Work Text:
A Way To Kill the Sounds
i.
Dean remembers the first time he was at the park. He can almost smell the fresh grass and water logged mud stuck to the bottom of his shoes, and the rust on the chains of the swingset. He was over the bump of three and heading towards four—the whole world just nothing but green and blue. He remembers climbing along the monkey bars with his dad’s hands around his waist, holding him up, and his mom watching from the bench, her hand on her belly where his baby brother was. If he closes his eyes and just feels enough, he can almost make out the shape of his mom’s lips on his belly while she blew raspberries, making him laugh until he couldn’t breathe.
He remembers feeling his weight slip away to nothing as his dad tossed him in the air, the way his heart would jumpstart. But it was never scary—just a different kind of high—knowing no matter how far he flies, there will be arms to catch him when he falls. Dean has known enough fear in his time, that the difference doesn’t slip past him. It’s selfish, but Dean sometimes wishes he never had those memories—wishes he never knew what the touch of protection and warmth felt like.
“Hold on tight, you hear me?” John would say, crouching down to look him in the eye. “Don’t let go.”
Dean would clutch onto the cold metal of the swing as his dad pushed him up, thinking he was at the top of the world at that moment, the only ones above him being the angels his mom would always talk about.
The picture—it’s so bizarre. Dean clings on to those memories like a raft in a flood, though he knows if he goes poking hard enough, it will all feel flat. Two dimensional. Like the memory of a child that grew up to live inside a different man. He hasn’t felt that touch, that warmth, in decades, and some days, the cold fist of memories that close around his heart shatters something inside of him.
The hand that falls on him almost makes him reach for his gun, but there is that split second familiarity where Dean thinks he knows the shape of that palm. He closes his eyes, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He’s at the bunker. He’s at home .
“Dean, are you alright?” Cas asks, his whiskey warm voice washing over Dean.
He opens his eyes and turns to look at Cas.
His hair is an unruly mess, and he's wearing one of Dean's old t-shirts, the collar hanging loose around his shoulders—knowing damn well Dean's not going to tell him off for raiding his wardrobe. Dean had given up his bubble of personal space a long time ago for Cas to come and go as he pleases. His pajama bottoms are scrunched up around his feet. It makes an adorable picture, Dean hurries to look away before he does something stupid.
Cas looks tired, more tired than normal, and Dean knows the shadows a nightmare leaves behind. It's kinda what happens when you're human. And, that's what Cas is. He drinks coffee straight out of the pot like a Neanderthal and leaves his socks everywhere like fun little treasure hunt clues for Dean to find and toss in the laundry. He wouldn't have it any other way.
Dean looks at Cas, and his heart aches in ways he’s too scared to describe.
There is a warm hand on his shoulder and Dean grips the spatula in his hand a little tighter. It's all he can do to not lean into that touch.
"’m fine, Cas," he says softly, his voice stuttering like a broken record.
If Cas notices, he simply doesn't say anything. The hand on Dean's shoulder presses in a little tighter, and it's all the anchor he needs. Cas peers over Dean's shoulder, frowning at the bacon in the pan like it personally wronged him. Their faces are too close and Dean can't breathe. He doesn't even want to.
"That's a lot of grease," Cas says, the rumble of his voice pouring through Dean's skin.
Dean huffs, "Sam's quinoa is in the cabinet. Help yourself, Sunshine."
He doesn't have to look at Cas to see the death glares shooting out of his eyes.
"Forgive me for being concerned about your health," Cas mutters, with the kind of bite in his voice that Dean can't get enough of.
"Awh, don't be like that," Dean grins, jostling the pan to spread the grease around. "I've developed tolerance and you're due for a lifetime of bacon. We'll be fine."
Ever since he lost his grace after the fall, Cas has thrown himself headfirst into the full human experience, and Dean would rather chew on his own foot than let Sam get his kale eating claws on Cas. Lucky for Dean, only he knew of Cas's little burger obsession.
In hindsight, Dean must have been a pain in the ass to deal with. Cas was a bit messed up after he lost his grace, and it was justified. The guy had been overdue for a breakdown. That didn't stop Dean from being worried. He can't even begin to comprehend how much it must have sucked to be something one moment and a whole other species the next. He had poked and prodded, camping out in front of Cas's room, being as annoying as he could manage until he had riled Cas up enough for him to come out of his room just to yell at Dean. He didn't care—not as long as he managed to get some food into his system.
There were a lot of sleepless nights and visits to the porcelain God involved, but Cas soon adjusted. At least as well as an angel-turned-human could.
The oil in the pan sizzles and spits out as he flips the bacon, and on instinct, Dean holds a hand out to keep the droplets from hitting Cas. He hip checks Cas away from the counter, "Off to the table. I'll bring it over."
But Cas doesn't move, instead, he pries the spatula out of Dean's hand. And then the handle of the pan. Their fingers brush—a barely there touch, but the warmth it leaves behind has got his head reeling.
"I'm making breakfast today," Cas announces, and Dean doesn't know what to say to that, not when Cas's hand trails down Dean's arm—and that's not fair play. "Go sit down, Dean."
"You want—what?" Dean sputters, scrambling into damage control mode. "Cas, you can't even boil water!"
Fuck. Right. Dean didn't mean for it to come out the way it did, but guess he dropped the ball on that one too many times. Dean just—he likes his routines. His palm curled around the hilt of a knife—not to kill, but to make sure his family is well fed. It's the kind of thing that safeguards his remaining bit of sanity.
Cas narrows his eyes, "You're being unnecessarily rude. I can do a lot more than boiling water, considering I have been around—"
"Since the dinosaurs took their first shit or whatever, I know," he holds his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Take it away, Ramsey.”
And that’s how Dean ends up sitting at the kitchen table on a Tuesday morning watching his best friend man the stove. Cas’s movements are awkward and he bitches and moans with every piece of bacon that sticks to the bottom of the pan. Dean can’t take his eyes off him. His sweatpants ride low on his hips and every turn and lift of his arm reveals an inch of tan skin that Dean wants nothing more than to press his lips to.
The revelation isn’t new, he has known it for a while—the shape and form of his feelings for Cas. Somehow, it’s still fresh in his head. Dean thinks he has been feeling that way for sometime now, but Purgatory was what sealed the deal. Those endless nights of hoping and praying, looking for answers. Somewhere along the way Dean realized there isn’t much worth fighting for without Cas by his side.
Cas has a lot on his plate, and Dean isn’t going to add to it. Maybe he’s a coward hiding behind excuses, but that’s no news.
“The eggs are in the fridge,” Dean offers, because apparently, he has a death wish.
Cas spins around, spatula pointed at Dean like a sword, “I’m well aware where the eggs are.”
Dean holds his hands up, biting back a grin. “Jeez, my bad.”
Ten minutes later, there are two plates of eggs and bacon and the table, and Dean is actually impressed. There’s obviously room for improvement, but for a first timer, Cas knocked it out of the park, and Dean tells him the same.
“Thank you,” Cas ducks his head with a smile. It’s adorable. That’s twice in an hour Dean has thought of the word adorable in relation to Cas. Not a good sign. “I learned from the best.”
“Kiss ass,” Dean chuckles, his heart feeling like it’s got its sunny side up.
Cas’s hand is right there, and Dean wants to—he wants to do something . Reach out and take it, maybe. Because Sam’s off on his run and the bunker is so quiet, it feels as though the whole universe is just him and Cas at the moment, and it’s all just too much. Lucky for him, Cas has his back. He places his hand over Dean’s, his long fingers curling around Dean’s palm.
“I’m just glad I could do something for you,” he says softly, the blue of his eyes glinting.
You being here is more than enough . Dean wants to say. Actually, there is a lot more Dean wants to say, but all he can do is just nod, the words getting logged in his throat. Maybe, it’s not too late for Dean to feel the kind of touch that feels like protection, happiness and family. Not when Cas is still around.
ii.
Dean hates Netflix with every fiber of his being.
His life is filled with half-cocked, split second choices. A trigger to pull here and an attack to block there. Dean should be good at this—he should be good at making choices in the blink of an eye. Except, Dean, for the life of him, can’t decide on a show to watch.
“You need a few more hours?” Sam quips, scrolling through his phone as if Dean’s not having a crisis over Movie⏤well Show Night. “I still have some inventory left to take, I could do that and maybe translate a few books by the time you’re done.
“Don’t push it, asswipe,” Dean snaps, moving back and forth between Psych and Mindhunter.
Dean’s three seconds away from smashing the remote on the floor when footsteps come echoing from the hallway. Cas pauses at the door, tilting his head at the screen.
“What are you watching?” he asks.
It’s a good thing Dean has no answer to that question, because even if he did, he wouldn’t be saying much. Not when Cas looks so—just so nice . His hair is still a little damp from his shower, and his t-shirt is clinging tight to his chest, stretched across his broad shoulders. There is something hollow in the center of Dean’s chest, a need to reach out and get closer to Cas—get Cas closer to him—tugging at his core and yanking him forward. He clenches his fingers around the remote, swallowing past the lump wedged in his throat.
“Dean’s about to call the Netflix office to ask for recommendations,” his pain in the ass brother yaps. Asshole.
“You don’t need to do that,” Cas says, walking over and snatching the remote right out of Dean’s hand. There aren't any objections from his side. Cas flicks backwards, like he’s looking for something specific. “We should watch Orphan Black. I heard it’s good.” he says.
“Heard from who?” Dean folds his leg underneath him and reaches over to tug at the hem of Cas’s shirt until he unceremoniously flops down on the couch next to Dean.
“The internet,” Cas says, aiming a flat look Dean’s way. “Let’s see if the reviews hold any truth.”
Sure. It’s not like Dean has a leg to stand on. They settle back to watch, and Dean already knows he’ll have to sneak in some time for a re-watch because fuck if he’s paying any attention to what’s happening on screen. Cas’s hand is sitting right by Dean’s knee. It’s just right there—and Dean feels like he should do something with this newfound information. It’s not like he can just leave it there on the couch when it’s right next to his fucking knee. Jesus. There’s something inherently wrong with him.
Dean’s eyes trail Cas’s face like the answers to the universe is written on his skin. He can’t help it—Cas is laced with cocaine. It’s kinda like watching the moon. There’s no fucking reason for anyone to be staring at the stupid white ball floating in the sky for more than a second, but once you’ve got your eyes on, it’s hard to look away. Jesus , if that ain’t so fucking sappy. The little curl of hair behind Cas’s ear makes Dean forget how perversely pathetic he is for ogling his best friend—the one whose t-shirt is hanging loose around his collar, enough to let the sharp jut of his collarbone poke out. The one who smells like Dean’s lemon and mint body wash.
Dean’s sad excuse of a brain manages to scratch two brain cells together and remind him that he should look away, because Cas could turn any second and see Dean sprouting rose petals out of his eyes or whatever.
He doesn’t know what went wrong along the way, but he knows something did. Because, this—attraction, craving, want, it ain’t new to Dean. It’s always been easy for him. Hell, he’s been easy. Dean likes curves he can trail his hands over and strong arms that can throw him around a bit, just because he wants to be thrown around. He likes jaws sharp enough to cut glass and hands soft enough to cup his cheek and make him forget about the world just for one night. He likes harsh laughs and breathy gasps. He wants to be wanted. Show him the promise of a good time and Dean would follow.
It’s always been that easy. Until it wasn’t.
Until, one night, Cas broke down the door of that barn in Illinois and punted him all the way out of the field. Dean’s first thought had been a solid, passionate and heartfelt ‘fuck’ and he had meant it in every sense of the word, because he’s a bit fucked in the head. Now, Cas is sitting right next to him, painstakingly human, dressed in clothes they picked out together and watching Orphan Black on a Sunday evening because they’re all too tired from getting beaten the living hell out of by a pair of Vetalas. And still, Dean looks at Cas and he thinks the same solid, passionate and heartfelt ‘fuck’ , except it’s stewing in a whole lot of other emotions that Dean doesn’t wanna touch within a ten foot pole.
There are a fuckton of things different from the first time he saw Cas, and there are even more things that haven't changed one bit. He’s seen Cas on hunts, the fire in his eyes not having dimmed one bit as he slices through monsters, more in tandem with his angel blade than Dean and Sam combined. Dean would look at him then and think what did I do to even deserve to be around him. Later, he’d watch Cas sit down next to him on the bed of a no name motel in Bumfuck, America, patching up Dean’s and his brother’s wounds while ignoring his own bleeding cuts, and Dean would think if there is a God listening, don’t make me lose him ever again.
Now, Dean watches Cas—watches him watch the screen—and thinks, this is home.
It’s almost too much for Dean’s pathetic little pea brain to comprehend without turning into molten liquid. So, he does the next best logical thing and drops his head on Cas's shoulder, and even shuffles a little closer to drive the point home. Dean’s being brave for once, because otherwise, he’ll have to admit he’s terrified—terrified that Cas isn’t real, that Cas could be taken away from him because of nothing more than a little slip up, or even worse, Cas would choose to leave. Terrified that he will have to live a Cas-less life—and Dean has tried it out and failed miserably one too many times.
Cas stiffens underneath him, just a bit, and Dean’s brain offers him a slideshow of every single scenario where this could go wrong. But then, Cas’s shoulder relaxes a bit and Dean’s having a system reboot. He huffs a laugh in his head—it’s always too much or nothing at all with him when it comes to Cas.
“Are you bored?” Cas asks, his voice barely a whisper.
Dean shakes his head a little.
“Okay,” Cas says, and then ducks out from underneath him. Dean’s heart is ready to give out right then and there.
There is an apology bubbling on his tongue and he almost says it out loud, but Cas shakes his head with a smile and wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulder, tugging him down.
“Lie down with your head in my lap,” Cas says, like it’s all there is to do. “Your neck will be grateful.”
Dean blinks and nods once, then some more, letting himself be tugged down to Cas’s lap. His head fills with nothing but static and humming and hissing and a billion other white noises for a few minutes, and then, it comes crashing down. The tidal wave of want and need and crave and ache swallows him down and keeps him under, snatching his lungs away and pumping him full of air all at once. Dean almost cries—he even tears up a little, using the intervals of louder noises coming from the speaker to hide the sniffles and whimpers threatening to spill out of his throat. It’s too much and not enough and, God. Dean knows he could live out the rest of his life with his head in Cas’s lap.
He wants to. And that’s a bitch of a enlightenment to have.
Dean wants Cas—wants Cas to want him—and it doesn’t end there. Hand him a shopping bag and call him the line in front of Walmart on a Black Friday because, of course , it doesn’t end there. He could pull up his notes app and write down the things he wants from Cas— with Cas, but he'll probably smash his phone against the wall. They’re a bit tight on money so that’s not wise. If there is a gun to his head, Dean would say he wants to make out with Cas. And, that’s just the baseline. Dean, for one terrifying moment, thinks about thinking about this—the feeling of absolute fucking insect population in his stomach just because his head is on Cas’s lap. He really decides to think about the fuck-all of his feelings about Cas, but then, Cas pushes his fingers through Dean’s hair and—
Yeah, that’s it. That’s all of it. Show’s over, folks.
It’s really fucking unfair. Cas must be thinking sure, there is a head on my lap, might as well —and that’s the mother of all unfair things in this world. See, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Cas wants to run his fingers through Dean’s hair while they watch TV on a Sunday evening while Dean lies with his head on his lap—and that really shouldn’t be this life altering. But, Dean’s the freaking Buddha and Cas is his Banyan tree. This —Dean thinks— this is where he wants to be.
It’s a recurring thought. One that he thinks of when he and Cas argue as they climb down the stairs after a hunt, snapping at each other depending on who the man of the day was, reckless enough to almost die, while Sam trails them, chortling like a dying hyena. They would all be aching to the bone, but Sam would bully Cas into ordering a salad along with whatever animal he’s ingesting for the night—because he fought and lost that battle with Dean a long time ago—and Cas would stuff his Romaine in the french fry bag when Sam’s not looking, and Dean would think. He would look at this little unit of theirs, held together by the knowledge that any night could be their last, and Dean would think how every fight is worth it if it means he can come home to this.
Right now, Dean doesn’t want anything else. Maybe later he’ll go looking for more, because that’s the thing with Cas. He’s magnetic. But, right this second, all Dean can do is close his eyes and feel Cas’s fingers brush through his hair and the shell of his ear—so overwhelmingly gentle—and Dean knows he’s a goner. If he wasn’t already.
“You can go to bed if you want to,” Cas says, and Dean’s too far gone, he barely catches it.
Dean debates his options. It’s going to be a lonely night for his memory foam. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbles into Cas’s thigh.
“Oh, good,” Cas says.
Dean doesn’t have enough neurons firing at the moment to figure out what that means. He blinks at the screen one last time, noting that they’re on the third episode, before letting his eyes fall shut.
He will need a rewatch, anyway.
iii.
There is a case—a pair of ghouls. Dean couldn’t save a twelve year old boy.
So, he does the next best logical thing. He gets wasted.
Sam tries. Lord help his brother’s poor soul—he tries. But Dean doesn’t really want him to, so he pushes until Sam storms out of the room huffing and puffing. He’s left all alone in the library, just Dean and his old pals Jack and Johnnie to keep him company.
A fifth of whiskey turns into two, but all Dean is left with is this cold ache—a sort of numbness in his chest. He wants something, someone , who can take all the pain away. He can’t remember who. So he drinks until his legs are jelly and the room is spinning. Or maybe, Dean is the one spinning, he’s not sure. There is a thrill to that. There are chunks of time missing between each time Dean passes out with his head on the cold wood of the table, and when he’s awake enough to pour himself another. He doesn’t know how much time has passed.
The next time he wakes up, it’s from the sound of the bunker’s front door creaking open. Dean blinks against the harsh light, trying to focus on the figure walking down the stairs, hauling a few bags along with him. It’s the trench coat that catches his eyes. Been a while since he last saw Cas in it.
“Where’d you go, Cas?” he asks, or at least he thinks he does.
“I went to get a few supplies, I hope you don’t mind,” Cas says, and then pauses. “Dean, are you drunk?”
“Mhm, yeah,” Dean says, knocking an empty bottle away with the back of his palm. “You want some?”
He blinks once, twice, and Cas is suddenly right in front of him, kneeling down with his hands bracing Dean’s knee. He’s too drunk to deal with the mental image that brings up, or the sparks that climb up his spine from the touch. It doesn’t last too long, replaced by a crushing weight that Cas’s sad eyes staring down to his soul leaves behind. Dean’s not sure why Cas looks so upset. Whatever it is, Dean wants it gone.
“You don’t drink to this extent unless something is wrong,” Cas says, his thumb rubbing circles on Dean’s knee. “What happened?”
That—the tinge of concern in Cas’s voice and the soft blue of his eyes peering up at Dean—that's what does him in. He folds like a lawn chair—literally—kicking his chair back and falling to the floor, leaning forward to hold onto Cas. Just any part of him, so Dean doesn’t drown. His eyes are burning through its sockets and his throat is all cut up, but Cas’s hands come up to cradle his face, and that’s something. It’s good.
"He was twelve, Cas," Dean chokes out, blinking away the tears threatening to spill. "I should've—if I had done something diff—"
"You out of all people know that's not how it works," Cas says, quiet and gentle, like Dean's a spooked horse. "There will always be a what if , Dean. You tried, that's what matters."
Dean shakes his head, because—no. He didn't try hard enough. He wonders what John would've said, because his dad would've saved the boy. He would've done something different. Thinking about what John would have done—it's a trap, Dean knows that by now. It's salt to the wound. And, that's fine. It'll teach Dean to be better.
"Dean, look at me," Cas tilts his face up, but Dean can't meet his eyes. The pity he would see in them—yeah, that will wreck him.
"Cas," he swallows a gulp of air, clutching onto the front of Cas's shirt like a lifeline. "I'm so—I'm sorry. Cas, please—"
"Can you look at me, Dean? Please?"
Dean tries his best not to give in—to push Cas away and flee to his room, clutching the last pint of his dignity tight to his heart. He doesn't have the nerve, or functioning legs for it. It doesn’t take that long for him to crumble like a deck of cards. It was a losing battle after all.
He looks into Cas’s lightning blue eyes, and it’s not anger or hatred or any of those million other terrible things his mind provides him with that Dean sees there. He would call it adoration—he wants to. Except, what does Dean know? He’s some drunk guy on the floor with his best friend being the only thing holding him up, in every sense of the word. Dean looks into Cas’s eyes and sees a lot in there, a lot of good things, but none of it makes sense to him. All he knows is that it’s fucking killing him. If he were a bit more drunk, Dean would think Cas is looking right through him at someone better. Someone worthy of everything Cas is offering.
“I’m sorry, Dean. You don’t deserve to hurt this way over something you couldn’t control—and I know you tried your best,” Cas says softly, and Dean drinks up those words.
He will have to trust Cas here, because Cas knows better. He always does. Dean’s even more sure of it when Cas pulls him closer, guiding Dean’s head to his shoulder, because Dean needs this. God, he needs this so much, and Cas figured that out even when he couldn’t. Cas’s hand is warm on the back of his burning neck and his other hand is rubbing circles on Dean’s back, and a small part of Dean’s brain is blaring alarms. He’s not Cas’s mess to handle—that’s not how it works. Nope, no way José.
Dean’s about to take back the reins and pull away when Cas shushes him, “It’s okay, Dean. I’ve got you.”
If someone asks Dean to describe what he’s feeling right now, he’d say—it’s like getting smacked in the head with a two by four while being hand fed apple pie.
“I would prefer if you would talk things out instead of imbibing all this alcohol,” Cas murmurs into his hair. Dean closes his eyes, and he can almost see the disappointment in Cas’s eyes—the burden of having to deal with a colossal fuck up like him.
“Have you met me?” Dean mutters, the joke falling flat on its ass.
“I have. To great extent, in fact,” Cas says, his hand on Dean’s back not pausing once. “I realize you prefer to self medicate over dealing with your feelings, but it’s not a long term solution, Dean. You wake up feeling worse than you did to begin with.”
Dean’s stomach lurches—they’re in for a long night.
Cas is right, as always, and Dean knows this too. He knows what he’s doing to himself—to others around him, but coward and asshole is in his DNA. Slow or fast, you gotta pick your poison, and Dean chooses the easy way out every single time. He drinks and drinks and drinks through his dad’s words echoing in his head and the faces of all the people he let down flashing past his eyes. He drinks through the memories of every single time Sammy got hurt because he wasn’t fast enough—wasn’t good enough. Dean drinks through the longing and craving in his chest when he thinks about Cas.
“It’s—it’s who I’m, Cas. There’s nothing more to it,” Dean says. There’s a lie in there somewhere. There’s some truth too. “I fuck up, and then some more. I fix it with the first bottle I find. That’s—”
“Not who you are,” Cas cuts in. “Dean Winchester, I held your soul in my arms when I pulled you out of hell. I have seen how much you’re willing to give. I have seen how you choose to carry the hurt for everyone else.”
“Cas,” Dean murmurs, pleads, into the crook of Cas’s neck.
Cas shakes his head, “Do not try to convince me you’re anything but good. I might not be able to see your soul anymore, but I know it without a doubt. You’re a good man, despite the mistakes you’ve made. Everything you have done for the people you love—everything you have been through for this world—is the evidence of it.”
Fuck. Jesus. Dean’s about to have a coronary right in the middle of the fucking library and Cas is the one to be blamed for it. There is a part of Dean that would give anything to believe Cas’s words—to gather it up and store it close to his heart as a hand to hold onto for the rest of his miserable life. It just seems too unreal. Yet, Cas is here, holding Dean in his arms and saying all these things with such conviction, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with everything Cas is giving him.
His stomach lurches some more. Shit.
“We should get you to the toilet,” Cas says, and yeah. Nothing like ugly puking and dry heaving noises to serenade such heartfelt words.
It’s an uneventful night for Cas from there on, but Dean’s having the worst time of his life, clutching the porcelain throne and evicting his guts out of his body. Fun times. Cas’s hand is still on his back, and there’s something cold pressing against Dean’s forehead. The favors Dean owes Cas is stockpiling, and he’ll have to die for Cas a couple of times to make up for all this.
“Should I call Sam?” Cas asks, sounding mildly panicked.
Dean recovers enough to lift his head off the bowl and glare at Cas. “This ain’t a slumber party,” he mutters. “You can get outta here. I can handle myself.”
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean," Cas frowns at him. "I just thought you preferred Sam to be here over me."
"Don't really have a preference for spectators when I'm spilling my dignity everywhere," he pants, gritting his teeth through the burn in his chest.
"You're being unnecessarily dramatic," Cas swipes the cloth in his hand across Dean's forehead and down his cheek. It's nice. "You should have known the consequences of your over drinking."
"Seriously? This how you treat a dying man?" Dean complains, reaching over to flush down the toilet. He's done for the day.
Cas's face sours, "Dean."
And now Dean feels like an asshole. This whole thing is turning into a routine—Dean being a dick and Cas still putting up with his nonsense long enough for Dean to feel like shit over unloading his pathetic self on Cas—like clockwork. Neither of them learn their lesson.
"Cas, hey," he reaches out, finding Cas's hand and squeezing it. "Thanks, man. Really."
"We should get you off the floor," Cas says, and Dean thinks he sees a slight tinge of red to his cheeks. Great, now he's seeing things.
Dean lets Cas wrap his arms around him and haul him to his feet, all of the day's edge draining out of him. He leans his weight back against the steady—and warm, so goddamn warm—body behind him, planting his feet and willing his stomach to give up its gymnastics for the day. Cas holds him up, easy and nice, his hands around Dean’s middle and the hard line of his body pressed up behind Dean. It’s enough to make his heart flip in his chest and drop all the way down and out of his ass. Cas’s hand losens, and Dean lowers his teeth down on his bottom lip, choking down the whimper threatening to spill from his mouth.
“Fuck. I’m never drinking again,” he lies, straightening himself and making his way over to the sink. He fishes out the mouthwash from the cabinet and sloshes some around in his mouth, all while feeling Cas’s eyes on him like a physical thing.
Dean rolls his eyes, turning to look at him. “What?”
Cas is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest, and the last time he’s seen Cas this mad, Dean had to make him waffles for breakfast and drive him to the farmer’s market. Cas had brought three jars of honey.
“Nothing,” Cas mutters, sticking his nose in the air and glaring a hole through the wall behind Dean’s head. He looks like a pissed off cat. Asshole.
“Awh, don’t be like that, Cas,” Dean walks past him, nudging his shoulder on the way out. “Drag me through the mud, go on.”
Cas follows him down the hallway, huffing and audibly rolling his eyes. “I don’t enjoy watching you suffer like this.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t enjoy suffering,” Dean snorts. “That ain’t gonna stop me.”
“At some point, you might end up with alcohol poisoning, and then you will have no choice.”
“Booze ain’t gonna be what takes me out,” Dean grins over his shoulder at Cas. He feels bad, almost , but then Cas looks about three seconds away from throwing him against the nearest wall and that’s when Dean gives in. He pauses at the door to his room, turning around and reaching out to hold Cas by the shoulders. “’M sorry, okay? Shouldn’t have drank so much and dumped my crap on you.”
Cas grabs his wrists, “You’re missing the point, Dean,” he says. “You’re letting your guilt drive you into drinking at this rate. That’s not—”
“Yeah, I need a head shrink. News flash,” Dean mutters, trying to distract himself from Cas’s death grip around his wrists. He wonders how it would feel when Cas’s hands hold his wrists just like this and pin him to the bed while he— nope. Not gonna take that route.
Cas frowns at him, “Dean, are you feeling ill again?”
Dean flushes from head to toe, feeling his stomach flip for very different reasons. The words “You wanna stay for a bit?” leaves his mouth, with absolutely no consent from his brain. Shit.
It’s relief that washes over him when Cas’s eyes go soft, “Of course, Dean. Whatever you want.”
And if that doesn’t hurt.
Dean strips off his shirt and pants, pulling his robe on, all while keeping his back to Cas. He’s so goddamn exhausted and the warm press of Cas’s body against his—the way Cas’s hands held his face in them—is fresh in his head. Dean feels weak with the need to wrap himself around Cas, just for a minute. He sighs, leaning a pillow against the headboard and falling back until his head hits the wood. He closes his eyes and pats the bed next to him.
Dean feels the bed dip next to him. “Do you need some water? Or anything for your headache?” Cas asks.
He shakes his head, “I just—” need you here, Dean thinks. It’s the kind of admission he can’t come back from. Dean is clutching onto the idea of Cas being by his side no matter what, and he has that now. No questions and no expectations. Wanting is one thing, but wanting more never ends well. He clears his throat, “Sorry ’bout all this. You can go if you want to.”
Cas hums, “Do I have to?”
“No,” Dean shakes his head, feeling his head reel. “You can always stay, Cas.”
“I would like to,” Cas says softly, and Dean feels fingers in his hair.
He breaks. Dean digs his fingers into his palm until he can feel the crescents forming, and it’s all he can do to not lean into Cas’s touch and start purring like a damn cat. He blinks away the tears until the ceiling turns from blurry to clear, and turns to look at Cas. He’s leaning sideways against the headboard, his head tilted and resting on his bicep, and his fingers in Dean’s hair. His fingers in Dean’s hair.
Dean does the bravest thing he has ever dared to do. He leans forward, tilting his head and presses his lips to Cas’s. It’s a kiss, technically —the kind you’d give your middle school girlfriend in the hallway before homeroom—and Dean’s heart is in his throat. It’s a knee-jerk disaster of a decision and everything topples down the hill when he feels Cas freeze. Fuck.
He pulls back, an apology bubbling at the tip of his tongue, but Cas’s hand is on the back of his neck and the other is coming to cup his cheek and Dean is having a new kind of aneurysm every passing second.
“Cas, I—” is all he manages before Cas pulls him into the kiss, hands hot and unforgiving on Dean’s skin.
There is nowhere else to be—and another apocalypse couldn’t pull Dean away from Cas right now. Someone else will have to take one for the team because Dean Winchester is going to be busy kissing the only person he has wanted to kiss for the longest fucking time. Cas makes a small humming noise, and Dean’s brain packs up and goes on vacation. He wraps his arms around Cas’s shoulder, letting his weight drop back and pulls Cas down with him. Cas’s tongue—angel or not—is fucking heaven against his own, pulling the kind of sounds out of his throat he’d take with him to his grave. Cas kisses like a man on a mission, and Dean’s so on board.
Cas’s hands are in his hair, and the hard line of his body is pressing Dean down against the mattress, and Dean’s about to fucking implode. Cas is the first to pull away, and Dean shamelessly chases his lips, forgetting to breathe. Would be a shame to pass out right now when holy fuck he just kissed Cas.
Dean should really learn to ration out his excitement because the next second, Cas’s lips are on the column of his throat, and Dean invents about nine new swear words. He grips Cas’s shoulder, groaning under the warm press of his lips, sucking softly on patches of his skin. Dean doesn’t know who taught Cas all this, but they’re getting a goddamn fruit basket, after he beats them up for getting their hands on Cas first.
“Is this okay?” Cas looks up at him, a flicker of hesitation in his blue eyes.
“It’s good—” Dean chokes out, too tired to care about the way his voice cracks. “Really good.”
A small smile pulls at Cas’s lips and in that moment Dean knows he wants to see that smile for the rest of his goddamn life. It’s a scary—scratch that, terrifying —thought, something Dean is going to conveniently shove to the back of his mind and not revisit in a long long time. But, he can’t run forever, not when Cas’s lightning blue eyes are staring down at him with so much adoration, like this fuck up who drank until his blood was swimming in alcohol is deserving of the way Cas’s palms are holding his face. Dean’s too selfish to go looking the gift horse in the mouth, so he skims his shaking hands up Cas’s chest and closes his eyes and sinks down under the comforting weight of Cas’s body.
Cas continues kissing down Dean’s throat for another few minutes—or hours, who the fuck knows—and Dean feels each press of his lips through his veins and down to his bones. When Cas pulls away, the whine that spills out of his mouth should be embarrassing, but Dean’s been dreaming of where he is right now for so goddamn long. Longer than he’s ready to accept.
“We’re in no rush, Dean,” Cas tells him, and Dean would love nothing more than to call him out on that lie. Who’s he kidding? An apocalypse could come knocking down their door any second.
He doesn’t say anything though, just cups Cas’s face in his hands, feeling the delicious scratch of his stubble against his palm—because Cas knows best. Cas moans sweetly and Dean swallows up those sounds, hands trembling and chest filled up to the brim with the sensation of Cas everywhere around him.
“Stay,” Dean murmurs when they pull apart, their lips brushing with the shape of every word.
Cas smiles and rolls to his side, holding his arms open, and Dean falls into him with the weight of the world abandoned at the foot of the bed. He feels a kiss pressed to the top of his head and Cas’s arms tighten around him. “Always,” he murmurs.
For the first time in forever, Dean falls asleep with the hope of something good waiting for him when he wakes up.