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"So, we going to Rome? Wouldn't be too shabby."
Water drips down his neck as he scrubs at his face with hot water, washing the grit of the day away. He wishes he could rinse away the cold uneasiness itching under his skin as well, but he knows that's not from the case. Only one thing could wash that feeling off and it won't happen. In fact, the sheer unlikelihood of it is what's been driving him up the walls all day as it is, seeing phantoms that bring forth bad memories too recently experienced. He reaches for the towel on the rack and wipes the water from his skin. A drop escapes and runs down the side of his neck as he rights himself to face the mirror. His arms fall dead to his side and he feels the towel skitter down the side of his leg before landing with deafening softness on the tiled floor.
Cas stands behind him, ragged and bemused. Dean's eyes lock with his through the mirror before he spins to face him in shock. He hasn't disappeared even when Dean has turned fully toward him, but Dean thinks he must still be a vision- a cruel figment of his imagination tormenting him with his loss.
"Hello, Dean." He speaks, and Dean feels the rumble of his voice through his bones, shattering them where they've just started suturing back together. He can't be real. It's not possible.
Sam sits just feet away, typing on his computer and scouring through research. He hasn't noticed yet, so perhaps Cas really isn't there. Dean sidesteps around the angel, close, but not as close as he wishes. Not close enough that they may touch and he can confirm he is just a hallucination. Cas turns his head to watch as Dean fumbles with the doorknob and swings the door shut, sealing them inside alone.
Dean leans back against the door and returns his attention to Cas, who’s looking back at him closely. His expression is too reserved and Dean urgently needs to hear him speak again. To do anything, really.
“Are you real?” He whispers, trying to keep his voice steady. It breaks anyway.
The angel nods painfully slowly and Dean’s throat swells shut with tears and anticipation.
"Yes, Dean."
A whimper slips from his lips and he reaches forward with a trembling hand, his arm shaking as though his muscles were spent from hours of labor. The moment his fingers press into Cas's beard he releases the breath he's been holding in fear. Dean may be able to imagine Cas's image and even his voice, but he doesn't think he could replicate the sensation of his short, tangled beard scratching along his palm and grabbing at his fingers.
"I thought…" He trails off. His voice refuses to work properly against the tears pressing back against them. He doesn't want to cry, because the tears will blur his vision and he only wants to keep Cas in his sights.
The angel leans into his hand, never diverting his gaze from Dean's. He brings his opposite hand up to mirror Dean's, his palm pressing firmly to his cheek, fingers curling into the hair behind his ear. Tingles rush down his spine and spark across his skin, breaking a crack through the dam and setting tears running down his cheeks and along his nose.
As he feared, the liquid blinds him to Cas's face, but he can feel the angel beneath his skin now, alive and real. Dean curls his fingers briefly tighter into the short hairs of his beard before sliding them behind his head to the nape of his neck. He feels the war inside himself, eternally fighting to show everything or nothing. The sides have always been evenly matched, leaving him with fingers constantly itching for more than the brief touches he allows himself and a mind constantly screaming at him to hold it all back. But Cas had been gone and for an interminable length of days, Dean had had nothing imposed upon him. His forces fighting to hold him at bay are out of practice and ill-prepared. They surrender easily.
His fingers clench into the taught muscle of Cas’s neck and Dean pulls himself forward into Cas’s unyielding space. Their foreheads press with more grace than he expected of himself. The tips of their noses brush and he smells the tang of Cas's sweat, feels the whisper of his breath on his lips. Cas doesn’t need air but he breaths so Dean knows he can.
“You were gone.” He says.
“I wasn’t dead.” Castiel replies. What a stupid answer. Dean groans in frustration at the stupidity of it.
“You weren’t dead, but you were gone. I never would have been able to let go.”
Dean’s tears have cleared enough for Dean to see when Cas squints at him.
“You would rather I have died?”
His tone is so earnestly quizzical that Dean can’t help the wet chuckle that bubbles out of his chest. “God no, Cas. No, no. Fuck, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just glad you’re back.”
‘Glad’ is so astronomically insufficient, but Dean isn’t good with his words. With all the reading and research he’s done, he hasn't come upon a word to describe the relief he feels. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say and so he says nothing.
Keeping his eyes locked on Cas's, watching for any sign of uncertainty, Dean reaches his free hand under Cas's dirty coat and settles it on his hip. With only the thin scrubs between them, he feels the taught lines of muscle running along his waist and Dean presses his fingers into them. Cas sighs heavily and Dean follows the hot air until their lips are just brushing together, a taste of more to come. They barely touch, but Cas hums into the contact like he's been waiting years for it.
Sound waves buzz along Dean's skin, mingling with the prickle of Cas's scruff, and he finally allows himself to close his eyes and simply feel it. Cas seems to understand and pulls him closer so the faint touch of their lips grows firmer, more concrete, but just briefly, before he pulls away. Dean keeps his eyes closed, soaking in the sensations pulsing through him. Sound, taste, touch, smell, sight. All of them tell Dean that Cas is here with him. Cas makes him feel too much and he never has the words to convey it all and so he clutches tight and buries his face in Cas's neck, unwilling to let go just yet.
Cas holds him steady, one hand stroking through his hair and the other rubbing circles across his back. "I'm here," his gruff voice declares into the space around them. "I'm real."