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Dean grins and pulls Cas forward as they slip inside the doors of the poolhouse. There was no time limit posted, and not one member of the hotel staff is going to appreciate them taking advantage of the fact to have a—midnight is probably too early, considering that it was approaching ten thirty when they got in Baby to leave the motel—very early morning swim.
But there’s still adrenaline thrumming underneath Dean’s skin like fireworks from the hunt and Cas doesn’t sleep and says he’s never been swimming, so here they are, illuminated by the eerie blue-green shadows that are thrown from the water and reflected back onto the ceiling.
Dean strips off most of his clothes and tosses Cas a pair of swimming shorts over his shoulder that he swiped from the laundry service cart’s clean basket before he takes a running jump and cannonballs into the deep end.
Cas stands at the water’s edge, staring doubtfully at the glimmering surface before he takes a single step forward.
Dean expects him to sink immediately. Instead, he takes another step, until he’s fully standing on water, Jesus-style, and breaking every law of physics Dean can half-remember from high school.
“Uh, Cas?” he says, unable to keep the awe out of his voice as he stares up at the messenger of the Lord. “You’re supposed to go in the water, not on it.”
The angel makes an understanding noise and abruptly sinks below the surface with another splash.
From there, it’s quiet. Cas seems happy enough to stay in the shallows, poking at the tile designs—Dean can’t make out much beyond a smudge of green, but he assumes that it’s a sea creature of some kind—and splashing around occasionally with a gentle smile on his face that Dean sneaks coveted glances of.
The hunter himself tires himself out by doing laps inn the deep end and periodically climbing the ladder in and out of the pool to sit on the edge and breathe for a moment. It’s during one of these breaks that he notices—
Cas hasn’t come up for air in a while.
Suddenly, terribly, Dean is reminded of that one case they worked in an old hotel that was being sold. A concerned mother, a grandmother with a dead sister, and two little girls running around playing with dolls. The girl’s imaginary friend lured her into the indoor pool where she herself had drowned over half a century earlier and shoved her in, and all Dean could do was bang on the door and hope he was strong enough to break it down before her lungs lost the battle.
It’s only been a minute, Dean reasons as he slips back in the water and floats closer to the tan blob sitting cross-legged on the bottom. Plenty of people, him and Sam included, can hold their breath for over a minute with relative ease. It’s nothing to worry about.
It’s nothing to worry about, except Cas hasn’t come up for air and now Dean is counting the seconds and with each one passing his throat gets just a little tighter.
Fuck it, he decides as he dives under, embracing the chlorine sting as he keeps his vision relatively clear. Cas’s eyes are closed and he doesn't struggle or kick when Dean pushes at his shoulder, just drifts in that direction.
“Cas!” Dean shouts, and it comes out in a flurry of bubbles that he chases to the real world, an arm held around his shoulder and his heart trying to beat right out of his chest.
He breaks the surface with a gasp and immediately pulls Cas towards the steps, rolling him over the stone lip and onto drier ground that’s tiled with tiny green turtles that the angel was so fascinated by just an hour earlier. He’s hoisting himself up just a second later, his skin scraping on the rough concrete as he kneels beside Cas to place the heel of his hand on the angel’s cool skin.
“Fuck, fuck, Cas, please wake up,” he prays aloud, humming in jagged little bursts as he leans his weight into each press against wet skin. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, he counts. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen goes by before he’s gripping Cas’s jaw and slotting their mouths together to administer two or three rescue breaths. It’s been too long since he had to do this. He’s forgotten the numbers.
There’s nothing romantic about it, either. In the soap operas he claims he doesn’t watch, it’s a gentle press of lips and then a suspenseful moment of leaning back and staring until they sit up with a tearful gasp.
It’s not romantic to stare at the body of your best friend and wonder how quickly they’ll be able to get him to the hospital. It’s not romantic to try and force air into his lungs, to try and make him breathe, to whisper apologies between the sounds of cracking ribs.
Then all of a sudden, Cas sits up and blinks like he’s groggy with sleep. No water pours out of his mouth. No hacking, no coughs. It’s like nothing happened at all.
Dean still lunges forward and crushes him in a sloppy embrace, fingers tracing the bumps on his back from digging into the pebbly concrete.
“You fucking idiot,” he says with something that sounds a lot like relief, squeezing harder before letting go and running a critical eye over the angel. Because it’s not romantic to do CPR on your best friend but Dean sure as hell feels a disturbingly familiar urge to kiss him and see what it’s like when they’re both conscious.
Cas tilts his head to the side in that way all angels seem to do when they don’t understand something.
“Dean,” he starts, and his tone is quizzical, a little cross, and utterly confused. “I don’t need to breathe.”
Dean stares for a moment.
Then he stares some more.
Without speaking, he stands and offers Cas a hand. He can feel his face flushing. When the angel takes it, tangling their fingers together as he does so like he actually cares and isn’t just a fucking asshole, Dean pulls him up until they’re chest to chest and nearly nose to nose before he uses both hands to shove Cas right back into the pool with an almighty splash as he storms away, wet feet slapping on the stone.
———————
Cas stares after Dean as the hunter strides away, the bare soles of his feet making an odd sound as he tries to stomp and lacks the effect of the ground shivering
“Dean,” he tries, but Dean ignores him to drape a towel around his shoulders and take an exact half of the clothes they’d brought and taken off. Cas’s trench coat, slacks, and still-knotted tie are left to lay in a wrinkled pile where Cas had left them, Dean’s clothes neatly folded in his arms and disappearing behind the doors as they close.
He really hates human customs sometimes. Some are straightforward enough and easy to memorize, but some bewilder him consistently and make Dean adopt that look that is split between trying not to laugh and trying not to be offended.
Cas stands and wades through the water slowly to sit on the ledge. Sam says that he and Dean don’t communicate very well. Sam also says that they should verbalize all of their feelings. He thinks this is bad advice, because Dean has never once said exactly what he’s feeling and Cas isn’t the type to need verbal validation.
Where did he go wrong?
Oh. Dean probably assumed he wasn’t interested because he didn’t reciprocate the kiss, which is odd, because according to Cas’s count they have already been dating for a substantial amount of time, but he easily sees how it could’ve been taken as a rejection, which was not the intended response at all.
For now, he’ll let the hunter ‘cool off’ and take the time necessary to restore his awareness and rational functioning to an acceptable level. He is content to wait here, where the serene glow almost reminds him of some parts of Heaven.
“Dean,” Cas greets the next morning when Dean stomps into the pool area and stops short at the sight of him, fully dressed and perched on the edge of a large seat. “I have something to say to you.” He pats the side of the lawn chair in what he’s observed is a motion meant to proclaim that someone should sit next to you without uttering the words. Useful, for when Dean is blatantly refusing to listen to him in instances like the current moment.
Dean heaves a sigh unnecessarily theatrically and doesn’t look at him, but he sits. Cas takes it as the win it is and clasps Dean’s hands in his own, prompting the hunter to turn and glare while trying to yank away. They both know it’s futile, and he thankfully stops trying before Cas is forced to choose between his physical health and keeping him in one place for this hopefully short conversation.
“I am very sorry I upset you,” he apologizes sincerely. Dean’s frown starts to clear, so he continues speaking, now certain he’s on the right track. “I was not aware you would react that way and would’ve changed my behavior if I had known.”
Dean sighs and his shoulders slump. Cas leans in, curious what the expression he’s wearing means.
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says with a half-smile as his negative look washes away.
Forgiveness achieved. Cas decides that this is an appropriate time to verbalize his emotions by proclaiming softly, “I harbor non-platonic feelings of entanglement towards you, Dean WInchester,” and lean the rest of the way forward to fully kiss Dean, letting their lips linger together until the hunter pulls back with a dazed expression.
“Cas,” he rasps, eyes growing wide with what Cas might describe as shock. “What?”
The angel tilts his head to the side. He’s sure he read the situation right.
“Weren’t you mad that I didn’t participate in our first kiss?”