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Dean Winchester is saved.
Of course it was a Tuesday. A grin split Dean’s lips as he opened his eyes in the dark bedroom, faint light from the hallway spilling underneath the door frame. He could hear the hissing of the bunker’s pipes as someone -- Sam, probably -- took a shower. A moment later, the water shut off, and the muffled voice of his brother singing (poorly) drifted down the hallway.
Sitting up in his bed, Dean stretched with a groan, listening to the way his back cracked with delight. He was… he was old. Or getting there, at least. Something he never thought he’d get to have. Every year was a battle, that was for damn sure, but for some reason, it almost all seemed worth it just for this one morning.
Dean shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth, squinting at his reflection as he did so. Maybe Sam had a point, maybe he did need glasses. He frowned, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, and peered closer at his face. There were definitely more than a few gray hairs beginning to sprout at his temples, deeper lines at the corners of his eyes and lips. He ran a hand over the raspy stubble on his cheeks, the point of his chin a little sharp in his palm. He was leaner after all these years, still strong but more wiry, body once again littered with the scars and marks of too many battles fought and nearly lost. He spit toothpaste into the sink, watched it swirl down the drain.
He made the rumpled bed, smoothing out the sheets carefully and tucking them in, crisp corners just like John Winchester had taught him. A pile of dirty laundry sat slumped against a wall, but Dean ignored it for now. Laundry could wait. Instead, he plucked a plaid shirt from a drawer, threw on the cleanest pair of jeans he could find, and walked down the hallway towards the kitchen.
The smell of scrambled eggs drifted towards him, and Dean heard Sam laugh over the clink of silverware before saying something indecipherable in his low voice. The hallway suddenly seemed interminably long, stretching out in front of him like some sort of funhouse mirror maze, neverending twists and turns causing Dean’s feet to speed up.
Dean’s heart was beating rapidly for no reason as he grew closer and closer, felt like it was going to burst out of his chest as he nearly skidded to a halt in front of the kitchen. Sam looked up in surprise before a grin spread out across his face, eyes tired but happy.
“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a laugh, “Glad you could finally join us.”
Dean rolled his eyes but ignored his brother, gaze honing in on the other figure in the kitchen, who turned around from the stove at Sam’s words, holding an egg-coated spatula in one hand. A pan full of eggs and another full of bacon sat sizzling behind him.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, voice grave, but with a small smile curling his lips. His blue eyes looked as bright as ever. Like there was still ozone and lightning crackling just underneath his skin.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, voice sticking in his throat slightly. “Ten years, huh?”
Castiel nodded, still smiling. “Ten years,” he confirmed.
Dean walked down into the kitchen, stopping just in front of Castiel, who put carefully down the spatula. “Ever regret it?” he asked, trying to swallow around the sudden knot in his throat.
“Not even for a second.”
Dean let a shaky smile cross his face. “Thanks,” he said, “for pulling my ass out of that fire.”
Castiel lifted his hands, placing one on Dean’s shoulder, one on his face, holding him gently. “Good things do happen,” he said, voice quiet and contemplative, eyes searching Dean’s face, an echo of that dusty barn all those years ago.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Cas,” Dean croaked before leaning in to kiss Castiel, feeling those familiar, chapped lips split into a grin against his own.
“Uh,” Sam said from behind them. “I think the bacon’s burning.”
Dean flipped him the bird and kept kissing his angel.