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For a while, the only thing Dean could do was hold his hand.
"I meant every word I said that day," Cas had sworn the night he returned. "I love you. I will continue to love you whether it is mutual or not."
From across the kitchen table, Dean had outstretched his arm, palm up. Cas placed his own on top. No words. No confessions.
So that was what Dean started doing. When he felt it - when it overwhelmed him, but he couldn't say it, not yet - he slipped his fingers between Cas's. He would squeeze, sometimes, for good measure. It only happened a few times in the beginning.
Now they hold hands in the car.
At first, it was an arm thrown over Cas's chest as Dean slammed on the brakes, cut off by someone reckless. Dean cursed and hollered, of course. Then his arm dropped, and his fingers clutched Cas's thigh protectively, and Cas covered it all with a warm palm.
The next time they drove together, Dean drummed restlessly against the steering wheel. Cas told him there was nothing to worry about, that he trusted Dean to keep him safe, that he would never forget his seatbelt again now that he's mortal. The tip-tap of Dean's fingers halted. Slowly, he reached over to Cas's side of the bench. Cas pressed their hands together. Dean stopped his anxious moving.
And then it would happen without reason. Get in the car, start the engine, hold on; safe or not, nervous or not. Stay connected. Communicate without speaking. They settled into that for an easy few weeks.
Now they hold hands when they walk.
The initial complaint was of cold fingers. Cas didn't understand his limits, he didn't take anyone's advice of dressing for the weather. When he stuffed his fists into his pockets with a huff, Dean let it play out for a minute or two, just to teach a lesson of sorts. Then he dug Cas's hand out and wrapped it in his own - bundled and warm, because he'd known the air would be dry and biting.
Cas made a habit out of forgetting his gloves after that. Once the season faded, they'd already been doing it for too long to stop. Dean's palms are damp and uncomfortable, sometimes, but he holds on, because he remembers what it's like to want this and not have it. On a stroll - a 'mental health walk,' Sam called it - or in a parking lot or while grocery shopping; always. And it's Cas who reaches out first these days, unafraid.
It only makes sense that now they hold hands during dinner.
It was a matter of habit, by then. Truthfully, neither of them would've ever noticed if Sam hadn't pointed it out.
"Did I miss something?" he had asked, brow furrowed, voice lowered.
All Dean did was stare at him blankly. After a few silent, confused seconds, he gestured toward where Cas was tracing gentle circles over Dean's knuckles.
"Oh," had been Dean's response. "No, you didn't."
A smile, a nod. No further explanation.
Sam took his own seat very, very slowly. His eyes were still locked on Cas's hand. So, for the thrill and fun of it, Dean flipped his hand palm side up. Without hesitation, Cas laced their fingers together.
Sometimes Sam still glances. Dean figures that's fair enough - he hardly understands what's going on himself. All he knows is it feels right, so he keeps it up. On the table, under the table; then eventually during breakfast, too, even though he is assertively not a morning person. Cas changes him like that, like how he changed Cas.
Which is why now, in this exact moment, they hold hands as Dean places a kiss on Cas's cheek.
They're in front of Dean's room, saying goodnight. Dean is a little bit drunk. So is Cas, on far less. They can't seem to part ways, finding something new to talk about every time the conversation dies, and when that fails, they resort to looking. When the looking fails, Dean gives in. Cas's hands are so warm in his, and he can't resist the pull any longer, even if he hates himself for it when he's sober.
He doesn't think he will.
"Dean," Cas breathes, "what are you—"
And suddenly it's not lips to flushed, stubbled cheek; it's real, fully, Cas's train of thought cut off by Dean's mouth. It's soft, slow, heatless, careful. Some would say clumsy, especially for a man like Dean Winchester. Shy and reserved, too, coming from someone so awfully confident in situations like these.
Scared, his mind supplies, because he's always been an anxious drunk.
But it's chased away by a squeeze of Cas's fingers, something he's learned from Dean in these months. Dean squeezes back. They're breathing each other's air, barely inches apart, when he finally speaks.
"Stay with me?"
Cas gasps - small, so quiet. It pulls Dean's lips into a smile.
"Yeah," Cas answers, and his voice trembles just enough to notice.
Immediately, he is pulled by the hand into Dean's room. There's a bit of stumbling, more laughing, some unsubtle shushing. The door closes far too loudly. Time starts to blur as they trade yawns and lazy touches.
Dean never lets go.