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It was something they didn’t really talk about. How they’d slip away after the sunset. How they’d curl up in the backseat of the long dead Impala. Dean sprawled out, one arm over the backrest, the other draped over Cas’ waist where the man was draped across his chest. His arms folded under his chin and eyes half lidded.
Cas would pull out a small joint, Dean would get that irritated and upset look. Cas would smile sardonically as he lit the end, eyes closing as he pulled it up to his mouth. He’d take a long deep inhale and let his lips curve up into a small sweet smile. Dean would soften. He’d roll his eyes but still move his other hand down to the back of Cas’ head. He’d pull him forward and welcome the smoke pushed past his lips.
They’d do this lips and tongues dancing together until there was nothing left and Cas was pliant and sleepy on top of him. Sometimes they’ll lay there in the dark silence of the night. Listening to each other’s soft exhales, to subtle heartbeats. Sometimes they’d kiss, slow and sweet, long after the smoke had faded. Sometimes Dean would end up pressed back into the seat, fingers digging into pale thighs as Cas arched above him. His head thrown back, mouth open and eyes wide, his body vibrating.
Sometimes it was Cas pressed into the cold leather. Where Dean left dark splotches of color along his throat and whispered promises against his skin.
Sometimes they talked. Sometimes Cas would press his face into Dean’s neck and say, “Tell me a happy story.” And he’d pull his arms up to his chest and thread their legs together. It was those nights, nights like tonight, that Dean would let himself remember.
The times they’d gone on long car rides just because they could. Where they’d end up in tiny towns in the middle of nowhere. Those towns where he’d pretend they were normal when they stopped at a diner. Where they’d pretend to be a normal couple out on a date. Those times when the pretending melted away with gentle touches and longing looks. Cas would always smile, his eyelashes brushing Dean’s skin where his eyes were closed.
Dean would press his nose into dark hair and frown, knowing Cas couldn’t see it. He’d tell him the happiest he’d ever been was when he was driving with no destination and Cas had been in the passenger's seat. He’d whisper he’d always been lightest when on those long car rides, where they’d talk about nothing and everything.
There’d be silence for a long time and then he’d sigh. Cas would tilt his head up with a questioning gaze and Dean would only smile. A small sad thing that didn’t reach his bloodshot eyes. His voice would grow soft as he spoke about the time they were coming back from a hunt. Sam had been driving and humming along to the radio, his fingers drumming along the steering wheel. Cas and himself sprawled out in the backseat, tucked under a flannel blanket Cas was fond of.
Though he didn’t need it Castiel had let himself fall asleep and Dean had run his fingers through his hair. They had been content and warm wrapped together. The car hadn’t moved in what felt like ages and he’d mentioned it in a quiet murmur. Sam had met his gaze in the rear view mirror and smiled slightly. He’d said there was an accident about 3 miles down the road and they were boxed in traffic. Sam had told him to try and sleep too. That it’ll be a while.
Cas had mentioned before that that was his favorite story. That he thought about it a lot too. He’d told Dean before that that had been the night he knew he’d do anything for him. That he’d decided then he’d die for Dean Winchester if he had to.
Like every other night, Cas grew quiet and Dean looked down at him. At his closed eyes and lips parted in sleep. His stomach churned and his heart ached at the sight. Leaning over he pressed his lips against Cas’ temple, leaving them there as he thought over his next words.
“I think my happiest stories are the ones when I’m with you.” Dean confessed, trailing one hand down Cas’ back before curling it around his side. “They still are.”