Archive of Our Own

The first thing that Castiel notices when he wakes, every morning since the fall, is that he feels light. Not a figurative lightness of spirit or of character, but a very literal sensation of weightlessness. His vessel, which once possessed a density greater than that of a white dwarf star, is now no sturdier than the body of an average man. He supposes that’s what he is now—an average man. His back twitches at the thought, a phantom response from wings that no longer rest there.

Cas lifts himself from the bed carefully, wincing at the gnawing feeling of stiff limbs as he goes. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that. He’s not sure if he’ll get used to any of it, if he’s honest. The weightlessness carries him across the hall at a strange gait, practically floating back and forth like the amble of a drunk man down backroads. Though he’s sure he could attribute at least some of the unsteadiness to not giving himself enough time to properly wake up before starting down toward the kitchen.

It’s not where he was intending to go, initially. He’d planned to check in on Sam, to see if there was anything he could do to speed the healing process along despite his lack of grace. But the smells wafting throughout the corridor were enough to curb those thoughts completely, warm and strong and more delicious than anything Castiel thinks he’s smelled in his entire life. He almost can’t physically stop himself from following it, treading blindly until he finds his feet planted directly at the doorway to the kitchen. 

He blinks, lifting his eyes to where Dean stands with his back to him at the stovetop, a distinct posture of focus about him. Cas rarely sees him this still, just one arm pushing a spatula around a pan while the other holds it in place. Dean doesn’t seem to have noticed Castiel’s presence, so he allows himself a moment to simply look before gently clearing his throat.

“Good morning,” he attempts, but can’t help but screw his face up in irritation when the greeting comes out hoarse and garbled.

Dean gives a little laugh, his eyebrows jumping up as he smiles. “Not quite used to morning mouth, huh?”

“I can’t say that I am, no,” Cas answers, frowning. “It’s bothersome.”

Dean smiles again, turning his head back toward the stove. “You just summed up about seventy percent of the human experience, buddy.”

Cas sighs through his nose. The words ring through his head pointedly; the human experience. He tries not to let it leave a sour taste in his mouth. “What are you cooking?” He asks finally, taking a seat at one of the barstools.

“Egg and sausage scramble,” Dean replies.

Castiel hums. “It smells wonderful. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled food this good.”

“You’re gonna make my head swell,” Dean says, laughing a little. “You don’t have to pile on the flattery to ensure that I’ll give you some, y’know.

Cas furrows his eyebrows, confused. “I wasn’t. I was being honest.”

Dean switches the burner off before glancing back at Cas, presumably to gauge his expression. “I refuse to believe that someone who’s been alive as long as you has never smelled any better food than this.”

“I’ve been alive for a long time, but I haven’t been a human for any time at all.”

“What?” Dean blinks. “I would’ve thought—aren’t your senses like…sharper when you’re an angel?”

Cas thinks about it. “In some ways, yes,” he says slowly, “But in other ways, no. When you’re an angel in the purest sense, untethered to a body, all the senses are completely unfiltered. Sharper and more acute than what any other being experiences. But being in a vessel, it’s…it’s akin to being stuffed inside of a mascot costume. You can move, you can see, but everything is dulled, slightly detached. Smell is the same.”

Dean nods, seeming pensive. Then, after a moment, “How do you know what being in a mascot costume is like?”

“That was your takeaway from that statement?” Cas says wearily.

“Hey, it’s a fair question!” Dean counters. “You think you know a guy, and then you learn he has a whole secret mascoting past.”

Cas smiles a little, in spite of the ludicrous nature of the accusation. “I don’t have any sort of a past including mascots. Jimmy did.”

Dean’s face shifts in a way Castiel can’t quite read, like he’s not sure whether he should feel amusement or discomfort. Cas isn’t sure which Dean should feel, either.

“Are you going to eat?”

“What?”

“Your egg and sausage scramble,” Castiel reminds him.

“Oh—right.” Dean moves to grab a plate out of the overhead cabinet and pauses, hand hovering over the stack. “Uh, do you want some?”

Cas doesn’t even get the chance to consider an answer before his stomach does it for him, grumbling so loudly that for a fleeting second he almost feels concerned. Dean just grins, pulling two plates down onto the counter.

“Well now you’re definitely not allowed to say no.” He slides the full plate across the counter to Cas, and offers up a fork a second later. “I was gonna put on a pot of coffee if you want a cup of that, too.”

Cas brightens a little, nodding. “You know,” he says, “I liked coffee even before losing my grace. It was one of the few things I could actually taste in a way that resembled how humans tasted it.”

“Huh. Not, uh—dulled or whatever?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, it was. But some things are too strong to be effectively dampened. They cut through.” He glances over Dean’s face for a moment before finally taking a bite of scramble. “This is delicious, by the way.”

Dean blinks. “Thanks,” He replies, and takes a forkful of scramble from his own plate. The pair eat in relative silence for a few minutes, with only the sound of the coffee maker to disturb the quiet that pervades the bunker. When Cas has finished his plate, he places his fork gently across the center of it and folds his arms together on the countertop. Dean pours the coffee.

“How is Sam?”

Dean’s expression doesn’t change much, but Castiel can see his shoulders stiffen. 

“Still breathin’,” Dean answers, glancing up with a tight-lipped smile. He sighs. “I don’t know, Cas. He’s stable but he—I can’t tell if he’s really getting any better or not. He’s never conscious for more than thirty seconds at a time, tops.”

Cas nods, looking down at the steel surface of the counter. “I’m sorry, Dean. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs. “Guess you’ll just have to help in the boring old human way.”

“Oh?” Castiel raises an eyebrow. “And what is the ‘boring old human way?’”

“Monitoring, changing bandages, that kinda stuff.” He takes a swig of coffee. “Doing laundry.”

Cas tilts his head, confused. “How does that help Sam?”

“It doesn’t, I was just hoping I could get you to do it,” Dean replies, smiling into the lip of his mug.

“I could,” Cas says.

Dean practically chokes on his coffee, a little bit dribbling down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand. “What?”

“I don’t mind. Washing my clothes was actually the most enjoyable experience I had while homeless. It was…calming.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “W—uh, okay. Yeah. I guess we can go to the laundromat together, then.”

“The bunker doesn’t have a washer and dryer?” Castiel asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

“It does, but the dryer stopped working a couple days ago. Haven’t gotten the chance to take a crack at fixing it.”

Cas doesn’t reply, simply lifting his mug to take the first sip of coffee. He can’t help but visibly wince at the taste, looking down into the liquid with an expression of betrayal. “It’s bitter,” he says.

Dean lets out a short laugh. “It’s black coffee, bud. It’s supposed to be bitter. Was it not bitter the last time you had it?”

Cas shakes his head slowly, still looking down at the mug. “No, it wasn’t.”

“You don’t like it then?”

Cas lifts his tongue to the roof of his mouth and swallows, considering. After the initial shock of bitterness, the taste and warmth left behind by the coffee is actually not too bad. “I could get used to it,” he answers finally, leaning in for another taste.

*****

The parking by the laundromat is near nonexistent, forcing Dean to park the impala in a vacant church parking lot a few blocks away and have them hoof it the rest of the way with all their laundry in hand. Normally this would only be a slight inconvenience, but Kansas has been having a cold snap as of late, which means that by the time they make it into the building, Castiel’s fingers have turned a mildly concerning shade of purple.

“Huh,” Dean says, setting his basket on one of the stretches of dingy green counter, “Guess you’ve got poor circulation now.”

“Yes,” Cas replies, frowning. “I have to say, this has been one of the less enjoyable aspects of being human.”

He says this a little bit louder than he probably should have, and Dean glances behind where they’re standing to check that no one overheard. Fortunately the place is more or less dead, with only two other patrons—one of whom is wearing earbuds. Cas raises his shoulders slightly in a wordless apology, blowing lightly on his cupped hands to warm them.

Dean opens up one of the washing machines and chucks a basket-load inside, checking the door closed with his shoulder before anything can fall out. He nudges the other basket back toward Castiel with his foot, eyebrows raised expectantly. Cas looks back at him, unblinking.

“What?”

“You said that you knew how to do it, so prove it. Isn’t that the whole reason you offered to come?”

Cas frowns. He bends down towards the basket and carefully transfers its contents into the washer next to the one Dean chose, pours some detergent in the tray, and deposits the correct amount of coins in the payment slot. He then turns back to Dean with the most withering look he can muster.

“Satisfied?” He asks dryly.

“Uh—wow.” Dean chuckles. “I was just teasing you, man, but I’m actually kinda impressed.”

Castiel squints. “Why? It’s not as though I’ve performed some Herculean task. It’s laundry.”

“Well, yeah, but—I’unno…maybe ‘impressed’ isn’t the right word.” 

He doesn’t elaborate what the right word might be, instead crouching down to be at Cas’ level. They sit there for a minute or two, watching the water fill up the basin and slosh around, moving the clothes in front of the glass in a swirl of color. Cas thinks that the movement of it almost resembles flight.

“Hey.” Dean nudges Cas’ shoulder. “It’s almost lunchtime. D’you wanna go out and grab something to eat while the stuff is in the wash?”

Cas glances at him sideways and then back at the washer for a moment. That gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach is back, but he’s not sure if he’d call it hunger or not. It doesn’t feel new enough. But whatever the feeling is, food sounds good regardless. He nods.

“That sounds nice, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean shrugs as he rises from the floor, offering a hand out to pull Cas up from the tile. “S’not like it’s a bad deal for me, either,” he says, laughing a little.

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be nice,” Castiel replies simply.

Dean scratches the back of his head and shrugs again. “Uh, yeah. Guess that’s true.” He pauses. “You’re welcome.”

Cas gives him a small smile (that he’s not entirely sure Dean sees) and follows him back out into the street. He’s glad to leave the laundromat. Though he admittedly doesn’t mind watching the clothes, and the quiet ambient music was pleasant, the overhead lights were too bright, and the smells were extremely overwhelming; a slightly nauseating blend of flowery fabric softener, old coins, and stale cigarette smoke.

They’ve only been walking for a block or so when Dean gestures to a small diner on the strip, eyebrows raised in question. Cas nods, and they step inside. It’s warm, even warmer than Castiel was expecting it to be, the sensation a bit strange with the cold still clinging to his back.

Dean grabs the two of them a booth, and they’ve barely managed to sit down before a waitress is standing by, notepad in hand. Cas instantly tenses upon noticing her, both from her sudden presence at the table and the young woman’s appearance. She’s red-headed, with large eyes and a slight frame, and her hair set in loose curls. It’s not Anna, definitely not, but the similarities are enough to set him on edge.

Dean doesn’t seem nearly as bothered by the not-quite-Anna waitress, but Castiel does notice that familiar, unnerved stiffness in his shoulders.

The not-quite-Anna waitress raises an eyebrow at them, seeming a little unnerved herself. “Well? Are y’all gonna order anything or not?”

Dean furrows his eyebrows. “W—huh? We just got here!”

“It’s a diner,” she says flatly. “Been to one been to ‘em all.”

Dean shoots a disbelieving glance over to Cas before answering. “Could we just—start with a couple of waters first?”

The waitress sighs, pocketing her notebook and tucking her pen behind her left ear. “Sure. Back in a few.”

“The hell was that?” Dean asks, as soon as she’s out of earshot. 

He takes two menus out from the stand in front of the window and passes one to Cas. Cas shrugs as he takes it, trying to keep from pinching his face too much at whatever sticky residue it is that transfers from the laminated page to his fingers.

“Bad day?” He supplies, reaching for a napkin and methodically wiping the menu down.

“I guess,” Dean grumbles. “Haven’t gotten such a judgmental look from someone since—” he pauses, frowning at Castiel’s bemused expression. “Well I guess it wasn’t that long ago. Been a minute since it was a complete stranger, though.”

Cas hums, and after a minute or so of reading the menu, he becomes increasingly aware that Dean is looking at him. Or, in his direction at the very least.

“Dean, I suggest you decide on something to order if you want to avoid another awkward encounter with our very hospitable waitress.”

He doesn’t even need to look up to know that Dean is shifting uncomfortably, shrugging his shoulders back.

“Yeah? How do you know that I haven’t decided on something already?”

Castiel lifts his eyes to Dean’s face. “Have you? What are you getting?”

Dean narrows his eyes at him and scrunches his mouth into a frown, lifting the menu so it obscures part of his profile. Cas can see the tips of his ears turning red and smiles, focusing his attention back on his own menu.

“You’re a smug bastard, you know that?” Dean mutters.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Castiel replies, trying his best to keep his tone as even and unassuming as possible. He absolutely knows what he means.

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but their waitress returns at the same moment, sliding both cups of water smoothly across the tabletop. The straws in each one spin around like they’re dancing.

“Twoooo waters. Any other orders ready?”

Dean clears his throat. “Uh—yeah. I’ll have a burger, medium rare, with a side of fries and a large pepsi. Oh and uh—honey mustard if you got any.”

The waitress (Kara, Castiel notices her name tag reads) nods as she writes the order, and Cas can see that she’s biting the inside of her cheek lightly. She looks up at him a second later, eyebrows raised again but with thorough boredom behind her eyes.

“And you?”

“I’d like the bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich with a side of fries,” he says, and when she looks as though she’s still waiting for him to say something more he adds, “Please.”

Kara simply blinks, furrowing her eyebrows for a moment before turning away with a quiet, “O-kay.”

It’s at this point that Cas notices Dean hiding a smile behind his hand and shoots him a puzzled expression, which only seems to make Dean smile harder.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Nah,” Dean says, breathing out a laugh. “Not exactly. I don’t think she’s used to hearing someone refer to a BLT by its full name.”

“Sorry?” Castiel asks, still lost.

“The sandwich.”

“Oh,” Cas says. “Right.”

Dean taps the tabletop with his index finger a couple of times absently, the silver ring on his pinky clinking quietly against the sun-washed, laminate surface. “Are you good? You seemed kinda—I don’t know—spooked by the waitress or something.”

Cas nods. “I—she reminded me of Anna, I suppose.”

“Yeah…Yeah, me too.” He chews on his lower lip, looking down at his own hands. An unsure silence washes over the booth.

“I’ve been thinking about her a lot recently,” Castiel admits, quietly. “I suppose that’s only natural given my…circumstances.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He just scans his face, waiting.

“I really thought I understood her,” Cas continues, and he smiles a little at his own naivety. “But I—I don’t think I really could have, before now. And even now…” he trails off. “I don’t know. I fell, just as she did, and I assumed that meant we were the same. In a way, at least. But I still had my grace. Anna didn’t just fall, she became human.”

“But you’re human now,” Dean says. “You still feel like you don’t understand her?”

“I think…I’m learning. Slowly. But her vessel—her body—she grew up in it. She was human for over two decades, with no memory of her former existence.” He pauses. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fully comprehend that, even if I live the rest of my life like this. I still feel like this body is…borrowed.”

“That’s—” Dean scratches his neck, blowing a rough sigh out. “Yeah, that’s tough. Sorry I know that’s—it’s not really helpful commentary.”

Cas shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. I appreciate you even just listening. I don’t think there’s a real solution to any of this, so…the listening is enough. More than enough.”

Dean clears his throat. “Okay. Well, I can listen. I can do that.”

Castiel knows he’s in danger of smiling then and, not wanting to be asked why, he simply looks out the window at the cars passing by on Main Street.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Dean says after a minute.

“Besides that one?” Cas teases. And then, when Dean gives him a look, “Of course.”

“Why a BLT?”

It’s definitely not the question Cas was expecting. Not that he was expecting any specific question, but he thought it might be closer to the preceding topic, at the very least.

He shrugs. “I’ve had all the ingredients in it before; I’ve had sandwiches. It seemed the safest bet.”

Dean tilts his head and casts his eyes up a second. “Fair.”

“Why?” Cas asks. “What were you expecting me to order?”

“I dunno, honestly. It’s not what you ordered so much as like…how sure you were about it, I guess.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I dunno,” he repeats.

Castiel hums, looking over Dean’s face carefully. “I see.”

Dean squirms, ever so slightly. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“Like what?” Cas counters innocently.

“I don’t know. Like you’re…studyin’ me or something.”

“I’m often studying,” Cas replies.

Dean’s eyebrows jump up for a second. “That’s ominous,” he says.

“Hm.” He glances out the window again, the corners of his mouth turning up just a bit. “I suppose I retained a bit of my edge after all.”

Dean laughs at that, which Castiel was not anticipating at all. He shifts his gaze back to him quickly, and then away again before Dean can see him looking. His eyes crinkle when he laughs. It makes Cas’ mouth feel like cotton.

When he comments on one of the cars driving past, Dean spends the next few minutes telling him the make, model, and year of each one that goes by. It’s not a topic Cas is particularly interested in himself, and he has no way of knowing whether Dean is actually right or not, but he enjoys listening to it all the same. Sometimes, Castiel thinks he would enjoy just about anything Dean had to tell him.

Cas smells the food before he sees it, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in anticipation. Goosebumps are one of the few “human” features that angels continue to possess while inhabiting a vessel, but Castiel has never felt them in this kind of capacity—as a sign of excitement, rather than danger.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Kara warns Dean, setting the platter in front of him before handing Cas his.

“Thanks,” Dean replies, at the same time Cas says “Thank you.”

“Sure.” She turns and disappears back behind the counter.

“Y’know, she’s kinda growin’ on me,” Dean comments, lifting his burger to his mouth. 

Cas isn’t sure if he’s being serious or not. Dean closes his eyes as he chews, letting out a small contented sound that’s a cross between a sigh and a moan. Cas still hasn’t picked his sandwich up. After a moment, Dean opens one eye and swallows.

“Are you gonna eat?” He asks, a tinge of amusement to his tone. There’s something else there, too—Castiel can’t decipher it.

He blinks down at his food. “Oh—right. Sorry. I’m still adjusting to that.”

“That must be a perk, right? Getting to eat with people instead of just watching ‘em do it.”

Cas nods, but only because he doesn’t know how to begin to explain why he disagrees with the statement. He’s not even so certain he knows himself. When he was still an angel, Dean could pass Cas’ watching off as something inherently alien—something he did to better observe and understand humanity. It was treated that way so frequently that Cas even began to believe it himself. But sitting in this booth, in his very human body with his very human mind and human instincts, Castiel knows it’s something else entirely. What if I watched you because I wanted to? What if I watch you because I want to? He can feel the gnawing in the pit of his stomach again; maybe hunger is the right word after all.

*****

Making a bed, Castiel decides, is the bane of human existence. He’d managed to get two corners of the fitted sheet on the mattress before noticing that it was sideways, and then once it was flipped the correct way, he proceeded to spend the next five minutes fighting to keep one corner tucked while he fitted the next one. The top sheet was far simpler, though it did take several adjustments to get it to lay symmetrically over the mattress, and one of the attempts managed to pull a corner of the fitted sheet loose again (furthermore, Cas couldn’t fathom why the fitted sheet seemed to be slightly too small for the mattress, but the top sheet seemed too long, some of the fabric hanging off the end towards the floor).

Nevertheless, the bed did get made, Castiel laying in the center of it once he’d finished, arms out on either side of him and still slightly sweating from the combined effort and frustration. But even despite that, there was a strange sense of accomplishment underneath it all as well. It was mostly drowned out by the annoyance and lingering embarrassment, but even so. Maybe he could be useful like this after all.

“Cas?”

Cas doesn’t attempt to sit up at all, just cracks one eye open and glances over toward the door frame. Dean is standing there with a curious expression, the green flannel he was wearing earlier tied around his waist.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Are you—were you napping? I can come back later.”

Cas shakes his head. “Just resting.” He frowns. “Making the bed is tiring.”

Dean gives a little laugh at that, a sort of sharp exhale through his nose. “I’m taking a little bit of a break from messing around with the dryer, thought I might start on some dinner.”

“Alright.” Cas sits up on the edge of the bed and blinks, puzzled. “Then why are you here?”

“To—are you serious?” Dean asks. Castiel can’t tell if he’s amused, annoyed, or both. “To get your input on what to make, man. I’m not making dinner for just me.”

“Oh.” Cas furrows his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Cause it’s—that’s just not what you do when you live with someone! You make dinner to share.” Dean seems to be getting progressively more flustered, the sides of his cheeks turning red.

“Why doesn’t the same rule apply to other meals?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, man. It just doesn’t.”

There’s no real snap to his tone, but Cas decides to drop it anyway. “Well, I’m not sure I’ll be very helpful to you here, anyway. I’m sure I’ll like anything you make just fine.”

Dean nods. “I can work with that.” He continues standing in the doorway, his jaw set stiffly in the way Dean sometimes does when he wants to say something more, but isn’t quite sure how.

“Was there something else you needed?” Cas prompts. He tries his best to sound casual, not pushy or prying.

“W—I thought maybe if you were bored, you could come hang out with me while I cook. If you want.”

Cas looks back at him. He can tell from the thinly veiled expression of hope in Dean’s eyes that this offer for company is much more for his benefit than it is for Cas’, but Cas also knows that pointing this fact out is only going to upset him. Evidently he’s been staring too long, because Dean starts talking again.

“Uh, but if you’re busy then I can—”

“Dean,” Cas cuts in, a little more forcefully than he intended. He sees Dean swallow. “I’d be more than happy to join you,” he finishes, tone considerably softer.

Some of the tension melts from Dean’s shoulders, and he smiles. “Awesome,” he replies, and turns to go.

Cas rises from the bed to follow him, but stops short when he is suddenly and uncomfortably reminded of his sweaty state of being. “Actually—” he begins, and feels a twinge of guilt at Dean’s brief look of disappointment before continuing. “I’d like to take a shower first, if that’s alright.”

Dean’s expression clears again. “Oh, yeah, of course. Uh—enjoy.” He raps his knuckles on the door a little awkwardly and walks away.

Cas fishes a clean t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants out from the top drawer of his bureau and heads for the shower room, trying not to feel too unnerved by the dim, almost unnaturally quiet hallways as he walks down them. Once inside, he winces a little at the clinging sensation of his clothes as he peels them off of his body before stepping into the stall.

Showers, that’s another thing Castiel enjoys about being human. He wasn’t sure that he would, having heard about and observed them before, but the sensation is just as pleasant as he’d heard it described, if not more so. He lifts his face up toward the stream, eyes closed as he lets the hot water thoroughly cleanse the sweat from his brow and chest. The steam wraps around him like a warm blanket, and Cas sighs contentedly into it. 

He’s relieved to rid the last traces of laundromat smell from his body, and is even happier to learn that none of it seems to have transferred to his newly washed clothes. Well—he says “his” clothes, but technically they’re borrowed from Dean until they can get out to buy Cas some of his own. Most of Dean’s clothes fit him pretty well, but he doesn’t have an extensive wardrobe by any means, and a few of the pants in particular have been a bit too tight for comfort. Something true even in loungewear, evidently, Cas can’t help but muse as he slips the sweatpants on. They’re wearable, certainly, but there’s a familiar feeling of tension where the fabric sits on his thighs. He frowns, but ultimately declares the outfit acceptable and makes his way to the kitchen.

When he gets there, Dean is standing in front of the stove mixing what looks like a mass of ground beef around in a pan, glancing back and forth between the food and the clock. After a minute he adds water and what looks like some sort of tomato sauce to the mixture, along with a couple of teaspoons of other ingredients that Cas can’t quite identify from his spot by the doorway.

“What’re you making?” He asks finally.

Dean turns his head to answer with that charming, slightly cocky smile he does, when something falters in his expression and he almost drops the pepper shaker in his hand. “Uh—’m making meat sauce for baked ziti,” he replies, tilting his head toward a bowl on the opposite counter filled with steaming penne. He clears his throat. “Was your shower good?”

Castiel hums. “It was very nice. I’m beginning to understand why people spend so much time in there.”

Dean reduces the heat on the burner and turns to look back at him. “Uh-huh,” is all he says, tone indecipherable.

“It smells good, by the way—the sauce.”

Dean grins, pleased. “Thanks. Think it might turn out to be my best batch yet.”

Cas smiles back fondly and fully enters the room, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Dean just stands, arms crossed, leaning against the counter. Cas raises an eyebrow at him curiously.

“Are you not going to continue making dinner?” he asks.

“Hm? Oh—no it’s gotta simmer for ten minutes before I can do the next step.”

“I see.” A slightly awkward silence passes. “How’s—” Cas stops himself before asking after Sam, knowing that if there had been any major change Dean would have told him. “The dryer,” he finishes, hoping Dean doesn’t comment on the obvious pause.

“Uh, yeah, it’s—I’m getting there. If I work at it some more tomorrow I think it’ll be all set in no time.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Why? I thought you said you liked going to the laundromat.”

“I said I liked washing my clothes,” Cas corrects. “The laundromat was a necessary evil.”

Dean smiles and ducks his head.

“But going out was nice,” he adds.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Cas confirms. “I especially liked the diner, though I do kind of regret not ordering a burger like you did. It looked good.”

Dean wrinkles his nose slightly. “Aw, man, don’t. It really wasn’t that great.”

“Really?” Castiel raises an eyebrow, vividly recalling the sound Dean had made after taking the first bite. “You seemed to be enjoying it to me.”

Dean shrugs, an expression on his face that Cas can’t quite read. “I was hungry,” he answers simply.

“Okay,” is all Cas replies with. He isn’t convinced.

“I’ll make you some of my homemade burgers sometime,” Dean says. “Then you’ll see.”

“How will I know that they’re really that much better if I have nothing to compare them to?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll take you back to the diner first, and then I’ll make you one here. Satisfied?”

Cas smiles, pleased with himself. “Very.”

Another silence washes over the room, considerably easier than the last. After several minutes Dean starts to shift in place. That same expression from earlier, like he wants to speak but isn’t sure how.

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

“Do you have something you want to say? You seem…antsy.”

Dean thinks on it for a second, then clears his throat. “Actually, yeah. Yeah. Earlier today, you talked about starting to understand Anna, but you didn’t…” he exhales sharply, looking for the right words. “Are you happy? Like this?”

Castiel furrows his eyebrows slightly. “I’m…not sure I understand.”

“Are you happy being human?” 

Something in his tone makes Cas’ stomach drop, but he’s not entirely sure what the emotion tied to it is. Guilt? Gratitude?

“I’m not unhappy,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you to think I’m unhappy.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Dean responds. The reminder is surprisingly gentle.

“I don’t know how to answer,” Cas says honestly. “I wasn’t happy as an angel either, but it was who I was. I’ve lost such a large part of myself, it’s difficult. I’m not…useful, as I am now.”

Dean looks indignant. “That’s bullshit. And who said you have to be ‘useful’ to be happy?”

“Don’t tell me it’s bullshit,” Cas replies, bristling. “You know you’d feel the exact same way if you couldn’t be of use.”

Dean still looks like he wants to argue, jaw clenched and eyes looking intensely over Castiel’s face, but he doesn’t say anything else. Cas sighs quietly, turning so that he’s facing Dean, one arm hooked over the back of his chair.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s not the answer you wanted. But rest assured, I’m not devastated any more than I am happy. I’ll survive.”

Dean gives an attempt at a smile (and he’s almost successful), but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay.”

The timer on the stove goes off, breaking whatever remaining tension there was lingering in the room. Cas had almost forgotten that food was being made. He watches with interest as Dean turns the burner off, lifting the sauce-filled pan above the bowl of penne and pouring about half of the contents over before setting it back down on the stovetop. He gently tosses it all together with two wooden spoons and then seems to stall for a moment, scanning the space.

“What is it?” Cas asks.

“Uh—” Dean pauses, looking slightly abashed. “I think this might be too heavy for me to hold it over the dish and spoon it into it at the same time. Can you come give me a hand?”

The corners of Cas’ mouth quirk up as he pushes up from the table. “Of course.” 

“Thanks. Do you wanna lift or scoop?”

“Oh—scoop, I suppose.”

“Scoop it is.” Dean hands him one of the spoons from the bowl, placing the other in the sink to his left. He then raises the pasta bowl over the glass casserole dish, lifting one shoulder in a “ready” gesture to Cas. Cas obliges and comes to stand fully next to him, pondering the best angle for a moment before reaching his arm under one of Dean’s, the two lightly brushing against each other. From this proximity, Castiel can smell his aftershave, woody and a bit citrusy. He can feel the tension again, but the tone of it has completely changed.

It takes a bit of effort on his part to step away, watching with a heavy warmth in his chest as Dean smooths the penne around in the dish and pours the rest of the sauce mixture over top of it. When he’s done he dusts his hands together and looks over at Cas with a dimpled grin.

“Just gotta add the ricotta and the shredded cheese, and then it can go in. Wanna help with that, too?”

Cas nods, accepting the container of ricotta when it’s handed to him. He adds a few dollops to the dish as instructed, and looks on with interest as Dean sprinkles the shredded cheese after, a strange kind of focus across his features. It’s silly, but Cas is flooded with such a strong bout of affection then, he can’t let it pass without saying something.

“Dean?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

Dean laughs a bit at that, but sobers a little when he looks into his face, confronted with the full earnestness of the statement. “What for?”

And Cas, unable to articulate all he means in that statement, simply says, “Nothing in particular. Just thank you.”

 Castiel has been cozied up in bed reading for nearly two hours when he decides he’d like a cup of tea, something to maybe make getting to sleep a little easier than it has been up to this point (sleeping? Easy. Waking up? Even easier. Getting to sleep? Near impossible). He decides to swing by Dean’s room to ask if he’d like something as well, and his curiosity is piqued when he notices that the door is almost completely open. He doesn’t see Dean right away, but the second he does it’s as though somebody took a mallet straight to his stomach.

He’s standing at the foot of his bed shaking a fitted sheet out, shirtless and sporting a pair of loose flannel pajama pants that hang low on the hips. Castiel hangs back on the wall, debating whether to power through and interrupt Dean’s routine, or just abort and make his tea without offering anything. Instead, he stays frozen on the spot for several minutes, just watching. He is trying to make a decision, really, but it’s hard not to get…distracted. And not just because of Dean himself, but from the way he’s making the bed in particular.

There’s a surety to his movements that’s almost hypnotizing, fitting a corner in one swift motion before moving right on to the next, four in quick succession without so much as a hiccup or wrinkle. He starts on the top sheet next, airing it out four times over the mattress before seemingly finding a spread he’s happy with. He pulls it just slightly over to the left and then smooths the whole thing over with his palms before lifting the mattress a bit and tucking the ends in where they hang down. There’s a simultaneous precision and nonchalance to all of his gestures, the distinct mark of a task that’s been well practiced over the years, but which still requires a certain brand of focus. 

Castiel’s initial jolt of attraction mixes with something else now, a deep-seated tenderness that settles warmly through every bone in his body. It makes his chest ache; the kind of melancholy you almost can’t help wanting to embrace. How curious, he thinks, for something like love to make you feel so alive and so full of sorrow at the same time. How incredibly human.

He watches Dean for a couple seconds more before backing away quietly in the direction he came, and setting his course toward the kitchen. The tea, it turns out, does help, and Cas is out within the hour. He doesn’t remember much of his dreams the next morning, aside from the distant impression of touch from weathered, meticulous hands.

*****

Castiel hasn’t told Dean, but he’s been starting to forget things lately. A human mind can only hold so much inside of it at once—Cas can practically feel whole years of his life being leached from his head. He hadn’t even noticed it at first, was the thing. So preoccupied with what was happening in the moment that everything else simply faded into the background. The physical changes especially had been so jarring that Castiel hadn’t even begun to consider the mental ones.

In the first week he’d tried hard to write things down, keep a record to remind himself, but he soon found that he’d recall a memory entirely differently when reading entries back, and he couldn’t be sure which version of events was more accurate. So, he stopped. And he let himself forget.

At first, he didn’t even really notice what was gone. He and Dean haven’t been going on cases, and nothing else he’s been doing would require any sort of vast well of knowledge, so the loss doesn’t even feel like much of a loss. Out of sight, out of mind. That is—until they go to the library.

Sam had been improving lately. Awake for much longer bouts of time, eating and talking at a pace closer to normal every day. But his body was still nowhere near back in top shape, so he remained bedridden; and bored out of his mind. Cas had suggested getting him some books from the library as a nice thing to do and a way to help pass the time, but honestly it was just as much for him as it was for Sam. He was starting to feel claustrophobic in the bunker (he thinks distantly and mournfully of the analogy of a caged bird), especially with little escape from the brotherly squabbling that seemed almost constant now that Sam was awake. If he wasn’t around to hear it directly, Dean would complain about it to him later.

Cas hadn’t considered what the library would bring to light until Dean is leaning over and pointing to a sentence written in Welsh inside a large, leather-bound book.

“Hey, whats’at say?”

Cas blinks, his stomach sinking, and shelves the book he’d just finished skimming. “I don’t know,” he answers, careful not to look Dean in the eyes.

Dean scoffs. “What do you mean you don’t know? Don’t—I thought you knew every language.”

Cas swallows thickly. “Emphasis on knew ,” he says. “Ever since I lost my grace, I’ve started…forgetting things.”

“What?!” Dean exclaims, just a little too loudly. He gets a few dirty looks from other patrons around them, and Cas tugs sharply on his sleeve in reprimand. “Forgetting what? Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands. The tone is quieter, but just as intense.

“It wasn’t—it didn’t seem important. We’re not going on cases, I didn’t think it was relevant—”

“You didn’t think it was relevant? Jesus Christ, Cas, things can be relevant even if they don’t relate to the job.”

“Well, forgive me if I have a hard time believing it,” Cas snaps, surprising even himself with how bitterly the retort comes out.

Dean just looks at him for a second, stunned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything,” Cas grinds out. He turns to continue walking down the aisle, but Dean catches him by the wrist. Not forcefully, but enough to make him stop.

“Damn it, Cas, just—”

“Dean.” Cas turns his head back to look at him. “Please. I don’t want to talk about this now.” He doesn’t have much (or really any) practice talking around the threat of tears, and it shows, his voice going thin at the end. Something in Dean’s expression immediately startles, and he drops Cas’ wrist gently.

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs, and continues on his path down the aisle. Dean stays where he’s standing.

They don’t talk again until nearly halfway through the drive back to the bunker.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Cas says. He glances at Dean sideways, who tightens his hands on the wheel for a moment before sighing.

“No, it’s—I overreacted.”

Cas hums. “Maybe. But I still should’ve told you.” Dean doesn’t say anything. “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I just—” he smiles sadly down at his own hands, “to be honest, I was trying not to think about it at all.”

Dean meets his gaze when he looks up again, and his expression softens. “I didn’t mean to upset you or anything, I was just…I dunno—spooked?”

Cas nods slowly. “I confess, I was also…spooked. And it’s not just because of the possibility of being rendered useless, it’s…knowingly losing pieces of myself. Again.” He exhales steadily and looks out the passenger-side window up at the sky, bright blue and patterned with stratus clouds. “I used to know the names of every angel in every single language, both known and unknown to mankind. Now I find myself struggling to remember even those who served under me.”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean responds, so softly that Cas almost doesn’t hear him. There’s a heaviness to his voice when he says it.

“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you,” he repeats. “But there’s nothing you or I can do to help it, and I didn’t want to worry you with it. Especially with Sam—”

“I can worry about more than one thing at a time,” Dean interrupts. He sounds more sincere than he does angry, but there’s still a thin ribbon of annoyance laced into the words.

“I know that,” Cas replies. “I’m saying you don’t need to.”

“Well, tough.”

“What?”

“When I care about people, I worry about ‘em. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me so…tough.”

Cas is stuck between the intense desires to either pinch or kiss him (or maybe both), but seeing as neither are advisable options, he settles for biting back a smile and clenching his fist so hard that his fingernails dig marks into his palm.

“That’s an awfully petulant way of saying you care about me,” Cas finally comments.

“Oh, shut up,” Dean retorts, but there’s so much fondness in it that he can’t even contain his smile.

*****

Cas isn’t sure exactly what compels him, but on one Thursday afternoon, he finds himself walking into town. He would’ve asked Dean for a ride normally, but after coming across him taking a nap in his room, Cas decided it would be best to go on foot instead. The walk isn’t long, and if he was being honest, he really did miss being outside in the fresh air (though perhaps he would’ve preferred slightly warmer weather).

He hadn’t really had much of a plan initially; wander around a bit, maybe buy a book or some sort of tchotchke from a local shop, but somewhere along the way he gets the idea to make dinner for the three of them, and from that point on he just can’t shake it. Dean is clearly feeling tired, and Sam still isn’t well enough to cook a whole meal—it’s a perfect solution.

That is, it would be a perfect solution if Cas knew how to cook. He knows Jimmy did, but with Jimmy no longer inhabiting the vessel anymore, Cas’ access to those memories are no more than distant flashes at this point. More than likely not enough to remember an entire ingredient list for a recipe, let alone how to make it.

Cas frowns. If he could just remember a dish first…then maybe he’d know the ingredients when he saw them. And he’d figure out the “how to cook it” part once he was back at the bunker. He thinks he might recall something…there was something Jimmy thought of after getting shot, when Castiel was moving from his daughter’s vessel back to him, a memory of some meal he had made for her when she was sick. He’s almost certain now that it was a soup, but he can’t quite think of the name—something with potatoes?

He’s focusing so hard on trying to remember that he completely stops paying attention to where he’s walking, narrowly avoiding a full on collision with another person on the sidewalk. Castiel apologizes quickly as he passes, to which the other man just replies with a disdainful sniff. Cas watches him walk away for a second, squinting in minor offense, before turning and realizing that he’s ended up stopping directly in front of a small grocery store.

The inside of the shop is cozy—small without feeling claustrophobic, with walls painted a warm, inviting shade of yellow. The store is also warm in a very literal sense, making Cas suddenly aware of how cold he’s become on his walk. He rubs his hands together and blows on them as the cashier greets him with a smile and short wave, which he returns. The cashier then goes back to reading the magazine propped up in front of her, and Cas continues trying to remember all of the ingredients for the soup as he meanders through the aisles of the shop.

This task takes much longer than intended. Not because Castiel is doing a poor job recalling what he needs (he’s actually doing surprisingly well), but because he’s also incredibly curious about everything in the shop, stopping at nearly every item to read, smell, or hold it. He remembers being fascinated by grocery stores as an angel as well, but there was always a distance to it. The fascination a scientist might feel studying the food systems of ant colonies; complex and impressive? Yes. Tempting? Maybe not so much. But now —now these are things Cas could ostensibly eat. Everything is captivating in an entirely new light.

He starts picking up speed when he notices that the cashier seems to be getting a little restless as she waits for him to finish, shifting back and forth in her seat and making frequent glances at the clock hanging to her left. When he manages to make it up to the counter, she smiles again. It’s not disingenuous, but Cas can see the tiredness behind it.

“I apologize for taking such a long time. I haven’t—” he stops himself, realizing he’s not entirely sure how to explain himself. “I haven’t been here before,” he finishes. “And I was having some trouble remembering all the ingredients I needed.”

The cashier nods and smiles once more, scanning all the items through with ease. “Forget your list at home?” she asks.

Cas nods. “Something like that. Really I just didn’t make one in the first place. This was kind of a spontaneous decision on my part.”

“Ooh, spontaneous! Anything special?”

Castiel thinks on it, frowning. “Yes and no.” 

He doesn’t elaborate any more than that, and the cashier simply lifts her eyes and scrunches her mouth up in a facial expression that Cas has begun to understand as meaning something like “alright”. She finishes bagging all of the groceries and hands the bag over to him along with the receipt. 

“All set. Have a nice evening, hun.”

Cas smiles gently at her as he takes the bag, and quickly reads her nametag. “Thank you, Jen. You as well.”

When Castiel gets back, Dean is nowhere to be found, and the impala isn’t parked in the garage. That’s definitely strange—Dean hardly ever just ups and leaves without any kind of message about why or where he’s going, especially lately with Sam still recuperating. Cas feels mildly perturbed by it, but seeing as there’s not really anything he can do, he decides to push it aside for the time being and start on prep for the soup.

It’s slow going, but he gets through chopping most of the vegetables without incident, coming away with only a minor cut on his right index finger. He wishes he could say the rest of it went that well, but that would be a reach of significant proportions. First, he mixes up the salt and pepper measurements, adding two teaspoons of salt when there was only meant to be one (and optional at that), only to then realize that he made the mistake of buying chicken broth instead of beef broth. He has no idea what that will do to the recipe—if anything—but it’s already in the pot and mixed with the other ingredients, so there’s nothing he can do about it now.

He’s just covering the crockpot when he hears the front entrance to the bunker open, the noise of it loud and sharp even from a distance. Castiel waits a moment, hearing quick shuffling and then someone walking down the hall at a brisk speed, relaxing considerably when he hears a familiar voice call,

“Sam?”

Cas pokes out from the kitchen doorway as Dean rounds the corner, making the other man stop short in his tracks. “He’s not up, I checked already.” He pauses, confused by Dean’s face staring back at him in awe, mouth open. “Where were you?”

“Wh—where was I? Where were you , Cas?! You left without saying a single goddamn thing! I’ve been out there looking for you, I only came back here now to let Sam know what was going on and pick up some weapons!”

“Oh.”

“Oh? Oh? ” Dean’s voice wavers with barely contained rage. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Cas?! Have you not noticed that we’re in danger here? You can’t just leave and not say anything!”

“I am not a child, Dean,” Cas snaps. “If something had happened I could’ve—”

“Oh, could’ve what? ” Dean interrupts, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Could’ve beat their asses? On your own? Newsflash, Cas! You’re not an angel anymore!”

He near shouts the last part, face flushed and fists clenched at his sides, and a thick silence follows it, laying in the air between them. The cut on Cas’ finger throbs, and every other awful feeling comes crashing down next to it, until the overflow of it all is too strong for his body to bear any longer. So Castiel cries.

It’s certainly not anywhere near full on sobbing, but it might as well be to Cas. In all his (now many) weeks as a human, he hasn’t cried a single time. The sheer surprise of it is almost enough to give him pause, but it’s drowned out by the deep twisting in his chest—a seething concoction of anger and grief and about a thousand other things that he’s been shoving roughly under the surface.

The shift in Dean’s body language is almost immediate—eyes widening in panic, lifting his arms in a cross between defensiveness and a gesture of comfort. Cas has never seen him react to anything like this, unable to decide whether he finds it sweet, aggravating, or vaguely humorous. Perhaps it’s a mix of all three.

“No, no, no, no, no, hey!” Dean says quickly, waving his hands back and forth to emphasize the words. He sounds thoroughly freaked out. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I didn’t—please don’t cry. I wasn’t trying to—that was really shitty of me to say. I was just—you scared me,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t know where you were.”

Cas just shakes his head, incapable of speaking at all. He tries to take a steadying breath, but that only pushes everything up further, warm tears running down his burning cheeks to pool under his chin. He closes his eyes against it, wiping his face with the back of his hand and taking a few short, deep breaths. He looks back up into Dean’s mortified expression, and he almost laughs.

“I’m sorry,” he manages weakly, followed by a wet sniffle.

“No, don’t—you don’t need to apologize, Cas. I’m—I’m a dick.”

Cas smiles gently. “You were worried,” he responds gently.

“You can be worried and not be a dick about it,” Dean mutters.

“You’ll notice I didn’t contradict you on that point.”

“Ouch,” Dean says, placing a hand over his heart. “But—fair.” Cas raises his hand to wipe his eyes more thoroughly, and Dean’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “What happened to your finger?”

“Oh, I–” Cas lowers his hand again to get a closer look at the cut, “I was trying to make dinner and I nicked it with the knife.”

“Dinner?” Dean echoes, saying the word like it’s foreign to him.

“Yes,” Cas says slowly. “That’s where I was while I was gone. I was at the store getting ingredients for soup. I fear I may have wrecked it, though.”

Dean closes his eyes, looking almost pained. “Jesus,” he breathes out. “Now I feel like even more of an asshole.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, just flicks his eyes over Dean’s face as he stands there, not sure what to do. When Dean opens his eyes suddenly, he almost startles. 

“Wait here just a moment,” Dean says, holding a finger up and backing away down the hall.

“Why? Where are you—”

“Just a few seconds, I promise!” Dean calls over his shoulder.

Cas sighs long-sufferingly but plays along anyway, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. Dean appears a few seconds later as promised, holding a band-aid, a small cloth, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Castiel shoots him a look.

“Dean, this really isn’t necessary. It barely even bled.”

“We don’t have any idea how susceptible you are to infection,” Dean says stubbornly. “C’mon, it’ll take two seconds. Go sit down at the table.”

Cas grumbles disagreeably, but he does sit. “I used to be able to take stab wounds through the chest without flinching,” he gripes, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the peroxide as Dean pours a little on the cloth, “And now a miniscule cut on one finger is enough to put all my affairs on hold.”

Dean just gives a small smile and holds the cloth out with one hand, using the other to ask Cas for his.

“You’re joking,” Castiel says flatly.

“No, I’m not. Give me your finger.”

“I’m perfectly capable of putting on my own bandage, thank you.”

“I know you are.”

“Then why won’t you let me?” Cas retorts.

“It heals faster when someone else does it,” Dean answers. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Not even knowing how to begin to argue with that, Cas holds his injured hand out reluctantly, keeping the other tucked over his chest. Dean takes it gently, dabbing the cloth over the cut gingerly. If he notices Cas’ eye twitch from the sting then he doesn’t mention it. When he’s done, he opens the wrapper with his teeth and wraps the band-aid around the finger with careful focus.

“There,” he says, flashing a quick smile. “Perfect.”

Cas retracts his hand slowly and clears his throat. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” He stands from the table, and it looks like he’s going to leave, but then he spots something on the counter and glances back at Cas with his eyebrows furrowed. “You said you ruined a soup?”

Cas groans in embarrassment, putting his face in his hands. “It was going alright for a minute there,” he laments.

“What did you do to it?” Dean asks. His tone is both amused and genuinely curious.

“I added twice the amount of salt the recipe called for, and I used chicken broth instead of beef.”

Dean looks between Cas and the soup expectantly, waiting for him to continue. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Cas answers. “It’s salvageable?”

Dean laughs. “Buddy, it’s more than salvageable!” He walks over to the crockpot and peers in. “Is this everything that’s going in it?”

Cas shakes his head. “I have to add sour cream and bacon later.”

“Oh, even better! Listen, all you gotta do to cut the salt is add a little extra sour cream and a bit of water. Maybe even a pinch of lemon juice. You’ll be golden.”

Cas sighs in relief. “Oh, good. I really didn’t want to make a whole other meal.” He furrows his eyebrows. “What about the broth?”

“People use chicken broth as a substitute for beef all the time. It’s not gonna taste the same as it would have, but it should be fine. Might even be better, who knows.”

“Thank God,” Cas exhales, tilting his head back. When he opens his eyes, Dean is looking back at him. His expression is muddled, guilt-ridden and warm and something else all wrapped up together.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, looking down at his hands.

“I know,” Cas replies softly. “Thank you.”

Dean nods, chewing on his bottom lip.

“It’s really going to be okay?” Castiel asks.

“What?”

“The soup,” he clarifies. “It’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding. “Yeah, I think so.”

*****

Cas is beginning to adjust to the lightness. He still notices it, of course, but it doesn’t feel as disconcerting as it once did. It’s almost…nice, in some ways. Like what he imagines getting a fresh haircut must feel like when you’ve been growing it out your whole life. But he will admit, he misses his wings dearly. The absence of them makes it feel as though his back is constantly exposed, without any way to escape it. He’s started standing as close as possible to walls or large furniture when he can—almost subconsciously—just to combat that creeping notion of vulnerability.

This is difficult to do in the bunker’s library (the term “library” used liberally here; it’s four bookshelves total, and one of them is being used primarily for the Men of Letters old files, along with Dean’s collection of Good Housekeeping magazines and crossword puzzle books that he thinks nobody else knows about). There are two shelves on either side of the room, and the shelves that occupy the same side are spaced so far apart from each other that if you’re actually trying to look at the books on one shelf, your back is going to be nowhere near the other. Not only that, but the only sofa and table in the room are placed dead center, not resting against any walls. The one saving grace is that at the very least, the sofa is facing towards the door rather than away from it.

Despite this, the library is one of Castiel’s favorite places in the bunker. It’s softer, with completely wooden furniture and a carpeted floor, and the combination of that with all of the books lends the whole room a warm and pleasant musty smell that contrasts the slightly metallic overtones in the rest of the bunker. And while many of the books contain things that are of no interest to him (he’s quite happy with his current grasp on monster lore and mythology, thank you), he’s managed to sift through and find some gems.

There’s a handful of Vonneguts, a collection of short stories, a book on the history of Lebanon, Kansas, and even some original edition classics like To Kill A Mockingbird and Their Eyes Were Watching God (among a few others). And hell, Cas will enjoy a Good Housekeeping magazine from time to time. But his absolute favorite find so far has been an old art book published in the early 60s, large and leather-bound, with gold detailing on the cover. It’s his most recent discovery, and now every time he comes into the library with the intention of finding something new, he just ends up with the art book in his lap again.

“What’re you doing?”

Cas looks up from his page, a bit startled. Dean is leaning against the doorframe.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to spook ya.”

“Oh. No, you’re—you didn’t,” Cas assures him, shaking his head. “I was just sucked in.” He lifts the art book in gesture.

“Yeah?” 

Dean comes to stand over his shoulder, and Cas shows him the page. It’s a landscape painting, an aerial shot of a village in winter, with townsfolk gathered on the frozen river to skate. They both look over it quietly for a moment before Dean crouches down behind the couch to get a better look. He gives a low whistle, pointing to something in the bottom corner of the page.

“1565? I didn’t even know ice skating had been around that long. I would’ve thought it popped up around…Jesus, I don’t even know. Late 1800’s?”

Cas hums. “I’ll admit, I was a bit taken aback as well. Then again, nearly every human invention feels as though it’s happened too soon for me.”

“So you didn’t…know already?”

“No.” Cas shakes his head. “I mean, maybe at some point, but—no. I didn’t know.”

Dean says nothing. Cas just sees him nod slightly in his peripheral, and then place his chin on top of where his hands are lying flat against the edge of the sofa back.

“I remember the first time I saw it, though,” Cas says softly after a minute. His mouth turns up fondly at the memory.

“What?” He doesn’t even need to look at Dean to know he’s furrowing his eyebrows. “When?”

“It was before I was—” Cas gestures to his body.

“What? Human?”

“No. Well—I mean, yes, but no. It was before I was in this vessel.” He pauses. “In the early 1900’s, I was given an assignment on earth along with a few other angels—in Maine, specifically. This assignment was a little different to what we were used to, and was given to us on much shorter notice, which caused a slight problem in the procuring of vessels. I was the first to arrive on earth, and thus had to simply sit tight and wait for the rest of the angels to follow.

This proved to be…quite challenging for a couple of the others, which meant that I was stationed in Maine for a few months before we managed to actually carry the assignment out. I arrived in mid January, so I had to live through most of the winter there. And there was this one particular afternoon early on…the children got let out of school early, and a bunch of them decided they wanted to go skating on the local river before the sun went down. 

I only knew this because I was outside at the time, and could hear them a mile away when they were talking about it. I considered leaving so I wouldn’t run into them, but I was so intrigued by what exactly ‘skating’ was that I stuck around. A few teenagers and adults ended up accompanying the children, and I remembered being so enthralled by the differences in the way they moved across the ice. I didn’t really realize it at the time, but it wasn’t just fascination I was feeling then; it was appreciation, too. The concept was so wonderfully bizarre—so uniquely human.”

He finally turns his head to look at Dean properly, who’s watching his profile with rapt attention. He doesn’t say anything at first, seemingly lost in thought, an expression on his face that Castiel can’t quite read (something which has become commonplace as of late).

“What is it?” he asks after a moment.

“I didn’t realize you’d spent so much time on earth before—uh, before grabbing me from hell,” Dean says quietly.

Cas shakes his head. “I was on earth, but it rarely ever felt like I was truly here. Like…the difference between going to a zoo and actually living amongst animals in the wild.” He smiles sadly. “I’ve never gotten to skate, myself. I think I’d like to try someday.”

Dean just gives a small nod, looking back at the painting over Cas’ shoulder. “It really is a sight, huh?” He murmurs, and Cas hums in agreement.

*****

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Dean frowns. “Now where would be the fun in that?”

“Maybe fun shouldn’t outweigh consideration,” Cas retorts.

“Awww, come onnn,” Dean says, pouting. “It’s a surprise! You’ll like it, I promise.”

Cas squints. “I’ll like anything more than this. Please don’t ever make me walk uphill in freezing temperatures again.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond smile playing on his lips. “You’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t be fine,” Cas answers. “You may not be so lucky.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I’m capable of incredible feats of violence when provoked. You should know this by now, Dean.”

Dean tilts his head slightly and narrows his eyes. “Mmmm, I dunno. I think that if you haven’t killed me by now then you probably won’t.”

Cas scowls, trying not to smile. “Don’t be so sure.” He pauses. “Will you at least tell me what’s in the bag?”

Dean shakes his head, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “Nope! It’s part of the surprise.”

Cas crosses his arms and sighs heavily, but keeps following anyway. After another minute or two, Dean sees something up ahead and slows to a stop, turning his head back and grinning widely.

“We’re here.”

“Am I allowed to look?” Cas asks dryly.

“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” Dean says, beckoning him forward with one arm.

“I’m not convinced you didn’t make that word up.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that last jab, jogging ahead a few paces before stepping back to reveal the landscape. Cas’ heart punches up painfully in his chest, like a bird trying to escape from inside his ribcage. There’s a pond sitting on the top of the hill, completely frozen over, surrounded by wilting cattails and a single tree beside the left bank. It’s relatively small, definitely not the scope of a lake or river, but it’s certainly not a puddle, either. Cas glances over at Dean to ask what they’re doing here, but Dean is already rifling through the bag he brought. After a second, he pulls out two pairs of ice skates.

“I thought it was time you got to try.”

Cas can tell the tone was intended to be casual, but the statement comes out so softly that he can feel every bit of weight put behind it. He just stares for a moment, astonished, before hooking his fingers under the linked shoelaces of one of the pairs and lifting them away carefully. Dean’s fingertips twitch lightly when they brush together.

“Where did you get these?”

“Uh, well I came across the pair in my size when I was out thrifting last week.”

Cas waits, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “And the other?”

“I called around, asked if anybody had a pair lying around that I could borrow,” Dean answers. It could be the cold, but the tips of his ears are red. “Jody said she had an old pair of her husband’s in the closet that I could have, so I drove up on Wednesday to pick ‘em up.”

“That’s why you were—you drove all the way to Sioux Falls to get me a pair of ice skates?”

Dean shrugs, picking at his nails. “Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t a big deal.” He meets Cas’ eyes. “I didn’t mind.”

Cas bites the inside of his bottom lip to curb the intense impulse to kiss him, his lungs straining with the effort to breathe evenly. He rubs the worn, soft material of the laces between his thumb and middle finger to calm down, before starting at untying the knot that holds the skates together.

“Thank you,” he says finally, so quietly that he’s not even sure Dean heard it.

Castiel slowly lowers himself to the ground to put the skates on, wincing at the coldness permeating through his clothes. He struggles a little with lacing them, but he gets through it with no real kinks. His legs do wobble somewhat significantly when Dean helps him back up again, however, eyes widening in apprehension. Dean smiles, but it’s gentle rather than mocking.

“Am I meant to be this unsteady?” Cas asks nervously. He frowns down at the skates. “Maybe I tied them wrong.”

Dean gives a small laugh, adjusting his grasp from Cas’ upper arm to his wrist. “You’re good, I promise. Here.” He leads them to the edge of the ice carefully, backing up until eventually they’re both standing solidly towards the center of the pond. Cas’ body has never felt so stiff in his entire life. “Okay. Do you want me to move the both of us together? Or do you wanna do your own thing?”

“I—I’ll try on my own,” Cas answers, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. 

Dean looks surprised, but releases his hold on Cas’ wrist all the same. Then he steps back, and starts to move forward on the ice. It’s not…graceful, exactly, but there’s a special sort of charm to it, Dean holding his arms out ever so slightly to keep balance. Cas just stands there for a minute, watching, before taking a tentative step forward. He almost immediately missteps, his heart dropping so fast that he thinks that might kill him before he ever even falls, but he manages to catch himself, letting out a relieved sigh. He watches Dean for a second more before trying again, really focusing on the way he moves his legs as he goes.

This foray goes much smoother at first, with Cas managing to make it several strides without incident, but it’s not long until he runs into trouble again, making a turn that’s just a tad too harsh. He inhales sharply, bracing himself for the fall, but Dean stops him just in time.

“Woah, hey! You good?”

Cas looks up into Dean’s face, etched with concern, and tries to steady his breathing. He nods. “I’m alright. Perhaps we should skate together after all.”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “I think that’s probably a good call.”

He lets Cas straighten up the rest of the way and then holds one hand out, which Cas takes. The skin is surprisingly warm in comparison to his, melting away some of Castiel’s discomfort. The sensation of skating, he decides, feels quite nice when he’s not plagued by the fear of falling. It’s not really like flying, his body is too connected to the ground beneath him for it to be, but it’s the closest he’s felt in a long time. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he wills them not to spill over.

“How ya feeling?” Dean asks from beside him.

“This is wonderful,” Cas sighs.

“Not still mad at me for dragging you uphill, then?”

Cas glares at him. “I suppose you get a pass. This time.”

Dean grins as he looks away. “I’ll take it.” He turns his head back to Cas a second later, eyes glinting, and slows them to a stop. “Hey, you wanna try something fun?”

“I guess that depends,” Cas says slowly. “What is it?”

“There’s this move I’ve seen people do on the ice before, where you take both hands across from each other and spin around in a circle. I’ve never gotten to do it before.”

Cas chews on the inside of his cheek, thinking. “Alright, let’s try it.”

“Yes!” 

Dean moves so that he’s standing directly in front of Cas, holding both hands out palm down. Cas places his hands underneath them, fingers curling around Dean’s wrists for a better grip. He can feel Dean’s pulse thrumming against his own, the two slightly out of sync with one another. It creates an odd sort of rhythm, a movement like their skin itself is breathing; dancing. After a minute, Cas nods, though he’s not quite sure why, and Dean starts to move them.

It’s a little slow at first—halting—and Castiel briefly wonders if perhaps they’re too big or similar in size to gain any real speed. But then the momentum picks up, and Cas feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. The motion is dizzying in the best possible way, and Cas smiles as he thinks back to the clothes in the washing machine, round and round and round…He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, embracing the goosebumps that wash over his arms as the breeze runs through his hair. Evidently he begins to tilt too far back, however, when one of his hands pulls free of Dean’s, causing the both of them to lose balance and topple over.

Cas manages to fall cleanly backward, landing squarely (but fortunately not too heavily) on his tailbone. Dean isn’t so lucky, tripping sideways at an awkward angle, his blades managing to get tangled together for a good second as he goes down. He lets out a sharp cry of pain that makes Castiel’s stomach drop. Once he’s sure he’s without injury, Cas pushes himself over to Dean on his knees.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—”

“No, no, no, it’s—you don’t need to apologize, Cas,” Dean breathes out, teeth clenched. “It’s not your fault.”

Cas holds his tongue on that. “What’s hurt?”

“My ankle,” Dean gasps. He straightens his leg out gingerly, wincing.

“Do you think it’s broken?”

Dean shakes his head. “Dunno. I don’t think so.”

“That’s good. Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it,” Dean replies, voice strained.

Cas quickly unties the skate, and then places his hand under Dean’s calf, lifting it as gently as he can. He uses the other hand to slowly pull the skate off, and place it on the ice next to him. Then he pulls Dean’s sock down past his heel and inspects the injured area. It’s definitely bruised, an angry red that makes Cas want to cringe, but nothing looks out of place, which is a good sign. He applies slight pressure to it, and Dean yelps out in what sounds like equal parts pain and offense.

“ AH —hey! What the fuck, Cas?!”

Cas shoots him a look. “Was just trying to see if I could feel any sort of fracture, but you’re right, I don’t think it’s broken. Or at the very least, not badly broken. Plus,” he adds, “it’s good to know how bad pressure feels on it before you attempt to stand up.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbles, relenting. “Still could’ve given me a warning.”

“I’m sorry.” Cas looks around, frowning, until he spots their shoes a few feet away from the bank. He quickly unties his skates and pulls them off, sucking in a sharp breath as he stands and his socks hit the ice. “Wait right here, I’m getting our shoes.”

“Don’t think I could follow you if I wanted to,” Dean responds, tone sardonic.

Castiel changes as quickly as he can, throwing the skates in the bag along with the extra shoe that Dean can’t put on. “Do you think you can walk?” He asks. And then, looking at him straight on, “Be honest.”

Dean lets out a low, measured breath, looking slightly annoyed. “I’ll try,” he answers, accepting Cas’ outstretched arm. 

He starts to put weight on the foot and almost immediately begins to crumple, gripping onto Cas and clenching his jaw against a groan of pain. Cas manages to hold him up, but just barely, hobbling the pair of them over to solid ground. The sun has begun to dip behind the trees.

“Okay…okay.” Cas adjusts the bag over his shoulder. “If you hold onto my left shoulder and I hold under your right arm, you can apply weight to only your good leg, and we can make it down the hill and back to the car. Slowly. ”

Dean nods, sober. “Got it.” He pinches his eyebrows together. “How’re we gonna get home?”

“I’ll drive.”

“What?”

“I will drive,” Cas repeats.

Dean scans his eyes over his face when something suddenly clicks in his expression and he nods. “You’ll drive.”

Cas exhales steadily. “Alright. Let’s go.”

It’s admittedly rough at first. The two are moving at different paces for a good minute or so, making it so that they almost trip forward, and Dean knocks his injured foot against the ground. But it improves soon after that, their movements synchronizing more and more the closer they get to the bottom of the slope. Dean lets out a small sigh of relief as the impala comes within their line of sight (though it comes out more like another groan). 

Cas helps him into the back seat as delicately as he’s capable of, watching with a pang of sympathy as Dean closes his eyes and leans his head back against the cold window. Then he gets situated in the driver’s seat, orienting himself for a moment before starting the car up. Neither of them say anything until about eight minutes into the drive.

“How could you tell it wasn’t broken?” Dean asks, so quiet that Cas isn’t even entirely sure he was supposed to hear it.

“I rebuilt your body,” Cas replies simply. “I know where everything’s supposed to be. I know what your bones feel like.”

Dean lets out a small hysterical laugh at that, and Cas can practically hear him shudder. “Oh, please never say anything like that again.”

Cas smiles. “Apologies. It was meant to be comforting.”

“I didn’t—” Dean cuts himself off, silent for a moment. “I just meant the last part,” he says softly.

Cas says nothing, but his pulse picks up under his skin, beating pointedly against the steering wheel. He makes a right turn toward home and passes under a streetlight, bathing the interior of the car in a warm, orange hue.

Castiel leaves Dean alone in his room for a few hours once they make it back to the bunker (after they work together to properly dress the injury, of course), figuring he’ll want to catch up on some much needed rest. In the meantime, Cas looks into booking an appointment with a doctor, becoming increasingly frustrated by all the information he either can’t give or doesn’t understand. 

Eventually he gives up, trying hard to distract himself from the creeping feelings of resentment and worthlessness spreading through him. If he were still an angel, this problem could have been fixed within seconds. Now, there’s barely anything he feels like he can do. Certainly not on his own. He stews in the emotion for a while, laying across a couple of the kitchen chairs and staring up at the ceiling in frustration, before pushing it all down as best he can and deciding to focus on what little he can do right now. 

He’s at Dean’s door about a half hour later, gently pushing it open with his elbow. Dean is asleep, and Cas almost considers leaving and coming back later, but then he stirs, letting out a drowsy moan and half opening his eyes.

“Cas?” he manages to slur out.

“Sorry,” Cas whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Dean shakes his head, opening his eyes more and adjusting so that he’s in a sort of half-seated position on the bed. “No, s’okay.” He knots his eyebrows together. “What’re you holding?”

“Ah–it’s soup.”

“You made me soup?”

Cas smiles, hearing the faint apprehension in his tone. “Don’t worry, it’s from a can this time. Learned that lesson the hard way.”

“It wasn’t…that bad,” Dean offers, but he cringes slightly at the memory. “You’ll get there with practice.”

“You’re very kind,” Cas replies, setting the bowl on the nightstand as he perches on the edge of Dean’s mattress, “but I think I’ll just stick to this for now.”

“Yeah, uh—fair enough.”

“How’re you feeling?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs, taking the soup from the table and downing a spoonful. “Little better. Sleeping helped—painkillers helped more.” He eats some more soup. “God, this is really good. Didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“Mm.” The room is quiet for a minute. “Dean…why did you bring me out there today?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you bring me skating? Why did you drive over five hours to get me the ice skates from Jody?”

“Okay, five hours is barely anything for me, you know that.”

“Dean,” Cas says, looking at him sternly. “Not what I asked.”

Dean swallows. He breaks eye contact and looks back down into his bowl. “You’re my friend. You share experiences with your friends.”

“Seems an awful lot of lengths to go just to share an experience,” Cas says softly. “Why not take us to an ice rink?”

“S’not the same,” Dean scoffs.

“Why?” Cas counters.

“Cause it’s—there are other people there.”

Cas squints, confused. “So?”

Dean groans in annoyance, setting his spoon back in the bowl. “Are you really gonna make me spell it out?”

“Humor me,” Cas deadpans.

“I wanted it to just be us.” He raises his eyebrows. “There. Happy?”

Cas grins. “Exceedingly. You still haven’t really answered my initial question, though.” 

Dean doesn’t say anything at first, just stirring the soup slowly. 

“Dean?”

Dean sighs, placing the soup back on the nightstand. “I don’t know, you—it feels kind of nice, getting to teach you stuff. Show you stuff. Like—like I’m the more knowledgeable one for once.” He looks back up at Cas, his expression kind of melancholy. “Sometimes it feels like you know every single thing about me, and I barely know anything about you. Like…I’m never gonna catch up.”

Cas stares at him, chest aching. “I—I’m sorry, Dean. I want to be able to share everything with you, but—I don’t think I even possibly could.” He shakes his head. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t know me,” he adds in a whisper.

“I’d like to know you better,” Dean says quietly.

Cas smiles, small and kind of sad. “I’d like to know you better, too.” He stands to leave, but Dean catches his wrist, pulling him gently back around. “What are you—”

“Stay,” Dean interrupts, eyes simultaneously pleading and embarrassed. “Please stay.”

Cas blinks down at him in wonder, mind racing. Maybe…maybe… He takes a chance and leans down, stopping mere inches away from Dean’s mouth and searching his face, waiting. After a second Dean seems to understand, giving a small nod, and Cas bridges the gap. He can feel Dean sigh and relax against him, his own body humming with an intense sense of catharsis. 

It’s a small, simple kiss at first, little more than the pressing of lips to one another. But once Cas gets his bearings he tilts his head ever so slightly, and it’s all over from there. Dean pushes toward him, tightening his grip on Cas’ wrist until the fingernails start to lightly dig in. Cas gasps, and the blood in his veins starts to race so violently that his whole body feels feverish. He gives Dean short, quick kisses as he moves further onto the bed, swinging his right leg over so that it’s resting at Dean’s other side and Cas is situated in his lap. He smiles in satisfaction against the kiss as he feels Dean inhale shakily, pushing gently until he can feel that he’s once again leaning back against the headboard.

Dean moves his hands so that they’re positioned on either side of Cas’ waist, fingertips pressing in with a secure, firm weight as they travel down to his thighs. Cas, meanwhile, cups both sides of Dean’s face and focuses very hard on attempting to slow the kissing down—to no avail. That is, until he shifts back accidentally and Dean cries out in pain, nearly biting Cas’ bottom lip off in the process. They both freeze, Cas lifting one hand to his mouth in a mixture of shock and discomfort.

“I’m—” he swallows, not realizing how numb his mouth would feel. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s—you’re fine,” Dean grits out. “God, this is the worst timing.”

Cas breathes out a laugh. He places a hand against Dean’s forehead for a moment and then cards it through his hair. “We’re gonna need to be a little…gentler. For now, at least. That is—unless I read this very wrong,” he says, pulling his hand back. “You do—do you want this to happen again?”

Dean looks back at him, mouth slightly open in disbelief. “You are…so stupid sometimes.”

Cas scowls, hitting him lightly on the arm. “That is not fair. I could say the same thing about you, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Dean responds, grinning. “And I wouldn’t fight you on it.” He takes Cas’ left hand and kisses the palm, looking Castiel directly in the eye. “Yes,” he confirms, “I want this to happen again.”

“I need you to mean that,” Cas says. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

“Jesus, I hope so,” Dean whispers, and he leans in to steal another kiss.