Archive of Our Own

     Dean walks a lot these days. He lives underground, so he figures it’s a counterbalancing instinct. Sometimes he goes alone, to be quiet and still. He listens for birds and water and leaves. He looks for the birds, and after a few minutes walking, he starts seeing them.
     Sometimes, he likes to take Cas with him.

     If they’re at home, Cas spends most of his time with Jack. If they’re out on a case, he likes to pass long days researching with Sam, unless Dean needs extra backup in the field or the case is coming to a head. Sam and Cas - absolute nerds, the both of them, and Christ, do they make a pair.
      Dean has had to bail them out of a frankly embarrassing number of insane and chaotic situations – and that’s by Winchester standards, for God’s sake.

     No matter where they are, Dean walks, and Cas walks with him. It’s become a real nice little ritual, full of comforting certainty.

     Dean hasn’t retired or any shit like that. At the end of the day, there’s still blood to scrub out from beneath his fingernails, it’s still spiraling in sickening threads down motel shower drains. He still sleeps with a gun under his pillow.
     But in between, he walks with Cas through city parks and state parks, down quiet streets and dirt roads.
     
     This is how it goes: when they leave, he holds the door open for Cas, ‘cause he’s nothing if not a gentleman. Maybe also because he likes to see Cas right when the sunlight hits his face. Tension just floods out of the guy, from the shoulders down. His eyes always flutter shut for a brief moment. He exhales audibly. Next, almost unconsciously, his whole face turns to catch the light, followed by the rest of him.

     To Dean, this action looks almost as good as it must feel. It makes his breath catch; he always rolls his eyes at himself, but it’s not like that helps.

     This is how it goes: Dean waits for Cas to drink it in. Then Cas’ eyes open slowly, deliberately, and it is always with slow, deliberate luxury that they focus and land on Dean’s face. By now, Dean’s learned to anticipate the small shiver that runs down the back of his neck at that.

     This is how it goes: the two of them walk to Baby. Dean drives. For the most part, he tries to educate Cas on the Winchester gospel of good music, but occasionally Cas will reach so casually into the cassette box and pick something out. Dean never stops him, but he has made him swear not to tell Sam.

     This is how it goes: Cas can be a picky bitch of a guy sometimes, and on multiple occasions he’s grouched at Dean about wanting to walk in a particular biome which just happens to be five hours away.

     “No, Dean,” he’ll say, “I’d like to walk in southern Indiana today. They have fascinating covered bridges.”

     “Dude, we’re in Ohio,” Dean will protest, and then Cas will make that face he makes and Dean will roll his eyes and drive to southern fucking Indiana. (That had been a good walk. Dean still doesn’t trust anyone who makes a conscious choice to call themself a Hoosier, but the covered bridges had smelled like cedar and dust, and he’d liked them more than he’d cared to admit.)

     Not that Dean actually minds driving long hours. He’s been doing it forever, and he’s good at it. He gets to listen to music and watch the land scroll by; he burns up miles under Baby’s tires. Cas, that weirdo, does crossword puzzles and word searches, which he buys big books of at convenience stores. When Dean gets tired, Cas reads news articles and trivia questions to him to help him stay awake.

     This is how it goes: they never stay nights, however many hours they drive. Dean can’t blame Cas for wanting to stay close to Jack, and he never pushes it. It doesn’t hurt that a car is one of his favorite places to be at night. He’ll play slow, sweet songs on low volume and let his mind wander as the car does. It’ll be dark outside, velvety midnight blue, fields and forests melding into each other, but Cas will turn on a reading light. Then it’s just them and their little capsule of light in the dark, and Dean knows - he knows - they’re safe.

     He even feels taken care of, in a way. He used to sleep in this car while his dad drove. Same soft songs on the radio, same small light, same low hum of engines and tires.

    Sometimes Cas falls asleep in the car, because apparently he can sleep if he wants to, and honestly, Dean can respect that. The guy’s so fucking sweet when he sleeps, too, all curled up in the passenger seat. It makes Dean’s chest ache.

     This is how it goes: Dean pulls into the driveway of whatever motel they’re at, or parks outside the bunker. He taps Cas’ shoulder or shoves at his face or pours water on him - hey, a guy gets to have a little fun, okay - until he wakes up.

     Cas always blinks blearily and readjusts while Dean walks around to open his door for him. He always looks Dean straight in the eye and says, “Thank you. That was lovely.”

     This is how it goes: they walk back home in the dark and wait for the next day free enough to go out again.

      Today, Dean and Cas drive half an hour out to a pine forest covered in a blanket of snow. They walk in the muffled silence, weary from work and winter but content in the knowledge of a place to go home to.

      And now.

      Now, it’s been half an hour since the sun set, and the world is ten thousand shades of blue. The two of them sit in the golden light of a streetlamp; there’s a soft snowfall going and Dean can see the flakes as they drift down to earth.

     Next to him on the bench, Castiel looks down at his hands, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Dean thinks he looks like something out of a painting. Dude doesn’t notice any of it, though – he’s too focused on his hands.

     “Do you ever-” Cas begins, quietly.

     “Do I ever what?”

     “Have you ever thought about what it means to kill someone?”

   
     Dean doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. Off Dean’s intake of breath, Cas backtracks.

     “Yes, of course you have. I’m sorry.”

     Several seconds pass before Dean realizes Cas is waiting for permission to go on.

     “Well? What about it?”

     “Each being on Earth contains hundreds of thousands of memories. Feelings, thoughts, ideas, sensations, opinions.”

    His voice is soft, but it carries through the snow-muffled air like light through a dark room. Dean almost misses the next words Cas speaks.

     “All of us are infinite. If you had a true form, one that were to exist outside your mind, I have no doubt it would span miles.”
     Here, he pauses, tilts his head ever so slightly. Snow glitters on his eyelashes.

     “And this has what to do with killing people, exactly?” Dean asks.

     “To think that all of that – all of that existence – could be snuffed out with one well-placed incision. A lack of air. The wrong chemical. It doesn’t quite make sense.”

    “Dude, you’re freaking me out. Kinda sounds like you’re planning to murder me.”

     Cas totally misses Dean’s comment, which is just so Cas of him. Instead, he says, “Well, it could happen to me too. Albeit less easily, but still.”

     “Whole goddamn Chrysler building up in flames just like that, huh?”
     “Just like that.”

     Dean’s breath catches the light as it rises. A visible reminder that he lives.

    “But I don’t have a true form, not in the same way you do,” Dean mutters.

     “That’s not what I meant.” Cas’ eyes make small, delicate movements as they flit from his wrists to his knuckles and back to his twined-up fingers.

 
     “I meant,” he continues, “that sometimes I think the physicality of my true form is just a meaningless signifier of my status as an angel. In the sense that a true form is the essence of a being, mine wouldn’t be altogether different from yours.”

     “Nah, there’s gotta be some difference, right? Like, you said true form is the essence of someone. And you – you’re this wavelength of celestial intent, right? You were talkin’ about memories; you must have tons more stored up in there-” he tips a finger at Cas’ head - “than I do. Seriously. You’ve existed for how long again?”
   
     
     “Over 400 million years.”

 
     “Yeah.” Dean reorients himself in the face of that unknowable number. “That’s a hell of a long time, man.”

     Cas speaks again, still soft, as if in respect for the silence of the evening.

     “I suppose that’s true. But my point remains. Each one of us is infinite.”
     
     When Dean doesn’t respond, he adds,“We all contain multitudes. Walt Whitman.”

     “Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. John Green,” Dean argues, tilting his chin up to squint into the snow.

     Cas lets out a little laugh, more of a hum than anything. He looks up from his hands and observes as a pine tree sifts snow down through its branches, letting it fall in fine piles on the ground.
     In parallel motion, he lets his eyes fall back to his fingers. They fit together, defined, shaded across the knuckles and fingertips from the cold. Dean itches to draw them.

     “I used to look at my hands like that. When I was little. Don’t know why. But I’d stare at ‘em for hours - felt that long, at least,” he blurts out. 
     Cas finally looks up and catches Dean’s gaze. Dean shifts under the weight of it. It only lasts for a second, though, before Cas’ eyes dart away.

     “Can I tell you something?” Cas asks, gaze fixing on some point in the middle distance.

     “Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

     “I sometimes feel as if-” Cas swallows hard - “I sometimes think I could love almost any being in the universe, given the chance.”
   
     Dean’s breath catches a little.

     “Yeah?”

     “Yes.”

     Cas still doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a small, private, almost heartbreakingly sad smile.

     “Why?”

     Dean hears Cas inhale like he’s going to speak, but nothing follows it for several seconds.

     Then, his eyes meet Dean’s again, just for a fraction of a second.

     “Some days it’s hard for me to remember being loved by anything. And it’s on those days that I find incredible solace in loving everything.”

     Something deep within Dean squirms uncomfortably, and he can’t resist trying to inject some levity into the situation.

     
     He shoots a little unsteady grin Cas’ way and hears himself say,

     “So, between you and me, in your all-encompassing love for everything… do you have any favorites?”

      As always, his attempt at humor totally backfires. Cas continues to be earnest.

     “I suppose I do. Love can be built, can it not? I’ve been talking about the potential for it, but to maintain it in reality requires a certain amount of attention and purpose.”

     “Yeah, dude, but I meant like- preferences.”

     “Oh, yes. I’ve always been partial to bees.”
 

     Dean has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a fond smile from spreading across his face.

     “Yeah? Anything else?”

     “I like sunsets and sunrises. I like sunlight opposite thunderclouds. Wind. Lightning. Rivers. I like snow.” This, Cas says with a soft assurance. He stretches out a fingertip and catches a snowflake.

     “Smells, also. They’re very important to me. Have you ever smelled a tomato plant, Dean?” Dean laughs. Cas continues.

     “I like the way coffee smells, too. Pine needles. Candle smoke. Cathedrals.” Cas’ eyes close, as if it brings him closer to what he describes.
     “The smell of a cathedral is a peculiar thing. It’s close to …old books. Incense, stone, cedar. Benediction and refuge.”

     Dean nods. “That kind of makes sense, actually. I’ve always liked how hot asphalt smells. And motor oil. Man, that sounds weird.”

     Cas simply shakes his head and motions for Dean to go on.

     “And a good cheeseburger- yeah. Best smell in the world to come home to.”

     “I love music. Oh, and the sound of rain on the car when we drive.”

     “Yeah, man! Thought you’d never come around to the open road. You used to just zap yourself everywhere.”

     “Yes, I did,” Cas recalls. “I’m constantly learning things from you, Dean.”

     Dean lets out a little amused breath.
“It’s a two-way street, dude. Hang on, I thought all this stuff – you know, food, smells, isn’t that just molecules to you?”

     “It is, a little bit. But it helps to be around humans. Watching everyone I know experience these things, watching you experience them - it helps me get a sense of what I might prefer.”

      Several things go running through Dean’s mind at that point, and he refuses to acknowledge any of them. He scuffs his boot on the ground.

     A moment passes.

     “Angels aren’t supposed to have preferences at all, you know,” says Cas.

     “I know,” says Dean, “I know.”

     Everything’s quiet until Dean can make himself ask, “is it worth it?”

 
   Cas freezes, his eyes searching first his hands, then the pine tree, then Dean’s face. It worries him.

     “I mean, you did choose this, right?” Dean cringes at his own unspoken plea.

     “Yes, I did, but it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

     “Wow, touching.”

     “I said it was a quick decision, not that I doubted it,” Cas snaps.

     “Jeez, okay, calm down.”

  Cas refuses to calm down for at least twenty seconds.

     
    “As I was going to say, it’s hard to judge,” Cas says. “Yes, it was a quick decision, but then again, it’s not like I’d been a perfect soldier of Heaven right up until the point I wasn’t. I seem to remember that I told you of my doubts one of the first times we met.”

     Dean hums in agreement, relaxing a little.

     “Yeah, I remember.”

     “Yes. My rebellion was a thing that built up over time, until, of course, you pushed it over the edge. It wasn’t quite so black and white as it could have been,” Cas admits.

     “It’s never that simple, with you,” Dean grins, nudging Cas with his shoulder.

     “I guess not.”

     A pause.

  
    “To answer your question, though, I don’t know if I could objectively say whether it’s worth it. But I don’t regret it.”

     Before Dean can get a word in, Cas adds,

     “The further I get from divinity, the closer I get to these details. Yes, I lack the breadth of knowledge I had before, I lack the objectivity, but I- I experience so much depth. More than I did.”

     “I feel,” Cas says, and Dean expects him to finish the sentence, but it stands on its own in the freezing air, hanging in the puff of breath from Cas’ mouth.
     Dean wants to sit and listen to him all night. But nothing good would come of that, and his head’s spinning with Cas’ words. Plus, he’s freezing his ass off.

     He brushes off his knees and stands up, breaking the silence.
     Cas pauses.
     On impulse, Dean extends a hand to help him up.

     “C’mon man, I need central heating and a beer. You can chat me up all the way home.”

Cas takes Dean’s hand, pulls himself up, and lets go just as quickly.

     In the car, the world is dark and quiet, save for the sound of the engine and the bars of light that scroll across them as they drive.
      The heating kicks in and Dean starts to feel his fingers again. Car tires spin on the asphalt of an empty road, and the road goes on forever. Two yellow lines go with them as they drive, darkened by the falling night.

     As they take an exit off the highway, Cas says,
     “Fallen leaves. Cool water. Heartbeats. Long grass. Crisp morning air.”
     Dean keeps his eyes on the road and he listens.

      Snow crunches under Dean’s boots as he walks around Baby to get Cas’ door for him. Cas, for his part, was serious about continuing the conversation. His list hasn’t stopped growing since that highway exit.

     “Birthday parties, get-well cards, soft mattresses, milkshakes.”

     Before Dean can rib him over his sentimental choices, Cas adds “well-sharpened knives” with a small, wry glance.

     “Diner food, motel showers, roadside churches,” he continues. Dean locks up the car, guides Cas home with a hand that could be on his shoulder but could be soft between his shoulder blades. It’s hard to tell in the dark.

     “Family. Creation. Having a son. Researching with Sam. Falling asleep safe.”
     
     “I thought you didn’t sleep,” Dean tosses back over his shoulder, just to be an asshole.

     “I do, sometimes, when I can. When it’s safe. You know that. And I like making sure that my family is safe while they sleep.”

     “You’re a funny guy, Cas, you know that?”

     “Yes.”

     “Favorites.” Dean pointedly doesn’t notice his own conspicuous absence in this list.
     Shit, who is he kidding, of course he does, it’s burning a goddamn hole in his chest. But, hell, the snow’s still falling and the moon’s still out.

     “Gotta give it to you, man, you know what you like.”

     “Yes. I do.” Cas’ voice lowers to an amused register. “You could say that that was my main problem up in Heaven.”

   
     Dean starts unlocking the door to the bunker, casting a glance back up at the moon. He’s a goddamn fucking gopher, living in a hole in the ground, and Cas is beautiful, Dean knows this, even though he can’t see him right now.
     And excuse him being a little bitchy, but there’s a smoldering hole in his chest and yeah, he’s still freezing his ass off.

     “Come on, man. Let’s just get inside. Right now, my favorites are dinner, beer, and bed. In that order.”

     Cas sighs, barely audibly, and brushes past Dean on his way in.

     
     Dean doesn’t follow him, just stands there shivering. He can still see Cas sitting on that bench in his mind’s eye, because of course he can. Cas with snow melting on his dark hair, cheeks and nose and ears tinged pink from the cold, head at an angle like it always is.
   
     Just at a glance, you wouldn’t be able to tell he holds the sorrows of the world on his back and still tilts his face to the joys. But maybe that’s Cas’ point.

     You’d never just think that about anybody.

     You can’t tell from looking.

     The thing is, though, that Dean’s biased, and he knows Cas, and he can tell from looking.

     God, Dean’s gonna explode. And that’s never good. He always gets so angry.
     He’s gonna end up throwing a chair like Bobby fucking Knight, and Sam’s gonna give him that look, and it’s still not gonna fix the fact that he’s got a goddamn hole in his chest, straight through, hollowed out and aching.
     But he’s gonna do it anyway, because what else can he do? What else is there?

     The next morning, Dean shuffles to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and is halfway through taking a shit when he remembers the events of the previous night.
     Elbows on knees, face in hands – mistakes were made. When he finally gets up, there are red spots above his knees where his elbows had been resting.

     Dean’s too old for this shit.

     He’s not stupid; he knows exactly what’s going on. It’s not his fault if it’s just been somewhat in the back of his mind for – fuck, over a decade.
     And when it finally hits him, he’s in the middle of taking a shit. Classic.

   
     Yep, it’s 9 am on a Thursday and he’s in an honestly fucking embarrassing amount of love with one Castiel, Angel of the Lord.

     It’s just that, well, he’s used to things the way they are. Plus, things are better than they have been in a long time, and while Dean’s no stranger to self-sabotage, he finds himself wanting to maintain what he has.

     But now that it’s fully in the open, that he- he- he can’t say it, whatever, like that matters - now it’s a riptide instead of an undertow current, that’s what it’s like. Taking him in the same direction and at approximately the same speed, but much more noticeable.

     Cas makes Jack pancakes, and Dean expects him to burn them but what do you know, Cas is meticulous and focused and makes some pretty good goddamn pancakes, and Dean wants to kiss him senseless right there at the kitchen table.

     Cas and Sam get into some absolutely stupid situation in town involving military-grade pliers and fire hydrants.
     Dean finds Sam wheezing from laughter and Cas absolutely drenched, both sitting in a holding cell in the police office. Dean bails them out. Dean drives fast, walks to his room fast, and avoids looking at Cas even once. 
     This is a preventative measure so Dean doesn’t do something equally stupid, like maybe taking his shirt off.

     They watch old Westerns in the Dean Cave late at night. Cas sits on the recliner next to Dean’s, and Dean sits on his hands.

     On a case, Cas does that stupid thing where he spins the angel blade as he takes it out of his sleeve, and Dean’s vision goes kinda fuzzy.
     Then he almost gets decapitated and Sam gets all concerned that Dean’s not paying attention to demons with swords.  
     Dean insists he’s fine. Cas vaporizes the demon. Dean has to excuse himself.

     
     Point is, Cas is all Dean can fucking think about.

   
     It goes, and it goes, and it goes, and winter melts into spring. Crisp and fresh and green-smelling.

     This is how it goes: Dean knocks on Cas’ door and says, “Mornin’, sunshine. Wanna go for a drive?”

      Cas, reading at his desk, looks up.

      “Yes,” he says, “I’d love to.”

     With that, Cas stands, stretches, and smiles wide, which is a rarer occurrence than Dean would like it to be. He’ll have to work on getting it to happen more. 

      Out in the entry hall, Dean laces up his boots, and Cas joins him a few minutes later holding a cassette tape.

     “Didn’t know you had any of those in your room,” Dean comments, looking up at him.

     “Just this one. I want to play it while we drive.”

     They grab coffee at a rest stop, and Cas buys another crossword book for the next long drive.
     Dean stares at Cas’ profile as he counts his change. Furrowed brow, sharp cheekbones, sharper nose. Eyes the color of an autumn sky, a curl of hair just below his ear, all that shit, whatever.

     Yep, he’s still stupidly into that. 

     Cas faces the cashier and says,    
     “Thank you for your time. I appreciate your commitment to your work. Have a wonderful day.”

     Yep, Dean’s still into that dork. He still wants to kiss the guy until neither of them can breathe. Check, check, and check.

      There’s mist lying low in the dips between hills, so Dean takes the ridgetop road.

      “Check out all that fog. Ain’t that nice?”

      Cas hums in agreement and puts in the tape.

     It’s all Zepp, which Dean finds strange but can’t say he dislikes.
     He throws a grin over at Cas and lip syncs every single word. Eventually, he can’t resist it anymore, so he gives up and starts singing.
     And goddamn if that isn’t a great feeling, driving just before sunrise, singing as loud as he can, his best friend right beside him smiling like he can’t imagine a better place to be.

     Thirteen tracks later, they pull into a gravel lot about a mile out from Chicago.    
     There’s a disused gas station facing the skyline, and what do you know, there’s a maintenance ladder sitting real pretty on the side of the building.

     Dean climbs up and sits on the roof, dangling his feet over the side.

     “That’s very high,” Cas says, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, squinting up at Dean.

     “Stop bitching and get up here,” Dean replies, grinning.

     When no instant teleportation mojo deposits an angel next to him, Dean stands up and finds Cas clambering up the maintenance ladder.

     “Why’re you climbing? You coulda just zapped yourself.”

 
     Cas pauses his ascent to glare up at Dean, one eyebrow raised.
      “What if I told you I feel like experiencing life to the fullest extent possible instead of skipping all the beautiful details?”

     “What if I told you you’re one weird son of a bitch?”

     “I don’t have to put up with this,” Cas grumbles through a smile. “I can zap myself home.”

     “Sure, okay, whatever floats your boat. Leave now, see if I care.” Dean grins.

     “You care,” Cas points out.
He cares. Jesus fuck, he needs to get it together.

     Despite Cas’ complete failure to stop bitching, the two of them end up sitting in companionable silence on the edge of a gas station roof, looking out at the Chicago skyline.

     Dean waits, and he waits, and he waits. He knows he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what it is.

     Cas says, “10 seconds,” and Dean has absolutely no idea what the fuck that means until the sun breaks over the water exactly 10 seconds later.

     Right. That’s what he was waiting for.

     And of course, as the sunlight envelops him, Cas does that thing he does. His entire body relaxes like some great weight has been lifted off him. His eyes flutter closed like they always do, and his eyebrows crease just a little in pleasure.
     He tilts his head to catch the first sweet rays of sunlight like he can’t live without them.

     Dean’s got a lump in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to say, but he needs to say something.

     “You like that, huh?” Stupid.

     
     Without opening his eyes, Cas replies,  
     “Yes. Very much,” and lets out a little breath. 

     “That was on your list.”

     Cas cracks an eye open, and that’s no better, because it’s lit up to the color of snowmelt with the rising sun.

     “What list?

     “Your list of favorites. Couple of months ago. It was snowing.”

     “Mm, yeah. I remember now.” Cas closes his eyes again.

     “Anyway - right now - this is good. ‘Cause on your list, you said sunlight, you said sunrises, you said morning. Cool water. That’s four, if you count Lake Michigan being close. Thought you might like it.”

     “Yes. I do. Very much,” Cas repeats.
“That’s very thoughtful, Dean. Thank you.”

     And hearing his name fall from Cas’ lips is always an issue, and Dean sort of forgets how to think.

     “I wasn’t on the list,” he says without realizing it, followed immediately by “shit.”

     He’s already backtracking: “Don’t worry about it, man, I get it. Seriously, it’s not a big deal.”

     Too little, too late, as always: Cas’ eyes are decidedly open, his whole torso twisted to face Dean’s.

     When he speaks, he sounds almost exasperated.

   
     “Do you really think you mean so little to me?”

      “I mean – no, I know we’re friends-”

      “Dean.”

     “We help each other out, war buddies-”

     “Dean.”

     “Hell, I’ve helped you get women before-” What the fuck-

     “Dean.”

     Dean gets the message and shuts up, but not before he says, like an idiot, “that’s me.”

     Cas refuses to drop Dean’s gaze, leaning down and forward when he tries to look away.

     “If we’re imagining a hypothetical list of my preferences, things that I love, things that have meaning to me, things that made be who I am, things I rebelled for-”
   

      “Which we are-”

     “You wouldn’t be on it.”

     “Shit, man, tell me what you really think,” Dean mutters.

     “No. You didn’t let me finish. You wouldn’t be on it, because you’re the one who taught me to write. Pressed a pen into my hand and made it impossible for me to stay impartial.”

     “And, in this hypothetical situation, the first thing I ever wrote was your name.”

      The sun glints off the water, and Cas squints.

      Dean stays silent, pretty sure he has whiplash.

      “Do you understand me?”

     Dean looks away and then back, helplessly trying to form words.

     Then there’s a hand cupping his cheek and that goddamned familiar squint studying his face.
     Even through his haze, Dean can see the uncertainty painted on Cas’ features, which melts into surprise when Dean tilts his head into the touch. Which, coincidentally, surprises Dean – he hadn’t meant to do that – there’s something in the air this morning, Jesus Christ –

 
     “I can’t believe you,” Cas says, voice soft. “Can you really not conceptualize-”

     Dean kisses him.

     Dean kisses him, and he brings his hands up to Cas’ face, one curled around his jaw and the other trailing down to where his neck and shoulder meet.
     And – this is like the seventh time Dean’s been surprised this morning – Cas kisses him back.

     And, well, Dean doesn’t care if this never happens again (yes, he does), but he’s sure as hell not going to waste it while he has it.

     Dean’s eyes are closed, but he knows Cas is going through the same process Dean’s watched hundreds of times before. He can feel each motion under his hands.

   
     Yep. Kissing Cas is exactly like sunlight.

     The tension drains out of Cas’ shoulders, and Dean’s mind reels at the idea that it’s him drawing it out. His thumb ghosts over Cas’ cheekbone, and he feels the exact moment Cas’ eyes close.
     A small sigh escapes Cas’ throat, Dean can feel it against his mouth, and he’s pretty sure he’s transcended the mortal plane. Then Cas uses that goddamned head tilt of his and yep, Dean’s fucking certain he’s transcended the mortal plane.

     Eventually, Cas breaks the kiss and hovers centimeters away. Dean wrenches his eyes open.
     His hands stay on Cas’ face, and it’s good that Cas seems fine with that, because Dean doesn’t think he could move them. He can’t really feel his fingers.

      Fortunately, Cas’ facial expression seems to mirror Dean’s mental state- that is, absolutely destroyed. 
   
     He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (Dean almost falls off the roof).  
   
     The sunrise traces his outline in warm gold.

     “What-” Cas manages to say, “what was that?”

     
     “No idea,” Dean admits.

     “Do it again,” Cas says.

     And, well, who’s Dean to refuse him?