Archive of Our Own

Time moves differently in Heaven, or so Bobby says. Something about a month being four on Earth, or somewhere along those lines. All Dean knows is, for the first year, aside from visiting his family and friends whenever he can, he’s alone. In his house, in his car, at the beach. All the time in the world, and he might as well be the last man on earth.

Sometimes, he prays, not that it’ll do much good. Castiel won’t answer, and Jack is even more hands-off than Chuck ever was. For the most part, he puts on his bravest smile and faces each day, trying to make the most of the time he has. Occasionally, something breaks in over the radio when he fishes at the lake, and someone keeps leaving the weirdest looking feathers in an empty pot on the porch, but as far as he can tell, Castiel is nowhere to be seen.

Maybe Bobby was wrong—Maybe Castiel is still in the Empty, and Dean got his hopes up for nothing.

One morning, Dean gathers up the feathers—an entire bundle now, iridescent and refracting light whenever the rising sun hits them just right—and holds them in his lap, petting over the vanes. Warmth spills from the barbs into his fingers; an idea comes to him, and before he can even think to stand and grab his keys, all of the things he needs appear on the table at his side: a hoop and thread, leather cord, a collection of brightly colored beads, and a pair of scissors. He could will it finished, but it helps to keep his hands busy.

Heaven is caught in the perfect autumn day, with temperatures in the low to mid-seventies with nights dipping into the fifties. Dean hasn’t closed his windows since he spent the first night sitting in the grass, constructing his dream home with just his thoughts. A modest bungalow, painted olive green with white trim and a large dormer above the screened-in porch. The fire always crackles in the hearth at night, warming the living room when Dean can’t sleep in his own room. Inside, keeps his weapons collection in the office, and the library always smells of oak and aging books. His room faces the lake and the rising sun, and at night, the moon comes to visit, casting pale light across the sheets.

It should feel like home. His family are all within driving distance, his friends a little further out—but he still can’t stomach visiting them, no matter how much he wants to.

Layering the hoop with cord turns out to be the easy part. For the better part of an hour, Dean strings a complicated series of circles and ovals into a delicate web, with a large blue marble at the center. He decorates a few strands of cord with different colored beads, and ties them around several feathers at a time. Holding it up to the sun, he watches multicolored beams refract off each feather, acting more as glass than anything corporeal. Definitely not from a bird, then. Deep in his heart, he knows where they’re coming from.

Leaving his rocking chair, Dean walks to the railing and hangs the dreamcatcher from a hook. The breeze blows, and the feathers float, casting light in every direction. At the other end of the porch, a windchime tinkles—only, the last he checked, he didn't think to hang one up.

Heart in his throat, Dean turns his head to find nothing. No one snooping around corners, no animals wandering in the bushes—utter silence. His ears ring in the absence. Typically, he at least hears birds in the trees, or the water lapping at the edges of the lake, or that one goose that honks every hour on the hour. Nothing.

He’s here.

“I know you’re hiding,” Dean says, the first words he’s spoken in days. Stepping backwards, he returns to his chair and leans his head back. “Not doing a very good job of it, man.”

From the far end of the porch, Dean hears a sigh. The air shifts, and a body emerges, donning a long coat that actually fits this time, and a tailor-made suit that hugs his frame like it was always meant to. A red flush heats Dean’s cheeks, but he fights it down, along with the emotion constricting his throat. The first time Castiel shows up, and it’s almost a year to the day that Dean bit it in a barn with a jut of rebar shoved into his liver.

It hurts more than it should.

“I wanted to come,” Castiel mumbles. He wanders closer, slow, before easing into the chair next to him; his wings spread over the arms and onto the floor, white feathers gleaming. The same feathers currently hanging from the dreamcatcher, except longer, vibrant with life. In the morning sun, he looks tired, dark circles coloring the skin beneath his eyes, the blue of his irises dulled with exhaustion. Can angels be tired? “Trust me, the minute I got the chance, I always came here, but you were asleep.”

“Do a lot of that these days,” Dean says in return. In reality, whatever time Dean isn’t on the lake or in his office, he spends asleep, wishing he were anywhere other than here. Eyes closed, Dean sighs. “Been a long time, Cas.”

Castiel agrees with a noise. “I’m finished with my project,” he explains. The chair rocks, creaking, and Dean relishes in the noise. The pain in his heart eases ever so slightly, softening the weight in his chest. “Jack and I, we spent the last few months reconstructing Heaven from the ground up. Breaking down walls, allowing families and friends to intermingle. We felt the former iteration was cruel, to subject humans to their happiest memories, when they could be rejoicing with their families instead.”

“Not gonna lie, it’s nice,” Dean says. He can’t imagine being stuck in an eternal fireworks display for the rest of his life. Though, it might be better than here, where he has the world at his grasp but no one at his side. “Just—not used to being here. It’s fucking quiet.”

Castiel’s steady rock slows to a stop. Footsteps approach, and a pair of hands palm his knees until he opens, wide enough to let Castiel kneel between them. He rests his temple against the inside of Dean’s thigh. Opening his eyes, Dean finds Castiel staring up at him in utter sadness, like being here hurts more than he expected. Dean has hurt every day since Castiel disappeared, and then some—some pair they make.

“I did this for you,” Castiel says, looking down. “I wanted you to be at peace whenever you arrived, but you came too soon. You still had another three decades.”

Three decades—thirty years that Dean could’ve spent in Kansas, all for nothing. Tears spring to his eyes, and the ache returns, seizing his lungs. For a corporeal soul, everything feels too real. Probably part of the experience, but Dean wishes he couldn't feel it at all. “Cas,” he says—or tries, his name coming out in a watery sob. Castiel stands and drags him into a hug before the dam breaks, and Dean clings to him, burying his face in Castiel’s shirt. He smells like sunshine and burns just as hot; his wings come to wrap around Dean, shrouding him in light. “Cas—”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmurs, nuzzling Dean’s throat. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I left you alone.”

It’s okay, Dean thinks. It shouldn't be, but the more rational part of his brain considers how Castiel reinvented the fabric of Heaven for him, just so he could be happy. It should make him happy—ecstatic, even, but all he feels is an existential loneliness that refuses to fade. “I still had a lot left in me,” he says, hating how his voice warbles. Castiel might as well have ripped the Band-aid off again. Just when he thought he was over it, and Castiel walks into his life. Finally. “I didn’t wanna die yet, Cas. I wanted—I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted to be like you, I wanted… And all that’s gone. And you’re not here—”

“I’m here.” Pulling back, Castiel caresses Dean’s cheeks, his palms warm and solid; Dean leans into him, hating the tears that spill onto Castiel’s thumb. “I’m done, Dean. I was helping Jack, but we finished.” He stops, his breath shuddering. “I was hoping I could stay with you.”

Without a thought, Dean nods. “Of course,” he says, breaking into a laugh. “Don’t even gotta ask, just—I kept praying to you, man. Every night since I got here, and all I’ve seen of you are these… feathers.”

Soft, Castiel chuckles. “I couldn’t bring myself to knock. Some nights, I’d sit here trying to work up the nerve, but I never could.” He stops, pressing his forehead to Dean’s. “I’m tired.”

“Me too.” Taking Castiel’s wrists, Dean draws them away, only to lace their fingers together. A glint of hope crosses Castiel’s face, curling his lips. “I could use a nap.”

“It’s only nine in the morning,” Castiel says, but Dean shakes his head.

“Like I said, nap time.” He tugs Castiel toward the door. “Just… really missed you. Wouldn’t believe how much.”

Just barely, Castiel smiles. “Likewise.”

-+-

Castiel doesn’t bring it up for another few days, not until he knows Dean has adjusted to his presence, and not until he sees Dean smile more, and not that fake grin Castiel has seen so many times. A real smile, one that brightens his face and deepens the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Forty-one years young—after all this time, he’s still the most beautiful man Castiel has ever seen.

Manning the stove with an apron wrapped around his waist, Dean gently works eggs in a skillet, waiting until the edges have crisped up enough to dish one out on top of the meat patty set before Castiel. The yolk stares up at him, bright and yellow, and Dean sets a bun down to the side. “What you do is you smash it down, and it breaks the yolk. You gotta let it get everywhere, that’s the best part.”

It seems like a mess, but Castiel will take his word for it. While Dean prepares his own burger, Castiel does as instructed and places the bun on top, mashing down until the yolk runs over the sides and into the lettuce and tomato and cheese. On Earth, food tasted like nothing but the atoms which made up the material—here, Castiel tastes it, the condiments and the spices Dean seasoned the meat with, the yolk on his tongue. If Dean could cook this well on Earth, then Castiel missed out on a lifetime of meals.

Dean makes a noise of approval as he sinks his teeth into his own burger. “Good, right?” he says with his mouth full, and Castiel can’t help but agree.

For a while, they stand on opposite sides of the island, eating while the record player drones from the cabinet beside the television. An old song, one Dean heard in the Bunker’s library years ago but kept close to his heart. Castiel remembers it, only because Dean played it once and sang along without knowing any of the words.

If Castiel wasn’t in love with him before that moment, that one song might have been the tipping point.

“Jack is starting to create angels,” Castiel says, fishing for a fry on the shared plate between them. Dean looks up, thumbing the ketchup from his lip. “Naomi is helping him, actually. The problem is, there isn’t enough celestial energy to make an angel purely from thought, so they’ve been asking for volunteers.”

Dean nods along while he dips a fry into a glob of ketchup, then pops it into his mouth. “So whoever wants the job can take it?” he asks, and Castiel nods. “How does that work?”

“Souls are pure energy, essentially,” Castiel explains. “All it would take is a bit of manipulating, and another angel could imbue them with wings. But the only people being asked are those who’ve been sanctified and those pure of heart.”

Mouth full, Dean grunts out a noise of acknowledgement. “Sounds like you’re about to ask me a question,” he ventures.

Heat colors Castiel’s cheeks, hopefully muted by the noontime sun streaming through the window. “You’re under no obligation to accept,” he starts, making sure to look Dean in the eye, “and if you do, you don’t have to fulfill any prayers you may receive. But,” he reaches across the table to take Dean’s hand, “would you like to be an angel?”

Dean stops chewing. Never once does he attempt to pull away, but Castiel feels his hesitation, sees the skepticism in his eyes. After a moment, Dean swallows and pulls his hand away, beginning to pace around the kitchen. “That’s—that’s too much responsibility,” Dean says, worry furrowing his brow. “I just died, man, and you’re—What am I supposed to do?”

Rounding the table, Castiel places a hand to Dean’s shoulder. Mostly to keep him still, but also to draw him back into himself, to keep him calm. Dean gradually relaxes, eventually backing into the island. “You’ve lived your life fighting to help people, Dean,” Castiel says, waiting for Dean to nod. “This is another way to help. You could return to Earth whenever you want, and your home will still be waiting for you here. And if you wanted…” He stops, hesitates. “I could come with you.”

An incredible fondness radiates from Dean, so strong that Castiel nearly rips his hand away. Touching Dean is akin to touching a livewire, terrifying and deadly, yet he refuses to let go. “I gotta think about it,” Dean says, ducking his head. “It’s—It’s a lot, man.”

“I know.” Castiel pulls him closer, and Dean goes willingly, tucking his face into Castiel’s neck. “But this might be your second chance. I’ve spent… too long, wondering if there was a way I could give you the time back that you lost. You could still hunt, and you can save people, and you wouldn't be tethered to Heaven.” He sighs, cupping the back of Dean’s head. “I want what’s best for you.”

“This is how ghosts happen,” Dean says, amused. Castiel humors him with a laugh. “I’m serious, one minute you’re in your living room, and the next, you’re scaring the shit out of the next family that moves into your place. ‘Cept, I’d be haunting a barn.” He sucks in a breath. “Can I visit Sam?”

That, Castiel doesn’t have an answer to. “I’m sure we can pull some strings,” he says in compromise. Dean sags, and Castiel holds him up with pure strength alone. “I hate this for you, Dean, truly. I hate that you had your life ahead of you, but this way, even if you spent the rest of your life on the road, you could see the fruits of your labor. You could heal,” he takes Dean’s hand and brings it to his lips, “with these hands. You wouldn’t have to worry about death or dying, and you could…”

“I’d be free,” Dean finishes. “Really free.”

Castiel agrees. “And you’d have wings.”

Dean snorts. “Always wanted wings.”

Gently, Castiel rubs the space between Dean’s shoulder blades. He can imagine them, the broad expanse of feathers, strong enough to carry his weight but cotton soft to the touch. “You can think about it,” he says. “You have time.”

“I think,” Dean starts, then pulls away. Purely for space, not out of rejection. It still frightens Castiel anyway, thinking that Dean might turn him down, or tell him to leave. “I think I… What if I don’t want to anymore?”

“Then I can reverse the process,” Castiel says. “It’s a one-time deal, though. Once I remove your wings, then you’re bound to Heaven for eternity.”

Dean visibly weighs his options as he paces. Slower this time, no longer frantic in his thoughts. “It’s great here, really,” he says, choosing his words. “And I’m grateful for that, Cas, really. It’s a hell of a lot better than what it was before, but… I can’t sit here forever. I’m gonna lose my mind if I keep doing the same things over and over again. I know everyone else might be fine with that, but I’m… I gotta move, man. There’s only so many times I can drive around this… neighborhood, state, whatever you wanna call it, without ripping my hair out.”

Castiel understands, really. Has understood ever since he met Dean, how restless he is, how whenever he isn’t sleeping, he’s moving, whether it be driving, fighting, or eating. Heaven is no life for him, but it’s his home, a place he can always return to. The place he can call his own, the place he never had when he was alive.

“I just want you to remember.” Again, Castiel pulls Dean into his orbit, marveling when Dean falls into him without hesitation. “This is your home, Dean. Whenever you need to rest, it’ll still be here, and I’ll be at your side.”

Dean lets out a breath, warm against Castiel’s lips. “You really do love me, don’t you?”

Ashamed, Castiel nods. “I’ve tried not to, but you’ve always managed to make it incredibly difficult not to love you.”

This time when Dean laughs, Castiel’s stomach doesn’t bottom out, nor does fear spike through his Grace. No, joy fills him instead, then panic—because Dean kisses him, chaste and tentative, but everything Castiel has ever wanted at the same time. “Tell you what, the next time you wanna tell me, let me say it back before you get sucked into another dimension.”

Oh—Oh. “You love me,” Castiel says—asks, really. And to his shock, Dean nods. “Dean—”

Dean shushes him with another kiss, a smile on his lips. “Finish eating. Do we need to call Jack?”

Jack—Jack, right. “I think he’ll be happy to see you,” Castiel says, and means it.

-+-

A little more than a year apart, and Jack hasn’t grown an inch. Maybe it’s the power in him that keeps him young, but it beats having to look at Chuck’s face any day. The minute Jack sees Dean and Castiel on his porch, he practically jogs from the living room and out of the door, throwing himself into Dean’s arms. Stunned, Dean stands for a moment before he wraps his arms around Jack; he smells like sweat and soil, like he’s been toiling in the fields rather than creating life with his hands.

“Dean,” Jack says and takes a step back, holding his hand up in a wave. “I’m so glad you’re here. Well, not glad, but—It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Jack,” Dean says. A little sad, but no more than usual. Looking at Jack is surreal, now that Jack holds the power of the universe in his palm. "Cas here says you’ve been busy.”

“Oh, I have.” And Jack ushers them inside.

Jack lives in a log cabin, much like the place where he was born, facing a lake with towering snow-capped peaks on the horizon. On the far corner of the living room, the fire crackles, and a kettle sits on the stove in the kitchen, whistling as soon as they step inside. “I made tea,” he announces and trots over to the cabinet, pulling out three mugs. Dean smells the peppermint before he even takes the thing off the stove.

“It’s almost Christmas,” Castiel explains as he leads Dean to the couch. “On Earth, at least. We still have a few more months.”

Dean nods along. For once, he has nothing to say, the thought of Christmas and celebrating suddenly gnawing at his brain. He should be down there, four years from now, decorating a tree in the Bunker, or in a house in Lebanon or Lawrence. Somewhere other than here, sitting on God’s couch staring into a fireplace. Stockings decorate the mantle, one with Jack’s name, another with Castiel’s. Dean’s joins them, along with Sam and Mary’s. Sam won’t be here for a while, Dean thinks and bites his tongue. At least Jack remembers him and cares. More than he can say for Chuck.

At his side, Castiel digs his fingertips into the meat of Dean’s thigh. “It’s okay if you’re not ready,” he says, but Dean shakes his head. “You’re sure?”

It takes some effort, but Dean nods. “It’s just weird,” he says, then rubs his eyes. “I mean, the kid’s God now, capital G and everything. And he’s making—peppermint tea?”

“You were a good influence on him,” Castiel says, doting. “He’s a fan of holidays. He’s been lonely without the two of you. I was only able to fill the void to an extent.”

“Hey.” Tipping Castiel’s chin up, Dean looks him in the eye. “You’re not our placeholder, okay? You’re his dad, you’re doing your best.”

Castiel sighs, turning back to the fire. “I understand now, how hard it must’ve been to raise Sam, trying to unlearn your father’s teachings while at the same time taking care of someone.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Dean nudges his shoulder. “Don't think either of us have experience with teaching God new tricks.”

Jack appears from around the couch with three mugs in hand. Not regular mugs from big box stores, but the ones Dean remembers from countless diners across the county, plain white ceramic with cracks embedded within. It feels like home. Dean inhales a deep breath of the tea before he takes a sip, peppermint and cinnamon cloyingly sweet and sharp on his tongue. Exactly like if he tried to eat a Christmas tree decorated in tinsel and shatterproof ornaments—he almost cries at the taste.

“Cas told you about what I’m working on, right?” Jack asks, sitting on the coffee table between them and the stone fireplace. Dean nods, too caught up in the drink in his hands to reply. “There were only a handful when I showed up. Naomi took me under her wing and taught me how to create angels, and told me how to rescue Castiel. The Empty was… less than cooperative, but I informed them that if Castiel came with me, that no one would ever bother them again.”

“And they bought that?” Dean asks.

“They were willing to be rid of me,” Castiel says, hiding a smile behind his mug. “Jack’s explosion unsettled the foundations, and the angels and demons were threatening war against one another. The only way to end the noise was to remove me from the equation.”

“I might have helped put them back to sleep as well,” Jack adds with a grin.

Castiel nods and drinks. “We brought a few back with us, so long as they behave. They’re currently teaching our fledglings how to go about their duties.”

“Sounds like you’ve got the whole thing down,” Dean says, sitting back. “So how’m I gonna play into this?”

Jack looks at Castiel, then turns to Dean. “We believe in free will,” he answers. “You don’t have a job to do, really. You can answer prayers, or you can hunt, or watch the humans.” He looks down at his tennis shoes with a glint in his eyes. “I miss them.”

Me too, Dean thinks.

“Anyway.” Jack sets his mug down, untouched. “I normally have a speech, but I think I can skip that.”

“Probably,” Dean laughs. “Just wanna know if it’s gonna hurt.”

“It shouldn't,” Castiel says. A hand comes up to rub his back, petting down the length of his spine. “It might pinch, but it won’t last more than a minute.”

“Souls are strong, Dean.” Standing, Jack grabs his mug and walks toward a hallway, still talking as he goes. Constantly moving—Dean can relate.

Castiel shakes his head and offers Dean a hand. “I should teach him to finish a conversation,” he says, but smiles anyway. “Come. His throne room is… unique, to say the least.”

Without seeing it, Dean would take his word for it. But being told one thing and actually witnessing it are two different things. Dean physically stifles a laugh the moment he steps into Jack’s heavenly office—full of bean bag chairs. Fairy lights dangle from the ceiling in every shape and size, casting the room in blues and reds and greens and yellows. Sunlight pours in through the floor to ceiling windows, showing off a perfect view of the lake and the mountains beyond. It’s beautiful, really—the ideal breakroom, but functional, meant to keep everyone relaxed as they can be.

Jack flops into the largest chair, Styrofoam beans crunching as he shifts around to find the perfect spot. Dean sits in a chair opposite him, and Castiel stands at his back, hands resting atop Dean’s shoulders. His shirt disappears with little more than a thought, thrown over onto an empty chair. So this is it—the moment he gives up his eternal soul to become something even more eternal, all with the help of a three-year-old god. Not the strangest thing to happen in his life.

Gently, Castiel strokes a hand through his hair, fingertips dancing across his scalp; closing his eyes, Dean lets Castiel guide him and ease the fear in his gut. Jack takes both of his hands and presses his fingers into Dean’s palms. “The process is simple, really,” Jack explains. “I’ll give you a part of my Grace, and your soul will accept it and begin the transition.”

“I’m not gonna blow up, am I?” Dean asks, eyes snapping open. Castiel closes them, keeping his hand over Dean’s eyes. “I’m serious, if I’m gonna die again—”

“You won’t die,” Castiel rumbles. “We can tell if a person is a candidate by looking at their soul. I’ve seen saints who haven’t been as pure as you, Dean.”

“Cas told me how he rescued you from Hell,” Jack says, just as something cold pricks the inside of his hand. Dean almost jerks away, but Jack holds him in place with a firm grip. “He said you were like a lighthouse.”

A chill runs up the length of Dean’s arms and moves into his chest, a slow, sluggish flood that would terrify him if it were any faster. As it is, he concentrates on the feel of Castiel at his back and the warmth in his hands, all while a wave crashes through his system, all the way to his toes. A heavy weigh settles in his core and pours into his spine, where bones manifest and align, then break through the skin. Grace dulls the pain, but it does nothing to ease the ache of a total metamorphosis. Feathers grow at a breakneck pace; Castiel holds him up, keeps him steady, and Jack finally lets go.

In the wake, all Dean feels is cold. A chill breaks out across his skin, and his heart pounds, lungs spasming for air. Total organ shutdown, probably, or a system refresh—whatever the reason, Dean shivers, tears streaming down his cheeks. Tilting his head up, Castiel kisses his forehead, an anointment. “You’re done,” he says, kissing him again. “They’re beautiful, Dean.”

“Hurts,” Dean manages, and the world goes dark.

-+-

Dean wakes about an hour later, his brow furrowed as realization sets in. Castiel watches him and smooths the lines at the corner of his right eye, and gradually, Dean softens, settling into the mattress. Their mattress, the one Dean slept in alone for a year before Castiel got the nerve to show up, and the one they share at night, with Dean curled up against him and Castiel’s arm around his waist.

Now, they face each other, Dean’s eyes half-lidded and their wings spilling off onto the floor. Iridescent white meets tawny gold atop the mattress, a mess of feathers covering their legs. Occasionally, Dean’s wing fights him, and Castiel holds him down, keeps him still.

“Did it work?” Dean asks, voice gravel-rough and the slightest bit terrified of the answer.

“Yes,” Castiel says, soft. Visibly, Dean relaxes, his wing dead weight over Castiel’s waist. “You passed out, but the transformation is complete. You’re now in possession of Grace.”

“Whoopee,” Dean deadpans and palms the corner of his lips. “Feel like I got backed over by a semi.”

“It’ll take a while for your soul to reconcile, but you’ll recover within a few hours.” Petting Dean’s cheek, Castiel hears a low moan resonate from deep within his chest. “It’s a taxing process, but you did well.”

Sighing through his nose, Dean reaches out to him, covering Castiel’s hand with his own. He laces their fingers together and brings them to his lips. “I still got a soul?”

Castiel nods. “You have both. Your soul consumed Jack’s Grace and adapted, but if need be, the two can be separated with minimal effort.”

Another breath. Dean worms closer, tucking his knee between Castiel’s. With a thought, Castiel drags the covers over their bodies, sneaking it under the weight of their wings. “I don’t feel any different,” Dean says. He holds Castiel’s hand tighter. “Gotta teach me how to fly when I can open my eyes for more than two seconds.”

 Humming, Castiel pulls his hand free and pets the curve of Dean’s neck. First on their checklist is how to hide his wings, then flight. “How awake are you?”

“Pretty awake,” Dean answers. “Just tired.”

“How long were you in love with me?”

That gets Dean to open his eyes. Blearily, Dean stares at him, his lips parted in a frown. “I…” Blinking, he leans up on an elbow, the strain of keeping upright too much; Dean collapses back into the mattress, even more confused than he looked before. “It’s been—I don’t know.”

Castiel lifts a brow. “You don’t know?”

Dean huffs and scrubs his face with a limp hand. “That’s what I said. I think…” He stops to think, his lip between his teeth. “The first time you died, when you told me we were making it up as we went, I felt… something. Kinda like, wow, this guy’s gonna die for me, and I don’t deserve it. But you kept… You kept coming back and dying again, and every time it hurt even worse, like someone twisted a knife in my chest and kept going. Every time you got hurt, or you left, I just…”

Eyes closed, Dean takes a breath. His wing clings to Castiel, curling around his waist. “It didn't make sense until you said it. I always knew, but I didn’t wanna… I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to, ‘cause that meant an angel loved me, and I got him killed. And that time, you weren’t coming back.”

Castiel takes his hand, but refuses to speak. Not until Dean finishes, not until he’s done wringing Castiel’s heart in his hand. Because Dean always loved him—he just couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

“You’re the…” Dean starts again, his eyes wet. “You’re the first person who’s ever loved me back. Who saw me for all my bullshit, and you still stuck around. And all I did was scream at you, and I told myself it was for the best if you left, or died, or…” He wipes his eyes, his lip wobbling. “You didn't see me, the last time. When Lucifer killed you, I was… I was messed up. I drank myself sick, I… I killed myself on a case, and part of me didn’t wanna come back. ‘Cause I knew you weren’t there waiting for me, and I’d be stuck in Heaven, or Hell, or wherever the fuck I ended up, alone.

“And I didn't wanna be alone.” Eyes pinched shut, Dean tucks his face beneath Castiel’s chin. Castiel holds him, drawing his wing tighter. “I loved you. Love you. Never stopped. And I was gonna live by your example, I was gonna make you proud, and I never got to.”

“I’m already proud of you.” Pulling back, Castiel cups Dean’s cheek, ignoring the wetness in his own eyes. “I’m so proud, Dean. I’ve always been proud of how far you’ve come, and now, we have each other. We could be together until the universe dies, and that still wouldn’t be enough time with you.”

Dean laughs, wet in his throat. “Don’t know how long I’m gonna wanna be an angel,” he says, and Castiel knows. Maybe until Sam dies, or a while after that, but sooner or later, Dean will want to return to Heaven, and Castiel will be there too, in this bed, relishing in the man he fell for, the moment he touched Dean’s soul. “Just wanna be with you.”

When Castiel kisses him, it feels like the first kiss all over again, just hours ago in the kitchen, still tasting of Dean’s cooking. Now, Dean tastes like peppermint, and Castiel soars when Dean kisses him in return, his lips soft and inviting. Like Castiel always imagined, but even better, now that Dean is his. Salt mingles in, and only belatedly does Castiel realize that they aren’t Dean’s tears.

Pulling back, Dean thumbs away the wetness in the crease of Castiel’s nose. “Normally I’m the one crying.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel reaches up to wipe his face, but Dean pushes his hand back down. “I never thought I’d have you.”

“Well, you got me.” Dean strokes across Castiel’s cheek with his knuckles, so tender that Castiel almost loses his sanity right there. “Ain’t going anywhere, either.”

Good, Castiel thinks, and kisses him again. Above the sheets, their wings mesh, and their feathers interlock; Grace melds into Grace, and Castiel feels the surge of their bond forming, knotting them together. Even in the oldest of rituals has Castiel never felt such a force, like love incarnate has intervened and replaced his heart with nothing but affection. Dean must feel it too, because a smile flutters across his face, joy radiating from his soul.

This is love. And Castiel plans to make the most of it, however he can.

-+-

Dean can wear whatever he wants in Heaven—even nothing at all, but only behind closed doors. His favorite outfit, though, is a soft blue flannel and a black shirt Zeppelin T-shirt, and a pair of Levi’s that fits him without sagging or dragging on the ground. Boots laced, he stands on the dock and watches the sun dance over the lake, sinking lower across the sky. Night is coming, and Christmas is growing closer on Earth.

“Hey,” Dean calls out over his shoulder. Castiel joins him after a breath, his wings glimmering, prismatic. “You wanna be a Christmas miracle?”

“Depends on what your definition of miracle is,” Castiel says, but smiles anyway.

Turning, Dean takes Castiel’s hands and holds them, rubbing his thumb over the backs. Their wings meet at the tips, the longest of their primaries kissing. “I wanna go see Sam,” he says, to Castiel’s nod. “Then, we can do whatever we want. Gotta get Baby first, unless she’s in a junkyard somewhere.”

“The last I saw, she’s currently sitting in Sam’s garage,” Castiel confirms. Good—then they don’t have to hop around to every scrap yard in Kansas just to find a car. “Do you remember what I told you?”

Dean nods, thinking. “Think about the place you wanna be, then take off,” he says. “That about it?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but agrees. “Something like that.”

Dean rolls his shoulders, then shakes his wings, expanding them to their full span. It shouldn't be as exciting as it is, but one of his childhood dreams was to fly. Now, he can. He can visit anywhere in the world at a whim, no longer bound by airfare costs and sitting in a screaming metal death trap for hours on end. Now, if he wants to visit Paris or the fjords in Iceland, all he has to do is grab Castiel’s hand and go.

The world at his fingertips, and no one vying for his head. This might as well be paradise.

“So Sammy’s in Lawrence?” Dean asks. “He’s gonna freak.”

“It might help him heal,” Castiel suggests, squeezing Dean’s hand tighter. “He can only assume that you’re in Heaven.”

“Shit.” He never thought about that, how Sam would interpret his death. For all he knows, Sam thinks he’s in Hell, either rotting or chilling with Rowena. Maybe Rowena told him, if he bothered to ask. Either way, his heart clenches. Sam has lived without him for four years—four years too long, in Dean’s opinion. “It’s just… weird. He’s probably moved on, and I haven’t been there for any of it.”

Castiel squeezes his hand, bringing it to his lips. “Then let’s find out.”

Angelic flight, unlike air travel, is exhilarating. Dean remembers sitting in coach while the plane taxied onto the runway, then sped off down the tarmac, wheels lifting off the ground. Glued to his seat, he vowed never again. But this, with his wings ripping through the air, is thrilling, reminiscent of that one roller coaster in Virginia that sent him running for a trash can the moment he stepped out of the car.

This time, thankfully, he doesn’t puke. Castiel’s hand in his, they touch down on the sidewalk in front of a white-walled ranch home, with a red roof and a garage, and a wire-wrapped train strung up in the yard with extension cords. A bundle of pink balloons floats above the brick mailbox, tied to a weather-worn stuffed Snoopy plush. Christmas lights adorn the eaves, and a tree sits in one of the front windows, blinking in the shade provided by a large oak tree separating the property from the neighbor’s home.

It’s all too picturesque. The more he looks at it, the more his stomach twists. “So that’s it,” Dean says, rubbing his jaw. “He really gave up hunting.”

“He’s doing what you should’ve,” Castiel says, sounding solemn. “What you never got the chance to.”

Dean sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “At least he’s not cooped up in the Bunker anymore,” he says. “Not a place to raise a family.”

Castiel takes the first steps up the driveway. Dean follows and tucks his wings away, hands in his jean pockets. It all feels too foreign, too real. A year in Heaven, and he forgot just how the sun felt on his skin, how hard concrete was beneath his feet. Heaven’s artificial light is nothing compared to the real thing. He could cry just standing there, listening to cars drive past and hearing the birds in the trees.

It’s home.

The distinct sound of the radio playing catches Dean’s attention the minute they step onto the porch, along with footsteps echoing through the house. For a while, Dean stands in front of the door, working up the nerve to knock. It’s the last twenty years all over again, except now, Dean is technically dead, and Sam isn’t in college anymore. Years ago, he would’ve accepted that as his fate—now, Dean envies Sam, envies what he has and Dean doesn’t.

“It’s okay if you can’t,” Castiel says, low. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees the shadows of Castiel’s wings and the rainbows on the patio. One wraps around his waist, keeping him steady.

“I can,” Dean says. Rolling his shoulders, Dean cracks his neck from side to side. He can do this—saying it aloud should help, but it only frightens him, hearing his own voice. On the other side of that door, Sam is alive and living his life, and Dean shouldn't be here. But he needs to see Sam again, if anything, for his own closure. “God, I’ve never been this much of a chicken before.”

Castiel rests a hand over Dean’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You’re his brother,” he whispers. “He’ll understand.”

“Or have a heart attack,” Dean mumbles.

He has to—for closure. Before he can overthink it, Dean slams his entire fist into the doorbell and listens to it ding twice. A woman’s voice echoes down the hall, a voice he recognizes all too well, even after spending years apart. The knob twists, and Eileen swings the door open, her brown hair sporting a few grays, her eyes wide in shock. Or panic. “Sam?” she calls out and looks behind her, at the head of hair that emerges from around the corner.

Dean offers a wave. Sam promptly grabs a bottle from the kitchen and marches for the door, and Dean has half a second to react before Sam rushes through the door and splashes him in the face with holy water. Nothing happens—it tastes different, though, like someone mixed rosewater and honey into the sweetest tea. Must be an angel thing. “I’m not a demon,” Dean complains and wipes his face, all while Castiel stifles a laugh. “And he ain’t either. Jesus, Sammy, I can’t even come say hi—”

Sam cuts him off with a hug. If he were human, Dean might have a few cracked ribs and a bruised hip, but as an angel, all he feels is Sam wrapped around him, a torrent of emotion pouring off of him. Patting Sam’s back, he wonders if this is how Castiel feels when he’s close to someone, if he absorbs their emotions through empathy. Maybe that’s why he always looks sad. He hangs around me too much. “Hey, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam says, eventually, and pulls back. He claps Dean’s face, then settles his hands on his shoulders, shaking him a bit. “You’re—”

“We have an explanation,” Castiel says. Sam snaps out of his shock long enough to gather up Castiel into his arms; Castiel hugs him back, his eyes soft. “Can we come in?”

-+-

Sam and Eileen have kids. Plural, apparently, because along with Dean Jr, there’s Emily, freshly out of the hospital and swaddled in her mother’s arms. Eileen sits in a plush armchair in the living room and rocks her back and forth; at this age, they don’t make much noise, or at least Sam didn’t when he was small. Dean Jr, however, is hyped up on sugar and clinging to the first leg he can find, namely Castiel’s.

“So you’re an angel,” Sam says after Dean finishes his explanation—that Jack pulled Castiel from the Empty and rebuilt Heaven, and that with Naomi’s help, Jack is creating more angels, Dean being one of them. Sam runs his hands through his hair, shorter now, barely touching his nape. At some point in the last few years, he picked up reading glasses. “And Cas is—”

“God’s architect,” Castiel says, beaming with pride. “Jack said to tell you hello.”

Quiet, Sam smiles, sitting back in his chair. Dean takes a spot on the couch facing the television, and Castiel sits at his side, far enough apart to not raise suspicions. Though, at this point, if Sam doesn’t know already, then it’s his problem. “It just—I thought you were dead, man. I mean, you are dead, technically, but you’re… You’re here. I can’t believe it.”

“He asked Rowena where you were,” Eileen says, facing Dean while she hugs Emily close to her chest. “She said you weren’t with her, so we figured you went to Heaven.”

“Yeah.” Dean rubs his eyes until he sees stars. “You’re not gonna believe what it looks like now. No more reliving your golden years, no more soul sucking vortex.”

“Jack and I wanted to make it a place to retire, especially for people such as yourselves,” Castiel adds, then glares over at Dean. “But Dean couldn't sit still.”

“Hey, you’re the one that asked me if I wanted wings,” Dean shoots back with a laugh. His smile falls, heart suddenly heavy. “Me and Cas have this deal. Any time I wanna renege, I can, but… If I get restless, I can come down here. To hunt, to sleep somewhere that ain’t my own house, doesn’t matter. I just—I didn’t get this life. And I’m so happy for both of you, really, but—I want it too.”

“We know.” Sitting up, Sam rests his elbows on his knees. “Trust me, we… I left the bunker a couple days after we burned your body. Everyone was there, and we tried to celebrate your life, but it just felt… wrong. Like, you were gonna walk out with Cas, and it was all just another bad dream. But you never came.”

Dean Jr rushes in with a large stuffed caterpillar about five times his size and shoves its head at Castiel, telling him to sit with him and play. Confused but as much of a pushover as ever, Castiel drops onto the floor and takes the caterpillar by the head while Dean Jr tells him about their adventures together. Better to keep him entertained than have him listen to this.

“This is my house, and I invited Sam to move in,” Eileen says. Emily makes a noise and grabs for Eileen’s nose, her hand so small, so fragile. “We got married three years ago, right before Dean was born.”

“And we kept Miracle, by the way.” Sam leaves the room momentarily to call out into the yard.

Within a minute, Dean hears the jangle of a collar and the click of nails on the kitchen tiles. In walks a shaggy white dog, and the minute he sets his eyes on Dean, he whines and launches across the room, nearly taking Sam out with him. Dean catches him mid-stride, his heart three sizes too large when Miracle shoves his face in Dean’s neck, sob after sob working its way free from the dog’s throat. His tail frantically beats the couch; Dean cries right along with him. “Hey, buddy,” he croaks, his throat tight. “Missed you too.”

They let Dean sit in silence for a minute, Sam struggling not to burst into tears again, Eileen cooing to Emily, and Castiel listening intently to whatever Dean Jr is trying to tell him. It all feels too surreal, like this might as well be another dream, and he’ll wake up back in his bed, with Castiel wrapped around him, or alone, just like all the other days. But he doesn’t wake up, and Dean takes it for the miracle that it is.

“What are you guys planning on doing now?” Eileen asks to ease the tension. “I hear Australia’s lovely this time of year.”

From the floor, Castiel laughs. “We might drive,” he says, holding the caterpillar’s face toward Dean Jr. “Heaven has roads, but Dean is insistent on a change of scenery.”

“Hey.” Dean points a finger at him and earns a headbutt from Miracle for not paying him enough attention. “What he said. Need to feel the wind in my wings, y’know. Maybe book a four-star hotel just because I can.”

Sam snorts. “You gonna start counterfeiting?”

“Nah.” Dean nods at Castiel. “Pretty sure we can sweet talk our way into anything we want now.”

“Speaking of that.”

Dean follows Sam through the house, down a hallway and into the kitchen, then through a door leading into the garage. There, parked next to a Honda Civic Hatchback is the Impala, lightly sprinkled with dust but still in perfect condition. No scratches, no dings, no dirt on the tires—ready for Dean once again. “We take her out for Sunday drives every now and again, but we haven’t really done much with her.” Sam rubs the back of his neck. “I was actually thinking about putting her up for auction.”

Dean sucks in a breath. “Oh, Baby, he wouldn't do that to you.” Rushing over, he presses his face to her roof, running his hands through the dust. “Don’t listen to him, he’s lying.”

Behind him, Sam laughs. Actually laughs, like for the first time in years, he’s happy. He might be—and Dean is happy just seeing him smile. “Do you guys wanna stay for dinner? We were gonna order pizza—”

“Pizza,” Dean scoffs. Like he’ll let Sam eat pizza on a day like this. “You guys got anything in your fridge I can cook?”

-+-

They end up leaving around eight that night, long after the sun has gone down and most motels have begun late check-in hours. Dean says his goodbyes with a kiss on the cheek for Eileen and a hug for Sam, and a new stuffed animal for Dean Jr, who took it and refused to leave Dean alone for the rest of the evening.

Castiel climbs into the passenger seat of the Impala, feeling just as exhausted as Dean looks, while Dean leans on the rear passenger door, his arms folded across his chest. “This ain’t goodbye, y’know,” Dean says, making sure to keep Sam’s attention. “Any time you guys need me, you can… pray or whatever. Can they pray to me?” he asks.

Castiel nods, folding his hands in his lap. “Any prayers that mention you by name should be directed to you.”

“Yeah.” Dean pulls Sam into another hug, and Sam embraces him just as fiercely, holding back a sniffle. “Just pray, and I’ll come. Even if it’s helping with the kid’s math homework, I’ll come and bullshit my way through it.”

Sam laughs and pats his shoulders. “You guys be safe.”

“Send us postcards,” Eileen says. Clinging to her pajama pants, Dean Jr waves goodbye, and Castiel waves back. “It’s good to see you two again.”

“You too,” Castiel says—and means it.

The roads leading out of Lawrence are just as dark as Castiel always remembered of Lebanon, pitch black with stars their only guide. The moon joins in, barely a sliver in the sky, but casting enough light that it acts as their guide as they travel. Emporia is about an hour and a half southwest, hidden down backroads and sitting at the junction of several highways. For the duration of the trip, Dean drives with the windows down, despite the chill in the air and the rattle of the wind whipping through the windows. The Impala still has half a tank; with a little manipulating, they might never need to fill her again.

In the darkness, tears cling to Dean’s eyelashes, now that he can cry without being seen. Castiel rests a hand on his thigh, and Dean holds it, their fingers twined. Never did Castiel imagine that this was how their story would end up, two angels in the front seat of a car, traipsing across the country with no destination in mind. It’s nice—it feels more like home than Heaven, and Castiel was the one to put it together. Figures, that being at Dean’s side is the only home he ever needs.

Dean drives past all of the cheap motels he would normally settle down in and picks a La Quinta, with its yellow painted walls and glowing green signage. “What Sam said about counterfeiting, you could technically do,” Castiel says when they pull in, unbuckling his seatbelt. “So long as the money disappears once we’re gone, no one will ever know.”

Humming, Dean looks over at him, a glint in his eye. “Sneaky, sneaky,” he chides and kisses Castiel’s fingers. “Give me a minute and I’ll book us a room.”

The room Dean gets is on the top floor, with a king bed, a walk-in shower and a window that overlooks the interstate. Pulling the curtains open, Castiel looks out over the plains and the combination of yellow and red lights flying down the highway, disappearing out of sight. Just another day on Earth—like they never left in the first place.

“You liked this,” Dean says and wraps his arms around Castiel’s middle. Warm lips caress his nape, slowly making their way from one side to the other. “Much as you don’t wanna admit it, you liked being down here.”

He did—he really, truly did. “It’s so mundane,” Castiel says. He turns his head, allowing Dean to kiss up the column of his neck. “Behind the wheel, in the passenger seat, it’s just—boring. For once in my life, I’m bored and I… enjoy it.”

Humming, Dean pats Castiel’s stomach. “Best part of driving. You get to meet people, see things you never thought you’d see. Then we get to park here and eat cheap eggs and stale muffins for breakfast, and it’s better than any five-star buffet on the planet. It’s the experience, Cas.”

Yes, Castiel thinks. Heaven may be a place for rest, but Earth is Dean’s playground, and along the way, he invited Castiel into his sandbox, and Castiel stayed. Some for Dean, but also because of humanity itself, the people he met and the places he visited. The lives they helped along the way.

“I’m glad they’re happy,” Dean says after he breaks away. His warmth disappears, and Castiel finds him sitting on the edge of the bed, shrugging off his flannel. Wetness seeps from his eyes, ignored. “You’re not gonna believe how happy, but that… That could’ve been us, Cas. We could’ve been living in the suburbs with a dog and all of the inflatables at Home Depot.”

“I know.”

Removing his coat, Castiel drapes it over the back of the armchair in the corner of the room, then peels off his suit jacket. He remembers the monotony of nights like these, where both Dean and Sam settled in and slept while Castiel kept watch, waiting for them to wake. Some of his favorite nights were the times when Dean called out to him in his sleep, and Castiel would sit with him, petting through his hair until the nightmares ceased and pleasant dreams took their place. Dean never knew—or, if he did, he never let on.

Drained, Dean unlaces his boots and kicks them off. Castiel flicks the lone lamp on with his Grace. Not that they need it, but the light makes it feel homier and less like they don’t belong here. “Do you ever wish it would’ve been different?” Dean asks, peeling off his socks. “I know Chuck said this is the only universe where you disobeyed, but—what if he was lying? What if there’s another reality out there where you were human, and we met in college, or were best friends in school? There’s gotta be someplace where we’re just… normal. Where we didn't hurt each other.”

Castiel wishes he could tell Dean different. Desperately, he wishes that in another universe, he knew Dean without the baggage, where they could grow old together and die in each other’s arms. But this is the only reality where he knows Dean for who he is, and the only reality where Dean loves him back. “You know I can’t answer that,” he says, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean pulls him into an embrace, hiding his wet eyes in the curve of Castiel’s throat. “But I hope, sometimes, that there’s one realm that Chuck missed. That there’s one place where we’re happy and in love, and the only thing that will hurt us is time.”

Dean nods, sniffling. “This is harder than I thought it was gonna be.”

“Tomorrow will be better,” Castiel says. Sincerely, he hopes they wake up with fresher eyes and lighter hearts, but the world has never been kind to them, even after death. “You gave Sam what he needed today, and yourself. So many people would kill to speak to their loved ones again, and you gave him that opportunity. You told him to pray to you.” He kisses Dean’s temple. “You did well, Dean.”

Rather than rumble out the thanks Castiel expects, Dean whines and hugs him tighter, his sobs rattling his frame. Castiel holds him like that, whispering soft words into Dean’s ear until Dean’s breathing evens out and he relaxes. “Why does it still hurt?” he asks, his breaths shaking. “I’m an angel now, why does it…”

“It’ll always hurt, in some capacity.” Castiel leans back, wiping the tears from Dean’s face. “You care too much, Dean. It’s always been one of your faults, but it’s not a bad thing. You care because you love people, and you hurt because life doesn’t turn out the way you feel it should.” He presses a kiss to Dean’s lips, and Dean chases him when he pulls away. “This is why you’re pure.”

Sighing, Dean hangs his head. “Don’t feel pure,” he says. “Just tired.”

Dean’s hair is soft under his fingers, his feathers even lighter when he lets his wings spill from his back. Castiel lets his free as well, touching Dean’s wings with his own. “Rest with me,” he says, and Dean nods. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Dean nods and pulls at Castiel’s shirt buttons. “Okay,” he breathes, and pulls Castiel onto the mattress. “Okay.”

-+-

Even with Chuck gone, monsters still run rampant across the country. Same as they always did, with the same motive: survival. Dean reads over the paper while they eat a lazy breakfast in their room, their plates filled with cheap waffles sprinkled with sugar and M&Ms, along with blueberry and blackberry muffins and bowls of oatmeal just because. Castiel chases down bites with orange juice, grimacing each time. “You cook better than this,” he complains, and Dean laughs.

“Sometimes you just gotta shovel it down,” Dean says, nudging Castiel’s shoulder. He finishes his waffle and pokes the newspaper with his fork, spilling syrup across the page. “Couple people missing their hearts in north Texas,” he says, catching Castiel’s attention. “Wanna hunt some werewolves?”

Driving has always been Dean’s favorite pastime, from putting his foot on the accelerator to driving through small towns with one stoplight, if they can afford one at all. In the past, Sam would sit in the passenger seat and read whatever paperback he managed to steal that week, or stare out the window, watching the world pass by. Dean never minded the silence—but Castiel likes to talk, and incidentally, so does Dean. Sometimes they sit in silence, but others, they swap stories to pass the time. Castiel listens with intent with the quietest of smiles, and Dean adds commentary whenever Castiel says something amusing, just to make him laugh.

It’s nice—companionable, even, and Dean wouldn’t ask for anything more.

The further south they travel, the deeper into winter they tread. For once, it wasn't snowing in Kansas, but the minute they cross into Oklahoma, the bottom falls out, the landscape blanketed in white. Dean rolls the windows up and cranks on the heater, purely out of habit. He doesn’t necessarily feel temperature anymore, his core regulated by the Grace in his system, but it helps him feel better, makes him feel more human.

“What if we did this,” Dean starts, glancing at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. “We do a few hunts down here, spend a couple days or weeks at home, unless Sam or Eileen call us, and whenever we get antsy, we fly back down and do it all over again.”

“It sounds nice,” Castiel says, fond. “I’ll go wherever you go.”

“Yeah, but do you wanna?” As soon as he makes it to a straightaway, Dean looks over, catching the softness in Castiel’s eyes. “Know you’d follow me, but it’s your choice, Cas. If you don’t wanna, you can always stay home and I’ll be back before the sun sets.”

Humming, Castiel tilts his head back. “I’m not intent on becoming a wife waiting for her husband to return from battle,” he says. “Over the years, I’ve grown to love this world and everyone I come across, and in turn, you. While it would be nice to sit still, I don’t think that’s a life either of us will settle into.” He stops, looking down at his lap. “To tell you the truth, these last few years have been the best of my entire existence. Knowing you has been an infinitesimal blip in the history of the universe, but the fact that I got to know you, and that you had such a… profound effect on how I’d view the universe as a whole, that should tell you more than you need to know.”

Heat flushes Dean’s cheeks. “Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it.” He jabs Castiel in the side. “You love me—”

“Dean,” Castiel scolds, but breaks into a laugh, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “If I admit it, will you stop questioning whether or not I do?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. Good thing we got eternity, ‘cause I’m gonna need a lot of convincing.”

Castiel groans. Still, he smiles, and Dean pats his thigh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m adorable.” Dean flashes him a smirk. “C’mon, what d’you say? Travel with me for the rest of time?”

And Castiel nods, the love in his eyes so deep that Dean loses himself in it. “Of course.”

-+-

Werewolves are easy to kill when they know they’re outnumbered, especially by creatures they have no hope of killing. Dean dispatches the first one with ease, his movements fluid and measured, like killing them will avenge his own murder. So enrapt in his vigil, Castiel barely manages to dodge when one sneaks up from behind him, leaping out of the shadows of the abandoned barn in an attempt to launch onto his back and gnaw his neck apart. Castiel catches him before he can sink his claws in and releases his Grace into the creature’s head, watching it collapse into a pile of hay.

There are more waiting for them—maybe a dozen, given the number of kills they’ve managed to tally over the last week. Blades drawn, they make their way through the pack, until they happen upon the last creature—a massive man, over seven feet in height, with blood-red eyes and more teeth than brains. He swings for Dean and manages to knock him into a beam, and Castiel takes the opportunity to lunge, jamming his blade into the beast’s stomach.

It doesn’t kill him, not immediately, but the second Dean joins in, a blinding white light pours from the werewolf’s eyes, and he collapses, taking with him a support beam and several wood slats from the loft above.

Laughing, Dean scrubs a bloodied hand across his face, smearing the mess up into his hair. “That's how I got dead last time,” he says, but without a trace of malice. Dean can’t die here, not from a run of the mill hunt. The only creatures that could kill him are angels or any monster that happened upon an angel blade—both unlikely scenarios, given the times.

Rather than reply, Castiel drags him into a kiss, tasting the blood and gore on Dean’s lips.

For the first year, they spend half of their days on terra firma, either driving or sleeping or hunting whatever creature they can find in the general area. It’s exhilarating, fun in a way Castiel hasn't had probably ever, because Dean is at his side, and he for once doesn’t have to worry about Dean’s safety. Whatever wounds they incur, they heal as soon as they make it to the motel, and curl up in the shadow of their wings until the dawn breaks.

It’s a good middle ground, Castiel thinks. Heaven is ideal, but so is Dean’s home, and they manage their time wisely. Sometimes Sam calls, and gradually, Dean gets to see his children grow, gets to see Eileen’s hair go gray and Sam graduate from college. It’s the life Dean never got to have after the fact, but now has at his fingertips. And wherever Dean goes, Castiel follows. Some days, Castiel doesn’t want to move, and Dean lays with him in bed, sometimes for hours, even days at a time. Jack has jobs for him, such as training the new recruits, and dealing with angels has always exhausted him.

But Dean makes it worth it. Dean makes him want to try, want to be a better angel—a better person, overall.

The time comes about forty years down the road, that Castiel receives the call. Jack shows up at their front door while Dean is cooking their evening meal, and tells them that Sam is arriving shortly. Eileen passed the year before, and Miracle came about thirty years earlier. Dean Jr and Emily will arrive in several decades, hopefully with lives and families of their own. Castiel can’t wait to meet them all once again.

The arrival point for this particular section of heaven is a barren road about five miles from Dean’s home, a bridge crossing the river that leads into Dean’s lake. Together, arm in arm, they meet Sam, and Dean drags him into a hug, like they never parted. Like Dean hadn’t visited him weeks before and begged Sam to let him heal him, just to give him more time. But Sam was ready—and in a way, Dean is too.

After Sam reunites with Eileen and they send them well wishes, Castiel and Dean return home, to their cottage by the lake only a mile away. There, Dean pulls him close and strokes through Castiel’s feathers, lost in thought. “I could give them up, my wings,” he says into Castiel’s ear. “I don’t have a reason to go back anymore. Claire’s all grown up, and the kids…”

“But you like your wings,” Castiel says, and Dean nods. “You don’t have to give them up if you don’t want to.”

Slowly, Dean shakes his head. “Don’t wanna. What if we… What if we healed people? Instead of hunting things, we just… save people. Do miracles, all the stuff angels are supposed to do.”

Petting Dean’s cheek, Castiel pulls him into a kiss. Not the first, and definitely nowhere near the last. “There’s nothing I would love more, Dean.”