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Dean would never admit it, but in his free time — which he had, now, ever since he, his brother, his angel (now human) and their nephilim had saved the world — he’d taken to sitting up with his laptop sometimes; maybe, occasionally, browsing through the reaches of the internet.
And boy, did the world wide web turn out to be good for more than just finding cases and storing porn.
For example: One day, he'd put in a vague, trepidant search for warm hoodies with All Saint’s Day and some classic rock band graphics on them, since Cas said he liked the contrast of the softest ones against Dean's stubble (and who was Dean to say no to that). And where he'd been expecting sketchy results, and maybe a few phishing scams...there were instead dozens, upon dozens of avenues that greeted him, from articles and pictures on Pinterest showing him how to make his own or maximize on already-existing clothing fluff, people selling things they'd made specially on Etsy and Redbubble, and so many website icons that they'd all made his head spin.
He'd shut his laptop, left his room, and sipped coffee with Cas rubbing circles above his shoulder and whispering 'good morning, beautiful' into his ear.
Forget the internet, he'd thought to himself. Forget it.
But when Cas had headed out on a quick errand, and Dean was alone again...he'd taken a breath, opened his browser back up, and vowed not to move until he'd figured this wormhole out. I've made demon deals, been possessed by archangels, and watched my mom punch Satan in the face, he mentally recounted, as if in declaration. Damnit, I can find something that's cool and soft to make Cas smile when he sees it.
And a week later, the clothing items that arrived at the post office in Lebanon were the warmest things Castiel had ever slept with his head nestled against.
Dean would've braved scrolling to the second page on Google if it meant that smile was there to stay.
-:-:-:-
Some time passed, and Dean never owned up to where he was getting the little gifts he'd present to Cas- the tie with minimalist bee sketches printed on it with distress inks (which Cas decided would be kept lovingly on his dresser, despite the fact that he didn't wear ties much anymore as a human); the blanket that was striped and lined with cotton so soft it felt like the down of angel feathers (big enough for the both of them to drape over their backs); or the small jars of grape jelly, each a different kind and carefully packaged with tissue paper and hand-scripted labels. Sam grew mildly suspicious, but he didn't say anything outright, given how much warmth he felt between the two of them.
That changed, however, when a package arrived in the mail, and he saw what it was the next day.
-:-:-:-
"Dean?" Cas murmured from where the two of them were loosely pressed together in Dean's bed, the first hazy rays of sunlight outside beginning to paint their side of the Bunker a rich shade of gold.
"Yeah, Cas?" Dean groggily answered, subtly pulling Cas closer to him as if in protest of the notion of getting up. “You wan’ anoth’r blanket, or something?”
“No.”
Dean waited for Cas to clarify what it was that he did want, but when no notes of the former angel’s low, gravelly-to-the-point-of-soothing voice reached his ears, he blinked closer to wakefulness and shifted to look into his face.
He found blue eyes staring at him, and then a bridge of knuckles that reached up to just as gently brush the ruffled edges of his hair.
“Nothing’s wrong, ol hoath,” Castiel murmured, the enochian endearment falling in a familiar comfort from his mouth. “I just wanted to say good morning.”
Dean gave a soft scoff. “Morning to you too, Cas,” he murmured back.
Cas began to slip out from beneath the bedsheets (deftly avoiding Dean’s efforts to keep him close by distracting him with a kiss on the cheek), and went to brush his teeth for the morning, then heading out to the Bunker’s kitchen where Sam was already putting on a fresh pot of coffee and Jack was eating a plate of waffles.
“Morning, Cas,” Sam greeted. “Dean still in bed?”
“Yes.” Cas smiled, just enough of it peering out across his features that Sam caught it and mirrored it with a laughing grin of his own. “He was insistent on remaining asleep, as per usual.”
Sam opened his mouth to pass comment, when an audible shuffling in the hall cut him off, and a hedgehog-haired, robe-clad Dean Winchester walked through the entryway; walking up to Cas’s side, picking up a coffee mug, and shooting a half-loving, half-disgruntled look Cas’s way.
“Traitor,” Dean said. “You knew I wanted to sleep in today.”
“There was nothing stopping you from continuing to do so after I left,” Cas told him.
Dean made a face. “It was too cold after you peeled the blankets off. Sleeping in without you ain’t sleeping in.”
Jack laughed, the notion of the Dean he’d known in the midst of supernatural war now being undone by something as simple as a draft hitting against his side making him smile in a way he was happy to be getting used to.
“Well, it’s certainly nice to be appreciated,” Cas said, leaning back with a mirthful look on his face. “Even if that appreciation comes with blame, simply for wishing to enjoy one of the first truly warm spring mornings of the year.”
Dean laughed. “I’m kidding, angel. As if I’d keep you from your ducks on a day like today,” he said.
Cas beamed at this, any mention of the ducks that had settled by a creek in the forest near the Bunker almost always able to make him smile.
“Are we going to go see them?” Jack asked. “The mother was telling me about a group of goslings they met a week ago. I think they might be passing through, soon.”
“Oh, yes, the goslings,” Cas breathed, like he’d forgotten. Despite no longer possessing his grace, he could still understand the communication of most earthly animals, and there were days when he and Jack would spend hours chit-chatting with whatever wildlife they encountered, however long they could spend outside until Cas's nose slowly turned a chill-bitten shade of cherry red. Dean had recorded a few seconds of Cas laughing, once, bright and loud at a joke a frog had told about a woodpecker, and it was one of the most valuable things he felt he had.
With the exception of Cas himself, of course.
Cas was a no-brainer.
“It’s kind of cold out right now,” Sam said, checking the temperature on his phone as he poured milk into a bowl for himself. “Maybe you guys could go in the afternoon?” He then remembered something, tapping in a few places on his screen. “And, hey, by the way, we got a ping from the post office again. Looks like something got dropped off for you, Dean.”
Dean quickly looked up, fingers tightening in eagerness over his coffee mug for the briefest of seconds. “Cool,” he said, smoothing out his face and playing it chill, the patented Dean Winchester way. “Hey, uh, you know what?” he decided. “I think I’m gonna head out on a supply run, maybe pick up some of those apples that the ducks liked the last time.”
Jack frowned slightly. “But we already have—”
“And while I’m at it,” Dean continued, ignoring the nephilim’s confusion, “I’ll pick up whatever shampoo you’re tryin’ out this week from the post, Sam.” Dean took a swig of his coffee around a smug grin. “Let me guess, uh, lavender-vanilla scented this time? Roses? A nice luxurious peaches-and-cream?”
“Shut up,” Sam muttered. “You found jasmine-scented conditioner in the mail one time, and it was because it was a free add-on to some of my regular stuff.” His cheeks briefly reddened. “I mean, yes, I used it, but that was because I didn’t want it to go to waste.”
“Jasmines are very nice flowers, Sam,” Cas spoke up. “I personally rather enjoyed the scent drifting through the halls in those few weeks.”
Dean grinned. “And, hey, not wanting to waste it— that why you put in another order for it last week, Samantha?”
Sam levelled him with a classic bitchface no.5, and with that in his mind, Dean took off, throwing on a warm flannel and a pair of jeans and setting off to the soothing thrum of Baby’s engine.
He checked out the apples and a few one-serving samples of honey from the register, where new varieties were always getting rotated into the mix, and then headed to the post office, just in time to grab his package before the employees’ lunch break.
"Huh," he remarked, when it was passed into his hands. "Bigger than I thought it would be."
"Packaging these days makes no sense," the girl working the desk shift told him. "Just recycle it."
Dean promised to do just that, and then got back in the Impala, heading back to the Bunker with the midday sun beginning to rise over his head.
This package’s contents were going to be another surprise for Cas, akin to the small surprises from the weeks past, but this one was a little bit more special. Dean had had this one planned.
See, Cas had been waiting for the days of spring to come for weeks now, and on the walks they'd slowly begun taking more of, Dean had found the once-angel making sketches of the flora and fauna that they passed; tucking pencils into his pockets and capturing forms and detail with deft strokes on stray pieces of paper. There were drawings of every member of the family of ducks, maps delicately tracing the path of the creeks, the dappled, sure angles of the trees along the forest paths, wildflowers— and Cas might not have realized that Dean could see it, but he was enjoying the peace of mind and open heart that came with this form of art, and Dean had every intention of allowing it to grow.
He'd spent hours on the internet, paging through artist forums and blog posts and crafting store sites on the sly until he’d felt satisfied in having found the very best sketching pencils the web had to offer. They were made with high quality charcoal that people (real people, not bots) swore up and down glided like butter over the page, any page, and he found a sketchbook that was just the right size and just the right texture in the paper, one with a spiral binding and black cover that spoke to simplicity but not to cheapness.
He was going to present them to Cas on the first day they'd be able to spend outdoors, which was today, and watch the love of his life sketch the ducks to his heart’s content.
Dean grinned.
He couldn't wait for Cas to give them a try.
Dean drove back to the Bunker, the package remaining carefully unopened, and made it inside within two hours of when he'd left. After he put the groceries away and tucked the honey samples in his pocket for the walk, he found Sam alone in the library, who told him that Jack and Cas were apparently still getting ready to go up in their rooms. The younger Winchester wagered that they'd be about ten minutes longer, and Dean realized this was the perfect opportunity to unpackage his gifts and wrap them up in his bag to give to Cas (the right way).
“Hey, Sam,” he said, pulling out a penknife from his jeans and beginning to get to work sawing away the thick packing tape that encircled the box. “You mind getting one of those nice paper bags from over in the empty bookshelf?”
Sam shot him a warm, knowing look, and went to grab a bag, but then stopped; glancing back at the size of the box Dean had brought inside (whose length was able to stretch from roughly from the top of either of their chests down to their belts).
“Dean,” he said hesitantly, “whatever’s in there, I’m not sure it’s gonna fit in one of these.”
“Nah, it’s just wasteful packaging,” Dean told him, working at the last of the tape without looking up at his brother. “Come on, bring one of those over. The stuff’ll fit.”
Sam complied, and walked back to the table, a dark brown paper bag with simple, corded handles and a length of his forearm folded neatly in his hands. “Here,” he said, holding it out.
“Thanks.”
A few seconds later, Dean got the last of the tape free, and pulled the box open, finding Cas’s sketching materials all neatly laid out at the top. He grinned, and began to take them out, but Sam squinted, leaning forward to inspect something dark laid flush against the bottom of the cardboard.
“Uh...Dean?” the younger Winchester asked, reaching in and holding up a swath of fabric, that separated into two. “Did you…”
Sam turned them over, recognizing the softness and general shape of a pair of identical hoodies, but when he turned them over to the front…
What greeted him certainly hadn’t been what he was expecting.
“Spoons?”
“What?” Dean asked, looking up from where he’d been slipping the art supplies in the bag, trying to keep organized vertically. “Whoa, where’d those come from?” He looked at the twin hoodies, the sides facing him completely dark with nothing to identify them, and frowned, definitely knowing himself not to be the online shopper who bought things that weren’t unique.
But then slowly, Sam turned them over, and what Dean saw made his eyes go wide.
“Bi-” he stammered, blinking and leaning in closer. “Big spoon, little spoon?”
It couldn’t be. He remembered seeing these, considering them with a sly laugh for only a moment before he’d come to the fast realization that his status as Big Spoon in his relationship was...to put it simply, debatable. Nope. He didn’t need to feel quite so emasculated, and certainly not at his own hands.
So he knew that he hadn’t added them to his last order, and yet…
Here they were, in just the right sizes, and held up in Sam’s hands right as Cas walked back into the room.
“Dean?” the former angel said upon his entrance, and the Winchester in question deftly swiped the bag with his real gifts in it behind his back, tucking it into his belt and covering it with his shirt the way he once habitually might have with the barrel of his gun.
“Yeah, Cas?” Dean replied, feigning nonchalance, and shooting Sam a look that was equal parts threat and desperation.
“What are these?” Cas asked, walking up to approach Sam and looking down to take in the prints pressed into the soft black fabric.
He mouthed the words, eyes tracing the pictures, and looked up at Dean, one of his eyebrows quirking in question. He opened his mouth to speak, but then Jack appeared at his side, the faint ruffling of feathers accompanying his flight from his room to where the others were gathered.
“Silverware?” the young nephilim asked, questioning the first thing that met his gaze. He matched Castiel’s expression and looked up at Dean as well, both brows characteristically dipping in uncertainty. “Are these for you and Cas?”
Dean coughed and cleared his throat, and Sam had to hold in a sound that was both a laugh and a sigh all at once. “I don’t think Dean meant to order them,” the younger brother answered at last, “but...they’re here, so I guess they are.”
“Ah, like your shampoo!” Jack connected aloud, face beaming in understanding. “So...which one is Dean’s, and which one is Cas’s?”
Sam gave his brother a wry look, and handed the hoodies off, more than happy to let him take the responsibility for whatever happened next.
“Well,” Cas began, looking at his other half with an even gaze. “Dean is slightly taller than I am.”
Dean felt a wellspring of relief beginning to trickle into his mind, but before his shoulders could relax, the corner of Cas’s lips rose in a nearly imperceptible smirk, making the Winchester freeze the second he became aware of it.
“But I believe that is as far as his status as the larger of the spoons extends.”
Oh god, Dean realized.
Cas knew what the hoodies meant.
“Sure, sure,” Dean tried to backtrack, a nervous scoff rising from his throat (which was suddenly much, much drier than it had been a few minutes before). “But, come on. Bigger spoon was the first to the party, right?”
But Cas simply raised an eyebrow, and Dean winced, realizing just how much ground he’d lost.
First to the party? Nope. If life was the eternal party, Cas was older than him by millennia. A second nope: Cas had realized he was in love long before Dean had. And for the love of god, Cas kept a way better schedule than he did, so he was very literally the first one to arrive at anything planned. So, first to the party? No. In nearly every sense of the metaphor, Dean wasn’t the one it fit.
“Bigger spoon’s the shinier one—” Dean tried, but the renewed sight of Cas’s azure eyes glinting as if with the remnants of angel grace shut him right up. Damnit. Strike two.
“Bigger spoon...can hold the most pie?” Dean attempted one last time, and Cas simply smiled, gently shaking his head.
“There’s no shame in being the smaller of the spoons in a pair, Dean,” he said, glancing over his shoulder in slight amusement as Sam quietly shepherded Jack toward the Bunker’s doors. “Arguably, you get the most warmth, and surely that casts no detrimental view upon your character.”
Dean bit his lip, thoughts stewing at the edge of his tongue, but Cas waited, letting him find the words for whatever he needed to express.
“The big spoon’s the protector, Cas,” Dean said at last, the sentiment brushing the open air as if clutching to its weight. “Who the hell am I if I can’t be the guy who keeps you safe? You’ve been the one the floor hit first way too many times, Cas, and you’ve died for it. I can’t…” Dean trailed off, looking away. “I can’t just let you be the big spoon again, now that all the bullshit we’ve been through is behind us.”
Cas was silent, but slowly, he walked forward, fingers gently threading beneath the space where Dean’s hands clenched into the balled-up fabric.
“The smaller spoon is the thing that fills the larger one with purpose, Dean,” the once-angel spoke quietly. “Without it, its other half will never be everything that it can be.” He smiled softly. “The little spoon is the keeper of the little things, the moments you spent so long teaching me bear the most meaning. Do you understand?” He lifted their wrists to the light, hands laced together so perfectly that they seemed indisputably made to be that way. “The little spoon is the one the big spoon gets to hold, and to the big spoon, that is everything.”
Dean was stunned, but slowly nodded, backing on his heels until the backs of his legs hit the table’s edge, and Cas stepped ever so slightly closer to dust his lips with a tender kiss.
“How about we wear these on our walk, hm?” Castiel asked, his voice a low hum. “Jack is ready to go.”
“Alright,” Dean agreed in a murmur, and watched his angel step back, before looking down and selecting the right hoodie to hand over. “If I had to be little spoon to anyone...I’m glad it’s you, Cas,” he said.
Cas smiled.
“Our love is worth letting you steal the blankets,” he responded, before pulling the warm black fabric over his head. “At least, out of guilt, you manage to find me more of them afterward.”
The group headed out, Dean’s presents still tucked away at the small of his back; but his real gift, the only one that mattered, was right beside him on the way toward the door.
-:-:-:-
They walked down to the creek, and found their family of ducks awaiting them, the small aggregation of goslings cheeping excitedly when they felt the calescence of Jack’s grace reaching out toward them.
The adults made themselves comfortable at the water’s mouth, Cas and Sam having risen to a light debate over whether this fairly inconspicuous body of water qualified in some places as a river or perhaps some other semantic form, when Dean lightly cleared his throat, and Cas looked up toward him.
“Yes, Dean?” Cas asked.
Sam gave a knowing smile, and slipped away, leaving the two of them together.
“I know we’ve already been through the wringer with these hoodies and everything,” Dean began, a small flush of red rising to his cheeks, “but...I’ve actually got something else for you. Your real present, the stuff I actually meant to give you.”
Cas gave a surprised look, but the Winchester then produced the flattened (only slightly wrinkled) bag from his large front pocket, where he’d stashed it before they’d left the Bunker.
“Happy Spring, Cas,” Dean said, and watched as Cas reached into the folded paper, and slowly withdrew its contents.
“Dean,” he murmured with a soft gasp. “You…these are beautiful,” he said, rolling the pencils across the palm of his hand. Just like the man who gifted them to me, he thought affectionately. “They’re perfect. How did you know I’d wanted something of this nature?”
“Who do you think pinned that sketch of Jack with the sparrows down on Chestnut street to the fridge, huh?” Dean asked, leaning in to drop a quick kiss to his angel’s cheek. “I see you, Cas. That’s the advantage of being a little spoon,” he said with a wink. “I’ve got the best view of the interior.”
Cas smiled fondly and looked on at where Jack was translating between Sam and a pair of baby ducklings on the rocky bed of the creek, and after thinking for only a moment, he opened the sketchbook to its first blank page, preparing to capture the moment in front of him.
He was so happy that Dean seemed to understand.
He’d been drawing, lately, because without all the pain of what their lives had once been, there were simply so many moments that he wanted to feel the most of. A quick sketch here, a few strokes of ink there, and he got to keep some piece of the seconds that had passed so blissfully in front of his eyes.
Now, he could perhaps finally express that.
This day alone, the ducks were granted nearly a dozen pages; a number that only went up as the season progressed, and Jack’s laugh, Sam’s plethora of facial retorts, and Dean’s eyes were given a sizable portion of the space that remained.
More sketchbooks quickly found their way into the Bunker, ready and waiting to fill the need, and eventually watercolors, markers, and color pencils followed right behind.
Every moment was precious, they had been for a long time, and now few of them ever truly slipped from their fingers.
But the final page of Castiel’s first sketchbook was a depiction of two silver utensils balanced atop one another; an angel’s reflection woven into the spoon that had raised the other one from the ground, only to find a whole new world awaiting him.
Because to whomever had seen fit to include those hoodies in Dean’s order, Cas had to give thanks.
It was the best way to start a season of growth that he ever could have conceived.