Archive of Our Own ^omega

They go to see the house on a whim. 

They’re in Vermont, taking a welcome vacation after a particularly long and grueling hunt that nearly got both Dean and Cas killed, and it’s a gorgeous, sunny day outside. The sky above them is blue and cloudless, the air warm and deliciously sweet, the gentle breeze carrying with it the promise of spring. Dean’s cruising down a long stretch of backcountry road, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him as he drives, Cas beside him in the passenger’s seat. It really does feel like a vacation, Dean quietly marvels, reaching his right hand over the center console to entwine it with Cas’ left. They have nowhere to be, no destination in mind – just the open road, an endless sky, and each other.

The house comes up on their right, the first one they’ve seen for miles. A hand-painted “Open House” sign sits on the side of the road, several bright orange balloons tied to it. Dean eases his foot off of the gas, slowing down as they approach. 

The house sits a few hundred feet back from the road, the front surrounded by a short, freshly painted white picket fence. It’s moderately sized from what Dean can see; two stories tall with lots of large windows that glint in the afternoon sun. The majority of the house is painted a cheerful yellow color while the trim is painted white. The most notable feature, however, is the massive garden that looks like it has essentially taken over the entire front yard. 

It’s beautiful in its wildness. Dean’s certainly no expert in flowers, but he recognizes a few; a burst of red roses below a front window, an explosion of multicolored pansies near one edge of the fence. Tall pink and purple flowers that Dean doesn’t know the name of stand proudly among lower growing bushes full of flowers of seemingly every shape and color imaginable. It’s as if someone had scattered hundreds of seeds of every variety they could find and just let them all grow, untamed and spectacular. 

“Can we take a look?” Cas asks, turning towards Dean, and, well, Dean is always helpless to say no to him, especially when he looks so damn excited. Besides, Dean’s also curious about the house, if he’s being honest. It almost looks like something out of a fairytale. 

“’Course we can,” Dean says, giving Cas’ hand a squeeze. Cas gives him a sunny smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and Dean’s heart clenches, just a bit. It’s kind of ridiculous that after all these years Cas still has that effect on him, can still leave him breathless with a smile, but Dean can’t find it in him to be upset about it. Dean brings Cas’ knuckles to his lips and brushes a light kiss there, something like peace or contentment warming his chest. 

Dean pulls the car over onto a stretch of shoulder a few hundred yards past the house. The two of them get out and head back down the road, skirting the edge of the yard, until they reach a stone pathway that leads right up to the front door. 

The garden seems even brighter and more colorful once they’re actually in it; Dean feels as though he’s stepped inside a painting. Overgrown flowers hanging over the walkway kiss their ankles and thighs as they make their way up to the door. An older couple, a man and a woman, sits on a large porch swing out front, rocking gently back and forth. 

The woman rises to greet them, a wide, pleasant smile on her face. Dean and Cas extend their hands in greeting, introducing themselves.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” the woman says, shaking their hands. Her face is lined and tanned, speaking of years of work in the outdoors. “I’m Florence. This is my husband, Arthur.”

Arthur stands, giving them an easy smile as he takes their hands. “Nice to meet you.”

“Please,” Florence says, stepping back and gesturing towards the door, “feel free to take a look around. Arthur and I’ll be right here if you have any questions about the house.”

The front door opens directly into a single large room that seems to encompass most of the downstairs. A large, airy living room is situated to their immediate left, beams of light streaming in through a bay window that overlooks the front garden, making the hardwood floors gleam. There’s a red brick fireplace built into the wall, offering a warmth and coziness to the space despite it not being lit. Slightly off to their right is the kitchen, completely open to the rest of the house. Dean follows Cas as he makes his way over there, running his hands along the granite countertop of the island situated in the middle. It’s smooth, cool to his touch, and Dean can’t help but think about how nice it would be to have this kind of space to cook in. More often than not, he’s the one in charge of making food back at the bunker. He doesn’t mind cooking for everyone – he actually really enjoys it – but it would be helpful to have a bit more counter space. 

Cas is standing in front of the large farmhouse sink, peering out of the window above it. Dean comes to stand next to him, pulling himself from fantasies involving being able to prep multiple dishes at once. The window overlooks the backyard, where even more flowers and what looks like a small vegetable garden grow, as well as the expansive valley and rolling hills beyond the property. 

“It’s beautiful out here,” Dean says. 

“It is,” Cas agrees, angling his head to press a chaste kiss on Dean’s cheek. They gaze out of the window for a few more quiet moments before Cas nods to their right, indicating a narrow, wooden staircase that sits just beyond the kitchen. “Should we head upstairs?”

The upstairs consists of just a small linen closet and the master bedroom with an adjacent bathroom. There’s a bed in the room, though most other furniture has already been removed. The entire space is suffused in warm, golden light that’s coming in from two large windows. The one to Dean’s left looks out over the backyard and the hills, just like the one in the kitchen. The window to his right opens to the front of the house, providing a stunning view of the entire front garden. 

As he looks around the bedroom, an image suddenly enters Dean’s mind, almost overwhelming in its clarity. It’s of Cas, laying on his side in the bed, the stickiness of sleep still clinging to his features. His face and bed-rumpled hair are backlit in a halo of morning sunshine as it streams through that front window, and he looks so calm, peaceful, safe – the way Dean wants him to look all of the time. 

Dean blinks hard and the image is gone, though it leaves behind a strange sense of longing that he isn’t quite sure what to make of. 

Cas is standing at the window that looks out over the front of the house. Dean sidles over, stopping just behind him to rest his chin on Cas’ shoulder, wanting to touch him, wanting to feel his warmth. Cas gives a pleased hum. 

“I really like the garden,” Cas says softly. Dean makes a quiet noise of agreement. It looks even more spectacular from up here, if that’s even possible; pinks, yellows, purples, and reds, all splattered against a canvas of green. 

They eventually make their way back out of the house, briefly popping into the two downstairs bedrooms just off of the living room. Florence and Arthur greet them again when they step outside, Cas shutting the door gently behind them. 

“You have a beautiful home,” Cas says sincerely, and Dean nods in agreement. Florence and Arthur smile at each other. 

Cas’ gaze sweeps across the front yard. “I especially love your garden.”

“Oh, don’t get us started on the garden,” Florence says with a light laugh. “You’ll be here all day.”

“We did all of it ourselves,” Arthur says, a note of pride in his voice. “Forty years ago now, back when we first moved in.”

“We both love flowers,” Florence elaborates, and Arthur nods. “I was a plant biologist before I retired. I love all plants, of course, but my specialty was flowering plants.”

“That’s how we met, actually,” says Arthur. “I was working as a florist and she came into the shop one day, looking for a rare variety of flower to study. A Lady’s Slipper orchid, if I recall correctly.” 

Florence nods, a small smile playing around her mouth. “Cypripedioideae.”

“Well, the shop I was working in was just your standard, run-of-the-mill flower shop in a Podunk town up in Northern Vermont, so we didn’t have anything like that. I couldn’t just let her leave, though. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” At this, Florence takes his hand, turning her wide smile on him, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I gave her a purple rose instead. To symbolize love at first sight.”

That’s a really sweet gesture, Dean thinks, smiling at the two of them. So he might be a bit of a romantic. Sue him.

“What do you mean?” asks Cas, a slight furrow to his brow. 

“Every flower has its own special meaning,” Arthur explains. “For example, the blue violets over there represent faithfulness. And red roses represent love.” He points first towards a low-growing patch of small, bluish-purple flowers nestled next to the fence, then towards a large rosebush full of red roses that sits beneath the bay window. Smiling, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans backwards against the porch swing, gazing out over the garden. “One of the great things about being a florist was getting to know the language of flowers.”

Dean vaguely remembers learning at some point that flowers could have meanings, but he had no idea the knowledge was so extensive. 

“It was important to us to have a garden when we bought this house, since we’re both so passionate about flowers,” Florence continues. “We started working on this garden as soon as we moved in, about forty years ago now, like Arthur said.” She lets out a laugh. “Jesus, Arthur, we’re getting old!”

Arthur just chuckles, patting her forearm gently. “Nonsense, my dear.”

“Why did you decide to move, then?” Dean can’t help but ask. “It sounds like this place is pretty important to you guys.” He can’t imagine wanting to move away from a place like this, a beautiful house with a beautiful garden, a kitchen with lots of counter space, and the person he loves by his side. 

Florence tilts her head up to the sky, a contemplative expression on her face. “It is,” she says after a moment. “But . . .”

“But we’ve lived this life for so long,” Arthur finishes for her. “We both felt like it was time for something new. For a change.”

Dean nods slowly, an unexpected sense of understanding resonating deep within his bones, like he knows exactly what Arthur means. 

They say their goodbyes shortly after, thanking Florence and Arthur for their time. Florence hands them a small piece of paper with an email and phone number so that they can contact them, in case they’re interested in the house. Before they leave, Arthur holds up a finger and asks them to wait for a moment, disappearing into the garden. He returns a few minutes later, a bundle of white flowers with sunny yellow centers in his hands. 

“Daffodils,” Arthur says, offering them to Dean and Cas. Cas accepts them with a gracious smile. “To symbolize new beginnings.”

*

Dean is brushing his teeth in the bathroom of their hotel room that night when Cas wanders in, lightly smacking his ass as he passes by. Dean makes a squawk of indignation, muffled around his toothbrush, though he can’t help the amusement he sees dancing in his eyes when he looks back in the mirror. Cas smirks at him and perches himself next to Dean, resting his hip on the side of the counter. When they finally got together three years ago, Dean had been endlessly surprised by Cas’ playfulness, a side of him Dean had only ever gotten glimpses of before. He’s still surprised by it now, honestly, but it’s something he can’t imagine living without. 

Dean spits, rinses, pats his mouth dry with a towel. He glances at Cas out of the corner of his eye, catching him blatantly ogling his ass. Dean stands up straight and tosses the towel back onto the countertop, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Like what you see?” Dean asks cheekily. 

A slow grin curls onto Cas’ face. “Very much so.”

And, well, Dean isn’t going to complain if that’s the direction Cas wants to take their night in. It’s the direction most of their nights go in, to be fair, but Dean isn’t going to complain about that either. 

Before Dean can even get them out of the bathroom and onto a horizontal surface, however, Cas says, “Can we go stargazing?”

The abrupt shift in Cas’ tone, from playful and flirtatious to innocent and questioning, gives Dean mild whiplash. 

“Stargazing?” His voice comes out deep, rough. He coughs lightly.

Cas at least has the grace to look slightly abashed. “That’s what I came in here to ask you before I got . . . distracted.”

Dean almost wants to say no, wants to take Cas to bed and kiss him senseless instead. Stargazing does sound nice though, and really, Dean’s over forty years old; he can keep it in his pants for a couple of hours.

“Fine,” Dean acquiesces, and the excited smile Cas gives him is totally, absolutely worth it. “But we’re having sex when we get back.”

Cas throws his head back and laughs, deep and genuine, and Dean wants to bottle the sound up and keep it with him forever. “Believe me, I was planning on it.”

They head out to a large, open field that Dean had noticed on their drive earlier. It’s a warm night, and Dean rolls down the windows, enjoying the light breeze on his face. A comfortable silence settles between them as they drive further and further out into the country, the night air filled instead by the chirping of cicadas and the quiet hum of the engine. 

Dean hasn’t been able to shake that image of Cas laying in bed from his mind all day, the peculiar sense of longing he had felt earlier still lingering along with it. He doesn’t understand it; he wakes up next to Cas every day, whether they’re back at the bunker, in a random motel, or on vacation in Vermont. And it’s amazing. Dean couldn’t ask for a better way to start his mornings. 

There’s just something . . . different, Dean supposes, about imagining Cas waking up in a house that just the two of them share, a house that has a flower garden and a vegetable garden and an island in the kitchen with a frankly ridiculous amount of counter space. A house that speaks of comfort and safety, rather than of endless research and monster-hunting. A home. 

Dean glances over at Cas. He’s leaning out of the window, head tilted up towards the sky, a small, content smile settled on his lips. In the moonlight, Dean can see the fading bruises along Cas’ jaw that he’d acquired during the very hunt that prompted this trip to Vermont in the first place. 

And that’s probably the crux of this whole thing, if Dean’s being honest with himself. He hates to see Cas hurt, of course, but it’s more than that. He wants Cas around forever; he doesn’t want to lose him to a goddamned monster that happened to get lucky that day. And, well, the lifestyle they currently lead is entirely conducive to putting oneself in a position that allows monsters to get lucky. 

“Let’s stop here,” Cas says, pulling Dean from his thoughts. They’re somewhere in the middle of the field, wildflowers and tall grasses sprouting here and there in every direction all the way out to the hills, as far as Dean can see. The sky looks more expansive than ever from here, the inky velvet of the night draping itself completely over the landscape, broken only by the twinkling of stars and the silvery glow of the moon.

Dean parks the car and turns the ignition off, killing the headlights and sending them further into darkness. Cas grabs a blanket from the backseat and lays it on down the ground, smoothing it out before climbing on top of it, stretching out on his back. Dean joins him immediately, pressing up close against his side, and Cas wraps an arm around him, giving Dean’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. He drinks in Cas’ warmth, enjoying the grounding presence that Cas provides while taking in the endless sea of stars above, and feels his racing mind settle for a moment. 

“I really liked Florence and Arthur’s house earlier,” Cas says after a while, breaking the hushed quiet of the night. “Especially their garden.”

“I know.” Dean smiles, eyes still on the sky above. “I liked it too.”

Cas is silent for a moment, and then he says, “We should move there.”

Dean feels his eyes widen. He pushes himself up onto his forearms, staring down at Cas incredulously. Cas simply folds his hands over his stomach and keeps his eyes on the stars. 

“What?” he asks, when Cas doesn’t say anything more.

Cas exhales heavily. The silvery-blue glow of the moon reflects in Cas’ eyes, making him look otherworldly, ethereal. 

“Aren’t you tired, Dean?” Cas turns his gaze on him then, an ancient, heavy melancholy etched in the lines on his face.

The unexpected question pulls Dean up short. 

“I guess I could stand to get a few more hours at night,” Dean says with a half-hearted laugh, the joke falling flat between them. He knows what Cas is really asking, of course, but his question skirts a little too close to what’s been on Dean’s mind all day for comfort. 

Cas just sighs again, turning his face back towards the sky. “I’m tired. I’m tired of seeing you get hurt, of wondering if a hunt will be our last. I want –” Cas’ voice catches, and he takes a shaky breath, seemingly gathering himself as he does so. “Dean, I want to grow old with you.”

Dean completely deflates, Cas’ words striking a chord in his chest, in his heart. He wants to grow old with Cas too, he realizes; he wants it with everything he has, with every atom in his body. Dean doesn’t want to die in a freak monster-hunting accident a couple of years down the line, like how he always thought he would. Now that he’s got Cas (and Sam and Eileen and everyone else), he wants as many days as he can get. 

The strange, intense longing he felt earlier, the deep sense of understanding at Arthur’s explanation for why he and Florence chose to leave – it all makes a little more sense, now. 

“God, Cas,” Dean says, and he’s surprised by the strain in his voice. He reaches over and takes Cas’ hands in his own, holding them probably a little tighter than necessary. “I want that too. So –” He clears his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “So much.”

Cas squeezes Dean’s hands, increasing the pressure. The two of them lay there, holding on for what feels like dear life, teetering on the edge of the metaphorical cliff. 

It’s Cas who leaps first. “We should move here,” he says again. 

There’s a gnawing guilt in Dean’s chest that holds him back from jumping after Cas. As much as he wants this – the house with the garden and the kitchen and the lack of things that go bump in the night – he feels like he’s being horribly selfish, leaving it all behind. Dean’s done a lot of bad things, made a lot of mistakes, and he can’t help but feel . . . undeserving of a new life, a new beginning, not when so many of their family and friends weren’t given the chance. 

In some deep recess of his soul, Dean knows that he’s not being fair to himself, and he tries to fight back as the waves of guilt crash over him. He looks into Cas’ eyes, still shining in the moonlight, and gathers enough courage to put himself first, for once. To make the leap.

“Okay,” Dean says, and he feels like a weight has been lifted off of his chest. “Let’s do it.”

Cas gives him a soft, pleased smile and kisses him.

They leave a while later. Dean gets into the driver’s seat and inserts the keys into the ignition, the engine rumbling to life. Cas hops into the passenger’s side and immediately pulls Dean in for a swift, passionate kiss that leaves them both breathless. When Cas pulls back, he’s wearing a blinding smile that crinkles his eyes at the corners, happiness and relief and excitement all displayed openly on his face. Dean can’t help but lean in and kiss him again, feeling nothing in that moment but eager anticipation for whatever their future together holds. 

The daffodils Arthur gave them still sit on the dashboard of the car where Cas left them earlier. As Dean pulls out of the field and back onto the dirt road, he steals a sideways glance at Cas before looking back towards the open road ahead of him. He thinks about new beginnings.

*

Sam is so enthusiastic about the idea when Dean calls him the next morning that Dean has half a mind to be offended. 

“You know we’d be living, like, hours away from you guys, right?” Dean asks.

Sam huffs a laugh. “Yes, Dean, I know.” Dean can practically hear his eyes roll through the phone. 

“And that’s – that’s, um, you’d be cool with that?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says, laughter still in his voice. Dean narrows his eyes. “I’m a big boy now. And I’ve got Eileen with me too. I think I can manage.”

“Okay, good. That’s – good.” Dean has no idea why he feels so wrong-footed. “Nice to know we’ll be missed,” he says with a weak laugh. He means it as a joke but somehow, it ends up not really sounding like one. 

Dean hears Sam give a small sigh through the phone. When he speaks again, his tone is gentler, more sincere. 

“Look, Dean –” There’s a shuffling on his end of the line and then Dean hears the sound of a chair being pulled out, the legs dragging against the floor. “I’m going to miss you. And Cas too. Of course I am. But I’m just – I’m really happy for you. You’re finally doing something for yourself, you know?” Sam pauses for a moment. Dean has no idea what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. 

“So, I mean, yeah,” Sam says eventually, when Dean doesn’t respond, “‘course I’ll miss having you around. But I’m also really excited for you.” 

“Yeah, well. Thanks, Sammy,” Dean says gruffly, though he can’t tamp down the smile on his face. “I’m gonna miss you too.”

“And I’ll be fine, Dean,” Sam continues, that same genuine tone to his voice. “Really, I will.” 

Truthfully, Dean knows that he will be. Sam is more than capable of handling himself, especially with Eileen by his side, but there’s still a part of Dean that will always see him as his baby brother. As someone he needs to be there for, to protect. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Dean says, trying to sound nonchalant. “But you’ll call me if you ever need help with anything, you hear? I don’t want to just drop everything completely. I can still help with research and stuff like that over the phone.”

“Of course, Dean,” says Sam. “You know I will.”

*  

It takes a couple of months, but they eventually get approved for the house. They’ve got enough saved up to cover most of the down payment, but they’ll need to pick up some kind of work once they move if they actually want to keep eating on a regular basis. 

“We could open a bed and breakfast,” Cas says out of the blue one day. 

Dean straightens up from where he’s been packing a box labeled “Dean’s clothes”, a half-folded flannel in his hands. He looks over at Cas, who’s currently sorting through the items in his nightstand drawer. “What?”

“After I returned from Purgatory, you asked me what I was going to do. You mentioned opening a bed and breakfast in Vermont,” Cas says without looking up, continuing to sort through his things. He drops a bottle of strawberry-flavored lube into what Dean privately hopes is his “keep” pile. “There are two downstairs bedrooms we won’t be using, and we’ll need the money.” Cas gives a small shrug. “Why not?” 

It’s . . . actually a pretty good idea, Dean thinks. It would be nice to be able to meet new people every once in a while. Plus, Dean’s been getting pretty handy at making a damn good breakfast. 

“Okay, Cas,” Dean says, smiling. “Sounds like a plan.”

Cas smiles back at him, a soft, easy thing, before returning to his sorting. He drops a small vibrator into the same pile as the lube and Dean really, really hopes that it’s his keep pile. 

* 

It’s mid-summer now, and after several days of packing and driving and doubling back to the bunker because Cas forgot something – “I need my mug with the bees on it, Dean.” – they finally pull into the driveway of the house. It’s a bright, sunny Tuesday and the early afternoon air is already warm and slightly sticky with humidity. Dean’s sweating a little as they walk up to the front door where Florence and Arthur are waiting for them, suitcases in hand. Florence pulls them both in for a quick hug. 

“So wonderful to see you two again,” she says, smiling. “Let me get you the keys.” 

She pats around her jean’s pockets, reaching inside them when she presumably doesn’t feel what she’s looking for. “Arthur, have you –”

Arthur holds the keys up in his hands. “You left them on the kitchen counter,” he says, smiling affectionately at her.

“Oh, of course I did,” she says with a laugh. “Thanks, hun.”

Arthur hands the keys over to Dean, the metal jangling merrily as he does so. 

“We left you both a little housewarming gift,” says Arthur with a warm smile. “It’s sitting right on the kitchen island.” 

Arthur’s watch beeps loudly. He brings his wrist up to his face, eyebrows raising slightly.

“Well, would you look at that,” he says, clapping his hands together. “We’d better get going.” 

Florence gives them both one last hug before they leave, making them promise to take care of the garden, and Dean and Cas reassure her that they will. Dean’s pretty sure Cas has already been doing research about gardening, if the multiple books about flowers that have been popping up around the bunker for the past couple of months are anything to go by. 

Dean and Cas watch as Florence and Arthur get into their car, waving at them as they drive away until they’re nothing but a speck in the distance, leaving behind only a large cloud of dust in their wake. And just like that, they’re gone, leaving Dean and Cas standing alone on the front porch of a brand new life. 

“Well,” Cas says after a few beats of silence, “should we head inside?” He beams at Dean with shining eyes, excitement practically radiating off of him. 

Dean feels that same excitement reflected within himself. As he stands there next to Cas, holding the keys to this house, their home, he can scarcely believe that this is his life. If someone were to have told him five years ago that he would one day be living in Vermont with Cas, opening up a bed and breakfast with him, he would have laughed in their face before decking them. Now, though, it feels so – so right, like he was meant to find his way here all along, like some wayward puzzle piece has finally been slotted into place. 

Dean steps up to the door and inserts the key into the lock. He pauses before turning it all the way, glancing back at Cas. 

“Ready?” Dean asks – ready for the rest of our lives? – and Cas nods, still smiling, and Dean twists the key all the way and opens the door. 

The house looks about the same as when they first saw it, though all of the furniture that was there before has been removed. Dean steps inside, his shoes echoing loudly against the wood of the floor.

All at once, Dean feels completely overwhelmed, as if everything that has happened in his life over the past couple of months is just now catching up with him. Dean has half a mind to hightail it to the car and drive the twenty-five hours back to the bunker. 

Cas steps up beside him and puts his hand on the small of Dean’s back, his touch bringing Dean back to earth, calming him, grounding him. Dean exhales, Cas’ warm presence a gentle, solid reminder of one of the reasons why he’s here, why he’s doing this. 

They make their way towards the kitchen together. There’s a small, rectangular package sitting on the island, just like Arthur said there would be. 

Cas picks up a note that sits on top of the gift, scanning it quickly before handing it over to Dean with a smile.

Just a little something we thought you might find useful, we know we did!

Enjoy your new beginning ☺

With love, Florence and Arthur

Cas picks up the package and unwraps it, revealing an old, obviously well-loved copy of a book titled The Complete Guide to Flower Gardening. Cas thumbs through it gently, a small smile on his face. 

They spend the rest of the day getting as much of their stuff unpacked as they can. It’s a difficult, seemingly never-ending task; Dean’s exhausted by the time they collapse into their bed that evening, the kind of deep, pleasant ache in his bones that speaks of a busy day spent doing important work. 

“Dean,” Cas groans, “I’m hungry.”

Dean is too, he realizes, but he has absolutely no energy left to make anything for dinner. He doesn’t even know where half of their pots and pans are. 

“Mm,” Dean grunts. “Take out?”

It turns out that there’s only one place in town that will deliver to them since they’re so far out in the country. Their food comes an hour later, the ring of the doorbell signaling its arrival. Dean pokes Cas’ calf with his foot. 

“You get it,” he says. 

“You get it,” Cas counters petulantly. “I’m the one who made the order.”

“Oh, because that was so hard.”

“Neither is walking twenty feet to get downstairs.”

Dean rolls his eyes with a sigh, exasperation and fondness warring in his chest. It’s definitely more than twenty feet, but Dean gets up, acquiescing only because he thinks his stomach might start eating itself if he doesn’t put food in it soon.  

Dean thanks the delivery boy and tips him before heading back upstairs, two bags of food in his hands. They don’t have a kitchen table yet – Dean makes a mental note to go out and buy one tomorrow – so eating on the bed it is. 

Cas is still laying down when Dean returns, looking for all intents and purposes completely dead to the world. 

“Cas,” Dean says, setting the food down at the end of the bed, nudging his feet out of the way. “Up. Food.”

At the mention of food, Cas sits up, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. Something breaks in Dean’s chest a bit as he looks at Cas, all bleary-eyed and exhausted and perfect. He doesn’t know what emotion he’s broadcasting on his face, but Cas is gazing at him now with such a quiet, tender smile that he assumes he looks like a complete fool. A fool who’s ridiculously in love, that is. Dean feels his neck and cheeks heat and busies himself with the food. 

They eat in comfortable silence, side by side on the bed. Cas steals all of his mushrooms, as usual, which Dean pretends to be upset about, as usual. Through the windows, they watch as the sun sets slowly, painting the sky in vibrant reds and oranges, then muted pinks and purples, before disappearing beyond the horizon and gently yielding to the moon and stars.  

Cas takes the leftovers downstairs to the fridge while Dean starts to get ready for bed. He strips down into just his boxers – the heat of the day still hasn’t quite left the night air – and heads to the bathroom, staking claim to the right side of the double sink vanity.

Dean goes through the motions of getting ready for bed, pulling items from his bathroom bag that he still needs to properly unpack. Washes his face, brushes his teeth. They’re the same things that he’s been doing every night for years, but it feels completely different, somehow. Everything feels brand new, novel. 

He still can’t quite believe that he’s really here, in this house in Vermont, doing this whole “semi-retirement” thing, as Sam put it. A poignant, bittersweet feeling washes over him as he thinks about how he never actually expected to live long enough to get to retire, not really. He listens to Cas’ footsteps as he climbs the stairs and thinks about how he also never expected to have someone to share retirement with, either. 

They’re lying in bed a little while later, their legs entwined beneath the comforter, and Dean’s just about to nod off when Cas speaks.

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Cas asks quietly.

Dean opens his eyes slowly and meets Cas’ own, bright even in the darkness of the bedroom. There’s a small wrinkle in his brow; he looks hesitant, apprehensive, almost like he’s worried to hear Dean’s answer. 

The tendrils of sleep still cling to Dean, trying to pull him under. They open up his chest, his heart, letting words spill out that he normally wouldn’t have the courage to voice in the harsher light of day.

“I feel like I made one of the best decisions of my life,” Dean says honestly, bringing Cas’ palm to his lips and pressing a sleepy kiss there. 

Cas’ body visibly relaxes, the tension draining from his face and giving way to relief, to joy. The last thing Dean sees before he closes his eyes is Cas’ soft, contented smile. 

“I love you, Dean.”

“Love you too, Cas.”

Outside, the cicadas in the garden, surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of flowers, sing them to sleep. 

*

They spend the next several weeks in a perpetual state of either unpacking, furnishing, or decorating. Dean discovers an unexpected love for antique shopping during their hunt for a kitchen table, while Cas seems to prefer the more modern décor they find in places like Target. It shouldn’t work, but it does; slowly but surely, their home starts to take shape, a mixture of old and new, a mixture of the two of them. 

Dean picks up old frames at antique stores and Cas gets photos printed out at their local Costco to put into them. They display the pictures all around their house: on the walls, the fireplace mantle, the upstairs dressers. Everywhere becomes filled with the people in their lives that they love, as well as the people that aren’t in their lives anymore but that they want to remember. 

Cas fills the kitchen cabinets with a frankly obscene number of mugs. Whenever Dean comments on it, Cas just makes a vague statement about how they’re “for their future guests”, which doesn’t even make any sense because they only have two bedrooms with room for two people each. Dean is pretty sure that four guests aren’t going to require twenty-something mugs for their morning coffee, but he wisely doesn’t mention that.

Truthfully, Dean finds Cas’ penchant for mug collecting kind of – okay, very – endearing, as much as he grumbles and gripes about them. On one of his trips out to a local thrift shop to look for a nightstand for one of the guest bedrooms, he finds a mug that says “I Love My Angel” on it. (Not that he was looking in the mug section for any reason in particular.) He picks it up, taking in the two angel wings that bracket the word “angel” and the cheesy love hearts scattered around the rest of the mug. He debates for all of ten seconds before putting it resolutely into his cart. 

Cas is still in the downstairs bathroom when Dean gets back, finishing up the paint job they started earlier that day. Dean calls him out to the kitchen and hands him the bag from the thrift store. Cas smiles, raising a curious eyebrow at him before pulling out the mug and inspecting it closely, an unreadable expression on his face.

Suddenly, Dean becomes anxious that Cas hates it, that it was a completely stupid purchase, God, he shouldn’t have bought it – 

Cas’ face breaks out into a huge, happy grin, and he laughs brightly, pulling Dean in for a kiss.

“I love it,” Cas says when they break apart, holding the mug close to his chest. “Thank you, Dean.”

And so their days go, as they carve themselves out a new life together, a new beginning, in the Vermont countryside.

They also carve small warding sigils into the floor beneath the welcome mat in the entryway, as well as into all of the windowsills. Just to be safe. 

*

Dean makes it all of six months and four days before he has a breakdown, the guilt he thought he had already dealt with returning with a vengeance, feeling like it’s going to eat him alive. 

It’s just – he feels like he isn’t doing anything, is the issue. He was fine when they first moved in; every day had been filled with something to do, like buying towels for the downstairs bathroom or installing a new light fixture over the kitchen table. Now, though, they’ve reached a point where the house is as decorated as it's going to get, the website that Sam helped them create for their bed and breakfast is up and running, and they’ve got all of this extra time on their hands. It’s driving Dean bonkers.

He can’t stop thinking about how he could – should – be back with Sam and Eileen, helping them on hunts. Saving people’s lives. Instead, he spends his days weeding the garden, vacuuming the floors, or getting lunch with Cas at trendy restaurants in town. Which is all well and good, except that those activities don’t really benefit anyone but himself. He’s helped Sam out on a couple of cases over the phone, but even still, he feels like he should be doing more. If Dean’s honest with himself, he doesn’t feel like his life is worth anything, like he’s worth anything, if he’s not hunting. If he’s not making the world at least a little bit of a better place.

Dean’s on day three of his self-inflicted guilt-driven mental breakdown. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring into his coffee and drafting a speech in his head where he explains to Cas why they need to move back to the bunker, effective immediately, when Cas walks up to the table and plops a thick book down in front of him.

The impact of the book on the table causes a couple drops of Dean’s coffee to slosh over the rim of the mug. He looks up at Cas, glaring, while pointedly wiping away the spilled liquid with his shirtsleeve. Cas just levels him with an entirely unamused stare. 

“This is for you,” is all Cas says before turning abruptly and walking out of the front door, taking the keys with him. 

Which, okay, rude, but honestly, Dean deserves it. He has been kind of a dick to Cas the last couple of days, not that he’d meant to be. It’s just hard to play nice when you feel like a piece of shit for abandoning a life where you can actually help people and trading it for a peaceful, monster-free life in Vermont instead. 

He’s pathetic, really. 

Dean sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Cas shouldn’t have to take the brunt of his self-loathing, though. It’s not fair, and Dean knows that. He resolves to make it up to Cas somehow after he gets back before taking a look at the book Cas dropped in front of him. 

It turns out to be a cookbook titled The Book of Breakfasts. It’s filled with hundreds of breakfast recipes from all over the world, from waffles to ebelskivers to chilaquiles. Dean pauses on a picture for a recipe of what have to be the fluffiest, gooiest cinnamon rolls he’s ever seen. 

He stands and heads to the kitchen, setting the cookbook down on the island and pressing gently on the pages until it lies flat. He’ll bake Cas some cinnamon rolls as an apology, Dean decides. Cooking and baking have always helped him to clear his head, but he hasn’t done much of either lately, too focused on getting their house set up. As a bonus, they’ll hopefully loosen Cas up a bit before Dean springs his we-should-move-back-to-the-bunker speech on him.

Dean bakes all morning – cinnamon rolls are apparently a lot of damn work – and loses himself in it, a sense of calm settling over him as he measures and stirs and kneads, focusing all of his attention on the task at hand. It’s a tricky recipe and Dean adds too much flour at one point, but he’s able to improvise and quickly rectify the situation. An unexpected feeling of pride warms his chest when the dough is able to take up the excess flour, turning slightly sticky just like the recipe says it should. It feels good – amazing, really – to make something with his hands and to know that he’ll be able to share the end result with Cas later. To know that what he made will make Cas happy, even if it’s just a cinnamon roll. 

They come out pretty perfectly, if Dean does say so himself, and he feels a rare sense of accomplishment as he pulls them out of the oven. 

Dean has just finished applying a thick layer of cream cheese frosting over the tops of the rolls when Cas returns, a small bag from the gardening shop in town as well as a couple larger ones from the grocery store in his arms. Dean hopes he remembered to get those pretzels that he likes this time. 

“Dean?” Cas says, sniffing the air, as he toes off his shoes and hangs up his coat. “What are you –” Cas stops talking as he enters the kitchen, eyes falling to the tray of steaming cinnamon rolls on the counter. 

“Do you wanna try one?” Dean asks eagerly. He can’t help it; he’s strangely giddy at the idea of Cas getting to taste one. He wants to share this thing that he made, that he’s proud of, with the person he loves.

Cas nods his head eagerly and sets the bags down on top of the island. Dean plates a roll for Cas before doing the same for himself, accidentally getting some of the gooey icing on the counter as he does so. Cas grabs two forks and they head over to the kitchen table, sitting down across from each other. 

Dean watches as Cas takes the first bite, his own excitement about trying the cinnamon rolls momentarily forgotten in favor of seeing Cas’ reaction to them. Cas bites, chews; his eyes close in pleasure and he honest-to-God moans before swallowing, his throat bobbing in a way that momentarily distracts Dean.

Dean shakes his head quickly, trying to keep his focus on the rolls. 

“So . . . you like them, then?” Dean asks. It’s kind of obvious that Cas does, though, and Dean can feel the wide smile that blooms on his face at that knowledge. It hurts his cheeks a little bit.

“Dean,” Cas says earnestly, already going in for a second bite, “these are fantastic.”

A pleasant warmth radiates in Dean’s chest, deepening his smile. He had forgotten how awesome it feels to make food for people. 

Dean takes a bite of his own roll. It’s . . . pretty damn fantastic, like Cas said. The frosting is thick and creamy, sweet but with a slight tang from the cream cheese. The dough is fluffy and light, and the cinnamon swirling through the middle adds just the right amount of spice. 

“Oh,” Cas says conversationally, polishing off the final bite from his plate. “We got our first booking today. They’ll be arriving in three weeks and staying for two nights, I think. I got the notification while I was out.” Cas scrapes the plate with the side of his fork, gathering the leftover icing before popping it into his mouth. He makes a pleased hum, closing his eyes as if savoring the taste. “You should definitely make these one morning while they’re here.”

Dean is quiet for a moment, remembering that he had planned to talk to Cas about moving back to the bunker when he got home. Surprisingly, he finds that he can’t recall much of the speech that he wrote in his head earlier. 

As ridiculous as it sounds, even in Dean’s own head, baking the cinnamon rolls this morning had given him that sense of productivity, of self-importance, that he’d been missing for a while. He thinks about baking the rolls again for their guests and how it might bring them happiness to eat them too, just like it did for Cas. It fills him with an unexpected sense of purpose that effectively silences his thoughts about returning to the bunker. 

Dean smiles at Cas, reaching across the table to intertwine their hands. “Sure, I can do that.” 

A dawning realization washes over him, an understanding that maybe making the world a better place doesn’t always have to involve throwing himself into harm’s way. That it can also take the form of other things, like baking homemade cinnamon rolls, too. 

*

Cas falls in love with gardening.

Initially, they both work in the garden, planting and pruning and weeding together. It’s Cas who has a real knack for it, though, and he soon takes over doing the majority of it. Dean suspects that it’s largely due to the amount of reading and research Cas constantly does about it (The Complete Guide to Flower Gardening is always sitting on his nightstand), but regardless, he’s definitely got the greener thumb between the two of them. 

Cas spends much of his time during the fall and winter after they move in outside in the garden. Dean helps out where he can, following Cas’ instructions for which plants to water and where to weed, though he mostly focuses on making food for the guests. In return, Cas helps him out in the kitchen, doing prep work (helpful) or stealing bites of food before it’s ready (not as helpful, though Dean only half-heartedly complains about it since Cas always tells him how delicious it is).   

Their first spring at the house boasts of Cas’ diligent work that he’d put in all winter long. There’re new seedlings sprouting everywhere, and the flowers that were already planted before they moved in look healthier, larger, and more vibrant under Cas’ care. Dean thinks he’ll always remember that first spring, filled with sunshine and color and the quiet hum of bees, tinted rosy in his mind with the blissful newness of it all. 

Cas plants all sorts of things, from magnolias to hollyhocks to poppies. He tells Dean about each new flower variety that he grows, and Dean listens happily to the passion in Cas’ voice, not entirely remembering everything Cas says. Cas informs him all about the average heights, water needs, and colors of each flower, as well as their preferences for direct, indirect, or no sunlight. Dean has no idea how he manages to keep track of all that information, so one day he randomly buys Cas a notebook with a bee on the cover so that he can record everything he learns about flowers in it. Cas looks so ridiculously happy when Dean gives it to him later that day that Dean wonders why he didn’t think to do it sooner. 

Dean knows that Cas especially loves learning about the meanings of the flowers that he grows; “the language of flowers”, as Arthur once put it. Cas refills the vases in their home with fresh flowers from their garden once a week, and he always leaves a little note next to them, indicating the meanings of each flower in the bouquet in his neat, slanted handwriting. It’s for their guests’ enjoyment – everyone is always interested in their garden and wants to learn more about it – but Dean keeps all of the notes at the end of each week, filing them away in a small box that he keeps tucked safely in his dresser. He’s not entirely sure why he keeps them, other than that he finds them completely endearing. 

Using the meanings of flowers as a form of communication becomes sort of a thing between them. It starts when Cas, after a heated argument where they had both said things they didn’t mean, hands Dean a single cut from the garden that has a burst of small, deep purple flowers clustered at the end. Dean takes the offering, looking at Cas uncertainly.

“Purple hyacinth,” Cas says quietly, though that doesn’t really explain anything. “It means ‘I am sorry, please forgive me.’”

It continues from there. They leave flowers for each other when words are either too much or not enough. After a particularly wonderful day – spent on a grassy hill where Dean had surprised Cas with a picnic – Dean leaves a pink rose on Cas’ pillow: perfect happiness. And after a particularly bad night – where Dean had nearly drowned in the sea of all his past mistakes, Cas barely able to bring him up for air – he finds a white zinnia placed carefully on the kitchen table the next morning: goodness. 

Cas also grows things in the vegetable garden out back, and Dean uses their homegrown bell peppers many times in the more savory breakfast recipes that he experiments with. 

When Dean laments one day about how their local grocery store always seems to be out of rosemary, Cas plants an herb garden right next to the vegetables, and Dean is never short on rosemary again.

It seems silly, but the one thing Cas isn’t able to grow is a sweet pea plant. Cas informs him (in a very frustrated tone of voice) that in all of the books he’s read, they say that it should be an easy flower to grow. Cas tries year after year, however, and it never sprouts. But Cas is nothing if not determined, and Dean knows that he’ll keep trying every year, tweaking the soil type and adjusting the watering schedule, until he gets it right. 

*

“I had the weirdest dream last night,” Dean announces as he makes his way downstairs one winter morning, muffling a yawn with the back of his hand.

“Oh?” Cas says, setting a cup of coffee down in front of him with a raised eyebrow. Dean smiles his thanks, wrapping his cold hands gratefully around the warm mug. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, trying to piece together the parts of the dream that he’s actually able to remember as he takes a sip of coffee. “I was on a hunt with Sam. We were tracking this pack of vampires, I think . . . but they were all wearing these weird masks. Kind of like the Joker, but with pointy teeth.”

Cas settles into the chair across the table from him, stirring sugar into his own cup of coffee. He takes a drink and sighs contentedly, leaning back in his seat before focusing his gaze on Dean. “Very interesting. Go on.” 

“Well, we ended up in this barn with them. I remember we were all fighting . . .” Dean trails off. He remembers that one of them told him her name, but he can’t for the life of him recall what it was. “And then one of them shoved me backwards against a wall. Except the wall had this big piece of metal sticking out of it, so I got totally shanked. And then I died.”

Cas raises his eyebrows at him. “You died by getting impaled on a piece of rebar?”

Dean laughs. “I know, right? The shit that I’ve survived, and I go out like that. Can you imagine?”

Dean is thoroughly amused by his dream – honestly, it is kind of a funny way to die – but later that night, he finds a small, white flower with a yellow center on his nightstand. Dean recognizes it as a primrose because Cas had pointed out the new blossoms to him a couple weeks ago. He takes his box full of cards out of his dresser and flips through them, unable to remember its meaning. He finds what he’s looking for near the back of the stack. 

Primrose – I can’t live without you

Dean takes a seat on the edge of the bed, still staring at the card in his hand. 

As ridiculous as the dream was, Dean realizes that he legitimately could have died like that if he had chosen to stay in the life, to keep hunting. Obviously, Cas realizes that too. Something was bound to get him eventually, and who’s to say it couldn’t have been a couple of vampires wearing stupid masks? Or, more accurately, a poorly placed piece of metal sticking out from the wall that said vampires shoved him into. 

Dean picks up the primrose from his bedside table and holds it delicately in his hands, thinking about how Cas could also very well have died if they’d continued hunting. He knows that he wouldn’t be able to live without Cas either, knows that it would have absolutely gutted him if Cas were to have died prematurely in a hunting accident. 

Dean’s suddenly struck by just how grateful he is for this life that he’s created with Cas in Vermont. He wakes up every morning secure in the knowledge that they’ll both be able to live through the day – and the next one, and the one after that – because they spend their time cooking or making reservations for guests or planting flowers in the garden, rather than running after monsters. 

Dean pulls Cas into a tight hug when he enters the bedroom a few minutes later and doesn’t let go for a long while. Cas melts into it, wrapping his hands around Dean’s neck and burying his face into his chest. They just stand there for a moment, wrapped in each other, and Dean feels so, so thankful that he’s alive to experience this.

“I’m glad you didn’t die via impalement by rebar,” Cas says with a watery laugh, voice muffled. 

Dean just squeezes him tighter to his chest. He feels a small wet spot soaking through his shirt right where Cas’ face is buried, but Dean doesn’t bother mentioning it. After all, there are a few tears in his eyes, too.

*

On one of their weekly FaceTime calls with Sam and Eileen, Sam tells them that they’re thinking of moving to Vermont.

“Yeah,” Sam says in response to Dean’s surprised look, putting an arm around Eileen. “We feel like it’s time. We want to settle down somewhere, start a family. And we thought . . . well, it would be nice to be close to you guys.”

“That would be awesome, Sam.” Dean doesn’t even try to control the excitement in his voice.

Cas nods beside him. “It would be great to have you both closer by. Have you looked at houses yet?”

"A few," Eileen signs. "There’s a place we really like about twenty minutes from your house."

“Sounds great to me,” Dean says, clapping his hands together. “Tell you what, you guys should come up and stay for a week so you can check out houses in person. I’m pretty sure we don’t have any guests coming for another two weeks, right Cas?”

“No, we’re free,” Cas confirms with a smile, and that’s that, then.

Sam and Eileen arrive a couple of days later, and Dean immediately pulls both of them in for a hug as soon as they walk through the front door. They’ve visited relatively frequently during the two years that Dean and Cas have lived in Vermont – every couple of months or so, as well as holidays – but Dean’s always glad to see them. 

The four of them tour the house Sam and Eileen had been looking at the next day. Although it’s not very large, it is close to town and has a nice, private backyard. Dean thinks it would be perfect for the two of them, but over dinner that night Sam admits that, while they love the house, they’re not entirely sure they want to move right away. 

"It’s a big step for us," Eileen signs. "We might want to wait a couple of months."

That changes the very next morning when Eileen has to excuse herself from breakfast to throw up in the bathroom. One, two, three positive pregnancy tests later, Sam is on the phone with the real estate agent they met with yesterday, discussing how soon they’d be able to move in. 

Dean heads back to the bunker with Sam while Eileen stays in Vermont with Cas, as she’d adamantly refused (already looking a little green) to get into a moving vehicle for any extended period of time. Dean and Sam spend the next several days packing, a large portion of that time dedicated to sorting through the piles and piles of books in the library, determining which books they want to keep and which they want to leave behind. 

Dean feels a strange mix of emotions as they place the last moving box into the trunk of the car. He gets into the driver’s seat, Sam folds himself into the passenger’s seat, and they both just sit there for a while, not saying anything. 

“This feels . . . weird,” Sam says eventually. 

“Yeah, it does,” agrees Dean, nodding his head slowly. This had been their home for years, a place they had always been able to return to, and now they’re about to drive away for what could very well be the last time. 

That’s the thing though, Dean thinks, gazing out of the windshield at the familiar landscape that honestly hasn’t changed much since he left. It doesn’t feel like they’re driving away from anything; they’re driving towards something, towards his life that he shares with Cas, towards Sam’s future as a father. 

“It’s a good kind of weird, though,” Sam amends, voicing Dean’s thoughts exactly.

Because while it does feel weird to leave the bunker behind – it had been their home for so long – Dean’s home isn’t here, not anymore. It’s with Cas, and Sam and Eileen. Home is wherever they are. 

The next nine months are hectic, filled with helping Sam and Eileen move into their house and prepare for the baby. Dean finds great enjoyment in whipping up all sorts of new recipes for Eileen to try when her pregnancy cravings hit, and Cas takes up crocheting, making adorable (if slightly misshapen) little hats and socks for when the baby arrives. 

Sam and Eileen’s son is born on a sunny Wednesday in June, and Dean cries like a little bitch when Sam places him into his arms. 

“What’s his name?” Cas asks, wrapping an arm around Dean’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. Sam and Eileen had refused to tell them what name they had chosen all throughout Eileen’s pregnancy, much to Dean’s annoyance.

“Robert Padraic Winchester,” Sam says, and Dean can hear the fondness in his voice. “Robert after Bobby, and Padraic after Eileen’s dad.”

It’s a perfect name, as far as Dean’s concerned. He reaches up to adjust the beanie on Robert’s – Bobby’s, Dean decides – head, knitted by Cas in a soft, bright yellow wool. Bobby reaches a tiny hand up towards him, and Dean, a little unsure of what to do, offers his index finger to him. Bobby grabs it and holds on, and Dean’s heart feels so full that he fears it might burst right out of his chest. 

*

Getting to watch Bobby grow up is one of the greatest joys of Dean’s life. Dean and Cas dote on him endlessly, and Dean takes immense pride in knowing that he’s helping to give Bobby the kind of childhood he wished he had, one filled to the brim with love and family.

Bobby is six years old and “helping” Dean bake chocolate chip cookies – in reality, he’s just stealing bites of dough from the bowl (which Cas probably taught him to do, the bastard) – when he asks, “Are you and Uncle Cas married?”

Dean stops mixing, the chocolate chips he just added only partially folded into the batter. He has to take a moment before answering to remind himself that he isn’t actually married to Cas, even though it feels like he is. 

“No, we’re not,” Dean answers.

“Why not?”

Dean sets the mixing bowl down on the countertop, watching Cas through the window as he digs in the front garden. The idea of getting married to Cas had crossed Dean’s mind before, of course, but he’d never entertained it for long. What he feels for Cas, the bond that he shares with him, runs deeper than marriage, in his opinion. He doesn’t need a fancy wedding or a legal document to know that Cas means absolutely everything to him. That Dean wants to spend the rest of his life, and whatever comes after that, with him. 

“Is it because you and Cas don’t love each other?” Bobby says, without waiting for Dean’s answer. “One of my friends at school says that his mom told him that only people who are really in love get married.”

Dean shakes his head. “Cas and I love each other very much.”

“Then why aren’t you married?” Bobby presses, stealing yet another bite of cookie dough. 

Because when you’ve bled for one another, marriage becomes kind of a moot point, Dean thinks. 

“Bobby, stop eating the dough,” is what he says instead, brandishing the wooden mixing spoon at him, and Bobby laughs. 

Cas comes in from the garden then, toeing off his dirty boots by the front door before heading to the kitchen.  

“How are my boys doing in here?” Cas asks, leaning in to kiss Dean’s cheek. He ruffles Bobby’s hair affectionately and then, quick as a flash, he reaches his hand into the bowl and swipes a piece of dough. 

“Cas!” Dean bellows. “I will hit you with my spoon!” Dean chases Cas in circles around the kitchen, Cas dodging the swipes that he makes with his spoon, Bobby’s riotous giggles echoing around them.

Later that night as they lay in bed, Dean tucked into Cas’ side, Dean remembers his and Bobby’s conversation from earlier. 

“Bobby seems to think we should get married,” Dean says. 

Cas huffs a quiet laugh, continuing to comb his fingers gently through Dean’s hair. 

After a moment, he says, “You should know that what I feel for you far surpasses any sort of contract that humans have created to symbolize their love for each other.” 

Dean swallows. Cas does that sometimes, says incredible, impossible things when Dean least expects it, always leaving him slightly overwhelmed and entirely breathless with the reality of Cas’ love for him. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, after taking a second to gather himself. “I feel the same way.”

“But if Bobby wanted us to do it . . .” Cas trails off, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Are you saying you wanna get hitched, Cas?” Dean asks cheekily, angling his head up to look at him.

Cas laughs. “Why not?” he says, squeezing Dean’s shoulder. “We already share a house and a family together. And I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you, Dean. If you’ll have me.”  

Dean sits up on his forearms, holding Cas’ gaze with his own. “Of course I’ll have you, Cas,” he says, putting as much sincerity as he can into each word, and kisses him. 

They get married a couple of months later, in May. Even though the whole thing started as a kind of half-joke, a let’s-get-married-because-we-already-pretty-much-are type of deal, Dean still wakes up on the morning of the wedding filled with a heady combination of excitement and nerves. 

He and Cas get ready together, their eyes meeting in the mirror as they brush their teeth next to one another, matching twinkles of eager anticipation in both of their gazes. They don’t bother with fancy suits; Dean puts on his nicest pair of jeans and a green button-down, and Cas opts for a pair of khakis and a white dress shirt. 

“Well,” Cas says, stepping into the center of the room and spreading his arms wide. “How do I look?”

Spectacular. Beautiful. Ravishing. Part of Dean wants to say fuck the wedding and take Cas to bed right now.

“You look perfect, Cas,” Dean says instead. Cas smiles at him, wide and genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Dean’s heart melts inside of his chest. 

Sam and Eileen are already downstairs in the kitchen, along with Bobby. Dean takes a moment to appreciate the bouquet of flowers on the kitchen counter that he and Cas had arranged last night. It’s lovely, full of pastel pinks, deep purples, and pure whites. Cas wrote out one of his cards to go with it as well, and Dean thinks that he might have to buy a special box just to keep this one in. 

Peony – happy marriage 

Lily – devotion 

Dahlia – everlasting bond

Orange blossom – eternal love

“Everyone should be arriving in about an hour,” Sam says.

True to his word, there’s a knock on the door fifty minutes later. Charlie comes bursting through, hair flying as she tackles Dean with a hug. Next to arrive is Bobby, then Donna, then Jody, and before long, their house is filled with the happy buzz of conversation and excitement. 

They all move out into the backyard around eleven o’clock, a radiant sun and a cool breeze greeting them when they step outside. The flowers are in full bloom this time of year, filling the air with the sweet scent of spring and painting the yard in vibrant colors. Dean and Cas stand facing one another, Sam on one side of them as the officiant, while everyone else takes their places on the other side. And half an hour later, surrounded by love and flowers, Dean and Cas are married.

It’s one of the happiest days of Dean’s life. He feels nearly drunk on his love for Cas – though that may also be in part due to the couple of beers he’s had – and he can hardly take his eyes or keep his hands off of him. Off of his husband. Dean doesn’t ever think he’ll get tired of calling Cas that.

Their family and friends stay until late, and when Dean finally falls into bed with Cas that night he feels so full of happiness that he can’t stop smiling, even between their heated kisses.

Dean wakes up first the next morning. The pink and orange remnants of the morning’s sunrise that he can see out of the window tell him that it’s still early, but he doesn’t go back to bed. Instead, he feels content to just watch Cas sleep, laughing quietly to himself when he thinks about how he used to reprimand Cas for doing the exact same thing to him. Cas is so beautiful like this, though; he looks perfectly content, completely at peace. Dean idly wonders if Cas thought those same things about Dean when he would watch him sleep, all those years ago. 

Cas slowly blinks awake a while later. His hair is sticking up all over the place and he has a slightly confused, half-asleep furrow to his brow that Dean finds ridiculously endearing. Cas’ eyes find his, and a small, sleepy smile spreads over his mouth. 

At that exact moment, the morning sun climbs high enough in the sky that it shines right through the window, beaming down onto their bed. It hits Cas, backlighting his face and messy hair in a bright, golden halo of sunshine. Dean sucks in a breath, suddenly reminded of that image he had seen in his head, eight years ago now, when they had first visited this house. Dean doesn’t know why, but he feels his eyes start to prick with moisture, a lump forming in his throat. 

“Dean?” Cas says quietly, concern laced through his voice. “Are you alright?”

Dean just draws himself into Cas and Cas holds him, stroking the back of his head softly.

“I just . . .” Dean tries, voice muffled against Cas’ chest, but he realizes that he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to articulate just how grateful he is to wake up next to Cas, warm and peaceful and safe, every day. He doesn’t know how to voice just how much getting to spend their lives – lives that will be long and joyful, not short and tragic – together means to him.

“I love you, Cas,” Dean says instead, his voice slightly watery. “I love you so much.”

Cas just holds him tighter, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of Dean’s head. 

“I love you too, Dean.”

*

And so their lives go. 

Cas continues to garden; Dean continues to cook breakfast for their guests. Cas continues to steal food before it’s ready; Dean continues to half-heartedly admonish him for it. Dean couldn’t be happier. 

They get to watch Bobby grow up, and Dean can hardly believe it when it comes time for him to go off to college. Dean’s a complete and utter mess when they say their goodbyes. He makes Bobby swear to visit them soon, trying valiantly to blink away his tears before they fall, and Bobby laughs fondly and promises that he will, pulling them both in for a hug. Cas teases him relentlessly about it the rest of the day, but Dean finds him hunched over the sink in their bathroom that night, crying quietly into his hands. 

Cas’ hair starts to turn grey at the temples. Dean pokes fun of him for it right up until he starts not being able to see things two feet in front of his own face, and then Dean quickly shuts his trap. 

Besides, when you never thought you’d live to see past thirty-five, getting older feels more like a privilege than a burden.

Eventually, he and Cas fully retire, closing down their bed and breakfast. They spend many of their days with Sam and Eileen, enjoying the beautiful Vermont countryside and the familiar company of each other. Dean still bakes and cooks – he could write his own cookbook, at this point – and Cas still works in their garden, planting endless varieties of flowers, vegetables, and herbs.

Cas continues, year after year after year, to try and grow a damned sweet pea flower. He still has yet to be successful, but he gave up being frustrated about it a long time ago. Every year, he just gives a small sigh as he stares at the patch of earth where the sweet pea has, once again, refused to sprout, and says, “I’ll try again next year. Maybe it’s just not its time, yet.”

*

Cas comes in early from the garden one rainy, November day. Dean looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the couch with his book, removing his reading glasses and setting them down on the table beside him. Cas’ hair is stark white now, though it’s still as messy as ever, sticking up in spiky, wet clumps due to the rain. Dean thinks he looks adorable.

“Planted the sweet pea today,” Cas says with a smile, though his eyes look tired. “Hopefully this year –”

And then Cas collapses on the floor. 

“Cas!”

Dean is up faster than he realized his body could move at his age. His joints pop and groan in protest, but he doesn’t pay them any mind, focused solely on reaching Cas where he lays near the front door. 

Dean kneels down next to him, his left knee aching, and cradles Cas’ head gently in his hands. 

“Cas,” he repeats, his voice shaking.

“Dean,” Cas says, and his voice is weak, too weak. “I feel . . . tired.”

Cas’ health only gets worse from there. It becomes difficult for him to walk, and since Dean is in no physical condition to be able to carry him (as much as he wishes he could), they relocate to one of the downstairs bedrooms to sleep. Every night, Cas tells Dean that he should go and sleep in their bed upstairs because it’s much more comfortable, and every night, Dean tells him to stop being an idiot. He wouldn’t be able to leave Cas’ side even if he wanted to, and besides, he doesn’t think he knows how to fall asleep anymore without Cas next to him. 

Everyone gathers at their house for Christmas that year. Cas receives extra hugs and kisses but relatively few gifts, and though no one acknowledges it, it’s because they all know that it will be Cas’ last one. 

Dean takes over the gardening. When the weather starts getting warmer, he helps Cas out to the front porch swing, tucks a blanket around his legs, and gets to work, Cas calling out directions to him. If it’s a particularly good day, Cas will wolf whistle or make an outrageously filthy comment at Dean when he bends over to do something. It makes Dean laugh every time, reminding him of the much younger men they used to be, of a time when he could wipe the smirk off of Cas’ mouth with more than just a tender kiss. 

Cas loses his appetite near the end of March, and that’s when Dean really gets worried. He tries not to show it and he definitely tries not to think about it, instead channeling all of his anxiety into cooking and baking in the hopes of making something that tempts Cas to eat. Of all things, Cas is usually able to stomach his cinnamon rolls. 

They’re sitting on the porch together late one spring evening, Cas tucked under a blanket and Dean tucked into his side, listening quietly to the chirping of the cicadas. The flowers in the garden are blooming, filling the night with their vibrant colors and sweet scent. 

Dean looks up at the sky and watches as a shooting star streaks across it, its tail glowing fiery white. He’s reminded of angels. 

“Do you ever regret it?” Dean blurts out, not entirely sure why he asks it. 

Cas looks at Dean and furrows his eyebrows. “Regret what?”

“Never getting your grace back. Staying human.” Because of me goes unsaid between them. “You have to go through all of this pain. You’re going to –” Dean’s voice catches, but there’s no use beating around the bush, not at this point. “You’re going to die.”

Cas tilts his head up towards the night sky, the stars reflecting in his eyes and making them shine, otherworldly. He heaves a deep, contemplative sigh that rattles in his weak lungs. When he speaks, his words are slow, quiet. 

“I am older than many galaxies. I have witnessed creation. I was made from colors that humans could never even dream of. And yet . . .” Here Cas pauses, turning his head to look back at Dean, gently holding Dean’s gaze with his own. “I have never known anything as beautiful as sitting here with you, surrounded by our garden.”

Dean feels a tear run down his cheek. He lets it fall.

And then Cas says, “I would gladly give up eternity all over again for the privilege to die next to you.” He says it like it ain’t a damn thing. 

“Cas –” Dean tries to speak, but his voice chokes.

“I’m serious, Dean,” Cas says earnestly, a sudden strength to his voice that has been absent for far too long. He pauses for a moment before a slow smirk curls at the corners of his mouth, bringing a spark of youth to his features. “After all, eternity is nothing when you have the option to die next to the finest piece of ass this Earth has ever seen.”

Dean can’t help it; he doubles over, laughter bubbling up from his throat as tears leak from his eyes. Cas’ deep chuckle resonates into the night, buoying Dean, bringing him up for air. Lightening his heart, at least for the moment.

“Aw, c’mon,” Dean says teasingly, running a hand self-consciously over his head. “I hardly have any hair left.”

Cas turns to face him fully then, reaching his hands up to Dean’s face and cradling it in his palms. Dean sighs and leans into Cas’ touch, turning his head to press a light kiss into Cas’ hand. He reaches his own hand up to intertwine it with Cas’ and they hold there for a moment, just looking at one another. Dean takes in the delicate wrinkles on Cas’ face and thinks about how grateful he is to have been able to witness them.

“You may not have as much hair as you used to,” Cas says eventually, stroking Dean’s cheek with gentle fingers, “but to me, you are still the most splendid being I have ever laid my eyes on.” Cas smiles at him, his eyes crinkling in the outer corners, the way Dean has always been fond of.

When he speaks again, it comes out as a low whisper, something like reverence coloring his voice. “Still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s name is the fitting final word spoken from his lips. Cas takes his last breath later that night, sitting in their garden and surrounded by flowers.

*

Dean spends the months after Cas’ death in a terrible haze, sorrow clinging to him like the humidity of the approaching summer. 

Sam and Eileen come to visit him every day to make sure he’s washing and feeding himself. It’s a good thing they do, honestly, because Dean’s body seems to have finally decided to give out on him. It becomes harder and harder to get up in the mornings, and Dean can physically feel himself growing weaker by the day. It’s as if he was holding himself together through sheer force of will in order to ensure that he could take care of Cas. Now, with Cas gone, there’s no one to keep himself together for. 

On one particularly awful day two months after Cas’ death, Dean finds himself sitting on the edge of their bed upstairs, head bowed. He hasn’t been here in several months, not since Cas took that first fall, but he had woken up this morning with an urge to be in this room, an urge so powerful that he was able to manage to pull himself, very slowly and carefully, up the stairs. 

“Cas,” Dean says to the empty room, putting his head in his hands. He hasn’t prayed in decades; he hasn’t needed to. Cas was the only one worth praying to, and he’d always been right there, right by Dean’s side. 

But he isn’t here now, and Dean is lost.

Dean takes a deep breath, and he prays.

“Cas, can you hear me?” His voice is already breaking. “I want to tell you that I love you. And that I miss you. I don’t know what to do without you here. I think Sam’s worried I’ll die of a broken heart if old age doesn’t get me first.”

Dean huffs a weak laugh before forcing himself to continue, to voice what’s been on his mind ever since Cas died.

“I know my time is coming soon, Cas. But I’m –” Dean’s voice cuts out, his throat suddenly too tight to speak. He takes a deep breath, trying to gather himself. 

“I’m so scared that I won’t see you after I die. What if we end up somewhere different from each other, Cas? What if I never see you again? I wouldn’t be able to handle that, I wouldn’t –” Dean has to stop talking; he’s crying too hard now, tears pouring from his eyes, down his cheeks, splashing into his lap. 

“Cas, I need to know that we’ll see each other again,” Dean says through choked-out sobs. “I need you to tell me that we will. Because I’m so afraid of dying, Cas. I’m so scared that I won’t see you again.”

A ray of golden sunlight suddenly streams through the window that faces the front garden, settling gently over Dean. Dean pulls his head from his hands and looks up, taking deep, shuddering breaths, the warm sunshine a welcome reprieve from his cold, dark thoughts. He eventually pushes himself to a standing position and shuffles over to the window, squinting out of it at the front garden, not entirely sure what he’s looking for. 

There, right against the fence where Cas had decided to plant it on that rainy November day, is a small sweet pea sprout, alive and green and impossible. 

Dean immediately goes to his dresser and takes out his box that’s full of those handmade cards Cas had made over the years, dumping them all out on the bed. Of course, he doesn’t find what he’s looking for; Cas never had a reason to tell their guests the meaning of the sweet pea flower because he had never grown one. 

Dean heads over to Cas’ bedside table instead and opens the drawer, reaching in and pulling out the old notebook with the bee on the cover that he had bought for Cas all those years ago. Cas had used it until the very end.

There’s a section on sweet peas about halfway through that spans multiple pages, full of Cas’ notes detailing his many years of trial and error. At the very bottom of one of the pages, Cas, in his strong, slanted hand, has written:

Sweet pea

Meaning

            Thank you for a lovely time

            A temporary goodbye

Dean holds the notebook tightly against his chest, tears streaming down his face, and isn’t afraid to die. 

*

Dean lives long enough after that to set his affairs in order, ensuring that the house will go to Bobby and saying his goodbyes to Sam and Eileen. 

One bright summer’s morning, the sweet pea finally blooms, vibrant and beautiful, and Dean knows that it’s time. 

Dean isn’t exactly sure how he dies, in the end. He just goes to sleep that night and doesn’t wake up the next morning, the way everyone hopes to go. Peacefully, and after a long life well-lived.

Dean finds himself standing in the middle of a dirt road after he dies, blinking in the sudden sunlight. The road stretches out endlessly in both directions, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief as he takes in the familiar hills and valleys of the landscape. He knows this place; he’s lived here for over forty years. 

Up ahead, standing proudly against a blue, cloudless sky, is a cheerful yellow house with a large front garden. 

Dean’s body feels better than it has in years. He looks down at his hands and is amazed to see that they’re smooth and strong, no longer wrinkled. His knees don’t ache; his joints don’t hurt. He takes full advantage of it, jogging until he reaches the house. 

Dean finds Cas in the garden, just like he knew he would. Cas looks up from where he’s kneeling over the paper daisies – eternity – as he approaches, a bright, happy smile on his face when he meets Dean’s eyes. 

“Welcome home, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean pulls him in for a searing kiss. God, it feels so good to hold Cas, to touch him and feel him and taste him, that Dean thinks he might cry.

“I got your sweet pea,” Dean says against Cas’ lips.

Cas is still smiling at him, that wonderful, crinkly-eyed smile, when they pull apart. He says, “Even if we had been parted in death, I would have crossed the universe to find you.” 

They stay in the garden for a long while after that, simply enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the comfort of each other. The hum of bees fills the air as they buzz languidly around them. 

Everywhere Dean looks, he’s surrounded by flowers.