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In a motel room characterized by a leaky window and an even leakier faucet sits a man. Well, looking back, more of an overgrown boy, but nonetheless he is sitting. There is a gun under under the pillow of the bed he's using, the other bed left open, none of the duffel bags and random trash Deans' strewn about soil the space. It's been left open intentionally, it won't be filled, hasn't been in two years, but it's open. More a gesture of trained habit than anything ceremonial. Sammy doesn't like it when there's garbage on his bed.
Sammy is half a country away. Sammy hasn’t sent so much as a go fuck yourself in two years.
These two years have not been fun. Most of Dean’s life hasn’t been fun.
He turns twenty-two today.
Not that he thinks anyone knows. Not that he can blame them. Twenty-two doesn’t unlock anything. Twenty-one’s the fun one, supposedly, but Dean had been stealing whiskey from his father’s carelessly discarded flasks since before his voice broke. The burn had stopped meaning anything by the time he was old enough to be called a teenager. As far as most states were concerned, he’d been twenty-one since he was eighteen, even when their eyes caught on the last shreds of babyfat that clung to his cheeks.
He turns twenty-two today, and he is sitting in a motel room by himself, listening to the faucet plink, plink, plink into the sink. Knows there is a build up of limescale from hard water, always is in places like this. Every time he thinks he’s found a rhythm he can settle into, the drip changes. Speeds up. Slows down. Refuses monotony that would fade into the background.
He’d been hoping to go out tonight. Maybe pick up a body—anybody—just to distract him. Someone to touch him, to confirm he’s still real, that there’s enough meat left on him to warrant it. If he was unlucky, at least he could leave drunk.
Turns out he’s more unlucky than he thought, which is kind of funny, if you squint at it right.
He’d gone on a hunt. Supposed to be an easy one. Dad had taken off chasing some lead he still wouldn’t trust Dean with.
Dean, if I can’t trust you to just listen, then what’s the point of all of this?
That had shut him up. It always does. The last meager thread of human connection pulled tight around his throat. Dad knows it too. With Sam gone, Dean doesn’t have anyone else. Honor bound on a revenge quest facilitated by a father who manages to be absent even when near.
The hunt went bad. A pissed-off little girl ghost threw him clean through a window. He’d gotten ripped to shreds. Still managed to drive back, bled all over the seats in a way he already knows his dad will have something to say about.
Now he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, feeling blood drip from his brow. It runs down his nose, drops onto the carpet. Dark spots blooming outward. Blood from the deeper cuts on his forearms joins it.
Head wounds bleed like a sonofabitch.
He's lightheaded. He's well on his way to bleeding out. He can't really find the strength to give a shit.
What would he even be leaving behind? Clothes he stole? A car that isn’t really his? A father who sees him as a weapon that won’t stop malfunctioning?
Dean sits.
Dean bleeds.
He doesn’t think about how much it’s going to hurt to stitch himself back together. He’s had too many intimate experiences with dental floss and whiskey for that to register as fear anymore. Those crude cures have been holding the frayed edges of his body together for years. Dean exhales. It comes out wet. He wipes at his face with the heel of his hand and only succeeds in smearing more blood across his cheek.
He presses his fingers into the mattress. Feels the damp. Feels himself sway.
Twenty-two.
The faucet keeps dripping.
Plink. Plink.
He stays where he is.
He misses the buzzing of his phone from across the room, muted by a bloodstained pile of clothes. Just out of reach, a lifeline vibrates itself quiet.
FROM: Sammy
Happy birthday jerk
_____________
In a house that holds all of his best memories sits a man. A proper man now, graying a bit at the temple, eyes that wrinkle when he smiles.
Dean sits at the edge of the bed in a room that smells like old wood and clean laundry and sunlight. Their house. The windows are open, curtains stirring with the breeze, summer pressing its warm palm flat against the glass like it’s curious but being polite about it.
His suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair. He keeps glancing at it like it might bite.
It's the morning of a day Dean never even let himself hope for. Not in blackout motel fantasies. Not in the djinn-poisoned dreams where everything hurts when you wake up. Not even in the quiet, traitorous moments when Cas is beside him on the couch, new reading glasses perched low on his nose, when Dean's brain gets all gooey with want.
Today Dean Winchester was being made an honest man. In a few hours he would be a husband. Not only that, Cas's husband.
The thought lands in his chest like a live wire. He sits on the edge of the bed and stares at his hands for a long second, flexing his fingers like they might give him away, like someone’s going to burst in and say sorry, wrong universe, this one’s been cancelled.
Someone does burst in— but it's just Sam.
“Dude,” Sam says, already exasperated, “you’re supposed to be ready like, ten minutes ago. Jody sent me.”
Sammy cleans up nice. FBI suit long since ditched, polyester swapped for real cotton. Hair slicked back and styled within an inch of its life. Any other day, Dean would be ripping him apart for it.
“I just gotta put my coat on,” Dean says, grabbing for bravado and missing by a mile. “You can call off the mice, Cinderella.”
Sam squints at him. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
Dean stands, crosses the room to the chair. Picks up the jacket. Crosses back. Crosses again. Puts it down. Picks it up.
“You’re pacing,” Sam observes, deeply unhelpful.
“I am not.” Dean huffs.
“You’ve crossed the room six times.”
“Yeah,” Dean mutters. “Well. Big room.”
Sam watches him for a bit, expression softening.
“You know,” Sam says lightly, “if you want out, we can get in the Impala and run right now.”
Now that stops Dean stops short. He blinks, snorts. “Yeah, okay, jackass. Didja ask Cas that too?”
“Yeah, actually. Asked him first. Told him he was way too good for you.” Sam grins, sharp and familiar. As if Sam hadn't broken the no chick flick moments rule by crying about how proud he was of Dean earlier this morning.
Dean huffs out a laugh, tension bleeding off his shoulders. “Traitor.”
“He said no,” Sam adds. “Something about ‘personal agency’ and ‘I have already chosen your brother you know this.’”
Dean swallows, hard. Turns away under the pretense of wrestling with his jacket. “Course he did.”
“You good?”
Dean nods once. Then again, firmer. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
"Good" Sam squeezes his shoulder, just once, “‘cause he’s waiting.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dean says quietly.
___________
Cas had proposed on Dean’s birthday. Which, in retrospect, tracks. Cas does nothing halfway and very little quietly.
It was his second birthday in the house, the previous year it had fallen while the house was still a work in progress. Dean hadn't even really noticed that it was approaching until the week before when Cas had asked him if he'd wanted to do anything special.
The small dinner Dean had asked for had turned into everyone showing up to the house en-masse to put the finishing touches on everything. His family showed up in waves, like the house itself had once again put out a call. Tools came out before the food did. Someone fixed the last stubborn cabinet hinge. Someone else finally finished the trim by the stairs. They ate sitting on the living room floor because the table hadn’t been moved back yet, passing takeout containers hand to hand, grease and laughter smudging up what was finally a finished space. Dean remembered sitting there afterward, back against the wall, Cas’s knee pressed warm into his side, thinking that this might be what a birthday was supposed to feel like.
This year, there had been more planning. Or at least, more attempted planning.
Dean had tried to force everyone into a Hell Hazers marathon, along with the spin offs. He’d made charts. He’d threatened people. He’d bribed Jack with popcorn and let Cas rearrange the couch “for optimal viewing conditions,” which somehow resulted in Dean being boxed in on both sides.
In the end, he only managed to corral Cas, Jack, Sam, and Eileen—and Jody and Donna, who claimed they were “just stopping by” but had showed up in matching pajama pants.
Claire, Kaia, Alex, and Patience were coming later. Garth and Bess too. Dinner was going to be loud. Dinner was going to be a thing. Dean was looking forward to dinner, take out again, but this time from his favorite place in town. A place he's stayed long enough to be a regular at, long enough the staff knew he always wanted extra sauce and asked about his family when he swung by to pick up an order.
But for now, the house was dim except for the TV glow. Jack was cross-legged on the floor. Eileen was paying rapt attention. Sam was asleep no less than five minutes in. Cas sat beside Dean, glasses low on his nose, utterly serious like Tara Benchley's lore might come up on a test. It was crazy how much Dean loves him in that moment, feels like it'll pour out from everywhere.
Dean should’ve known something was up when after dinner he was shoo'd upstairs while they "Made Preparations", Cas had told him, finger quotations and all.
When he was allowed back down Dean walked into the living room expecting dessert and maybe a too-loud chorus of off-key singing. Instead he has stepped into everyone standing around pretending very badly not to stare at him. Which was… unnerving.
Dean stopped short. “What the hell.”
Cas stood a little apart from the group, hands folded in front of him, fingers twisting together. Nervous hands. A habit he’d picked up from Dean.
“It has been my experience,” Cas had said, “that you do not enjoy surprises.”
It was Dean's turn to be nervous now. “You are wildly underestimating how much I hate them.”
“Nevertheless." Cas forged on, bastard. "Today is the anniversary of your arrival into the world. A fact you consistently minimize. I find that unacceptable.” Cas’s mouth twitched. Dean always wanted to do extravagant stuff for Cas's birthday. Which of course no one actually knew. But they'd started letting Cas choose a different one each year until he found one he liked. All Dean asked is that he's given at least a month's heads up. Dean usually just wanted to hang out with his people and for them all to Not Mention it was his birthday.
Dean squints at him. “What’d you do.”
Cas swallowed audibly. “I have prepared a speech.”
“Oh no,” Dean says immediately. “Nope. I love you, but no speeches. It’s my birthday. I get veto power.”
“I’m afraid this one is non-negotiable.”
Cas dropped to one knee before Dean’s brain could catch up.
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Cas—”
“I have existed much longer than this earth,” Cas goes on, eyes never leaving Dean’s. “But the life I am living now—with you—has taught me more about choice, and devotion. and joy than every other lifetime I have lived combined.”
Dean’s chest had started doing that thing. The tight thing. The don’t you dare thing.
Cas reached into his pocket.
“Dean Winchester,” Cas said, reverent as a prayer and stubborn as a vow, “will you marry me?” Of course Cas had beaten him to it. Of course he’d planned a whole thing.
Dean eventually managed, eloquently, “You son of a bitch.”
Then he turned and bolted.
"Dean—?" Someone started, but he was already up halfway up the stairs, heart doing its best to hammer right through the front of his chest cartoon style. His hands shook as he tore into the duffel bag he still kept packed in their closet. The one Cas never snooped in. He was ripping past flannel and spare ammo, until his fingers met and closed around the small box he'd hidden deep.
Dean didn't stop to breathe, just turned and ran, tripping over himself as he slid to the landing.
When he made it back downstairs (narrowly avoiding what would have been a very embarrassing fall) Cas was still kneeling where he'd left him. Everyone else had shifted into nervousness, but Cas was just beaming at him, no doubt at all in his gaze.
Dean took a second. Took him in. His lovely man. His almost fiancé. Dean met Cas with his own answering smile.
“Hey,” Dean said, voice rough. “Uh. No fair, man.”
Cas blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Dean dropped to one knee, grinning like a lunatic. “You don’t get to beat me to this.”
Cas stared. Then giggled—actually giggled—hands flying to his mouth, eyes bright and wet.
“Yes,” Cas burst out. “Before you even finish.”
Dean laughed too, yanked Cas forward so he could press their foreheads together. “Good. ’Cause I wasn’t sure I could.”
Dean kissed him. Hard. With more tongue than what is usually accepted in a public setting. When he pulled back, breathless and shaking, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, Cas. Of course. Jesus, yes.”
________
Looking back now, standing on the edge of the rest of his life, Dean thinks it was perfect.
His tie is crooked and his heart won’t slow down and he’s pretty sure Sam’s going to cry harder than anyone else in attendance.
In a few moments, Dean Winchester will stand in front of everyone he loves—everyone who survived him, everyone he survived—and say yes. Say it without qualifiers or escape hatches.
It's deep into summer, and sweat is already pooling around the neckline of his dress-shirt. They have a yard now. Well, technically they always had one, but the last few months were spent clearing it of cars—selling off what they could, scrapping the rest. Now it stretches wide and green, more space than either of them quite knows what to do with.
Cas seemed mostly content with using it to lounge around, taking naps that left him pink on the edges. Dean had been planning events in it in his mind, barbecues and bonfires. Thought maybe it was a good time to bring up wanting to get a dog, hell he'd get allergy pills if Cas wanted a cat still.
The most important event, the one they'd cleared all the damn cars for in the first place, was this one. What other place would they get married in? Dean's been legally dead for years, Cas conversely had never officially been born, so it wasn't like they could go to a courthouse and sign on the dotted line.
Holding it here, the house they'd nurtured back from should-potentially-be-condemned with their own two hands, with the help of their friends, their family. Where else?
Dean stands on the newly built front porch, waiting for his queue. The ceremony itself is set farther back on the property, where the yard presses up against the treeline. In the end, they decided Cas would be waiting at the altar—and Dean would get walked down the aisle like a damn bride.
Which wasn't all the way off. The last few weeks had revealed something dark about himself: Dean Winchester is a 'bridezilla'. At least according to Eileen, who threw a binder at his head after he expressed very reasonable opinions about folding chair colors.
A man should be allowed opinions about the chair color at his own wedding.
Plus, it felt like Bobby was here too. He can't exactly walk Dean down the aisle. But whether he intended to or not, he'd provided the location in which it would end up happening. The thought sends tears that smudge the edges of his vision. He doesn't wipe them away though, thinks Bobby would probably be crying right now too.
Someone clears their throat behind him.
Dean turns to see Eileen beaming. If Dean and Sam cleaned up nice, Eileen cleaned up resplendently—glowing in a linen pantsuit, hair tied neatly back, confidence radiating off her like sunlight.
"Go get 'em tiger" Eileen signs with a wink, hands both claw shaped, pulling away from her face in the sign for tiger.
"I've already got him that's the point" Dean signs back, finishes with wiggling his ring finger, bare but for the plain gold engagement band. Eileen laughs and holds out her hand, Dean lets her lead him through his house.
Sam is leaning against the backdoor, hands in his pockets. For half a second, Dean is in another time— sees a much younger floppy haired Sam leaning against the same door, limbs still too big, lanky and awkward in his movements, hand-me-down sneakers from Dean scuffing the trim after watching their Dad drive away. The vision passes in a moment, Sam back to his giant self. Solid and confident in his body. Sam's eyes are already glistening around the edges. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds out his arm.
Dean exhales a laugh that comes out shaky, gestures at Sam's tear situation. “C’mon, man,” he says. “You’re gonna start already?”
Sam shrugs, mouth wobbling. “I’m fine,” he lies. Badly. “You ready?”
Dean looks past him, toward the treeline where everything’s set up. Chairs in uneven rows. Familiar faces turned forward, waiting. And at the head of it all—
He nods. “Yeah.”
Sam offers his arm again. Dean takes it.
Dean lets Sam lead him off the porch, down the steps, onto the grass. The ground is warm under his shoes, summer-baked and solid.
Ahead of them Jack is walking. They weren't going to do a flower-girl thing but Jack had begged them. Constantly. So he got to drop handfuls of white petals, looking back every few steps beaming.
Dean snorts under his breath. “Kid’s takin’ this real serious.”
Sam huffs a wet laugh. “He practiced.” Dean has a brief mental image of Jack wearing ruts into the floor of Sam and Eileen's inner-city Sioux Falls apartment and making a distinctly floral mess.
They start down the aisle proper now, rows of chairs on either side. Dean catches flashes of people he loves—Donna openly crying into Jody's shoulder, Eileen smiling so wide it hurts to look at, Garth and Bess amidst the entire werewolf pack. Someone squeezes his shoulder as they pass, the flash of black nail polish makes him think it was Claire.
Sam’s arm is steady. Dean is struggling with the weight of memories right now, how many times he teetered right at the edge of various oblivions. How his baby brother has become a man, how fucking proud he is of him, of himself as well.
Dean still hasn't looked at Cas directly.
Dean doesn’t look. Not until they’re almost there.
Jack reaches the front and turns, empty basket held like a trophy. He gives Dean a thumbs-up and then scurries off to the side, mission accomplished.
And then Dean lifts his head.
Cas is waiting at the altar, hands clasped, tie backwards. Proof of panic. Proof of love. His eyes are shining. They’d decided on matching black suits. Even if white would have made more sense—symbolically, traditionally—Dean’s experiences in that other 2014 had made that an absolute no. Some things never really leave you.
Dean has seen Cas in a suit every single day up until the day he died in front of him.
He has never seen Cas like this.
No trench coat. No utilitarian layers. His hair is violently gelled into place, stubborn cowlicks finally subdued. Dean had been more than a little worried that seeing Cas in a suit again would bring up memories of their parting. But this was not that. Cas was not before him desperate and bloody. Cas looked lived in, dark hair shining in the late afternoon sun. He looked beautiful, he looked alive.
This is the man who pulled him out of hell. The man who learned humanity in fragments and insisted on keeping the best parts. The man who stood by him when Dean couldn’t stand himself.
And now he’s standing here, waiting for him.
Sam slows beside Dean. Stops.
Dean releases his arm, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. Every big moment in Dean's memory has had Sam right beside him, he's not quite ready to let go.
“Love you, jerk” Sam says quietly.
Dean nods, voice stuck somewhere behind his ribs. “Love you too. Bitch”
He takes the last few steps alone.
One of the perks of their social circle is that they can call upon the Queen of Hell to officiate a wedding.
Rowena stands just behind Cas, and she outshines everyone in attendance. Literally. Her floor-length gown is encrusted with gems that catch the sun and fracture it, scattering little prisms of light across the clearing. Every time she shifts, the air seems to sparkle.
She looks thrilled.
Her hair is piled high and dramatic. She holds a book—ancient, probably cursed, very likely has nothing to do with officiating a wedding—in one manicured hand, and when Dean finally comes to a stop beside Cas, she leans forward just enough to stage-whisper, “Honestly, dear, took you long enough.”
Cas clears his throat. “Rowena.”
"Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers dearie." Rowena tuts. She straightens and it's like a switch flicking into place, regality taking over. "We are gathered here today,” she begins, “to witness a choice.”
Dean’s breath catches at that. Not fate, or destiny. Free will.
Rowena’s eyes flick briefly to him, sharp and kind all at once, as if she knows exactly what that word costs him. She winks. Then she continues, voice ringing clear as bells, light from her dress dancing over where Dean busies himself fixing Cas’s tie—turning it the right way around, smoothing the knot with hands that aren’t quite steady.
Dean would be lying if he claimed to remember anything else that Rowena says, too focused on the man in front of him.
Love for Dean was the pile of boxes in his closet. He knew they were there. Knew their weight, their shape. He’d packed them himself—and then shut the door. Being in love with Cas was like taking the boxes out. Fitting it all in the car. Taking the love he knew he had, that he had hidden away, and showing it a new place. Putting his love to use. The love was always there, but Cas had given him the box cutters. Had shown him it was okay to slice through the tape, to stop pretending it was safer sealed up. No running. No burning it all down first. No flinching away when it got too real.
Letting himself be loved. Choosing it back. Pile of empty folded cardboard tucked neatly away, nothing to hide anymore.
He didn't realize they were at the participatory part until Cas pulled out a sticky note, both sides full of his type-setter neat handwriting. They'd elected to write their own vows. It takes Dean a second to catch up—to realize this isn’t just another part of the ceremony he’s supposed to stand through and nod at. His pulse is loud in his ears, his palms damp where they’re clasped in front of him. He glances toward Rowena out of reflex, like she might cue him, explain what comes next, but she only smiles. Dean feels suddenly, acutely unarmored. There’s no script here, other than what they've written themselves.
“Dean,” Cas says, voice raspy in volume, “you taught me that love is not obedience, nor sacrifice demanded without question. It fascinated me in hell, how you fought against me, against being saved, almost as hard as the Legion fought to keep you there. How undeserving of anabasis you felt yourself, despite being the righteous man. In the end I think that's was did me in, right from the start. After that you continued to fight me at every single opportunity, over everything. I'd never thought to question anything before you, who questioned everything."
Dean blinks hard. Someone sniffles in the crowd. Might be him.
“It is a privilege to love you Dean Winchester, even more of a privilege to be loved by you. I once said that you were the most loving man on earth, in the years since you have only proven me more and more correct each day. ” Cas continues, lowers the sticky note, fingers trembling just slightly.
There are tears falling in hot fat streams down the front of Dean's face, and Cas, the bastard, isn't even done.
“I promise to choose you,” Cas says, eyes never leaving Dean’s. “Not because I must. But because I want to. I promise to stand with you in joy and through grief, in stillness and in chaos. To listen when you speak, and when you do not. I promise, to build a life with you. One that is honest, and gentle, and ours.”
Dean’s chest aches, lungs tight, and it's all he can do to not just say Fuck It and yank Cas into a kiss.
Dean swallows. Cas has led garrisons. Addressed flocks of angels. Torn down heavens and rebuilt himself from the wreckage. Dean is just a guy with a lifetime of bad coping mechanisms and a mouth that gets him in trouble. Besides, how was he supposed to follow that up? He'd spent weeks trying to write all he felt, but he wasn't so good with words, was better at action. This was Cas though, and he deserved Dean's best effort, so that's what he gave.
“I’ve met other versions of us,” Dean says, voice rough around his tears. “All the other universes where you didn’t rebel. Where the story went how it was ‘supposed’ to.”
He shakes his head, a grin tugging at his mouth despite everything. “I much prefer this one.”
Cas smiles, wide and real.
“We ain’t soulmates,” Dean goes on. “And we ain’t easy either. Well, not in that way.” Someone wolf-whistles. The werewolves join in immediately. Dean points at them without looking. “You’re all grounded.” Laughter ripples through the crowd.
“We weren’t destined,” Dean says, softer now. “We weren’t fated. In a kinder universe, neither of us goes through what we did.”
Dean's gaze locks on Cas. “But this life gave me you. Gave me the chance to have you.” His throat tightens. He pushes through it. “I promise to choose you. Not because I have to. Not because someone told me I should. But because I want to. Every day, in every way, I choose you. I promise to laugh when it’s ridiculous, to hold you when the world gets too heavy, to give you space when you need it, and to never leave you alone in the dark." Dean pauses a beat to recompose himself. "I promise to make you my family, my home, my life, I love you."
He tilts his head, eyes locked on Cas. “I’d rather have you, Castiel—my Cas—cursed or not.”
Now he’s got Cas crying too, quiet little hiccups that match Dean’s own. They stay like that for a beat, foreheads brought together, until Rowena clears her throat gently—just enough to remind them that they aren't actually done here.
They get through the “I do’s,” sliding rings onto each other’s fingers with wet smiles. Cas’s ring catches the sun and flares gold against Dean’s black suit.
There’s one last thing. They’d changed the ending of the vows. It was the one part they hadn't given Rowena full creative control over.
No more ‘till death do us part.’ They were done giving death that much credit.
Dean lifts his gaze, steady and sure, eyes locked on Cas’s. Every ounce of his messy, scarred, stubborn heart is there.
“Through this life,” Dean says, “and after.”
Cas swallows, a tear slipping down his cheek. His lips twitch into that little smile that never fails to undo Dean.
“Through this life,” Cas whispers, “And after.”
There's cheering, but none of that matters to Dean. He's dipped Cas down into theatrical kiss, and is about to pull away—until Cas yanks him back down by his tie. Dean files his body’s immediate reaction to that for later. Definitely later.
When they finally break apart, grinning and breathless, the crowd is louder than ever. Dean finally sweeps his gaze over to look at them all. Sam is openly crying, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, while Eileen has both hands clapped around her mouth, yelling. Donna’s laughing and crying at the same time. Jody looks like she’s about to combust from pride, and Claire is hiding her own red face in Kaia's hair.
Jack, flower basket abandoned at the edge of the aisle, throws his petals into the air again, purely for dramatic effect. They swirl down around Dean and Cas like confetti. Dean reaches up instinctively, rubbing one out of his hair, grinning at the kid.
Dean looks back down at Cas. His tie is slightly crooked again, hair sticking up where the wind caught it, cheeks pink from the sun and from the kiss. Dean presses a hand to Cas’s face, thumbs brushing damp tears from his jaw.
"Hello Mr. Winchester." Dean says to Cas, his husband.
"Hi Mr. Winchester." Cas, now officially Castiel Winchester, says back. Dean's never going to get enough of that.
___________
In the procession back towards the house, Dean yanks Cas in closer from where their hands are joined. "You wrote your vows on a fucking Post-it?"
“I rewrote them,” Cas corrects. “Several times. That was the most concise version.”
"You owe me a hardcover someday." Dean jokes.
Cas chuckles, resting his head briefly against Dean’s shoulder. Responds sincerely. “We shall see, my sweet man. We shall see.”
__________
The reception, if you can call it that, is a wild affair. In lieu of wedding gifts. they'd asked everyone to bring a dish to pass, potluck style. Neither Cas nor Dean wanted the after-party to feel like anything other than a party. No stiff formality, no planned menu, no calling tables one by one like they were boarding a flight. People drifted up and back as they pleased, plates piling high, conversations overlapping.
Cas himself had discovered he preferred cake to pie, which was… wrong, but he'd happily conceded to Dean's desire to have a table of pies from a local bakery they'd become regulars at.
They don’t do the feeding-each-other thing. Mostly because one of them would absolutely shove the other into the filling, and Dean refuses to see good pie wasted like that. Also because they are constitutionally incapable of not turning everything into a competition, and neither of them wants to clean up what would inevitably become a full-scale food fight.
Music blasted from speakers set up on the porch, playlist carefully curated by Dean, with some 'pop-girlies' requested by Jack and Cas added in. Dean would never admit it but he'd become a bit of a fan of Sabrina Carpenter, just by sheer exposure from his kid and now husband, no other reason.
Anyways.
People dance. People talk. Laughter spills out across the yard. Stories get told and retold, louder each time. Donna drags Dean into a circle to talk; Claire pulls Cas onto the makeshift dance floor with Alex, Jack, and Patience, where he tries valiantly to follow along and mostly succeeds.
Dean watches it all—his people, his husband, this loud, messy joy—and thinks, not for the first time that day, that they did this exactly right.
It's slipping towards sunset when he slips off to the side for a breather, Dean grabs three champagne glasses and heads over to where Sam and Eileen are sitting. Eileen has kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet into Sam’s lap, his hands resting there easily, thumb brushing over her crossed ankles. She’s in the middle of signing a story at lightning speed, expressions animated, hands flying. Sam’s face is red as he laughs along. Dean loves Eileen fiercely, loves the side of his brother that she brings out, loves how she fits into their family.
He drops into a chair beside them and sets the glasses down, taking a long swig of his own. Eileen glances at the champagne with something like longing, then shakes her head.
“Oh, c’mon,” Dean says, nudging the glass toward her. “It’s a wedding. My wedding. Drinking is basically required.”
She smiles apologetically, signing as she speaks. “Trust me, I want to. I just can’t.”
“What—?” Dean starts, his brain scrambling as Sam interrupts.
“Well,” Sam cuts in, suddenly shy, scratching at the back of his neck. “Dean, actually… we’re expecting.”
Dean freezes.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, words tumbling out. “Expecting? Like expecting expecting? Like I’m-gonna-be-an-uncle expecting?” His voice cracks on the last word.
Sam’s smile breaks wide. Eileen laughs, nodding emphatically.
Dean stares at them for half a second longer—then lunges forward, crushing them both into a hug, champagne sloshing dangerously close to sticky disaster.
“Oh my God,” Dean chokes, laughing and crying all at once. “Oh my God. I’m gonna be an uncle. Holy shit, Sam—you’re going to be a dad.” And suddenly, impossibly, the day gets even better.
“Oh, we are going to spoil the shit outta that kid,” Dean adds, already blubbering, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand and failing miserably. “Like, irresponsibly. I’m talkin’ noise makers, sugar before bedtime, the works.”
Sam laughs, eyes shining. “I figured.”
Eileen reaches out, squeezing Dean’s hand, signing with fond severity, You are going to be unbearable.
Dean nods fervently. “Oh, one hundred percent. I’m leaning into it.”
He pulls them both in again, careful this time, pressing his forehead briefly to Sam’s shoulder, to Eileen’s temple. His chest feels too full, like if he breathes wrong it’ll spill over.
“Can I tell Cas?” Dean blurts. “You gotta let me tell Cas. Can I tell Cas right now?”
He’s already on his feet by the time he finishes the sentence—not so much asking permission as announcing his next move.
Sam laughs, shaking his head. “Honestly, I was expecting you to shout it across the yard.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Dean says, already halfway gone.
He gets stopped at least three times on the way across the yard—congratulations, claps on the back, someone loudly reminding him it only took twelve years to finally put a ring on it.
“Alright,” Dean says, pointing with mock severity as he keeps moving, “next person who makes that joke is getting an imprint of said ring on their cheekbone.” It's a joke but also it's not.
He finally reaches Cas, who’s sitting with Donna and Jody, deep in conversation. Cas looks up the moment Dean’s shadow falls over him, face softening instantly.
“Hey,” Cas says, smiling.
Dean grins back, chest tight. “Hey.”
He gestures between the two women. “Can I steal my husband from you ladies?” Dean doesn't know if he'll ever get over saying that. Husband. Husband. Husband. Makes him feel like he swallowed the sun.
Donna laughs. “Oh, please. We were just borrowin’ him.”
Jody waves them off. “Go on. You’ve earned it.”
Dean places a hand on both of their shoulders and squeezes, jerks his head to the side to signify to Cas to follow him. Cas rises, slides an arm around Dean's middle and lets himself be led.
“So,” Dean asks as they walk, thumb tracing slow circles at Cas’s side, “what were you chattin’ about?”
Cas clears his throat. “We were having a very harrowing conversation about their respective wedding nights. And then their joint one. I was told, in no uncertain terms, not to ask follow-up questions.”
Dean barks out a laugh. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“They were… thorough,” Cas adds carefully.
“Oh God,” Dean groans. “I don’t even wanna know.”
Donna calls after them, “Too late! You already know!”
Jody’s voice follows, fond and teasing. “Be gentle, boys.”
Dean flips them both a grin and a vague salute without slowing down. “No promises.”
Cas’s arm tightens at his waist, warm and solid. “Dean.”
“What?” Dean says innocently, leaning in. “I’m married now. I’m allowed.” When he brings his and Cas's lips together for a kiss the evening erupts into drunken whoops and cheers. He can't help but smile into it, haul Cas a little closer for effect.
When they break apart Dean squeezes Cas’s side. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “I gotta tell you something.”
Cas turns toward him fully, attention immediate and complete. “Yes?”
Dean grins, already feeling the words trying to escape his chest.
"We're gonna be uncles."
Cas's reaction to that is whip fast. His head cracks around to search for Sam and Eileen, both watching them from their table, waiting. Cas's hand tightens on Dean's, now loosely buttoned, dress shirt.
“They are—?” Cas asks, voice pitching just slightly higher, like his brain is still catching up. “Sam and Eileen are—?”
Dean nods, unable to stop smiling. “Yeah. They are.”
Cas turns back to Dean, eyes shining, mouth parting like he’s searching for the right words and finding too many all at once. “We’re—” He swallows.
Dean laughs softly. “Yeah."
Cas lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a startled exhale, hands lifting like he doesn’t know where to put them. “I—Dean, that’s—” He breaks off, looks back at Sam and Eileen again, then returns to Dean with wonder written all over his face. “That’s extraordinary.”
“Right?” Dean says, chest buzzing. “Kid’s gonna have the weirdest, most overprotective extended family on the planet.”
Cas smiles, wide and gummy. It's how he smiles when he's about to happy cry. “They will be very loved.”
Dean watches him for a second longer, just to sit in this moment with him for another breath or two before he sends him off. "Yeah, yeah they will be." He presses a quick kiss to Cas's cheek. "Now go tell them all about your baby book knowledge I know you're dying to."
Cas smiles, fond and a little sheepish, and squeezes Dean’s hand once more before turning away. Dean watches him cross the yard, already gesturing as he reaches Sam and Eileen, hands moving with earnest enthusiasm. Sam’s laugh carries even from here.
Dean stays where he is.
He watches the sun sink low over the South Dakota horizon, the light spilling across the yard in layers—orange and pink and deepening red, purple creeping in from the edges as shadows stretch long. Their yard. Their house. Their people, scattered across the grass, laughing and talking and living. He slips his hands into his pockets, wedding band warm against his skin.
____________
In a house characterized by the sort of perpetual mess that signifies being well loved sits two men, one bouncing a sleepy toddler on his knee while he reads the paper, glasses sliding down his nose while he reads. The counters are a riot of flour, syrup, and buttered spatters—pancakes made, eaten, and left for the aftermath. A fat orange cat sits nearby, eyes fixed on her reflection in a neglected coffee mug, tail flicking with faint disapproval.
Dean turns forty-seven today. Far older than he ever thought he’d get to be.
The damn faucet is leaking again, plink, plink, plinking into the sink, running off mixing bowls and licked-clean spoons. He barely notices. The sound blends into the background, noise in ordinary, messy life.
The fridge is covered, novelty magnets that Claire and Kaia have given them holding up smiling photos of Cas and Dean's honeymoon road trip along all of Route 66. Little kid crayon drawings and take out menus, calenders filled with local events, a feeding schedule for the cat that goes ignore more often than not.
“Gimme, Junior,” he says, making grabby hands at Cas. He waits patiently—well, as patiently as Dean Winchester can—until Cas passes their nephew into his lap. The little boy wiggles, half-asleep, hair sticking up in a wild halo, and Dean grins down at him.
Sam and Eileen are off on some retreat this weekend, planned especially so that Dean and Cas would be able to watch the kid as a gift to Dean, who begged at every opportunity for more time with him.
A few years back, when Sam told him they were gonna name him Dean in the hospital, Dean'd cried big hot embarrassing tears. Most people just called Little Dean Junior now though, as it had quickly gotten confusing.
He doesn’t notice right away that Cas doesn’t turn back to the paper. Dean feels it eventually, the weight of Cas’s attention, warm and steady as a hand between his shoulder blades.
“Hey,” Dean says, low, a little self-conscious. “What?”
Cas blinks, like he’s been caught. His smile doesn’t fade. “Nothing,” he says. “I was simply thinking that this suits you.”
Dean snorts. “Being covered in syrup and baby drool?”
“Yes,” Cas says, without hesitation. “Exactly that.”
Dean huffs a laugh, looks back down at Junior, presses a kiss into the kid’s messy hair. When he looks up again, Cas is still watching him like that.
He bounces the boy gently, feeling the small weight of him against his chest, the rise and fall of sleepy breaths. They had big plans for the day, easy fun little kid snow activities. Dean had shoveled the snow into a perfect little mound in the yard, ideal for tiny sled runs, and hot chocolate materials were on standby for after—a nonnegotiable.
For now, though, Junior was in a bit of a sugar coma. The early-morning adrenaline from helping make breakfast, tasting syrup straight from the bottle, and sneaking extra bites of pancakes was clearly wearing off. Dean shifts the boy slightly, resting him gently against his shoulder, and leans toward Cas.
“I’m gonna set him down for a N-A-P,” he murmurs, mouth close enough for just the two of them to hear. Cas gives a small nod, a smile tugging at his lips, eyes soft with amusement and affection.
Dean carefully carries him up the stairs to the spare room. Lowers Junior onto the same bed Sam always used as a kid, tucking a blanket around him. The little one nestles into the pillows and stuffed animals, eyes fluttering shut. The cat, Jude, loves nap time with Junior, and had followed them upstairs. She curls up immediately around his head, his little hands fisting in her long fur.
He straightens, stretching his back a little, and exhales, a quiet, satisfied sound.
Back in the kitchen he drapes himself across Cas's back, presses his cold nose at the junction of Cas's neck and shoulder and breathes him in. Dean feels the rumble of Cas talking more than he hears him.
“I don’t think I can have a February birthday this year,” Cas murmurs, eyes back on the horoscopes in the paper.
Dean frowns slightly, tilting his head. “Wait, why? I thought you wanted to try out being an Aquarius with me.” He had been planning to take Cas ice skating for his chosen birthday in a couple of weeks.
“Well,” Cas says, fingers tracing the column of dates, “it says here that two Aquariuses are non-compatible. I do not wish for us to be that. I would much prefer us to be compatible.”
Dean chuckles into the crook of Cas’s neck. “Then what sign is compatible, huh?” He presses a scruffy kiss there for good measure. They could still go ice skating anyways after-all.
Cas hums, thoughtful, scanning the paper. “Hmmm… I think I could be a Libra. The scales are quite nice.”
Dean hums against him again, scrunching his nose. “Which one is that?”
“September and October.”
Dean presses another kiss, sliding his cheek against Cas’s shoulder. “Huh. I could work with that.” He grins into the scruff. "Lots of time to plan."
Cas leans slightly back into him, amused, and Dean lets himself stay there a little longer, warm and content.
Dean sits.
Dean breathes.
Fourty-seven.
The faucet keeps dripping.
Plink. Plink.
He stays where he is.
He misses the buzzing of his phone upstairs, left plugged in and ignored.
The same message Cas had woken him up with earlier, hands and mouth traveling to very exciting places, leaving Dean breathless and grinning into the sheets.
The same message he'd gotten in a facetime call from Sam and Eileen, who then immediately demanded to see their baby.
Dozens of unread messages, all wishing him the same.
Happy Birthday, Dean.