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Dean is showing Castiel around what the Winchester brothers like to call “The Batcave”.
He doesn’t really get why, and had reluctantly brought this to their attention. To his surprise, though, instead of annoyance at his confusion or a scoff and a gruff “never mind”, Dean had just smiled and said, “No worries. We’ll pop in a couple movies later and give you the rundown. ‘Til then, we’ve got some exploring to do.”
Castiel had conceded, returning Dean’s genuine smile with a small curl of his own lips.
He didn’t want to admit just how used to that expression he was willing to become, especially with how many times he’s been on the receiving end of it ever since Dean started their trek throughout the Men of Letters Headquarters. Honestly, every time Dean turned to face him with that look, he was almost certain his heart was about to leap out of his chest.
Indeed, after years of seeing stress and worry and darkness and anguish line the features of Dean’s face, it was almost painfully wonderful to see such joy take their place.
He knows Dean can’t help himself, not really. He approaches the tour with a childlike glee, all innocent and proud of the place he and his brother now call “home”. It brings a warmth to Castiel’s heart that he’s allowed to see his friend like this, after everything they’d endured to get to this point. That, even after all of that, Dean can still smile so openly and appreciate everything he has, separate from the taint of the world he’s been forced to witness his entire life.
Castiel cannot truly express how grateful he is that he gets to be a part of this, gets to be the one Dean looks at like that, gets to witness a Dean he’d so rarely ever seen before.
It’s ridiculous how neither of them can restrain themselves from completely delving into this innocuous moment and forgetting the fact that, in the world outside this fortress,—to use Dean’s own words-- “shit is going down.”
That’s not what’s important right now, though. What’s important now is that Dean has a home, and he’s going to show it off as much as he damn well pleases.
He just can’t help himself.
He can’t, really, especially when he leads the way into his bedroom as the next stop on the tour. He can’t stop himself from going about and pulling out and parading around all of his little knick-knacks and the things that are just so Dean.
And why should he stop himself? Castiel sees no problem in what Dean is doing, no problem in how his face lights up with pride as he lists off each weapon mounted on his wall, handles each one of them with a grace and precision that Castiel would never trust himself to have with such weapons humans have created. He sees no problem with the way Dean’s hand runs lovingly across the scythe-like weapon he’d acquired in Purgatory, one that still exudes power and brutality and the aura of a true warrior’s instrument ever since it wound up in Dean’s grasp, vanquished Dean’s enemies on those battlegrounds.
Dean pulls him over to a box near a desk, opening the lid of it to reveal a turntable. Castiel listens as he talks animatedly about his record collection, hands dancing through the air as he lists off a few of the artists in his ever-growing collection. To the delight of Castiel’s curiosity, Dean even puts on one of the albums for him, and he immediately recognizes the familiar notes and mewl of a voice he’s heard echo through the inside of Dean’s Impala many times over. When he mentions this to Dean, he tries his best not to feel a strike of pride at the appreciative glint in his friend’s eyes and the way his smile grows impossibly more. He thinks this is one of the reasons Dean didn’t bat an eye or make a fuss about letting Castiel shuffle through his record collection (though the angel still took precaution and handled each one delicately as to not damage anything that meant so much to his friend). He pays each one special attention, letting his eyes pick out all details of interest, the colors, the words. He tries to imagine the sounds held within, what songs each one would play, and how they must be a reflection of the art he held in his hands. He wonders how the special combination of notes and words affect Dean, what these specific songs could mean to the man, in what ways these artists could make things that meant more to Dean than other music did, how these creations could give Dean so much strength and happiness.
When he absently flips to the next album, lost in his thoughts, he looks up and catches a hint of red creeping along Dean’s cheeks. “That’s—“ his friend begins, gently pulling the stack of records from his hands and sliding them back in place. He takes the one on top that Castiel hadn’t been able to examine—he just barely takes note of the “Nat King Cole” and “Sings for Two-“ scrolled along the cover—and tucks it in the middle of the others, hidden away. Despite cutting himself off, Dean doesn’t say any more on the matter.
The color just barely mottling his cheeks piques Castiel’s interest, and for a second there, Castiel considers asking him to play it, to explain to him what that album means to him, to tell him what Dean thinks of whenever he hears whatever plays from the lines engraved in that vinyl.
But he doesn’t. Because he’s too mesmerized by the way Dean’s hand lingers on the stack of albums, while his other hand rubs at the back of his neck. He’s embarrassed for some reason, and—ignoring the incessant curiosity eating away at him—he finds the sight endearing.
He can always inquire about the record later.
Dean shifts on his feet, moving away from the record player and towards the desk as if to distract them both from what just happened. He explains the typewriter and how it’s “old-school but still plenty useful”. Then, as if not paying attention to what he’d been saying, he wordlessly reaches out and brushes his fingers over the picture of his mother and him. He stares for a moment, lost in whatever memories are coming to mind, and Castiel is half tempted to look. He respects Dean and his privacy too much, though, would never invade his mind—especially such thoughts that he must hold so precious.
Dean finally glances up at him with a small grin, and Castiel can feel his own expression melt into an easy-going, even coy smile in return, because Dean is so happy and Castiel can’t remember the last time he really saw Dean look so at ease.
When they leave the room for the rest of the tour— “Dude, you have got to see the kitchen; it’s friggin’ huge. And the bathroom! Seriously, man, the water pressure? Friggin' Divine.”-- Castiel looks back through the door to take in the sight of Dean’s room once more. It’s Castiel’s turn to be unable to help himself. But who could blame him? The atmosphere of it is so perfect, so comforting and familiar-- so Dean-- that he honestly doesn’t want to leave it behind.
But alas, he follows after his friend, who drags him through the rest of the impressive “Batcave”, all the while Castiel’s thoughts still lingering on the soft music and the scent of Dean everywhere and the “memory foam bed”—whatever that is. Dean was particularly excited about how comfortable it was, though, and Castiel would not deny that it most likely was, especially when compared to the motel beds the Winchesters usually found themselves sleeping on during their hunts.
And after everything else had been explored, Dean brings him to one last room, and Castiel can feel the anticipation coming off of his friend in waves.
This last room is Castiel’s room.
He’s shocked by it at first, almost unable to fully absorb what this actually means, what the Winchester brothers are willing to give him after all that they have been through. They’re sharing their home with him, letting him in and giving him a home in turn. And he looks up at Dean, and he knows his eyes are full of surprise and disbelief, he knows he’s probably glassy-eyed, and he knows he should probably find that uncomfortable—should look away and cover his emotions as best as he can because it feels like too much.
But Dean just stares back with an easy smile, one almost askance of him—as if Castiel could even fathom saying no to the silent question presented to him. “It’s good to have you back, man,” Dean says, his voice slightly thick, and he attempts to clear it come his throat. “Now you don’t have to go poofin’ away all the damn time, and you can actually—y’know… Stay here. With us.” His words are slightly stilted, and Castiel can recognize that Dean is uncomfortable with having to say such things aloud. Castiel doesn’t mind that, though, because Dean doesn’t even have to say the words; Castiel can feel it. He can feel how happy Dean is that Castiel is back, that Castiel doesn’t have to go off and wander throughout the world just because he can’t go back to Heaven anymore. He has a home now, and maybe, he always has.
Castiel’s home has always been with Dean and Sam.
Dean doesn’t have to say these things aloud, because Castiel thinks them, as well—he feels them, too.
Dean’s making the effort, though, and it makes something strange but pleasant bubble up in his chest.
His friend stops trying to explain himself, though, stops trying to explain this gesture, and a silence sets in. It turns into one of their usual moments, the ones where they stand there and stare at one another, speaking without words, reading each other without language, understanding one another without further explanation. It’s one of Castiel’s favorite things, because Dean is just a man; he is not a celestial being akin to Castiel, yet he still has the unfathomable ability to look inside him—to see things about him that others could not—just as well as if Dean was an angel himself.
But after a little while of a silence full of all of these thoughts and emotions, Dean clears his throat again, rubs at the back of his neck, and mutters something about “leaving him to it”. With a mutual nod between the two of them, he walks out the door.
And right when Castiel turns to truly regard his new room for the first time, Dean reappears again. “Oh, by the way, I’m about to go cook us up some grub,” he says with a hint of a smile. “Burgers. And you’re damn well gonna eat one. Okay? Okay.”
Before Castiel can even reply, Dean’s off towards the kitchen, and that wave of astonishment washes over the angel again.
Because, once again, they are finally family.
*~*~*~*
Over the next few nights, Castiel realizes that there’s a small problem. He is sitting on his bed and flipping through the pages of a book he randomly pulled from the vast library of The Men of Letters-- He’s not actually reading it; he’s only trying to use it as a distraction, because something feels off.
He’s already attempted to take off his trench coat and his shoes to make himself more comfortable, but that just served to make him even more disconcerted.
Finally, he sighs and tosses the book down, unable to ignore the feeling nagging at him once again. He looks around at his surroundings, regards the bareness of it all, and suddenly… it finally clicks.
He finds himself rising to his feet, driven by this thought, and without warning he realizes he’s standing in the threshold of Dean’s room.
His friend is sound asleep; sprawled across the bed haphazardly, side of his face buried in his pillow. Castiel doesn't fully understand just how he can be so comfortable like that, but it’s the most at-ease Castiel has ever seen the man, and it warms his heart to such a degree that even the drool slowly forming a spot on Dean’s pillow is less unappealing and more endearing than it should be.
He stands there, suddenly conflicted. He knows he shouldn't wake his friend up, knows that he shouldn’t disturb him when he’s so at peace. He’s just going to have to get used to how things are now, that’s all. He’s just going to have to keep telling himself that, reassuring himself that sooner or later, he will be accustomed to it—that this uncomfortable feeling will pass.
He lets out a sigh into the darkness, taking a step back and pivoting, readying to return to his room, when he hears it.
“Cas.”
He hears the rustle of sheets and blanket, the sleep-roughened sound of Dean’s voice echoing in the silence. “Cas, what’s wrong?”
Castiel silently curses himself for waking the man, taking another step away. “It is nothing of import, Dean,” he assures his friend. “Please, go back to sleep.”
But Dean’s already begun to sit up in the bed, and Castiel can already see the concern on his face. “Might as well tell me now, man, seeing as how I’m already awake.” Castiel turns just in time to see Dean rub the sleep from his eyes, and the sight warms his heart so much that he feels his resolve to keep quiet melting away just like his mask of stoicism.
He argues with himself for only a few more seconds until Dean gives him the “Out With it Already” look— not harsh, but just demanding enough that Castiel is willing to lose this battle.
“I do not wish to complain,” he begins hesitantly, trying not to shuffle his feet or appear nervous (however, he’s pretty sure he’s failing quite miserably), “but it seems there is a bit of an… issue with my accommodations.”
Dean, still a bit sleep-addled, squints at the angel with confusion, scratches his head, and tries to think about the most appropriate way to approach this. “Uh... Oh-kay. Um…” His hands toss up and fall heavily in his lap. “What’s wrong with it?”
Castiel is suddenly anxious. He begins to regret bringing it up, fears that his words will come across too strangely and that Dean will not understand; that it will make Dean uncomfortable. “N-nothing.” His words are immediate, transparent, and wholly unconvincing. “Never mind, it is… I am just not used to it, is all. Please, Dean, go back to sleep.” And he turns once more to hide away in his room, ashamed of himself and his petty issues.
“Cas,” he hears, before he can even get a few steps out the door. “Come back here.” The tone is stern, but not a shout. There is no anger underneath the words, and Castiel finds himself pitifully reassured by this. Maybe…
Castiel, unbelievably powerful Angel of the Lord that he is, reluctantly steps back into the room and to the foot of Dean’s bed, worry beginning to etch through his features.
“Talk to me,” Dean says, and the words echo so familiarly through Castiel’s mind that he can’t help but look up in surprise and recognize the expression of concern his friend is giving him.
Maybe…
“It is barren,” he says suddenly, blunt and to the point.
Dean stares back with a blank expression. He blinks. “What?”
Castiel lets out a sigh. “There is nothing in it. It is unfamiliar. Sterile, even. I don’t—” he begins to struggle with the words, and he finds himself unable to look at Dean anymore. “— I find myself so used to residing in the same room as you— you and Sam— that I find it… difficult to be so… isolated.” He cringes at the last word and its accuracy. He is not used to not being around the hunter, not used to not having something in his surroundings that is familiar in a Dean way, not used to the lack of the scent of Dean or the Impala.
It’s almost frustrating, really, that he finds himself missing it so.
And when the sudden silence becomes too unbearable, he risks a glance up at his friend, hair mussed from sleep, limbs heavy with tiredness, and he meets those evergreen eyes that are looking upon him with such open sincerity and understanding.
He suddenly knows that Dean isn’t going to react how he’d feared, isn’t going to look upon him with disgust or dread.
Dean stares a little longer, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, whether in thought or with sudden nervousness, and within moments it seems he sets his resolve. “You…” he starts, but his voice is suddenly thick and coarse. He clears his throat once, twice. “You can stay in here tonight, if you like.” His eyes lock onto Castiel’s once more, an emotion in them that Castiel doesn’t know how to discern— doesn’t wish to put a name to for fear of being wrong.
Nevertheless, he suddenly feels a sense of relief and gratefulness run through him, along with something else that confuses him, terrifies him in the most exhilarating way. He lets the silence build for only a second more before he concedes, and the second he does, he notices the almost imperceptible shift of sudden warmth flooding Dean’s gaze and the way a tension Castiel hadn’t noticed drains from the set of his shoulders.
His friend reaches out and flips over the covers on the bed, wordlessly welcoming Castiel to join him. His adam’s apple bobs once more, and even Castiel feels the air crackle with something new, something on edge and nervous—but not wholly unwelcomed. He takes a breath and slides under the covers, Dean settling back down next to him.
At first, the silence feels awkward in the darkness as they lay side by side, both unsure of how to go about this, go about making this work.
Castiel’s just about to sit up and apologize, scurry back to his room with his wings tucked protectively around him in shame and endure the barren unfamiliarity of his surroundings, when something else unexpected happens.
Dean suddenly reaches out for Castiel under the covers.
His fingers search and finally make contact with the skin of Castiel’s wrist, causing chills to break out at the sudden touch. Dean’s fingers slide down across his palm and lace through Castiel’s own, offering a squeeze that feels like… like a promise.
They both let out a breath neither of them realized they were holding, and suddenly everything feels like it could be right in the world.
Dean’s body slips immediately into ease, relaxation, and a little while later into the best sleep he’s ever had.
And Castiel lies in the darkness, basking in the feel of Dean’s hand locked with his own, in the physical reassuring touch of Dean. And Castiel, though he doesn’t sleep, finds the hours passing by so blissfully as though he could.
*~*~*~*
And every night thereafter, Castiel and Dean make a habit of this, until finally a few weeks later, Castiel finds his belongings and the knick knacks of his own that he’d begun to collect missing from his own space and suddenly inhabiting the other half of Dean’s room.
To be honest, Castiel had never realized that there had never been anything on that side of the room to begin with.
He teases the thought later that night as Dean finds him with a book in their bed—a bed that Castiel’s almost certain is beginning to remember him just like it remembers Dean--, already under the covers. Dean looks at him with surprise, eyes expectant, just waiting for Castiel to say something about what this means—because they both know this was Dean’s way saying something without saying something.
Castiel remains silent, however. But he spares Dean and openly smiles his answer, as if Dean finding him in their bed hadn’t been answer enough.
And all of the tension evaporates from within Dean in that moment, and the look of relief on his face as he walks into the room and crawls onto the bed closer to Castiel than he’s ever been before… That look is one that will stay with the angel forever.
Maybe… Maybe that side of the room really was meant for him from the start.