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The thing is, there’s a reason for the whole post-near-death experience love confession cliché. Guy loves girl, guy can’t tell her how he feels, girl almost dies, guy’s so relieved that they’re both alive that he can’t do anything but kiss her.
If Dean Winchester really was the protagonist of a love story, really was the brooding hero so many girls on the internet seem to think he is, the moment the last vamp’s head hit the floor, he’d drop his machete and run to Castiel. He’d hold him and tenderly run a thumb across the still-bleeding bite on Cas’s neck. He’d say something like, “Fuck, man, you gotta stop almost dying on me. I can’t lose you.”
And Cas would look up at him and frown and say, “You’d have Sam. You’d be fine.”
And then Dean would laugh because jesus he still doesn’t get it after all this time. “I need you, you dumbass,” he’d say, and then finally grow a pair and kiss him like he’s dreamed about for way too fucking long. And they’d all live happily ever after.
But Dean Winchester is not in a love story. Dean Winchester is a fucking coward, who’s far too familiar with watching the people he loves nearly die. He’s far too familiar with the sickening rush of adrenaline and relief from near-death experiences. And he’s far too unfamiliar with actually saying the things he’s feeling.
So Dean, being Dean, instead says, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Cas pushes himself upright, mouth set in a hard line. Dean watches as he picks a hand up (the hand that’d just been in dirt and hay and god knows what else, and he really needs to start thinking about infections now that he’s human) and touches the bite with a sharp hiss of pain. “You didn’t see the third one coming up on you. I had to help.”
“Hel--?” Dean starts to repeat, incredulous despite himself. “How does you getting your throat torn out help me?”
“As you can see, my throat is intact.”
Dean scoffs, dropping the bloody machete to the barn floor. He’s probably a little too rough when he grabs Cas’s shoulder with one hand and uses the other to force his chin to the side, but Cas goes easily, only giving a small, long-suffering sigh as he bares his throat. Despite how angry he is at Cas making such a dumbass move, Dean makes sure to be gentler when he actually examines the bite. It’s hard to see the wound through the mess of blood and pieces of Cas’s torn shirt, but it’s enough to tell that, yes, Cas is right, he’ll be fine. “Yeah, you’ll live,” Dean says, releasing him and taking a small step back to a slightly safer distance. “This time, at least.”
He crouches down to pick up his blade, then goes to get Cas’s where it’d been thrown across the barn, so he doesn’t see Cas’s expression when Cas says, “You’re not angry because of the bite, so what is it?”
The laugh that Dean gives at that is harsh and tastes bitter. “I’m angry because you were a dumbass and nearly got yourself ganked by three vamps.”
He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Cas is rolling his eyes. “It’s one bite. And it’s much better than you would’ve ended up with had I not intervened.” He’s apparently made it back to his feet -- Dean hears the crunch of the hay as he walks over.
When he turns around and holds the machete out handle-first for Cas to take, he sees the deep frown on Cas’s face. “Don’t give me that look.”
“You’ve been angry with me for weeks. I just don’t know what--“
And holy shit, Dean is not having this conversation. Not here, not now. Not ever if he can manage it. “Drop it.”
Cas has been Grace-less for two months now, but the look he gives Dean is so full of holy righteousness that it’s as if they’ve been transported back to the apocalypse. When he opens his mouth, Dean half expects him to start talking about seals. Instead, what comes out is, “You’re being a child.” He grabs the machete from Dean’s hand and strides out of the barn without another backwards glance.
“Yeah, well, right back at you, buddy,” Dean mutters. He chooses to ignore how expertly he’d just illustrated Cas’s point, and instead follows.
The drive back to the bunker is tense and pissy, and by the time they roll in at nearly midnight, Dean’s jaw and knuckles are both sore from clenching them. They don’t say a word as they head in and to their separate rooms, and it isn’t until Dean’s door has shut behind him that he feels the tension leaving him in one long, drawn-out exhale.
He just wishes it wasn’t so damn hard. They’ve never had to do this, just exist, and most days it feels more like they’re on the brink of a war than peace. It’s sure as hell not what he’d desperately, shamefully hoped for when Cas had shown up at the front door, tired and bedraggled and human, and asked to stay.
His nerves are still humming from seven hours on the road, but still he strips down to his boxers and shirt and flops down onto his bed. The memory foam is a godsend beneath his aching muscles, but sleep doesn’t seem to want to come. Two hours later, he’s sick of staring at the cracks in the ceiling above his bed. There’s no way he’s sleeping anytime soon.
There’s this thing that Cas has become good at: he’ll find someplace to sit, usually at the kitchen table or in one of the chairs in the war room, crack open a book or something with a mug of coffee or tea, and just… exude this aura of indifference. He somehow manages to make his disapproval of whatever it is Dean’s done recently very clear without doing a damn thing. It’d be impressive if it wasn’t so annoyingly efficient. So when Dean shuffles into the brightly-lit kitchen to find Cas in the corner with a book and a mug of spicy-smelling tea, he just sighs and heads over to the coffee machine.
“I’m not sure coffee at this time of night is wise,” Cas says mildly, using his thumb to turn the page. He doesn’t even look up at Dean, and Dean is suddenly just so, so exhausted with this.
Dean sighs again and flips the switch on the machine. “Look, can I just get my caffeine fix before we do this?”
At that, Cas finally looks up. He still has his affected, passive-aggressive as shit, serene face on, but there’s a crease starting to form in his brow. “Do what?”
“I’m sorry.”
The gurgle and hiss of the machine seem obscenely loud in the silence that follows. Well, Dean thinks, a bit hysterically, at least that got that damn look off Cas’s face. The only thing there now is genuine surprise, and perhaps a little nervousness. “You’re sorry?” he repeats, the words rolling off his tongue like he’s tasting them.
Dean wishes he could be irritated with how genuinely taken aback Cas is, but the worst part is he can’t really blame him. “Yeah,” he says, and scrubs a hand down his face. “Look, you just… I’m still not used to you being, y’know, breakable. So when you pull stupid shit like that -- and I’m not saying that it wasn’t necessary,” he adds, seeing how Cas’s face immediately shuts down. “Hell, maybe it was. But it just… it freaks me out, man. So, yeah, I was kind of a dick. Sorry.”
“You’re talking about earlier.” The disappointment and resignation and, worst, sadness in Cas’s voice are evident.
Dean can’t help feeling as if he missed a step somewhere. “Uh, yeah?” He figured Cas would hem and haw a little bit but then accept the apology and they’d move on, but for whatever reason, it’s very clearly not what Cas wanted at all.
Cas shuts the book in front of him and looks up to give Dean a tight smile. “I wasn’t angry about earlier, Dean,” he says, then swings his knees out from under the table and gets to his feet. “I’m well aware that you don’t always express your concern in the most effective ways.” He grabs his mug and starts walking towards the sink. “But I appreciate the apology. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going t--”
“Hey, wait a sec, hang on,” Dean interrupts, reaching out to grab the sleeve of Cas’s sweatshirt. “What’s going on?”
“It’s late, Dean. I’ll see you in the morning.”
It’s starting to dawn on him that he seriously screwed something up. That, in itself, is a pretty familiar feeling. What’s less familiar is the fact that this time, he has no fucking clue what it was he did. Cas tugs on his sleeve a little bit, but Dean only holds on tighter. “Seriously, Cas, what just happened? And don’t say ‘nothing.’”
The fistful of cotton relaxes as Cas sighs and droops, like all the fight goes out of him at once. Except, no, that isn’t quite right, Dean realizes, it’s more like he’s accepted the loss of one battle and is steeling up for another. “I believed, or rather hoped,” Cas says, the words deliberate and weary, “that we were finally going to discuss what’s been going on the past few weeks. But I… it’s fine, Dean. Thank you for the apology, even if it wasn’t necessary.”
Well now Dean just feels even shittier. He knows he’s been a dick. Ever since Cas decided to give up his Grace and officially move into one of the empty rooms in the bunker, Dean’s been on edge. And for once, it’s not like he’s just been waiting for something to give, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yeah, it usually does, and usually finds a way to kick them in the ass on the way down, but he’s slowly starting to believe that maybe, once in a while, they can have a win. Lucifer and the British Men of Letters have been taken care of. Crowley and Rowena are still out there, but closer to reluctant allies than any true danger they need to worry about. Mary moved out, but they’re slowly working on their relationship. Having Cas here full-time, close and dangerously human is the cherry on top of a pretty damn good year by their standards. And that, more than anything, is what has him on edge. Because if the universe is finally starting to give them good things, he’s the only thing standing in his own way. It was hard knowing that Heaven and Hell were personally standing in the way of his happiness. It was hard as hell always having something come between him and Cas. It was hard only getting days, maybe weeks when they were lucky, scattered here and there before another crisis pulled one or both of them away again. But for all their spiels on free will, somehow it’s harder having Cas here with him all the time, only having himself to blame for not being brave and taking the step they’ve been dancing around for years.
So, yeah, he’s been pissed at himself for weeks. (And, if he’s honest, a little pissed at Cas, too, for acting like the way things are is good enough, for not taking pity on Dean and taking the lead. Yeah, he’s a fucking hypocrite, so what else is new.)
Between trying to be as open as possible (for him, at least) about the Mark and Amara, and then trying to work things out with Mary, the last few years have seen some major improvements in terms of talking about his feelings. But with Cas, it’s always been that much harder. There’ve always been so many layers of things that are impossible to touch, and trying to navigate real, open conversation around them has always felt a little bit like a game of Battleship. But something’s gotta give, and Dean’s starting to realize that if it’s not his aversion to talking about his feelings, sooner or later it’ll be Cas. And maybe in some ways that’d be easier (hard and miserable as fuck, sure, but easier, perhaps, than the alternative), but Dean’s starting to realize that, if nothing else, he owes it to the both of them to try. He takes a deep breath and lets go of Cas’s sweatshirt, swiping a surprisingly steady hand across his eyes. “No, you’re right.”
For the second time in less than five minutes, Cas looks genuinely taken aback.
Trying to find the right words has never been easy for Dean, but he gives it all he has. Cas must see something on his face, for his surprise softens into something a bit more understanding. He steps away for a moment -- and Dean’s pulse spikes, because Christ if he leaves just as he’s finally starting to work the nerve up --but only places his mug on the counter and takes another from the cupboard. Dean just watches as Cas takes it to the coffee machine. Dean had been too absorbed to even notice it’d finished brewing, but Cas fills the mug and, without asking, adds two heaping teaspoons of sugar, just the way Dean likes it when he actually takes the time to enjoy it. He holds it out to Dean like a peace offering, and it’s that small, innocuous gesture that breaks the dam. “I’m not used to having you here all the time,” he blurts out.
Cas’s outstretched hand wavers just a little bit before he slowly withdraws it, cradling the mug to his own chest. “If I’m overstaying my welcome--“ he starts, words careful and hesitant.
“Fuck, no, Cas,” Dean says, rushing to dispel that notion before Cas dwells on it for too long, “that’s not it at all, man. I lo- I like having you here.” He can feel his cheeks starting to flush, so if for nothing else than having something to do with himself, he reaches out and grabs the mug from Cas and takes a sip like that’ll actually help. Maybe if it’d been whiskey, it would’ve, but all it does is burn the fuck out of his tongue. He winces.
“Have I done something, then?” He still sounds confused, but less so, like he’s starting to suspect there’s more to it than Dean just being frustrated with something he did.
No, he hadn’t done anything. Neither of them had, and that’s the damn problem. “It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says instead. “It’s just. There are things that I want.” It’s not the first time he’s said it aloud, but it still isn’t any less terrifying. The rush of exhilaration and fear and hope isn’t any less powerful. “Things that I never figured I’d get, and recently, y’know, a lot of the things that were in the way of that have disappeared. So it’s just--”
For all that Cas seemed unmovable and so unknowable when he’d first barged into Dean’s life, since then Dean’s actually become pretty good at reading him. He’s miles and miles away from the blank-faced angel he’d been back then. He feels so much more and shows it. But at the moment, Dean can’t, or won’t, figure out what the look on his face means.
“It’s -- I’m just-- fuck.” He’d like to blame the coffee for why his tongue feels so thick and clumsy, but that’d be a blatant lie. Chickening out, he just finishes lamely, “It’s fine, never mind. Don’t worry about it. I’ll try to be less of a dick from now on.”
Cas has been standing so still that when he moves, Dean almost flinches from the suddenness of it. Instead he just stands there, frozen, as Cas grabs the mug from him, places it on the counter, and crowds him against it. And it’s not like they’ve ever been good about personal space, but Cas is closer now than he ever has been, so close that Dean can feel the way Cas’s voice shakes, utterly wrecked, when he brings a hand up to Dean’s neck and says, “If I’m reading this wrong, Dean, please--”
Dean slumps like all his strings have been cut, finally. “Yeah,” he says, leaning into the warmth, and Cas meet him halfway.
He’d always thought Cas would kiss like a storm. It’d be lightning, electric and frantic and sharp and bright and lighting up every nerve in his body. But while there’s a deep, slow rumbling of contentment rising in his chest, it’s less thunder and more the earth beneath them finally settling. It’s more like the sun has finally come out, warm and steady and real. He can taste the cinnamon of Cas’s tea and-- chocolate? The sudden laugh that bubbles up makes it hard to keep kissing. “You ate my stash of cookies, didn’t you,” he mumbles against Cas’s lips, more of a statement than a question.
It feels strange, being so pressed up against Cas’s mouth when he grins, but Dean wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything in the world. “I was annoyed at you and wanted something sweet. It seemed the best course of action.”
“Yeah, well, you’re buying me new ones tomorrow,” Dean says, too happy and overwhelmed to even fake grumpiness.
Cas just hums. “That can be arranged,” he mutters, and then leans back in, fitting their lips together once more. The relief is beginning to set in, both of them realizing that yes, this is really happening, and each kiss is more and more frantic, as though they’re trying to pour years of lost time into each one.
Cas’s hands have moved to Dean’s hips, pressing him even more insistently into the counter. He would complain about the way the edge of it is digging into his lower back, but then Cas’s leg shifts, pressing their hips flush against one another and holy shit, he’s not complaining about anything digging anywhere, nope, he’s totally good. “Fuck,” he manages, breath coming fast when he drops his head against Cas’s shoulder.
Cas’s answering chuckle is dark and promising and does things to Dean. “That can be arranged, too.”
Laughter probably wasn’t what Cas was going for, but hearing what can only be called a line come from his mouth was just too damn much. Luckily, he doesn’t look offended in the least, but fond as he watches Dean fight to get his giggles under control.
“I love you,” Cas says plainly, and it’s enough to stop the laughter. The sudden quiet apparently unnerves him, because he shifts, his smile dropping a bit when he adds, “Just so you’re aware.”
Dean’s suddenly so, so grateful that Mary’s made a point of saying those words to him more often recently. It’s not the same thing, at all, but those three words are somehow not as terrifying as they might’ve been even a year ago. “Yeah.” His voice is hoarse, but Cas must hear something in it to show that he’s not freaking out, for his smile returns. It’s enough to give Dean the courage to say, “Yeah, uh. Me too. Just so you’re aware.”
The awe and gratitude in Cas’s smile makes him briefly wish he’d had the guts to actually say the word, but it’s enough for now. Someday soon he’ll say it. He’ll murmur it into every inch of Cas’s skin and watch as his eyes light up. He’ll cry it while Cas presses him into the mattress. He’ll say it while they’re wrapped up together, hands entwined. But for now, he just takes Cas’s hand and says, “Come on,” and leads him back to Dean’s room.
So, yeah, Dean Winchester’s life isn’t a love story. But maybe he can have his happy ending anyway.