Archive of Our Own

It’s a good morning for Dean Winchester. The salt on his windowsill glimmers under cool dawn light, sprinkling shimmering spots on his walls and he is blanketed by the embrace of sheets that had not been kicked off in the night. It’s a bright morning for a bright day.

He does not awake gradually, instead with a sharp gasp and sudden open eyes. But it’s a good morning for Dean Winchester. He is not trembling with rattling, uneasy breaths. He is not gripping the hilt of his silver knife, white knuckled and empty minded. He is not screaming until his throat is raw. It’s not a bad morning. It’s a good morning. Which means it’ll be a good day. Another good day for Dean Winchester.

It’s a chilly January morning and the bite of crisp air circulates through Dean’s bedroom as he gets ready. He slips on his uniform — loose, dull blue trousers, along with a soft, baby blue polo, a bulky knit sweater and stiff bomber jacket all adorned with the USPS emblem — and feels a wave of warmth fill himself as he settles in the familiar feel of the fabric. Beneath his shiny, black dress shoes, he wears silly socks that Sam got him for his birthday. They came in a pack of sixteen, all covered in cartoon foods. These ones have burgers and fries on them.

He spends a long time fixing his hair. It would take much less time if he wasn’t so perturbed by his reflection and the things that he saw within it. He wants to look presentable, wants his hair to reflect the facade of cheer and charisma that he puts on. So, he does his hair, only looking at the dark, sullen eyes in the mirror in quick, darting glances.

He eats a hearty breakfast. Doing his mail rounds takes energy and he needs to keep his energy up. Just in case, he always packs a snack: a peanut butter protein bar (the kind covered in chocolate), a bag of his cheese snack of the day, and his jug of water that he fills with water and ice every morning. Always with ice because lukewarm water reminds him too much of—

His commute to the post office is uneventful. He has Zeppelin blasting on the speakers and he taps his palm to the beat on his wheel, head bobbing slightly as he keeps his eyes carefully on the road. Being a mail carrier has made him a very vigilant driver over the years. He doesn’t mind it though. Driving is therapeutic, more than real therapy ever was. 

When he enters the post office, he’s greeted by Charlie Bradbury, their post office’s most reliable and enthusiastic postal technician. She sits at her desk, already getting started on her record keeping.

“Morning, Dean,” Charlie says with a grin.

“Looking as beautiful as always, Charles,” Dean says with a smile that radiates sunshine.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Charlie says with an eye roll. “I’ve already got the last blueberry muffin, and I am not giving it up.”

Dean snaps his fingers in joking frustration. “One of these days, I will get that blueberry muffin.”

“In your dreams!” Charlie calls as Dean heads past her to find his mail that he needs to sort.

Sorting mail is almost as therapeutic as driving. Organization is simple. It’s reliable and safe. It never changes. The items change, the people change, but the act of sorting it? It’s a constant. 

He’s finally got everything prepared and loaded in his truck and he’s ready for his first round.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota is a bustling city. It’s a large city, but by no means the largest. With a population of just over 180,000 people that cover 73 square miles, it’s compact but filled with so much character.

Mail carriers are a dying breed with the decline of tangible mail, so Dean’s routes have gotten longer, though each house seems to be getting quicker.

He has a small speaker in his van and he listens to audiobooks. He’s nearing the end of his Nicholas Sparks binge which means he’ll have to find a new author to listen to, but for now, he’ll enjoy The Longest Ride . Sue him! He likes lighthearted romance. He would never admit it, even if he was held at gunpoint, but it’s just… nice. Delivering mail means long days and he needs some sort of entertainment. He’s not going to sit and listen to TedTalks like some sort of nerdy psychopath. Sam probably listens to TedTalks. He would.

It’s pretty quiet at first. It’s early and most people are getting ready for their own days. 

His first regular of the day is Bugle the Goldendoodle. The old dog trots from the porch to greet Dean.

“Hi Buggie!” he says happily. “Did you get a haircut? Looks great. You even got a manicure! Looking real sharp.” He scratches behind her ears and chuckles as she contorts to lick his hand. “You wanna treat?” She perks up, head tilting in intrigue. “Sit.” She sits, tail wagging excitedly. Dean tosses her the treat which she munches on rapidly. “You have a good day,” Dean says as he goes back to his van. Bugle barks back. “Bye!” Dean calls out the window as he drives to the next house.

His next regular is Carolina Bravo who he always runs into when she’s getting into her car for work. She may say it’s a coincidence, but Dean knows it’s not.

“Morning, Carrie!” Dean says.

“Dean!” She closes her car door and comes to join him by her mailbox. “How was your weekend?”

“Same old same old. Mostly just chores.” Dean slides her mail into her mailbox. “Finally got to finally reorganizing the coat closet. I’m gonna take a bag of clothes down to donate tomorrow.”

Carolina leans on the mailbox, arms crossed under her chest to make her breasts more pronounced. “That’s so amazing. You’re such a philanthropist.”

“Just don’t have the room for the old coats,” Dean says with a shrug. “You’re the philanthropist, not me.”

“Social service work is hard but fulfilling work,” she says.

“I’m sure it is. I could never do that kind of thing.” Dean smiles. “You change a lot of lives. That’s admirable.”

“I try,” she replies. “See you tomorrow?”

“You bet.” Dean winks and heads back the van.

His favorite regular runs to his truck with a squeal of delight. 

“Dean!” five year old, Danny Drake, shouts. He wraps his tiny arms around Dean’s legs and squeezes tight.

“Hey, squirt,” Dean says, ruffling the boy’s curly locks. 

“I got new shoes! Look, look, look!” Danny holds out his foot, teetering unbalanced. 

“Those are awesome!” Dean says with exaggerated awe.

“Right?!” Danny exclaims. 

“I’ve still got my same boring shoes,” Dean says.

Danny frowns and shoves his hand into his pocket. He squats down in front of Dean and pulls at his foot. Dean, confused, lifts his foot. Danny fiddles with something in his hand, hiding it from Dean and places something on the sole of his shoe.

“There! I know you have to have boring shoes because of your un-i-form, but now you have secret awesomeness!” 

Dean lifts his shoe up and a smile spreads on his lips as he sees the dinosaur sticker. “Thanks, dude. This is the most awesome.”

“Yeah!” Danny roars, hands pumping over his head as he does a little dance.

“Give me a high five,” Dean says, holding out his hand.

Danny slaps it and Dean shakes his hand as if it hurt.

“Have an awesome day, Dean!” Danny yells.

“It’s already awesome now that I’ve gotten to see you!”

Danny beams at him and waves as he drives down the street.

His final regular, at least on this first route, is Mrs. Cheung. 

When Dean arrives, the elderly woman is sitting on her porch, reading a novel. When she spots Dean, she sticks a bookmark into her page and grabs a little paper bag.

“Morning, Mrs. Cheung!” 

“Good morning, Dean.” She shakes the bag. “Guess what I’ve got for you today?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. What’ve you got?”

“Chocolate crinkles!”

“Mrs. Cheung, if you keep bringing me your delicious cookies, I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of the driver’s seat.”

She laughs. “Nonsense. You are too skinny.” She shoves the bag into his hands.

“Thank you. These smell amazing.”

“Of course they do. I made them.”

Dean laughs. “Take it easy, Mrs. Cheung.”

“That’s what retirement is for!”

Dean is taking a snack break when he hears a gravelly voice disgruntledly reprimanding across the street. He turns off his audiobook and looks for the voice.

His breath hitches when he spots the voice. A man in a crisp suit and trench coat with tousled dark hair that is almost artful stands with his hands on his hips, glaring at a black cat on a leash in a festive sweater that lies on its back and licks its paws.

“Jebediah. You are being very frustrating right now,” the man rebukes. “We do not have time for you to sunbathe. I have to go to work.”

The cat meows loudly.

“That is rude. You are being rude, Jebediah.”

The cat meows louder. 

“You’re going to make me carry you, aren’t you?” he asks with a sigh. “You are.” He scoops the cat into his arms and pets it as he walks. “You do this every time.” And with that, he is turning the corner and he’s gone.

Dean, suddenly rejuvenated enough to go back to his route, shoves the rest of the chocolate crinkle into his mouth and wipes his fingers off on his pants before heading down that street for his next deliveries.

While he’s shoving a difficult box into the Raj’s mailbox, he sees the man enter the house three doors down. Dean commits the house to his memory and continues on with his job with a jittery impatience he wasn’t used to having.

When he gets to the man’s house, he takes a peek at his mail.

Castiel Novak.

Dean, knowing he can’t continue being the creepy stalker he is currently being, quickly sticks the mail into the mailbox and continues his day.

But Castiel Novak sticks in his mind and doesn’t seem to be going any time soon.

Dean’s feet and calves are burning from all of his walking by the time he makes it back to the post office, as they usually do.

“Heading out?” Charlie asks.

Dean nods. “You too?”

“Hopefully soon,” Charlie says with a lopsided grin. “Have any fun plans?”

“Uh, errands, actually. My fridge is pitifully empty and I want to have something for dinner that isn’t half of a bread and butter pickle covered in moldy raspberry jam.”

Charlie’s face contorts in disgust. “Thanks for that horrific imagery.” She gags slightly. “Gross.”

“Have a good night,” Dean says.

Charlie gives him a sharp salute. “I wish you a prosperous journey, venturing through the rabid, lawless maelstrom of rush hour traffic and post-work grocery runs.”

Dean laughs, face going stony to match her tone. “I will travel safely.”

“See ya, Dean!”

Dean throws her one last wave before hopping into his impala and sighing in relief. 

Dean passes by his apartment before he gets to the grocery store, so he stops and changes into something that will make him blend in more. His outfit is unremarkable, plain and simple but imperfect. Becoming invisible to the public eye means you have to make an effort to not make an effort, but also make an effort to not look like you made an effort to not make an effort.

Take undercover FBI. They all look the same with their nondescript jeans and inoffensive polo shirts and shoes that are too pristine, too military to be a casual, normal person. They hold themselves in ways that make them stand out, too wary, too leery, too stiff. Their efforts to look like any person fall flat because they are trying too hard.

To become no one, you become anyone.

So, he wears layers. It makes sense for the weather. A faded AC/DC t-shirt beneath a red flannel beneath an olive jean jacket paired with jeans that are presentable but obviously worn and combat boots. The combat boots don’t particularly help him blend in, but they are a fundamental part of any outfit in case something comes and he needs to—

The grocery store is busy, but it’s not a hellscape. He at least finds a decent parking spot.

He makes his usual rounds, getting the necessities and internally budgeting through what fresh foods he could afford that would also give the most caloric intake. Crappy pop music plays through the tinny speakers, and though vapid and not really his style, Dean still sways as he scans the choices at the deli.

By the time his cart is stuffed, his stomach is rumbling unhappily and embarrassingly loud. He ignores it easily, of course. He’s had to skip weeks of meals to feed Sammy. Another few hours is nothing.

He’s about to pull into the check-out when he eyes the bulk bags of rock salt. 

They only have these bulk bags during the winter and Dean knows he will feel better if he gets one. Or two. Or a few. It’s just reassuring to have back up in case—

Dean spins around, his grocery cart squeaking in protest at the rough turn, and heads to the shelf.

When he gets there, though, his heart stutters as he catches sight of a familiar face.

Castiel Novak lugs the salt bags into his cart, arms shaking, obviously strained by the weight. He is still wearing his suit and trench coat, but his tie is loose and crooked, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, and a pair of blocky, thick rimmed glasses are perched on his nose, nearly falling off.

“Hey, do you need help with that?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks up, wide eyed. “Actually? Yes. I do.”

Dean chuckles. “Here. Let me.” Dean grabs the bag and easily sets it into his cart. “How many do you need?”

“Uhm,” Castiel sheepishly averts his gaze, looking to the floor, “as many that will fit in this cart?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “There something I should be worried about? You’re not some hungry witch cooking people into giant cauldrons of well-seasoned people soup, are you?” Dean asks this jokingly, but he knows deep down that he isn’t completely joking.

“Even if I were, I don’t think this variety of salt is safe for consumption.”

“Ah,” Dean says with a nod. “Right.” He places another bag into his cart. “So, if I may ask, what is all the salt for?”

“They’re forecasting snow this weekend, so I’m going to salt the sidewalks in my neighborhood.”

Dean knows that the shock is evident in his sudden shift of expression. “Wow. You just, you do that?”

“It’s a way to give back to the community,” Castiel says with a shrug. “‘ Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows generously will also reap generously.’”

Dean goes still. “2 Corinthians 9:6.”

Castiel’s eyes light up. “You’re familiar?”

“Read the bible a lot as a kid,” Dean says, throat tight. He throws another salt bag into Cas’s cart, maybe a little rougher than necessary.

“Catholic?” Cas asks, voice curious and very interested.

“Not exactly,” Dean says. “I’m not practicing anything much anymore.”

Cas nods, deep in thought. “I see.”

“I’m guessing you still are?” Another salt bag.

“My father is a pastor.”

Dean whistles low. 

“It is good to be raised with faith,” Castiel says. “My religion is a constant in my life, no matter what else happens to me.”

“It must be nice to have faith like that.”

“You don’t?” Castiel questions. “Faith is not always found in the divine. You can find faith in every aspect of your life. Faith in family. Faith in the future. Faith in life itself. There is always something to believe in, whether it be tangible or not. Faith is found everywhere, especially in yourself.”

Dean bites back a biting comment. Honestly, Castiel is the exact type of person that usually sends Dean running screaming to the hills, but there’s something so authentic to him. So unwavering true and real that is magnetic, pulling Dean closer and closer to Castiel’s orbit.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, holding out a hand.

“Castiel Novak,” Castiel responds, shaking it. Dean notes that he has a firm grip.

Castiel’s cart is packed with salt bags and Dean imagines it must weigh a ton. “Hey, do you want me to help you load these into your car? It’s no problem at all.”

“You’d do that?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah. Give to thy neighbor and all that.”

Castiel tilts his head, brows furrowing. “That’s not the quote.”

“I know,” Dean says with a grin. Dean slips a few bags into the bottom of his cart and heads to the open lane, Castiel close behind. “So, what do you do? You also work for the church?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m a professor at the University of Sioux Falls. Religions professor, specifically religion and its relationship with pop culture.”

“That actually sounds pretty cool.”

Castiel smiles. “I think it’s,” he lifts his fingers to do air quotes, “‘pretty cool’ too.” He waves his hand. “What about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a mail carrier,” Dean says. He suddenly feels timid, a dark pit growing in his gut. That fact tends to flip a switch into people, them looking at him like he is some lower, unworthy thing. They make quips about how they bet he only delivers bills and flyers. They make assumptions, ones that say a lot about him even if they aren’t true. 

But Castiel does none of these things. He doesn’t look remotely bothered. He doesn’t acknowledge it with false interest nor does he give a tut of pity and ‘oh that’s so darling’ that he so often gets. Castiel actually looks like he cares. He actually looks… concerned?

“I can’t believe I’ve had you picking up bags of salt for me when I’m sure you’re exhausted. Mail work is tiring and strenuous. I can handle this. I’m sorry.”

“No!” Dean says a little too quickly. “No, it’s fine. Really. I want to help you.” He rubs the back of his neck. Feeling a sliver of confidence, he goes for it. “Besides, I may have had some ulterior motives.”

Castiel’s eyebrows knit together, head tilting again as he deciphers Dean’s words.

Dean’s heart sinks. He should’ve figured. It’s bad enough to assume anyone swings that way, but a guy as devout as Castiel? He was basically asking to strike out.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Don’t feel obligated to humor me or anything.”

Castiel’s eyebrows drew even tighter. “You’re interested in me?”

Dean chuckles awkwardly. “Yeah, I am.”

“You are a very attractive man, Dean,” Castiel says.

Dean anticipates a ‘but.’

“And I have greatly enjoyed conversing with you.”

Dean waits for the catch, but there isn’t one.

“Well,” Dean says, “there’s this great mini golf course that I used to take my little brother to all the time when we were kids and there’s an amazing pizzeria across the street from it with the best buffalo wings and a killer crust. If you’re interested and free this Friday, I’d love to take you.”

Castiel gapes at him. “I-I would like that a lot.”

Dean grins. “Great. It’s a date.” He pulls out his phone. “Can I have your number?” He doesn’t hand his phone to him. Instead he looks at him expectantly as he waits for him to tell him.

“Oh!” Castiel lists his phone number slowly, enunciating the numbers clearly. 

“I’ve gotta warn you, though. I’m a mini golf champion. I get very competitive.”

“I can’t wait to learn from the master, then,” Castiel says.

“Wait. Have you never mini golfed?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. 

“Dude,” Dean says incredulously. 

“My family wasn’t very keen on secular recreation,” Castiel says.

Dean’s breath hitches. “Yeah. I get that.”

Dean hopes Castiel doesn’t catch the tension pulled taut throughout his body. He forces himself to relax and plasters on an easy smile. The cashier tells him his total and he pays, waiting close by, leaning on the bagging area while she scans the salt bags in his cart. 

Dean follows Castiel to his car and almost sobs when he sees his 1978 Lincoln Continental Mark V. The shape it’s in hurts Dean viscerally. 

Dean doesn’t say anything though. Just watches as Castiel pops the trunk and grabs a salt bag, hugging it tight so it doesn’t fall out his arms.

Dean grabs two salt bags and lies them neatly inside, moving at a speed that Castiel’s glacial movements cannot keep up with.

When he’s finished, his heart is pumping, a thin layer of sweat building under his many layers that quickly freeze from the frigid temperatures. 

“Thank you again, Dean. I really appreciate your help,” Castiel says.

“Hey. Anytime. Really.”

Castiel smiles, a goofy bashful tilt of his lips. “I look forward to Friday.”

“I’ll text you,” Dean says.

They stare into each other’s eyes a little longer than what is societally normal. Dean clears his throat. “See you then.” He gives him a small nod and pushes his cart to his car. 

Dean doesn’t hide his lovesick grin as he watches Cas pull out and drive away.

When Dean arrives home, he hums as he puts away his groceries. 

Dean is not a teenage girl. He is not giddy. His heart is not fluttering. He’s just... an adult man who is reasonably excited about a date with another adult man.

Dean, freshly showered and pajama clad, is devouring a bowl of fried rice and watching a paint restoration video (don’t ask how he got there, he doesn’t know) when Sam FaceTimes him.

Dean sets down his spoon and props his phone up against his bowl before answering.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam greets. Eileen is sitting beside him, waving energetically.

“Sammy!” Dean says and signs. “How have you been?”

“Good!” Sam replies. “We had lasagna tonight—”

“Did you make it or did you get Stouffer’s?” Dean interjects.

“Why would we make it ourselves when Stouffer’s is so good?” Sam retorts.

Dean grins. “Correct answer.”

“But we did make our own apple pie. You would’ve loved it. I think it was our best.”

“Crumb top or crust lattice?” Dean asks.

“Crumb,” Sam says.

Dean curses under his breath. “God, that sounds good.”

“It was good. We’ll have to make it for you the next time we get together,” Eileen says.

“I would love that,” Dean replies. “So, what have you two been up to? Anything exciting? Any news that needs to be shared?”

Eileen rolls her eyes. “You aren’t going to be an uncle yet, so you can quit asking.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Dean says with a smirk.

Eileen groans. “Well what about you? Do you have any exciting news?”

“I… actually do,” Dean says.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“I have a date this Friday.”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “A date. An actual date.”

Dean glares at Sam. “You don’t have to sound surprised.”

“Well I am! Who are they? What are they like?”

“His name is Castiel, he has a cat named Jebediah, he is a professor at USF, and he salts the sidewalks for his neighbors before snow storms because he’s just that good of a guy.”

Eileen awes. “He sounds like a great guy.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam asks. “You’ve got that look. The ‘I’m holding back information because I’m conflicted and don’t know how to feel about it but won’t actually talk about it unless Sam drags the information out of me’ look.”

“There’s nothing… wrong with him, per say.”

Sam gives him a look of disbelief.

Dean sighs and the words tumble out like an avalanche. “He may be a crazy Christianity nut. Like the ‘my dad is a pastor and I devote my body and life to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ’ kind of religious.”

“That’s not… that bad?” Sam says, voice not fully convincing.

“Is he at least hot?” Eileen asks.

“I just… I’m gonna be honest, he’s so hot. Like unfairly hot. Like, he doesn’t even realize how hot he is. And maybe I’m thinking a little too much with my dick and not nearly enough with my brain, but I… I’m actually considering overlooking the whole thing. He’s just different. He really believes in using religion for love and good. And he believes it so much that it makes me think I could believe it. He’s a good guy, Sam, and it’s not the devoutness I’m worried about.” Dean’s jaw clenches. “How can a guy like that be with someone like me?” 

“Dean,” Sam says softly. 

“I don’t think I can see the world the way he does. He used religion to justify— and that meant that I used it too to— and I— religion is tainted for me. It’s dirty and it’s dark and it represents everything twisted and evil.”

“I’m not saying that he’s going to make you have a spiritual epiphany, but I think he could be good for you,” Sam says. “Dean, you may feel that way, but you are not tainted. You are not dark. You are not twisted and evil. You are a good man. Your past does not define you and you have done everything you could to rebuild yourself, your life, after everything he put us through. Put you through. You deserve some good, Dean, because you are good too. You are so good. I know you don’t think anything you do will make up for— but you are.”

Dean sits in a pensive silence before he scoffs. “Well, that’s enough of that mushy gushy shit for one night. As always, it has been extremely draining talking to you, Sam. Good talk.” He points at the screen. “And always nice seeing you, Eileen.” He takes a long breath. “But I think I’m gonna sign off for the night. You take care.”

“Night, Dean,” Sam says.

“Talk to you soon!” Eileen adds.

“Night.” Before they can drag it on any longer, he ends the call.

As he stares at the dark screen, his smile fades. It’s well past nine o’clock, and he’s late. He needs to make up for lost time. 

Unable to stomach the rest of his, now cold, dinner, he covers it with cling wrap and shoves it into the fridge. He does a lap around the apartment, checking his salt lines and refreshing the ones that have been scattered. He lifts up his carpets and checks the devil’s traps beneath them and then the warding blood sigils beneath the paintings on his walls. 

The angel warding is a little smudged, so he cleans the edges before grabbing a needle and pricks his finger, painting the thin lines with the needle itself. 

He checks the salt lines one more time and the uneasy chill that remains present this time of night is beginning to dwindle.

He shuts down for the night, crawling into his bed that is cold but freshly made from that morning.

He checks under his p illow and grips onto the hilt of his silver blade, the cool weight sending a rush of calm over him.

He slips his hand back out and lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii…” The familiar words release the tight coils in his muscles.

“...omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…” Habits die hard and he’s had to chant these for ten years of life before bed. Now, it has almost become a lullaby.

“Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te…” The world dissolves into inky black. 

Dean Winchester does not dream. The hellish confines of the prison that is his mind entraps him into the worst nightmare there can be.

His memories. 

But Dean drifts away knowing that there is nothing to protect him from himself. Not even the salt on the windowsills illuminated by moonlight. Not even the silver knife that lay heavily beneath his head. 

It was a good day for Dean Winchester. But good days never last.

.-~*~-.

This shouldn’t be this hard. 

Dean is a fashionable guy. Or, at least, he’d like to think so. So why was this so damn hard?

Dean has been rifling through his closet for an embarrassing amount of time trying to find the perfect outfit and he is quickly running out of time.

The thing is, Dean hasn’t been on a date in a long time. A… very long time.

He’s hooked up with people, sure. Always at their place, though. Never at his. Could never risk anyone intruding into his only safe haven, just in case they were—

But hooking up with someone he meets at a crowded, dingy bar while wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt so form fitting that it’s basically a second skin is very different than trying to make a good second impression with someone he might actually be interested in.

And he is. Interested.

Fashion is supposed to be a reflection of you. It’s how you outwardly express everything that represents you. But it also creates an illusion of whoever you want to be and become. So, who does Dean want to look like tonight?

Castiel has already seen Dean in his usual digs and seemed to be interested enough, so Dean decided to stick to the safety of predictability. 

He sticks to his layers — black tee under a green button up under a brown leather jacket — and tries to fix his hair, but he’s having trouble differentiating the sweat building up on his palms and twist in his stomach from pre-date jitters and petrification. 

He realizes that he won’t be able to look in the mirror long enough to do anything more than lightly (but thoroughly) touch up his hair enough to be presentable and gives up, booking it out of his bathroom to get away from his reflection.

He’s got just enough time to stuff his pockets with the essentials, pick up a generic bouquet of flowers from Walmart, and make it to Castiel’s house a little early.

He feels like a timid teen, shifting his weight between the balls of his feet as he waits at Castiel’s door, gripping the bouquet so tight that he worries he might snap the stems.

However, when Castiel opens the door, Dean flips on his charisma to conceal his consternation. He doesn’t hide how his eyes rake up and down Castiel’s figure as he soaks in the sight.

Castiel wears his, what seems to be, signature trench coat over a navy knit sweater. He also dons a pair of obviously ironed khaki slacks and shiny shoes that Dean can only describe as “church shoes.”

But, his hair is sinfully messy, free of product and looking impossibly soft. His bright blue eyes are hidden behind his thick frames, and he also wears a tasteful scarf and driver’s gloves that look pristine but worn.

“You look amazing,” Dean says.

Castiel ducks his head, cheeks tinting a light pink. “Thank you. You also look very fetching.”

“These are for you.” Dean holds out the flowers.

Castiel’s eyes go comically wide. “You got me flowers?”

“Uh, yeah. I wasn’t sure if you were a flower person, but if you’re not, I figured you could take them to church and liven it up. I know they can get a little dreary.”

Castiel smiles softly at the flowers, taking a long inhale. “They’re beautiful. Thank you. Let me put them in a vase.” He begins to retreat back into his house when he stops. “Would you like to come inside? I’d hate to leave you standing out in this weather.”

“If you don’t mind,” Dean says, stepping in and wiping his feet on the tasteful mat.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets as he surveys Castiel’s home.

It’s cozy in the way that reflects how much it is lived in. The cushions on the beige covered couch are in a state of disarray, one sitting on the coffee table where he guesses Castiel props his feet up on. There are three different stacks of magazines scattered around on the different side tables.

There’s a large bookshelf stuffed to the brim with books, organized alphabetically Dean notices when he looks closer. Along with the books, there are tiny trinkets and bobbles on the shelves in front of them. On the mantle are framed photos and an angel figurine.

As he enters the kitchen, he notices the crisp, white cabinets, specifically the bottom ones that are spotted with dirty paw prints and tiny fingerprints.

Dean leans against the back of one of the barstools at the island and watches as Castiel glides around his kitchen, looking for the perfect vase before filling it with water from the tap. 

He pulls the flowers out from the plastic and begins to cut the stems.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks.

“This allows for better water intake.”

Dean watches curiously as he shears off the ends. When he finishes, he goes to the fridge and pulls out a Sprite.

“The sugars in the soda help the blooms last longer and allegedly smell sweeter.” He pours some of the Sprite into the vase, clearly having memorized the perfect amount. He gathers the flowers gently and places them lovingly into the vase. He caresses them with his palm and pulls them up to his nose once more, savoring the scent. “I’d like to think so.”

Castiel’s eyes have fluttered shut and he’s almost lost in the scent of the flowers. When he opens them again, he seems to suddenly remember Dean’s presence. “Are you ready to go?”

Dean nods. “If you are.”

A small frown appears on his lips. “Are you not going to get cold?”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m warmer than I look.”

“At least let me give you some gloves. Your hands will freeze.” Castiel darts to his mudroom and rummages through a wicker basket. He pulls out a pair of leather gloves. “Here. Try these on.”

Dean stares at them for a moment but finally takes them and pulls them over his hands. “Fit great.”

Castiel beams. “I’m glad.” He nods his head towards the door. “Shall we?”

Dean smiles and pulls the door open. “After you.”

Castiel has to lock the door behind him and Dean takes the moment hidden behind his back to steady his breathing to hopefully make his heart stop hammering hard in his chest. 

When they get to the car, Dean also opens Castiel’s door, mostly because he doesn’t want him to slam the door too hard. Castiel smiles brightly, taking the gesture as Dean being chivalrous.

Dean slides into the driver’s seat and returns Castiel’s smile. 

“So, mini golfing. Is it like regular sized golf?” Castiel asks.

“Hardly,” Dean says. “You’re not aiming to make those big hits. It’s compact. You wanna keep it on the ground.”

Castiel hums. “I see.”

“You’ll catch on quick. It’s easy once you get the hang of it,” Dean reassures.

“I have only golfed once at an event for my father’s church, and I wasn’t very good. In fact, I was quite an embarrassment. My father insisted I not continue because I wasn’t reflecting the skills of our family.”

Dean’s breath catches in throat. “Well, I promise you that I don’t care about your skills and you can be the worst mini golfer this side of the border and I won’t say anything.”

Castiel stares at him adoringly, as if no one has ever said that to him. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Of course, Cas.”

Castiel pauses, head tilting. “Cas?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to— I won’t call you that if you don’t like—”

“I do,” Castiel interjects. “A lot.”

Dean grins. “Okay. Cool.”

“So, you have a brother?” 

Dean’s head snaps up. “What?” A gnarled hook pulls inside of his gut, ripping him from inside with fear. The illogical part of his brain that is still forever trained into him pipes up first. 

‘He’s a mind reader. Some sort of telepath. Siren? Demon? Just a psychic? Can’t be trusted. Need to get out.’ 

Dean’s finger itches to touch Castiel’s bare skin with his silver ring, even though he knows it won’t do anything.

The reasonable part of his brain squashes down those irrational claims and patiently waits for Castiel to continue.

“You mentioned that you used to take your brother mini golfing when you were kids,” Castiel says.

Dean relaxes. “Yeah.”

“Younger, right?”

“By four years, yeah,” Dean says. “Name’s Sam.”

“Are you two close?”

“Oh, very,” Dean says. “He’s,” Dean clears his throat, “he was my whole world growing up. The one good thing in my life, no matter what. He was my constant. Kept me going. He was just…” Dean shakes his head. “Yeah, we’re close. We talk as much as we can, see each other when we can, but we’ve grown apart a bit, just because of distance and age. But that doesn’t mean we’re not still close.”

“That’s nice,” Castiel replies, voice small. He looks down at his hands that are clasped in his lap. “My siblings and I haven’t been close since… I don’t know when. I don’t know if we were ever close. We were always in each other’s proximity growing up, always made to be close, but I don’t know if that made us… close. If that makes sense. We spent a fair bit of time together, growing up and otherwise, but now that we are all in adulthood, we haven’t seen each other much aside from family gatherings. And even then it’s…” Castiel pauses, trying to find the right word. “Tense.”

Castiel pulls at his sweater sleeve. “I’m closer with my sister than I am with my brother. I’m the youngest. Anna is a year older than me and Gabriel is by four. She’s an optometrist and Gabriel owns a candy store, both far from here. So, I’m the only one that’s still here with our parents.”

“Your dad’s a pastor, right?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods. “I see him and my mother every Sunday at church.”

“That’s nice,” Dean says.

“His sermon is very fascinating. Maybe one day I can take you with me.”

Dean nods, trying to cover up his disinterest. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“So, why did you decide to become a mail carrier?” Castiel asks.

“I like reliability. Monotony. It keeps me active,” he pauses, “ and allows me to listen to audiobooks all day every day. It’s just… it’s nice. I like being able to do something that people don’t really think about. People take mail carriers for granted, but, I mean, I’m not looking for attention. That’s what makes it perfect. It’s just me and the mail, and the occasional person to interact with so I don’t go completely stir crazy.”

Castiel smiles. “That sounds nice.”

“What about you? Why do you teach?”

“Knowledge is imperative to create a wiser society. The youth of today has so much… potential. They’re bright and intelligent and inquisitive and the things that they are capable of when they truly put their minds to what they believe in is… astonishing. To have even a miniscule impact on their lives to push them towards their own epiphanies of passions and clarity is… it’s an honor.”

“Wow,” Dean breathes. “You really love what you do.”

“Yes,” Castiel smiles, unabashed and unwavering, “I do.”

There’s a flipping feeling in Dean’s chest at the sight, so he focuses back on the road. “Oh. And here we are,” Dean says as he pulls into the parking lot of the pizzeria.

When they get to their table, Castiel takes the seat that has the view of all the exits and Dean has to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking Castiel to switch with him.

“This is a lovely establishment,” Castiel says.

“It’s awesome.” He clears his throat. “I, uh, called earlier to get our order. Figured we could skip the wait, and you mentioned that you wanted to try what I was having anyways, so we didn’t have to look at menus, and—”

“That’s great,” Castiel interrupts. “Very efficient.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Efficient.” He bobs his head. “But, I didn’t know your drink order, so…”

As if on cue, a waitress comes to their table.

“What can I get y’all today?”

“Coke for me,” Dean says.

“And milk for me,” Castiel says.

“And you’re the pre-order for Winchester, right?” she asks.

“That’d be right,” Dean confirms with a grin.

“I’ll be right back.”

Dean leans back in his seat, trying to ignore the twinge of unease with his back towards the door. “Sammy used to eat the garlic knots here like he was ten days starving and they were the last food on Earth. Used to make sure he talked extra close to my face because he knew how bad it made his breath smell.”

Castiel chuckles. “My brother, Gabriel, was that way with candy. Our father didn’t approve of frivolous indulgence, so Gabriel would hoard it in his room, stashing it away and hiding it so he would never find it. Anything sweet and filled with artificial sugar was his vice.” He smiles nostalgically. “Perhaps that’s what initiated his passion towards the treats.” 

“He owns a candy store, right?” Dean asks.

“He does. Gourmet. Handmade.”

“Wow. Bet it’s good.”

“It is,” Castiel confirms. “He has these chocolates filled with gooey caramel and sprinkled with salt that he always brings me when he visits, and I have to ration them out to savor them to their best potential.”

“Sounds delicious. Maybe next time you get some you can spare me one?” He raises an eyebrow at Castiel’s reluctance. “Totally get it if you can’t. If they’re that good, I wouldn’t want to share either.” He twirls his fork between his fingers. “Sammy went through two phases when he was a kid. The first one was when he shared everything with me, whether it be a bite of his food or one of his toys. It was like he wanted me to be part of everything he did.

“Then there was a harsh flip where he didn’t want to share anything. If he got a bag of M&Ms, gone were the days that he would give me the brown ones because he insisted that the brown ones were extra chocolate. Nope. He was like a dragon with his treasure. Wouldn’t even let me see it.”

Dean shakes his head. “I won’t lie, even as a kid, I was a little sad to see that change, but I knew that kids were weird and they had their reasons.” He waves his hand. “Anyways, he never really grew out of the no sharing thing. Especially when it comes to blankets. He is a blanket hog like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I have been a,” he does air quotes around the words, “‘blanket hog’ as well. Or so I’ve been told.”

Dean laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s not a bad thing. Definitely not a deal breaker.”

The waitress comes over and sets their drinks, buffalo wings and pizza onto the table, giving them a sweet smile and an “enjoy your meal.”

Castiel’s eyes are comically wide, jaw dropped. “This smells… amazing.”

“It tastes even better,” Dean says.

“I can’t imagine it can,” Castiel says.

“Believe it.” Dean waves his hand, showcasing the food. “So, what do you want to start with?”

“Well, you said that you start with the buffalo wings.”

“Buffalo wings it is.” Dean places one on Castiel’s plate and four on his.

Castiel’s head tilts as he inspects the wing, brows knit together as he scrutinizes it. “If you don’t mind, I like to say grace before a meal.”

“Go ahead,” Dean says.

Castiel smiles gratefully and clasps his hands in front of him on the table. He bows his head and begins to murmur softly. “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.” He signs the cross and raises his head. 

The words leave a rancorous feeling in Dean’s chest. “So, buffalo wings,” he says.

“Buffalo wings,” Castiel repeats. Glacially, he picks it up and takes a small nibble. Immediately, he coughs hard, dropping it on his plate with a clatter. “You didn’t say it was gonna be spicy!”

“They’re not! They’re mild!” Dean exclaims, taken aback.

Castiel grabs his milk and begins to chug it, watery eyes squeezed shut.

Dean holds back a laugh. “I’m so sorry. If I had known you would’ve been like this, I wouldn’t have made you try them.”

Castiel pulls his milk away and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “No, I apologize. I was not aware that buffalo sauce was this spicy.”

“You not a fan of spice?” Dean asks.

“Never had the chance to build up a tolerance. We didn’t grow up with it.”

Dean nods. “Sam and I had it real early on. Dad said it built character.” Dean freezes, body going rigid.

Castiel frowns. “That must have been very unpleasant.”

Dean chuckles bitterly. “You could say that.”

“What was he like? Your father?”

Dean shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

“My dad was strict.” Barked orders during shooting practice. Harsh reprimands when the salt lines aren’t thick enough or the sigil symbols are too wobbly. Rough hands shoving his back while he’s sprinting as fast as his little legs can take him.

“We moved around a lot for his work.” Long nights sleeping in the passenger seat of the Impala. Dingy motels with scratchy sheets. Weeks alone with Sam, scavenging and starving.

“He was superstitious.” Learning to read from stacks of books filled with the occult. Darting eyes searching for the suspicious. Silver knives slicing his once smooth skin by a man that couldn’t trust his own son. 

“And he’s not around anymore.” Red and blue lights reflecting off the window panes of the motel room. His voice, booming and thunderous, cursing his name. Watching as he is shoved into the police car, thrashing and threatening.

Castiel softens. “I apologize. I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine. You didn’t know.”

A tense, awkward silence settles.

“Uh, so!” Dean says. “You’ve gotta try the pizza. I promise it’s not spicy.”

"You didn’t seem to think the buffalo wings were spicy.”

“Really. I promise. It’s not.” 

“What is it?” Castiel asked.

“Well I got half and half. One’s pepperoni, because that’s a classic, but just warning you, the pepperoni may be a little spicy to you, and the other is Hawaiian. Ham and pineapple.”

“I’ve heard that there is quite a controversy about pineapple on pizza,” Castiel says.

“What do you think?” Dean sks.

“Oh. I have never had pizza.”

Dean’s mouth drops open. “Really?”

“My father didn’t allow us to eat these, what you’d probably call, ‘junk foods.’”

“Huh,” Dean breathes. “Well, it’s good. Really good.”

Castiel hesitantly picks up a Hawaiian slice and brings it to his mouth. Like the buffalo wings, he takes a tentative nibble. This time, his eyes go wide, not in pain, but in wonder. “Wow.”

“Good?”

“Outstanding,” Castiel says. He takes another bite and lets out an almost obscene moan. The sound does things to Dean that are definitely not appropriate inside a crowded restaurant.

The two continue to chatter about get-to-know-yous as they eat their food. They trade stories about school with Castiel talking about Catholic school and Dean in public (but not mentioning that he jumped around from school to school, barely passing enough to go to high school). They talk about their childhoods, Dean focusing on stories about Sam and Castiel’s revolving around the church. They talk about their jobs, Dean letting Castiel take the reins as he talks about his students and his classes. Castiel is easy to talk to. He may be a little literal and have a pretentious vocabulary, but he knows how to carry a captivating conversation, and Dean finds himself holding onto his every word.

But what is terrifying is how much he likes him. He hasn’t known him long and yet he’s completely enamored. Castiel is everything Dean cannot be, everything he needs. Stability. Simplicity. Sincerity.

He’s everything Dean is afraid of having. Everything he doesn’t deserve. Everything that will be tarnished by him.

Castiel has a rare innocence to him. A pure kind of oblivion that makes Dean want to do everything he can to protect him and keep it intact. He’s the type of guy that puts his napkin on his lap when he eats. The ends of his sleeves are a little thin; he can tell that he’s gotten them wet. He’s completely and totally himself.

And Dean can never be that.

The two, too stuffed for dessert, make their way out of the pizzeria and across the street to the mini golf course.

“Okay, Cas. You have to make a choice that is extremely important. Your answer will tell me more about the kind of person you are than anything else you’ve told me today. The stakes are high and the choice you make can be the cleaver that executes this relationship before it has even started.”

Castiel stares at him with wide eyes.

“What color golf ball do you want?” Dean’s stoic expression slips into a grin.

“Uhm,” Castiel looks to Dean, seemingly searching for the right answer. “Green?”

“Dark or neon?”

“D… Dark?” Castiel says, unsure.

Dean stares at him, eyes narrowed, and then nods sagely. “Good choice.”

Castiel lets out a sigh of relief.

“That wasn’t really a test, you know,” Dean says. “I didn’t mean to make you actually worried.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says, hands clenching and unclenching by his side.

When they get to the booth, Dean gets himself a dark blue and Castiel his dark green.

“I’ll pay,” Castiel says. “You paid for supper. It’s only fair I pay for this.”

“You sure?” Dean asks.

“Positive.” 

Dean holds out his elbow and nods his head to the first hole. “Shall we?”

Castiel loops his hand into the crook of Dean’s elbow. “Lead the way.”

Dean can’t help the tingling sparks that shoot through his skin from the simple contact from Castiel. He can’t help the wave of calm that he gets from the soft pressure of Castiel’s weight leaning into his side. He can’t help the giddiness he feels as Castiel squeezes softly at the crook of his elbow with his gloved hands.

He can’t help the unbearable desire to feel that touch without the barrier of layers between them.

Dean sets his ball down and poses with an ostentatious flourish. “Watch,” he grips his putter and spreads his legs, not very discreetly bending in ways that made his jeans hug tighter, “and learn.” He taps the ball and it travels down to the end of the course with a smooth roll.

Castiel squints at the ball, eyes tracking the ball as it travels.

“You wanna try?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. He holds the putter, hands fisted around the top like a shovel. He swings and misses the ball completely.

“Here,” Dean says. He goes behind Castiel, pressing against his back and wrapping his arms around him. Castiel’s breath hitches slightly, body going still under Dean’s hold. Dean trails his fingers down his arms and guides them to the correct position. “Loosen your grip. Let the momentum lead you.” Dean swings Castiel’s arms, rocking his body with his.

Castiel leans his head back slightly in Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s heart stutters slightly. “I-I think I’ve got it.”

“Try it,” Dean says, pulling away and holding his hands out encouragingly. 

Castiel nods and gets into position, mimicking Dean’s stance which gives him a wonderful view. He taps the ball and it makes a perfect route into the hole.

“Woah! Hole in one, first try! You sure this is your first time?” Dean asks.

“Yes. It is,” Castiel says. “So that’s… good?”

“Really good. I think I’ll have to amp it up.”

And it turns out, Castiel is ridiculously good at mini golf. He gives Dean a run for his money, the two nearly matching up shot for shot for the rest of the game. 

Castiel does not gloat. He’s not a bragger at all which made Dean hold himself back.

When he used to play with Sam, they would always rub it into each other’s faces when they got a good shot. They would heckle each other and do obnoxious victory dances.

Instead, Dean was stuck in a determined focus. He nearly forgets that this is a date, not a competition.

He can tell that Castiel finds his competitiveness amusing. His hidden smirks and cocked eyebrow speak for themselves.

Castiel wins, because of course he does. He’s just that good at everything.

Dean is a bit of a sore loser, but it quickly fades when he sees the joy in Castiel’s face when he finds out that his perfect score will get his name on a little plaque to forever be displayed on the wall. It’s a childish kind of glee, Castiel squeezing Dean’s hand in unbridled exuberance. 

Dean is riding on a high that he doesn’t think he had ever had before when they get into the car.

“This was very wonderful,” Castiel says. “Thank you, Dean.”

“I had a great time,” Dean replies. “We should do this again.”

Castiel grins. “I would like that a lot.”

The drive home is a comfortable silence, Castiel staring out the window at the passing lights and scattered stars.

Finally, they make it to Castiel’s house, and Dean doesn’t want the night to end.

“Here,” Dean says, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

“Oh. Alright.”

The two walk up together, Castiel slightly swaying as he heads to the door.

“Here,” Dean says. “Thanks for letting me borrow your gloves.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. I had almost forgotten.” He takes the gloves and shoves them into his trench coat pockets.

“Tonight was great,” Dean murmurs.

“Yes. It was,” Castiel responds.

Dean’s eyes flicker to Castiel’s lips. Castiel looks up to him, blinking slowly. Dean begins to slowly lean in.

“I’ll text you,” Castiel says suddenly, stepping away.

Dean freezes. “O-oh. Yeah. Okay.”

“I do want to do this again,” Castiel says. “Really.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I… I look forward to it.”

“You’ll hear from me. I promise.”

“Okay.” Dean gives him a smile, brows twisted in confusion.

“Good night, Dean.” And with that, Castiel opens his door and hurries in.

“Well,” Dean blinks, “that went well.”

.-~*~-.

Dean isn’t good with Valentine’s Day.

It all starts in kindergarten.

Grace Damocles was the love of his life. Or, his life from up until that point. 

She had silky red hair and a face full of freckles and she drank the good fruit punch at lunch and Dean was hopelessly in love.

When Valentine’s Day came around, Dean had prepared something that he was sure would sweep her off of her feet. 

For the rest of his classmates, he had spent hours hand-drawing valentines on the note paper that came in his motel room because he knew his father wouldn’t waste money on the store bought kind. He wasn’t much of an artist, but he could draw a convincing snake, so he drew snake after snake. He gave them bow ties and hats and some of them even got a bow tie and a hat. 

But for Grace Damocles, he had prepared something extra special.

Dean had snatched a little bracelet from the shelf when they were passing through a rest stop. It was bright pink and had a little plastic heart on it. 

Along with the bracelet, he drew her a valentine with, not a snake, but a dinosaur. He spent hours on the dinosaur, perfecting it just for her. He loved dinosaurs so much and he thought it would be the perfect expression of his love, sharing something he loved with the girl that he loved.

But, Valentine’s Day came around and Dean gave her the bracelet and dinosaur valentine and she grimaced in disgust. She said that he had cooties, pink was for babies, and that dinosaurs were stupid.

For the first time since his mother, Dean’s little heart was crushed.

It’s then where he realizes that he has no room in his life for love.

Dean didn’t stick around anywhere long enough to really make a mark on anyone. And as he grew up, he learned that it was better to blend in and not be any sort of notable. Not when he had to hide what he knew was out there. Or, what he thought he knew. 

His first permanent school was his freshman year in high school, and Dean had been running for so long, he didn’t know how to stay.

That first year was a blur. He was numb. He was empty. He was barely there. 

Dean was a shell of a person, once a soldier who was certain in all he did, suddenly shattered and scrambling to find the pieces of the person he once was.

Dean was too used to being no one. It was easier to be no one than to be whoever he was then. So he slipped away into the comfort of the unknown.

When it came to school, he didn’t excel and he didn’t do poorly. He did fine. He was unremarkable.

When it came to socializing, he was a passing character in other’s lives. He had cordial, pleasant conversations and he was likable, but not enough to be sought after.

When it came to everything else, he wasn’t anything.

In freshman year, he had acquired a secret admirer. Melody Martinelli. 

On Valentine’s Day, she brought him a homemade cupcake and a cheesy Valentine in the shape of a heart made from construction paper covered in loopy cursive. 

Dean tried to humor her. Tried to flirt. Tried to look interested. But when he looked at her, all he saw were dark brown eyes that were far too similar to the lifeless eyes he stared into after he—

Girls came and went. Dean became a challenge. The boy that girls wanted to crack. They wanted him to be their conquest. 

But Dean was too used to being no one. He didn’t want to be anyone’s anyone. 

And maybe he never made room for love in his life again.

Maybe it was easier that way.

Because maybe he didn’t think that there could ever be a place for love in the life of a man like him.

Dean isn’t sure what you’re supposed to do on Valentine’s Day, especially not as an adult. He has no notecard with a dinosaur drawn with painstaking patience. He has no construction paper heart covered in loopy cursive.

He has himself. And he has Castiel. And he has a head full of grand gestures that he can’t pull off.

It takes him a long time pacing back and forth in his bedroom and several calls with Sam and Eileen to convince himself that he’s not moving too fast. That this isn’t too much.

But as much as he hates to admit it, he likes Castiel. A lot. And he wants to make this special, even if he hasn’t known him long. 

He tells Castiel to wear comfortable clothes. Lots of warm layers. Castiel asks where he’s taking him. He doesn’t tell him.

He tells Castiel he’s picking him up at 5:00PM. Castiel asks if he needs to bring anything. He tells him to just bring himself.

He puts on his usual layers and packs his car for his Valentine’s Day date.. He manages to look in the mirror for a full minute while he’s doing his hair, something he hasn’t been able to do in years. 

When he picks up Castiel, his breath hitches at the sight.

The messy haired man wears a thick, dark green, knitted turtleneck beneath his trenchcoat. The sleeves are a little long and cover his fingertips. He has a soft smile, eyes lighting up when he spots Dean’s car.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says as he climbs into the passenger seat of his car. “You look very nice.”

Dean, his throat still constricted and mouth dry, makes an unattractive squawk. “You look great.”

“Oh, thank you.” Castiel smiles. “I don’t often get to wear this sweater, but I thought this would be the perfect opportunity.”

“Well, it looks amazing.”

“Thank you,” Castiel repeats. “So, where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see,” Dean says. 

“Right. Because it’s a surprise.”

The drive is not quiet. It’s filled with music and the best damn conversation Dean’s ever had and laughter so hard that he thinks he’s going to crash the car.

Of course, he doesn’t. He’s a postal worker for God’s sake! He knows how to drive a car.

Dean leads Castiel through the woods and he’s astonished by the trust Castiel has in him to take him out here.

“We gotta jump the fence here,” Dean says.

“Is it… private property?” Castiel asks. “We should not trespass.”

“It’s abandoned,” Dean says. “They’ve just still got the fences up.” Castiel’s eyes dart with anxiety. “Hey,” Dean says softly. “Do you trust me?”

Castiel looks up. He nods.

“Everything’s gonna be alright,” Dean says. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Dean helps Castiel over the fence and he hops over after him.

As they walk, Castiel tugs at his sleeves restlessly. “I am… unused to rule breaking. I want to assure you that the reason I may seem I am on edge is not because of you. I am just… not what one would label rebellious.” 

Dean takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. “That’s okay,” Dean says. “Following the rules is definitely very cool.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. “I’ve been called a prude in my past. Because I was not spontaneous or open to doing something I was not comfortable with.”

“Then they suck,” Dean says.

Castiel startles at his words.

“If they wanted to push you to do something you weren’t comfortable with, then they’re not worth your time.” Dean squeezes his hand. “You tell me you don’t wanna do something, we won’t do it, alright?”

Castiel smiles. “Alright.”

They make it to the spread that he had set up earlier and he’s relieved to see that nothing has been stolen.

“What is this?” Castiel asks.

“It’s a picnic,” Dean says.

Castiel looks up at him with wide owlish eyes. “A picnic?”

“It’s too cheesy, isn’t it? Ugh, I knew it was too cheesy. We can just take the food and go—”

“I love it!” Castiel says quickly. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean motions to the blanket with his hand. “Shall we?”

They take a seat on the blanket and Dean opens up his back to reveal the food he packed. Something healthy but delicious to impress Castiel. Castiel seems to love it, smiling with every bite as he looks at Dean with the fondest, sweetest gaze.

“Tell me something,” Dean says.

“What would you like me to tell you about?” Castiel asks.

“Anything. Everything. I just want to know you more.”

Castiel sets his sandwich down as his brows furrow with deep thought. “I’ve mentioned my father is a pastor.”

“You have,” Dean says.

“That meant I spent most of my life in the church or in religious spaces,” Castiel says. “And I have a strong relationship with my religion. I will always have faith and my connection with God will always hold a significant place in my heart and life.”

“Is it hard?” Dean asks.

“Having faith?” Castiel asks.

“Keeping your faith,” Dean says. “Despite everything.”

“God is our all-loving father,” Castiel says with such certainty that Dean feels like he could actually believe him. “And though many use His word for hate, that is not His word. God loves all of His children, not despite their sins and their flaws, but because of them. Even the fallen angels were still His own. I… I have to believe that He will love me, not despite of my… homosexuality, but love me regardless. Because I know there are people in my life who would not. But my faith in God and His love in me will always persist.”

“Do you think there are people who have sinned too much to be loved by God?” Dean asks.

“I do not believe that at all,” Castiel says. “Do you think you don’t deserve love from Him?”

And of course Dean doesn’t, but he can’t say that to Castiel. “I don’t think I have the same faith in Him as you do.”

“That is alright,” Castiel says. “Faith is found in many ways, and it may not be a direct faith in God himself.”

“I guess you need a lot of faith when you’re goin’ against everything the church stands for,” Dean says. “You said you don’t get much support?”

“People can be… blinded by their prejudice. But I know that God created me the way I was supposed to be and the creation of God’s hand cannot be flawed and therefore my homosexuality is not a flaw but just another asset of myself.” Castiel looks up at Dean. “Did you have support when you had come to terms with your sexuality?”

Dean’s breath hitches. “My old man wouldn’t have been too happy about it but he never did find out about it. He… he wasn’t around. I moved in with my Uncle Bobby when I was fourteen and Bobby would be a hypocrite if he didn’t support queers.”

Castiel’s brow raises.

“He’s married to a man,” Dean says. “My Uncle Rufus.”

“Ah, I see,” Castiel says. “Then you had a good role model.”

“I wouldn’t say…” Dean pauses. “Yeah, I did. Bobby was good to me and Sam. I don’t know who I’d be if he hadn’t taken me in. If he wasn’t there for me during the time he was.”

“You had said your father was strict. Was Bobby?”

“Not in the same way my dad was,” Dean says. “My dad, he had expectations, y’know? I had to take care of Sammy. I couldn’t let emotions take control. I had to be a good hun—” His throat clenches. “But Bobby wasn’t like that. All he expected of us was to heal and to be kids. My dad never cared that we were kids.”

“I understand the pressure of expectations,” Castiel says. “I… I was very shy and reserved when I was a child. I excelled in school. I was pious, and I was attentive in church. But… I could never be good enough. Not for my father and not for my community.”

Dean huffs out a breath. “Yeah. I get that.”

There’s a rattle in the forest and Dean tenses, his heart stopping for a moment.

“It was just a deer,” Castiel murmurs. “You’re safe.”

Dean lets out the breath he was holding. “Right. Right, of course. Sorry, I just… get freaked easily.”

“That’s alright,” Castiel says. “I won’t let anything harm you.”

Dean looks into Castiel’s eyes, the sure protectiveness in his eyes, and he truly feels safe. “Can I kiss you?”

Castiel chews on his lip, clearly thinking.

“You don’t gotta if you don’t want to.”

“No,” Castiel says. “I want to.” With that, Castiel cups Dean’s cheeks with his hands. 

Dean’s eyes flutter shut and he waits with a heart racing with anticipation until he feels the gentle press of lips against his. His breath shudders and just as it started it’s over.

“Was that alright?” Castiel asks.

“More than,” Dean says.

“Your lips are very chapped,” Castiel says.

And Dean laughs, because what else can he do but laugh? And for the first time in a long time, he feels completely and utterly content.

.-~*~-.

The Day comes suddenly. He isn’t expecting it but when he realizes he has forgotten, the guilt gnaws at him, jagged teeth ripping at his chest until it’s ribbons.

It was going to be a good day for Dean Winchester. He’s riding from the high of a good date with Castiel and the butterflies of a budding relationship. When he wakes up, he does fresh and alert with a warm blur of a dream fading away, but when he clicks his phone on and sees the date, he realizes that it cannot be a good day for Dean Winchester.

‘How could I forget? ’ he asks himself.

As he lies in bed, digging his nails into his palms, the annual repentance begins.  

There’s a twisted pull in his gut and a paralyzing chill filling his entire being until he is shivering. 

There is a pounding at the door, but Dean cannot pull his body up. It weighs heavily like a lead anvil pushing deeper and deeper into his memory foam mattress. The pressure crushes him, collapses atop him, keeps him closed in and confined.

“Dean! C’mon, open up!”

Dean’s head tilts, barely a turn as he glances at the closed door of his bedroom. The voice is far away. Too far away yet too close.

Dean scrubs at his wrists with his palms.

“I don’t want to have to pick this lock, Dean, but I will if I have to!”

His vision is a haze, shapes and colors bending and blending blearily. He blinks.

That far away voice draws nearer, a soft slam of a door preceding it. “Dean?” The voice calls from behind his door.

The door creaks open and reveals a fuzzy figure, one that towers high above him. Dean recoils; he curls close and clutches his silver knife.

“Woah, woah, it’s just me!” the voice exclaims.

Dean blinks again, clearing the clouds. “S… Sammy?” The words are dry and crackling, ripping through his throat. He drops the knife.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says softly.

A helpless sob escapes Dean. 

Sam’s face falls and he rushes to Dean’s side, kneeling by the side of his bed.

Dean covers his mouth with his palm, but the crescent cuts embedded into his palm stink a sickening scent of coppery blood, blood, blood.

Sam tears his hands away and caresses it gently in his giant hands. “What do you need?” 

Dean chokes out another sob, a once still body trembling.

“Can I touch you?” Sam asks.

Dean manages a jerky nod, hugging his arms to his torso.

He feels the bed dip as Sam sits beside him and he focuses on the firm embrace of his arms around him.

He does not cry. The tears are trapped inside of him, unable to escape. But his temples throb and his chest is static. He aches, exhausted down to his bones. He feels like he is floating despite the pulverizing pressure pushing down onto him.

“Did you call into work?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head.

“Do you need me to call in?”

Dean shakes his head again. He manages the words between shaky breaths. “They… know I don’t… work today.”

Sam nods, squeezing him tighter. “That’s good.”

“I can’t… Sam, I… I can’t…”

Sam shushes him softly. “Just breathe. Just focus on your breathing.”

“Can’t… can’t…”

“Yes you can. Just breathe with me.”

Every sip of air that he struggles to suck in is sharp. It burns, searing him deep in his chest. His throat is shut tight, only opening to allow Dean to gasp.

Sam shushes him and rocks him in his arms. “You’re gonna be okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

The compunction hits him hard. Gone are the quavering sobs. It is abruptly replaced by an eerie stillness. He is shielded from the world, from his mind, by the comfort of catatonia.

Sam freezes around him. “No. Dean. C’mon. Look at me.”

Dean slips away, his mind wandering into the blissful nothing. No thoughts. No hurt. Free. Safe.

“You’ve gotta stay with me,” Sam pleads.

Dean stares into the nothing. Time slips away and so does he. He is numb. There is no longer anything but him and the dull silence. There are no thoughts that trap inside his mind. There is no feeling. There is no pain. There is just him and the nothing.

There is a tug from outside of the nothing. A flash. A falter from the expanses of the nothing.

“Dean!”

No. No. He can’t go back. He can’t go back to the debilitating pain. He can’t go back to the all encompassing contrition. He will never escape. He will lose himself to the hurt. He will break. He will shatter. He cannot. He cannot. He—

The nothing collapses and the triturating pain rushes through him. 

He blinks as the nothing dissipates, suddenly able to feel the overwhelming presence of the everything.

“How long?” Dean asks. He freezes when he catches sight of Sam.

His eyes are bloodshot. Tears stain his blotchy cheeks. He gasps, an almost hysterical laugh escaping his throat. “An hour.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh.”

“I didn’t… God, Dean. I wasn’t sure when you’d be coming back. If you... I-I thought…”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, voice cracking.

“No. God, don’t… don’t be sorry. I know you don’t…” Sam bites at his palm, holding back more tears. “I was just scared.”

“I know you were,” Dean says. 

“Every time you… every year when you…” Sam runs his fingers through his hair. “I can’t lose you, Dean.”

“You won’t,” Dean says.

“I was so… God, I was so scared, Dean. The first time you…” Sam breathes, shuddering. “You weren’t moving. And Dean, you always moved. You never stopped moving. So when you came back and you just… you weren’t moving. You just stared at the wall for hours. You wouldn’t talk, you wouldn’t eat, you wouldn’t sleep. I…” Sam’s words catch on a sob. “I had to clean all of the blood off of your hands because you couldn’t even move enough to… and you just… you wouldn’t move.

“Six days. You were… for six days. And the only thing you would say is… is… and you weren’t eating and you weren’t sleeping and I thought, I thought, I thought you were gonna die. I didn’t think you would ever come back from it. And every time you… I never know if you’re ever going to…”

“Sam,” Dean interjects. 

“Dean. You need help. It’s been twelve years and you still… what if you never…”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine!” Sam snaps. “Jesus, Dean. You can’t tell me that you’re fine when—”

“I can’t be fine, Sam! I will never be fine. Not when I—”

“It’s been twelve years! You need to move on—”

“I can’t fucking move on, Sam!”

“Then you need to talk about it. You need to talk to someone. Anyone. You can’t just—”

“Just what, Sam?”

“Just have a fucking psychotic break from reality and go catatonic every time you—”

“It’s not that simple!”

“Then tell me how to make it that simple! Tell me how to help! Don’t just—”

“I killed a woman, Sam!”

Sam goes silent.

“I…” Dean stares at his trembling hands. “I killed someone. You don’t… you don’t just move on from that.”

“Dean…” 

Dean’s phone chimes with a familiar tune. He takes a long breath and picks it up.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, voice with faux cheer.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies. “I have a break between classes and I know that this is your usual snack break time.”

Dean lets out a wet chuckle. “Yeah. It is.”

“What is your snack today?” Castiel asks.

“The usual.”

“I hope you’re not too cold. The high today is quite, well, low.”

“I move around a lot,” Dean says. “The activity warms me up.”

“That’s good,” Castiel says. “Well, anyways, the reason I called was to tell you about the most wonderful thing I saw today.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“On my way to work, I saw a family of deer cross the street. It was a mother and her two fawns.” Dean can hear the smile in Castiel’s enthusiastic voice. “According to the Shinto belief, deer are considered to be sacred messengers of the gods. Many believe they represent a sign from God, whatever that sign you might need in that moment. I wanted to share this with you in case this sign was not for me, but instead for you.”

“Why would it be for me?” Dean asks.

“Because God’s word is not what we want it to be. Sometimes it is what we need.” Castiel hums. “Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

“Not yet. But I’d like to.” Dean bites his lip to hold back a sob. “I was hoping we could get together. We haven’t played Kings in a Corner together yet. Gotta warn you, though. If you thought I was competitive at mini golf, you haven’t seen nothing yet.”

“Double negative,” Castiel says. He pauses. “I would love to. Maybe you can bring your deck of cards to mine.”

“I’d like that a lot.”

“Oh!” Castiel squeaks. “My class is starting soon. Have a good day, Dean.”

“You too,” Dean says.

When the call ends, Dean drops his phone and crumbles. 

“I killed her,” Dean whispers, a warm tear streaming down his cheek.

“I know,” Sam says softly.

“I killed her,” Dean sobs. “I didn’t want to. I never wanted to. But he said he’d…”

“I know,” Sam repeats. 

“She was too young.”

“You were too young,” Sam says. “Dean, you were fourteen.”

“I still killed her.”

“I know you did. But you have to… it’s been twelve years. You need to learn how to move on.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

Dean’s fists clench. “I don’t deserve to move on.”

Sam grabs Dean by the shoulders and makes him look into his eyes. “You deserve to move on, Dean. You deserve to move on from all of this.”

“I can’t,” Dean says, voice small. “I don’t know how.”

“I know,” Sam murmurs. “But you’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.”

“He ruined me. He ruined my life. Even after all of these years, he still… I can’t stop it. I can’t stop.”

“You’ll find a way.”

“I never thought I’d feel safe again. I never thought that I could ever have that feeling. He stole that from me. But then I… now I… I’ve had it and I don’t want to lose it.”

“You’re not going to.”

“I don’t want to lose him.”

Sam pauses, obviously trying to piece those words together. “He’s good for you, Dean.”

“I think I might be fallin’ in love with him.”

“That’s a good thing,” Sam says.

“I’m not someone worthy of… I can’t love someone like him.”

“Yes, you can.”

“If he knew what I am, what I’ve done, he’d… you don’t know him, Sam. He would never be with someone like me if he knew.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Dean insists. “And maybe I’m being selfish for holding onto this when I… when he doesn’t… but I want to. Just for a little longer. I don’t want to lose him.”

Sam sighs. “Okay. Get up.”

“What?” Dean questions.

“We’re going out today. So, get dressed.”

“I don’t think I can go out today, Sammy…”

“You can and you will.”

Dean glares at the tall man who stands with his arms crossed stubbornly. “Sam.”

“Dean,” Sam replies in the same tone. “C’mon. Get dressed. We’ve got places to be.”

“What places? What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see.”

Dean can’t handle the gritty denim of jeans, so he slips on sweatpants and Castiel’s sweatshirt. He pulls the soft fabric over his nose and inhales slowly. His eyes flutter shut, and for a brief moment, he’s taken away by a wave of safety.

“You ready?” Sam asks.

Dean pulls the sweater down and nods. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

They go in Sam’s car because on days like these, the Impala is too much. 

Dean sways in his seat, tapping his fingers on his thigh as he stares out the window. The movement grounds him, keeps him from slipping away again.

His brows furrow as they pull up to the mall.

“We’re gonna take a little walk,” Sam says.

“In the mall?” Dean questions. “I hate shopping.”

“We’re not here to shop,” Sam says.

Dean looks at him with confusion, but follows his long strides.

They wander through the mall for a long five minutes before Dean begins to get impatient. “Sam, where are we going?”

“We are going to Auntie Anne’s and getting soft pretzels and then we’re going to Build-A-Bear where we are gonna build some bears and then we’re going to Dip-n-Dot’s and I’ll even let you bitch about my fruity ones”

Dean sits on his words for a moment. “I’m not building a fucking bear.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

Dean, pretzel in hand, stands in the Build-A-Bear at the bin of animal skins (“don’t call them that, Dean”) trying to find the one for him.

He runs his fingers over all of the fabrics, looking for the one that speaks to him, and freezes when he feels smooth fluff. He pulls it out of the bin and narrows his eyes at it.

“What the fuck is this thing?”

A mother glares at him, pulling her small son away.

“It’s a bunny, Dean.”

“A bunny, huh? Thought this was Build-A- Bear.”

“They’ve got other stuff too, I guess,” Sam says with a shrug.

“So now what?” Dean asks.

“We’ve gotta stuff ‘em.” 

The worker leads them to the fluff station and Dean watches in childlike wonder as it transforms into its true stuffed bunny form. He doesn’t show this, of course. But he can’t help but light up in amazement.

When the worker hands them their hearts, Dean stares at it. “It holds my love and wishes?”

“That’s right. And you’ve gotta kiss it so all of your love and wishes go inside.”

“Isn’t that, like, unsanitary?” Dean asks.

“Just kiss the damn heart, Dean,” Sam says.

Dean gives Sam the stink eye but closes his eyes and presses a soft kiss to the heart.

“All your love and wishes in there?” Sam asks.

“Shut your face,” Dean grumbles.

“You have to give your furry friend its first hug to make sure it’s stuffed just right,” the worker says.

Dean eyes her with reluctance. “Do I have to?”

“It’s a very important step,” she says.

Dean squishes the bunny in his hands and pulls it to his chest, hugging it tight. “Fuck,” Dean whispers. “I’ve never had a stuffed animal. At least, not one I can remember.”

Sam places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it lightly. “Well, now you have one.”

“Now you get to dress your furry friend!” the worker says, obviously eager to get rid of the two.

Dean, heart constricting tightly in his chest, staggers to the clothes and gasps. “Holy shit! Sammy! C’mere! You’ve gotta see this!”

More parents glare at Dean. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters. “Sammy, look!” 

“What?” Sam questions.

Dean displays a tiny pair of cowboy boots. “Look at these babies.”

Sam snorts. “Of course.”

“And…” Dean holds up a tiny leather jacket. “Look at this.”

“It’s perfect, Dean,” Sam says.

“You’re damn right, it’s perfect. He’s mine.”

“What are you going to name it?” Sam asks.

Dean grins mischievously. “Rabbit Duvall.”

Sam groans. “Lonesome Dove?”

“Got it in one.” Sam glances at the rose covered teddy bear. “What about you?”

“Oh, this is for Eileen. I’m gonna name it Paul.”

Dean snorts. “Why?”

“Because Eileen thinks it’s funny when things have plain CEO names.”

They sign their bears’ birth certificates (“or whatever the fuck they are, just hand me the damn pen, Sam”) and head out with their new furry friends.

After a long, silent walk to the Dip-n-Dots, Dean and Sam sit on a bench with their frozen treat and their stuffed animals in their laps.

“Thanks,” Dean says, “for making me forget. Even if it was just… I just… thanks.”

“Of course,” Sam replies. His gaze lingers as he waits for Dean to say more, but he doesn’t.

The two eat their Dip-n-Dots quietly, eyes scanning the people that pass by.

“She’s cheating on him,” Dean says, eyes locked on a busty bleach blonde clinging to a slim brunette.

“Why do you say that?” Sam asks.

“C’mon. She’s overcompensating.” He points with his spoon. “She amps up the PDA and throws herself over him but she’s really…” He pauses. “She’s rather using him for his money or…” He pauses again. “They’re partners,” Dean says confidently. “Both romantically and in a shared law firm.”

“How do you know that?” 

“Talks like a lawyer. You can see it in the way she holds herself.” He takes another spoonful of his frozen treat. “She’s stuck with him financially but she obviously isn’t satisfied with their relationship or she wouldn’t be eyefucking the smoothie vendor.” He smirks. “And she definitely wouldn’t be starin’ at her tits like that if her partner knew she swung the other way.”

Sam scoffs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I? Or do I just have observation skills that are far too advanced for your feeble mind to comprehend?”

“Fuck off.” Sam goes to shove Dean’s arm but he stops himself. “Do you really notice that much in everyone you see?”

Dean stills, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “It was an exercise. Observation and critical analysis. Or,” he chuckles bitterly, “some kind of shit like that.” Dean picks at his cuticles. “He said if you can read humans then you could… you’d be able to tell when they’re not…” He shrugs, face pained. “Well, I guess I wasn’t good enough because I couldn’t tell that she wasn’t—”

“Dean.”

Dean looks up taking a shuddering breath. “Can we go?”

Sam hesitantly nods. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

.-~*~-.

Dean goes to Castiel’s to play Kings in the Corner that weekend. They end up going through every card game they both know. Things are good. They’re better than good. Dean has had time to work through his thoughts and he knows he has to tell Castiel the truth soon. He has to, if he knows this can continue.

But he’s scared. God, he’s fucking terrified, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses the best damn things he’s had in years.

Castiel’s head flies back as his laughs. It’s a beautiful, carefree sound that makes Dean dizzy and heart constrict tightly in his chest. When the sound fades away, it leaves Castiel leaning his head on the couch cushion, smiling fondly at Dean. 

“What?” Castiel asks as Dean continues to stare at him.

“You’re amazing. You know that, right?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head and turns his head away from Dean as his cheeks burn a bright pink.

Dean, unthinkingly, cups Castiel’s cheek, guiding it back to face him. His hand continues to rest on his slightly stubbled jaw, his thumb rubbing lightly at the sharp edge.

Castiel’s breath hitches, eyes darting to Dean’s lips. 

“May I?” Dean whispers.

Castiel nods. “Yes,” he whispers, breathless.

Dean leans in and presses a soft kiss to his lips, running his hand up his face to caress his cheekbone. It’s chaste, simple, barely there. 

Dean waits for Castiel to take the reins. The dark haired man realizes this and begins to kiss him more ardently. Languid, loose lips slide together, the two taking a moment to settle from the uncoordinated, polyrhythmic movements into a smooth flow. 

No matter how many times they kiss, Dean will never get enough of the intoxicating taste of Castiel. That mixed with the sweet sugary remnants of pie is enough to make his brain a staticky fog. 

Dean’s hand slips to the back of Castiel’s head, interweaving into his thick locks. Castiel, needing to be closer, grabs the pie tin from his lap and tosses it to the coffee table. He hops onto the couch, sitting on his knees, the new angle only prompting the kiss to become sloppier, dirtier.

Dean moans in his mouth, and pulls him to his chest, leaning to lay back onto the couch. Castiel goes to rest his body on Dean’s, body fitted perfectly between Dean’s open legs, when there’s a sharp poke into Dean’s stomach. Castiel jolts back when Dean yelps in pain.

“What? What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, trying to steady his heavy breathing.

Dean picks up the fork that’s rested on his abs. He waves it and chuckles lightly.

Castiel lets out a giggle, covering his mouth, embarrassed. 

“Maybe we should take this upstairs?” Dean questions.

Castiel pauses, his answer hesitant. “Alright.” Castiel takes Dean’s hand, intertwining his fingers with his and leading him upstairs.

The anticipation builds unbearably during their journey and when they finally make it inside and Castiel closes the door, Dean immediately pulls him in and kisses him again with a desperate fervor. Castiel whines against Dean’s lips, kissing him with enthusiasm. Dean pins Castiel against the door, body as flush as it can be as he presses into him. Dean grinds his hips against Castiel’s, causing the shorter man to let out a low, guttural sound. Dean moans at the sound and slots his leg between Castiel’s thighs. He gasps.

Dean pulls back just long enough to pull his shirt and is about to go back for another kiss, but Castiel puts his hands on Dean’s chest and pushes him back.

Dean freezes, sobering up and storing away the overwhelming lust as concern blooms. “What? What is it?”

“I…” Castiel bites his lip. “I don’t want to continue this further than what we are doing now. I know that you… that you probably want to have intercourse, but I don’t think that is something that I can do for you. At least, not right now. Not yet.”

Dean softens, grabbing Castiel’s hand and squeezing it gently. “We do it at your pace, Cas. I’ll do whatever you’re comfortable with and if that means stopping now, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“No,” Castiel says firmly. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Tell me if you do. No matter what. If there’s anything you don’t want, you gotta tell me.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Promise?”

Castiel nods. “I promise.”

“Can I…?”

Instead of responding, Castiel kisses him again. Dean smiles against his lips.

Dean is surprised when Castiel starts to walk him back to his bed. He falls back onto the mattress and groans as he feels Castiel’s body heavy atop his. 

Dean rakes his fingers up Castiel’s clothed back. Castiel sits up and pulls off his sweater, going right back to Dean’s lips hungrily.

Dean can’t help the sharp breath he sucks in as he feels Castiel’s bare skin against his. Dean, unable to help himself, flips them around so he’s above Castiel, straddling his hips and burning at the friction. 

“Can I kiss your neck?” Dean asks.

“Please,” Castiel says.

Dean, encouraged by the confirmation, goes to work. He scrapes at the soft skin with his lips and teeth and tongue. Castiel has gone boneless under him, back arching and little gasps and whimpers escaping his lips. 

“Dean,” he repeats roughly, making heat pool deep throughout Dean. 

Dean begins to trail his lips lower but Castiel freezes. “Please don’t.”

Dean nods and goes back to kissing his lips.

Castiel’s fingers grip at Dean’s hair, tugging lightly. Dean bites lightly at Castiel’s lip in return, making him tug harder.

Dean licks experimentally at his bottom lip, but Castiel shakes his head, making a noise of protest. Dean, taking the hint, goes back to the easy back and forth of lips against lips.

Castiel’s hand travels down, scraping down Dean’s back, and Dean’s hips buck forward.

Castiel jumps away, sliding up the bed so his back is against his pillows. “I-I think we need to stop.”

Dean, trying to clear his mind and pushing away the impulse to kiss him anyways, backs up, creating space so they can both let the moment simmer down and dissipate. 

“Will you…” Castiel stops. “Do you, would you like to stay tonight?”

Dean smiles. “Yeah. I would.”

“I,” he clears his throat. “I should go clean up downstairs.”

“I’ll come help,” Dean says, pulling himself up, jeans a little less constraining than they were.

When they get down — now fully dressed and a little less hazy with overwhelming want for the other — Castiel gasps.

“Jebediah!” he exclaims in horror. “What did you do?”

For a moment, Dean is in a state of pure panic. Deep red is spilled onto the floor, staining the side of the couch, the dark shade saturating the delicate beige.

Dean goes rigid, breaths labored and unsteady. He grips the wooden railing until his knuckles are white.

It started with a swell of pride. Eager excitement that his father finally trusted him to accompany him on a hunt.

Before this, it had always been surveillance. Waiting in the car on watch. On deck to assist but never actually chosen.

Now he was in the heat of it all. He was part of the action.

Dean had cleaned his gun three times, even polished the silver bullets. He practiced his aim, never making real shots so as to not waste good bullets. He was almost giddy. He was finally going on a real hunt.

“It’s a shapeshifter,” his father had said.

Dean knew many things about shapeshifters. The most human of monsters. Monsters that can have wants. Monsters that had their own vices.

When you killed a shapeshifter, it would reveal its true form.

Dean couldn’t wait to see it.

“Dean?”

The gun was a familiar weight in his hands. At fourteen years old, they were still delicate. Rough but spindly. Thick calluses covering the crackled skin of his fingers.

They were on their way to the cemetery. The shapeshifter visited the cemetery often. His father told him it was because she could find new marks to form into. “It’s easier to become someone who no longer exists,” he said.

“Are you alright?”

The shapeshifter didn’t look particularly… special. It looked like a normal woman. Which he guessed was the whole point. It did its job well.

Castiel places a gentle hand to Dean’s shoulder. He jolts at the touch.

The shapeshifter kneeled at a grave.

“This is your time to get your shot,” his father said, breaking the still silence. “Its defenses are down.”

Dean pointed the gun easily, hand calm and steady. His eyes narrowed as he took his aim. His finger settled on the trigger.

“C’mon, Dean. Take the damn shot.”

The shot was deafening, but he didn’t flinch. He watched as its body slumped to the ground.

And for a moment, he was filled with a rush of satisfaction. His first hunt executed perfectly.

“You’re scaring me. What is it?”

But It didn’t change. She didn’t change. The bullet that lodged perfectly into her skull gushed blood and she didn’t change.

Dean gasps. “Oh God.”

“Let’s go. We’re done.”

The gun dropped from Dean’s hand. His body was completely numb.

“I killed her.”

“You got the job done. Now, c’mon, we have to go!”

Dean couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All he could do was stare at the woman whose blood was soaking the patchy grass.

“Where the hell are you going?” his father demanded.

Dean looked down and saw that he had moved, now kneeling beside the woman — Woman. Not shapeshifter. Not monster. Real, human, normal, innocent woman — hands futilely cupping the gaping hole in her hair trying to stop the bleeding, as if the bullet hadn’t already demolished her brain.

She was just a woman. A real, human, normal, innocent woman who had a life that he just… that he just… he just… Oh God.

“Dean! Get the hell away from it! We have to go!”

A shuddering sob escapes Dean’s lips as he cradles the woman in his arms, blood drenching his clothes.

There’s no heartbeat. Just still warm skin, chilled by the February air. Skin soaked in hot, sticky blood. Blood that seeped into his shirt and covered his hands and oh God she’s dead. 

His father rips him away from the real, human, normal, innocent, dead woman and carries him to the car.

“Dean?”

Dean blinks back to reality. Castiel looks at him with concern.

Dean plasters on a weak smile and chokes out a harsh chuckle. “Sorry. Just couldn’t believe the mess.”

Castiel doesn’t look satisfied with the response, but lets it go.

“I need to make a lemon and vinegar solution to try to get these cherry stains out,” Castiel says.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Dean says, voice a little too thin and a little too dull.

“You don’t have to do that—”

“Really,” Dean says. “I insist.”

Dean focuses all his energy on cleaning the dishes and trying not to drop them from his trembling hands. 

The sound of clinking ceramic and scrubbing fabric fills the air and Dean can’t help but be settled by the simple domesticity. 

That and the undeniable scent of Castiel brings him back to the present.

With the dishes stocked away in the washer and the counter sparkling clean, Dean takes a seat on the lovechair.

“It’ll have to soak,” Castiel says, pulling himself off of the floor. “At least Jebediah doesn’t need a bath. I much rather prefer to have my arms intact.”

Dean laughs. “I would too.”

“I think I’m ready to turn in.” Castiel stops. “Unless you’d rather stay up.”

“I could sleep.” No he can’t.

“You can take the bathroom first. I’ve got to shut down down here.” With that, he starts to make his rounds around the main floor, flipping the many lamps off and blowing out the candles.

“Right. I’ll just… go upstairs.” 

“There are extra toothbrushes in the side drawer and you can borrow some of my pajamas if you’d like.”

“Thanks.”

Dean feels a wave of dread wash over him. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He hasn’t slept in an unwarded house… ever. Just the thought makes his blood itch.

He makes it to the master bathroom and avoids the reflection in the unfamiliar mirror. Unfamiliar mirrors are even worse than the ones he knows because there’s too many unknowns. Petrification rises as he brushes his teeth, even when he doesn’t meet the eyes of his reflection the entire time, and he books it out of the bathroom as soon as he can.

He pulls off his clothes, leaving himself in just his boxers and slips into the crisp, made bed, sitting so he’s leaning against the headboard. 

Castiel soon comes into the bedroom, turning his head sheepishly as he catches sight of Dean’s bare torso.

“I’ll be right out.”

Despite saying that, Castiel takes his time. Dean is not surprised that Castiel is the type of guy that washes and moisturizes his face at night. He is also not surprised that he brushes his teeth for a solid five minutes.

When he comes out, he’s wearing flannel pajama pants and a white tee. 

“I have to say my nightly prayers,” Castiel says.

“Go ahead.”

Castiel sits at the edge of the bed, hands clasped and head bowed. He murmurs softly to himself, prayers that Dean vaguely recognizes. He goes silent for a while, hands still clasped and head still bowed. He finally rises, looking to Dean apologetically. “I didn’t mean to take so long. I just had so much to thank Him for.”

“No worries,” Dean reassures. 

Castiel climbs into bed next to Dean and cups his cheek. He presses a featherlight kiss to his lips with a small smile.

He pulls away and Dean has to hold himself back for leaning in for more. 

“Good night, Dean.” He fluffs his pillows and lies down.

Dean follows suit and hesitantly slides to his back. He doesn’t close his eyes; he stares at the ceiling, mouthing his exorcism chants to himself, knowing that even that won’t relax him enough to actually fall asleep.

He yelps when there’s a sudden sharp weight on his chest.

“Oh, hello, Jebediah,” Castiel murmurs.

Jebediah walks a circle around Dean’s bare chest, nails digging slightly into his skin, and lies down.

Castiel turns to his side and begins to scratch Jebediah’s back. “I love you, Jebediah. You are just a little boy. A little baby boy.”

Dean chuckles, Jebediah’s head popping up at the movement.

“Sorry, Jeb,” Dean says.

Jebediah meows unhappily and hops onto the floor.

Castiel’s hand, that was once on the black cat, now rests on Dean’s chest. He looks up at Dean with wide eyes. Dean gives him a nod and a welcoming, encouraging smile.

Castiel rolls closer to Dean. He slots himself into his side and rests his head on his chest. Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders, slipping his fingers into his hair to card through the locks and massage at his scalp.

Castiel hums softly, nuzzling closer.

Dean grins and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel says again.

“Good night, Cas.”

It takes a long fifteen minutes, but Castiel finally goes lax atop Dean. Dean pulls his hand away from his hair and lets it lie limp at his shoulder.

With Castiel in his arms, he should feel safer than ever, but he can’t find it in himself to fall asleep. He’s left wide awake, itching to put salt on the windows and doors, to put up some warding, but he knows he can’t. 

He slips out of Castiel’s hold and contemplates doing just a thin line of salt. He even starts to head downstairs to look for salt, but he realizes that he needs to work through his urges. Needs to overcome them.

He goes back to the bed and stares at the ceiling, muttering exorcism chants until he can finally fall asleep.

.-~*~-.

Dean wakes up to the feeling of hands on his face and his immediate reaction is to protect himself.

He bats the hand away and when it goes to grab his wrist, he pins the person attached to the hand down, pressing his elbow into their neck.

It’s only when he fully blinks into consciousness does he realize what he’s doing.

Dean jumps away, backing up into the wall, trying to create distance between himself and Castiel. Castiel is coughing, holding his throat and staring at Dean with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean repeats, pushing himself further against the wall.

“Dean,” Castiel says, his voice rough from sleep and Dean’s chokehold on him. “Just breathe.”

But Dean can’t. Not when he knows he hurt Castiel. Not when he knows he’ll never be safe.

Castiel makes his way to Dean and he flinches away from him. Castiel stops and takes a seat across from Dean. He starts to breathe exaggeratedly. 

Dean tries to follow him but the breaths keep hiccuping from his sobs and hyperventilation. 

“You’re alright. Just keep breathing,” Castiel says encouragingly.

Eventually, Dean gets to a point where he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out from fear. He looks at Castiel, but the man doesn’t look mad or scared. He looks the way he always does.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

“No, I’m sorry,” Castiel says. “I frightened you.”

“Even if you did, that doesn’t make it okay,” Dean says.

“You… Dean,” Castiel says. “I can see that you’ve experienced quite a bit of trauma. If there is anything I can do to ease your mind, to avoid your triggers, I would like to know. You don’t have to tell me why. You don’t have to tell me what caused them. Just tell me what to do so I don’t frighten you like that again.”

“I…” Dean trails off. “I need to tell you something. And you— you’re gonna hate me when you find out. And if you wanna end things after you know, then… then I understand. But you deserve to know.”

“I deserve no information from you except what you are willing and ready to give,” Castiel says.

“I need to,” Dean says. “Or I never will.”

Castiel nods and places his hands in his lap, ready to listen.

“My dad… when we were growing up, he told us that a demon killed our mom. And he was hunting down this demon and… and while he was hunting down this demon he was also hunting other monsters. And they were… he told us that monsters were bad. And that we had to protect ourselves from the monsters. So he taught us how to hunt.” Dean swallows past the lump in his throat. “There’s things you’ve always gotta do when you’re a hunter. You’ve gotta salt every entrance because ghosts and demons can’t enter the room. And if you’ve got wards, you can keep away the stronger things.”

Dean can’t meet Castiel’s eyes. “And there are ways to test if you’re the real thing. Like, cutting yourself with a silver knife. Or drinking holy water. Or certain phrases that can trigger a reaction from a demon. Christo.” Castiel doesn’t react at all and Dean hates how much that puts him at ease. “And my dad, he would make us do these tests so that he knew we were the real deal.”

“And when I was a kid,” Dean says, “I felt special for having this knowledge that others didn’t. And I knew it was a secret that the ‘normal’ kids couldn’t know or else they’d be in danger. It was like I was protecting the civilians from what was really out there. And I think that’s what made it easy to not tell anyone.”

“But then…” Dean stops. “But then I had my first hunt.”

Dean sneaks a glance at Castiel and he can see how horrified he is. How disgusted. Dean looks away again.

“And it was this shapeshifter. Or… that’s what he told me. And I’d been training for this for years. I knew my way around a gun. I knew how to kill fast and quick. And when I…” Dean’s breath hitches. “When I did. Kill her. She didn’t change back to her natural form. Because she wasn’t a shapeshifter. Because shapeshifters aren’t real. None of it was real.”

“Obviously I didn’t take it very well,” Dean says with a bitter laugh. “Went catatonic for days. Sammy must’ve realized something was wrong with me mentally MIA and covered in blood and he called 911 and they realized that my dad was the serial killer they’d been hunting down for almost a decade.”

Dean can feel tears falling down his cheeks. “And you gotta know I— I thought it was real. I did. I really did think it was real. I never would’ve— if I had known that it wasn’t, I never would have— it was real. It was.”

“I believe you, Dean,” Castiel says.

“Sometimes I think it’s still real,” Dean admits in a shaky whisper. “Just so I can live with myself. Just so I can pretend that I— that it— that she—”

“May I touch you?” Castiel asks.

Dean must nod because he feels Castiel’s arms wrap around him.

“It was not your fault, Dean,” Castiel says. “You are a good man. You were deluded by your father’s word and you trusted him because you were his child. You didn’t deserve this. I do not hate you.”

And it’s like the magic words were said because Dean falls apart.

He doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t think he is too sinful or evil or damaged to be loved. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” Castiel says. 

It’s a bad morning turned good morning for Dean Winchester. Castiel comes to Dean’s apartment and helps him take the salt off of his windowsills and for the first time, Dean doesn’t think he’ll need it. No, the only thing he needs to protect him from his monsters is Castiel.