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The heaviness of a long day settles thick and uncomfortable in the air of the bunker. Dean could see the exhaustion weighing on the angel’s shoulders as he stepped through the arched doorway, blue eyes glowing faintly.
From his seat atop the table, Dean allows himself a brief moment to study Castiel in the soft lamplight. Since returning from the Empty —the hunter’s ‘longing’ had apparently been too strong and annoyed the bitch keeping the angel hostage, whatever that was supposed to mean— Cas had taken to borrowing from Dean’s collection of worn out jeans and t-shirts. As Dean had stubbornly insisted to his amused brother, they were the same size, after all; Sam’s clothes were tailored specifically for sasquatches.
Sam had simply glanced at him with that infuriating know-it-all look, and Dean’s mouth snapped shut as a blush rose to his cheeks.
Fuck.
And, yeah, as Dean watches Cas shrug his— Dean’s —flannel shirt off his shoulders, he can’t help but stare at the tired angel in his black t-shirt. His jeans. Seeing Castiel without his trademark trench coat-and-suit getup with his hair even messier than normal—Jesus—does something to Dean that makes his blood somehow run both hot and ice-cold through his veins, beating behind his eyelids.
He swallows, picking up the almost empty glass of whiskey beside him and taking a sip.
Castiel had appeared in Dean’s room on a Thursday, two weeks and a day after his death, at 10:37pm. The whisper of wings behind him had stilled Dean in place, and he hadn’t dared turn. He thought he might puke if it was him. He thought he might collapse if it wasn’t.
So instead, he breathed carefully, like a prayer; “Cas?”
“Dean.”
With all the thoughts running through his mind at that moment, Dean can’t remember what he managed to say to Cas—or even if he managed to form any words at all—as he whipped around and launched himself at him, holding him tighter than he ever dared let himself before. He remembers Cas’ arms circling his waist and pulling him in closer, whispering his name with reverence.
In the weeks since, the feelings that Dean had been holding back for years rose to the surface, lingering hot just beneath his skin as he watched his angel flit through the hallways, always humming songs to himself that Dean doesn’t recognise. He brings Sam books that he’s sorted into alphabetical order, glances at Dean and takes off again with a soft smile like he’s playing a game.
I love you too , Dean wants to tell him, I love you so much.
The words form a lump in his throat.
He knows Cas loves him. Hell, he’d told him before the black gunk had enveloped him. But Dean has left the words unsaid for so long that they’ve taken residence in the space between his ribs.
Besides, Dean still doesn’t understand—it’s certainly not fashionable to love him. Why doesn’t Cas go and find someone better than him?
“How are you, Dean?”
Cas’ voice, somehow even more gravelly than usual, startles Dean out of his head. He blinks up at the angel in his clothes, swallows again thickly.
"I'm—yeah, I'm okay, Cas. How are you?"
Cas smiles at him, tired but sweetly soft, and Dean feels the warmth rush through his chest and his stomach swoop. He drops his gaze and smiles into his glass giddily, unable to help himself.
"I'm well, Dean. Tired."
"You want to go to bed?"
"You know I don't sleep, Dean."
The lump in his throat is back. Dean wishes he knew how to fucking speak. Apparently forty-odd years just wasn't enough for him to learn how to quit acting like a goddamn teenager. He trails his gaze back up to look at the angel again. They stare wordlessly at each other for a few moments, and Dean knows that if Sam were here, he would have cleared his throat or told them off by now. Cas' gaze shifts slightly, raking shamelessly down Dean's body with the same longing Dean's been aching with for weeks. He feels his face turning red under his attention.
"Come to my room?" The words are out before he can think better of it, but watching Cas' dark blue eyes light up in pure surprise and delight is well worth the embarrassment he feels.
"I would love that, Dean." He glances down at his rumpled jeans, splattered with the day's events. "But may I find different clothing first?"
Dean stands from the table, grabbing the closest bottle of liquor he can reach and almost knocking his chair to the ground in his haste. Cas just watches him quietly, that same damn playful smile back on his face. God.
"'Go on then, man, get a move on."
He's high-tailing it down the hallway before he can say anything else to fuck himself over.
-
He’s lying on his bedroom floor, a bottle of whiskey clutched to his chest, when there’s a soft knock on the door.
Shave and a haircut.
Dean smirks—that’s his knock—and raps his knuckles on the wood beneath him in response.
Two bits.
Cas’ eyes are sparkling when he nudges the door open in one of Dean's white shirts and a pair of blue gingham pajama pants that Dean doesn't recognise. They look soft. He doesn’t look surprised to see Dean stretched out on the floor, and moves to crouch on his knees beside him. Dean watches the angel settle into a cross-legged sitting position.
He thinks; I love you. Don’t you understand?
He says; “Come down here with me, c’mon.”
Cas, adorably, tilts his head at him in confusion. “Dean, I am already down here—”
“Properly. Lie down with me, man.”
Hesitantly, Cas slides his legs out from beneath himself, edging onto his back on the floor to lay beside Dean. Their bodies face in opposite directions, their arms brushing together as Cas pushes himself horizontally across the floor so that he can rest his head upside down in the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean’s face heats up at the contact, his heart fluttering.
“Is this okay?”
“Yeah,” The words come out embarrassingly breathless, and Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, it’s good.”
The silence is comfortable as the two of them stare up at the ceiling. Dean's hands are wrapped around the whiskey bottle on his chest, fingers laced together. He can feel Cas' eye turn to him, finds himself acutely aware of the lack of distance between them, and glances sideways to stare at Cas' fingers tapping slowly and lightly against his own chest. Cas' hands are roughened by time and battle, strong with wide palms and long fingers. Dean recognises the shape and strength of the handprint left on his shoulder, of scar tissue and of blood.
Dean's head spins with the sudden need to feel it against his own hand.
He turns his head back to the ceiling, heart thumping against his ribs. He hopes Cas can't hear it with his angel super-hearing, or whatever the hell it's called. Cas continues drumming his fingers, and Dean picks up a slow rhythm. He recognises it, he thinks— has heard something similar in Cas' humming in the hallways. "What is that?"
"What is what, Dean?"
"The sound you're making. The rhythm." Dean reaches a hand over and taps his fingers against Cas' bare arm, copying his movements. "That. What song is it?"
"Oh," Cas murmurs, "I don't know if you would like the song, Dean. It's not anything like the mixtape you gave me."
Dean flushes. Twists open the bottle of whiskey still in his hand, takes a swig and hands it over to Cas. The angel obediently puts the bottle to his lips and takes a gulp, careful not to spill in a way that Dean never is, especially not lying upside down on the floor. Dean turns his head slightly as he takes the bottle back, the burn of alcohol in his throat masking his shyness just a little. He meets Cas' eyes. "Play it for me."
Cas slides his phone from his pocket, swiftly unlocks it, and searches for a minute. Dean watches, his gaze fixed on Cas' mouth as the man swipes his tongue across his bottom lip in concentration. It hits him again, like a blow to the back of the head, just how gone he is on this stupid, adorable fucking angel. He lifts the bottle to his mouth again, holds it back out to Cas.
The music starts playing as Cas wraps his hand around the neck of the bottle, low and high swirls of violins intertwining through the tinny speakers of the phone. Dean's brow furrows in confusion.
"Who is this, Cas?"
Swallowing another mouthful of amber liquid, Cas replies with a grimace, "Lana Del Rey."
Huh. Dean's heard the name before somewhere. He opens his mouth to reply, make a quick joke about teenage girls and flower crowns, but Cas raises a finger to his lips, and who is Dean to disobey his angel?
The singer's voice comes in like a heart bleeding.
We could cruise to the blues
Wilshire Boulevard, if you choose.
Or whatever you wanna do.
Watching Cas, Dean can see his mouth moving silently along with the words. And all at once, Dean feels the pressure in his chest inflate, warmth and desire and need about a million times stronger than he's ever known before in his life, with the whiskey burning his tongue and clouding his mind, the violins echoing from the small speaker, stories of love and violence and hope and loss. Cas turns his face towards him, and Dean can see it written in the blue kaleidoscopic patterns of his eyes. These words are for you, Dean.
All at once, Dean realises that Cas knows. He can feel the way Dean can't speak, the way he's dancing around Cas and has been for weeks. Cas knows and he feels the fucking same, and Dean is a fucking idiot. Dean melts into the singer's— Lana's— words, the affirmations. Dean can't believe that Cas thinks himself so unworthy of love, but here he is pouring his soul out through the words of another, telling Dean that there's nothing to lose now that he's found him.
The words repeat again, almost a plea.
Say you want me too, dark blue.
Dean's breath hitches audibly. Cas reaches out his hand towards Dean, up and above his own head. Taking his hand, Cas interlaces their fingers together and leans his head against Dean's arm. He's so warm. Dean exhales shakily. The sweet voice breaking Dean's heart weaves together violet eyes and guns blazing, roses and fire, and Dean breathes it all into his lungs, holding Castiel's hand tighter.
He has to say it—needs to tell him—
Dean closes his watery eyes, takes a deep breath, and pulls the trigger as the violins draw out a long, quiet note.
"I love you, too."
The world doesn't end. The song keeps playing. The air beside Dean shifts, becoming cooler as Cas moves away, but before Dean has the chance to properly panic, there's a hand on his shoulder and the weight of a leg against his own. Dean doesn't dare open his eyes.
"Dean." The words are hushed, Cas' breath light against his face.
Eyes still closed, Dean feels Castiel’s fingertips gently press against his jaw, softer than Dean's ever felt. Dean's breath stutters as Cas, unmarked by Heaven or Hell, unmarked by blood or sacrifice, traces that familiar hand along Dean's cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that have spilled and trickled down the sides of his face.
“ Dean .”
He opens his eyes.
The crooning of the woman's voice hums through Dean's bones as he stares up into Cas' face leaning above him, his eyes trailing along every detail of Dean's face. He hears the words fading, something about dreaming away your life.
And when Cas surges forward and presses his lips against Dean’s, Dean is finally awake.