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Dean had pizza dough stuck under his fingernails. He picked some of it out, rolled it in a ball and flicked it into the fireplace - which wasn’t a great idea, because it would be a while before they’d light the fire again.
He stretched and yawned, his arms reaching out past the arm of the couch, feet waggling at the other end. His t-shirt dragged across his sweaty skin, exposing his abs to the sultry air. He yawned again and glanced at the old clock on the mantelpiece. Cas had found it in an antique shop, brought it home and set it between the cactus-guys, who danced frantically every time it chimed.
The pizza dough still had a while to rise. Dean had put it in the cellar, because he wanted it to rise slowly - the flavour would develop more that way - and it was too hot everywhere else. Air-conditioning. That should have come way higher up on Dean's list than building a pizza oven. And higher than constructing a big wooden framework to make an outside dining area off the side of the porch, because Cas had wanted to pretend he was Italian, or at least in Italy. A pergola, Cas called it.
“We can dine al fresco,” he’d said, his eyes easily as blue as the summer sky. “And I can train grape vines and flowers to grow over the framework so that they hang down all around us. It’ll be beautiful, Dean.”
It was beautiful. But still, air-conditioning would have been nice.
Dean checked the clock again. The long hand had crept just a tiny amount around the edge of the old clock face. The pizza dough wouldn’t be half way up the side of its bowl yet. He wanted it all the way to the top and bulging over, and then there'd be his favourite bit (bar the eating, of course), when he got to punch it right back down again.
The topping ingredients were prepared, the fire laid in the oven, and Cas wouldn’t be back for a while. He was busy sitting a written exam today, so that he could go onto the next stage of his flight training.
Dean yawned again and scratched under his arm, then as far down his back as he could reach. Then loads of itches sprang to life, so he had a good old scratch around.
Then he was back to watching the clock.
He could watch a movie. He could play pinball. Cas had come across the pinball on another visit to that same antique shop - Star Wars-themed, which would have cost a fortune, except it was in pretty poor condition. Dean had fixed it, though, which had taken ages. (He should really have been installing the air-conditioning). Anyway, no, he didn’t fancy pinball at the moment.
He could play his guitar - he was getting pretty good at the arpeggio bits of Stairway to Heaven. But no, he was much too hot and much too lazy. He could listen to some music though.
Dean rolled over and slid off the couch, like a hot alligator slithering into a river. He turned on the little blue-tooth speaker on the coffee table, grabbed his phone and hauled himself back onto the couch.
“What’s happening, Spotify? Whatcha got for me today?”
He blinked blearily at the phone screen and shook it around to make the automatic brightness thing get with the programme - which never worked but relieved Dean’s frustration a bit. The screen remained dim and unreadable. Dean swore.
He stabbed the blotchy bit which was probably Spotify, then stabbed it again a couple of times to see what would happen.
“Uhhhfff. Too damn hot.” Sweat stung his eyes. He rubbed them and they stung even more. “Shit.” He stabbed the phone screen again.
A beat you could march to started up.
And two Scottish guys began to sing.
Dean smiled. This song brought back a couple of memories - he and Sammy, stuffed into a tiny rental car, driving along the wrong side of the road, through pelting rain and thick fog, the tinny radio barely able to cope with the drumming rain and labouring thwack of the wipers.
And then the sun had come out and suddenly they were in the middle of Braveheart - wild moorland, dark mysterious lakes and looming, purple mountains. And even castles - actual stone castles with turrets and arrow slits and shit like that.
It had never occurred to Dean that he'd end up in Scotland. Even internal flights scared the shit out of him and the thought of a long-haul made him want to puke. He had puked, in fact, when the little transfer flight had finally landed at a wing-and-a-prayer provincial airport.
Dean had wobbled down the metal stairway, shivering against the stiff wind, and when he’d reached asphalt he'd collapsed, like the Pope kissing the ground. Only instead of a kiss, he'd blessed the ground with twelve hours accumulation of over-priced in-flight drinks and a handful of undigested peanuts.
He wouldn’t say the scenery entirely made up for the extreme terror of the journey. But maybe the food did.
They deep-fried everything in Scotland. Not that Dean was down on the good old US of A when it came to deep frying - that deep fried butter he'd had once at a fair near Austin was just to die for. Literally, said Sam.
But deep fried noodles? Dean had never run across that before. Biting into it had been like eating a massive, crunchy spider and saucy grease had run deliciously down his chin. Awesome.
And as for Scottish breakfasts… once Dean’s stomach had made it over the Atlantic and reinstalled itself where it belonged, he'd pulled over the tiny rental car (Sammy’s knees up around his chin) and he'd ordered the works.
First came a hefty bowl of oatmeal - no, porridge - which you either sugared or salted.
Dean shook in a bit of both, because popcorn tasted good like that, right? It was delicious (he’d run out of adjectives to describe great food long before they left the country) - creamy and smooth and the perfect lining to a really, really empty stomach.
And after the porridge, came the main event, which made Dean’s ‘meat man’ heart sing and a broad grin spread across his unshaven face.
There were link sausages; there was a square of sausage - they called it Lorne sausage; there was bacon (oh-so-crispy!) and there were eggs, which came sunny side up as standard - fine by Dean; there were mushrooms, grilled tomato, baked beans - which didn’t count as a breakfast food back home, but Dean didn’t give a flying fuck for American convention when it came to food; there was fried bread and a side of toast. But the best bits were the round slices of black pudding and haggis. And here was another thing the Meat Man didn't give a flying fuck about - the provenance of unfamiliar meat products. Not if they tasted this damn fine. Which they did.
Sammy, with his meagre scrambled egg whites on toast, had watched him with not-at-all-concealed disgust.
Anyway, yeah - the trip to Braveheart-land to dig up Crowley's bones had been a culinary delight.
And these two Scottish guys - the Proclaimers - had boomed out of the little car radio at regular intervals, offering to walk five hundred miles and then another five hundred to ‘fall down at your door.’ Dean had been totally clueless at the time, not even a whisper of an idea making it up through the ingrained homophobia that he would, in fact, walk as far as it took - thousands upon thousands of miles - to fall down at a certain angel's door. Although he'd prefer to drive, given the choice.
He waved a hand and waggled a foot along to the marching beat and when the song finished he tapped in the right places to see what else the Proclaimers had to offer - maybe more tunes he'd recognise from that trip.
Oh. No. This was totally unfamiliar. The beat was no declaration of vigorous, determined love, but a slow, country-style waltz, soft voices telling of heartbreak.
Dean found himself tearing up. At one time he would have taken a deep breath and swallowed it all down, told himself to get a fucking grip. Even when alone he wouldn’t have let himself break. He would have held the pieces together with tightly clenched fists and memories of John Winchester’s sneers.
But now – now he let the tears gather and run slowly down either side of his face.
My heart was broken,
My heart was broken,
Sorrow, sorrow,
Sorrow, sorrow.
He sniffed loudly, dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
My heart was broken
My heart was broken
You saw it, you claimed it
You touched it, you saved it
Dean gulped and swallowed a sob.
Castiel, Angel of the Lord, had seen him and claimed him. He’d touched Dean, he'd saved him.
…beauty and kindness…
Yes, Cas was beautiful, Cas was kind - to Dean at least, even if he could, upon occasion, be a total badass motherfucker. Dean smirked through his tears.
The voices rose, Scottish accents broad and triumphant.
While I'm worth
My room on this Earth
I will be with you
Was Dean worth his room on this Earth?
Yes. Yes, he mouthed, tears running over his lips, and he nodded, to show himself he meant it, he really did.
Not because of what he’d done. Never mind all that. Never mind the lives he’d saved, the times he’d brought the world back from the brink of apocalypse; never mind the choices he’d made, whether from love or from anger or from duty, or a combination of all those things. None of that mattered in Dean’s count. Because what really mattered, what made Dean say yes and nod his head was that Cas loved him. Cas loved him. And that was everything.
While the Chief, puts Sunshine On Leith
I'll thank him for his work
And your birth and my birth.
Chuck was responsible for Dean’s birth. And Cas had never been born as such. But wherever Leith was, Dean hoped Jack was making the sun shine there, and he sure as hell thanked Jack for the life he and Cas led now.
The song finished and Dean flicked Spotify away with a swipe of his thumb. He released his phone to rest on his stomach and flicked the remaining tears away too, with a swipe of his palm to either cheek.
Well, there you go, Dean. That’s your emotional moment for the day.
And it still wasn’t time to light the pizza oven.
The clock tick-tocked hollowly.
Dean’s phone slid off his stomach toward the back of the couch. It’d get lost down there if he didn’t rescue it. But he was hot and heavy. His jaw had gone all slack so that his mouth drooped open and then the clock and the cactus guys slid sideways as Dean slid into sleep.
Bells were tolling from far away, coming from a place Dean couldn’t see along the long, tapering strip of highway, from over the dark distant horizon. No matter how fast he drove he never got closer.
Just drive, Dean, said Cas, smiling at him from the passenger seat. So Dean drove.
Except the bells were closer, calling him, calling him.
“Huh. Wha’?”
Ding. Ding.
“Cas? Wha’s happ’nin’? Shit! Ow.”
He’d fallen asleep on the couch. And then fallen off the couch.
The dings ceased and Dean propped himself up against the coffee table and glared at the clock.
“Smug bastard,” he said to its smug face.
He huffed and groaned and got himself upright and had a half-assed attempt at stretching out some of the kinks in his back.
“Uh. Fuck.”
So, Dean Winchester had had an afternoon nap, then. Was he the kind of guy who had – who needed to have – afternoon naps? Apparently so. And His Smugness said it was five o’clock. Fire-lighting time. And then dough-punching time. Nice. Both things Dean could get behind. He’d always been up for a bit of burning and violence and combining the two seemed like a great way to spend some time, especially when he was still grumpy from having been woken up.
“Dean? Dean!”
“Out here!”
Dean set the pizzas down on the bench, tweaking the arrangement of pepperoni on Cas’s. He turned around as the porch and then the new wooden pergola creaked. And there was his angel, pink short-sleeved button-up looking rumpled and a bit sweaty, much like the rest of him. The dappled light coming through the dangling grapevines moved across his tired face as he came toward Dean, smiling. His tread down the step from the pergola was over-careful, telling of stiff joints, the hug he wrapped Dean in soft and heavy. And long.
“Hey. Angel?”
“Mmmph.”
“Uh, that’s a real nice hug. But you should eat before you sleep, you know?”
“Grrrm.”
Dean kissed the side of his neck and gently pushed on his angel’s shoulders so that he could look into his face.
“Tough day?”
Cas rubbed his eyes and then dug a fingertip into the crease between his brows. “The exam was long.” He blinked slowly. “My brain hurts. Is that a thing, Dean? A normal thing?”
Dean pushed his fingers into Cas’s hair and began massaging his scalp in firm little circles. Cas groaned, his head tipping back, both arms falling slackly to his sides.
“Yeah,” said Dean. “I reckon that’s a normal thing, Cas. My GED was a while ago. A long while. But after it, I just wanted to sleep.” He squinted into his hazy memories. “I think I hit a few bars first. Maybe punched a few guys that needed it. Or vamps. Or something.” It was a long time ago. He brought his focus back to his grumpy angel. “Why don’t you go shower? And when you’re done, the pizzas will be done too.”
Cas nodded. “Hmm.” He sighed. “Or I could just stay here, like this.”
He leant into Dean, his body sagging and loose. Dean stopped massaging and pushed Cas upright. He planted a kiss on the wrinkled brow. “You could. But then neither of us would get any pizza.”
“Huh. ‘Kay. Going.”
He remained motionless, until Dean manoeuvred him into a wobbly about-face and then gave him a gentle push in the right direction. He slopped past the wooden table, ready set out with salady bits and into the house.
Piggly-Wiggly could eat Dean’s salad, if he could get away with sneaking it to her. He plucked a lettuce leaf out of the bowl and flicked it under the table, receiving an approving wheek-wheek of thanks from the guinea pig.
Anyway, pizzas.
The oven was properly hot. He slid them inside. Then he ducked back inside briefly to get the little bluetooth speaker, set it in the middle of the table and started a playlist, which he’d labelled ‘pizza al fresco.’
Rain Song started up, because you should always start with Zepp. And Dean reckoned seven and a half minutes was plenty to cook the pizzas, slice them up and have them all ready and waiting for when Cas came out again.
“Oh, Dean!” Cas’s face lit up when his eyes fell on his pizza. He pulled out his chair and sat down, reaching across to Dean and squeezing his hand. “It looks so happy!”
It was always worth taking the time to make a pepperoni smiley-face, whether you were making pizza for a moose or for an angel.
“Thank you, sweetheart!” said Cas.
“You’re welcome, honeybee.”
Cas’s grin went extra dopey. Mostly Dean called him angel. Because Cas was Dean’s angel. Always had been, always would be. And Dean needed to remind himself of that. He needed the consistency. But just occasionally he went with honey or honeybee, when he was feeling extra soft.
“It seems almost a shame to disturb the arrangement,” said Cas. “Almost,” he repeated. “But not quite.”
He picked up a slice, dripping with cheese and greasy pizza-juice. And his groan when he began to eat had Dean shifting in his seat. But Dean was hungry. There’d be time for other stuff later. He grabbed a slice of his own meat-laden beauty and shoved in as much of it as he could fit, and more besides.
“Oh, God, that’s good,” he said, grease oozing down his chin.
“Mmm,” said Cas, nodding, swallowing and immediately starting on his next slice.
They ate. And sometimes when he and Cas shared a meal, there’d be actual conversation – civilised chit-chat, a back and forth of banter, even a smattering of current affairs. Sammy would be proud.
But anyway, not this time. This particular meal demanded focussed, heads-down concentration, punctuated by slurps of the rich, soft red wine which Dean had discovered worked better with pizza than beer (who knew?) and also broken by just a very occasional pause for Cas to get himself some more salad, or to push the salad bowl in Dean’s direction with a pointed quirk of his brows.
They ate their way through Dean’s playlist, mixing the lazier classic rock tracks with some country and even a bit of classical, because Cas liked it and actually, that Mozart guy had known how to write a good tune, even Dean had to admit that.
And then the pizza was all gone. Dean licked the remaining tomatoey grease off his fingers. He tipped back in his chair and let out a loud, appreciative belch. Sorry, Mozart.
“I enjoyed that very much, Dean,” said Cas, which was his equivalent of a loud belch.
The piano and soft strings would down and drifted away as the sun sank behind the pine trees and the evening breeze stirred the vine leaves and the tight little bunches of grapes that they sheltered.
There was a pause in the music and then a different piano started up – a steady three-time pulse.
Dean pushed back his chair and stood up. And as the voices began he held out his hand to his angel.
Cas looked up at him. And Dean saw the words sink into his mind and settle behind his eyes.
Cas smiled and stood. He took Dean’s hand and led him past the table where there was just enough space to hold each other; just enough space to shuffle back and forth, arms wrapped around each other, hips swaying in time to the easy one, two, three.
The words came around again and Dean rumbled along with them, softly murmuring into his angel’s ear.
My heart was broken
My heart was broken
You saw it, you claimed it
You touched it, you saved it
“Oh, Dean.” Cas kissed his cheek. “You saved me too, Dean. You saved me.”
He held Dean even tighter and joined in, humming along with the violin. And when the song ended, one strong arm remained, curving around Dean’s back, stopping him from moving away – not that Dean wanted to – while Cas reached out with the other to his phone, to start the music again.
And this time Cas sang along, looking into Dean’s eyes.
Your beauty and kindness
Made tears clear my blindness
Dean rocked from one foot to another, left to right and back, barely moving to the slow waltz, his body pressed to Cas’s, his cheek pressed to Cas’s ear and the tickling curls of his hair.
The night was warm. He was full of pizza and full of love. And he sent a silent prayer to Jack, to thank him for everything, for the life he and Cas lived, for your birth and my birth, or for their rebirth in this life.
And this time, when the music stopped they let it fade away into silence and the chirping of little night creatures from the woodland.
“I’m glad we saved each other, Dean.”
“Me too.” He planted a kiss on his angel’s lips. “And I’m glad we saved something else, too.”
Cas’s eyebrows squinched together. “The world? The multitude of parallel universes?”
Dean grinned. “Nope. Pie,” he said. “We saved half of yesterday’s pie, Cas.”
“Cherry,” said Cas, matching Dean’s grin.
“Cherry pie,” agreed Dean. “I love me some pie!”
Cas lifted one of Dean’s hands to his lips and kissed the scarred knuckles. Then he turned toward the house, towing Dean behind him. “Come on, Dean. It’s time for pie.”
Dean followed his angel.
He would follow Cas anywhere - for pie, for love. For always.