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The first time it happens, they have an excuse. Dean has an excuse.
It’s late and they may die in a few hours, and Dean just laughed so hard that tears came out of his eyes. There’s also the thought about his promise, the small but existent amount of alcohol in his system, and, finally, the ride back to the ran down house, and all those things conspire to make him think it would be a good idea.
How bad could it be? It’s not like he hasn’t been curious about it for a while now.
Ever since that night with Anna, that moment when she placed her hand on his shoulder and made him think of him.
It started with her words, really; he began questioning if kissing a full-blown angel would be different, if the same electric charge that seemed to float around the room whenever Cas was nearby would translate to that moment. Maybe it would feel like reaching out and touching lighting. Then there was the thing she said about feelings, or more like lack thereof. Dean had kissed plenty of people without any feeling behind it, from small reluctant pecks to full-blown making out sessions that only served to pass the time; but that was different than kissing someone who couldn’t feel anything. Part of him saw it as a challenge, the same way the angel’s stern looks made him wish he could see him smile.
Added to that, there was the simple, but terrifying thought of touch. Just touch.
Something. somewhere, somehow, broke in Dean after he came back from hell. Well, several somethings did, but this one was less sharp in the way it hurt, it was like a steady wave that crashed against him and made him ache. Some nights, he would spend hours tracing the outline of the handprint and feeling the waves crashing softly; he wondered if the angel had done something to him, if the imprint of his hand acted like a rope tying them together and making Dean think about things he hadn’t allowed himself to do in such a long time.
It wasn’t until Anna placed her hand on it and Dean’s mind was filled with thoughts of the angel that it really came into focus for him. The print that had been burnt into his flesh was proof of the first time anyone had been careful about touching Dean in forty years, maybe even more. It was a scar so different from the ones he had both from his time before and during hell, because it was a scar that proved he had been saved and put back together with smooth gentle strokes, strokes that took care of ridding him from old pains and wounds, but kept the natural markings of his skin; not a single freckle out of place, just smooth, seemingly untouched skin, only interrupted by the signature of the angel that had taken so much care in saving him and rebuilding his body.
So, yeah. Dean has an excuse to finally answer all those questions, a chance to maybe soothe the tide that has been rising over the time he’s known the angel. And, well, sue him for knowing when to take advantage of a once in a lifetime thing, especially when their lives may end in a few hours.
“I’m sorry, Cas,” he smiles as he takes off his jacket and throws it over a chair. “I did promise you not to let you die a virgin”
The angel has a small smile on his lips, probably only taking amusement from the bellowing laugh that escaped Dean a few minutes ago. Dean looks at that smile for too long.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Dean,” he shakes his head slightly, looking down. “Like you said. It was my fault that they kicked us out”
With that, Dean begins to think of a good segway that would hide the way his heart beats nervously and his fingers twitch, itching to reach for something, for someone. Deep breaths and a very subtle cough are all he can think of to try and calm himself.
“It wasn’t your fault, Cas,” the angel turns to look at him, catching his eyes before he has the chance to look away. “I shouldn’t have thrown you to the wolves, especially if you haven’t even kissed anyone yet.”
Kissing hadn’t been discussed before Dean dragged Cas to the car in an attempt to “rectify” the situation, but considering the way the angel had been acting, it is very likely that he’s right.
The reaction he gets, the small intake of breath and the blue eyes tearing themselves away from him, is an indication that it is, indeed, a very good guess. Dean’s entire left hand begins twitching then, the warm waves crashing louder and more violently. Maybe this is a bad idea, maybe Dean has allowed his own “last night on Earth” speech to affect him too much. But then he looks at the place where the trenchcoat sleeve ends, to the fingers that have been burnt into his flesh, and, for a moment, he sees them twitch too.
“Well,” his voice comes so suddenly that it almost makes him jump. “I can’t do anything about the whole ‘not dying a virgin’ thing.” That would be too far, even his adrenaline drowning brain knows that, “but I can do something about the kissing part.”
His voice becomes more quiet by the word, to the point that the word ‘kissing’ comes out as a whisper, and he can barely tell that his lips form the word ‘part,’ no sound coming from them. He knows, however, that he is talking to an angel, and he can hear him no matter how small his voice is.
An angel.
Dean just offered to kiss an angel.
Belated panic begins flooding his gut, and while he is dreading the idea of rejection (or worse, disgust), he can’t help the way his eyes shoot up to find a reaction.
Cas is looking at him, head tilted, lips parted, eyes searching.
Of course. Angel hearing may be capable of picking up the most quiet of utterances, but that doesn’t mean that the angel in question completely understands what has been whispered.
This is the moment that Dean can take it all back, maybe offer to take him to a new place, maybe to a bar. Maybe they can waste the hours they have left drinking and laughing some more. A near painful crash of the waves inside of him pushes him forward, he can’t take it back, not after thinking he has come so close.
The angel is still looking at him, and meeting his eyes feels like nothing Dean has ever felt before.
He thinks about Cassie, about avoiding looking at her, knowing he would find something there that would hurt too much, that would make him question what he was doing and where it was taking him. Looking at her felt like wanting to stay or itching to run away.
Looking at Cas feels like something else. It feels like being carried, like safety in the middle of a storm. It feels like something Dean hasn’t felt in a long time, it is almost ridiculous to consider it because he is sure he is unable to feel that anymore. Because, if he didn’t know better, he would think that looking at Cas feels like he is arriving somewhere after a long journey; he would say that it feels like coming home.
And maybe he could be fine with just staring, like so often he is, but right then he has an excuse, and he can’t say no to the perfect excuse. He is helping Cas.
“I’m saying,” he takes a small breath, and hopes the angel doesn’t notice, “I could kiss you.” Panic rises again, words out, heat making its way to his face. “If you want, that is.” It comes out as fast as he has ever heard himself speak.
He still hadn’t managed to tear his eyes from Cas before the words made their way out of his mouth, so he just stands there, the barely lit house creaking with age around them and the night air making leaves outside move.
The angel’s expression changes, only slightly; it’s such a small thing that Dean could’ve missed it before, back when Cas was still heaven’s soldier, instead of Dean’s friend. The subtle change comes in the way his eyes widen slightly, his posture a little more straight, his brows more relaxed. If Dean had blinked at some point, he would miss the way Cas’ eyes dart to his lips for less than a second.
He thinks of the expression he saw on the angel earlier that night, when Chastity approached him, the way he downed the beer in front of him before turning pleading eyes to Dean. He looked scared and reluctant. The man had chucked it off to nervousness, first time and all that; but the look he’s getting now is so much different. The angel in front of him doesn’t look scared or like running away any time soon, he looks eager, waiting. Still, something in Dean needs the push, the verbal confirmation that marks the go; he needs permission from someone to allow himself to do something he swore he would never do.
“Cas?” He asks, boldly approaching the angel with small, slow steps. “I kinda need you to say something now.”
Once the words are out of his mouth, they sound too much like pleading, and Dean immediately hates them. It doesn’t help that he takes a little too long to realize that he hasn’t stopped getting closer and now is at arm’s length from the angel.
Now he can notice that his breathing may not come too fast, but it is too slow, deliberate deep breaths that feel more like gasps, his lips are parted and now both of his hands are twitching at his sides. Still, the impulse of running away doesn’t come; actually, he thinks that if he tries to run anywhere, his legs would just bolt in the direction of his friend and only stop once those hands were at his sides. This is ridiculous.
“Yes.”
And, in that moment, that word. The word that Dean has been running away from this entire time, it feels like coming into contact with pure electricity. It is just for a moment, almost like he’s getting a taste of what has been there, untouched, unclaimed, ever since his hands felt the warmth of the sun outside of his grave; that one touch is enough for Dean to know it’s over. He can’t pretend that he didn’t hear it, he can’t laugh it away now.
Then Cas comes closer, imitating his previous movements and, soon, Dean’s hands can feel the very edge of the trench coat’s sleeves, blue eyes staring at him so close that another shock goes through him. There is still no terror in the way the angel looks, even from this close. Dean cannot be sure that he himself doesn’t look petrified. But then he feels a short puff of breath coming from Cas, and the smell of rain and thunderstorm surrounds him; he tries to breathe it all in, but even a deep inhale is not enough, so he opens his mouth slightly and breathes in again. And then Cas looks down, prompting him to look at the angel’s lips too; and that’s what pushes him.
At least he thinks he is the one who closes the gap between them, but he cannot be completely sure; his eyes close on their own accord, and maybe Cas meets him in the middle, something inside of him hopes he does, because he wants to believe that he is not the only one feeling like there’s a magnet pulling them together.
It’s slow at first. Dean wants to make sure that he is making this last as long as he can; it takes a moment for him to slowly raise his hands, brushing the trench coat’s sleeves, up to the lapels, which he tugs slightly, as if it was possible to get closer. Then his fingers make contact with Cas’ neck, and both of them shiver at the barely there contact, so he presses a palm to the back of the angel’s neck, pulling him closer again; that hand then makes its way higher, to the back of his head and burying itself in his dark hair. The other hand remains gentle, only the tips of his fingers rising to meet the angel’s jaw, brushing, feeling the stubble; until he presses his palm onto his warm cheek, and stays there.
In Cas’ case, well, he seems to have a very different idea. After Dean is done with his own movements, one of the angel’s hands fists his shirt, pulling without much force; the other one, though, that one sneaks between them, to Dean’s chest and deliberate movements start to peel off the layer he’s wearing on top of his t-shirt. The touch, even through the fabric, makes Dean feel like he is surrounded by a current. The first hand relaxes and joins the other one in its efforts. He can hear, almost distantly, outside of this bubble they’ve created, that the wind has picked up, but he’s not cold, and, beneath that, he can almost make an insistent buzzing sound.
Then it happens. Cas’ hand makes its way to his left shoulder, almost as if it has been its single purpose all of this time. The moment contact is made, it feels like lighting strikes him and the jolt of it goes through him, making him finally separate from the angel with eyes wide. The look that meets him seems to mirror how he feels. The fingers curl tighter around his arm, the other hand touches his cheek and he can’t help but practically nuzzle the palm. When Dean opens his eyes again, he locks them with Cas once more, they both take a deep breath. This time he knows they both move at the same time.
The kiss is no longer slow, it’s still not violent, but it is definitely not slow. Dean is the one who goes to lick Cas’ lips, and they immediately open for him. He suddenly forgets that he wanted to teach the angel how to kiss, or that he wanted to taste this moment for as long as possible. The charge that he can feel coming from the touch on his shoulders makes him believe that they could be here forever.
The air is louder now, and he can tell that their hair is flying all over the place, some leaves touch his bare forearms for a second. The buzzing stops, but in its place, the sound of shattering glass reaches his ears. In the back of his mind, he recognizes that all of this is Cas, he is literally affecting the air around them, the shattering must be lightbulbs exploding because of him. All of this is happening because Dean is kissing Cas. Because Cas is an angel, and kissing Dean is making him cause power surges and brew storms.
No other thoughts come to him at that moment, or for several more, as he kisses the angel in front of him with everything that he’s got. No sense of time, or place anymore, no memories of the war they’re fighting or this being their last night on Earth. Dean’s brain barely registers that they’re on Earth anymore, let alone a dark house falling apart. He can almost feel like he remembers what it was like when Cas pulled him out of hell.
But they have to separate at some point, and Dean’s brain (or maybe that feeling is his soul) doesn’t want to, even when he knows he needs to breathe. He wants to stay in that moment, in the warmth, in the light, in the electric bubble they have around themselves. But he has to let go at some point. So he does.
This time, he takes a small step backwards along with his breath. That seems to indicate to Cas that he should let go too. Both of them slowly peel their hands from the other, everything slowing down again, until the very tips of their fingers stop having contact.
Now, with the connection lost, Dean’s brain catches up to everything that he was ignoring before.
He kissed an angel. At least he had gotten that far.
He kissed Cas. Now, that thought he had apparently shoved as far away as possible from the moment he had heard the three letter word coming out of his friend’s lips. His lips. His friend.
Shit.
Dean kissed his friend, who was Cas, who was an angel, who was a man.
Somehow, that last one doesn’t sound as alarming as the first two do. Not to say it doesn’t sound alarming, but it certainly takes a backseat to him making out with his friend, while they stand in the middle of a house, waiting for the next day to come, when they might die for trying to trap an archangel.
The nervous chuckle comes as quickly as his last thought does.
Cas is still looking at him, breathing deliberately slowly, a mirror of his own.
Dean catches the angel’s eye and holds his stare. There’s that silent communication again, the one that only comes at times, like a tide...
He hopes he doesn’t have to explain anything, that Cas will take this as what it started as, just a friend crossing an item off of a bucket list. A promise that has now been fulfilled and nothing else. He hopes all of that goes unsaid, mostly because he can’t be sure if he can even say it.
Before the kiss, Dean could’ve pretended that’s what it was. Before, he had an excuse, but that excuse is gone now. All that is left is the same sensation of longing he started with, but now with the knowledge of what he is longing for. Right now, Dean cannot pretend, he can’t put his walls up fast enough, even if he tried.
Turns out, Cas seems to understand, because he doesn’t say anything, he takes one more breath, almost a sigh, and turns to look outside, and the air slows down.
That is Dean’s out, and it takes way longer than usual for him to take it, but he ultimately does. He takes off to the room where he left his sleeping bag and sits down on top of it. It’s only then that he touches his lips, and then his shoulder, the scar feeling warm to him. A shiver goes through him, and he registers that he left both his jacket and his shirt back in the room where Cas is still standing, or maybe back to his plan of sitting quietly. He doesn’t go back for them.
The night goes by, and Dean is not sure if the cold that doesn’t let him fall asleep is really due to the layers that he is missing.
His tongue still feels surrounded by static.