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Revelations are suspiciously quiet. Humans seem to bookmark their lives in milestones, in landmarks, in achievements. Marriage, university, children; timestamps that mark transitory stages of the human experience. Dean sometimes talked about his life in these milestones – the first time he drove a car, when Sam got accepted into Stanford, and, of course, when he first met Castiel. Castiel knows that not all of these milestones and timestamps are positive, heaven knows their timelines are largely dog-eared by the multiple times they have watched each other die, but nonetheless to be human is to see an event history.
So, maybe Castiel expected something a little grander to happen when they finally unlocked the door to their first home together, but all that’s there is the squeak of the door hinges, the creak of the hardwood floor under their feet, and the jingle of the keys in Dean’s right hand. Dean looks ecstatic, his face in a permanent smile as he wanders around the space, putting his hands on each surface he comes across. Excitedly, he points out things to Castiel about the space that mean very little to him, and Castiel just reminds himself to smile and nod.
The place is admittedly dull, walls a strange grey-beige that they would undoubtedly paint over, and the floor needed a serious polish. The lights are outdated and incandescent, Dean muttering something about keeping the yellow light as opposed to white when they fix them, but they currently cast the kind of fizzy light that accompanied them in countless motels over the years.
When they first kissed in the bunker, Castiel experienced something similar. Or, rather, not something. It was still substantial, the feeling of warmth, of completeness. It was all encompassing, but small. If anything, what Castiel felt in that moment was the remaining memories of Dean’s fervent desire. Indescribable colours and sounds that he no can no longer conjure in their full form, lacking the senses he once (twice) held carelessly. He remembers his own desire, burning at his feet most days and licking at his face every time Dean so much as laid a finger on him.
Here now, standing in the kitchen of their new home while Dean fusses with the stove to boil water for some tea, Castiel feels no flames. Nothing consumes him, nothing crawls up his spine and back down. This is just another space, another location among the millions of other locations where they have been together. Another middle-of-nowhere. He knows this one isn’t liminal, this one isn’t technically transitory, but he feels temporary against the stone countertop.
Maybe it’s not nothing, maybe he’s being dramatic. Sue him, it’s rough going from a near-daily fear for the lives of his loved ones to the domestic image in front of him. He tries not to show it, but he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, though instead of a shoe, he imagines it more like the cartoon anvils they once had to deal with. It’s funny in some regards, since he knows this is usually how Dean operates, anticipating the worst (and in some cases, manifesting it on purpose) in order to save himself from disappointment. Perhaps it’s a condition that begets humanity? Admittedly, he didn’t observe anyone nearly as closely as he had Dean.
Somewhere between tea and musings about replacing the kitchenware, Dean gives Castiel a few hard looks, as if to say I know something’s wrong, but we don’t have to talk about it now. As if to imply that there was time yet for the two of them. There’s no urgency, no immediacy. Castiel takes another sip of his tea, now lukewarm and down to the dregs at the bottom of the cup. The loose leaves are bitter on his tongue, but he swallows anyway.
Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it’s the remembering. The hours spent drawing Jack’s face, the photos he took still in the folds of his wallet. The reminiscing of a hunt as they drive past a familiar town, the late-night cradling after a harrowing nightmare that Dean never describes. The way his hand finds that shoulder, time and time again. Maybe it will all fall into place when, years from now, he remembers this moment in its full colour.