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it’s easy to fall in love with castiel.
his eyes are big and blue and open, and dean can almost see the magic surging behind them. when he smiles, the room turns gold; when he laughs, the paint on the walls melts, pooling on the floor and coating their shoes. his laughter is comprised of something soft, safe; it harbors a thousand stories and secrets, and all dean knows is he wants to unravel them all.
the flowers that grow between the floorboards are small and fragile, vines curling their way along the ground in such intricate patterns that dean sometimes finds himself watching them grow, breathless. castiel always seems sheepish when they appear, but dean brushes his worries aside.
“they’re beautiful,” he says one day, finger toying with a delicate pink azalea petal. “i like having them around. it’s not like we’ve got too many decorations in this place anyway, right?”
castiel beams at him.
(after that, the flowers start to grow in the corners of the ceiling, too. castiel doesn’t bother trying to cut them down.)
living with a green witch in urban pittsburgh is…interesting. castiel has a passion for nature and verdure. he makes his own herbal tea (always brewing an extra cup for dean, just in case) and he does his homework on the balcony, surrounded by deep brown flower boxes and hanging silk wisterias.
dean wonders what drew him to the city- green and sea witches are difficult to find among the towering glass buildings and smooth, paved roads. he never asks, though.
sometimes dean wakes up to find butterflies resting on the furniture in his room, their kaleidoscope wings fluttering ever so gently. dean’s always afraid to touch them- they look fragile, and he’s worried about breaking them- but castiel just smiles softly at him and holds dean’s wrist, carefully guiding the butterflies into the palm of his hand. it makes dean’s stomach flip and his heart beat faster, faster, and he swears there are butterflies in his stomach, too.
(a witch’s powers reflect what’s in their soul, the magic inside of them. dean knows he’s never seen any soul more beautiful than castiel’s.)
this evening, it’s fireflies that dance around the room. yellow lights flicker on and off, on and off, and their faint luminescence is the only illumination in the room. a tawny glow is cast on the furniture, outlining the curves and edges of the chairs, the books, the blossoming flowers that hang from the walls.
dean sits in their only armchair, his legs crossed like he’s in kindergarten again, young and innocent. silently, he watches as the fireflies float around the room, spots of yellow that gently flare up before dimming down again. they dance in the air, so beautiful and elegant that dean vaguely wonders if he’s dreaming it all up.
castiel is asleep on the couch, his aura turning a faint red- almost deep pink- as his chest rises and falls in time with his breathing. when his lips part for him to exhale, a golden wisp of pixie dust escapes from between his teeth, swirling in the air like stardust.
(it falls to the floor in a shimmer of yellow, and dean wants nothing more than to scoop it up and preserve its beauty forever. he’s sappy like that. sue him.)
he drums his fingers against his thigh, staring vacantly at the book in his lap but not bothering to open it. he doesn’t want to turn on the lights, doesn’t want to break the spell of serenity that’s washed over their apartment.
it turns out, though, that he doesn’t have to worry about it, because soon castiel is rustling awake, letting out a deep sigh before opening his eyes. dean watches as castiel lifts his head slightly and then blinks in confusion, staring at the gently flickering lights filling the room.
“oh,” he says. “did i do this?”
dean snorts.
“they showed up as soon as you fell asleep,” he says. “you have a weird dream or something?”
the yellow glow casts shadows across castiel’s face as he frowns. “i suppose. i don’t remember.”
a firefly lands on dean’s knee. he stares at it as he mutters, almost to himself, “must have been interesting. i don’t think we’ve ever gotten this many fireflies at once, have we?”
castiel’s frown deepens. they lapse into a comfortable silence again, a few moments passing before he speaks again.
“I-” he hesitates. “it was happy. i remember that. i felt….” he trails off.
(castiel’s aura is still glowing softly, the remnants of whatever emotions he’d been feeling while dreaming still lingering behind. really, that tells dean all he needs to know.)
he uncrosses his legs and leans forward slightly as he places his book on the coffee table in front of him. lazily, he stretches out his arms. “wanna let them go? i’m sure it’ll give the neighbors quite the sight.” to say the least.
an amused smile crosses castiel’s lips and he nods. together, they stand up, careful not to tread on any fireflies that might be resting on the carpeted floor.
castiel’s hand rests against dean’s as they push the window up. a gust of humid august air hits them, blowing the sheer curtains to the side. their hands linger there, pressed against one another; gently, castiel’s fingers slip between dean’s own. electricity sparks through dean’s arm, flowing up his spine.
neither of them make to move away.
it takes a few minutes for all of the fireflies to escape out of the window. the two of them usher them along with their hands, waving toward the open air or scooping them up off the floor and placing them on the dark windowsill.
(their hands stay pressed together the entire time. dean pretends his heart isn’t beating so hard it feels like it might burst through his ribcage.)
eventually, the room falls into darkness again as the tail end of the trail of yellow swirls out of their window and into the open air. dean watches as they paint the sky gold, watches until they fade away into the night, blinking like stars.
castiel sighs.
“sorry. containing my magic is…difficult. i didn’t realize it’d flare up like this,” he says, looking anywhere but at dean.
“what?” dean’s brow furrows. “hey, don’t apologize. it’s not your fault.”
castiel still doesn’t look completely reassured, so dean leans forward and cups his chin with his free hand. the window is still open; castiel’s eyes shimmer under the silver city lights.
“come on, cas. i like this shit. ‘s part of why i like living with you,” he says. that last part might be a little unnecessary and extra, but it makes castiel smile so dean doesn’t let himself get too bothered.
(as it is, a flush creeps its way up his neck, and he moves his hand to scratch at it absentmindedly.)
“oh,” castiel says quietly.
a few moments later: “thank you, dean.”
dean gets the feeling there’s more to the thought, that he’s not just thanking him for the compliment. the unspoken words hang in the air between them, and dean smiles, mirroring castiel’s expression.
(nights like this, dean thinks to himself as they close the window together, are what make it so easy to love castiel.)