Archive of Our Own

The house is old and yellow, an ugly shade Dean can’t believe people actually used to paint with. The front is full of overgrown plants and statues, and inside is much of the same. The owner— an old woman who could barely walk, yet somehow definitely had more steps in than he did, led them through the living room and to the kitchen, passing a fat cat who laid lazily on the back of the couch, making Dean sneeze. The lady blessed him as she opened the door to the backyard, and he follows. He asks the usual questions; who her husband (the victim) was friends with, if he had any enemies, the typical business. She was confused by the oddity of them, as expected, but she still complied and answered honestly. The back garden was even more overgrown, with all the plants in full bloom and surprisingly larger than he had initially thought. She leads him on a stone path as the questions continue, and Dean is regretting wearing his suit; the heat, the bugs, and the pollen were sticking to him like he was their own personal glue trap.

The woman drones on about her husband, how his favorite beer went out of business some thirty-odd years ago and how he hasn’t been able to eat her homemade pies since. Dean would be intrigued (because it's pie, how can you not be), but instead, his focus is on his partner.

Castiel — er, Agent Skinner, is trailing behind Dean a few feet, taking in the quaint garden and not paying attention to the elderly. Dean was almost jealous, but he knew at least one of them had to be listening in case she dropped acute details about their case. The angel was walking slow, taking a leisurely stroll between the blooming flowers and fluttering butterflies. He looked like a fucking fairytale, the bastard, all ethereal and shit. Hell, even the afternoon sun cast an angelic glow around his frame. Dean had completely lost track of the woman’s story.

Cas stops by a flower bush, seeming aware that the other two had stopped as well. With one hand, he delicately bends down and reaches toward a decaying flower, fingers a mere breadth against the white petals. The dulled, browning edges suddenly morphed into a brilliant white, rising and stretching up toward the sun (toward Cas), completely healed of all blemishes and rot.

Dean blinks. He was a fucking Disney princess.

“-hello? Young man?”

He blinks again, jolting slightly as reality smacks him upside the head. The old woman is staring at him, completely lost to where he had gone. He clears his throat, daring the quickest glance back toward Castiel and seeing him straightening back up and coming closer. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that, please?”

“I asked if you have a lover.”

Dean is suddenly very aware of Castiel at his right, and he has to clear his throat again to hide his bashful smirk. How do you explain your complicated, lustful love life to someone who looked one breath away from a heart attack. Cas doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort.

“Well, uh.. it’s complicated.” He settles. Cas looks at him with an unreadable expression. He can’t bear to meet the angel’s eye.

“Well, when you find the right woman, I'm sure you’ll want to build gardens for her, too.”

Dean smiles. It’s a flattering thought, but the idea of him settling down makes his stomach tighten. Brief images of Lisa and Ben flash through his mind, and he makes sure to shove them further back so that they wouldn’t reappear. Cas looks down.

“Can you tell us more about your husband’s job?” He surmises, allowing for Dean to take a moment and collect himself. It was a sweet gesture, but Dean was already collected, he didn’t need the extra time to stew in his own thoughts, thank you. Both of Castiel’s hands are in his coat pockets, and Dean briefly wonders what else he could heal with just a touch.

———

The Impala thunders down the road in an easy cruise. Dean fumbled with the radio but didn’t seem to actually want to listen to any of his tapes. Castiel watches his hands poke and mash at the buttons before ultimately giving up, leaving the two in a blissful silence. As an angel, he quite enjoyed the many different sounds of music. No matter the instrument, voice, or, more recently, culture; he found himself finding pleasure in the many melodies humans and angels produced. However, riding in silence could also be quite nice, as he could take in all the sounds of humanity. Such as the car’s “purring engine”, as Dean had once called it. He could hear the wind against the windshield, the small rocks against the tires, and Dean’s steady breaths as he focuses partially on the road. The man’s thoughts were occupied by the case, piecing together the information they had so far. He had already called Sam to fill in the details, and now they were just waiting for a call back. It just seemed to be a ghost of some sort, maybe a banshee, maybe a djinn, they weren’t entirely sure yet. Castiel wondered how Dean’s thought process went, if he had a corkboard in his mind that he was putting pictured memories up on, or if it was all splayed out like an unraveled film, waiting to be wound back together. Castiel’s thoughts were also wandering, trying to connect the dots of all the intel they had. He’s only been a Hunter for so long; the actual picking apart and gluing together information was often quite daunting. Maybe it would be better to leave it to the professionals.

Castiel glances at Dean. The sun is low, settling into the afternoon. It leaves a pale strip across Dean’s jaw, reaching for his right eye. They make a turn and the beam is rising, sliding up and hitting his eye directly, causing the green to pop. The color reminds Castiel of a forest, the many shades of green worn by the different shrubbery, cast in a golden glow by the sun. Castiel didn’t care much for the woods; especially after being in Purgatory. They were too vast, too imposing and dense. They could hide anything and leave you lost and confused. Yet, Dean’s eyes were different. They showed a land untouched, vast yet familiar, surprisingly warm. Instead of holding monsters and fear and grief, they held the calm, fond memories of a boy who once was. They could be cold and intimidating, but for the most part, they were kind.

He is unaware he is staring until Dean calls his name for the third time, and that is when he realizes he had been gazing into both of Dean’s eyes instead of just the one. He blinks tentatively, as if it would rid of the warmth in Dean’s stare, and looks away.

“Dude, you alright?”

“I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean is not convinced. After all, usually when Castiel eye-fucks him, it means there is something wrong.

“So, how'd you do it?” He decides not to question it. Castiel looks over again.

“The flowers. You healed them, right? I thought you could only heal humans.”

“You mean the peonies?”

“Yes, I—” Dean gives him a sideways look. Castiel looks ahead. The road is straight and only mildly run-down, causing few bumps in the ride.

“I can heal most living things. An angel’s power is not limited to humans or other angels, you know.”

Dean makes another face. “Guess I never thought of it like that.”

“You think about my powers?”

Dean fully looks at him, his brows set in a pointed glare as his jaw works to say something. The words are lost, however, as he instead focuses back on the road. Castiel takes it as a win. Since being around Sam and Dean, he’s picked up on some social cues the other angels never really do, at least, not around him. Then again, the angels either saw him as a leader or as a threat, so any talking he used to do with them has since been withheld. Castiel was also not an average angel, he’s known this since his existence.

“So,” Castiel releases a breath. “What type of monster do we think this is?”

He does his best to ignore how Dean stares at him again for a moment, how his eyes linger, taking in the soft curve of his cheekbone, tracing down his jaw and to his lips. Dean takes a breath and turns left, his hands aptly gliding across the wheel as it spins.

“I’m thinking a Ghoul. Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

Castiel hums. That wasn’t far off from a ghost or djinn, right? He can’t remember the last time he’s seen one at all, let alone defeated one. The sun blips behind a row of fir trees along the side of the road. It’ll be dark soon, and they haven’t gotten dinner yet. There should be a diner a few miles out, hopefully there’s a salad option for Sam, if they make it back in time.

“And how do we defeat it?”

“Good ol’ slice and dice to the neck. Or, a shotgun to the head, which is actually my personal favorite.”

“You do favor your shotgun.” Castiel nods. Dean’s smirk is as bright as the sun, Castiel wishes he could trap it in a bottle and keep it forever, let the illuminating glow of his smile fill all the empty cracks in his soul.

His attention is brought back to Dean with a sharp intake of breath, followed by the infamous sonuvabitch muttered under his breath. Cas looks over and sees Dean sucking on the inner part of his thumb, brows furrowed and lips in a pout. Castiel tilts his head, tries seeing the area of attention while Dean’s eyes flicker to and from the road.

“Are you hurt?”

“Splinter, I got it from that old railing back at the house. Stupid thing. I thought I got rid of it, though.”

“May I see?”

Dean shoots him a look, and Castiel is confused why Dean appears to have heard something wrong. Like he had said something outlandish. Regardless, he holds out his hand to the angel, and Castiel, ever gentle with his touch, cradles his hand as he looks it over. He doesn’t comment how Dean swallows and shifts in his seat, how the very tips of his ears were turning a shade redder or how he keeps his eyes focused forcefully on the road. Sure enough, Castiel can see a small piece of wood lodged deep in Dean’s thumb, too tiny to be seen well by a human. Castiel can see how deep it was, each serrated edge embedded in the epidermis. He suddenly realizes, he does not know how to remove it. Simple healing should work, right? Or would the skin around it heal up, keeping the splinter stuck forever? Castiel shifts his hold, gently squeezes his thumb to Dean’s palm, the pads of his fingers coaxed over Dean’s knuckles. Dean is incredibly still, barely breathing. Castiel has figured out a way to get it out; he will simply tell it to, with his mind. It’s been years since he’s properly moved something with sheer willpower, the last time he remembers is when he was stuck in the fiery ring of holy oil, when he had to free himself by turning the water pressure on and move a pipe. He remembered it first because it was a memory he wishes he could forget. The betrayal Dean felt was so intense, it shattered his own soul. Their bond was never truly the same after that, but the wound was healing. A slow, continuous crawl, stitching the edges together bit by bit. Castiel has apologized for betraying them, betraying Dean, and he could tell that Dean’s soul was in the process of forgiving him for it.

Castiel stares at the splinter, and slowly, with precision ten times better than the most advanced robotic surgeon, he pulls it out from Dean’s thumb, and holds it between his own two fingers. With his other hand, he presses his forefinger to the tiny bead of blood, and heals the wound with no effort at all.

“I checked but didn’t see any other splinters in your hand,” He holds up the one, which is so small, it can’t even be seen between his fingers. “I also healed your wound.”

Dean, now having his hand back, glances at the spot and gives his hand a test shake just to be sure. He squeezes it into a fist and then brushes it across the front of his shirt, then grabs the steering wheel with an affirmative nod. Castiel did satisfactory, which makes him almost smile.

“Thanks, you uh, did a good job.”

Castiel smiles. The splinter is discarded to the side, out of the way, never to be impaled into skin again. Dean, having seen Castiel’s smile, rolls his eyes and increases his speed. His gaze is fond despite himself. The lingering warmth of Castiel’s hand remains on his skin despite his best efforts to ignore it. Maybe it was some Pavlovian response to Castiel; since he raised him from hell and whatever. Maybe his body just reacted naturally to the angel’s touch. He finds his eyes slowly drifting toward where Castiel’s hands laid on his lap, relaxed and still. He remembered back to the first time they met. How Cas said he was a soldier. He wondered if those hands were ever actually made for war, or if they were made for something much softer. Instead of gripping tightly to a blade of death, were they made to gingerly caress the wounded and weak?

———

“Alright, this place looks good.”

Dean pulls up to a small shack on the side of the road, a big chicken holding a platter of food smiling down at them. Castiel would be weary for Dean’s stomach, but there were a few cars in decent shape parked around the outside of the building, telling him that this place was frequented by an array of people. Maybe it was safe. Sometimes, he really worried about Dean’s unhealthy obsession with… unhealthy food. The man wasn’t getting any younger, yet his appetite was that of a child. Castiel knew that, as they aged, certain foods became more of a liability to humans than others. He didn’t have to worry about Sam, since Sam seemed to understand the significance of eating his fruits and veggies. Dean was a whole other problem, though.

He follows Dean out of the car and up to the window, waiting behind two other people in line to order. Dean is busy looking at the menu, so Cas is the one looking around, making sure there weren’t any suspicious persons eyeballing them. They seemed safe. He felt bad for not being able to get Sam anything, but it happened sometimes, and he knew there was food at the bunker Sam could have. He also had another car to use if he decided to go out. Cas doesn’t let guilt bog him down.

“Ooh, Penny Piglet’s Platter Delight. I might have to try that.” Dean is talking to himself, but Castiel still tunes in, anyways. A quick glance at the menu tells him that the business was farm-animal themed, with many servings consisting of quirky puns and rhymes that involved an array of cows, chickens, and pigs. Cartoon horses, sheep, and the other animals decorated the menu and exterior, giving the place a southern vibe. Castiel didn’t understand the appeal. He doesn’t consider himself ‘vegan’, but sometimes, imagining the animal behind the meat made him a little sad.

“You want anything? Maybe the… funnel cake cookies?” Dean squints, his face suggesting the dessert might actually be worth trying. Castiel shakes his head. “It would be a waste, but, thank you.”

Dean shrugs, and soon, he is ordering. Castiel is silent by his side, possibly unnerving to the hostess, but he doesn’t particularly care. She gives Dean the receipt with his number, and they leave to find a free table. They’re all picnic benches made with entirely-too-worn wood, weathered into splinters and faded to a near white. Couples and families sit at them, anyways. It always amazes Castiel how humans are able to park themselves anywhere if they deem it safe enough. They find a lone table toward the fence that separates the gravel from the grass, near the row of trees that expand into a vast forest. The sounds of nature surround them, mixing with the communal noise of the people nearby. With the sun beaming down at them, the air warm with a slight breeze to keep cool, and the smell of flowers and country food, Castiel feels unequivocally human. It feels like heaven.

Castiel sits on one side, and as Dean goes to sit opposite him, the bench creaks and groans dangerously. They both remain ramrod still, and slowly, with the delicacy of balancing glass, Dean stands back up. Cas stands as well, and they both go toward a bench against the fence, made of sturdy metal. He sits, and Dean sits beside him, pointedly ignoring how their shoulders are forced to touch. Cas doesn’t mind. He thinks it’s rather amusing, actually, considering Dean is so adamant on having his space. Right as Dean opens his mouth to say something, though, his number is called for his food, and his jaw snaps shut. Cas tilts his head; he can’t help but wonder if Dean was about to shut down any possible remarks he would’ve said about the seating arrangement, or if it was something else entirely.

The platter Dean returns with is… impressive, to say the least. Shredded pork, fried chicken tenders, and a double-patty burger, with fries and fried pickles as the sides. It looks like a heart attack waiting to happen, yet Dean is salivating. With the tray carefully balanced on his lap, he wastes no time digging in, and Castiel looks away, not because it’s gross (it is), but because the scenery around them was much too beautiful to ignore.

“Mh, God, this is— this is probably the best pork I’ve ever had.” Dean is moaning around a mouthful of food, and Castiel tries to remember if he’s ever had shredded pork. It did not appear any different than other shredded pork he’s seen, but he also knows food can be deceptively delicious. The pickles, however, don’t look appetizing. Dean notices him staring and offers one between his two fingers.

“Here, try it. Ever had fried pickle?”

Castiel begrudgingly takes it. “No.”

It’s hot and crunchy and juice bursts onto his tongue when he takes the bite. All he can taste is the molecules, an overwhelming blandness indescribable for any human to make sense of. He still finishes it politely. Dean hands him his drink— which he only just realized has two straws in it.

“Here ya go, wash it down.” He says nothing about the straws, even as Castiel stares at them with such a longing gaze, wondering what he did to deserve such a thought.

“Thank you.” And it’s deeper than it sounds, filled with emotion and sudden softness. Dean rolls one shoulder as he focuses back on his food. Cas notices how it was the left one; the one with his handprint still etched into the skin. Reciprocating the gratitude without being fully conscious he was doing so.

About halfway through the meal, a couple sits at the table they were just at. Both the benches collapse under their weight. Dean and Cas share a look, then look away. It wasn’t their fault; they were just lucky to have moved. Dean is trying (and failing) not to laugh, and Castiel wants them to fall again so that he can. He’s only heard Dean’s true laughter once, and that was by his own doing. He ponders how many ways to make Dean have a full-out belly laugh, how easy or hard it would be. Despite knowing him from the inside out, Cas doesn’t quite know what makes Dean tick.

They talk briefly of the hunt, going over the information they have and making sure all clues aligned with what they knew so far. They could only do so much without Sam, who was currently at the bunker, deciding to stay behind while Cas and Dean went out. It’ll be good for you, Sam had told Dean, who only gave him a look while Cas was left wondering what he meant by it. Something unspoken sparked between the two brothers, and Cas wasn’t well-versed enough in his knowledge of them to decipher what it could possibly be about. All he knew was that they weren’t upset, not at him, or each other, so that was at least a plus. Things were always easier when the two were in harmony with each other and not tearing at each other’s throats.

Dean takes a sip of his drink when suddenly a small songbird flutters up to them, cheeping as it lands on Castiel’s knee. They both stare in awe, neither moving a muscle. Slowly, Cas reaches to it, and it hops onto his finger, chirping a small song. Dean grins; it was singing to them, to Cas. It was goddamn adorable.

“How do you do it, Cas? I mean, first the flower and now the bird—"

Castiel looks over carefully. His eyes shine extra bright in the setting sun. “When God made the Garden of Eden, back before Evil corrupted it, all of His creation was in harmony with each other. Angels didn’t really visit it, but, all the animals and creatures were still… they had no reason not to trust us. I guess it still applies even today.”

“So angels and animals just have this sorta… bond?”

Cas nods. Dean scoffs. “Well I’ll be dammed. You really are a Disney princess.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the slight grin tugging his lips upward. It only fuels Dean’s smirk to be brighter, and both of them ignore how they looked at each other’s lips before turning away. The bird on Castiel’s hand makes a soft chirping noise before fluttering away suddenly, leaving them to favor the trees.

“Do you miss it?”

Cas looks over at Dean, who is staring out where the bird vanished, his smile gone and replaced with a rather tight, pensive look.

“Miss what? The Garden of Eden?” Castiel tilts his head.

“Flying.”

Oh. Cas wasn’t expecting that. His gaze stretches to the trees and for a quick moment he can imagine himself flying over to them. He can remember how it used to feel; so freeing, despite being so fleeting. Angels had to travel fast, unable to do those leisurely flights he’s seen happen in movies and videos. Still, angels could see and process what they were passing, partly also due to being there when it was created. Despite not being one of the Original Archangels, Castiel still knew earth from the inside out, so flying past in the human equivalent of the speed of light didn’t prevent him from taking in the world as he flew.

With his wings now, though, with hardly any feathers, weak and wounded, he couldn’t fly, which meant he had to travel like a human. It was bothersome a lot of the time, especially if there was danger or an emergency, but, Castiel also realized he could take in a lot more than he thought possible. Especially if he were travelling with Sam and Dean Winchester, who would talk to him about the areas they’d drive through. Sam would give some oddball lore about a famous tree or whatever, and Dean would usually rebuttal by saying how they all looked the same. Castiel once told Sam he had the information wrong about a state flower, and Sam seemed so upset by it, that Cas refused to ever “out-trivia” Sam again. He found it much more enjoyable to just listen, anyways, even despite knowing all of it and more. Dean must’ve realized at some point that Castiel was purposefully letting Sam talk, as he’d often cast pointed glances toward the angel when Sam would get really into a subject. Castiel would only raise his brows or smile slightly; he knew Dean enjoyed it when Sam got excited about his “nerdy” topics, even if he made a show about being annoyed. Castiel knew that, whenever Sam wasn’t looking, Dean would look at him with a gaze so fond and soft, that it would make even the best parents feel undermined. Castiel knew Dean loved his brother more than anything in heaven and earth, which is why Castiel often let him do the talking during road trips to or from a hunt.

“I do miss it.” Castiel exhales, and there’s a weight off his chest when he does it. He’s never really been able to talk about his experience of being a dying breed, since no other angel was going through what he is. Angels that lose their grace usually either die or remain completely human, not this slow seeping that wilts away until he is left empty. His wings are permanently damaged, scarred from the multiple battles of his life being taken again and again. Even after his vessel became him, God didn’t repair his wings. He didn’t give him more grace. Castiel was left to slowly burn out until he was as human as the man beside him. If he didn’t die before it, anyways.

And Dean can see that. Castiel can tell. The way his eyes often linger, his touch staying a tad longer. Like Dean can see right through him and is able to pick apart everything that was wrong, but being unable to piece him back together. What Cas did to Dean to raise him from hell was impossible to reciprocate, especially to an angel. Castiel was a lost cause, he had been for years, and it all began when he chose to Raise Dean from Perdition.

“What’s it like? I mean... flying. Having wings.”

“Well, it’s not like the movies.” Castiel shifts, leaning forward against his knees. “I guess… I guess it’s kinda like blinking. You just— think of where to go, and then you go.”

Dean nods, despite not understanding. How could he, though, he wasn’t an angel. Flying as an angel and flying while being carried by an angel were vastly different experiences.

“So it is teleporting. Technically.”

“Technically.”

“But your wings would flap?”

Castiel nods. He knows it can’t be seen, but he slowly raises one wing and flaps it softly.  It’s faded, the black feathers dull and mangled. They don’t work like normal wings; he can’t just preen them back to life. Their obsidian brilliance is long lost with his grace. He remembers when they used to be white, before hell tainted them, stained them into a charcoal grey, then went further into deep black. God had told all angels that if they fell, their wings would never be able to turn back to white. Castiel thought he would have an exception, since he was the one raising Dean from hell like God wanted, but God (or Chuck, he should really get used to that—) has a rather displeasing taste of humor.

“You still have them, right? ‘Cause I remember seeing them back at that barn. When you first showed yourself.”

Castiel nods again. He remembers that night, how big and beautiful his wings still were. As a Seraph, he had wings designed better for strength and dexterity, instead of the softer, more plush ones the Cherubim donned.

“What you saw was actually the shadow of my wings. It’s the same when an angel dies, the shadow burns into the ground.”

Dean nods, now looking sideways at Cas. He stares for a moment before slowly raising his hand. Castiel squints.

“What are you doing?”

“Just wanna see something.”

Dean is slow, then brings his hand down past Castiel’s back. Nothing happens. He tries it again.

“What—— you can’t feel them, Dean.”

“Why not?” He continues swatting at the space behind Castiel, as if it would magically summon the wings to him.

“Most humans aren’t designed to see or feel the presence of an angel's wings. Same with hearing their true voice.”

Dean scoffs, but he does relent in his futile attempts.

“So, every time a certain light casts down on you, we can see them?”

“Mostly. Yes.”

“Huh…”

Castiel squints again. Dean seems lost in thought. It worries Castiel; that look never means anything good.

“Why do you want to see my wings?”

Dean glances at him, scoffs, and looks away rather quickly. “What, can’t a guy just be curious?”

“You don’t get ‘just curious’, Dean. You get curious and then it leads to you doing something else.”

“Something else?”

“Sometimes, something irrational.”

Dean scoffs, and for a second, may seem actually offended, but then his dramatic flare kicks in, and Castiel knows he is only joking. Dean crumples up his trash into a ball and shoots for the trashcan nearby. He misses. Castiel tries not to smile as he watches Dean awkwardly make his way over to throw it away properly. He’s brushing himself off and walking cool as he returns; pretending nothing had happened. Cas scoffs fondly. Dork. He looks to Dean again when his phone rings, and on the other side, he can hear Sam’s voice, eager with information, but relaxed, not in danger. Dean remains relaxed as well, bantering with Sammy until he hangs up and stands, stretching. His suit pulls slightly at his chest, going taught along his pectorals. Castiel stands and Does Not Look at him, hands slipping into his pockets.

“What did he say?”

“Said it was definitely a ghoul, based off the other victims. It’s also following a pattern, like he said it was.”

“Which means it’s next target—”

“— is the Springer family, yeah.”

“Alright, let’s go.” Castiel heads toward the car. He can feel Dean’s eyes hovering over the width of his shoulders, and he can’t help but wonder what made them so interesting to look at, considering he’s caught Dean staring at them before. Luckily for them, the Springer family is only a couple miles away, and after a quick stop at a gas station bathroom to change back into his regular clothes, Dean parks the Impala across the street and kills the engine. The house is a typical white-picket-fence, we go to church on Sundays ordeal, which already has Dean frowning. He knows he shouldn’t judge people based off of where they live, but based on personal experience, there was a very specific type of person who live in these suburban neighborhoods. The kind that didn’t favor his life on the road lifestyle, for starters. In front of the house was a giant sweeping window, where the family could be seen clearly getting ready for dinner. All smiles and laughter, the ‘perfect family’. Dean could gag.

“Is something the matter?”

Right, he wasn’t alone. Dean glances at Cas and is not too surprised to be met with that insanely piercing stare, the one that makes him feel like a bug under a microscope. At first, Dean thought it was just an angel thing. You know, being new to earth and all that, but it had been years now since he's met Cas, and the bastard still does it. It wasn’t creepy anymore, nor even invasive. It was just Cas’ natural.

“No, no. I just, uh… well, these people— this life? Picture perfect, ain’t it?”

Cas squints, again another natural for him, and his head cocks briefly to the side. “I... suppose it could resemble those pictures on magazines, yes. But why are you scowling?”

Dean rolls his eyes. Right, can’t be too vague with this guy, he’ll take it literally. “To tell you the truth?” He looks back at the family, at the window radiating a warm orange light. He isn’t sure why he responds the way he does.

“I wish it were me. Sometimes.”

And he doesn’t have to look at Cas to know that his head had reverted back, his eyes now wide instead of narrowed.

“This job,” he continues, for some reason. “We can’t get that. That— perfect little lifestyle, with puppies and kittens and flowers in the garden—”

Castiel wants to speak, ask him why he can’t have a puppy or kitten or a garden, but Dean is still talking.

“It’s too dangerous, too much of a liability. Not just for us hunters but for everyone else. Hell, we’d be a walking beacon for every monster in the vicinity. Like ringing the goddamned dinner bell.”

Dean is still staring out the window, into the other one, the one encouraging warmth and laughter. And in the cooling dusk inside the Impala, Castiel feels cold. Their world is muted and blue, while inside that house is vibrant and orange. Dean’s silhouette is a stark divide between the two worlds.

“But you almost had it… right?”

His voice was softer than it had been. Dean doesn’t look at him at first.

“…. almost. But not quite.”

When he does meet Castiel’s gaze, his eyes seem duller, bogged down with emotions. Cas doesn’t say more.

Dean looks away again, and the summer silence settles around them.

It’s another two hours before the lights go off in the house, and Dean gets out to grab his sawed-off shotgun from the trunk. Castiel emerges with his angel blade drawn, giving Dean a quick once-over before following him to the house. The conversation hadn’t been brought back up, and Cas figures it never will be, which is fine, but he does worry for Dean. The way he holds everything inside, as if he isn’t allowed to express how he feels. Castiel wants so badly to tell him differently, that he is allowed to feel things other than joy or playfulness, but he doesn’t know how without upsetting Dean. So he doesn’t bring it up.

They sneak around the outside of the house, avoiding the windows and keeping an eye out for any nosy neighbors. Dean finds an open window and hoists himself inside, Cas following suit. Their footsteps are muffled by a plush carpet, drawing the angel’s attention. Dean left footprints, which he’d clear later, he knows, but they had both seen the family in the room earlier, there should be other footprints besides Dean’s, but there were not. Except for a single pair; the little girl’s. When he looks up to tell Dean, Dean has his pointer finger up, showing it covered in dust. The room hadn’t been used in a while.

As realization dawns over the both of them, there’s a sudden noise behind Dean, and Cas has just enough time to raise his angel blade before the wife attacks, lunging toward them with an abhorrent screech. Dean is launched backwards, his gun rattling to the side, and Cas steps up to shield him. The ghoul screams, grabbing the lapels of Castiel’s coat, but is unable to move him. The look of her shock gives him enough time to raise his blade to slice her neck, but she jitters and makes him miss. Dean had crashed into the coffee table, but was quick to get back up despite the splintering pain. As he reaches for his shotgun, another force throws him to the opposite side of the room, and then, there’s a weight on him. The husband had his cold, dead hands wrapped around his throat, strangling him. Him and Cas share their shock. With Cas struggling with the lady ghoul, Dean tried prying himself free of the man. He’s never seen ghouls working together before, but then again, a lot of strange has been happening lately, maybe he should’ve been expecting it. He can feel his lungs start to collapse from lack of oxygen, his face turning blooming shades of red and purple, before suddenly, the head of the ghoul explodes from a brilliant white light from behind, and Cas drops his outstretched hand to pick Dean up. Dean can’t help but laugh. “There’s my angel!”

There’s no time for Cas to properly acknowledge the sudden nickname as the first ghoul lunges, giving Dean barely enough time to dodge. He lands by his shotgun and shoots the fucker’s head off with a single blast. As blood and gore fall meatily to the ground, Dean and Cas catch their breath (as in Dean, for Cas did not technically need to breathe). Dean was beaming, grinning bright at the successful hunt, when suddenly— his world goes black.

He wakes to something scratchy licking his face. The tiny flick flick flick of a cat’s tongue on his cheek, trailing to the tip of his nose. He’d be startled but a sneeze beats him to it, scaring the tabby off. Slowly, the world shifts into focus.

He was laying outside the dark blue house, bloodied and disoriented, weapons fuck all. The morning sun peeked at him from beyond the gutter of the roof. He had smushed some yellow flowers growing under the window, which was broken, shattered glass lying all around him like a million crystals. He remembered lurking outside the house last night, and how they had thought originally that it was only one monster, then another had surprise attacked. He doesn’t remember getting to this point, achy and tattered with blood. Slowly, he rises, ignoring his runny nose, the creaks and protests of his bones and the pulsing of hidden wounds. There’s noise in the front, and then a presence behind him. Large and encompassing, equally holy.

“Dean.”

He has never been more relieved to hear the gravelly voice of Cas. Okay, that’s a lie; he is constantly more relieved than the last whenever he gets separated from the angel, he just won’t admit it to himself. Cas holds him upright and peeks around the corner with him. The neighbors are all huddled around the front yard, talking with police, the fire department, and an ambulance. A stretcher is being dragged from the house to the truck, and Dean sees an impossibly small body being loaded into the van.

“Cas… what happened.”

“We have to go; I’ll tell you in the car.”

There’s a hushed urgency in his voice that doesn’t make him argue. He allows for himself to be half-carried as he hobbles to Baby. He insists on taking the wheel but only drives around the block, stopping at a corner to slump in his seat. Cas leans over to heal him, but Dean ducks away.

“Tell me what happened, first.” He rasps. Cas is very slow to pull back, eyeing him with an intense look that admonished him for denying the healing. He releases a deep breath that seems to shake at the end.

“The father, mother, and son were ghouls. They had trapped the daughter to feast on her, I think. The brother had attacked you from the back, but I was able to stop it. The girl had run in, you were trying to save her, but the brother got you, and…”

Castiel looks away. It is all Dean needs to hear. When Castiel looks at him again, he can see his soul swirling, dull and fraying at the edges like a candle flickering. He reaches out again, and Dean once more pulls away.

“Don’t,” He shifts Baby into gear. “I didn’t save her.”

Cas frowns, but he cannot say no to Dean Winchester, even though he really wants to. He holds his hands in his lap instead and tries to think of ways to get Dean to stop punishing himself. It takes him back to what he knows about his father, what he briefly read in the flurry of pages in his journal. John Winchester was a very angry, very determined man. It was entirely possible he could have used a bad hunt as punishment for Dean. The very thought arouses an anger so unholy, it should be considered blasphemous against his being as an angel. The radio begins to play, crackling to life and spastically switching through channels. Dean frowns, pokes at a few buttons, then looks at Cas. Cas is neutral, his anger palpable and yet unseen on his face. Outside the impala, the streetlamps they pass light up and explode.

“What the— Cas is that you?”

Castiel blinks, and the air buzzing with energy simmers down. Cas’ feathers were ruffled, even if Dean couldn’t see them, he knew. “Look man, you did a good thing, alright? Don’t beat yourself up over it…”

“I should be saying that to you.” Castiel stares at Dean, and suddenly, Dean distantly remembers that Castiel’s true form is the size of the Chrysler building. He gulps. Castiel calms more and sighs, and Dean palms the steering wheel to rid of his sweaty hands. Back at the bunker, Sam is instantly up and approaching, his worried doe-eyes only making Dean feel worse. He waves his brother off by saying he just needed a shower, and leaves Sam and Cas alone. Sam looks away from Dean’s retreating form to Cas, who looked equally defeated.

“What the hell happened, Cas? I’ve been calling you guys all night—!”

“The ghoul had help, one of them attacked Dean and killed Molly Springer.” Cas sits at the main desk in the lounge as Sam gawks. Slowly, he sits as well, rubbing his face as the news settles over him.

“Jeez, I’m sorry, Cas. You should’ve called, I-I could’ve helped—”

Cas shakes his head, offering the faint trace of a smile. “We handled it. Besides, you probably would’ve gotten hurt, too.”

Sam huffs softly, indignant, but he doesn’t argue. Despite not needing sleep, Cas looked exhausted. He couldn’t help but feel bad for the angel. “Alright, well… Would you like something to eat? Er— drink?”

The small smile grows, and Castiel gently nods his head. “I guess I’ll take some coffee.”

———

Castiel finds Dean later that night in the kitchen, nursing a beer and pointedly not making eye contact. He had been avoidant since they got back, and Cas was growing increasingly worried for him. They’ve had failed hunts before; usually Dean would mope for a bit when the job was done, but he’s never closed himself off like this. Molly Springer was young, still in her single digits. It was possible it had struck a chord, but Castiel couldn’t figure out the root cause. He stands just inside the kitchen long enough to observe Dean’s soul and how it moved. It was still slow. Calmer, but not as bright. He still had his injuries from the fight that he refused to let heal, bandages only on the deeper cuts, a bruise coloring his throat and the side of his face. Cas’ fingers itch to heal him, but again, he relents. If Dean wants to wallow in despair, he might as well let him, until it becomes too much.

Dean could tell Cas was staring at him, like he was something to be pitied. It was aggravating, couldn’t the angel just leave him be? Let him wallow in his own self pity for a while? Apparently, heaven has a separation problem, for God’s favorite angel was as clingy as a loyal dog. He was velcro on Dean's shoulder, unable to be torn away easily.

Cas sits beside him and waits. Dean doesn’t give him the satisfaction of his attention until he had finished his beer, and only then did he look at Cas, giving him a small glare that showed he didn’t want to be bothered. Castiel wasn’t deterred. His eyes were deep, a stormy sea trying to find the answer to Dean’s problem. After a moment of searching, he seems to relent, and looks away from his human companion. Dean fiddles with his bottle. He won’t speak about what happened, there’s no need to bring it up, it happened, and it was done. There was nothing else to it. Castiel has made mistakes, too; he should understand.

The angel turns to face Dean again, and when Dean meets his gaze, he lifts his hand up and cups Dean’s cheek, his touch delicate and so very gentle, in a way that only an angel could be. Dean’s jaw tenses reflexively under his palm, his head twitching back slightly at first, hesitating. With his other hand, Cas reaches up and places it to Dean’s forehead, and Dean shuts his eyes. As soon as skin meets skin, he is reeling. His mind jumps into the eyes of somebody else, and he is able to see an unfamiliar sight;

It was a beautiful, sunny area. With freshly blossomed flowers and perfectly green grass. Butterflies danced nearby and honeybees ducked between them. In the distance, there was a man flying a red kite. Dean wasn’t in control of where he was looking, for his head (or the head of whoever this was) suddenly turned, and Dean saw a floating mirror. Instantly, Dean knew what was happening, for the reflection was not of him, but of Castiel instead, looking extra ethereal in this odd dream-world. Castiel approached the mirror and it seemed to expand, stretching like a mirage until it was nearly ten times the original size. And then, Dean saw it; six massive black wings emerged from behind Castiel, shimmering rainbow in the sunlight as they stretched to their full size, eyes barely human hidden amongst the shiny feathers. The shape wasn’t familiar with any bird he’s ever seen before, crafted entirely different than any other living creature. Their image was like having double-vison; the ‘main’ wing had a mirage of one to two more right above and below it, creating the illusion of multiple, of movement. Like a suspended animation. They thrummed with energy and grace, so powerful even Dean could feel it. They fluttered gently before slowly furling back into themselves, disappearing behind his back. As soon as they were gone, Cas let go, and Dean gasps. The bunker was significantly darker than whatever that place had been, and it felt more like a dungeon than a safe place at the moment. He looks at Cas and isn’t surprised to see that over-analytical stare piercing straight into his soul, like he was picking apart every single molecule that made him up. Dean rolls his eyes and keeps them away from his face, He clears his throat, and it prompts Cas to stop as well.

“What the hell was that, Cas.” He sounds breathless. And Cas, the bastard, smiles slightly. “It was heaven, or at least, the heaven of an autistic man who drowned in his bathtub. It was an altered memory.”

Dean scoffs. Oh, right, of course, how could I not have known? It makes perfect sense! “You always visit autistic men in heaven?”

“No, I don’t usually visit anyone. I enjoy his heaven though because it is quiet, and he likes me.”

Right, of course he does. Dean shakes his head.

“Why did you do that.”

Castiel is smiling wider, only for a moment. It is a soft little thing. It fills his eyes with something Dean is too sober to decipher right now. “I figured you still wanted to see my wings. This way, you wouldn’t try doing something stupid just for a glimpse.”

It was a joke, the bastard was fucking teasing him. And, it was working. Dean looks at Cas and sees nothing but warmth and positivity radiating from him. It’s harder for him to look away.

“Huh, so that’s what they actually look like?”

Cas nods, he looks proud.

“They’re huge— I don’t remember the shadows being that big.”

He knows there’s an innuendo in there somewhere, luckily, Cas does not.

“As a Seraph, I need powerful wings to fight and protect. They are capable of doing many things to assist me in battle.”

“And there’s six of them? How come your shadow only showed two? Or— one pair?”

“An angel’s true form is condensed whenever taking over a vessel, but also, our wings have different levels of power. The two you humans most commonly see are our flight ones, as they are the lightest and most versatile.”

Dean is transfixed on Cas’ face, making the angel feel all warm and tingly inside. He swallows and shifts, his knee gingerly tapping Dean’s. Dean doesn’t move from his touch.

“What do the others do?” Dean’s voice is a softly babbling brook. Cas looks at his sunlit forest eyes, and can see his soul humming gently. He smiles. “I’m afraid it is too complex to describe to humans, and I won’t be able to show you, either.”

“Why, because I wouldn’t be able to handle it?” Dean is mocking.

“Because your head would explode trying to understand it.” Cas replies steadily. Dean blinks at him. Point taken. He gets up to grab another bottle of beer as a way to move onto a different topic. For a minute, he has nothing, then;

“Thanks, for uh… y’know.”

Cas does know. He knows he had pulled Dean from his spiraling, before it got too bad. It was such a simple gesture for him to do, and yet, he could tell it helped a lot, more than Dean was letting on. His smile is full of warmth as he reaches out again, resting his hand over Dean’s once he’s seated.

“Of course, Dean.” And his name is as soft as a prayer in the angel’s mouth.

———

Cas knows the bunker is awake when the scent of coffee fills the halls. Usually, he busies himself with nearby hunts or studying in the library, and once even cleaned the entire shelter, surprising the brothers when they awoke. This time was a simple study session, and he was thankful one of the boys was finally up so that he could get on with the day. He didn’t need sleep, but he has tried it on his own volition once or twice. It was… not the most pleasant experience he’s been through. Not the worst, but he’d prefer to stay awake and spend his time doing other, more meaningful tasks.

In the kitchen, he sees Dean, hunched over the coffee pot in his grey robe, a black t-shirt, and his boxers. It seemed today was a lazy day. Cas didn’t mind. Dean’s hair was sticking up at odd angles, reminding Cas of a disgruntled kitten. He sniffs absently and finally pours a cup, not bothering with any sweetener despite preferring it. Castiel decides to make himself known.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean, used to his sudden appearances by now, merely looks back at him and raises a hand in a half-hearted wave, his mouth occupied with sipping tentatively at his hot drink. He still looked tired, the bags under his eyes a constant presence on his otherwise chiseled face. Cas tries not to frown, busying himself with tracing Dean’s features instead. It goes unnoticed.

“Heya, angel,” Goodness, his voice was gruff, he must’ve just rolled out of bed. “Coffee?”

Castiel politely declines, though his head does tilt to the side, eyes analytical as they gently scour Dean’s sleepy face. Dean squints at him, but then shrugs it off. Too tired to decipher whatever was going on in that colorful brain of his. He opens the fridge in search of breakfast.

“Crap, we’re outta eggs.” The fridge is closed with a little more force than necessary. Castiel fixes his head as Dean turns to him. “Wanna make a run before Sam wakes?”

“Of course,” because Dean doesn’t need to ask Cas to go with him anywhere, for Cas will follow wherever he may roam. He’s certain there’s a song about that.

“Right, we go after coffee.” Dean decides, taking a seat at the table. Castiel sits at his side. When they arrive at the store, Dean makes a beeline not to the eggs, but instead toward the baked goods, stopping in front of a display of freshly made pies still warm from the oven. Cas already knows he is salivating, and he can’t help but smile at Dean’s eyes lighting up like a child’s at Christmas. He watches his soul flicker and brighten, reacting to the mere prospect of getting his favorite treat. In moments like these, Castiel wishes he could reach out and hold Dean’s soul, feel it thrum and shimmer in his grasp as he mends its broken pieces. Dean was a tattered figure; his heart full of holes, his soul frayed at the edges. His guilt and grief held him up in leu of his bones, and his blood ran on adrenaline and familiarity instead of what was good for him. He knew he was a goner, he’s known for most his life, and yet, all Cas saw was the most beautiful soul he’s ever witnessed. So vibrant and warm, despite all that is wrong with it. To Cas, Dean Winchester was the most beautiful being in existence, even with all his scarred edges.

They buy a pie, and the eggs, along with a few other essentials. A bluebird sings on Baby’s mirror, and it stays long enough for Dean to get right up next to it before finally flying away. When he tries opening his door, one of the bags starts to slip, but before disaster happens, Cas is there, picking up the falling bag and holding it in place until Dean is settled.

“Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome, human.”

Dean does a double-take. Brows pinch, tilt, then furrow. His lashes flutter as he turns to get a better view of the angel. “Excuse me?”

Cas tilts his head, the fucker. “What?”

Dean scoffs. “Human? Gee, Cas, I thought we were kinda over that whole angels are superior to humans thing—”

Now Cas’ brows were furrowed. “I don’t understand. You called me ‘angel’ twice now; I was simply returning the sentiment…”

Dean could slap himself. Of course Castiel thought such a thing, he wasn’t normal, he took things way too seriously. He shakes his head and ushers for Cas to get in the vehicle, muttering under his breath about angels and their weird ineptitude to human slang. Cas slides in beside him with the tiniest frown on his face, which has Dean immediately relenting.

“It was just a nickname, Cas. Don’t think too much about it.” The shout of Baby’s engine forces the conversation to end. Cas tries to understand what he did wrong. Dean’s soul is still gooey, and the tips of his ears were pink. Perhaps, it simply was just a nickname, then. However, the way Dean got flustered was peculiar. Like it had meant more than just a simple state of his being, but instead something more. Could it have been an innuendo? It didn’t make sense, but there were many terms humans created that often confused him. He’d look it up later, then maybe, he could call Dean an angel back, if that’s what he was expecting…

Cas doesn’t look it up later. He can’t, for the computers were being used by the brothers, who were studying voraciously on a new case. Cas is forced to sit between them and wait patiently for his turn. He had greatly considered asking Sam what it meant to call someone ‘angel’, but never did get the chance to catch him alone. And, since he didn’t really have anyone else to confide in, he was forced to wait, which was not a problem for him. The two brothers were bouncing back and forth with information, telling where it was located, if there had been other attacks there before, yada yada. He quite enjoyed how effortlessly they flowed with each other, like a dance of words, not interrupting, but instead mingling, adding on and building up. It really showed Cas their expertise with the job, which was both inspiring and upsetting, for he knew it had been ingrained in them since they were just kids. Kids younger than Molly Springer.

“Okay, I think we got it.” Sam’s voice rings out from his thoughts. The two stand and Cas follows, looking between them for their next plan. Dean heads off to pack their bags while Sam explains the case to Cas. The evidence they had so far made it seem like a werewolf, but it was just odd enough for them to take a look themselves instead of letting another hunter deal with it. Sam proffered for Cas to come, and he of course obliged. Before long, they’re in the impala and heading to Missouri. At a rest stop halfway there, while filling up the gas tank, Cas approaches Dean while Sam shops inside, leaning against baby beside the hunter. Dean knows a conversation is coming and is already dreading it.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t save Molly Springer.” Cas’ voice is quiet, soft, snow falling on wet rocks. Dean looks away, shifts on his feet with a nasal huff.

“You’re still talking about that?’ He’s deflecting and Cas knows it. Still, Cas responds.

“I know it tore you up pretty badly.”

Dean huffs again. He wishes Sammy would come out so the conversation could stop.

“Why did it upset you so much?” And Dean can’t look at Cas, despite knowing Cas was looking at him. He shifts his feet again and hugs himself tighter, a poor attempt at looking normal.

“She was a fucking child, Cas.” His voice is clipped. “She didn’t deserve all that shit.”

Castiel softly hums. He agrees, she, nor any child, deserved such a fate. “But Dean, it wasn’t your fault that she died. You did all that—”

“—oh, don’t give me that crap.” Dean is now scowling at him, but Cas quickly realizes most of the anger isn’t directed toward him. “I obviously didn’t try hard enough, otherwise she’d still be alive!”

Cas meets his glare, and Dean doesn’t look away until after a long beat of silence. The gas pump shifts and Dean puts it back on the rack, closing Baby and brushing off his hands on his jeans. Sammy was at the register checking out.

“Sometimes I,” Dean starts, his voice faltering, much quieter than before. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not doing enough, Cas.”

Castiel steps in front of him, and levels him with the most tender look Dean has ever seen. “But you are, you are doing enough, Dean. One failure doesn’t mean otherwise.”

Dean’s bottom lip twitches. He hears the bell to the front of the store ring and quickly looks away, clearing his throat. Sam approaches with a small grin, a bag in hand. “Ready?”

“Yup. Let’s go.” Dean slides past Cas and to the driver’s seat. Cas gets in with a sigh, and the drive continues. The actual job is surprisingly easy; the monster turns out to be some wacko werewolf who didn’t follow the normal werewolf traits they’ve seen with others. He was an easy kill, and by nightfall the next day, they were already heading back to the impala to drive home. Dean had lightened, always invigorated after a successful hunt, and as he reaches the car first, Cas is there beside him, happy to see Dean happier.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to heal you?” He tilts his head partially. Dean shakes his, “Nah, I can’t even feel it, don’t worry about it. You were awesome back there, by the way.”

There was such a boyish glint in his eyes. Cas wishes it could stay there forever. He smiles, and as Dean closes the trunk, Cas doesn’t skip a beat. “You did good too, angel.”

Dean stops, sputtering, flapping his mouth like a fish out of water. His face goes red, and he can only stare at Cas, even as Sam comes up. The youngest looks between the two with a confused frown, but Dean can’t respond. Cas, still smiling like the little shit he is, simply slides into the backseat, and waits for the brothers.

“Dean, you okay?” Sam gently nudges Dean’s shoulder. Dean clears his throat, trying to keep his chin off the ground. “I’m fine, Sammy—" he says absently, completely overwhelmed by a slew of thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be having with his brother standing right there. His heart thumps like a wild rabbit in his chest, and he could’ve sworn Sam could hear it. Sam, despite still being confused, shrugs it off and gets in the impala. He turns to Cas, who is still smiling.

“Is he okay?”

“Yes. I just told him he did a good job on the hunt.” Cas replies calmly. Sam hums, deciding not to probe further. Dean did often get shy with compliments, maybe hearing it from Cas hit different. When Dean is finally cooled off from his little schoolgirl freakout (how embarrassing, what am I, twelve??), he gets in and starts the engine, giving Cas a pointed look in the rearview mirror. At the bunker, Dean catches Cas alone and grabs his arm.

“Cas what the hell was that earlier?”

Cas blinks, then, as warm as a sunny day, smiles at Dean. “You called me angel twice, but when I called you a human, you were upset. So, I figured, calling me an angel was meant as something more than just describing what I was.”

Dean felt himself getting flustered again. He removes his hand from Cas’ arm to instead rub at his mouth, fighting the urge to… no, nope, he was not gonna go there. He shakes his head, and despite his thundering heart, Cas seems proud.

“Cas, that’s not— it’s not that simple…”

Castiel tilts his head, Dean hates that he does it so often, how he looks like a puppy every goddamn time.

“Well, I figured that much. You didn’t call me a Seraph.” His eyes trail down Dean’s face to his hands. “So, you want me to call you human, then?”

Dean could smack(..?) that smug little glint in his eye right off his sculpted face. The way he seemed so innocent, yet his words so confident, like he knew exactly what he was saying and how he was saying it. Like it was an invitation, perhaps, but to what, Dean didn’t know. Instead, he’s turning away to deal with his problems alone before he gets embarrassed even further. Cas watches him walk away, and he knows he had successfully raised Dean’s spirits from the ghoul hunt. He went on a hunch with the nickname, and was glad to see it had paid off. Dean’s soul was bouncing around and ready to burst at the seams, glowing as bright as the sun.

During lunch the next day, at some grease-trap Dean insisted on, he had sat next to Cas, and throughout their meal, their elbows kept touching. Dean never once pulled away, and Cas never made mention of it. Dean stuffed his face with a double-patty burger and cheesy fries while he blabbered to Sam about a movie Castiel hasn’t heard of. Sam, who had a large Caesar salad, insisted that one character was indefinitely more evil than the other, but Dean was insistent that they were just misunderstood. It all flew right over Castiel’s head, and yet, he didn’t mind. Watching the two brothers converse about something so mundane made his chest warm and fuzzy. Each little bump from Dean’s elbow ignited a spark through his body, keeping him grounded in the present, hyper-aware of Dean’s presence at his side. At one point, Dean had looked over at him, his eyes brighter than ever and impossibly green. Castiel could hardly focus on what he was saying, and was surprised in himself for being able to come up with a response. Apparently, his attempt at making a point about the movie was humorous, as both Dean and Sam burst into a fit of giggles. Castiel smiles with them. Through their laughter, Dean catches Cas’ eye and watches him smile. He watches his eyes crinkle and his lips rise, exposing his pearly whites. Dean notices his deepened crow’s feet as Cas notices how Dean’s nose scrunches. In the midst of the busy lunch rush with Sam sitting across from them, Dean and Castiel are entirely focused on each other. Two souls warmed by the other’s presence, intermingling between deep gazes of blue and green and brief touches. They don’t mention the nicknames again, not until a few months later, when the word accidentally slips from Dean’s mouth after Castiel had successfully ganked a sorry bloodsucker going after a teen. Dean tried keeping his own composure at the mistake, but Cas could see his soul vibrate with warmth at his own smile and knowing look. Later that night, they sat on Dean’s bed, shoulders touching and knees bumping while they watched a Clint Eastwood movie together. When it had finished, Dean was asleep, his head resting against Castiel’s shoulder. Cas kept himself still, and, shortly after, laid his head to rest against Dean’s. The world was often cold and cruel, constantly throwing problems at the three. Yet, each time, they’d come out of it, stronger and closer than ever. Outside was unsafe and uncertain, but inside the bunker, in the safety of Dean’s bedroom, it was warm. It was home.