Chapter Text
The hum of the fluorescents is the only sound that Dean can hear in the kitchen, save for the swish of his jeans as he moves around. The dishes have been washed by Sam and put away by Jack—and then put away again by Dean, who doesn’t have the heart to tell the kid that he’s still putting everything in the wrong places. Jack has long since gone to bed, and Sam wasn’t far behind him, yawning out a “thanks, Dean,” from behind a big hand. When their footsteps had receded, it was just Dean in his empty kitchen, warm in satisfaction of a meal well done. Now, in the artificial evening light, Dean is finishing his closing duties for the day: placing the cutlery neatly into the drawer, each utensil nested together on its side; adding things to the grocery list that he used up to make tonight’s burgers. He checks the fridge for leftovers: two burgers, a result of automatically making food for four, even if someone isn’t there; a bowl of salad that Sam is determined he’ll eat tomorrow; a bar of chocolate, which is part of an experiment Jack is doing, sourced from some clip clock app he insists all the kids are obsessed with these days. Dean makes a mental note to text Claire about it tomorrow and writes the dates on the burgers.
He closes the fridge and starts wiping down the surfaces with cleaning spray and a sponge, until the aluminium surfaces shine. As he sweeps the crumbs into the palm of his hand, footsteps clomp behind him, footsteps he’d recognise anywhere.
“Hey, stranger,” Dean says, throwing the crumbs and the sponge into the sink to deal with tomorrow. It’s the one little bit of leeway he allows himself, since the laundry room is on a different floor.
“Dean,” Cas says, and even without looking at him, Dean can hear the sheer relief in his voice, warmth running through his words like hot chocolate.
“You find what you were looking for?” Dean says. He turns around, leans against the gleaming countertop. In the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the library, Cas stands with arms by his side, like he’s stuck in standby mode. He’s in jeans today, no trenchcoat in sight. His hair is mussed and messy. He’s smiling but he looks drawn, tired eyes heavy, but still bright.
“Yes, Jody was very pleased with the text, even if it was rather dusty.” Neither of them make a move towards the other, but the air is thick around them with anticipation, with longing.
“Well, you did have to Indiana Jones your way to it, so I’m sure she wasn’t complaining.” They’re just saying words at this point, meaningless words to fill the silence until one of them decides to break the tension. It’s always this way with them after being apart, like they need to manually reboot.
“Indeed,” Cas says, and still he stands there like a waxwork, until Dean’s desperation outweighs his embarrassment at having to ask.
“Cas,” he says, low. “C’mere.”
Without hesitation, Cas goes. He comes to a stop in front of Dean and lifts his arms, like he knows this is what Dean has been waiting on for a week. Like he has been waiting for it too. Dean slides his arms around Cas’s thick waist, revelling in the tightly coiled strength of him, and as Cas’s arms come around his shoulders, Dean buries his face in his chest. Cas changed into a thin, soft sweatshirt at Jody’s, and Dean rubs his face against it like a cat, humming under his breath. Cas takes the hint and scratches fingers into the hair at the base of Dean’s skull, and Dean melts into him even further, impossibly, like he’s becoming liquid. Like he could melt inside Cas if he tried hard enough. He’s voiced this particular thought to Cas on more than one occasion and always been met with a chuckle and a hard, wanting kiss.
“Missed you,” Dean mumbles, soft enough that a regular human might not have heard it. Cas has enough angel left in him that it rings through his ears, clear as day.
“I missed you, too,” Cas replies. Dean’s hands grip tight to the back of Cas’s sweatshirt, even though he knows he’ll gripe later about stretching out the fabric. He takes a big deep breath, inhaling Cas as much as he can in one breath. Gently, Cas sways from side to side. Dean pulls back at that, long enough for his gaze to brush over Cas’s lips, long enough for him to tip forward and kiss him, and then he tucks his face back into the curve of Cas‘s neck, breath fanning out over his skin. He could stay like this for days, content just to be touched and rocked and held. He’s sure Cas would do it, as well, if not for the pressing concerns of, annoyingly, being human. More than once, Sam has walked in on them like this, and he usually leaves them to it or goes about his business around them. Dean doesn’t even acknowledge him now—this is his hug time, damnit, and there’s no way he’s giving it up for pain-in-the-ass little brothers who don’t know how to mind their own business. That’s what he’d said the first time, anyway. Sam had got the message pretty quick after that.
After this, they’ll go to bed, and Dean will make Cas change into his softest pyjamas, just so Dean can use him as a pillow. He’ll push and prod Cas into the position he wants him, like a cat making biscuits with a blanket. Cas will grumble, because it’s what Dean expects of him, but he’ll pull him close all the same as Dean leans against his chest. With a satisfied little huff, he’ll plaster himself into Cas’s side, mumbling a “love you,” into Cas’s collarbone. It won’t even be five minutes before they’re both dead asleep. When they wake, Dean will rub sleep-gritty eyes with the back of his hand and kiss Cas, morning breath be damned.