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The house Dean pulls up to is nothing like Castiel expects, yet at that moment, it’s everything he desires. A salt-worn blue coastal home with a porch that wraps around both the back and side, beachgrass surrounding the stilted foundation and palms both lining the street and interspersed across the yard. A lone power line runs across the remnants of old route 98 and into the city, the only marker of civilization this far from Mexico Beach, a few miles away from any sort of grocery store, or humanity.
Hopefully the electricity works, and the beds aren’t riddled with ants like their last hotel. And hopefully here, they can relax for a few days and Castiel can nurse the bruise beginning to form over the majority of his upper back, no doubt purple by now.
“Grab your stuff,” Sam says from the front, patting the bench seat.
Castiel jerks upright, head no longer plastered to the window. Through the open doors, the air sits thick in the air, bitter in his nose and warm with the sun, but somehow pleasant. Tinged with salt, but calm. Wind rustles the palms, their fronds brushing against one another, gentle in the breeze. Wherever they are, a few miles off the main road parked outside of some stranger’s house, they’re safe, at least for now.
Dean offers to carry Castiel’s bag with empathy in his eyes, not quite pity, but mostly unsure. Castiel allows him regardless and follows both he and Sam inside, climbing up the exterior staircase to the main floor. The entire property has to be at least fifteen feet off the ground, held up by stilts and a prayer. “A lot of the coastal communities are built like this,” Sam explains, Dean busy picking the lock with a paper clip. “That way if a hurricane comes, the storm surge won’t take the entire place out.”
Castiel nods, holding his arms close. He could listen to Sam talk about nothing all day if it meant he didn’t have to concentrate on the pain beginning to radiate through his bones.
To his, and probably their shock as well, the lights are all functional inside, as well as the air conditioning and the refrigerator. After a day of driving in the heat, even with the Impala’s vents blowing full blast, the rush of cool air over Castiel’s head is a miracle, immediately cooling the sweat that’s never quite dried since Panama City.
They left their hotel in a rush less than three hours ago, after a tip that a creature had been spotted along the shoreline, a lone horse walking the sand, with blood red eyes and a bloody maw. As dangerous as kelpies are, Castiel can’t help but feel sorry for them when they lose themselves in the taste of blood. There can’t be more than a hundred left, and they’re old, and this one was aged, exhausted and starving, its habitat stolen away by the tide and encroaching housing developments.
God hadn’t meant kelpies to kill unless threatened; humanity was always their aggressor, and always will be.
Castiel had been the one to put it out of its misery, but only after it threw him into the pillar of a pier, possibly fracturing something, or at least bruising the spot where wings once protected him. Justified, yes, but he hated to watch it die, and both Dean and Sam turned their heads away as it collapsed into the sand, eroded into dust and returned to the sea. Only one kill, out of self-preservation. No more.
“The TV works,” Dean announces from the couch, already seated with the remote in hand, flipping through the channels. At some point, Sam disappeared upstairs, several doors opening and closing in his wake, leaving Dean to tend to the television and Castiel to tend to himself.
Exhausted, Castiel slips off his tennis shoes at the door, afterwards pulling off his socks and stuffing them inside. Hopefully they can wash clothes, or at least find a hotel with a laundromat when they leave tomorrow. Or the next day, or whenever they decide to head back to Kansas. Hopefully, the owner has no intention of returning any time soon.
“Hey,” Dean announces across the room. Castiel looks up with a wince, straightening his back the best he can without wanting to cry or collapsing into the carpeted floor. Worry furrows Dean’s brow, lips pinched into a grimace. Now, Dean may be pitying him. “Come here. You’ve looked halfway ready to pass out since we left the city.”
“It’d probably make it stop hurting,” Castiel admits, ashamed. This shouldn’t be happening: he shouldn’t be hurting this bad, his bones shouldn’t ache, his chest shouldn’t feel like someone is sitting on him. This should’ve healed by now, and in the past, maybe it would have. In the past, he would’ve bounced off the pier and fought for his life, wounds gone in an instant. This aches down to his core, exacerbated with every step he takes, only lessening when he sits next to Dean, arms wrapped tight around his midsection.
Dean doesn’t touch him, at least not at first. Still, Castiel can feel his hand hover over his shoulders, until it drops to rest on his thigh. “Can you take it off?” Dean suggests, idly tugging at the hem of Castiel’s t-shirt.
That, Castiel doesn’t know. He hasn’t exactly lifted his arms since he got in the car. “Can you do it for me?”
Shame paints his face from just the notion of Dean having to undress him, like Castiel can’t do it himself. Dean doesn’t pressure him, regardless, just helps to gently pull Castiel’s shirt over his head and his arms, exposing him to the sudden chill in the room and Dean’s unwavering gaze.
Dean hisses at his side, ever the good sign. His touch doesn’t so much burn as ache, calloused fingers running across the bruising Castiel knows is there, over the scarred slits in his shoulders and up where he slammed into the pier. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Dean says with sincerity. He calls upstairs before Sam makes it to the landing, asking, “Can you bring me the Aspercreme?”
Castiel huffs and holds himself tighter, fighting the urge to curl into a ball on the couch. “I appreciate you not wanting to hurt my feelings, but I can handle if it looks disgusting.”
“It doesn’t, trust me,” Dean hushes, strangely soothing. “Looks like you only got it on one side.” He pauses to press his fingers in, and Castiel does all he can to not elbow Dean in the mouth. “Does this hurt?”
Cursing at Dean won’t work—neither will physical violence, but the former is all he has. “Next time you get thrown into a wall, I’ll ask you how much it fucking hurts,” Castiel seethes through his teeth.
Thankfully, Dean doesn’t humor him; Castiel doesn’t know if he could handle it right now, being laughed at for all too-human aches. “Two bedrooms upstairs,” Sam announces in the silence, tossing Dean a yellow tube of ointment and seating himself in a lounger. “One’s got a king, another’s got a queen. Only one bathroom, though.”
“Tub?” Dean asks, uncapping the tube and squirting a good portion of the contents into his hand.
“Tub, but no shower head,” Sam shrugs. He glances over to Castiel and brushes his hair behind his ears, eyes soft, imploring. “How bad is it?”
Castiel doesn’t know. In all of his existence, he’s never had to deal with being bruised before, at least not in this capacity. “He’s just gonna be sore,” Dean says. “Day or two and he won’t even notice it.”
He almost yelps at the first touch of Dean’s fingers, cold and slick and brutal over his shoulders; tears prickle the corners of his eyes with his ministrations, Dean working to smooth the ointment in in some semblance of comfort. All Castiel wants to do is cry. “You’re an ass,” Castiel mutters, eyes pinched shut, fists white-knuckling his sides. “You’re an—”
“I know,” Dean hushes, reaching for the tube again and gathering more ointment on his fingers. “But this’ll help. It’s for muscle aches, but me and Sam swear by it.”
“That and salt baths,” Sam chuckles. Castiel swallows, embarrassment reddening the tips of his ears. “You’ll be okay. It’s not something you can walk off, but it’ll get easier.”
It won’t, Castiel thinks, looking to the floor with tear-stained vision. Nothing will make this go away, no matter how long it takes.
-+-
A storm washes over the Florida coast later in the afternoon, only a minute after Sam returns from Mexico Beach with grocery bags in hand, filled with enough food for at least two days, towels, sunscreen, and swim trunks. Someone wants to go into the water—Dean, most likely, from the way he’s been eyeing the ocean for the last hour. If Castiel didn’t feel like melting into the floor, he might join him.
Storms feels different here than they do in Kansas, Castiel considers, sitting on the porch swing with the wind ruffling his hair, towel draped over the back of the seat. The rain doesn’t do much to quell the humidity or the heat, but the salt rushing off the ocean rides the waves, crashing into the sand one after the other. Dark clouds gather on the horizon, endless, driving away the sunlight.
“Never really got to sit on a porch like this,” Sam admits from the doorway, wearing plaid blue pajamas that cover his toes. “I think me and Dean went out to the roof once, but that was a few months ago, and the sirens started going off.”
Castiel remembers that day, only because the minute he pulled his car into the garage, hail began to pelt the ground in clumps. This is calmer, though, gentler, even when lightning strikes the water, a dull roar following. “It’s nice here,” Castiel admits, leaning further back into the towel; whatever Dean did to him, he feels amazing now, the sting of pain temporarily forgotten. “I almost forgot what it felt like, to feel the rain against your skin.”
Sam seats himself in a rocking chair, the top thumping against the wall every time he swings. “You alright?” Sam asks after a while, waking Castiel from his half-sleep, the rain nearly lulling him into a nap. “You haven’t really told us what happened.”
What happened. What happened can’t be quantified in human terms, can’t be fathomed by those who haven’t lived this long, existed since the dawn of time. “I met Death,” Castiel says, just as Dean exits the house with two cans of Coke and an orange soda. He sits next to Castiel and places Castiel’s drink on the wicker table between them, too hesitant to pop open the cap of his own. “And my siblings, the ones that… I met the ones I’ve slain, and those I’ve saved, and the innocents that didn’t survive the Fall. Hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, experiments and failures, half-formed Grace and destroyed atoms…
“I was one of them,” Castiel mourns with dry eyes. Cautiously, Dean runs his chilled hand over Castiel’s pajama-clad thigh, rubbing softly. “For what it’s worth, Death is kind.”
“Always has been,” Dean murmurs.
Sam glances over to Dean, feet on the wood paneling. “I thought you killed him?”
Castiel shakes his head. “You can’t kill Death, not completely. He’s infinite, as is God, but Death is an absolute, whereas God is fleeting. Alpha and Omega.”
“Beginning and the end,” Sam comments.
Another nod; Castiel lets his eyes slip closed, head resting on the top of the swing. “It must’ve only been a few minutes, but we talked for what felt like… hours. About mortality, the fleetingness of existence. He weighed the weight of my soul.”
“Wait,” Dean interjects. Castiel opens an eye to him. “You have a soul? When did you get that?”
“I’m not sure,” Castiel sighs. “Maybe it’s always been there. Maybe it remained from when I fell. But he said that despite the cracks in it and lives I’ve stolen, I was pure. That I was the brightest Angel that ever existed.” He stops to rub his eyes, his hand coming away wet; when had he started crying? “The notion of Angels as anything but pure is blasphemous, but I always felt… tainted. Broken, maybe.”
“You’re not broken,” Sam says, elbows on his knees. “You’re just different.”
Different is a word for it—faulty or malfunctioning works better. Now, trapped in human flesh and bone not of his own volition, Castiel doesn’t know how to feel. As much as he longed to Fall again, to give his Grace willingly to Heaven and to leave with his own soul, he never intended for it to happen this way, with a blade in his chest and Dean crying over his dead body, until orange light coursed through him and he Lived.
“I think we’re all damaged,” Dean admits, finally opening the Coke in his lap and chugging more than quarter of it in one go. “Just because you’re supposed to be divine wrath doesn’t mean you’re exactly a saint. Everyone has faults, and you just… took yours to heart, I guess.”
Sam nods, leaning back in his chair. “We’re not the best examples of perfection. We’re hunters, we kill things for a living, but we’re still good. We still care about people, and each other. That’s gotta count for something, right?”
Castiel exhales through his nose, wipes his face dry. “I hope you’re right,” he says and looks back to the rain, past Dean stroking his thigh, past Sam opening his soda. At the rain, and nothing more.
-+-
It’s only been a few months since his resurrection, and Castiel still hasn’t found a mattress that doesn’t dig into his spine at uncomfortable angles. Dean took him shopping once in Lawrence, but none of them felt right, none of them fit him where he needed it. “Maybe you’re just not used to your body,” Dean mentioned. “Maybe you gotta grow into it, y’know?”
As much as Castiel loathed to admit it, it made sense—and now, laying in the middle of a queen mattress in a deplorably small bedroom, Dean may have been right after all. Dust permeates every bit of the mattress and the sheets, even down to the mattress pad. The pillow is a lost cause with Castiel’s sudden allergy to feathers, which would be hilarious if the irony didn’t make him cry behind closed doors.
“I’m allergic to myself,” Castiel mumbles into the bedding and covers his eyes with an arm, willing the night to swallow him whole.
Sleep doesn’t come easy, Castiel has found. Sometimes, he wanders the bunker until he passes out on a couch or in the library, or, more embarrassingly, standing up in the shower, cold water startling him awake. Hotel beds offer little comfort, neither does his own bed at the bunker, no matter how many candles he lights and how many times Dean tells him he’s violating the nonexistent fire code for the building. Really, the only night he’s ever slept peacefully was when Dean and Sam headed to Fargo and left him behind, and Castiel snuck into Dean’s bedroom and slept for a record fifteen hours, only waking when Dean forced him out of bed. Something about privacy, or not sneaking into other people’s bedrooms. In Castiel’s defense, Dean never told him not to.
This bed, though, is a nightmare. So much so, that as of five after midnight, Castiel leaves the privacy of his room in his pajamas and stops by the master, where Sam sleeps in a large mound on the bed, apparently used to resting in uncomfortable environments. Dean, however, is knocked out on the pullout couch in the living room, the TV still on, casting static blue light onto the walls. The blanket is even older than the ones in the bedroom, but this one doesn’t scratch his hands when he touches it, or smell like mothballs.
Castiel sits on the edge of the mattress, almost immediately falling inwards with the lack of support underneath. For what it lacks in quality, though, it makes up for in comfort. Or maybe that’s from having Dean so close, and Dean’s hand on his hip—wait. “Cas,” he hears Dean grumble, bleary and confused and mildly affronted. “Where are your pants?”
Pants—he forgot his pants. At least he’s wearing underwear this time; Dean has no room to talk. “I’m allergic to my bed,” Castiel says, turning his head. Dean looks up at him from the mattress with one eye, his face smashed into a pillow, body entirely unwilling to move. Dean doesn’t even laugh, just squints. “You don’t find it funny?”
“I’m tired,” Dean groans, covering his face with one arm. “You can sleep here, long as you don’t try to steal the blankets.”
Castiel blinks, wary. “You’re serious.”
Dean throws his head back, ever the dramatic. “Get in the damn bed before I drag you. Not in the mood to have this talk right now.”
Talk? What talk? What did Dean plan to talk about that—
With his Grace, Castiel could sense movements before they happened, could sense an opponent’s strike three steps ahead. Dean yanking him onto the mattress, however, surprises him, arms reaching out to grab whatever he can to steady himself on his descent, including the blankets and a handful of Dean’s shirt. “Dean—”
“You’re noisy,” Dean hushes, but there’s humor in his tone, mirth. He rolls Castiel onto his side and rips the blanket out from under him, throwing it over the both of them, bodies close but not quite touching. “Lucky I’m too tired to think about this.”
Before Castiel can ask about what, he feels Dean snake an arm around his middle, forcing them together, Dean’s warmth radiating through Castiel’s shirt and soothing the ache in his shoulder, even more than the ointment and the salt bath. Maybe it’s Dean that eases the pain, or maybe it’s always been him. And now, they’re practically spooning in the middle of the night, and Dean is nosing his neck, just before his breathing evens and his weight goes slack.
It’s not the most comfortable mattress in the world. Castiel can feel springs digging into his side, and the blanket has holes ripped into it, but here, unexpectedly in Dean’s arms, he can’t help be ease into it, can’t help but let sleep take him without a fight.
-+-
Castiel wakes sometime before lunch—10:34, according to the Felix the Cat clock on the wall—to an empty bed and oppressing heat pouring through the open door. Someone left the house at some point and left the door open, and somehow, Castiel slept through it all. Crawling out of bed on sluggish legs, he spots the Impala in the driveway, and the rest of their belongings left strewn around the house, the plastic bag on the kitchen counter now suspiciously devoid of two sets of swimwear and a snorkel.
So they didn’t abandon him. Dean and Sam went… swimming, and let him sleep in in an empty and now-humid house. If only they had a shower that wasn’t outdoors.
Breakfast comes in the form of two Pop-Tarts and orange juice, both devoured while Castiel changes in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror between bites. He’s certainly ‘bulked up,’ as Dean called it, since May, the sun lightening his scars, and a fresh layer of previously unknown freckles beginning to appear on his shoulders from early-morning runs with Sam and spending evenings in their newly discovered pool. He looks good—he feels good, considering everything he’s endured. Maybe he really did have to fill into his body after all, especially since it’s his now, the only form he’ll ever take again.
Humanity is strange: the urges, desires, aches and pains, fascinations, and the excessive need for creature comforts, just to feel safe and at home.
Sam and Dean left him with the last remaining pair of swim trunks, bright yellow with palm trees and flamingos printed into the fabric. Probably meant to be a joke, but Castiel finds them oddly charming. He leaves the house wearing flip flops with a towel over his shoulder and sunglasses shoved close to his face, looking every bit the tourist, if people were around to see him. No one lives on this stretch of beach for miles, and the only people that might even remotely come are the residents across the highway, if they’re brave enough to cross the road.
Privacy, and his family, all together in one place.
Sam is the only person visible further down the beach, standing along the shore and constructing what looks to be a massive tower out of wet sand, nearly as tall as he is and tapering to a point. Castiel never considered him before, but Sam is massive, tall and lanky with broad shoulders, all gangly limbs he never entirely grew into. Dean is nowhere to be found, though, aside from a piece of plastic bobbing out of the water about fifteen feet out and the occasional foot kicking through the water.
“He’s trying to find shells,” Sam says upon Castiel’s appearance, poking windows into the tower with the end of a plastic shovel. “I think stingrays are following him.”
Castiel drops his towel onto the sand and reaches for the sunscreen, squeezing a generous amount into his hands. “They won’t harm him,” Castiel chuckles. “The most they’ll do is slap him.”
“Already did that,” Sam laughs and nearly knocks the spire off his tower. “One flew out of the water and landed on his head.”
Castiel snorts and almost chokes himself. “Maybe they like him.”
Dean doesn’t resurface for another few minutes, long enough for Castiel to wander into the surf to wet his feet, sand squishing between his toes. Small fish nip at his heels while he stands, the sensation odd and unnerving; they scatter when he moves, only to return once he settles. From the few times he’s ever visited the beach in his life, the water had been cold, frigid on the west coast and indifferent on the east. The Gulf is warm, almost like bathwater, and churns green with seaweed. Dolphins swim further out, dorsal fins rippling the water as they surface, only to vanish and reappear a few feet away.
It’s peaceful, and Castiel half expects something to happen to ruin it all: an Angel hellbent on murdering the three of them, another kelpie, a surprise storm. But there’s nothing other than the breeze rolling off the waves and through the palms, the ocean crashing around his feet, and the seagulls swooping down on sand crabs in the receding water.
“Look who’s up,” Dean remarks, knee deep in water and carrying a handful of shells, one a large broken conch. “Shoulder better?”
Castiel struggles not to swallow his tongue from just the sight of him, honey-gold and covered in freckles from his shoulders to his cheeks, a few on his eyelids, glowing bright in the sun. Water trickles down his chest to his shorts and over what looks to be multi-colored ink etched into his hip, visible just above his waistband but stretching far below the hem, spanning all the way to his knee. When he got that, Castiel doesn’t know, but he wants to see it all the same, the sudden urge to touch overwhelming.
Everything about Dean is overwhelming, from the sun in his hair to the green of his eyes, to the warmth of his fingers when their hands touch. Dean dumps his collection into a gathering pile beside Sam’s tower and hands Castiel the conch, large and riddled with holes, pitted from years of erosion. “Figured you’d like that,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck with a freckled hand. He tugs the goggles off his face and tosses them onto his towel, the skin around his eyes lighter than the rest of his face; he’ll have to even that out, hopefully. “I saw you started collecting rocks, and I thought—”
“I love it,” Castiel says, whisper quiet, overshadowed by a gull attempting to swoop down at Sam’s head. Dean doubles over in laughter while Castiel admires his find, running his fingers along the edges of the holes, smooth and light pink and flecked with browns and greens.
“You should come out here,” Dean says once he can breathe again, cheeks red from the sun and what Castiel thinks is amusement, or embarrassment. “Now, but also later. You ever watch the sunset?”
Castiel hasn’t, honestly. Rarely as an Angel, and never through human eyes. The thought of a new experience warms him. “What time does the sun go down?”
-+-
They’re all sunburned and whining by the time they return to the house, and cocoa butter only mutes the pain so much. They spend most of the day shirtless around the television, before Dean tries his hand at using the grill on the porch, successfully managing not to burn any of the meat Sam bought at the market in Mexico Beach. The whole time, Dean complains about Sam not picking up seasoning, but the burgers taste fine regardless, and Castiel relishes in the idle chatter after their meal on the porch, full from both food and company.
The sun sets early here, beginning to sneak below the horizon around seven thirty in the evening. Only a few clouds obscure the view, but Castiel ignores them in favor snapping a few pictures with his phone with both Sam and Dean at his side, Dean’s arm slung low around his waist, Sam resting both elbows on the railing.
For a fleeting moment, it’s breathtaking, watching the navy sky fade to oranges and golds and reds, the sun rippling its way into the ocean in a blaze, before vanishing. In its wake, the sky darkens, and the oppressive heat begins to simmer, the wind beginning to dwindle. It may not seem like much to the residents, but Castiel has never watched something so simple, yet so beautiful, the moment captured in his memory and the few photographs on his phone.
If he were to die now, this is what he hopes his heaven would be.
“I want you to come with me,” Dean says after night has fallen and Sam has gone to bed, leaving them alone with the humidity and each other. He takes Castiel’s hips in both hands, and Castiel flushes in the moonlight, more entranced than confused.
“Where?” Castiel asks, just as Dean pulls away.
Where, as it turns out, is the shoreline, the moon guiding their path through the beachgrass and the cooled sand. With the absence of daylight comes the sweltering heat of the night, even hotter with Dean’s hand in his, leading the way. “I was thinking about last night,” Dean starts, resting their foreheads together. It seems so easy, two bodies close, isolated, circling one another in the surf.
Castiel watches him with soft eyes, green illuminated in the scant light the sky offers; idly, he reaches out to rest his hands on the curve of Dean’s hips, thumb dipping over the lines of his tattoo, invisible in the dark, but there nonetheless. Dean burns warm in his grasp, his lips full and wet, eyes half lidded. Every bit as handsome in the dark, but here, more accepting, without prying eyes and his own insecurities.
He kisses Dean before Dean can protest, their lips sliding together sweetly, everything Castiel ever wanted but more than he can process, especially when Dean returns the kiss. Shaking hands cup Castiel’s cheek and slip to his neck, a caress he barely knows what to do with except to let Dean in, to taste him as he’s always desired.
“Wait,” Dean says after they part, but he doesn’t quite pull away, not as far as Castiel thought he would. Still in his orbit, still pressed together, chest to chest, the waning waves beginning to slacken around their feet. “Cas, you’re…” He stops, laughs. “I had a speech.”
In the cover of night, Castiel smiles and draws him in again, just to feel him sigh. “You can tell me later? I was enjoying this.”
Dean snorts and pulls him closer, arms around Castiel’s neck. “Kiss me?” he asks, just short of a beg.
Castiel has never been one to deny him.
-+-
With morning comes the sun, and with the sun comes the unbearable sensation of sand in places Castiel would prefer sand not to be. That, coupled with Dean practically draped over him on the pullout mattress and incidentally, Sam staring down at the two of them with an eyebrow raised, make for an awkward start. “Have a rough night?” Sam asks, folding his arms.
Castiel covers his eyes with a dramatic sigh, heavy enough to stir Dean. “I’ve decided I don’t like the beach,” he groans, earning a laugh from Sam. “What time is it?”
“Noon,” Sam shrugs. “I cleaned the house and packed the car while you guys were doing… whatever this is.” He motions to Castiel and Dean, Dean currently attempting to pull himself from bed without sand falling from his hair. Castiel looks over to him and at the pale red marks under his ear and along his nape, and hides a smile behind a yawn. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t notice. “You wanna get back on the road?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean waves him off, shifting on the mattress and grimacing. “Dude, did I fall asleep in a litter box?”
Castiel could answer that—could confess that he and Dean held each other tight for a good portion of the night in the moonlight, but Sam doesn’t need to hear the specifics. Dean can tell him when he’s ready. After all, Dean still has a speech to make.
They still take an hour to leave, mostly because Dean insists on using the outdoor shower before even touching Baby, because, “I’m not spending three weeks vacuuming sand out of the upholstery, Sam.” Castiel joining him doesn’t help with time, and a perfunctory wash turns into lazy kisses under the shower spray. Not enough time to really rinse themselves off, but they have time. They’ll always have time.
Dean pulls the Impala out of the driveway around one in the afternoon, considerably later than they’ve ever left their lodgings before, but Arkansas is a good nine or ten hours if they drive until nightfall. Sam proceeds to unbuckle and slide lengthwise along the back bench the minute they hit the highway, and in the absence of his gaze, Dean takes Castiel’s hand between them, threading their fingers together.
“Have you been rehearsing?” Castiel asks, his ears heating with Dean’s grin, those same lips pressing a kiss to Castiel’s knuckles.
“I’m gonna talk your ear off when we get home,” Dean laughs, almost shy. Cautious, he watches Castiel out of the corner of his eye. “Do you still… love me?”
Castiel squeezes his hand tight. “Always,” he answers, and Dean smiles, the sun glimmering in his eyes, green glowing gold.
And for a split second, Castiel swears he can see Dean’s soul once again.