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This was something Castiel hadn’t told his family. He wasn’t completely sure why, but that’s how it was. He sat in his sparse room in the bunker. All he really had in there were the bare essentials. He hadn’t truly made it his own. Not because the bunker wasn’t his home or anything stupid like that. It was his home, one-hundred percent.
Yet, he usually stayed in Dean’s room. He usually cuddled in the bed with him, sat on the couch with him and watched TV on the new flatscreen he’d gotten. Or he’d simply sit and watch him sleep. Dean said it was creepy, yet Cas couldn’t help himself. Did Dean not see the beauty of sleep? The way the mind tried to make sense of the day and communicate its feelings and needs? The way falling into the deep depths of that cozy darkness was helped him? Of course, there was no way Dean would know about the way his face relaxed, and his crow’s feet, and lines from stress were barely noticeable. He was just… Dean. He wasn’t a hunter, or the Michael sword, or the righteous man, or even a killer. In those moments of sleep, all Castiel saw was the Dean that he wanted everyone else to see as well; the soft, sweet man he was.
Dean’s room was Castiel’s room for all intents and purposes.
Yet Castiel was in the room they’d designated as his because what he was doing now was his own special thing. It had started with Dean buying a disposable camera on one of their hunts. They’d been to Newport, a pretty interesting tourist attraction that featured small cruises, and buildings that jutted out into the ocean. Dean had bought the camera at a stand that was also selling novelty T-shirts. He took pictures of Cas, pictures of Sam, pictures of Jack. Castiel had gotten into the spirit of it immediately, and had taken “selfies” with all his family members, even as one big group.
Then, Dean had left the camera in the motel room. Castiel was glad that it was a habit of his to go through Dean’s stuff, and that it was with Dean’s permission.
The camera hadn’t been there.
So he’d searched their motel room before leaving, and there it was, under the bed, having been knocked over.
When they got home to Lebanon, Castiel went out to a different town to get the pictures developed. Some were blurry, some were shaky, others were smudged and bright because of the sun.
Castiel saved every good one there was, and even one of the shaky ones because it was of him and Dean kissing, and Sam and Jack making comical, yet disgusted faces in the background.
After, Castiel secretly took pictures on his phone. He would pretend to text, and would sometimes even send Dean emojis while amidst taking the pictures, just to “cover his ass,” as his boyfriend would say.
He took pictures of his family. Pictures of Jack, pictures of Jody and the girls.
He printed out every on, even had them developed into special prints like an actual photograph from a real camera.
Then, he’d started his scrapbook. His scrapbooking skills weren’t anything to brag about. The book was bound in dark brown leather, and the pages were made to look like parchment, all the while remaining smooth so the pictures would stick to them.
Castiel had tried organizing them, writing down what hunt the pictures were from, the date, where they’d been.
The pictures had piled up more and more and he could barely keep up.
Now, he sat before his desk, scrapbook open. There was only one page left, and Castiel didn’t have a picture for it.
Dean knocked.
Castiel tried to hide the scrapbook, hastily putting it back in the drawer, and then turning around.
“Uh, come in!” he called.
“Hey, Cas, so I was thinking…” Dean began as he came in. He surely noticed the tension in Cas’ shoulders, the awkward way he was sitting, the bare desk. “Uh… Cas? What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Dean began to nod, smiling like a teenage boy who had just been asked out on a date for the first time.
“You’re looking at vintage gay porn, aren’t you?”
The magazines Dean was referring to had been found in one of the rooms in the bunker. In the fifties, gay men had had to be discreet about their interests, hence they’d hidden the downright sexual content by calling the magazines sports magazines for men. Dean had tried getting Castiel to look at it, but Cas had just been watching Dean the entire time.
Cas sighed. “You know I don’t care for that.”
“Porn on your phone? Two guys getting down and dirty?”
Castiel rolled his eyes.
“Three guys?”
He turned back to face his desk. “Why is everything about sex with you?”
“Sorry,” Dean said with a shrug. He came over behind Cas, and leaned down, wrapping an arm around his collarbones. He kissed him on the top of his head. “Guess I’m in a weird mood. So what were you doing?”
Castiel relented. He took out the scrapbook. Dean reached over him, snatching it from his hands, and then he went and sat on the desk.
Dean flipped through it, Cas sitting there with tension hot in his gut. Then, of all things, Dean began to smile. Tears brimmed in his eyes. Not knowing what to do, Castiel just put a hand on his knee.
“Cas,” Dean began, voice low and choked up, “this is beautiful.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Finally, he got to the last page, and saw it was blank. “You got anything to put here?” Dean asked.
“Not just yet.”
“Then I guess the two of us will just have to go on an adventure.” He closed the scrapbook, got off the desk, and held out his hand to him. “Come on.”
Castiel took his hand, smiling, and then they were off on another adventure, just the two of them.