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“Why do they wish they were older?” Castiel asks, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Are there not several songs expressing a wish for the opposite?”
Dean had found the crate of records hidden in the bunker, forgotten since the 60’s sometime when it was abandoned, one of which had a cover with a green banner and sporting a few goofy looking dudes feeding goats. His darling ’67 Impala was just a year shy of being as old - or young, because you don’t talk about a lady’s age like that - as the nostalgic LP. Dean had blown the dust off the cover and looked it over with a smile, announcing it was one of those their mom had liked once upon a time. Sam had no such memory, which Dean had scoffed at, because Sam was clearly too much of a baby with an undeveloped memory function to remember it, to which Sam had thrown a pencil at Dean for. He’d gracefully ducked and put the record into the old-school grammophone.
Wouldn’t It Be Nice by the Beach Boys was one of those Dean hadn’t heard in years. He hadn’t even thought too much about the lyrics until Castiel had pointed it out. If it wouldn’t be nice to be older, to not have to wait so long, and wouldn’t it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong?
“Well, bud. They kind of like someone so much they just wanna be with them, right? Uh, you tell him, Sammy.”
Sam looks affronted. A book is open in front of him (he totally has the hots for the lore) and his eyes are a little squinty from having been reading for a little too long. Nerd. “Why me?”
“You’re better at that, ya know, touchy feely stuff.” Dean waves his hand experimentally, overconfidence in that anything he even says makes sense. “You got hitched, dude.”
“Okay,” Sam deadpans, “so I clearly am the expert when I was hexed and wasn’t even half-conscious doing it?”
Dean now makes a duh kind of expression with his hand, and face. “Yes?”
Sam rolls his eyes, a full-body ordeal. He doesn’t say you’ve literally been in love with your best friend for like 6 years and you’re now asking me to explain the concept of marriage to him, and for this, Dean is thankful. But not for long. Instead he just looks pointedly at his brother, prompting him to continue.
“Alright.” Sam levels Cas, opposite him at the bunker’s table, patiently waiting. “So basically I guess what they’re getting at is that they wish they were older so they can have the married life. Waking up together, going to sleep together, doing... whatever. Like the Beatles saying they want to be with someone when they’re 64 or something.”
“Mom liked that one too”, Dean points out, nodding approvingly. She used to sing Blackbird to him as a lullaby when he was just a little shit in the crib, so somehow those chill vibe 60’s bands bring back something that feels terribly close to fondness, accompanied by some sort of warmth blooming in his chest. (They’re very different from what his dad ended up raising him on, anyway, the kind of songs that rather made him want to raise hell sometimes. Um, but preferably not literally.)
“Right. It’s just about having a bright outlook on the future.” Sam shrugs half-heartedly, grinning faintly. “I think uh, it was just kind of a scam to get teenage girls to want to tie the knot instead of being promiscuous.”
“Hey!” Dean protests. “I don’t like your version anymore. No, see now, Cas, it’s all about wanting to have a good life together. Home sweet home and going to bed all happy and crap like that. Knitting in your rocking chair with the love of your life reading some old lit in front of the fire next to you. Not referring to you there, Sammy, but keep that up if you wanna.” Sam makes a grossed-out noise and angles away from him with his book. Dean powers on, triumphant, still looking at Cas. “When you’re younger you’re out figuring out all the right moves, picking up chicks or dudes or, whatever way you swing. You live a little.”
”Or figure yourself out,” Sam fills in, eyes on the pages, ”like what am I gonna do? What am I gonna be?”
”Sure, Stanford boy. No but yeah, really. But now this, this is all about the comfort of a home when you got all that down, stardust. Like, just.” Dean stalls, clears his throat a little. He’s just explaining the concept, roughly, in general, right? Not speaking from the bottom of his black little heart or anything like that. ”Just kinda really knowing you have somewhere and someone to return to. Unconditionally. You get my drift?”
“Ah, I see.” Castiel still seems thoughtful. Dean looks at him and lets the music plink along as background noise. ”Growing old with someone, supporting them all their life? Steadfast loyalty and making sure they're the happiest? This is kind of like what I have with you, Dean.”
Dean would choke if he had anything to choke on. Instead he just feels his ears burn red as he scrambles back in his chair, eyes large and embarrassingly startled. Sam laughs behind his hand. Dean silently hates him.
”Sure,” Dean confirms again, a little more breathlessly.
Yes, okay, maybe it’s true they put up with each other’s shit through thick and thin, for years on end, always coming back to one another. He could admit that was the rough draft of what he just said. And well, yes, maybe they watched movies together under a blanket in Dean’s room, laptop open, world forgotten which meant that, alright, sure, they maybe sat kind of closely under said blanket. Maybe fell asleep on each other (just resting the eyes counts, on a sleep-refusing angel’s behalf), and woke up with tangled limbs; an arm slung over a waist, a nose brushing the nape of a neck, a leg slung over a thigh like a prayer of please don’t go. And fuck him if they didn’t, maybe, kind of, sometimes, kissed? Secret brushes and pecks. Cheek, hand. Lingering. Silent gazes asking for more.
Um.
But that was just. Stuff.
Cas totally didn’t like him like that. That was all on Dean. Being buddies. Sharing body heat, because it was kind of cold in the bunker, being underground and all that jazz, and sometimes Cas blew out all the light bulbs in the room when Dean took his hand or kissed his collarbone as a goodnight. Dean kind of had a lot of feelings that maybe sometimes outweighed the self-hatred, is all. Things he’d never felt, or just, never had allowed himself to feel. And he wanted to feel it; there was a constant war in his mind over emotions and rationality, over the secrets he’d yearn for.
But Dean would never beg. Not for such things.
Cas is... the only exception, to be fucking poetic. And to quote Paramore. Not that he listens to it. Totally doesn’t, dude, get a grip. Moving on...
Cas purses his lips thoughtfully for a moment. Ah, screw that. Now Dean just wants to grab his tie and kiss him right there across the table. “How old should one be to get married?”
Dean shrugs, mouth turned downward. “I dunno. I mean, I guess... old. Older.”
“When you’re 64?” Cas questions, reminiscing The Beatles.
“Nah,” Dean says quietly with a small grin, trying hard to recover from how much his face burns and how his heart definitely burns with it, ”that’s when that stuff should be all figured out. Should be good to go around 30 maybe. Depends.”
He chews his bottom lip and Cas doesn’t meet his eye, still considering the new information. Son of a bitch, why does he have to be so gorgeous too? “How old would you want to be, Dean?” the angel asks him eventually.
Dean sputters, heat creeping its way up his face rapidly again. His whole body is a goddamn fire hazard. “Why? Don’t know. I’m almost 35, it’s kinda too late for me.”
Their parents had been in their early 20’s, anyway, way back in ’78. Definitely was too late for him. Definitely not something to consider. Definitely not something he, kind of, considers, not often. Not something he dreams of, or even wishes for so fucking badly it hurts. Nah! Like hell he is.
But a lot of hunters get married, a little devil on his shoulder whispers into his consciousness all of a sudden. Life like this, you never know if you’ll see the next sunrise; last night on earth and crap like that. Dean already kicked the bucket enough times to know that, got his ass offed thrice or, what comes after that? Frice? A good hundred times if Sam’s memory serves him right? Gist of it is, you take your shot at that point, and you experience. Things. Things that don’t give you an ulcer from stress, preferably. You try your damndest to pull your life together.
A lot of them got married at the Roadhouse, Dean recalls, and a lot around Valentine’s day. The Harvelles would be officiating, open bar, all that cheesy and lovey dovey crap. And, for what it’s worth... That would have been good. Yeah, Dean would have liked that; he’d have been surrounded by all the people he loved and, worst is, it’s so goddamn easy to imagine Castiel as the one in front of himself. It’s actually the only possible scenario.
But it’s just stupid dreams, huh? He ain’t got time for those. It’s just dreams, dreams that make his heart swell or his tummy flutter if he thinks about it for too long, that make his skin burn, because Cas makes his insides feel like they’re made up of pure fucking sunshine.
And Cas would be beautiful and bright-eyed and they’d stand there holding one another, among flowers and shit like that and their friends all dressed up and bruised from hunts but joy would hide all the pain, and Cas would understand fuck-all about ceremonies or traditions but it wouldn’t matter, because he would smile at Dean and he would feel like home, and Dean would just smile bigger and hold on to him, like he wouldn’t let him slip away ever again, like he’d never let him go.
Still.
It was too late for him to do a lot of things.
But Castiel does a funny little thing sometimes. A thing when he just looks at Dean, and somehow, each and every time, he crumbles under his gaze and spills his guts.
He clears his throat. “Like. 40, ish. 42.”
Cas nods, understanding. “42 ish.”
It’s just dreams, but, fuck it, because he could even imagine the vows: to stay exactly the way they are, because nothing would change between them, apart from the promise said out loud and the silver band he could picture on his ring finger. Its absence tears at his heart momentarily. And they would be happy.
”You know it seems the more we talk about it”, the old record sings on, crackly but still up to par, still bravely marching on, ”it only makes it worse to live without it. But let’s talk about it...”
Dean agrees with Sam, suddenly. This song is a fucking scam. Because now for the rest of his life he’ll never be able to think about anything else than being married to Cas. Married. For the rest of his life. Goddammit.
“Sure.” Dean swallows thickly and hits Sam on the arm. “What about you, loser?”
Sam gives him an exasperated look when he lifts his face from his book. “Bite me.”
Well, it’s all about baby steps, right? Taking it slow. Dean will figure that BS out, someday…
And the first steps of a baby are ridiculously celebrated so Sam should be so freakin’ glad!
Dean shrugs. “Awesome. Welp.” He stands up abruptly, knees knocking the table, sending the table lamp jiggling dangerously. “It’s dinner o’clock.”
”But wouldn’t it be nice...?”
Castiel is just passing Dean’s bedroom that night when he hears a noise from within its walls, his voice softly inquiring.
It makes Castiel stop in his steps, considering. What were the rules for these situations? Dean doesn’t like to be watched sleeping, okay, this he knew. No matter how beautiful and calming Cas could find him to be, whether bundled up and fully clothed and an anxious tenseness in his position, or sprawled across the messy sheets, tired and bruised, like he just dropped his body there and could rise no more; no matter what, Cas still finds himself to be endlessly in love with him.
But, it seemed that Dean had been speaking to him, so he ought to be awake. Cas silently damns the fact, because it’s so hard to get him to sleep sometimes. However, this must mean it’s, as you say, good to go.
So Cas turns around and peeks his head into Dean’s bedroom, thankful the door doesn’t make a noise in the quiet of the night. The lights are off, a dim sheen coming in from the corridor outside where he stands, falling like a slit across the neatly cleaned up floor. “Dean?”
“Cas?” mumbles Dean into the pillow, voice muffled, brow furrowed.
Cas freezes. It takes a moment before he realises: he’s asleep. He’s sleep-talking.
And suddenly he doesn’t know what to do. “Yes?”
Dean, an angry sleeper; king of tossing and turning, emperor of night terrors and waking up with a start, God of pained noises caused by the things that haunt his subconscious. The Dean that he knows best, the very same, now lying asleep and curled in on his pillow, comforter strewn over his muscular body, now seeming so small, quiet, so peaceful. That very same Dean lets his face soften. And it softens into a smile.
“Oh… hey.” Dean chuckles, sleepy and content. His voice is a little sluggish, like when he’s had too many beers to numb whatever was occupying his mind. “Hey, Cas. Whatcha doing? Here… Wanna do something? Heh.”
Castiel shifts. This definitely wasn’t part of the plan. If he’d known Dean was asleep he’d have definitely made different choices, ones that Dean might have appreciated more in an awake-state. “You’re asleep, Dean,” he informs him, quietly as not to wake him. There’s no protocol for this. There’s no clear yes or no answers. “What do you want to do?”
It’s both an answer to the previous question and an inquiry in general. What would awake Dean want him to do? What does asleep Dean want of him in this moment? It’s common to ask for a glass of water, Cas recalls. Maybe a glass of warm milk. Do they have any milk? He’d go buy some, if the closest store was still open. He’d simply have to go to one further away.
Dean stirs softly. Cas’ eyes fall on where his T-shirt has ridden up over tan skin. “Can we... try something? It’s for my school project.” He chuckles, like these dreams are very pleasant. Cas would almost like to go over and find out what they’re about, but decides not to step into the room, nor into his mind. “Experiment. It’s for um. It’s chemistry.”
“Dean, you’re not in school”, Cas answers softly. He considers putting the comforter back properly over his body, but he looks so beautiful. So beautiful, he just keeps standing there and looks, idolizing, at the gentle curves of his body, the tanned skin scarred and discolored with bruises, the dusting of freckles on his soothed face, fingers calloused and several times sprained where they softly grip the pillow. His chest rises and falls with each calm breath, such softness to the edge. He should never stop having good dreams. “And I’ve never even been to school.”
“Yeah, no. Heh. We definitely have chemistry, Cas.”
Well, that. That certainly renders Castiel speechless.
“Mm, you wanna?” Dean asks again, rubbing his nose against the pillow he’s squeezing in his arms. “You gon’ do it?”
“You should specify the conditions,” Castiel answers, despite it all. “I don’t know what you’re asking of me.”
Dean curls up, a hint of frustration. “Hmpf?”
Too big words, Castiel realises. The human subconscious isn’t quite as well-developed as the conscious one. “What do you want us to do?”
“We shoulda get married. Yeah… We marry. Uhm. You wanna?”
Castiel’s vessel has a few functions he takes for granted: breathing is certainly one of them. A function currently unavailable.
He forces a deep breath in, staring at the ethereal man in front of himself, shaking his head as those emotions he’s still surprised exist - those reserved for this man alone - well up inside. Like a flower blooming, the buds bursting despite the pain and hardship, creating beauty. “Oh, Dean...”
“I wanna marry you,” Dean mumbles on, lost in such happy thoughts. What would Castiel discover if he was to enter them right now? “I wanna. So much, Cas… I wanna...”
Castiel thinks back upon their earlier conversation. Being married, being safe, being happy. And wouldn’t it be nice if we could wake up in the morning when the day is new, and after having spent the day together, hold each other close the whole night through?
Could Cas be there in the bed with Dean? Could he stay there every night and never have to leave, even when Dean starts to second-guess how much Dean means to him? Would he let him? Let him look, touch, adore him; let him share his sleepy conversations and happy dreams, both awake and in slumber? In the kind of world where we belong?
They could be married. Then they’d be happy.
Well. Wouldn’t it be nice?
“Yeah… Sound so good.” Dean hums happily, smushing his face into the pillow once more, burying the sweetly freckled nose. Drifting away. “I’mma marry the crap outta ya, baby.”
In his darkest hours, in the most dire of times; in sickness and in health, in life and in death. Always, he’s in love with him.
Castiel struggles to take his eyes away. He hums. “Goodnight, Dean. Sleep tight.”
“G’night…”
Castiel never lets him know he heard him. Not until Dean is blowing out 42 candles on a cake - which Cas and Sammy had united in forcing him to bake the night before as to actually celebrate his birthday for once, his Batman apron covered in icing and Cas’ ass sporting a handprint made of flour by the end of the ordeal - and when he looks up, he instantly looks down, and his eyes widen, because Castiel is on one knee in front of him with a small black box presented like a gift in his certain hands.
That song starts to play, the one that they found years ago from the Beach Boys album, of all goddamn things, about being older and being married, and Dean notices in his peripheral Sam has made his way over to the old gramophone with a shit-eating grin on his stupid moose face. He doesn’t really deem that detail important though. He kind of can’t tear his eyes away from Cas fucking proposing to him oh my fucking god.
“Now that you’re 40 ish, or 42, specifically,” this ridiculous, gorgeous, beautiful idiot man starts to say solemnly, but that smile is undeniable, and Dean realises with a shock and a half he’s got an actual ring in that box, as if he’d have forgotten, as if this is just a dream. “I only wonder, Dean... wouldn’t it be nice?”
Dean couldn’t find a counter-argument even if he tried.
He takes the ring with shaking hands - calloused and bruised and now adorned with a stunning silver ring - and he takes every burden from off his shoulders when they kiss to seal the deal.
Later, Dean will point at a picture of them together, in the album they’ve scrapbooked to keep the memories close. Hunters, to dads, to husbands, tied the knot on Valentine’s day the way he dreamed, the beautiful day thereafter spent well by cruising around in Baby with empty beer cans in tow, like idiots in love. Newly-weds with dreams.
”I had a crush on you here, honeybee,” he’ll shyly admit at one of the dozens of polaroids of them together, smiling fondly at Castiel Winchester’s awe where he’ll sit with his head on his shoulder, following where he points his attention to on the glossy pages.
”For fuck’s sakes,” Sam will sigh, stomping out of the room, ”that’s from your honeymoon! Of course you were!”
Yeah, well. Baby steps, and all that.