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“Twenty-two,” Dean says softly, leaning over Cas’s shoulder. “January. The time we got caught in that blizzard and couldn’t leave our motel for the entire day.”
“That was tragic,” Cas says quietly, sounding like he’s smiling, as he fills in 22 on the play slip. Then 8. “First time you took me out to dinner, May eighth.”
Yikes, that’s not a memory Dean actually wants to remember. “Fifteen,” Dean says. “Fifteenth of March, first time I said ‘I love you’,” he presses a light kiss to the back of Cas’s neck.
Cas remains focused at the wheel, fills in 15. That completes the third ticket. Cas moves on to the fourth one.
“Two,” Cas says. “Number of years we’ve been together. Officially.”
“Sixty-eight,” Dean says. “Amount of money that first crappy jacket you wanted so bad that wasn’t a trench coat cost.”
“Thirtieth. Of October. The day you finally said yes to cats.” Cas’s tone doesn’t change so Dean’s caught by surprise. Dean rolls his eyes, thinking about the fact that he literally has cat hair on his jacket at this very moment, and nudges Cas’s boot. These are supposed to be memories that are happy for both of them. But Cas’s delivery’s got Dean reluctantly smiling. He lets it go.
He thinks for a moment.
“Thirteen. Number of stitches I had to put in your hand, that time I thought you’d been killed.” But hadn’t. Had been alive. Had just needed stitches in his hand. Dean had been so grateful for every single one. He’ll never forget it.
“That hurt,” Cas says.
“Eleven,” Dean says, going twice in a row. “That time we saw The Force Awakens.”
“That was two days ago.”
“And it’s already in the hall of fame,” Dean says.
Cas taps the counter in thought, then fills in 1 followed by 24 on the next ticket. Dean’s birthday.
Cas moves the pen again and Dean starts to protest hey but Cas marks 9 and 18 and Dean doesn’t say anything after all. His throat feels a little tight. He feels like him and Cas are the only people in the entire world, for a moment. He feels so close to Cas in every way that it aches.
It just aches.
Dean feels so–
Blessed? But not by god. Not quite the right word.
Cas looks at him and then leans toward him more. As Dean leans toward Cas more.
Dean tries to pull himself together. He looks at the slip.
He’s never done this before. He didn’t used to have so many happy dates and memories that he could fill up a sheet of tickets with them. That’s why he wanted to come here. He wanted to do just this. He’d overheard stupidly-in-love people doing it before, while waiting in line for his own tickets, and he’d always kinda longed to do it too, and then the powerball jackpot had become historically huge and he’d heard about it on the news and he’d remembered. But somehow it feels even more significant and real than he thought it would. Somehow it’s even more than he expected. Cas keeps surprising him.
Sure, winning would be great, too. But.
“Five,” Dean says, and is a little surprised at how calm his voice is. “Number of times I’ve managed to wake up earlier than you and watch you wake up.”
“Only five?”
“You make sleeping way too easy. Forty-three,” Dean says, “page number of your favorite muffins in that recipe book.”
Cas fills in 7 and says, “Day after our wedding,” and, enough said.
“Hey,” Dean gets an idea, leans in extra close, whispers, low, mischievous, “what if we filled out one ticket that was just all–”
“Are you guys fucking done or what?” says someone loudly behind them. Dean snaps around from the little lottery island counter and there’s a middle aged man pacing and fidgeting impatiently behind them, an ugly expression on his face. “Jesus christ. You’re not the only people trying to fill out tickets here. Jesus. You think the winning powerball number is gonna be made up entirely of significant numbers from your love life? Have you considered the fucking chances of that happening? Jesus,” he says again, “just get on with it.”
He looks around at other people nearby for approval, but at the most, the people within earshot just exchange wide-eyed, incredulous, disgusted looks. The woman filling out tickets on the other side of the island discreetly doesn’t even look up at all.
Dean is still gonna crush the guy like a fucking bug.
One hand shoots out in front of Cas protectively, just out of instinct, and he takes a step toward the guy, all fire inside, but before he can say OKAY, ASSHOLE–
Cas catches his arm, gentle but firm, protective right back, and it calms Dean just enough, just for the moment.
Cas steps forward.
“We’re playing the powerball,” Cas says to the guy. “The odds for all of us are incredibly slim. Unless you really think you have a better chance of winning, for some inconceivably stupid reason? Our chances suck. Which is why it’s a good thing I’ve already won the jackpot.”
He turns and kisses Dean hard, hands on the sides of Dean’s face, kisses him good and long, and that’s when Dean truly calms down. Forgets to care about the asshole at all, really. The guy’s words no longer reach him.
“Now if you’ll excuse us,” Cas says – is somehow able to speak after that – to the guy’s stunned expression. “I think we’ll be filling out even more tickets than we originally intended to. Dean.”
“Yup,” Dean agrees, and the face he makes at the guy is, amazingly, almost a cheerful one. “I think that’s a great idea, Cas.”
They both turn around again and they don’t hear anything else from the rude guy, and that’s the last they know of, or think about, him.
The woman on the other side of the island counter is still focused on her own tickets, but she’s smiling now. Dean’s pretty sure that as soon as she’s done here she’s going to be telling all her friends about what she just witnessed.
“One and then thirteen,” Dean says. “Today, right now. I fucking love you.”
“I fucking love you, too.”