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The sunset is incredible.
Cas might almost think Dean had arranged for it to turn out like this, if that wasn’t an impossibility; it seems too perfect to be a coincidence. The clouds are smeared in lazy trails across the sky, the sun having only just touched the horizon, and everything is bathed in a fiery yellow-orange glow. Cas soaks up the breathtaking play of light and colour with wide eyes: magentas and pale pinks and blues, peaches and yellows and mauves. The contrast of the wide, watercolour-painted sky with the cool, shadowed fields laid out before them.
“Nice, huh?” Dean says softly, and Cas looks over in time to see him take a drink of his beer. Cas’ own bottle sweats under the loose grip of his fingers, and he leans just a little more firmly into Dean’s side. The delicious warmth of his body bleeds slowly through Cas’ clothes, into his shoulder, his hip, his thigh.
“Yes,” Cas says, his eyes still lingering on Dean’s profile. “Exceptionally lovely.”
Dean’s eyes flick over, catching Cas’ gaze. And Cas is delighted to discover that the golden glow of the dying sun doesn’t do anything to disguise the faint flush warming Dean’s cheeks.
“You’re gonna miss the sunset, dude,” he mutters, fiddling with the damp label of his beer. Cas just smiles.
(But he doesn’t continue his scrutiny for much longer. He doesn’t want to make Dean uncomfortable.)
(Well. Too uncomfortable.)
Cas looks up when a hand lands on his shoulder, familiar and welcome.
“Hey,” Dean says with a grin. “I was gonna go for a drive. You want to come with?”
Closing his book, Cas turns towards Dean in his chair. “Mmm,” he hums thoughtfully, a smile playing around his mouth. “Where are you going?”
Dean’s grin just widens a little more. “It’s a surprise.”
And Cas would be a fool indeed if he refused that. So he gets up, takes Dean’s proffered hand, and lets Dean tug him along out to the garage.
They linger even after the sun has dipped completely below the horizon, and the Impala’s hood is starting to become an uncomfortably cool place to sit: the sky is still a sight to behold and they both have a little beer left. But now that the sun has well and truly set, Cas has no qualms about turning his full attention back to Dean.
His freckles stand out on his cheekbones, the summer sun having darkened them to a warm brown and multiplied them by several orders of magnitude. Castiel has told him more than once that he’d like to have counted all of them, at some point. Dean usually just huffs a laugh and lets Cas keep drawing constellations onto his skin with the feather-light tip of a finger.
Dean notices him looking again and shakes his head. “I should start charging you. I’d be rollin’ in it if I got a dollar every time you looked at me for longer than five seconds.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Cas says matter-of-factly. He smiles. “You would be giving them back to me as soon as you made them.”
Dean laughs at that, leaning in close enough that his nose brushes Cas’. “Touché. What can I say? You’re one handsome bastard. Couldn’t keep my eyes off you if I tried.”
“Thank you,” Cas says primly, and kisses Dean before he can say another word.
It’s not the languid, drawn-out affair Cas would prefer; the chill of the early spring night and the fact that they haven’t eaten yet drives them back into the car sooner rather than later. He does manage to sneak one more before Dean puts the car into reverse and pulls off the west-facing ridge they’re parked on, though.
The sky is all soft and grey-blue now, only the retreating horizon behind them still stained pink.
“Thank you for showing me that,” Cas says as they drive back towards the Bunker. “It was like a painting.”
Dean smiles. “M’glad you liked it. I thought it’d be a good spot; looks like I was right.” He quirks an eyebrow then, giving Cas a side-eye. “But I still don’t know how much of it you actually saw,” he teases. “Seemed like every time I checked, you were looking at me.”
Cas reaches across the seat to rest his hand on Dean’s knee, smiling gently. “It was beautiful, yes. But so are you.”
But Dean doesn’t blush a little and stammer out something sweet like Cas had expected he would. He tenses and clears his throat, something in his expression going slightly brittle. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. What, uh. What were you reading earlier?”
And Cas can see what he’s doing; that’s as transparent as an attempt at changing the subject can get. But this evening has been so nice, and Cas doesn’t want to ruin it. So after a beat, he starts talking about tenth century Muslim philosophers— they were more advanced than many people give them credit for, Dean. For example, Abu Nasr al-Farabi’s Kitab al-Musiqa postulated...
A quiet kind of relief settles through him when the tense set of Dean’s shoulders slowly starts to relax again.
He isn’t going to leave this alone, though. They’ve tried not talking about things, and it doesn’t work.
Castiel is going to find out what this is.
It only takes him three days to come to a conclusion.
He begins with fairly neutral statements:
“You are incredibly distracting,” he purrs into Dean’s ear, crowding up behind him in the kitchen with his hands on Dean’s hips. Dean covers Cas’ hands with his own, melting back into him as Cas sneaks his fingers under the hem of Dean’s black t-shirt.
“Mm,” Dean hums enthusiastically as Cas mouths at the taut line of his neck. “It’s a talent. Why don’t we get outta here and you can do somethin’ about it, huh?”
That response is exactly what Cas had expected it to be. (And what he had hoped for, if he is being completely honest. He is human, now, after all; such things can be excused.) Dean preened under the attention, basked in the compliment. In the knowledge that he had an effect on Cas.
Then, Cas begins to push the boundary.
“Have I ever told you how lovely your eyes are?”
Dean looks faintly surprised by the compliment, and the tips of his ears go pink. “I, uh… I don’t… maybe? I dunno. They’re just, uh. They’re just green.”
Cas smiles. “Interesting. Well, they are. Lovely. The colour reminds me of an aurora borealis I saw during the late Cretaceous.”
Dean’s blush spreads to his neck. “The… like, when there were still dinosaurs wandering around? You remember… you remember one specific aurora borealis that reminds you of my eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Dean says, whatever he was looking at on his laptop long forgotten. “That’s, uh. I’m. Thanks? I’m not… I hope you’re not expecting any poetry from me, man.”
Cas just opens his book back up, reaching out to take Dean’s hand as he finds where he left off. “You’re welcome. And no, I’m not expecting anything. I just wanted to say it.”
“You’re so weird,” Dean mutters, his voice suffused with an endearing muddle of cotton-soft fondness and mild embarrassment. Cas can still feel the weight of his gaze long after he goes silent, and Dean doesn’t let go of his hand.
Every so often, he smoothes his thumb over Cas’ knuckles.
That, too, is expected. When Cas expresses purely aesthetic appreciation, or when he acknowledges something Dean has done that he finds kind or sweet, Dean dissolves into deflection and stuttering. He still appreciates it, but he doesn’t know how to accept it. His words habitually fail him; he defaults to physical affection instead. Cas thinks it might be the best way he knows to show that he likes it.
Then comes the last stage.
Cas has only a hypothesis, going into the final part of this little investigation. Perhaps he was wrong, the other day; perhaps he was inventing problems where none existed.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t think that was the case.
“Dean?”
Dean makes a small noise of acknowledgement, still fighting wakefulness with every ounce of his being. He’s facing Cas, though he’d been curled up in front of him when they went to sleep, his back flush to Cas’ chest. It’s usually how he prefers to sleep.
Cas brushes the pad of his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip. “Dean, you are… you are so beautiful. So exquisite.”
Dean’s eyes snap open. His expression doesn’t change, but Cas notices the sudden, absolute stillness of his body.
“Why are we awake?” he mutters, bullying his way into Cas’ space. He buries his head in the crook of Cas’ neck and shoulder, throws an arm over him, hooks an ankle around Cas’. “S’ too early for this.”
His closeness doesn’t feel like intimacy, though. It feels like he’s making sure Cas won’t do anything he can’t anticipate.
Cas pretends not to notice and runs a hand through Dean’s hair. “Would you like coffee?”
“Ngh,” Dean groans into his neck. “Is that even a question?”
Twenty minutes or so later, when he finally joins Cas in the kitchen, he’s his normal self. He drops a brief kiss on Cas’ cheek and takes the proffered mug with a smile.
He doesn’t call Cas ‘sunshine’, though. And he sits on the opposite side of the table.
And just like that, Cas is certain.
He supposes he could guess at the reason why Dean reacts so negatively to being called beautiful; but that feels both like a terrible idea and an incredibly roundabout way of addressing this.
No. He has to ask Dean outright.
And Cas wants to do it sooner rather than later, because Dean is beautiful. He is as beautiful a man, as beautiful a human as Cas has ever encountered. And maybe it’s selfish, but Cas can’t bear telling him that and having to watch him flat-out disbelieve it.
He searches for a good time to broach the subject, but there’s always someone around, or he doesn’t want to ruin the good mood, or it just doesn’t feel quite right for some reason. It’s not until they’re getting ready for bed, the day after Cas came to his conclusion, that he finally forces himself to take the leap.
“Why do you hate being called beautiful so intensely?”
Dean’s hands stutter, turning the neat pulling back of the blankets into a messy jerk. “What?”
He stares at Cas, and Cas stares back at him from where he stands on the opposite side of the bed, a worn paperback in hand.
Cas carefully puts his book down on the bedside table. “I asked you—”
“No, I know what you asked me,” Dean says, his voice odd. “But you—” His mouth flattens into an unconvincing line. “I don’t hate it.”
“Dislike it, then,” Cas amends. “It makes you uncomfortable. Why?”
Dean scowls down at the bed, finishing turning back the sheets. “Because I’m… you don’t call guys beautiful.” Cas can tell by the look on his face that he knew how terrible a reason that was before it even came out of his mouth. “And I’m sure as hell not, anyways,” he finishes hurriedly. “Now can we shut up about this?” He says, forcing a smirk onto his face. “C’mere. Let me—”
“Dean.” Cas says severely. “I sincerely hope you were not about to offer what I think you were going to in an effort to distract me.”
Dean stands there for a moment, staring at Cas with an inscrutable expression on his face. Then he turns his back and sits down on the bed, slumping ever so slightly. “Whatever. It was worth a try.”
Cas looks at the back of Dean’s bowed head. After a moment, he joins him on the bed, folding one leg up next to him so he can face Dean.
“You must not think I’m beautiful, then.”
Dean’s shoulders tense.
“It makes sense,” Cas continues placidly. “I am male as well.”
“I know what you’re doing,” Dean grumbles. But he sighs and turns to face Cas again. “You are. Okay? You’re… ‘course you’re beautiful, Cas.”
Cas reaches out, carefully taking Dean’s hand in his. “Then why can’t I think the same of you?”
Dean’s shoulders hunch inward, and he avoids Cas’ gaze. “‘Cause… I dunno, man. I’m… I’m not.”
Cas surveys Dean’s face, frowning. This calls for a more direct approach.
He pulls Dean down, arranging his limp, mostly unresisting body so that Cas can lie next to him and look into his face. Dean keeps his gaze fixed somewhere on the bedspread between them, doggedly avoiding eye contact.
“I have seen your soul.”
Dean’s eyes flick up to meet Cas’. He wasn’t expecting that. “Uh… yeah, okay. You’ve, uh. You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”
Cas blinks slowly. “And you agree that a person’s soul is the most accurate representation of them? Their core, so to speak; it is everything that makes a person who they are.”
Dean simply looks at him for a long, long moment.
Finally, he lets out a soft breath. “Yes.”
Cas puts a hand on Dean’s cheek. “Then you understand what I mean when I say that your soul, every time I saw it, left me speechless with awe.”
Dean can do nothing but stare at Cas.
“I have seen many souls,” Cas continues in a whisper. “So many. And yours is the only one that has ever struck me so deeply.”
Dean tries to duck his head away, but Cas won’t let him. “The only word in human language that even comes close to describing you is beautiful. You… you are beyond words. More incredible than you know.”
Dean has squeezed his eyes shut. A tear leaks out from the corner of one and trickles down over the bridge of his nose. Cas kisses it away, and Dean sucks in a shuddery breath.
“Not only that,” Cas murmurs, dropping tiny kisses on Dean’s cheekbones, the thin skin beneath his eyes, his nose. “But this body you inhabit happens to be beautiful as well. The way you move, how you smile, the capability of your hands. Your eyes. Your freckles. Beautiful, all of it.” He sweeps his thumb along Dean’s cheek. “In all fairness, I would find you beautiful no matter what you looked like. But my point still stands.”
Dean lets out a wet laugh, his hands curling into the front of Cas’ sleep shirt. “Dammit, you… even my stupid bow legs and my— my bum knee?”
“One is beyond your control,” Cas says with a smile. “Though quite endearing nonetheless. And the other is evidence of a life lived in service of others. A life spent protecting those who cannot protect themselves. That makes it beautiful.”
“Fuck,” Dean breathes, his warm exhale ghosting over Cas’ collarbones. He is quiet for a long while after that, his forehead leaned against Cas’ cheek.
Cas just puts an arm around him and waits.
Eventually, Dean slides one hand up to rest warm on the side of Cas’ neck. “You know… you too,” he says, so quietly it’s barely more than a breath. “I might… I might not be able to see your soul. But I don’t need to.”
Cas whispers a reverent thank you against Dean’s forehead. Dean shivers and huddles closer.
Later, after they’ve turned out the lights and they’re tangled comfortably together under the covers, Cas turns to Dean.
Dean lets out a small sigh when Cas doesn’t say anything. “What?”
“I was only wondering,” Cas says slowly, “what you would do if I called you beautiful again. In light of our conversation.”
Dean circles the swell of Cas’ shoulder with careful fingers. His breath puffs against Cas’ neck.
“I think the word you used the other day was ‘exquisite’.”
Cas smiles.