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It’s not the first time Dean’s ever had to listen to someone referring to Castiel as “his boyfriend” — actually, he’d have a harder time trying to remember about who didn’t than who did amongst the pool of people they’ve ran into over the years — but it sure as hell is the first time he has to sit through a diner listening to a witch referring to Cas as his husband without even batting an eyelash, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Which would be fine if it didn’t cause actual shivers to run down his spine.
Control yourself, Winchester. It’s not like it’s ever going to be real.
They’re in the regular kind of diner that Dean has been eating at his entire life, after they’ve just wrapped a witch case in Amarillo. There was just enough people inside when they wandered in, so that two 40-year-old looking men walking in with a younger girl didn’t raise anyone’s attention.
Dean frowned at the music when he crossed the front door, recognizing the soft tune as a band that Sam used to play in the car decades ago to get on his nerves. Third Eye Blind or something. Not like Dean really remembers these wankers’ name, but he’s fairly certain he remembers that same band going on a televised feud with another stupid band like, eons ago.
Yeah, whatever.
There’s an almost empty plate of French fries with a cheeseburger long gone sitting right in front of the hunter, and a blond-haired woman in her mid-twenties sitting across from him. Cas left a minute ago to go outside, answering a call from one of his angel contact, and Dean would be lying if he said he doesn’t miss the warmth emanating from the ex-angel that was sitting an inch away from him just a mere moment ago.
His husband?
“Yeah, uh,” Dean interrupts the friendly witch they’ve just solved a case with, “I’m sorry but, uh… Cas and I? We’re just… We’re not —“
“Oh,” Camille said, a cascade of blonde hair moving onto Dean’s frame as she moves to ties them up in a messy bun, “I know I’ve only known you two for a couple of days but I really thought…”
“So those past two days,” Dean huffs, trying to ease hide his discomfort by laughing the whole thing off, “you thought me and Cas were actually married?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, the way you look at each other all the time, when the other isn’t looking? Or how you bicker like an actual—“
Dean interrupts, already looking away, scanning the diner to make sure Cas is nowhere in sight before he speaks, “Well, we’re not.”
“Okay,” Camille picks her beer bottle, taking a sip while watching Dean intensely, “um, do you want you two to be a thing?”
Dean briefly thinks about another time before angels and demons, and Heaven and Hell, and apocalypse and various ends of the world; a time where he would’ve totally flirted his way through this entire dinner and probably would’ve gotten back home with a girl looking just like the 26-year-old witch sitting right in front of him, before rolling out of town the next morning.
Now he’s just a very sad, very single, 42-year-old hunter, both of his knee starts acting out whenever he sits up for too long, his clavicle hurts when there’s rain in sight, and he’s been helplessly and hopelessly pinning for his ex-angel of a best friend for more than a decade.
Talk about pathetic, uh.
“Do I…” Dean starts before scoffing, dropping his eyes to scrutinize the table, because he suddenly has an interest for carved out shit on wood, “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Why?” the witch asks, and Dean raises his head back up to find her looking at him in defiance, both of her arms crossed on her chest, “if you’re gonna serve me some “he doesn’t see me that way” crap, I’m making you order another beer for me.”
Dean would honest to God laugh at the young woman, at the smug look on her face and the oh so clever threat she thinks she’s making.
“How about I just order you another beer if you shut up about it?” Dean answers, laughing as the young woman rolls her eyes at him.
“Seriously, you really telling me there’s nothing between the two of you? On either parts?” she enquiries as Dean orders three more beers to one of the waitresses before he turns back to look at her.
Dean can’t help but sighs, raising his gaze to the door to make sure Cas still isn’t in sight, before he turns his eyes back to Camille again.
Oh, there is something. It’s been crawling up the walls of his heart for so long that it’s practically a part of him now. It acts out whenever Cas sits too closely, when their fingers linger on each other’s, when the ex-angel lets his hand rest on Dean’s shoulder for a little too long.
But he’s not ready to ever say that out loud. He’s not ready for the rejection that will no doubt ensue, not ready to watch Castiel leaves again, not ready to have to lose the only person beside his brother that makes any kind of sense in the non-sense that has been their life for so long.
He’s not even sure he’ll ever be ready, at that point.
Pathetic, weak little man.
“I’m not saying that, I’m just saying… He doesn’t like me that way. We’re… He’s my best friend, and I’m not putting that on a stand just because of some stupid notion of love. I’d rather have this than nothing.”
“You’re an idiot,” Camille says, putting both of her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands, “you know I’m a psychic, right? I’m not just a witch.”
“So?”
“So I’m telling you, old man,” she teases with half a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “make your move. I promise you it’ll be worth the stress. Just… trust me. Or don’t trust me, trust my third eye.”
“Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.”
“Why, cause I’m a witch?” she asks, grinning at him as he takes a swig of his beer, “it’s 2021, come on, live a little! I know I’m right, because I’m always right anyway.”
“Come on, shut up about it,” Dean scoffs, eyeing Castiel at the front door, “what’s up, Cas? Anything new for us?”
The ex-angel plops down next to the hunter with a sigh. Dean tries not to cross eye with Camille again, certain that if he does, the subject of their previous conversation will be painted on his face, and concentrate on Cas instead — which is, by all means, as much of a terrible idea.
His best friend ditched the crisp white shirt, navy blue suit and oversized trench-coat combo when he turned human a few months ago, in favor of more comfortable clothes.
And for that, Dean has been wanting to strangle his little brother ever since, because Castiel wearing a soft blue shirt, paired with a pair of tight dark jeans and some brown boots? It’s entirely Sam’s fault, and it’s a single trip to the city of sins for Dean with no hope to ever return. He’s actually amazed that he’s managed to keep his act together while the love of his entire life looks like a goddamn model right next to him.
And the goddamn model is actually looking at him through his goddamn long lashes, his piercing baby blues fixed on him, right now.
“Dean? You’re not listening to me.”
God, that voice.
“Yeah, sorry, you were saying?”
“I was saying we can go back to Kansas, there’s no other case in sight for us right now.”
“Oh.”
Back to Kansas, with Sam and Eileen, and Jack whenever he pops in. With little hope to get some alone time, just the two of them, like they have been for the past week.
The prospect of having to share Cas suddenly turns his stomach into stone, and he briefly wonders exactly when he turned so whipped.
(the answers stands between 13 years and 2 minutes ago)
“Were you hoping to stay?” Cas asks, a worried look crossing his face.
“No, no it’s alright. Maybe we can make it in time to catch that Tombstone re-run!” Dean says, easing his frown and smiling even more widely when Camille rolls her eyes at him, “Hey, it’s a classic!”
“It’s a classic for old men with no taste,” she mocks, “hey, don’t be strangers okay? Give me a call whenever you roll into town, alright?”
They bid the young witch goodbye 5 minutes later in front of the dinner, making their way to where Dean has parked to Impala on the street earlier.
“I’m surprised to admit this,” Cas says as he sits shotgun next to Dean, “but I’m actually going to miss her.”
Dean laughs as that, realizing that he’s grown attached to the blonde-haired woman before he turns on the engine.
Back to Kansas it is.
***
They’ve just crossed into Oklahoma when Dean decides to stop for the night. Truth be told, the drive from Amarillo to Lebanon is barely 10 hours and it’s only pushing 11 pm, but Cas has been sleeping propped up against the door for half an hour and Dean feels pretty beat as well.
Or maybe that’s just an excuse, because Camille’s words have been echoing non-stop inside his brain, and he’s just 10 minutes away from making a stupid thing.
Maybe.
“Cas? Hey, come on, buddy, wake up,” Dean says softly, reaching out to pat the ex-angel’s shoulder.
“Are we stopping?” Cas asks, raising his head, his voice thick with sleep, “I thought you wanted to get home quickly?”
“I’m pretty beat up, man, and there’s nothing calling us to Lebanon right away. I figured we could get a good night sleep and drive the rest of the way tomorrow. Unless you don’t want to?”
“Dean, I’d kill for a bed right now,” Cas answers, motioning to stretch his arms while he yawns, “My back is killing me.”
“Welcome to my life,” Dean scoffs before he opens the door, “come on, let’s see if they have a room.”
They do have a room.
With one Queen, instead of two Kings.
It literally starts like every bad porn movie Dean can think of.
Or maybe Camille put an actual curse on them, and now Dean has to deal with watching Castiel strip from his day clothes to a ratty old Zeppelin shirt borrowed from him and a pair of navy blue sweatpants that makes his eye pop, while simultaneously handling his own mental breakdown like a fucking champ.
Yeah, it’s going gloriously.
“You sure you’re okay with this? I can sleep on the couch,” Dean starts, but Cas slips under the covers as he speaks and suddenly he’s here, an inch away from him, his adorable face against the pillow and looking at Dean like he’s the grand prize.
“Don’t be stupid, Dean. We’ve shared a bed before.”
They have. And every single time Dean didn’t manage to sleep more than 2 hours, afraid he’ll wake up wrapped around the angel’s body, his unconscious unable to resist from pulling the love of his whole damn life closer.
“Yeah, alright,” he finally answers, turning on his side to look at Cas properly.
It’s in the quiet moments that Dean allows himself to look at Castiel, really look at him. He’s been human for a few months now, and although he’s been navigating it quite well, seeing him age little bits by little bits, wrinkles by wrinkles? It still scares the shit out of Dean.
He knows he’s staring, but Cas doesn’t seem bothered, watching Dean’s face as the hunter commits every cell of Castiel’s to memory.
“What’s going on, Dean?” he finally asks after a minute, his voice soft and gentle, like a warm blanket over the doubts in Dean’s mind.
The hunter finally snaps out of his contemplation, meets Cas’ eyes again, “what do you mean?”
“You’ve been acting weird, ever since we left the diner and started the road trip back. Did something happen while I was on the phone?”
“Why would you ask that?”
Nothing happened. Someone we barely knew thought we were married and for a split second I considered it; I considered having the guts to tell you how much you mean to me, I considered a future where I could get on one knee and propose to you, I considered a future where I could wake up next to you every single morning; and for a split second life didn’t seem so bleak and tiring and plain anymore.
But I’m a coward and I’m terrified of losing you, I’m terrified to see the look of shame and rejection on your face, and I know we fought the devil, and God, and demons, and angels… But I can’t deal with losing you.
“Because you’ve barely been able to look at me since we got in the car, then you decided we need to stop for the night despite us being barely 4 hours away from home, and now you look like you’re about to tell me you’re taking off without me and I can’t return to Lebanon ever again.”
Why do you have to read me like a fucking open book?
The definite note of sadness in Cas’ despite gentle voice turns Dean’s blood into ice, his memory snapping back to another time, about an angel riding shotgun inside his little brother and having to kick his best friend out of the bunker. He’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself for this.
He reaches out instinctively, brushing his thumb on Castiel’s cheekbone before his mind can even jump into action, and is surprised when the ex-angel closes his eyes and push into the touch, allowing Dean to cup his cheek.
What the hell are you doing, Winchester?
“Cas, why would you ever think that?” Dean asks, trying to keep his mind from drifting at the contact of Castiel’s stubble against his fingertips, “I’m never going to leave you.”
“You don’t know that,” Castiel breathes, his voice sounding so broken that Dean has to keep himself from pulling him even closer, “I’m sorry, I’m just… I’m tired and I’m confused, it’s fine, let’s just get to sleep okay?”
“Cas —“
Camille’s words ring into Dean’s mind again, “make your move, trust me, or trust my third eye”.
And so, he kisses him.
He moves closer, never removing his hand from Cas’ cheek, and he fits his mouth over Castiel’s chapped lips, and he kisses him.
He kisses him, and for a moment his mind almost stills in terror, trying to convince him he’s making the single worst mistake of his life.
And then, Cas meets every single one of his kisses, slides his tongue across the seam of Dean’s bottom lip and slips inside his mouth, releasing a soft moan that Dean drinks like good bourbon.
So, turns out Castiel likes him back, uh?
Who would’ve thought?
(Everyone, if Dean’s being honest, but Dean doesn’t like being honest with himself.)
Dean briefly wonders how the fuck he’s been able to hold out for so long, when he could’ve had this, this pure ecstasy being injected straight into his veins. It feels like riding a goddamn bolt of thunder, and when Cas’ hands find their way around Dean’s waist and hold onto his hips like he’s afraid he’ll disappear, pressing him closer, Dean’s pretty sure he’s about to lose what’s left of his sanity.
When they finally part it’s only a few millimeters away, their lips still brushing as they both gasp for air, and Dean realizes they’re wrapped around each other already, their chest pressed tightly and limbs all tangled up. He brushes a soft kiss on the corner of Cas’ mouth, closing his eyes as he relishes on the burn of his best friend’s — lover’s? — stubble against his lips.
“Never leaving you, Cas,” he whispers, kissing his way through the ex-angel’s jawline, “alright? Please, trust me.”
“I trust you,” Cas answers, his voice hoarse and a little breathless, sending shivers through Dean’s spine, “I’ve always trusted you.”
And Dean doesn’t know if he’s been cursed or blessed by a blonde-hair witch from Amarillo, but when he wakes up the next day to find Cas wrapped up around him like a little bundle of joy, his head hidden in the crook of his neck and his hand firmly locked around his waist, he decides that maybe friendly witches are godsend in the end.
And when Camille find a DVD of Tombstone in the mailbox with a sticky note saying “thank God for your third eye — here’s a gift from two old men with terrible taste. Thanks for the push”, she doesn’t have to look for the sender’s name.