Chapter Text
To begin with, Dean had worried a lot that Cas wouldn’t stay. That he wouldn’t be able to make himself small enough for this tiny part of the world, this couple of acres of land that was all they had. It would be too small.
Way too small for a guy who’d been an angel - who’d been the white light hitting the edges of clouds, who’d been the static prickle in the air when a storm was coming, who’d been the drifting shadow among the bright stars. Cas had been a watcher in the wind - he’d been there when dudes like Dean lived in caves, and then when they lived in huts made of sticks, and then when they’d made castles and wars and cities, and railroads and factories and nuclear bombs. Cas had been there for all of it - in the wind, in the sky, hovering around in the heat haze on a sunny day.
Cas was so big. Or he had been.
But now, Cas was a man with two hands. And he used those hands for stuff like knitting and cooking, painting and stitching. He used his body to dig the dirt and then he dropped to his knees to plant little oniony bulbs, or tiny pinches of seeds with the tips of his fingers, bent over on the ground like he was praying, except the prayer was a wish for rain and sun and to keep the little chomping bugs away.
Was it enough for him? Would it ever be enough?
Tiny golden, purple and white crocuses had appeared, star-patterned across the grass, which had begun to take on a very faint sheen of pale spring-green against the dead straw-colour, as new shoots pushed their way out of the earth,
Dean stood next to Cas, looking at the new flowers, the damp chill of the early spring air refreshing his bare arms, the twin plumes of their breath mingling together with the steam rising from their coffee mugs. In a moment, the layer of heat they’d carried with them from the kitchen would float away completely, the chill would start to penetrate clothes and skin and they’d have to scuttle back into the warm. But, just for now, the stillness of the morning, the freshness against his skin, the hope of a new, growing year - this was all Dean needed. And Cas, of course, standing next to him, his eyes darting around the constellations of flowers, his lips twitching with a satisfied smile.
Hairs rose on Dean’s arms. He shivered.
Cas straightened up, squaring his shoulders and squeezing Dean’s waist with his coffee-free arm. “Well, I think that’s a sign,” he said.
“What? That we should go in?”
“No. Although, yes, obviously, because I felt that shiver, Dean.”
Cas turned toward the house and Dean, the strong arm around his waist, turned with him, enjoying being guided, enjoying the closeness and the fact that, even in small ways, he had someone special who would sometimes make decisions for him.
“No,” continued his angel. “I meant this new batch of spring flowers is a sign that we should start planning what we want out of our lives.”
They stepped up onto the porch and Cas pushed Dean before him into the warm kitchen, where there was freshly-baked bread ready to be slathered with butter and apricot jelly. Dean had made the dough the previous night and put it in the fridge to rise very slowly. Then he’d got up in the dark and punched the soft, fluffy mass down, shaped it into baguettes and let it rise again near the heat from the range, while he dozed in front of the fire. He wouldn’t want it to be a daily routine, but just occasionally, letting your life be taken over by the demands of fresh bread was… awesome.
But now his angel was talking about planning. Which implied change.
Dean sat down at the table, tore open one of the hungry hunter-sized baguettes and dug his knife into the butter. “We’ve already got what we want. Haven’t we? I got you, babe,” he sang, lightly.
Light-hearted - that was him. That was Dean Winchester. No worries here. No worries at all.
Cas smiled, and Dean was sure his angel could’ve carried on the song. Dean sang in the shower all the time, and when he was happy he sang all kinds of stuff he wouldn’t come out with in front of Sammy - Sonny and Cher, the Carpenters, Tina Turner. He did a mean Love lift us up where we belong, and Cas had even joined in with that one, singing around his toothbrush into the condensation-streaming mirror, meeting Dean’s eyes when he stepped, singing, out of the shower, and grinning like the happiest ex-angel ever - which, of course, he was. Wasn’t he? They were both happy. Nothing needed to change.
The knife in his hand had an old-fashioned bone handle, but the blade was blunt. It was for butter, not monsters. That life was over.
Cas looked at Dean, his eyes soft and loving, even as golden apricot preserve oozed out of the corner of his mouth and dripped onto his chin. He chewed, swallowed, wiped his mouth on his hand and took a gulp of coffee.
“I love you, Dean. Of course. I’m so grateful for all we have here.”
But… There was a but coming. It was hanging in the air, as clear as if it had been written in flame. But it’s time I was on my way. Was it time for Cas to Ramble On? It was nearly Spring now, and that was a song about the Fall.
“But… I don’t think we need to limit ourselves to what we already have,” continued Cas. “I don’t think we should limit ourselves.”
The butter knife cut right through and hit the china dish beneath. Dean’s neck twinged. The coffee sloshed inside him. Stupid dumb-ass. Cas wasn’t going anywhere. Cas wouldn’t leave him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Dean.”
The knife flipped out of his fingers and clattered onto the floor. He bent down to pick it up. Maybe he should stay down here.
“Dean?”
There was a cardboard box filled with hay, wedged between the kitchen cupboards. Small, button-bright eyes gleamed from inside and then Piggly Wiggly emerged, her nose twitching.
“Dean, it’s hard to have a conversation when you’re hiding under the table.”
“I’m just saying hey to Piggly.” He reached out and the guinea pig’s nose tickled his fingertips. She squeaked. Then she turned away to hoover up the dropped breadcrumbs.
“Dean.”
He ran a finger along Piggly’s soft fur. Then he unfolded himself, his head throbbing as he sat up. He put the butter knife on the table, but there was guinea pig fluff stuck to the blade.
“Look at me, Dean.”
A hand appeared next to Dean’s plate. The fingers wiggled. Dean slid his own cold hand into its warm grasp and let it be drawn away, past the butter dish, past the basket of baguettes and then upward. Cas kissed his fingers. And then rubbed his knuckles against his scratchy cheek. And then kissed his fingers again.
“Idjit,” said Cas.
Dean snorted. “Never heard you say that before.”
“It seemed appropriate - as a reprimand that is, nevertheless, affectionate.” He released Dean’s hand, picked up his coffee mug and took a sip.
“Okay.”
“Dean, I love you. Do you still not understand?”
Dean shrugged.
Cas sighed. He put down his mug. “I don’t mind saying it as many times as you need. I love you. I will never leave you. I’m happy being a human and happy living with you and I don’t want that to change. Ever.”
“Okay,” said Dean. “Okay, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. The muscles ached with tension. “Love you too,” he mumbled.
There’d be no rambling on. Of course not. And Cas had said he didn’t mind telling Dean he loved him and that he wouldn’t leave him, even if he had to say it over and over. Which he probably would, because Dean never quite believed that people wouldn’t leave, not really. His four-year-old self was still in there, deep down. Mom had left him. She had never come back. Not for that kid anyway.
“So, what I mean is, I think there are things we can add to our lives, to make them even better,” said Cas. “And I want us to think about that today.”
An old refrain popped into Dean’s mind. Got Sammy, got Dad, got the Impala. He used to say it to himself, sometimes whispering it out loud, the three things he had that were all he needed. Got Sammy, got Dad, got the Impala. He didn’t need anything else. Even when he wanted a home but there was just a motel room, or when he wanted a burger but there was just a can of soup, or when he wanted soft words and warm, enfolding arms but there were only sharp orders and sharper slaps.
Dean had what he needed. Wanting more was bad. And now, when he had so much, why would he tempt fate? Why would he ask for even more?
Cas slowly buttered another chunk of baguette and spooned a whole load of apricot jelly on it. “There’s still something wrong. Isn’t there?”
Dean flicked at his unjellied baguette so that it rotated slowly on his plate. “Mmm. Uh. You know.”
Sam might have snapped, I don’t unless you tell me. Which would have been a fair point. But Cas was more patient. He carried on eating and gulping his coffee and let the silence happen, giving Dean time.
“It feels wrong,” Dean said finally. “To expect more.” There was guinea pig fluff on the knife so he picked up Cas’s instead and slowly spread a long line of butter over the soft, fresh bread that he’d made himself. “This last year… well, you just think how we were… and how we are now.”
Warm hands enfolded his own again. “I know, Dean. I know. To have all this is a great gift. But gifts need to be used and explored and I think Jack would want us to make the most of what we have - to really… to bloom like the flowers.”
Dean looked up at his lover’s unshaven face, the crinkly bits under his eyes, and the curves and planes and lines which made up his lips - how were they so beautiful? How did that even work?
“Okay, then.” Gruff and tight, Dean could’ve voice-overed the bulldog, Spike, from Tom and Jerry. Why did his voice always do that when he was just trying to work through some emotional life-shit?
Cas smiled at him, another soft smile which he did ten, twenty, fifty times a day and always made Dean’s insides go caramel-squishy. “Good. So, after breakfast, we’ll make a start.”
Dean needed to get the beef out of the freezer if he was going to make a stew for dinner. He’d better do that now. And he should wrap up the rest of the bread before it got stale, or maybe even freeze it if they weren’t having sandwiches for lunch, And, of course there were crumbs all over the table and blobs of apricot jam that had fallen out of his overloaded baguette. And, actually, had they had enough coffee? Another pot would be good, wouldn’t it?
“Dean, leave it.”
“But I just-”
“It can wait. It can all wait.” Cas flapped the two lined-paper pads, one in each hand, like they were little angel wings. He jerked his head toward the living room. “Let’s do this now.”
Dean put down his dish towel. He could roll his eyes and pout and whine - it was tempting. But he’d never been allowed to develop the habit as a child and it seemed a bit pointless now, especially because Cas would probably just smile and be patient, which was a waste. Now, if Sammy’d been around, to pull a classic bitch-face, then it might have been worth acting up.
“Okay,” said Dean, meekly. He followed Cas into the living room. “But why can’t we use laptops? Why paper?”
Cas sat down in one of the armchairs, which meant he was serious and that there’d be no side-by-side snuggling until the job was done. “Because you’d start surfing the web and then you’d get distracted and confused by too much information.”
“Jeez, Cas, you make me sound like a kid trying to avoid his homework.”
Cas tipped his head to one side and regarded Dean calmly, one eyebrow raised just a tiny fraction.
Dean sat down on the couch. “Huh. Well. Okay, then. Paper it is.” He took the pad his angel held out to him. And the pen. And then tucked his sock feet up beneath him and arranged his knees as a rest for the pad. “So, what are we doing?”
“Stop chewing the pen, Dean.”
Dean growled. He was a pen-chewer. So, sue him - there were worse things. Even when he was tapping away at his laptop, sometimes he got a pen as well, just so that he could chew the end. It helped his thoughts flow. Or gave his mouth something to do. Or whatever. He glanced up at Cas. There were other things Dean’s mouth could do.
“Dean. Focus.”
“Give me something to focus on.”
Now that was a genuine, full-on, Angel-of-the-Lord eyeroll, accompanied by a fair attempt at Sam Winchester a bitch-face.
Cas shook his head and his features rearranged themselves into no-nonsense efficiency. He took a breath. “So. Dean. We’ve agreed that we have a life we both enjoy now. But there are so many other things we could be doing. Other things that would add new dimensions to our lives, fill in things we might be missing - enrich our experience, just like Jack would want us to. And today we’re going to decide what those things are and make some plans for doing them.”
Dean sat up straight. “Yes, sir.”
His angel ignored him. He patted his lined pad. “I am going to write down the things that I think you need to expand your life and some ideas about how to go about that. You are going to do the same for me.”
“What? We don’t get to do ourselves? Why not?”
“It’s easier this way.”
“Why?”
Cas’s lips parted softly and he did that gentle squinchy-eyed face that meant he thought Dean needed a hug or something. Did Dean need a hug? He wouldn’t say no.
“Because, Dean, sweetheart, although you have made great progress in giving yourself what you need, you still have a tendency to deny yourself. To say to yourself, that’s not for me, I don’t deserve that, that’s for other people.”
Dean flicked at the edge of his pad, curling up the corner of the paper. Was Cas wrong?
“Whereas your generous heart would commit fully to giving me every opportunity to explore a wonderful human life, don’t you think?”
“Don’t know ‘bout that,” Dean mumbled. But yeah, of course he would. He’d scrape together however many brain cells he had left after being hit over the head so many times during his career, and he’d kick ‘em all up the ass until they spat out ways for Cas to be happy. Or Sammy. Or anyone of his friends or family. It was easier for other people, wasn’t it?
“Okay, yeah, maybe you’re right.”
Of course I’m right, hung in the air.
“So, let’s take half an hour,” said Cas. “And we’ll write down as many life-enriching ideas for the other person as we can and practical ways to achieve those things within our local area.”
Dean’s shoulders creaked downward just a notch, their tension dialling down. Was he really so insecure? Did he really need Cas to say it, every five minutes, that he was staying? That he wasn’t going to branch out so far that he wouldn’t even be spending much time at Sunrise any more, with Dean? Apparently, yes. Yes, he did need it to be said.
“Is that okay, Dean?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay, Cas.”
“Good.”
His angel immediately hunched over his pad and began to write, furiously, striking across the page in sharp lines as if he were underlining headings and maybe even sub-headings. Sammy liked a sub-heading. And bullet points. Cas was probably doing bullet points now.
Dean looked at the fire and then out the window, where the light was greyish and brightish and would maybe get sunny or maybe rain. Winter into Spring and then back again before Spring really took off.
Paper rustled and slid. Shit. Cas had written a whole side for him and he’d done nothing for
Cas. It was like being back in a classroom - surrounded by kids he didn’t know, who were all busy writing or at least passing notes, familiar with each other since kindergarten probably. And Dean, arriving mid-semester, without any of the background work done and then too busy trying to look like he wasn’t someone to mess with to actually listen to the task the teacher had set. Shit.
But he had listened to Cas. And he wasn’t at school. Get the fuck on with it.
What did Cas need?
Cas needed a blowjob. Write that down, Dean. No, better not.
Cas needed…
Dean filled his lungs up and let the air rush out in a huff. Think.
Cas was a man who’d been the angel Castiel, flying without limits. Flying from heaven to Earth and back again, flying up so high into the sky that he could look down on the whole planet, or out at the rest of the galaxy and maybe even fly out and explore that too. He could wink out in Australia and with a flip of his interdimensional wings, be home in time for tea, or at least wherever Dean was, in time to save him from certain death.
But Dean had always been a man. He’d never been big and shiny, flickering around the sky like lightning. He’d always been down in the dirt, using what resources he had to make things, to fix things - just like the dudes that had lived in caves and huts and castles, with their little human brains and hands - making things better for themselves, inventing stuff to lift up their lives.
Dean twirled his pen between his fingers, tapping it against his still blank page.
He wasn’t unique. There’d always been plenty of guys and gals with a ‘give ‘em hell attitude and a GED,’ or whatever that’d meant in the past. And between them, they’d come up with plenty of cool shit. Cool shit that might even give a man a chance at being an angel again. Or feeling like one for a while.
He began to write.