Chapter Text
Twelve years of barely concealed pining, heartsickness and the terrifying ordeal of vulnerability aside, turns out falling in love with the angel was the easy part.
Happiness is in just being, my ass, Dean thought, as he tore out another page etched black with ink. He’d been sitting in the diner for hours now, scratching out every dumbass idea he’d had so far to approach The Cas Problem.
Cas was back. Cas was gay? And Cas loved Dean.
Even now, the weight of those words hit him fresh every time like a Looney Toones acme ton that left twittering birds circling the comically sized bump on his head. And when the shock dissipated, well, Dean had seen stranger things than anatomically incorrect hearts beating out of his chest, but that’s exactly how it felt. His best friend was back, and he loved Dean and it was far more than Dean could ever hope for.
He tried not to think about life before Cas had come back to him. How Dean had tried to barter his own life – his own brother’s life, for fuck’s sake – to get his angel back. To tell that adorable, stubborn ass dork that Dean loved him, too.
Always had.
Dean took a sip from his mug, hardly noticing that the coffee had long gone cold. Balls of paper littered the diner table, and his small notebook of big dumb ideas was wearing thin. Dean tapped the pen rhythmically against the blank page with no Sam around to tell him he was being obnoxious. He stared at the lines on the page, chewing on his bottom lip as if that would give him any other ideas.
How do you tell an angel- scratch that: How do you tell your best fucking friend you’ve ever had that you’re in love with him? That it’s been eating you alive for years and sometimes you swear that the only thing that kept you trucking all this time was every passing touch and stupid fight and those rare, precious moments where there was more hope than fear filling the space between them?
So many times, those words had been on the tip of Dean’s sharp tongue. So many times, he’d felt the burn of them forcefully swallowed back down his throat and tucked away in his weary heart for another time, another day that might never come. It was different before, when the end of the world outpaced the urgency to tell the truth. There’d always been a sick kind of comfort to it; the chance that he might die before anyone had to know that Dean had wanted something so selfishly.
Everything was different now.
Except nothing had changed. Not really.
Dean hadn’t spoken much in the weeks it took to get Cas back. It was an empty kind of silence, like the familiar beating of his heart was muted somewhere he couldn’t reach anymore and without the rhythm, nothing made sense. He’d dreamt every night through fitful sleep about the dungeon; how his words had failed him even then.
He’d been ready then to tell Cas the truth of him. With Death literally knocking on the door, it didn’t matter if Cas didn’t feel the same. Those claws squeezing the life from Dean’s heart had been a warning from Billie: she was going to hit him where it hurt the most before he met his own end. So, Cas had to know – had to understand what he meant to Dean. Why it destroyed Dean so completely to lose Cas every time. For years he’d been building a home, building a cathedral to love and worship Castiel. He’d never even got the chance to pray.
Dean sketched absently on the page, not really comprehending the shape the ink took on with his mind far away.
He’d almost said it in purgatory. There was something about that place that put everything into perspective for Dean. There was the terror of losing Cas again; that his truth would be no more than static noise in a sunless world. It mattered more that Cas knew how sorry Dean was. How stupid he’d been to let Cas think he meant nothing to him beyond his usefulness. Every last son of a bitch in that cruel place knew the truth. “Your angel,” they’d say when Dean hunted and tortured his way to find Cas.
His angel.
Dean looked down at the scribbled pair of familiar eyes now staring up at him from his notebook. From memory, he sketched the crease between Cas’ brows. Shaded the darkness beneath his eyes and the crook of his brow that held more judgement and absolution than heaven ever could.
This wasn’t helping.
A warm hand settled on Dean’s shoulder. The touch was all wrong; it felt too light, too small. Held none of that lightning that skittered along Dean’s skin, raising the hair on his arms and setting his heart on fire. The waitress’s hand ran along Dean’s bicep, coming to a stop at his elbow.
“Thought you might need another cup,” she smiled in that way Dean was all too familiar with.
Muscle memory had him painting on the smile he knew she wanted to see, but Dean knew it didn’t meet his eyes. “’preciate it.”
“You’re very welcome,” she said, eyes dropping to the notebook as Dean handed her his dirty mug. She placed a hand on her hip, eyes sparkling through dark lashes. “You an artist or something?”
Dean leaned over the notebook, resting his forearm atop the drawing. He didn’t miss the way the waitress’s teeth grazed her lower lip; how she tucked her long dark hair behind one ear. Her body language was screaming at him to look at her, notice her, drink her in. She was pretty. Beautiful, really. But Dean was only dimly aware of it, in the way he knew flowers and sunsets and nice clothes were pretty. He acknowledged it and moved on.
Seeming oblivious that he wasn’t taking the bait, the waitress sat in the seat opposite. There was only one other family in the building and she didn’t seem all that concerned about them either way. “Dinner menu starts soon if you’re hungry.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder and the sweet smell of her perfume lingered in the air between them.
Another version of Dean might have bought into it. Might have laid on the charm and asked when she gets off. He didn’t miss the game at all. It was weird, right? He felt none of that old instinct to push all the right buttons to get what he wanted. To pretend to be someone he wasn’t and feel the thrill of knowing he’d convinced her he was worth a damn. There was no spark with strangers anymore. Hadn’t been for the longest time. Dean could look at this gorgeous woman, drink in the smell of her perfume, and imagine how soft her skin would feel beneath his starving touch. He could. But he didn’t want it.
His stomach flipped as the realisation hit.
He’d been coming at this problem all wrong; strategizing talking about his feelings the same way he’d plan out a hunt. Even then, you didn’t throw yourself into the ring with the monster of the week without back up and a solid escape plan.
He didn’t have to fling himself into the deep end and tell Cas all his sappiest secrets in one bold, dumbass move. Didn’t have to risk drowning in his own senseless words or getting flat out rejected. They could start at the beginning, he and Cas. They could shake up the board and start a new game like any other couple, right?
It could be Cas at this table instead, his hand pressed to Dean’s shoulder as it had in the very beginning. His soft stare and tentative smiles. The smell of Cas; that heady charge of rain-soaked earth beneath roiling clouds of thunder, and the faint scent of ground coffee that reminded Dean of home.
Dean could ask Cas out. He could do that much.
“Are you... are you doing okay, sir?” the waitress asked, waving a hand in front of Dean’s face.
“Hm? Oh,” Dean said, blinking rapidly as he brought himself back to the present. “Uh, menu, yeah. I, uh, I’ll take a look. Thanks.”
“Great,” the waitress said, her tone slightly clipped and her smile long faded. She stood to leave when Dean called out to her again.
“Actually, make it two menus,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Might have a… a friend coming.”
“Sure.”
Dean hardly noticed her sarcastic tone as he scrolled through his contacts list. His thumb hovered over Cas’ name for the span of two deep breaths before Dean hit 'call'.
Cas answered on the third ring.
“Hello, Dean,” Cas said in that way that instantly soothed Dean’s nerves. The angel had plenty of ways of saying Dean’s name, and Dean had every last one of them bookmarked in his brain and filed under favourites. From those two words alone, Dean knew that Cas was smiling.
“Hey, Cas.” Dean cleared his throat. His ears were burning already. “So, uh, I was thinkin’. Are you, uh. Busy? Right now?”
#
An hour passed since Cas had gotten the call to meet Dean at the diner that he’d been frequenting alone these past few weeks. It had been a while since it’d just been the two of them; Cas ordering Dean’s second favourite item on the menu so he could eat from Cas’ plate when he’d finished his own meal. Cas had missed the intimacy of it; the chance to sit close range with Dean and enjoy his company.
He’d hoped the fact that Dean had invited him indicated that Dean might feel the same.
Cas stared around at the empty building. The glass windows shattered, chairs scattered, and tables upended. Food littered the floor among the broken plates; the ceramic flashing beneath the swinging bulb overhead torn from the fixture on the ceiling. Cas looked down at the menu beneath his foot, frowning at a droplet of blood obscuring a cartoonish image of cherry pie.
Dean groaned as he lay back on the family sized table still somehow bolted to the wall.
“Are you hurt?”
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose before answering. He cracked one eye open, his gaze falling on Cas’ blood-stained trench coat. Dean sat up quickly, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. Cas noticed the wince Dean tried to hide and hurried to his side.
“’m fine, Cas.” Annoyance laced Dean's tone, though Cas sensed it wasn’t directed at him. “How about you? You okay?” Dean tugged gently at Cas’ coat, checking for tears or evidence of injury before the angel could respond.
Cas placed a hand over Dean's own, healing his bloodied knuckles without a second thought. Dean froze at the touch, and the angel dropped his hand in an awful mix of disappointment and shame. To remove any further temptation he tucked both his hands in the safety of his pockets.
“It’s not my blood,” Cas answered quickly, recalling the spray from the creature’s pierced heart drenching his coat even from a distance.
As one, they both turned to the body on the floor. The body that could so easily have been Dean’s if Cas hadn’t shown up when he did.
“If you’d told me there was a succubus, I would have come right away,” Cas scolded. Dean had given no indication on the phone that he’d been on a hunt. If anything, his voice had wavered slightly with that new nervous energy he’d had around Cas since he’d come back from the Empty. Things had changed between them. And though Cas would never regret his moment of happiness and how it saved the man at his side, he often wondered if Dean still wanted him around.
Dean nudged a mangled slice of lasagne with his boot. “I didn’t know,” he sighed. Dean pursed his lips, staring vacantly at the body of the waitress. Something dark passed over his face before he let out a bitter laugh. “I should’a known. But I didn’t.”
Cas frowned. He fought the urge to reach out for Dean again, hating this newfound hesitation and unsureness between them. “Dean, it’s okay. No one was hurt.”
“I could’a got you killed.”
Cas smiled a little at that. “No, you could have gotten yourself killed. I was never in any danger.”
Dean glared half-heartedly. “Whatever, man. How’d you know what she was anyhow?”
“I could see the creature’s true face,” Cas said, not bothering to hide the disgust in his tone. It’d been years since they’d dealt with a succubus. It was strange – since god’s demise, there’d been a shift in the behaviour of supernatural beings. Hunts had been few and growing further between, and there’d been a running joke amongst the Winchesters that monsters were growing domesticated.
Cas studied the dead waitress. They’d have to interrogate the other staff members and perhaps a few patrons, but if nothing had raised suspicion for Dean – who was more keen than anyone for a hunt – it was likely they’d never know how long the succubus had been operating in the area. Especially since there’d been no reported victims.
Dean disappeared into the kitchen while Cas took another look at the body. The moment Cas had entered the building, the succubus had known what he was.
Since coming back, his powers had slowly been replenishing. Even his wings were gaining strength every day, feather by feather. Cas knew he was still invulnerable for the most part; it was an innate part of his being he could sense. Still, he was quietly grateful for the silence at the end of the story, more keen to write his own ending than fall prey on a mundane hunt after everything they’d been through.
He pulled his angel blade free from the creature’s chest, cleaning the blade on its skirt. The scene could have been infinitely quieter if the succubus hadn’t reacted the way it did, overturning tables and throwing chairs, fangs retracting as it dove for Dean before Cas could reach him. A simple exorcism would have made her Rowena’s problem to deal with, but Castiel didn’t take kindly to anyone who threatened the man he loved. He’d thrown the blade right when Dean jerked his body against the creature’s grip, piercing its heart before its jagged fangs could pierce Dean’s shoulder.
The smell of smoke and burning oil snapped Cas to attention. He looked up from the body to see Dean pocketing his lighter, a ringed donut caught between his teeth. Through the mouthful Dean murmured something about “insurance money” and hastily ushered them both from the building.
Sirens wailed in the distance as Cas slid into the passenger seat of the Impala. As soon as the engine roared to life, the radio blared with the melancholy tones of an artist Dean once claimed helps him think. Dean shut the music off entirely, cheeks full of the last bite of his strawberry frosted donut.
They sped off in the opposite direction of the sirens. Flames licking the roof of the diner, the streetlamps illuminating the littered glass and pieces of broken furniture on the sidewalk. Cas watched in the rear-view mirror as it disappeared behind them.
They’d been lucky to be alone. More fortunate still that no one had gotten hurt.
Cas turned his gaze to Dean as the silence strained between them. He noted the crease in Dean’s brows – the stubborn set to Dean’s jaw that could easily be read as anger. Cas knew him well enough to see there was something else lingering beneath the surface, too.
Dean’s knuckles were white on the wheel for the entire drive home. When they pulled into the Bunker's garage, the silence only swelled once the homely rumble of the Impala died out.
“Sorry,” Dean mumbled to the steering wheel. “That’s not how I meant for tonight to go down.”
Cas shifted in the seat to face him fully, his head tilting in confusion. “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”
“I’m not-“ Dean scrubbed his hands over his eyes, and Cas noted the blood crusted to his knuckles. “God, why is this so hard?”
Something cold settled behind Cas’ ribs. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
Dean dropped his hands. Blinking rapidly, he turned to Cas as he said, “why are you sorry?” He sounded exhausted and confused.
Cas couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t pretend that everything they once had wasn't changed.
“What I told you in the dungeon,” Cas said, forcing strength he didn’t feel into his voice. “I thought I was dead, Dean. I thought that was the end of us, the end of me.” He paused, smiling sympathetically at the ghost of devastation that passed over Dean’s face. “I meant every word,” Cas continued, and when he’d caught Dean’s eye, he found that same expression in them that had been there that night in November. “It’s my truth, and I’d do it all again to save your life. But I hate how things are different now. You don’t-“ Cas felt a tremor in his voice and paused to collect himself. Dean was frozen, hanging on to every word. He barely seemed to be breathing. “You don’t want me in that way, and it’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it.”
“Cas-“
“I mean it, Dean.”
Dean dropped his chin to his chest, his shoulders shaking. Cas thought for an awful moment that he might be crying, before Dean looked up with the biggest smile on his face. Dean shook his head in disbelief. “I asked you out tonight, dumbass. What d’you think that means?”
Cas stared silently.
He replayed the night twice over in his head. Three times.
“No, you did not.”
“Yeah, man, I did. On the phone?”
Cas was no stranger to getting lost in translation, especially when it came to Dean and the pop cultural riddles his speech was made up of, but he was certain Dean had done no such thing.
“You asked me to meet you at the diner.”
“Exactly.”
Cas stared incredulously. “The diner run by a whore of hell.”
“Semantics,” Dean waved his hand flippantly.
“Dean,” Cas said, as if the word conveyed every unspoken thought running through his mind. “You didn’t say it was a date.”
Dean’s smile faded as a blush bloomed bright along his cheeks, flushing his freckled neck and ears. “Are you sure?”
The doubt in his voice told Cas that he was right. This time the misunderstanding wasn’t his fault. “I’m sure.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.” Cas said, feeling a bubble of laugher rise in his throat. The righteous feeling subsided as the meaning behind Dean’s words took root. Cas studied Dean; his blushing face hidden mostly in shadow in the darkened garage. The smile on Dean’s lips a vulnerable thing; more holy to the angel than all of heaven.
Dean scratched the back of his neck and Cas noted the slow, practised breaths Dean took before he next spoke. “A’right, um. Cas… buddy,” Dean paused, frowning at himself. “Would you wanna go on a date? A date-date. For real this time. No monsters, no killer waitresses – none of that crap. Just… just you and me?”
For years, Cas had been mystified by Dean’s smooth talking. He’d watched Dean flirt himself out of even the most ridiculous situations, and while Dean was beyond the modern standard of conventional attractiveness, it was maddening how easily it came to him. Cas had spent many years cloaked in shame, wondering how it felt to be at the other end of Dean’s pantomimed affections. Now, he’d never seen Dean so worked up with nerves.
Joy flooded through Cas’ veins, sweeter than any rush of grace. His wings stretched out; stronger than they’d been in years as he smiled bright and brilliant at the stubborn, pain in the ass, beautiful man he’d fallen for in every way he could.
They should have been a footnote in Chuck’s story, and instead they’d outlasted the creator of Heaven and Earth, surviving to write their own epilogue.
“Yes, dumbass,” Cas grinned. “I’d like that very much.”