Chapter Text
The bunker was quiet, the kind of silence that wrapped itself around the thick stone walls and settled into the spaces between moments. Dean was in the kitchen, humming quietly as he flipped bacon in a pan. To anyone else, it would have been a simple, everyday scene—a man cooking breakfast—but to Castiel, it was much more.
Castiel stood in the doorway, observing the way Dean moved, the way the kitchen was filled with the sizzling sound of cooking bacon. But it was all different for him. He didn’t perceive the world the way humans did. Not even close.
For Castiel, food was not flavor and warmth and comfort—it was molecules, chemical compounds reacting to heat. He could break it all down in his mind—the fat in the bacon rendering, the proteins coagulating, the Maillard reaction creating the savory, golden-brown crust humans found so appealing. But he couldn't taste it the way they did. To him, the food on the stove was just elements shifting in patterns, devoid of the richness or satisfaction Dean sought from it.
And then there were colors. Humans saw only a fraction of the spectrum, a small slice of the infinite waves of light that cascaded over everything in Creation. But Castiel could see more. He saw the deeper purples that bordered on ultraviolet, the shimmering bands of infrared heat radiating off Dean’s skin, the subtle auras that clung to every living being. Dean’s aura was bright—a yellow that flickered and danced around him, warm and familiar, like a memory Castiel couldn't quite place.
His skin, too, processed the world differently. He felt air on his vessel, but not like humans did. There was no warmth or chill that carried meaning for him, just the sensation of pressure, a soft hum that told him he was touching the world but not truly immersed in it. It was like wearing a suit too thick to ever feel the breeze. He’d grown used to it over the years, learned to mimic the way Sam and Dean would rub their hands together for warmth or flinch at the touch of something too hot. But it was never quite the same.
Yet, there was one human experience that eluded even his angelic nature, something that transcended simple biology and chemical reactions: Dean. Specifically, the way Dean smelled.
Humans couldn’t understand the full truth of one another by scent, but angels could. Castiel could smell a person’s heart, their soul. He could see their nature laid bare in a way no one else could. Most people, when he focused on them, smelled of fear, of worry, of brief flickers of love and hate intertwined with the mundane scent of their day-to-day lives.
But Dean was different. Dean smelled like so many things—things that confused and intrigued Castiel at once. Dean smelled like trauma, like the scars that had woven themselves into the fabric of his being. Years of fighting, losing, and protecting had left a permanent mark. There was a sharpness to it, like the scent of something burned and scarred, but beneath that, something stronger, something warmer.
Love.
Dean’s scent, his essence, was woven through with love. It was quiet, almost hidden, but it was always there. It wasn’t just the fierce love Dean had for his brother, or the bone-deep loyalty he had to his family, but the love he had for the world, for humanity, and for the simple things, like cooking. There was a particular kind of warmth that filled the room when Dean was doing something as ordinary as making breakfast. Castiel could smell it in the air, that devotion to the mundane, that appreciation for the small moments that humans treasured.
Dean’s love was complicated and fractured, yet persistent. He loved in ways that broke him and healed him, all at once. It was messy, imperfect, and full of pain, but to Castiel, it was beautiful.
And Castiel loved it.
He loved the scent of Dean’s heart, the way it called to him in a world that otherwise felt so detached. He loved the way Dean's soul glowed a bright yellow, like sunlight on the edge of dawn. It was brilliant, unyielding, a light that shone through even the darkest parts of him. Castiel had spent years trying to understand this connection, trying to make sense of it, but in the end, it was simple.
He loved Dean Winchester.
It wasn’t like the divine love he had known in Heaven, where angels loved with obedience and duty, where love was a cold, distant reverence. This was something else. Something raw and human. Something warm, like the smell of bacon cooking on a lazy morning in the bunker, and the sight of Dean’s hands carefully turning it over in the pan.
And Castiel found that, in this quiet moment, in this small space of peace, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t taste the bacon or feel the heat of the stove. What mattered was that, for the first time in his existence, he knew what love was. And it wasn’t in Heaven or in some grand cosmic plan.
It was here, in Dean Winchester's soul.
The smell of bacon hung thick in the air, too thick, like it was choking him. The sizzle of the pan was loud, but muffled, distant, like he was hearing it through cotton. Or maybe it was just him. His mind was somewhere else. Somewhere it shouldn’t be.
His hand moved on autopilot, flipping the bacon, but his thoughts kept slipping away. Kept running.
Cas was behind him. Watching. Always watching. Dean could feel his eyes, like they were burning a hole through his back, right down to his soul. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Cas had seen his soul and he still said those words. I love you.
Dean didn’t know how to handle that. Didn’t know how to handle Cas. Because when Cas said those words, everything inside Dean cracked wide open. And then Cas was gone. Swallowed by the Empty, just like that. Dean never got the chance to say it back. Never had time to process what the hell any of it meant.
And now Cas was here. Standing in the kitchen. Watching Dean cook breakfast like it was any other day.
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t any other day.
Dean kept his mind back to him, focused on the bacon. Keep moving. Keep busy. As long as his hands were doing something, he didn’t have to think. And if he didn’t have to think, he didn’t have to face the weight pressing down on his chest, the weight that had been there since Cas came back.
Dean had spent his life building walls—layer upon layer, brick upon brick. His father taught him that. Hide the parts that hurt, the parts that made you weak. Dean’s grip tightened on the spatula, his knuckles going white. He didn’t know how to be the man Cas thought he saw, the man worth loving.
Cas had seen everything. Every ugly, broken piece. The anger, the shame. The part Dean buried so deep he barely let himself acknowledge it. The part he’d buried that night.
The night with the nuns.
Dean’s stomach twisted, the memory rising up uninvited, dragging him back to that day. His sixteenth birthday. His dad had sent him on a hunt—alone. A test. A lesson. It was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn—two vengeful spirits haunting an old monastery. They were nuns, angry and restless, lashing out at anyone who came near. Dean had tracked them down, figured out the connection, but when he found their bodies, he realized it wasn’t about vengeance. Not really.
They’d taken their own lives. Because they loved each other.
Dean had stood in the dark, their bones at his feet, and it had hit him like a punch to the gut. They’d killed themselves so they could be together. So their love wouldn’t be torn apart by the world around them. And instead of peace, they got this—stuck as ghosts, haunting the place they’d died.
His dad had called it a tragedy, but there had been something else in his voice when he gave Dean that hunt. A warning.
“Love like that? It’ll ruin you. Make you weak. Don’t ever forget that.” John’s words had echoed in his head as Dean salted the bones, as he lit the match and watched the fire consume them. He remembered staring into the flames, feeling the heat on his face, feeling the burn in his chest. Like it was him burning.
Because the truth was, it wasn’t just the ghosts who were being destroyed that night. It was him, too.
Dean had felt the fire, felt it deep inside, searing through the part of him he didn’t want to acknowledge—the part that wanted something more, something different. The part that felt something he wasn’t supposed to feel. Something he wasn’t allowed to feel.
He’d buried that part of himself in the ashes of those bones, locked it away with the rest of the things that made him weak. Made him vulnerable. He couldn’t afford that. Couldn’t afford to let himself be anything other than what his father wanted him to be—strong, tough, a soldier.
He’d buried everything that night. His queerness, his feelings, his vulnerability. All of it.
But Cas had brought it all back. Standing behind him, waiting.
Dean swallowed hard, his throat tight. He couldn’t hide from this. Not from Cas. Not from the way Cas looked at him, like all the broken pieces didn’t matter. Like Dean was worth something.
He clenched his jaw, the memories swirling. Dean wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not for Cas. Not for anyone. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. That was the lesson his father drilled into him. Every time Dean let someone in, they ended up dead. Or hurt. Or worse.
How could this be any different? How could he let himself love Cas when he knew how it always ended? When he knew it would end with Cas being ripped away again?
But the truth was, Dean had already fallen. A long time ago. And now it was too late. Cas was already tangled up in him, wrapped around his heart in a way that he couldn’t untangle, even if he wanted to.
And he didn’t want to.
The bacon was ruined. Cold, overcooked, a complete mess.
Dean hadn’t moved since he’d turned off the stove, standing there with the spatula still clenched in his hand, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. The weight of the silence was pressing in—he couldn’t avoid this any longer. Not with Cas standing behind him, quiet as ever but closer than he felt ready for. How long had Cas been waiting?
Too long.
He turned slowly, his heart doing that stupid panicked thing when he caught Cas’s eyes—blue, intense, but now carrying something else. Something Dean had been ignoring since the moment Cas came back.
“We need to talk,” Cas said, his voice low and steady. Not a request.
Dean huffed, swallowing down the lump in his throat. How many times had they done this? Cas confronting him, and Dean finding some way to dodge it.
“Yeah,” Dean muttered, forcing a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Figured you’d say that.” He looked at the floor, because looking at Cas felt too much—like staring into the sun, too bright, too honest.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, shifting on his feet. But Cas didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Dean could feel the weight of his gaze like a spotlight, making something uncomfortable twist in his gut.
“Dean.” Cas took a step closer, and it took everything in Dean not to take a step back. God, why couldn’t Cas just give him space? He never understood boundaries—never backed off when Dean needed room to breathe.
But that was Castiel. Relentless.
“You’re afraid,” Cas said softly. Not accusing. Just stating a fact.
Dean let out a sharp laugh, but it came out more brittle than he intended. “Afraid? Me? Nah, I’m just—” He stopped, throat locking up, the rest of the words sticking there. Dammit, why couldn’t he say it? Cas could always see right through his crap, and it pissed him off more than it should.
“I’m not… afraid,” Dean muttered, but his voice cracked, betraying him.
Cas didn’t react. He just stood there, eyes steady, like he had all the time in the world.
“I can feel it, Dean,” Cas said, taking another step. “Your fear. Your confusion.” His voice softened. “Your pain.”
Dean clenched his fists inside his pockets. Dammit. He hated this—the way Cas just knew things, like Dean was an open book he could flip through at will.
“Yeah, well, maybe you’re picking up on some leftover stress,” Dean snapped, his voice rough. “Post-apocalypse blues and all that. We’ve been through hell, Cas. Don’t go turning this into some—”
“That’s not it.”
Dean’s jaw clenched. Why couldn’t he just let it slide? Why did he have to dig so damn deep?
Cas took another step, close enough now that Dean could feel the heat coming off him. He didn’t touch him, but the space between them felt like it was humming with tension.
“Dean.” Cas’s voice was patient, but there was a weight behind it. “We can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening. You’ve been running from this since the moment I came back.”
Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs, but he scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t run, Cas. You know that.”
Cas tilted his head, like he did whenever Dean said something that didn’t add up. “You’re running now. You’ve been avoiding me.” He paused, then added, quieter, “Avoiding what you feel.”
Something inside Dean snapped at that—something raw and jagged he’d been trying to keep together.
“I don’t know how to do this, Cas!” Dean’s voice rose, chest heaving. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say, or do!” He didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but the words were pouring out now, uncontrollable. “I’ve never—” He broke off, his voice cracking. “I’ve never loved anyone like this.”
The words hung heavy between them, thick with everything Dean had been trying to suppress. He let out a shaky breath, his voice dropping. “And I don’t… I don’t know how to deal with it.”
Cas’s face softened, something warm flickering in his eyes.
“I haven’t either,” Cas said quietly, stepping closer. “But I know what I feel for you. And I know it’s right.”
Dean’s chest felt too tight, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. How could Cas just say that? So easily. Like it wasn’t terrifying.
Dean shook his head, voice rough. “Yeah, well, love ain’t that simple, Cas. It’s messy. It comes with conditions. There’s always a catch.”
Cas didn’t blink, didn’t back down. “Not with me.” His voice was soft, but it carried that quiet intensity that made Dean’s breath hitch. “I don’t love you because of what you’ve done, or what you think you owe me. I love you because I love you.”
Dean blinked. Cas was so damn direct. No fancy speeches, no long explanations. Just… right to the point.
“You don’t have to earn it,” Cas said, his voice low and steady. “It’s already yours.”
Dean felt like his chest was caving in, the walls he’d built cracking wide open. How the hell was he supposed to deal with this? How could it be that simple?
Cas didn’t stop. He took one more step, closing the last bit of distance between them until they were nearly chest to chest. His hand hovered just over Dean’s heart, waiting.
When Dean didn’t move, Cas pressed his palm gently against him.
Dean sucked in a sharp breath, his chest tightening under the touch. God, why did it feel like this? Like something was burning and soothing him all at once?
“That’s love, Dean,” Cas murmured, his voice soft but unwavering. “It’s not a burden. It’s not something you have to carry alone.”
Dean’s throat burned, his hand instinctively grabbing Cas’s wrist, holding him there. Like he was afraid Cas might pull away. Like he always was.
Cas didn’t pull away. He stayed steady, hand pressed firm against Dean’s heart.
“You’re not alone, Dean. Not anymore.”
Dean’s breath hitched, the fear slithered back in, tight and familiar, wrapping around Dean’s chest. He could already see it—the cracks forming, the way he’d mess it all up, like he always did. How he’d break the one good thing he had.
Dean’s grip tightened on Cas’s wrist, like holding on would keep it all from falling apart. “I don’t… I don’t wanna screw this up, Cas,” he rasped, his voice raw. “I’m gonna screw it up. You know that, right?”
Cas’s gaze softened, unwavering. “You can’t screw this up, Dean.”
Dean’s heart stuttered. “What?”
“You can’t break this,” Cas repeated, quiet but steady. “Our love isn’t something fragile. It’s not going to fall apart because of a mistake. You don’t have to be perfect.”
Dean swallowed hard, his throat thick. How could he believe that? He’d broken everything good before. Left wreckage in his wake every time.
“I push people away,” Dean whispered, his voice rough and cracking at the edges. “I ruin things.”
Cas didn’t waver. His hand still firm over Dean’s heart. “You won’t lose me,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “Our souls are bound, Dean. I’m not leaving.”
Cas’s smile was gentle, eyes warm, holding that endless depth. “We’ll make mistakes. We’ll hurt each other. But that’s not the end. That’s how we learn. It doesn’t mean I’ll walk away.”
Something broke open inside Dean, the weight of Cas’s words sinking in deeper than they should have, like they were unlocking some buried part of him.
“You can’t break this, Dean,” Cas repeated, his hand pressing just a little more firmly against Dean’s chest, anchoring him.
Dean closed his eyes, a breath shuddering out of him as the tightness in his chest eased. Cas wasn’t moving. He wasn’t leaving.
“We’ll figure it out,” Cas said, his voice low, grounding. “Together.”