven.

Dean wouldn’t even have to be in the family business to know what a cloven hoof means. He’s seen those hooves before, ten years back, when Hell took the last of his choir boy shine away. Truly, they are the hardest part of this new body to swallow because all they do is prove that fear that stuck with him, still sticks with him; that Hell never really left him even after he left Hell.

He wonders what his face looks like; half angel, half demon. If his eyes glow or if they’re as pitch black as the Empty. But it’s not exactly like there are mirrors hanging around here for the demons and angels to get gussied up for the ball, and Dean has a mission that doesn’t involve an existential crisis over his appearance. Not like it’s permanent anyway.

With a deep breath in an attempt to settle a tightness in his chest that won’t go away, Dean takes a step forward.

“Cas?” he calls out. It’s not much of a surprise that there’s no answer.

Walking is unsteady and awkward but he refuses to look down at the damn hooves again, so he just stares forward and hopes that he’s moving… somewhere. The pitch black ain’t getting any lighter. One cloven-foot in front of the other until Dean starts counting them just to have some sort of proof that he’s not standing in place.

Twenty steps turn into fifty steps turn into a hundred steps real quickly. There is no marker of time or of distance passing, and the stillness in relation to his own motion gives him vertigo. There must be someone here, though, even if it’s not Cas. Of all the angels and demons he’s killed, I mean, this is where they go right? So shouldn’t they be squirreling around in their shadow lair?

Almost as if the thought itself was enough to conjure up the entities here, moving forms start to shift hazy ahead of Dean. Writhing and seemingly illuminated by a singular spotlight that traces the exact contours of their bodies so they look more like children’s stickers against a black refrigerator than dimensional creatures. There’s only a handful of them huddled together and whispering.

They don’t look exactly the same as they did when Dean was in Hell, and he wonders if it’s because he had a human soul then and he doesn’t now. Before, they were scorched, grinning things that were constantly covered in blood. Horns growing from their heads and hooves growing from their legs and so damn terrifying that it took our breath away if you looked at ‘em for too long.

These things are frankly neighborly in comparison. They still have the same cloven hooves that Dean himself is sporting now and horns that Dean isn’t even sure if he has because he can’t see anything above his neck, but instead of scorched skin, they’re covered in red scales like overgrown reptiles. They also have the weird lizard whisker things like Mushu from Mulan around their inky eyes. All pointy edges and angles, they slither around each other while they hiss secrets.

Okay- maybe not so neighborly- because when Dean approaches their hoard their beady gazes turn to him as sharp as pinpoints.

One slithers closer until it’s up in Dean’s business. Maybe he should be scared, but he’s no pushover, and he’s no pussy, and the angel that dragged him out of Hell and gave him somethin’ worth living for is trapped in this darkness. He tilts his chin up at it with a sneer.

“What are you?” it squeals like nails on a chalkboard. “Half-breed mutt.”

“Consider me an original. One-time-only event.” Dean strikes then, grabbing the demon by its swaying whiskers. “Where are the angels at?”

It lets out a cry and tries to struggle, but it’s no match for Dean; not when this shell he’s wearing is the thing that housed the Knight of Hell and the grace of an archangel. The other demons don’t try to interfere, they just watch with a sickened curiosity.

“Let- me- go!”

“Where are the angels?!” Dean demands. His own voice surprises him like he just became aware of its sound. The rust-colored call of a hawk.

“I don’t know!” The demon writhes in pain as Dean pulls harder.

“I’ll corn-husk these scales off of you one by one and I’ll have a real good time doing it, so I advise you to get smart quick.”

“There’s a demon here-” it gasps, “that knows the angels. They know where the angels are.”

Dean drops the demon to the dark ground in an unceremonious heap. “Take me to them.”

It skitters on all fours unnaturally while Dean follows its path, leaving the rest of the watching demons behind. Slowly but surely, they become mirages that fade into the unknown darkness that they had appeared from.

The demon in front of him winds on until Dean isn’t so sure the thing hadn’t been lying just to save the skin of its teeth, leading him further into the Empty and further away from Castiel. It’s been a full thirty seconds with nothing but the sound of the demon's hooves and claws scraping across an impossible ground, and Dean can feel his jaw tighten up in anxiety.

There, though, in the near distance, are more shifting shapes. He lets out the breath he’d been holding. Still, his heart pounds loud enough to cover the sounds of his clicking steps. Because even here, a demon is a demon is a demon, and just because they can’t hurt him doesn’t mean they can’t trick him. Doesn’t mean they can’t keep him from getting to the one thing- the one angel- that Dean would do… would do anything for. Anything.

His nervous, tight, too-warm thoughts are disrupted by the screech of the demon leading him. “Here,” it says, “this one knows the angels.”

In front of them stands another scaly form, shorter and more compact than the demon on the black tar ground beside Dean’s… not-quite-feet. It’s less red, too, in a way that makes it easier to look at head-on, like its spotlight body is glowing closer to pink than it is to brimstone.

“What do you want, Gamigin?” The demon drawls. It doesn’t even look up from where it’s picking at its claws in a way that’s eerily similar to how human women inspect their nails when they know they have the upper hand. It makes Dean’s brace his back firmer, stand up straighter, because a demon with an ego always has one because they’re smarter, quicker, sleazier than all the other rats with scales.

“This… thing wants to see the angels,” the demon apparently named Gamigin hisses. Dean can’t help but thank fuck it isn’t one of the big bads that he’s become a little too familiar with over the years. If Dean had killed this demon up on the surface level, he must have buried a blade to the hilt in its chest before he ever learned the creature’s name.

Gamigin’s words make the pinky demon in front of them look up from its nail inspection, finally. And when it sees Dean- it startles, its lizard whiskers pulling back onto its face in some obviously negative emotion- disgust or fright Dean’s not quite sure. Either way, it makes him feel a little bit proud, a little bit of Dean Winchester’s still got it, no matter what form he’s packing.

It bares its teeth in a sneer. “Get lost, Gamigin,” it says, and to Dean’s surprise, Gamigan actually listens, slithering off into the nothingness without another word. Maybe Dean just happened to pick the most pussy of all the demons to be his tour guide. The demon in front of him now, however, is watching him very closely.

There’s an odd feeling in Dean’s chest. This demon’s eyes are cunning, yes, and inky flat, check, but beady… There’s nothing beady about whatever this demon is thinking, gears turning in its reptilian head that make something bloom to life behind what should be a dead gaze. Its head tilts to the side. It reminds Dean of Cas. Suddenly, he feels like he’s going to puke.

“Whatever cat dragged you in had a weeeird sense of humor.” The demon blinks at him. “Jesus Christ, you look like a Picasso. Guernica to be exact.”

“Funny,” Dean bites back. “Do you know where the angels are or not?”

“Why would I tell you even if I did?”

Dean makes a show of rolling his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how demons bargain, Slick. From what I’m looking at right now, you’re half of one.”

The words make Dean’s skin crawl. The worst part is, he knows the demon is right.

He doesn’t bother stalling. “What do you want?”

“I wanna know why you wanna know,” it purrs.

The feathers on Dean’s barrel chest puff, standing on end defensively. “Know what?” he decides to play stupid.

“Don’t play stupid,” the demon says as though it just read his mind. “It’s an even worse look on you than the mismatched wardrobe. I want to know why you’re looking for the angels.”

Dean could lie. He’s a good fucking liar. What happens if he tells the truth and it blows up in his face- if the Empty gets an ear-in on what’s going on and blows the whole thing. That’s not part of the plan. The plan is to get in, get Cas, get out. But demons also don’t appreciate liars- and if this is his only ticket to Cas… It’s a chess game where one wrong move ends it all, sends Dean back to the human plane as lonely as he left it. It’s not an option.

Coming back without Cas is not an option.

“I don't need to see all the angels. I’m looking for one in particular,” is what he finally decides on sharing.

“Who?”

“Castiel.”

The sly grin that looks closer to hungry, bared teeth suddenly drops, and an honest sort of unhappiness spreads across the demon’s scaly expression. What was once over-exaggerated coyness has now closed up shop. “You and every other Holy John, Dick, and Harry in this joint.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I thought I told you playing stupid wasn’t flattering.”

“I’m not playing stupid,” Dean growls loudly, rushing up on the demon. He’s taller than it is, and he stands over it big, ominous, the whiskers that he also apparently has on his face whipping around in agitation. “What do the angels want with Cas?” he demands.

The demon stares up at him. It’s like everything pauses, the two of them suspended together, and Dean becomes hyperaware of the emptiness around them, the silence. There’s not even the sound of breathing to break it up because the creatures that lurk here don’t need oxygen. Black eyes dart back and forth between his like they’re trying to look inside of him- Like they can see him inside of his apparently monstrous costume shell. He holds its gaze with ferocity.

“Cas,” it says quietly, curiously.

“What?” Dean grits.

“You called him Cas.” There is nothing left of whatever attitude the demon had when Dean first arrived, and a pit grows in Dean’s stomach at the sudden change. It looks at him like it knows something he doesn’t. “The only-” it starts and stops just as abruptly. Its eyes are so wide now that it looks closer to a startled deer than a minion of the Devil. “You came to get him.”

“How do you know that?” Dean shouts. He pushes in further to crowd it in, grabs it by the shoulders. There is no taking chances now. There can be no false moves. “Who are you?”

“Dean,” it says, and it’s purring again. This time, it purrs less like a racecar and more like a house cat. Either way, Dean’s blood turns to ice at the sound of his name, his fingers around its shoulders falling loose in shock before tightening up again. “You’re saying you don’t recognize this pretty face?”

The words make Dean stop short. He’s been staring at the demon this whole time, but he hasn’t even looked at it. Now, he takes in its features and tries to figure out what he’s missing here. A round face watching him back, curious and knowing and… and warm. Too real for just any old demon to show off. Eyes that meet his and almost seem to smile out teasingly, the same energy of when Dean gets on Sam’s case just to bother him.

Dean exhales and feels lightheaded with it. “Meg.”

“Bingo.”

He can’t help it- he starts laughing. All of the tension coiled so tight in his chest that it had almost been suffocating comes loose because this could’ve been so bad- could’ve ruined everything- and instead, he’s standing face to face with one of the only bastards here who gives a fuck about Cas.

“Meg!” And he’s not really sure what takes over him, but he’s scooping her up into a hug that’s all pointy and hard planes. It’s no less enjoyable for it. He almost expects her to fight him off, push him away with a sneer of What do you think this is, a military reunion video?, so he’s more than surprised when she holds onto him right back.

He only lets her go when she mumbles, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re happy to see me, you ugly motherfucker.” When there’s enough space between them for her to study his features again, she blows out a whistle. “Guess you couldn’t get lucky with the gene pool in every form, could ya, Ken Doll? We all have our faults.”

“That bad, huh?” but he’s still smiling.

“You look like an angel and a demon that hated each other were forced to conceive. And then after they had you they dropped you out of a window five stories off the ground.”

“Sure, don’t worry about my feelings at all,” he says sarcastically.

She doesn’t bother responding to his gripe. Instead, she looks at him for a second longer. “You really came to get him.”

“Let’s just say I’m not leaving without him, how ‘bout that.” He scours the darkness surrounding them like Cas is going to suddenly appear under the mention of his rescue, but everything remains eerily still and silent. He turns back to Meg. “What did you mean about the angels trying to find Cas?”

“You know what went down just as well as I know, Hot Stuff. You were there for it.” Meg’s head tilts to the side, an alien smirk on her alien face. “They’re not exactly fighting to give Clarence a hug.”

Rollercoaster of emotions is an understatement. How had that never occurred to Dean? That Cas is here with all the angels dead because of him, one way or another, and just because they can’t kill him again doesn’t mean they can’t make him pay for it. He takes a sharp breath.

“So where is he, then? If the other angels can’t find him- They can’t find him, can they?”

“What do you think I am, an idiot?” Meg asks. Yep. Definitely Meg. “Of course they can’t find him. Turns out the Holy John, Dick, and Harry’s really aren’t as smart as they like to give themselves credit for. Or I’m just a genius.”

“Ha-ha,” Dean says.

“Call it Witness Protection. I know where Cas is. I know where the prick angels are. I make sure streams don’t cross.”

The relationship that Dean has had with Meg has been… more than precarious. He wonders how his twenty-six-year-old self would have felt hearing that the best luck Dean could have had at this moment was finding Meg the Demon here, standing in front of him. Meg the Demon who would become just Meg who would become an untrustworthy ally who would eventually sacrifice herself for Team Freewill. Until she became one of them through death, the initiation ritual for the job, so it seems.

But here, after it all, he could kiss her right on her fanged mouth.

“You know what, Meg? You’re pretty alright.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, the same way she used to on Earth, but she’s smiling like she knows exactly what Dean means when he says that. Then, of course, she breaks the moment by rolling her eyes before starting off into the ever-present darkness with a mission.

“Let’s go see what your boyfriend’s up to.”

The same cooing from earlier, when Dean had pet the feathers of his chest, leaks into the air now even though Dean hadn’t made a noise. Or at least didn’t want to. His eyes go wide.

Ahead of him, Meg peers back over her shoulder with disbelief and hysterical amusement on her face, like she’s one second away from-

“Not one fucking word,” Dean says.

“Wasn’t gonna say anything,” she replies, but her smirk says it all for her anyway.

Once she turns to face the direction they’re walking again, Dean scowls down at his barreled rib cage. Traitor.

Anyway- “Does he ever get any visitors or anything? Witness Protection will keep you alive but it doesn’t sound cushy, either.” And, yeah, maybe now that Dean’s not so worried that the other angels are gonna playground bully his best friend, he’s worried that his best friend is lonely. Cas doesn’t deserve to be lonely. Again, in the biggest turn of events the universe has ever seen (and that’s saying something), Dean can’t help but be grateful for Meg. That at least they have each other down here.

“Mm,” Meg puffs a laugh like what Dean said was funny. “Clarence might actually get more visitors than anyone else in this tar pit.”

“…Seriously?”

“Let’s just say he was very adamant about continuing to ‘help others’. I blame you for that.” She doesn’t sound particularly annoyed. “Lot of lost souls around here. It’s not Purgatory, but after the way that you three tore up the centerline of the tug-of-war court, it might as well be. Demons who don’t feel like demons and angels who don’t feel like angels. Everyone’s so confused about what team they’re playing for that you’d think it was a sorority house full of drunk girls.”

Okay. That one gets a chuckle out of Dean.

“There’s a lot of critters down here looking for some advice. Some kindness and love they didn’t get from the upstairs or the downstairs.” She pauses for just a second. “Cas has plenty of both to go around. I blame you for that, too.”

Dean’s breath catches somewhere in his throat and stays there, his eyes very suddenly hot. Cas has plenty of both to go around. He always has. That was never Dean’s doing. When he doesn’t respond to what Meg said, she looks over her scaly shoulder at him again. This time, she’s nice enough not to comment on whatever expression is on his face.

“Sooo,” she continues on, turning back around, her voice floating forward with her, “Clarence has become a local celebrity. Less like a news anchor and more like that cat in Alaska that the city made mayor. I’m the secretary.”

“Gotcha,” Dean says even though he doesn’t.

All of a sudden Meg stops walking, and Dean stops just before he runs straight into her. He watches as she stares forward like she’s looking for something, instead of just looking into the abyss that Dean is seeing. “He’s through here. I’ll stand outside and watch guard.”

Before he can get out the words Through where?, Meg lifts a hand to pull back what seems to be a curtain, even though it’s no different in color or texture of everything around it. Which by everything, Dean means nothing.

She holds it there for him, waiting for him to go through, but-

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to see Cas. Wants to, of course, but those words in the dungeon- Cas was the only one brave enough to say them and now Dean is so much of a coward he doesn’t even know how to act about acknowledging them. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. Just-

“What are we waiting on, Guernica? My arm’s gonna fall off.”

Meg’s high-pitched voice startles him back to the moment, and he uses the momentum of the interruption of his thoughts to force himself to take the first step through the inky curtain. Another, another, until it falls shut behind him and causes Meg to disappear in an instant, like she was just a figment of his imagination.

Dean isn’t even sure what Cas is gonna look like, what Dean’s supposed to be looking for, until that question gets answered as quickly as it popped into his head. There’s no way to miss the massive creature that seems to take up all the space within Dean’s range of vision. Whatever form Dean is in now is only about a sixth of the size of the tremendous body crouching in front of him. A little bit like a lion, with its hind legs to its sides and its front legs straight and holding its forward weight, but where paws should be at the end of those legs are the same spindly, icicle fingers that grow out of Dean’s own hands. Its barrel chest is the same as Dean’s too, where it juts out feathered and proud from between its front legs. And up. And wings. Oh-

“Hello, little one,” the creature greets kindly. The rumble of its voice is low and familiar, even as it's not even close to being human. A sound that Dean has heard before, over and over until he knows it by memory and by feel and by heart, and it becomes the closest thing Dean’s ever had to indicating a home. The sweet purr of the Impala’s engine leaking from this creature’s main face even though it doesn’t have a mouth and- “My name is Castiel. Did Meg bring you here to see me?”

Divinity that Dean has never seen before, so aweful that he’s not sure whether to weep or not. This… This has been Castiel the whole time. There is no way to minimize this creature into the shortened nickname of Cas.

“Castiel?” Dean croaks. It’s me, Dean thinks, It’s Dean. It’s your best friend. The words don’t come out.

Because he’s staring up at this lovely, holy beast with five heads and halos, seemingly different distorted animals that look just slightly off, just slightly alien. The main face in the center that watches Dean now is oval and white with big, flat, blue eyes and no nose and no mouth, until it becomes almost reminiscent of a snowy owl. The head tilts to the side in curiosity like a snowy owl- like Cas used to do on Earth.

“You saw much before your death, didn't you? I have encountered those used by both Heaven and Hell but… They took much from you, didn’t they?”

As Castiel’s Impala voice purrs through the emptiness around them both, Castiel sinks further into a crouch so that he’s almost laying down. His owly face inspects Dean from only a few feet away now, as tall as Dean’s entire body, one eye the size of Dean’s whole head. As if needing closer inspection, suddenly hundreds of tiny feathers form a crown around Castiel’s face, and Dean almost falls over in surprise when he realizes each one has an eye that watches and blinks. A countless number of tiny blue eyes watching him.

Dean doesn’t know if he’s ever been speechless before this moment. If nothing else, this experience has given him a new definition of the word. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

At Dean’s lack of response, Castiel nudges his face forward like a dog proving its lack of aggression, and he coos that same noise that had come from Dean’s chest before. Trilling and lovely like a mourning dove.

Like before, without thought or intention, Dean’s body coos back.

Dean can’t explain why, but it makes him want to blush. He’s not even sure if that’s physically possible right now.

“I see. It’s alright, you’re safe here, little one. I cannot fix all, but I can attempt to help some.” One of those massive spindly hands creeps out from beneath Castiel’s body, and it should look terrifying but it doesn’t. “May I?”

He has no idea what Castiel is asking him. He nods dumbly anyway.

With this permission, Castiel’s fingers wrap around Dean like he’s a child’s doll. They pull Dean in towards that massive, rumbling body until Dean is tucked up between Cas’s left front leg and his feathered chest, caged in further when Cas’s head drops in front of him as well, as though to completely nest him. If Dean peeks out between feathers and limbs, he can still see the Empty around them. But here against Cas’s body, the world is dark and quiet in a very different way. Right there against Dean’s head, Castiel’s chest coos again. This time when Dean coos back he’s sorta expecting it.

This isn’t the Cas that Dean was expecting to find, or even anything close to it. No dark hair, no tax accountant outfit, no deep voice coming out of a stern face. But those blue eyes are still there, just as warm and just as knowing as always. It’s not Dean’s Cas, it’s… Cas is…

Cas is. After all these weeks without him, but with an extra skipped beat in Dean’s chest like even his heart knew something was wrong, Cas is right here. Dean’s best friend, not in the Charlie way and not in the Sam way and not in the anything other than it’s you- you are my best friend way. In the I missed you so much way.

In the I never thought I’d get you back way, and now here you are.

Oh, Dean’s crying like a little bitch into Cas’s feathers because they’re Cas’s. Cas coos in sympathy and he doesn’t even know that it’s Dean, but he’s being kind because he’s kind, because he helps the creatures here in this wasteland even though all of them are dead, because Cas still wants to help.

“Yes,” Castiel rumbles, “you can let go of that pain. I know that it hurts to feel it, but just because it’s unpleasant doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Sometimes it has to hurt first. Then you can let it go.”

I’m never gonna let you go. Oh, God, Cas, I had to let go over and over and over, so many times I lost count, but you always came back. You’re gonna come back this time, too.

“No,” Dean chokes through his tears. “I came to get you.”

Above Dean, Cas’s head moves as though to listen. “I’m sorry, little one, I don’t understand.”

The term of endearment makes Dean cry harder. “Cas, it’s me. It’s me- It’s Dean. I came to get you.”

Cas’s massive body freezes to a standstill against Dean. “No, that- that’s not possible. There’s no- Dean could not enter the Empty. And even if he could he’d have to be-”

“Dead,” Dean chokes out. He laughs a humorless, wet thing. “I am, for now. I’m pulling a 007 undercover heist for you.”

Dean feels more than sees Cas’s head shake. The kind tone of his Impala voice is now labored with hardship. “But I don’t understand.”

“It was Jack. Cas- Cas, we did it. We beat Chuck, and Jack has all the juice now. He made it so that the Empty would let me in so that I could- I could get you. I’m here to get you.”

“Why can’t I see your soul?”

What did it look like before? You could see my soul this whole time, and did you like it? You loved it- you told me you loved it-

“I know, don’t worry, I still have it. Jack just hid it for now, the way you hid me from the angel’s during our first square-off with Lucifer. The chicken suit I’m wearing is what Hell and the angels left behind. I promise it’s okay.” He wipes his face against the feathers of Cas’s chest. Whispers, “I promise it’s okay. It’s me. We’re going home, pal.”

And then Cas is saying, “Dean,” with such hesitant hope, like he’s only now starting to believe what Dean is saying. “It’s really you.”

“Fuck yeah it is. I’m the guest of honor.”

“And you… came to get me?”

Dean takes a shuddering breath and clings to Cas that much tighter. I need you to get it. Please get it. Of course I came to get you.

“Of course I came to get you.” His voice is brittle and weaker than he means it to be, but the sentiment remains. “Went through all the trouble. Which means you gotta come home with me now.”

Cas is pulling back ever so slightly in a motion that forces Dean from his nested hiding spot among Cas’s feathers. Dean takes another step away, and he’s back out into the Empty’s darkness again. Those glowing, blue eyes on that pale moon face are watching Dean in a way that seems different now that Cas knows it’s him. Fond and desperate and sacred. It’s enough to make Dean want to choke up again. It’s enough to have Dean biting back the words, You’re quite literally one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my Rat Pack life.

“This plan… Dean, The Empty and I made a deal. It’s not going to let me go easily.”

“It’s not gonna have a choice.” Dean smirks through his swollen eyes. Cas tilts his owly head- otherworldly- alien. Dean’s stomach turns over in awe and holy fear, the kind you hear about in the Bible. He thinks about those paper cranes waiting for Cas at home. “You’re gonna hitch a ride with me when Jack pulls the veil off of my soul.”

For a second, Cas just stares at him. “When the Empty realizes you’re human…” Cas says slowly, “it will immediately force you out.”

“Bingo. And guess who I’m gonna be dragging with me?”

“This is a ridiculous plan.” The way Cas says it, so much like Dean’s Cas, like a familiar tax accountant, makes Dean break into a grin.

“Who ever said ridiculous wouldn’t work? I mean- heh- Johnny Knoxville made a career off of it.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean waves the confusion away with his hand. “Who cares about Johnny Knoxville, I mean, look at you! You just look like this all the time?”

Cas glances down at himself like he has no idea what Dean is talking about. “Look like what?”

“Uh, I dunno- The five heads? The wings? The feather eyes?”

“Oh.” Cas sounds bashful, a shyness that contradicts his massiveness. “I didn’t realize that you could perceive my form here. Though I guess that makes sense, considering you are technically ‘one of us’.”

“You weren’t kidding about the Chrysler Building thing, were you?”

“Why would I kid about that? Comparatively speaking, when it comes to angels, that’s- I’m considered height deficient.”

Dean’s eyebrows are damn near at his hairline. “You mean, the other angels think you’re short?”

“I am short,” Cas grumbles.”The only time I’m taller than Gabriel is when we’re in our vessels.”

Well. Dean thinks it’s sorta cute that Cas is short. Ya know, for an angel.

“Alright, pipsqueak, let’s hope you’re small enough to fit through the eye of the needle when Jack yanks us out.” He turns on his heel and narrows his eyes at the black nothing in front of him, trying to figure out where the seam of Meg’s magical curtain is. “How the hell do you get out of your lair, anyway?”

“You simply have to-” Cas moves closer, and then he’s reaching out long, spindly fingers, and he pushes the darkness to the side. “How did you find me here, anyway?”

As if to answer Cas’s question, Meg stands on the other side of the drawn-back curtain. She has her arms crossed and her hip cocked and she says, “He found you the way everyone else finds you, Clarence. Appointment only. How was the reunion?” she asks then. “All sorts of mushy gushy?”

Before Dean has a chance to half-heartedly bitch her out, Cas is responding, “Thank you for bringing him here, Meg.”

Something shifts in her expression in a way that would be hard to read in her human form and that’s damn near impossible to read when translated to a scaly face. It looks a little bit like a frown if Dean squints. “What, you thought I’d make him crawl around the tar pit looking for you the manual way?”

“Of course not,” Cas says kindly.

“Then why are you thanking me?”

“Because I appreciate what you’ve done, even as I’m unsurprised by it. Sometimes Thank You’s work that way.”

Meg seems shocked, maybe even a little bit moved, but she covers it with a scoff and a roll of her black eyes. “Sure, I’ll take your word for it.” She smirks. “Besides, Charon’s here with the ferry and he’s gonna take you across the River Styx, so. Not like I need to get used to thank you’s these days.”

Dean watches her with something like empathy in his gut. A real sort of emotion that’s more than just arbitrary guilt. He may be taking Cas home, but he’s also just taking Cas. Any idiot could tell you that Meg would never admit defeat or anything close to a soft spot, but Dean has two eyes that can see just fine, and they linger on the stiff posture of Meg’s body. She opens her mouth to speak again-

“Meg, can I talk to you for a second?”

She startles and looks over at him. “Excuse me?”

He just raises an eyebrow at her and jerks his head to the side to motion her over, making a clicking noise in his back teeth as he does it.

Meg glances back to Cas again, then back to Dean, and Cas says, “Go. I’ll be here.”

Dean takes that as his cue to get moving, not bothering to check over his shoulder if Meg is following him or not. He takes about fifteen steps before he stops. He knows that Cas can probably still hear them anyway, but he likes the illusion of privacy. Meg rounds up next to him at his standstill. “What’s with the secret meeting, Guernica?”

“Come back with us.”

Her black eyes stare up at him, wider and more honest than he’s ever seen. “What did you just say?”

“Come back to Earth with us. Hitch a ride like Cas is. I’m not exactly a public bus, but- but I think I can get both of you back.”

She studies him. Suddenly, her eyes narrow again and she shakes her head. “You don’t owe me anything, as much as I like to pretend you do.”

“I’m not offering because I owe you,” and he finds that he really means it. “I’m offering because I got a Golden Ticket and you deserve a chance to see the Factory.” He takes a breath. “I’m offering because I want to, Meg.”

She shakes her scaly head at him again, more harshly. “You don’t mean that.”

“Says who? Me? The person telling you?” he pushes sarcastically. “Or are you just telling yourself that?”

At his sharp tone that doesn’t match his kinder words, Meg closes her eyes and raises a clawed hand to press into her forehead, almost like she has a headache. The frown she’s wearing looks a lot more hurtful than a migraine, though. When she drops her hand and looks at him again, the weary expression is gone like it was never there. “There’s nothing for me on Earth, Dean. We both know that. You and I are a lot of things, but neither of us are liars and neither of us are idiots.”

“Do you want there to be?”

He can tell she’s getting annoyed at his antics, but she huffs “What?” anyway.

“Do you want there to be something for you on Earth?” God help him. He means it. He really means it.

Meg looks at him like he’s cracking a joke. “You’re saying-” she laughs.

“I’m saying you could stay with us if you wanted. Join the island of misfit toys.”

Her face falls and she stares at him again. Stares and stares like somehow she’s gonna find an answer to whatever question is rattling around in her demonic skull, or like she’s waiting for him to finish the punchline. He doesn’t. He stares back.

At his lack of response, she finally looks off to her left where Cas is watching them, waiting for Dean. Meg looks at Castiel for a long second, and Dean has to fight down the jealous and insecure urge in him that feels like he’ll never be enough for Cas, and maybe he and Meg had a good thing going down here together after all. Meg might be a demon, but at least that means she’s as immortal as Cas is. At least they could be together for a good long while-

“Oh, don’t make that face,” she mumbles, and it's only then that Dean realizes she’d taken her eyes off of Cas and put them back on Dean. “It’s always been you for him.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue even though he doesn’t really know what to say. Meg beats him to the punch, anyway.

“I found my peace here, okay? Maybe a little… unhappily at first, but- I was always meant to end up here. That’s how the system works, that’s the food chain full of baby mice and big, bad hawks like me who eat them. I’ve been alive for a long time.”

Meg closes her eyes. It’s the first time Dean has ever seen her and thought she looked tired. It makes him ache a little bit, for the way he knows this conversation is gonna go and for the way he can’t do anything about it and for the way he’s taking Castiel from her. She opens her eyes, and the weariness is gone. Something settled in her expression now.

“This is where sad sacks like us come after we die so that we can finally get some sleep. I know what you’re offering me, Dean. Don’t think that I don’t get that. And don’t think I’m refusing because I wanna throw a pity party for myself. Just-” she glances back at Cas again, and Dean feels his heart tug in sympathy- “now that Gigantor over there’s gonna be gone, there’s not much else for me to worry about. No more playing security guard.” Then she looks at Dean. She looks at him and she means it, and Dean feels like maybe he gets exactly where she’s coming from after all. “Now that I’m out of a job, I think I could use a little bit of sleep.”

He offers her a sharp nod and pretends he’s not choked up over this demon because, how did that end up being part of his thing? Oh well. “As long as that’s what you want. That’s all I’m asking.”

Meg surveys him in glinting appeal. “As much as I hate to admit it, I get why Clarence likes you so much.”

Oh. “Um-” Dean starts. “Okay. I mean- thanks.”

Meg rolls her eyes at him, the fondest thing he’s ever gotten from her.

And he has to say it. He’ll regret it for longer than he’d like to admit if he doesn’t. “Meg, I- I’m sorry that I’m taking Cas.”

“Why?”

“From you.”

She lets out a long breath, and then she looks at Dean like he’s the dumbest motherfucker she’s ever wanted to hug. “I’m good with the whole eternal rest thing. But Clarence… The world needs more of Clarence… and so do you.”

Oh no, Meg’s about to find out what a man baby Dean is if she keeps talking like that. He doesn’t even get a chance to try to speak through the lump in his throat, though, because the little reptile whiskers at the high points of his cheeks start wiggling out into the space between his and Meg’s bodies. They reach for Meg’s own whiskers, twining around them and tangling like ivy, like giving an embrace from that minuscule point of contact.

Meg stares at the weaving. “I didn’t know they did that.”

“Uh,” Dean says, clearing his throat, “neither did I.”

Then Meg smirks. “I always knew you were a softie, Guernica.”

“Yeah, sure, laugh it up,” and it’s Dean’s turn to roll his eyes overly fondly. He’s smiling now, as his whiskers retreat on their own and let Meg go. “Just promise me you’ll get some sleep, okay?”

As if sensing the end of their conversation, or probably just straight up hearing it, Cas makes his lumbering way over to them. He looks even bigger compared to Meg than he did to Dean, even though there’s only about a foot and a half difference between their reptilian heights.

It still surprises Dean that every time Castiel speaks, the sound of the Impala comes out. Right now, Baby’s engine is rumbling the words, “Meg, I suppose now is the time to say our goodbyes.”

Dean feels like he should give them some space, but he doesn’t even have time to make the offer or even to step away before Meg is replying, “You gonna go as soft on me as the Mutilated Ken Doll here?”

“Hey,” Dean protests just because he feels like he should.

But Cas laughs easily, and it’s a good sound in the middle of all this nothingness. “Even softer, perhaps, and you cannot convince me that you dislike it.”

“Alright, you caught me.”

Cas is leaning down to meet her height so that he is crouched and crunched up on himself. He holds out one of those icicles fingers towards Meg’s face, and her reptile whiskers wrap around the tip of it the same way they had to Dean’s own whiskers.

“New trick I just learned,” she says.

“It’s a good trick,” Cas replies. “I don’t have vibrissae of my own, but I do have… Well-”

Those tiny eyeing feathers that had so curiously taken Dean in just moments earlier come out of hiding again. This time the halo of them are all trained on Meg, blinking in different seconds and intervals so that it’s almost like they’re glistening, water rippling under a non-existent sun. From somewhere among the dozens, one of them parts ways from the top of Cas’s owly head, swishing to the ground lazily. It doesn’t get that far, though, before Meg catches it in her hands.

From her palms, the single eye winks up at her.

“Meg, my- my darling friend, I cannot thank you enough. For what happened on Earth and for what’s happened here, when all we had was each other. There will never be another Meg. I never want there to be.”

“Clarence-” Meg starts, and she’s choked up. Hell, Dean’s a little choked up himself.

“If it is rest that you want, then it’s rest you deserve. And you will have a small part of me here watching over you while you sleep.”

Meg looks back down at Cas’s feather and seems to marvel at it. She touches the wispy edge just barely with her claw. “Is it- Will I hurt it?”

“No, it’s not living. It’s just part of the manifestation of my grace.”

“Yeah, well, it’s weird that it has an eye. I feel like I’m going to poke it out on accident.”

“You won’t.” Cas reaches out his icicle finger, Meg’s whiskers falling away, and passes the very tip of it over the tiny feather to prove his point. Just like Cas said, the eye doesn’t seem bothered by the contact, closing slowly with it before opening again. “You just like to be argumentative when you are touched by someone else’s gesture for you.”

“Damn, Clarence, is this supposed to be a call out or a heartfelt goodbye?”

“You know exactly what it is, of course.”

“Of course,” Meg repeats back to him. But her scaly face softens, then melts further into a watery frown. Dean feels like he should look away. “You’ve got a lot more living to do… Promise me that you’ll do it?”

“Yes, I promise you.”

“And promise…” she stumbles on the word now. Her black eyes are shining, shining. “Promise you won’t be too mean to yourself. I know how you like to do that.”

“Meg-”

She throws herself into Cas’s feathered chest, and this time Dean does look away. It’s not his moment. It’s private, lovely, better than any sort of declaration that needs voyeurs in order to make it real. He hears Cas’s cooing, and he hears what sounds like sniffles, and he doesn’t mention any of it.

It’s only when Meg’s voice pipes back up, much more congested than before, that Dean turns around. “Making me look like an ASPCA infomercial.”

“Yes,” Cas says like he’s never been more charmed by anyone in his life. “I apologize.”

Unexpectedly, she moves her attention back to Dean. “Do you even know what painting I’m talking about when I say Guernica?”

Dean feels oddly ruffled. He shifts on his feet- hooves- whatever. “Uh, no. I can’t say I do.”

“You should look it up,” Meg says kindly. Really, actually, kindly. “It’s beautiful.”

Dean swallows hard, then he does it again. “Okay,” he replies hushed.

Then she’s looking back at Cas, and somehow Dean knows it’s for the last time. Maybe they all know it is. “Goodbye, Castiel. Only angel that could put a little love in this demon's charcoal heart.”

“An honor,” Cas says. He’s already crouched low to the black ground, but he bows his head even further. When he faces back up, his blue eyes hold Meg. “Sleep well, my friend. You’ve earned it.”

“Take me to bed, Clarence?” she says.

Meg’s right hand holds tight to Cas’s feather, and Cas’s own big, gentle right hand reaches out to cradle her body, lowering it to the ground ever so carefully. When she’s settled completely, she’s fast asleep.

Dean palms at his watery eyes. Fuck. Jesus. He’s only kinda falling apart, watching the way Cas’s finger gives one final stroke down Meg’s body.

Then it is quiet. Then it is just them. Then Cas is looking at him. “I believe it’s time to go home.”

Home. “Yeah. I think so.”

He lifts his mish-mashed angel hand up and holds onto Cas’s massive arm as best as he can. “Ready to get shoved through the eye of a needle?”

“Consider me a camel,” Cas rumbles.

Dean grins. Breathes to steady his rattling heart.

Alright, Jack, Dean prays. Once you’ve got room for two, open the curtains.

A beat. Another.

A vacuum when Dean’s human soul starts shining in the darkness.

…

Dean wakes up with a start, with a gasp, as his suppressed human soul and all the supernatural baggage it carries is slotted back into his body. Once empty, now full. Full because he can hear the sound of Cas gasping in a similar manner on the cot just to the right of him, its old springs creaking in protest as Cas moves to sit up.

Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, Jack is rushing to Cas’s side to pull his rumpled body into a hug. Then Sam is doing the same to Dean, holding on so tight and so sudden that the breath is knocked out of Dean’s lungs. He doesn’t even bother to fake-complain about the embrace. Instead, he buries his face into Sam’s shoulder, long hair brushing Dean’s nose.

“I did it, Sammy.” He hears the words out loud before he even thinks to say them. “I got him.”

…

It feels like the reunion should be awkward in the hours that follow, and maybe it is, a little bit. But the tension that hangs in the air every time that Dean and Cas so much as look at each other seems to seep away second by second. Dean will be damned if he lets Cas’s dying words be the thing that stops him from celebrating having his best friend back.

They were good dying words. They were dying words worth saying and now they get to see the Bunker air after the actual dying. There is a miracle happening right now, in living out the dying words.

He can tell that Cas is embarrassed. Dean’s never seen the angel so antsy or so willing to break eye contact, an ever-present frown on his mouth and a redness to his cheeks. Still, when Dean’s not looking he can feel Cas glancing in his direction. Timid and scared, like Cas is checking on how Dean is reacting, and whether that reaction will end in Cas getting kicked out of the Bunker. Waiting for Dean to dismiss him.

There will be no dismissals here, of Cas or his dying words, because there’s no way Dean is wasting the bravery Cas had to even say them after all of these years. The reciprocation is on the barrel of Dean’s tongue even as he has no clue how to bring it up or even how to say what he needs Cas to hear.

Jack and Sam are still lingering around because it’s their place too and Dean isn’t the only one who missed Cas. He can’t blame them for sticking close by even as he wants to beg them to leave. There’s something that Dean has to say, just for Cas to hear. Still, he reminds himself that for once there’s not a ticking clock that’s running dry and that he has hours, days, maybe (hopefully) years to tell Cas how he feels. Even when everything in him is screaming at him to say something.

But the best he can do right now is pat Cas’s shoulder and give him a smile as he passes him in the kitchen. A real smile that says without words You’re not going anywhere, pal. And as the evening wears on, Cas looks less and less afraid.

Dinner passes in a similar, celebratory fashion, with Dean scrounging up what he can find in the fridge and ending up with a hot skillet full of chicken alfredo. He makes three plates, only after Cas insists multiple times that he doesn’t need one of his own, and sets them down in front of his family. Sam and Jack dig in with grins on their faces as they catch Cas up on what he missed. Everything from defeating God to The Bachelorette.

Dean wishes he had more of an appetite because he really outdid himself with dinner tonight. The warm, rich smell of it hitting his nose like a beacon of tummy rumbling, but Dean hasn’t been much for eating since Cas got taken. Not even on purpose. Just- there was something about that pit in his stomach that never really seemed hungry. He wills himself to feel a little bit of hunger now, but his body doesn’t seem to know what his brain knows about Cas’s return. Not yet anyway.

So he moves his fork back and forth through the pasta as he laughs at Jack’s retelling of one of the more awkward dates the unfortunate Bachelorette had to go on. Jack is smiling gap-toothed and radiant with Cas beside him, and Cas watches Jack like he’s so full of love he might burst. It’s a good look on him.

The evening drags into early night and dinner wraps up eventually. Every once in a while, in the cleaning up of the table and the washing of dishes, Cas and Dean’s eyes will catch. It makes Dean’s heart jump. Soon, he promises to an imaginary Castiel, I’m gonna tell you so soon.

It feels like a lifetime before Jack announces that he’s going to flit back to Heaven. He lets Cas wrap him up in an oversized hug and promises to visit soon- maybe even tomorrow ‘cause he just missed Cas so much- and Cas is nodding in delighted agreement as Jack disappears from the kitchen like he was never even there.

Dean shakes his head fondly. Kids. One second they’re your little not twenty-three year old and the next they’re God.

It takes Sam another thirty minutes to announce his departure. To Dean’s absolute disappointment, Cas seems to take that as his cue to head to his own room as well, seemingly made nervous again by the idea of it being just him and Dean. The two of them leave the kitchen with one last thank-you-for-the-meal, and then Dean is alone.

He stares at the door they just walked out of with his eyebrow pulled up and his lips frowning. Heaving a sigh, he goes to grab a rag to wipe down the table with.

…

It’s half-past midnight, maybe even going on one, and Dean isn’t even close to sleeping. Instead, he showers just to have something to do. Keyed-up is an underestimate, and every molecule in him is craving a beer right now. Just something to take the edge off and put him to bed like a drunken lullaby. But for some reason, the idea of drinking right now sends an unpleasant twinge up his spine. He wants to be sober for this- for having Cas back, for having Sam and Jack safe, for being out from under Chuck’s thumb. He wants to not have to feel like he needs to be blurry to live. He wants to not be hungover all the damn time.

The edginess of his existence isn't going away though, no matter how many deep breaths he takes and how many times he counts to ten, over and over again. There’s a fidget under his skin that won’t stop as he steps out of the stall and dries his hair with a towel before throwing it to the tile floor with a soft, wet smack. Still antsy, he pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, just to cover them up with his Dead Man Robe. The cinch of it feels good on his waist, like it’s holding him together a little bit, and he takes a deep breath in through his nose. Nods to himself.

He toes into his old man slippers and then he’s meandering out into the hallway, little pat, pat, pat’s sounding with his footsteps. The kitchen isn’t far off, and he turns into the dark room as he flicks the lights on. It always looks more empty at night for some reason, like some sort of abandoned house that frowns at you when you drive by. And the liquor cart is right there, and what’s one celebratory drink? Dean closes his eyes and swallows hard.

The only possible solution here is hot chocolate. He very purposefully takes his eyes off that bottle of Jack and he doesn’t let himself look at it again. Instead, he moves to root through the open-faced pantry, where he knows the top shelf holds all sorts of miscellaneous shit like popcorn and dry rice and hot chocolate packs.

To his utter dismay, there’s not a single pack left. Which means- “Sam,” he grumbles under his breath, “you lying, stealing son of a bitch.”

Dean is left staring down a lone bag of whole coffee beans and an unfamiliar white box with what appears to have tea bags in it. On the front, the flavor proclaims to be Valerian Dream, whatever the hell that means. It must be good for sleeping though, right? And if Sam is allowed to get his grubby hands all over Dean’s hot chocolate, Dean’s allowed to take Sam’s precious organic tea.

He doesn’t bother boiling water on the stove like he knows you’re supposed to because he’s seen Sam do it before. Instead, he throws a clean mug into the microwave and waits for the water in it to get hot. The small foil pouch that encases the actual sachet tells Dean to steep it for two minutes, and at the very least he likes that the instructions are easy to follow, even if he doesn’t end up liking the tea. It smells good when he dunks the satchel in though. Good enough that he closes his eyes and lifts the mug up to his nose. It’s sweet and green and nothing like a Budweiser. The warmth feels better in his palms right now than a cold beer ever could.

Exhausted at the same time that his eyes have never felt more fried open, Dean steps out of the kitchen and back into the generator-lit hallway. When he looks to his left down its length- the library light shines yellow.

Dean gulps.

One step, then another, even as it feels like his knees might just buckle out from under him. He steps through the door frame that leads into the Map Room, and then he peers around the corner.

There’s deja-vu in his bones as he watches Cas fold an origami crane. Already, there’s a pile of five beside him on the wooden library table. Dean is terrified to take one more step, to announce his presence to the calm of this scene, because he wants to say something so badly, but- when has saying something ever been his strong suit?

The only thing stronger than that fear is the remembered regret of a night just like this. A night where Dean didn’t join the origami session the way he wanted to. Mug in hand, Dean shuffles into Cas’s view.

“Hey,” he calls out quietly.

Cas looks up and a million different emotions flicker over his face. Despite Dean’s terror or his held breath, Cas’s eyes eventually settle into something kind. Of course.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Cas asks.

Dean takes that as his invitation to intrude, and he climbs the two steps up into the library space. After only a second of hesitation, he sits in the seat directly across from Cas, setting his tea down in front of him. “Nah. Too wound up from everything, I guess.”

“Mmm,” Cas hums in understanding, but he’s not looking at Dean. He’s looking at Dean’s mug. “When did you start drinking tea?” His eyes skitter from the plain mug back to the semi-finished crane in his hands, and he frowns down at the fold he’s making that won’t seem to meet the angle that he’s is looking for. “I distinctly remember you telling Sam that ‘Leaf drinks are for losers and bean drinks are for real adults’.”

Dean opens his mouth to answer Cas’s question but pauses instead. “Did I really say that?”

“Yes. A few months ago when you two were fighting over the caffeine properties of tea and coffee.”

“Man, I’m losing my edge. That’s a terrible comeback.”

“Sam seemed to think so, too.”

Cas’s hands look golden in the half-lit library. They do their secret weaving, their crafting, painted by the soft yellow light glowing off of the table lamp next to them. Dean watches where Cas’s fingers fold one corner over to another without any sort of hurry but without any sort of hesitance either. Cas creases the fold with the edge of his thumbnail. Sturdy and ancient and young and handsome and too-wise and too-gullible and no sense of humor and the funniest person Dean’s ever met.

And good. Good right down to his everything.

“I started drinking tea tonight,” Dean finally says after the pause between them. “First time for everything.”

“Any particular reason for the ‘change of heart’?”

“Well, Chuck’s gone. You’re back. I figured now’s as good a time as any to hang up the beer goggles for good.”

That makes Cas look up again, surprise on his face. “You’re going to quit drinking beer?”

“I’m gonna quit drinking. Or try, at least.” There’s something fidgety in him at the admittance because something that sounds so surface level is so deep. He knows Cas knows it too, which makes the twitchiness even worse. He pushes the handle of the mug in front of him back and forth. “‘Sides, this tea stuff smells a lot better than liquor does. Don’t tell Sam I said that.”

Cas is still watching him like he has something to say about Dean’s newfound shot at sobriety. Dean doesn’t know if he can handle it.

“I won’t tell Sam,” is all Cas says eventually. “Besides, I’m the one who picked out that tea for Jack to help him sleep. So Sam need be none-the-wiser.”

And that’s that. Dean lets out the breath he was holding while a new sort of quiet settles over them, and the steam from Dean’s tea floats up into his face and smells like licorice. The ceramic of the mug is hot between his palms. It’s nice because something about it feels like hope in a way that Dean has never experienced before, no matter how fragile it may be. Not hope in the face of an adversary, but hope because of the lack of one. Here in this still library, Cas’s paper cranes are no longer finite resources. The dozens stuffed into his bedside table will grow into hundreds. Hopefully. Hopefully.

There’s a being stuffed inside of this six-foot-frame in front of Dean that’s actually stories tall, with a face like a barn owl and with tiny feathers haloing its head that have tiny eyes blinking out of them. All kind and familiarly blue. The body of some sort of lion and the spindly fingers of something Dean doesn’t think he’s ever encountered before but that held him like he had even before Cas realized who he was. Somehow, Dean thinks if he squints he can still see that creature somewhere in the line of Cas’s throat and the flutter of his eyelids when he blinks. It makes him wonder what a creature as infinite as Cas gets out of doing origami. Or listening to Britney Spears. Or watching Dean’s Westerns.

Dean is reaching out his tea-warmed hand before he realizes he’s doing it, only catching himself at the last second when the very tips of his finger nudge the side of Cas’s left hand. Immediately, Cas’s movements around the paper cease. Everything inside of Dean’s head is screaming at him to retreat, but he can’t get his muscles to move now that he’s bridged the gap enough to feel even the barest hint of Cas’s skin against his.

Cas stares down at Dean’s fingers. This is it. This terrifying moment of acknowledgment of a feeling Dean has been suppressing for years. Coming to fruition like it doesn’t know its own weight, a bull in a China shop. But after all this time, it doesn’t end up breaking any of the fragile ceramic, and it turns out the bull actually just wanted to buy a saucer. The bull doesn’t even know how terrifying it looks from this side of things. These feelings- this- this love that curls in Dean’s throat has horns and it holds a teacup so gently.

His face is hot and nervous, and he can’t even hide it all the way when Cas looks up at him fully.

“Dean?” he asks while he tilts his head just- just a little bit. The Cas way. Even though Dean was afraid of rejection or some sort of disregard, Cas mostly just looks worried.

He knows that no words are gonna come out but he opens his mouth anyway. His bottom lip trembles as he breathes out so heavy it might as well be its own sentence. But it’s not. Cas watches him with familiar blue eyes that are pinched up right now.

The thing is, I love you. This you and that you and it doesn’t even matter what you. You’re it for me, you dumb bastard.

They’re together in the yellow low light and that’s the most important thing that has ever happened in Dean’s miserable life. Existing in this slice of nightly peace that no one can take away from them because there’s no one to come take it. There’s a cup of tea in front of Dean and there’s a half-finished paper crane in front of Cas and their feet could bump together underneath the table if Dean shuffled forward a few inches. Their hands are touching at just that minuscule point of contact that’s shyer than a songbird.

Dean licks his dry lips and holds Cas’s eyes for a few seconds longer because he can’t be too cowardly to at least do that even though he can’t get his mouth to say what he’s thinking. But maybe- maybe who needs something as boring as a vocal love confession when the creature you’re in love with ain’t even human.

He closes his eyes and bows his head.

Hey Castiel, he starts. The response is immediate. A sharp intake of breath, the hand still touching his twitching in surprise. Hope you have your ears on. Got something important I have to tell ya.

I’ve never really been good at saying this sorta stuff out loud, or just- at all. But I was never really good at praying until I met you either, so. People can change.

You told me I changed you. like you’re not the one who dragged me out of Hell and made me feel like… I want to tell you, it’s just hard. A few too many shitty holdups will do that to you, I guess. I think I’ve been holding my tongue for a while. Didn’t know whether I didn’t wanna make myself uncomfortable or make you uncomfortable. Maybe both.

I wanna tell you that you pulling me out of Hell is the best thing that ever happened to me. And- and I mean it. Not just the saving me part but the you part, too, ya know. You’re my best friend.

And-

And I love you, too.

Cas’s hand moves then, a flash of motion, as he grabs Dean’s fingers into his palm and holds them tight. A moment of massive emotion that needs comfort and witness, like when you’re scared of heights and you’re climbing slow up to the peak of a rollercoaster, so you cling to the person beside you. When your stomach turns over and you need to be weighed down more than anything.

And I- maybe this is the coward’s way out, but if I didn’t tell you like this, I don’t know when I would have. And you deserve to know, Cas. ‘Cause I really mean it.

“Dean,” Cas says out loud. It startles through the silence that was being filled by Dean’s internal words and makes his eyes fly open. Across from him, Cas is soft and disbelieving. Lips parted in shock and eyebrows pulled and he’s-

Oh, god, he’s crying.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

Dean swallows. “Don’t have to say anything,” his voice on the razor-edge of cracking, wetter than it’s been in years without him actually shedding tears.

“Don’t have to say anything?” Cas replies incredulously. His eyes are wide, wide, desperate and overjoyed. “I don’t even know… where to start. Dean, you…?” The fingers holding Dean’s squeeze, not in a reassuring way, but like holding on for dear life, holding on to the wisps of a dream.

And maybe Dean is the one who doesn’t know what to say and not the other way around. He wants to tell Cas he loves him, out loud with his big boy words, but that’s not a realistic option for him right now. Every twitching molecule of his body wants to reassure Castiel that, yes, Dean does feel that way- really, really, really- after all of these years and moments shared and, fuck, how could Dean not love him? But that love is so big, and Dean is so small.

He’s a grown man who knows less than a child. Forty-two years under his belt, and in all that time no one taught him how to say I love you. It’s pathetic.

It makes his eyebrows set low in hurt. He looks down at the tea in front of him so that he doesn’t have to meet Cas’s eyes anymore because he doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to say what Cas deserves to hear. Cas’s hand is warm and holding and alive around Dean’s in miracle fashion.

“I’m really glad you’re home, Cas,” he finally confesses in a voice too high-pitched and emotional to be his own. Just ‘cause they’re not the right words doesn’t mean they’re not the truth. In fact, Dean wonders how long it’s been since he said something that he meant so much.

There’s a moment of silence that Dean can’t gauge when he’s avoiding Cas’s gaze like this, but it’s broken when Cas gently lets go of Dean’s sweaty fingers and pushes back his chair to stand, its legs scratching against the cement floor. Dean's eyes startle up at the change in atmospheric pressure, the loss of skin-to-skin contact, just to find Cas rounding the squared end of the table. He tracks him as he goes, until Cas stops right there beside Dean, looking down at him. Slowly, slowly- Dean loses his breath- Cas lowers himself to a kneel at the side of Dean’s chair, so that his chin is level with the wooden armrest that separates Dean’s space from Cas’s space.

That is the only thing separating them now.

The only thing.

Years and years and so- so much- and Hell and Heaven and Dean being Dean and pushing it all away and never thinking that Cas could ever- never-

And here. What was once a universe of barricades has been whittled down to two weak pieces of wood nailed to each other.

He has to turn a little to his left. He looks down at Cas. Cas looks up at him.

“Took us long enough, huh?” Dean says, and if he doesn’t hold his jaw this tight he’ll start crying.

Cas’s hand raises and falls into the spot it was always supposed to fall, right there just below Dean’s left shoulder. Blue eyes peer up at him, full of stars and that shiny thing that unshed tears do. “It took us as long as it had to.”

Dean’s head tilts in thoughtful hurt, in fondness that stretches. “Cas,” he whispers.

There’s an angel in that body that’s actually the size of a skyscraper. Right now, that angel is kneeling at Dean’s feet.

Castiel, he prays, holding Cas’s eyes, stand up.

Without question or further prompting, Castiel rises. He’s just looking down at Dean with curiosity and contentment, and for some reason this feels so much more right, so much better. The looking up at him. Wanting more. Not even the wooden armrest is in between them now, just the air and Dean’s inability to ask for the things he craves.

Castiel, he prays again. They hold eyes like holding hands, and Cas is waiting for whatever Dean will think next. A secret that they’re both in on. Dean’s gut is churning. Even in prayer, his brain is slow to form around the words because he’s so scared and he- he wants this thing that he’s always wanted but now that he’s got it he doesn’t know how to get it and he wants- he wants-

Kiss me- “Kiss me.” His voice is choked gravel. He didn’t even mean to say it out loud.

His head is already tilted up and Cas’s head is already tilted down, and he doesn’t ask if Dean is sure or not. He doesn’t look half as scared as Dean feels, but his blue eyes are welling up with tears again. The beautiful, glowing, weaving hand that had been on Dean’s shoulder moves upwards to cradle his cheek instead. There is no internal struggle of whether Dean should lean into it or not. He wants to. He does.

Cas bends at the waist while he uses the palm on Dean’s cheek to guide his mouth just a little higher, a little more to the left, and then Cas is pressing in.

It’s the coming home kiss.

It’s the hot, chapped lips on that face and that body that shelters the Holy Castiel, that meet Dean’s in robin-feather love- orange like its little round chest. Oh- Oh- and Please- and Thank You. It’s the crossing every T and dotting every I kiss. Sitting in a bath of pleasantly heated candle wax that never hardens but that moves with the body and lingers, smells like patchouli and lavender.

Their lips are touching, and then their tongues are touching, and it’s not a metaphor at all.

Castiel. Dean sighs shaking and wordless into Cas’s mouth as he prays, my best friend, I love you. My best friend, I love you. My best friend-

“I love you,” Cas says against his lips. “I love you, Dean.”

Dean’s hands find their way into Cas’s hair, one at the crown of his head and the other at the nape of his neck, and Dean holds on. They fall silent to each other again. Dean isn’t even sure when he had closed his eyes, but they’re certainly closed now. This is a moment for savoring, not for seeing. Goosebumps rise on Dean’s arms as the seconds tick by, at the wet drag of Cas’s lips and at the dry drag of his stubble. And at the sparking thought of it being Cas at all. So much wanting. Here they are. Thank you, Dean thinks, and he doesn’t even care who he’s thanking, or if there’s anyone out there to listen.

Cas pulls away with a soft wet smack that is one of the most chaste things Dean has ever heard but that still makes him want to blush for some reason. Guess ‘cause it was his and Cas’s mouths and all. He’s jittery with it when there’s enough distance between them that they can lock eyes again. Those crane-folding fingers are still cupping Dean’s cheek.

The years are right here in the room with them. That day, that moment, when Cas’s hand seared a print into Dean’s skin and lifted him from damnation to a different kind of hell hole, a different kind of Apocalypse, and yet- When did they become unlikely friends? When did they fall in love? Maybe it doesn’t matter at all and maybe it’s the most important thing that’s ever happened to Dean.

Because he is. In love. It’s old at the same time that it’s vibrant new. It aches here. It feels like snowflakes hitting his skin in delicate lace and in white blanketing, his head tipped back to catch the tiny miracles on his tongue.

And it’s Cas and it’s Cas and it always has been.

“Right… so…” Dean’s nose is runny from the tears lodged in his throat and his sniffles. “Um-” his voice breaks and he feels like a loser teenager. “That was nice.”

“Yes, it- it was very nice,” Cas nods. He’s smiling. Dean can’t remember the last time he saw Cas smiling like that.

Keep it cool, Winchester. He’s still your best friend.

“Well, we- we could, ya know… again.” Bout as cool as the Amazon Rainforest there. Dean takes a breath. “I want to. If you want to.” Kiss, hold hands, exist in this space knowing that they both love each other a whole lot.

“I would- I would like that.”

Dean pushes out his chair to stand, stepping around it so that it’s just him and Cas now, a foot away from each other. Cas is there in his trenchcoat, in all his splendor, watching Dean. When Dean reaches out to him, there’s a minute tremor in his hands that only stops when they finally land on either one of Cas’s cheeks. “Okay,” he says, “Okay, we can- I mean, I can-”

“Yes,” Cas says, “whatever you’d like.”

So Dean is leaning in to kiss him again. Cas is kissing him back. They’re kissing. The first kiss was a backlog that made up for years, that confirmed everything, that wasted the secrets and the wants like cleaning cobwebs from the back corners of a wardrobe. Now, this kiss makes Dean feel so aware of his body that he may as well have unlocked a sixth sense, a superpower that makes his toes curl in his slippers and his lungs flutter in his chest.

The warmth of Cas’s palm lands on the curve of Dean’s bent elbow and stays there. Dean wonders what other parts of his body are warm, how they might feel against Dean’s skin without the barrier of his robe getting in the way. He wonders what it’d be like to kiss down Cas’s neck and mean something new with every press of his lips- just under Cas’s jaw, down to his Adam’s apple, seeing what those collar bones look like under that white dress shirt because Dean’s so tired of waiting.

There’s a stray animal shivering to life under Dean’s skin. He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Cas’s, and he’s the only one of them breathing heavy because Cas doesn’t need to breathe. “We could- uh- go to my room. If you wanted.”

This close, Dean can feel the almost unnoticeable twitch of Cas’s body. “You mean to…”

“To anything you want.”

“What do you want, Dean?” Cas murmurs just for Dean to hear even though there’s no one else here. Huddled together as if there isn’t a whole empty room around them.

When Dean licks his lips out of nervous habit the tip of his tongue almost brushes Cas’s mouth. “I was thinking we could-”

“We’ve had years of ‘could’s’. We can. I want to know what you want.”

The permission of the statement floods the line of Dean’s spine with something needy, something content. “I want to take you to my room,” he confesses. “I’d like it if you came to my room with me.”

“I’d- I’d like it if you took me there.”

And the paper crane sits on the table unfinished, and the clove bedtime tea sits out to get cold.

…

Cas’s arms are strong and they’re supporting where they wrap around Dean’s torso. It makes him feel okay, and it makes him wonder what he was ever scared of. Good not just ‘cause it’s fantastic sex but because there’s a warm body that he can lean against and trust that it won’t collapse under his weight, in more ways than one. The sweaty, muscled chest that’s pressed along Dean’s back feels better than it has any right to, and the strong thighs under his own feel like a cradle.

He tips his head back to rest on Cas’s shoulder. He’s so safe.

“Cas,” his voice is caught between a sigh and a gasp. “Oh-”

Dean can feel it when Cas’s lips press to the stretched muscle between his neck and his shoulder. It’s suede soft, damp and lingering, until it’s not a sexy, teasing sort of kiss at all, but a love token. A little peck that you would use to wake up your sweetheart in the morning when there’s no rush, when you want to be the first thing that crosses their mind when they open their eyes to the new day. Cas’s lips stay there in an inky stamp and they say more than words could hope to. Dean feels it in his bones.

Reaching behind himself, Dean wraps his arm just under Cas’s ribs, where the give of his waist is. “I know.” His voice is softer than he’s heard it in years, filled with pillow feathers. “I gotcha. I got you, too. We can- we can, Cas.” That feather tone turns into a swan, beading wet.

“Dean.” It’s a whisper right there next to Dean’s ear.

They’re rocking like molasses, like they have all the time in the world, and it’s because they do. Because Dean rescued Cas in the ultimate reverse Uno and now they’re both home. Here, Dean gets the honor of holding Cas in his body. That’s what it feels like anyway.

Cas who has five heads and who’s the size of the Chrysler Building. Cas who’s been wearing this body for the last twelve years until it’s become his own in a way that is undeniable.

And knowing what Cas is- that massive, holy, gentle beast- makes it so easy for Dean to cut the strings connecting his brain to the tension of his body until he’s settling the entire weight of himself against Cas because he knows that Cas can hold him. Dean’s eyes flutter shut and roll up into that darkness. His jaw hangs open in ease. The very ends of the hair that curls down behind Cas’s ear is just long enough to tickle Dean’s forehead.

They’re moving together, just barely. There’s pleasure right there in the center of him.

“Feels good,” Dean breathes. Inch by inch, he lets himself see the light. Lets himself fall apart. “Yeah.”

Cas presses a kiss to Dean’s exposed throat now, and Dean is in seventh heaven. It’s easy like this- the way it should be. Easy to be close and easy to feel good and easy to touch with something that means more than just fucking. Cas’s hips push until Cas is all of the way inside of him, and this time Dean really does gasp. The butterfly satisfaction of feeling his body accommodate, to take Cas in, will be on record repeat in Dean’s brain for days to come, he already knows it.

If his mattress had springs in it, it’d be creaking under the movement of their bodies. Instead, the memory foam huffs and puffs quietly.

“Dean-” Cas says again in a tripping voice. “Dean- I-”

It’s emotional enough to stir worry in Dean’s chest. He’s tempted to slow their movements even further, but he’s pretty sure if they went any slower they’d just be stopped. So instead he asks, “Okay?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, and Dean feels whatever slight anxiety that had crawled back into the line of his shoulders evaporate again. “I’m just- I’m very happy.”

For some reason, it’s like those words shift Dean’s perspective just a few inches to one side. Until it’s not just that they’re fucking, or even making love, but that Cas is also hugging him. That, yeah, they’re having sex for the first time. How many times have they even hugged before this? Six times? Ten at most? That this is the first time they’re having sex and earlier tonight it was the first time that they’d kissed, and yet somehow the way Cas’s arms wrap around Dean’s torso is just as miraculous as any of those other things. So many years of not touching, of making up excuses to do the holding, and now they just… can.

And Dean- It makes Dean very happy, too.

He finds himself smiling with teeth and upturned lips that don’t hide anything. No clouds around that sun. “Me too, Cas. I- I’m real happy, too.” Just like everything else tonight, once he’s said it, it’s not as scary to admit as he thought it would be.

The way Cas is still rocking into him feels wonderful. Little reminding presses that say I’m here, I’m here, and that just barely move Dean’s body with them. There’s no one that Dean would trust more with the task at hand.

Speaking of hands, the one that’s resting to the left of Dean’s too-thin lower belly starts inching further down until it hits the edge of his pubes. It stops there precariously.

“Would it be alright if I… continued?” Cas asks, sincere and gentle. A real question that merits a real answer, not just something that he’s saying because he feels like he has to.

Now’s not the time for jokes or snide remarks. There’s too much fleece contentment here to ruin it with a Well, you’re already inside of me, aren’t you? or Yeah, how else does do you think sex works?

Dean says softly, “Yeah, you can. I want you to.”

He expects Cas’s hand to continue its travels south with Dean’s blessing, but it stays in place. The fingertips pet shy through the dark curls there. “I’ve- never done this before. I know, obviously, the mechanics of- the machine, but I- I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Never did it to yourself?” Dean asks with real curiosity.

“I tried, but it was too strange. And… I may have started chafing.”

Dean huffs a laugh that brings his body up a little and then he settles back easily into Cas’s chest. “Weirdly, I kinda get where you’re coming from. Here,” he grabs Cas’s right hand into his own, in identical overlapping knuckles, so that Cas’s palm is on the inside and bared. “You won’t hurt me, promise.” He guides their connected hands the last few inches to where his cock is hard, curling his own fingers in and making Cas’s fingers curl with them, until they’re both forming a delicate holding ring. Nothing crazy happens, ya know, besides the fact that it’s Cas’s hand on his dick. “See. Just skin and stuff.”

“Very sensitive skin,” Cas grumbles, “that could very easily become irritated.”

It just makes Dean smile wider. “You’re being a drama queen. It’s a dick, not the quantum physics of the moon landing. Think you can presto up some more lube like you did earlier?”

“Yes, where?”

“In your hand.”

“Alright.”

Then the area is slick, just like that. A hand and some lube is a feeling that Dean has gotten embarrassingly familiar with these last few years. Cas’s hand being added to the mix, though, is a new one.

“There,” he sighs, watching the stutter of their hands from where his hips hitch up because Cas is still pushing into him from behind. He prompts Cas’s fingers tighter and then moves the pressure down in a slow, even stroke. It makes his breath catch and his toes curl in the bedsheets. “Fuck.” A fluttering whisper.

“This is-” Cas says right there beside Dean’s ear, “I feel like I’ve wanted…”

“Me, too.” It doesn’t even matter how Cas was gonna finish that sentence because Dean’s right there with him.

“It feels wonderful to touch you,” Cas confesses.

Dean’s skin feels blushing red with warmth. He feels so good. He likes that Cas likes touching him. “Think you got the hang of it?” He squeezes Cas’s fingers in his in reference.

“Yes, I- you can let go now.”

So Dean lets go and relieves himself of his guiding duties. Now it’s less like an alternate version of masturbation and a whole lot more like Cas is jacking him off. That strong hand that doesn’t seem overzealous but no longer seems scared, either. It tugs at Dean’s dick at a low pace that’s only slightly faster than the way Cas is fucking into him. Definitely slower than Dean usually goes when he’s getting himself off, and at first it makes him get cravings, makes him want to push up and take and take until he comes, but that urge settles out of him after a few good strokes. It’s nice like this. It’s sturdy. There is no question of intention and there’s no rush. Cas’s fingers are so precise, the slick friction of them-

“Oh,” Dean breathes. His lungs hitch. His hips don’t know whether to push up or down. And then Cas’s thumb is rubbing at the head, against the slit where there’s precome pooling, and Dean’s whole body tenses. There’s a moan stuck in the back of his teeth that he holds in because he already knows it’s gonna be the loud, embarrassing kind. Instead, maybe no less embarrassingly, a whimper takes its place.

Cas seems happy with that reaction and keeps at his gentle polishing. It turns Dean’s brain mushy where he watches. He whimpers again, then a third time. It feels so good that he almost wants to get away. It feels so good that he never wants it to stop. His limbs start a restless shifting like that will provide him with some sort of outlet for it all, a placeholder for the moans that he’s keeping caught in his throat.

A few seconds later, Cas is back to his rhythmic stroking. Somehow it feels better than before even though Dean doesn’t think he’s going any faster. Just fast enough. Cas’s breath is quick and hot against Dean’s cheek. There’s heated, curling honey in Dean’s stomach from the fact that Cas is getting pleasure from this, too. That Cas is pushing into Dean’s body and that Dean’s body is holding Cas close and tight and making him feel good. Dean likes that so much, he-

“Fuck, Cas,” he whispers through clenched teeth.

“You’re being very quiet.”

Oh. A little bit of modesty, a little bit of shame. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Cas turns just barely to kiss the stubble on Dean’s jaw. He sighs there. It’s a soft, warm sigh like cream cashmere that wraps Dean up with it. “Don’t apologize. Just-” Cas’s left hand that had been petting over Dean’s belly moves upwards now to touch Dean’s bared throat. “You’re holding tension here. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Dean closes his eyes and swallows. “No, no, you’re right. I just don’t wanna be too loud, I guess.”

“For whose sake?”

Shaking his head from side to side in little movements, Dean says, “I don’t know.”

“As long as it’s not for mine.” A press in, a pull out. “I think I’d like to hear it.”

Dean bites his bottom lip, sucks on it with nerves. “It’s embarrassing,” he admits.

“Why? It just means that you’re experiencing pleasure, doesn’t it?”

“That’s the embarrassing part.”

For the first time since Cas got inside of him, all of the movement stops. The stillness is marble-cold and heartbreaking. Cas lets go of Dean’s cock and it falls to the side, hard and red. It makes Dean feel like he could cry in a way that has nothing to do with blue balls and everything to do with the loss of touch, but his preemptive tears are remedied by both of Cas’s arms wrapping around him in a hug like they had earlier in the night. They hold on even tighter now, though.

Cas is kissing Dean’s temple. “Oh, Dean,” he says. “Oh, Dean. Oh, Dean. I am- I’m so sorry.”

Okay, maybe those tears are still behind Dean’s eyes after all. He feels like he should say something but he doesn’t know what.

It’s okay because Cas continues on in Dean’s silence. “Your pleasure isn’t embarrassing, it’s miraculous. It’s beautiful. I- I love you so much, Dean.” Cas’s hips start their rocking again, and Dean gasps wet with it. “That’s what this is. This is- This is me loving you in a way that is impossible to replicate. There is inherent pleasure in the act because of what it is, but there’s other pleasure, too, that’s- if you’re embarrassed, know that I don’t think it’s embarrassing at all. The love I have for you doesn’t stop at your shame.”

Dean is trembling in Cas’s hold. It’s too much for him and it’s everything that he needed to hear and maybe that’s why he’s shaking. He wants to believe it so bad.

“I don’t- I’m not sure how to,” he admits. There’s honesty peeking out of him that hasn’t seen the sun in decades. “How do I-?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas says regretfully. “Maybe it’s enough to not be afraid of it. To not be afraid of me.”

But Dean isn’t afraid of Cas, he’s just afraid of losing him. He just got him back. He just got a kiss. He just got to hold him. And what if he scares all that good away by liking it too much? That’s what happens when Dean holds onto something too tight, and it starts its squirming and it slips between his sweaty palms out into the world, lost forever. Cas has been lost forever too many times to count. What’s Dean supposed to do with that then? With the loving and the leaving?

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Cas’s arms wrap him up, pull him in, and he’s surrounded so that he’s weighed down into something that feels a whole lot like staying. There’s a kiss to Dean’s temple, again, then his cheek, and his jaw, and his neck. His neck over and over again, right where his main artery is pulsing with blood. “Never,” Cas promises.

His pace of thrusting picks up just slightly. Dean wants to feel good from it because he does. He does feel good and he wants to be not scared and he wants to be touched with love and not feel a sense of doom in his bones.

Cas is in his ear, “You’ll never lose me again. Never again, Dean. I’m here. I’m not going to leave you. I’ll hold you just like this every night if you allow me to.”

There’s a hand sneaking down again, lube-fresh and slick, to wrap around Dean’s erection.

This time when it grabs hold, Dean lets his soul out.

Because those fingers are strong and long and they’re Cas’s. And Cas said it was okay, and Cas said he wouldn’t leave, even if Dean fucks up or can’t say I love you or moans too loud in the echoey, too-small bedroom.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to leave, I’m right here.”

“Ahh,” Dean moans between parted lips.

“I’m here.” Cas is breathless. “It’s okay to feel pleasure. It’s not embarrassing.”

That’s good, too, Cas’s deep voice. His hand works Dean over and Dean is full of him-

“Cas-“ he chokes up to the ceiling, where Cas’s ear is just inches from his mouth. “Oh, shit. I- I-” He’s whining now, with the way Cas’s fingers are so wet and hot right where Dean wants them. He can’t resist pressing forward, humping into them, only to realize that moving backward sets Cas even deeper into him. “Oh-”

His bangs are falling loose with the movement, and the short strands stick to his forehead.

“Yes. Yes, Dean,” Cas groans. It’s so hot- It’s so-

“Fuck. You feel so good. You can- please-” and Dean doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. More of this maybe. He’s going to shake out of his own skin so that he can feel all of Cas directly on his muscles, a steroid shot in his bloodstream.

“Anything.” Cas is kissing at Dean’s neck again, and there are so many goddamn points of contact between them. Before Cas got taken, Dean would be lucky to give or get a pat on the shoulder and he’d have to have won the fucking lottery to get even the barest amount of skin-on-skin action. Now- he’d have an easier time telling which parts of himself aren’t touching Cas than which ones are. Surrounded like this, it reminds Dean of when Cas’s trueform held him close.

Anything, Cas had said.

Please don’t let go. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t think I don’t love you- need you- just because I can’t say it-

“Please don’t stop,” he chokes out.

His words seem to set something loose in Cas, and maybe Dean wasn’t the only one of them holding back from the other. Cas legs bend and rise on the inner sides of Dean’s and then they’re pushing out, just barely, just gently, so that Dean’s own legs are forced to spread further. It’s like he wants at Dean. Wants more, closer, even as he’s not any harsher for it. He doesn’t open Dean up in order to pound into him hard and fast, he opens Dean to open him. To push those hips into where Dean wants to take.

It’s deeper like this too, where Cas can get more leverage.

Up and in until Dean is both full and held at the same time.

“Cas-” A gasp. “Sweetheaaart-”

When he was in his twenties, Dean would wonder what it’d be like for someone to love him. He didn’t wonder about it that often because it was a little depressing to think about the fact that it’d never happen, not with the life he lived, but sometimes… When Sam was at Stanford and John would be out of the motel room looking for food or coffee or both in the still early morning, Dean would lay on his side on a lumpy mattress and under scratchy sheets, and he’d gaze out the window into the weak light that happens right after sunrise. With no one watching but the dirty window blinds, he would imagine that there was someone out there just waiting for him. A person who he would unclench his jaw for and unclench his fists for and when they saw what he’d been hiding in his palms- all of the blood and the scars and the misery, the dirtiness- they wouldn’t push his outstretched arm away with a look of disgust. Instead… maybe they would help him wash his hands. How do you admit that to anything more sentient than motel blinds? That you want someone to help you wash your hands?

It took so long and it took more heartbreak than a single soul could bear, but Dean thinks he finally has an answer for that twenty-something-year-old.

Having someone love him feels a lot like this.

Dean is whining now. Whining like he hasn’t since the first time he got a blowjob and thought that he’d seen the Pearly Gates. Now that Dean’s seen the real Pearly Gates, that first blowjob actually might have been better than them. He feels that same young spark, though, where things just feel so good that you can’t hold your tongue because if you did you’d explode from the pressure. Because there’s pressure, alright. In his throat and in his stomach and in his balls until he’s stretched so thin that the sunlight pleasure of this exact moment shines through him.

His sweaty bangs cling steadfast to the surface of his forehead now. It’s shining in perspiration from the exertion, and the smallest bead of sweat finds its way down Dean’s temple and across his cheekbone. He feels alive with it, animal with it, his warm insides.

“Huh- huh- huh-hnnng- Fuck! C-Cas- Cas, I-”

Drunk on the feeling, out of his mind and inside of his body.

Cas holds him and moans, “You sound so wonderful- You sound amazing, Dean. And being close to you-” Dean’s soul fragments- “Inside of you. We’re connected. After all these years- after- after-” And then Cas is choking out, “Dean, I’m so close.”

Dean’s sloppy, open mouth can’t form words. He tries and all that comes out are puffs of air that are barely sentient.

Castiel, make me come, he prays with no fear. It’s barely dirty talk, closer to a needy request.

Cas growls in his ear and Dean’s insides turn to liquid. “How?”

Faster. Need it faster. Give it to me, sweetheart.

Oh, how Cas delivers. The hand on Dean’s cock and the pace of Cas’s thrusts both pick up, pinning Dean between that pleasure until he may as well be cradled by it. Too lovely to be violent, too tender to be anything other than an orgasm between his eyeballs like a freight train that isn’t even close to stopping. Not when Cas is hitting his prostate like that.

The noises he’s making aren’t words. Cas’s body is a throne under him. Dean wants to reach down between his legs, underneath himself, and put his fingertips against the spot where Cas’s dick is disappearing into his body. Instead, he throws his arm back with a strain of his shoulder in order to clutch at Cas’s waist.

Like that- Gonna make me come.

“F-fuck- Dean-” The curse word sounds foreign in Cas’s mouth and so much more fevered for it. Dean can practically hear the set of Cas’s teeth, the clench of his jaw, right above Dean’s ear. “I’m- I think I’m about to-”

And Dean wants that inside of him. “Yeah-” he finally manages out, but that’s damn near all he can say through his too-wet tongue and his too-dry lips. “Yeah- pl- yeah-”

“You too,” Cas pleads. “Come. Please come. I want you to- You deserve to-”

It pulls him to pieces between one breath and the next as he comes sharp and hot. There’s a noise in his throat that’s as sturdy as a house, loud in his own ears and probably even louder in Cas’s, but that’s alright. That’s what happens when you feel pleasure. Cas’s arms hold him tight as he squirms, as his legs tense and try to shut on instinct, even though Cas’s legs are in the way.

“Shhh- shhhi-t-” Dean turns his nose into the side of Cas’s neck and growls, whines, when everything in him clamps down. The muscles in his abdomen are so tight that it almost aches.

“Dean.” Cas is gasping out his name, over and over, and then he’s turning to stone underneath Dean, following in his footsteps. Taut and wound up, somehow Cas’s arms grip him even tighter as he makes a punched out, “Oh-”. Then he’s coming inside of Dean.

They’re both shaking. Trembling aftershocks get a hold of both of their bodies and turn them into crunched up autumn leaves, breaking dry at their veins on some sidewalk in the suburbs. God. God. It takes a second, but Dean can feel it when his lungs finally restart.

The dust settles. They’re still wrapped up together even though it feels like this all should have magically disappeared as soon as Dean came, like it was some lonely, horny fever dream. But Cas’s body is right there under him, and Cas’s hand is reaching to touch Dean’s hipbone.

“You… may have to be the one to move first.”

And of course, Cas is right with the position they’re currently in. There’s a yawn pulling at Dean’s mouth and he’s sleepy in a way he hasn’t been in years, the only thing stopping him from going lights out is the fact that Cas’s soft dick is still in him. Usually, with sex, that sorta thing loses its novelty after Dean blows his load, but now he doesn’t know whether the thought makes him want to shiver or bloom in happy blushing. He might actually be doing both already.

“Yeah- right, okay.”

He lifts his hips and Cas sorta slips out and it’s the weirdest sensation of all time. Dean’s nose wrinkles and his lips pull back in distaste. He feels the gentle press of fingertips against his ribcage and then Dean is miraculously free of come, both Cas’s and his own. Then it’s done, and Dean’s satisfied bones can finally rest easy. A sigh that’s definitely a little dreamy seep out of his lungs and into the air as he moves himself to the side of Cas on this small bed, both of them on their backs, shoulders smushed together.

Dean wants- he opens his mouth but the words stay firmly stuck in his throat. He licks his lips and tries again. “We should- we could- if you wanted-”

“Yes?” Cas says, almost like he’s hopeful.

Again, oh, again, there was never anything to be afraid of, was there?

“There’s not- uh- not a lot of room for us like this, if you wanted to- condense.”

“How so?”

“Here.” Dean scooches himself closer to the center of the bed, giving Cas a gentle hip check that makes it so if he doesn’t overlap some of his body mass with Dean’s he’ll fall off the side of the mattress. Dean pulls at Cas’s shoulder to turn him over the rest of the way, and then they’re laying with Dean on his back and Cas curled up against Dean’s chest. His hand rests on Dean’s right pec. “Like this. If this is okay.”

“You’ve truly outdone yourself, Dean,” Cas mumbles like he’s the one about to fall asleep even though he doesn’t need it. “To call this just ‘okay’ is insulting.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth twitch up as he fights back a proud smile. “Yeah, it is pretty nice, huh? Think you can zap the comforter so it’s on top of us? My junk’s hanging out and it’s cold.” Within a second blink, their bare bodies are under the lovely weight of a blanket. Dean wiggles his toes in delight. “Oh, hell yes. Now we’re talking.”

Dean looks down the line of his nose and Cas looks up the line of his eyelashes and they watch each other for a second. Cas’s cheeks are rosy, and he’s smiling in a way that crinkles his eyes. His head tilts like he’s too content or too tired to keep it upright.

“We just had sex,” Dean blurts.

Cas eyebrows raise like Dean just announced that a miraculous new planet was discovered, even though Cas was just as active in the sex as Dean was. “We… just had sex,” Cas repeats.

“Holy shit.” And Dean is breathless, grinning. He licks his lips. “I can’t believe that just happened. We had sex. Awesome, ground-breaking, Inception-level cinematic sex.”

“It was cinematic, wasn’t it?”

“Dude. Big screen cinema. Surround sound.” Cas is looking up at him from Dean’s chest so fondly that Dean’s heart pounds once, twice. “And- and now I can do this, huh?” Dean pulls his arm up from under the covers and puts it on the crown of Cas’s head instead. He cradles the solid bone through the soft hair as he pets down until his hand lands just behind Cas’s ear.

“You can do that anytime and as often as you’d like,” Cas answers. He’s still smiling, and he blinks slowly like a contented cat. Like maybe he’d start purring if he could. Instead, he heaves a deep sigh. “You also… called me sweetheart,” he adds shyly.

A little noise is out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop it. “Uh- Did you- is that okay? Sorta spur of the moment- I guess-”

“Yes. No one has ever called me sweetheart before. I- I liked it.”

“Yeah?” Dean shimmies his shoulder down into the pillow. “Got plenty where that came from. There’s lots of pet names.”

“Pet names. I’ve heard that Spot is a popular name for dogs.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at him and huffs a laugh. “I’m not calling you Spot. I meant, like- coupley names, you know?”

“I don’t know, Dean.”

“Right. Well, there’s ‘Sweetheart’. There’s… ‘Baby’ is a popular one, but that one’s taken already. The Impala gets her own name.”

“Of course,” Cas agrees reasonably.

“Uhhh- there’s ‘Darling’. It’s nice, but I don’t utilize it much. Too formal, ya know? Hm. ‘Honey’ is also pretty popular. That’s a good one.”

Cas makes a face. “Honey. You mean, the product of flower pollination and bee regurgitation.”

“Damn, when you put it like that, sounds a lot less romantic. You're thinking about it wrong. It’s not ‘Honey’,” Dean says in a flat, plain voice.”It’s- It’s…” He lets himself soften, let’s his hand move through Cas’s hair again as he looks into those blue eyes, and he means it when he says, “Honey,” quietly, gently.

And those blue eyes widen and Cas’s mouth falls open just slightly. He looks enraptured. He breathes deeply in through his nose. “Yes, I- I misunderstood, before. Honey is a great thing to be called.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Is that what you’d like to be called?”

“Huh?”

“Well, these- pet names- they go both ways I assume? Meaning that you’d also have one?”

“Oh.” And sue Dean for being slightly taken aback. “I- uh- no one’s really given me one before either. I mean, maybe I got called babe sometimes, but-”

“So you don’t want one,” Cas says with understanding.

“That’s not what I meant.” Dean closes his eyes. Ugh. His brain is still sex tired and hazy, and talking out emotional shit feels like too much this close to the other side of his orgasm. “I want one.” His face is rosy. “Just- I don’t know which one I want. Why don’t you pick one for me?”

When he opens his eyes again, Cas is still watching him. Cas, of course, seems neither surprised nor bothered by the struggle Dean is having. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how knowing Cas is, how observant, when just a few months ago Dean had to explain the difference between Coke and Pepsi to him. Cas is a far cry from an idiot, and he knows Dean Winchester better than Dean knows the back of his own hand.

“I did enjoy you calling me sweetheart. May I try that?”

“Go for it.”

Cas’s blue eyes are crinkled around the edges and they see Dean and they don’t flinch. “Sweetheart,” Cas murmurs like a secret.

Dean’s heart is a figurine racehorse hoofing at the ground. He lets out a breath.

Something must be showing on his face, he doesn’t know what, because Cas smiles and says, “Yes, I like sweetheart, too. Sweetheart it is.” He watches Dean for a moment longer. “You’re tired.”

Dean doesn’t even have the energy to be a smartass. “Yeah, well. Been a hell of a day.”

“Sleep now,” Cas says with a certain finality, a certain holiness of Heaven slipping into his accent.

Dean’s eyelids are already drooping like all he needed was that little bit of permission, but he fights against them. “Whaddabout you?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Won’t leave if you get bored?’ Dean’s words are slurred.

“I won’t leave at all, my sweetheart.”

Dean is spacey, dreamy, and his lips twitch up in a happy sort of half-laugh. “‘Kay. ‘Kay, good.” A breath in, muscles relaxing down. It’s the easiest thing he’s ever said. “Love you, Cas.”

The last thing he hears is Cas saying it back.

…

The smell of breakfast wafts down the hallway into Dean’s room, and he’s happy enough about not having to cook that he doesn’t even bother mentally complaining about the fact that he knows he’s going to find veggie bacon in the kitchen. Sex with an angel, man. Talk about being put through the wringer.

He and Cas make the short trek together in an easy quietness. Dean’s too groggy to form words and there’s no coffee in his system yet, so any conversation would be a little moot anyway. This is something Cas has learned well, proven by the fact that he doesn’t even try to speak. Still, some things are different now even though other things haven’t changed at all. Dean’s brain doesn’t have any formal vocabulary bumping around, but his body knows what it wants, and he walks closer to Cas. Closer, closer, until the rest of their walk is made with their shoulders and biceps pressed together.

They round on the kitchen doorway like that to find Sam standing across the room at the stove. He turns at the sound of their footsteps.

“I hate you both so much.”

Dean blinks slow. Smacks his lips together. “Huh?”

“I- Sam- hate you. Ya know, that feeling of disgust you have for another person when you hear them fucking for an hour straight at three in the morning and one of those people is your brother and the other person is one of your best friends, so now you’ve heard the two grown men that you live with screwing like stray cats in a trailer park.”

“Ugh,” Dean groans and swipes a hand over his face. Need coffee. Half of Sam’s words don’t even sound like English. Beside him, Cas shifts and walks fully into the room, so Dean just sorta follows.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Cas says all earnestly. “That may have been my fault.”

“No, we’re not sorry,” Dean manages to grunt at the same time Sam replies, “No, you’re not.”

“I’m forty-two years old, man, not dead.” Dean finally, finally, makes his way over to the coffee machine where a pot is already brewed and waiting. He grabs a mug from the underhand cabinets and pours the liquid gold in. “Besides, we weren’t that bad. You’re just being a pussy.”

“Not that bad?” Sam waves the tongs in his hand around in agitation. “Dean, you were yowling.”

As soon as the coffee hits Dean’s lips, it’s like he’s suddenly aware of exactly what conversation he’s having. Which is that his little brother heard him getting an emotional cranking last night. From Cas. He very slowly lowers the mug from his mouth. “You- you were- yowling,” he stammers.

Sam breathes in deep through his nose and narrows his eyes at Dean before eventually, his shoulders slump. “Just- keep it down next time. For the sake of my sleep and my sanity.”

“Of course, it won’t happen again,” Cas says from where he’d sat down at the table.

In a way, that’s that and Sam seems appeased for the time being. But he doesn’t seem surprised. Which, how the hell is Dean supposed to take that? As far as Sam knows, Dean’s been straight this whole goddamn time, and most certainly not having sex with Cas.

“So, what, that’s it?” Dean asks with an immediate foot in his mouth.

“What?” Sam moves the skillet he’s cooking with from the stovetop to the counter nearby, where a cooling rack is already waiting.

“Cas and I had loud, old people sex last night and you don’t question it?”

“Dude.” Sam turns around to look at him. “First off, you’re the one who said old people sex, not me. Second off, I’m happy for both of you, okay? I didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable by making it a big deal ‘cause, I don’t know if you noticed, but you’re not exactly a Huggy Bear kind of guy. Thirdly, are you saying you want to talk about the sex you had? While Cas is also sitting right there?” Sam gestures to where Cas is sitting. When Dean glances over his own shoulder at him, Cas seems unphased by the conversation.

Dean whips back around to look at Sam again. “What? No! Just, aren’t you a little shocked? Isn’t this news to you?”

Sam sighs long and slow out of his nose. Tilts his head in that bitchy way. “Ten years ago, it would’a been. Hell, five years ago it would’a been. Today- right now? The only reason I’m shocked is ‘cause you got your head out of your own ass long enough to even give Cas a kiss, let alone have sex with him.”

“Hey!”

Sam looks at him like he’s crazy. “As if it’s not the truth!”

“What- You-” Dean scoffs self-righteously. “Grow up.”

“Sure, right, I’m the one who needs to grow up.” With that, Sam turns back to the skillet that Dean now sees has his special boy veggie bacon in it. When Sam steps to the side to empty the bacon onto a plate, Dean sees another plate on the countertop already stacked high with homemade waffles. Okay, maybe Dean can kinda forgive his shitstick brother.

He grabs one of the empty plates and forks already sitting out and snatches up two of the waffles with his bare hand. There’s already syrups sitting out, too, and ya know what, they just got Cas back. Dean had fantastic, earth-shattering, old people sex with him. The occasion calls for some syrup. He smothers his waffles in it before taking both his now-full plate and his steaming coffee back to where Cas is still sitting in peaceful bliss.

“So you weren’t gonna defend my honor or anything?” he says to Cas as he sits down on the stool beside him, the one up against the wall as Cas had taken the one closer to the doorway. Once he’s settled he sets down his plate and his coffee as well, each dish clinking just slightly against the tabletop.

“Oh,” Cas says, sitting up straighter. “I’m… sorry. Sam, that was- um- that was a very rude thing to say to your brother.” It’s about as stern as a schoolgirl, and then Cas is turning in Dean’s direction as though to confirm that he said the right thing.

It makes Dean wanna roll his eyes. It makes Dean wanna crack up. It makes Dean want to lean in for a kiss.

He decides to do all three things, ‘cause he can.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says sarcastically even as he pecks Cas on the lips. “My knight in shining armor.” Another peck.

“Ya know, lovebirds,” Sam says in a loud obnoxious voice that’s obviously meant to burst the romantic bubble Dean has going on, “I’m right here trying to eat my breakfast.”

Dean doesn’t even bother glancing in the direction of the stove. Instead, he leans in further and with more gusto as he takes Cas’s lips in his. Cas, God love him, kisses back just as enthusiastically, with the air that he genuinely doesn’t care whether Sam is there or not.

“Sorry,” Dean pulls back just enough to say, before going back in for another breathless kiss. He pulls away again. “It’s just- Sammy, I finally got my head out of my ass, see. Gotta make up for lost time.”

“Cas, you’re just gonna let him do this? After you just told me it wouldn’t happen again?”

But Sam is shit out of luck because it looks like Cas is two seconds from jumping Dean’s bones. “I’m sorry, Sam, but I only promised that you’d no longer hear our loud, old people sex. And I have to agree with Dean- there’s so much time to make up for. You may-” Cas gives Dean a kiss this time- “Sam, you may want to leave the room.”

And then Cas’s tongue is in Dean’s mouth and Dean is on cloud nine.

“Really? Really? I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” Sam repeats as his footsteps cross the kitchen to the door, the sound of his voice following their path until it’s nothing but a ghost that floats down the hallway, with one final loud, “I hate you both, so much!” as the big finale.

Dean just sighs happily as he pulls away. “Think he hates us?”

“Never,” Cas answers kindly. Yeah. And everything is okay, and Sam doesn’t hate him, and the world doesn’t end just ‘cause Dean Winchester took it up the ass and liked it. Just because he felt good and moaned a little louder than usual.

It’s just the two of them in the kitchen now. When Dean looks over at the spot that Sam had aborted, the waffles remain, but the entire plate of bacon is gone like Sam took the whole thing with him. Good riddance. That stuff is like chewing on a car tire and it smells like feet.

Dean still has his waffles, and he has his coffee, and he’s not fully hungry the way he should be but his appetite is already better than it has been in weeks, now that Cas is home. Like if he eats these waffles he might actually be able to keep them down.

For now, though, he starts with the safer option of gulping down his coffee. Somehow that tastes better, too, even though Sam definitely brewed it too weak. When he opens his eyes from where he’d closed them to savor his cup of joe, Cas is watching him carefully.

“You lost weight when I was gone,” Cas comments without any sort of question in his tone. His eyes are pointed but not unkind when they find Dean’s again. Blue and waiting for an explanation for the gauntness of Dean’s cheeks that even someone as in denial as himself couldn’t write off.

“Yeah, well, I just wasn’t hungry,” Dean says with what he hopes is a nonchalant sorta voice. It’s the truth, either way. All that anger and hurt had been enough to keep him full for months, stuffed until some days he couldn’t get a single bite of food down. Guilt has a funny way of curing starvation.

Cas glances down at the syrupy mess on Dean’s plate with remorse before he looks back up at Dean again. He reads between the lines. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “It’s not your fault, Cas.”

Across from him, Cas closes his eyes and sighs before he opens them again, weary around the edges.

“I just wish things could have been different- that it didn’t have to be this… strenuous on you.”

“Well, it’s not anymore,” Dean says with finality. Cas looks unconvinced. “I mean, hey!” he gestures to the stacked waffles. “I’m letting Sammy cook now, eatin’ my greenies, growing big and strong. I won’t have these chicken legs forever.”

“Dean-“

“Cas, I’m okay, I’m good.” After only the barest moment of hesitation, Dean reaches out to grab Cas’s left hand in his right. “It fucking sucked for a few weeks. That’s, like, a regular Sunday afternoon for us. You’re back now. I can continue with my mission to gorge myself on pies so caloric you get diabetes just lookin’ at ‘em.”

“Please don’t give yourself diabetes.”

“I mean, hypothetically, if I did you could just cure it.”

“I don’t want to have to cure you of hypothetical diabetes just because you feel the need to prove a point.”

“So you’re saying I’m right?”

Cas stares at him. Huffs with genuine annoyance that makes Dean all warm inside, ‘cause, like, they’re an old married couple now and they actually get to have the couple part. “To be frank, I have no clue what you’re saying.”

He’s sorta goofy about it. That Cas’s eyes are tracking his face and that if he really wants to he can lean forward and press his lips to Cas’s. They do look rather tempting. Dean smiles.

“Awesome,” he says, only to realize it kinda doesn’t make sense in response.

Cas head tilts in confusion and begrudging fondness. “You really should eat. Unhypothetically.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean dismisses as he drops Cas’s hand in order to brush Cas’s words away with a wave of his own. He looks down into the dredges of coffee left at the bottom of his now empty mug. “Lemme get some more coffee first.” But when he goes to stand, Cas’s right palm lands big and strong over his thigh. The strength of an unnatural amount of pressure makes him stumble right back into his seat.

“No,” Cas says like he’s talking to a child. His face is set in stubborn lines. “You’re going to eat right now.”

Jesus, Dean is about to pop a boner. Yep. Give him thirty seconds and a stiff breeze.

He looks down at the clamp of Cas’s fingers, so forceful that they indent the skin of his thighs through his pajama pants. “Hah-“ he breathes articulately.

Cas raises an eyebrow at that, his expression unyielding even as his eyes gleam. “That is… working for you.”

“Working. Uh-huh. Putting in the hours.”

At that, Cas leans forward to kiss him. Despite the heat of the moment and in the meeting of their gazes, the kiss is hesitant. Lovely soft. Dean sighs out right into it and closes his eyes as he kisses Cas back just as gently.

When they pull apart a centimeter, it’s only to push back in for another peck. It’s so stupid how good it feels.

“Thought you wanted me to eat,” Dean mumbles. “Not that I’m complaining.”

The words finally make Cas lean back all the way, out of kissing distance, which kinda sucks. It sucks a lot less, though, when Cas’s right hand reaches up to push a few stray strands of Dean’s bangs that had fallen loose onto his forehead back into place. Dean is made sleep-warm and soft under the affection. He sighs like a dreamy teenager.

“Well, since you seem to be having such a… difficult time providing yourself with nutrition, perhaps it’d be advantageous for me to help you.” Cas looks out from under his eyelashes. Somehow he manages to be shy, a bashful timidness, and as sly as a fox. Dean watches as he reaches toward the table to pick up Dean’s discarded fork.

Is he… doing what Dean thinks he’s doing?

Cas cuts off a piece of the waffle with the side of the fork before gathering it up onto the prongs. He brings it into the air and in towards Dean’s mouth. “We’ll have to keep you fed… sweetheart.”

Dean’s jaw drops a little in surprise, and also the way he’s getting horny right now. Maybe Cas’s actions should make him feel like a kid, but they don’t. Instead, they make him feel exactly as old as he is. Every second of his forty-two years. Of being called Sweetheart like that. A grown man being fed by another grown man because… because…

Not even a grown man at all, but a millennium-old creature of light and celestial moonbeams and too many eyes.

Just two eyes watch Dean now though.

They’re still the same color blue.

Cas takes Dean’s parted lips as his cue to push the fork forward the last few inches, and Dean startles back to reality as he takes the warm bite of waffle into his mouth. Somehow, it tastes better when Cas is the one feeding it to him. It makes his tummy rumble with a need for more and he doesn’t care if he looks like a dumbass or not when he preemptively opens his mouth for another bite. And of course, lovely, lovely Cas continues to feed him, one bite at a time, until the warm waffles find a new home in Dean’s belly.

Castiel, Dean prays with a purr as he lips close around the very last bite. There’s syrup at the seam of his lips as he pulls away, dragging his tongue across the tines. He has to resist the urge to laugh at the way Cas is watching the movement with too wide, too focused, cartoonish eyes, like it’ll kill him if he doesn’t take in every detail. Honey. You might have to feed me at every meal. It tastes so much better like this.

As soon as Dean’s mouth is out of harm's way, the fork is thrown back down thoughtlessly onto the table with a twinkling cling. Then Cas is leaning into Dean’s space again. He presses his lips to Dean’s like he’s the one who hasn’t been eating on a regular basis, hungry with it, while his right hand-

Dean’s own right hand flaps around at the sensation of Cas’s warm palm cradling Dean’s dick through his thin pajama pants. He leaves a breathless moan in Cas’s mouth. The flailing of his hand meets its demise when it crashlands into the sticky plate now rid of waffle but still covered in puddles of gooey syrup that immediately gets between all of Dean’s fingers.

Ew.

Oh, well. They’ll figure out a way around that mess once they get to it.

Dean really hopes Sam is miraculously no longer in the Bunker right now, or Cas might not be able to keep that promise about the loud, old people sex.

…

“You’ve got mail, Dean!” Sam’s voice echoes as he plunks his way down the metal staircase of the entryway. “Some sorta package. Were you expecting something?”

“Uhhh, maybe? I dunno, bring it over here.”

“I’m not your carrier pigeon, dude,” Sam bitches, but he very stupidly contradicts his words by doing exactly what he was bitching about in the first place. He’s got a squared-off cardboard box in his hand, and he walks it over to where Cas and Dean are sitting at the first library table.

Cas has been learning to make other origami creatures outside of the garden variety crane, and every once in a while Dean will try his hand at it, too. But mostly, Dean just reads. He’s working his way through The 39 Clues series right now because he finally has time to do shit like that. His cheeks had turned red the first time Sam caught him with one of the hardbacks, ‘cause what kind of grown-ass man reads children’s books, but Cas had been there too and he’d seen Dean’s embarrassed expression and he’d very meaningfully asked Dean what his book was about.

So it sorta became a thing. Dean has a lot of childhood to make up for, and there’s a James Patterson amount of books in this little kid series- which- like- what kid is gonna read all of these?

Even Dean’s kinda daunted, and he’s only on book five.

So book number five with its orange cover gets set down on the table that Cas and Dean definitely weren’t just playing footsie under. The box in Sam’s hand gets set down, too, with a much more flat and sturdy thunk.

They all stare at it for a second.

“Huh.” Dean slides the box over so that it’s directly in front of him. He bats it around between his hands like a cat. “Well, it’s not a bomb.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sam says from where he stands at the head of the table. “Is it yours or not?”

“Relax, Sammy.” Reaching back into the squished seat of his jeans, Dean pulls out his pocket knife. “I’m just fucking with you. I know what it is.” The pocket-knife is sharp as ever, even though Dean uses it for a lot more menial tasks than he used to. Like scoring out pages from random books for Cas’s origami practice. Like opening small, square packages.

He pops the cardboard flaps. And right there nestled inside two half-blocks of styrofoam is a ceramic mug.

“Aha! There she is!”

“A mug? You got another mug?” Sam gives him a pointed look. “I don’t wanna rain on anybody’s parade, but realistically we’re gonna start running out of cabinet space at some point. Like, soon.”

“I hear ya, I do. This was a special exception, alright? Needed something special for my organic bedtime tea.” Dean extracts the mug from its mail-order casing and holds it up in the yellow Bunker light to better see the image on it.

“Is that…” Sam squints, and then one eyebrow raises much higher than the other. “Is that Guernica? The Picasso painting?” Then he’s looking back up at Dean. Dean who’s smirking and Cas who’s smiling. “Dean, do you even know who Picasso is?”

Dean brings the mug up next to his face for a side-by-side comparison. His tongue sticks out between the set of his teeth and his eyebrows waggle up and down. “Looks just like me, right?”