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Cas is growing a beard.
It’s a good look on him, which would already be a problem even if it didn’t remind Dean of the last time Cas had a beard, which was -- Jesus, he can’t even remember how long ago it was. Cas has been around long enough now that Dean’s lost track of the years.
And that kind of consistency in his life -- that steadiness, that steadfastness -- is dangerous enough on its own, but on top of that, Cas is starting to look a lot like he had back in purgatory. Things were different there in a way Dean still finds himself missing, even now, even though he wonders sometimes what it says about him, that he misses being at war with everything around him.
They say there are no atheists in foxholes, and Dean had felt ready to believe -- if not in a higher power, than at least in something greater than what he’d always known. There, with both of them coated in the dirt and sweat and blood that came with simply surviving in that place, Dean had felt like maybe he could finally touch Cas without ruining him.
And they had touched often, not just the initial contact of reunion, fingers against face, nice peach fuzz, but all the time, every day, both out of necessity and not. Back to back in the middle of one fight, shoulder to shoulder hiding from another, hands to faces, to arms, to legs, checking wounds and pulling tight makeshift bandages. Hands to shoulders, reassuring, comforting. Reaching out in the dark, Still there? Reaching back. Yeah.
Sometimes, Dean thinks that if he had managed to hold Cas’ hand tight enough to pull him out, he would never have let go. He would have just kept holding on for the rest of their lives.
Instead, here he is, leaning against the counter, watching Cas sit at the kitchen table with his eyes closed. It’s safe, looking at him like this, first thing in the morning, while they wait in silence as the coffee drips slowly into the pot.
Cas’ hair is flattened on one side from sleep, there’s the imprint of his sheets on his cheek and dark circles under his eyes, and Dean starts to feel like he did before, like maybe it would be safe to touch him again. Like maybe he could reach out and it would be okay. Maybe he could ask for something more and wouldn’t be disappointed with the answer.
And then the coffee finishes brewing, and Cas opens his eyes, and Sam wanders in with a case, and Dean has other things to think about.
--
Cas leans against the hood of the car, waiting for Sam to finish checking them out of their room and for Dean to haul the last of their stuff to the trunk.
He’s about to call out, to say, Don’t worry about helping or anything, I’ve got this, when he stops.
It must be something in the way Cas has his head tilted, or maybe it’s just the right time of day, the right angle of the sun, the exact right moment, but here, standing in the parking lot of a run-down motel in rural South Dakota, Dean sees something he’s never seen before. There’s gray in Cas’ beard, coming in here and there, shining in the light. His breath catches in his throat for a reason he doesn’t understand, and he’s frozen there, looking, trying to figure it out before he moves and the moment is broken. That’s how these things work for Dean, after all; the slightest misstep can ruin them.
Cas looks away, and before Dean has time to wonder why, Cas turns again -- this time, to look right at Dean. He slowly raises one eyebrow, and Dean shifts from one foot to the other, readjusting his grip on his bag, his hand suddenly sweaty. Dean looks away from Cas only to lock eyes with Sam, who’s standing a ways off on Cas’ opposite side, pursing his lips in a weak attempt to suppress a grin.
Dean does something he hasn’t done in a long time: he prays silently to Cas, even though he won’t hear, and begs him to keep quiet.
Naturally, Cas refuses to do what he’s asked. Instead, he watches as Dean unsticks himself from the pavement and makes his way to the back of the car, and he says, “Can I help you?”
“Looks like he was helping himself,” Sam says.
“Shut up,” Dean says, shoving his bag into the trunk. As he slams it closed, he shoots Sam a glare that says, I hope you die. Sam counters with a smug look that says, As if it would stick.
Dean doesn’t know what Cas’ look is saying because he refuses to acknowledge it. He gets in the car and turns the key in the ignition, and before Sam and Cas are even settled all the way in, he’s blasting music so loud it doesn’t allow for conversation.
--
“You shaved your beard,” Dean says.
“Mmhmm,” Cas says, without looking up, and that’s the end of the conversation.
It doesn’t help in the way Dean was hoping. Actually, it makes things worse: with his beard gone, Dean starts noticing gray coming in throughout the rest of Cas’ hair. He swears there are more each day, first just single strands on their own, so few and far between that he can pretend he just imagined them creeping up Cas’ sideburns to infest the rest of his head. Soon enough, though, they’re gathering in unmistakeable groups at Cas’ temples, at the back of his neck.
Dean watches them grow and spread like grains of sand collecting at the bottom of an hourglass. Day after day, he measures them against his own fear, waits for them to outweigh his own hesitance. He waits so long that Cas makes the decision for him.
“What’s your deal?” Cas asks, getting in Dean’s face about it.
The gray is even more noticeable up close. Dean forces himself not to look at it as he says, “What do you mean?”
“You keep staring at me.”
“Do not.”
Cas stares at him, unblinking. Finally, he sighs and looks away. He says, “I can’t figure out what you want. You stared at me when I didn’t shave. Now you stare at me when I do.”
Dean can’t figure out what he wants, either. “I just want you to do whatever makes you happy. Who cares, right? It’s hair.”
“Right,” Cas says, skeptical, but he lets it end there.
“I don’t get it,” Dean says later, after relaying the interaction to Sam.
Sam looks over at him and, in the voice he usually reserves for talking to small children, he says, “I know, right? Why would Cas care what you think of his hair?”
--
“Why would you care what I think of your hair?”
Cas twitches in surprise, but by the time he’s turned around to face Dean, his expression is calm, collected. He crosses his arms and refuses to meet Dean’s eyes, and because his beard hasn’t grown all the way back in yet, Dean can see the flush that creeps up his neck and spreads across his face. He says, “I don’t.”
Cas stands there, arms held tight against his chest, gaze fixed on the floor, and Dean knows it would be easy to leave it at that, to move past this, to move past him. It would be so easy to shrug it off and go to the fridge, grab them both a beer and let the conversation move on to anything else.
Dean knows if he lets this moment go, they could keep letting these moments go for the rest of their lives.
So instead, he reaches out -- slowly, cautiously, but he reaches out. Lifts his hand to Cas’ face and brushes his fingertips against the hair still growing in. It’s different now; Cas is different. There’s gray at the point of his chin and at his temples, new wrinkles around his features, new scars on his skin. But at the feel of it, of him, still so familiar after all this time, Dean smiles.
Slowly, Cas unfolds his arms. He leans into the press of Dean’s hand and looks up. He smiles back.
--
Thighs pressed together on couches, fingers laced together across the seat, arms slung around shoulders. Arms holding one another in the dark. Hands reaching out, searching, exploring. Fingers skimming over shoulders and hips and thighs, thumbs grazing against palms, against lips, lips against foreheads and cheeks and throats--
They touch all the time.