Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean still carries out his nightly rituals.  He walks around the house, just after Cas has gone to bed, and checks inside every room.  He checks the lines of salt at the windows, just like any other night he's ever spent at a motel, but these days he also checks to make sure that Cas hasn’t left a window open in his constant quest for fresh air, despite of Dean’s complaints about wasting electricity.  He steps into the kitchen and makes sure that the water’s turned off, or else the faucet will drip all night; Cas doesn’t care about that, but then again, Cas doesn’t have to deal with the water bill either.  He lifts the rug at the front door to make sure that the devil's trap is unbroken.  He shuts every door behind him: he checks the locks on the front door and makes sure the basement latch is bolted tight.  He closes blinds and draws back curtains, and one by one he turns off the lights, starting upstairs and then through the kitchen, in library and down the hall, and then he’ll pause by the broken door leaning against the wall by Cas’s room. 

Most nights he’ll see a crack of light coming from underneath the new door to Cas’s room.  He thinks Cas might sleep with the light on.  Dean sort of hates that thought.  He wishes sometimes, after he's pulled down the covers and crawled into his own bed, that he could push Cas's door all the way open and turn off that light, with Cas sleeping through it or else raising his head off the pillow and only murmuring a quiet goodnight, Dean.  

On nights that he starts to think like that, he'll turn on the lamp and open the drawer on his bedside table.  He'll run his fingers through the piles of sticky, half-melted peppermints in every corner of that drawer until he finds Cas's note.  It's nice, having that note.  He can pull it out whenever he starts to feel like nothing's working, like things will never change, like everything he's doing is just wrong, plain wrong, and instead of sitting on the edge of his bed and holding his head in his hands, he can read that line over and over and remember that Cas loves him.  Sometimes Dean thinks that note could be enough for him, forever.  Sometimes he thinks that note could keep him going for the rest of his life. Sometimes he thinks that what he has here could be all he'd ever need, that just being allowed to be here day after day is more than he's ever allowed himself to dream of.  But then again, Dean feels selfish these days.  He wants more.

He takes what he can get.  He can’t stop letting out a little breathy sigh whenever Cas touches him these days, even for those little light touches Cas sometimes gives him.  Cas must've noticed, too, because he keeps reaching like that, even when there's no real reason for it.  

He feels Cas come up behind him in the kitchen one evening.  He feels a tuff of soft hair brush his cheek, a chin hovering by his shoulder.  Cas’s beard scratches his neck.   Cas leans on his shoulder, like it's a normal, pleasant thing that happens all the time, so Dean has to turn around and kiss him, right over Cas's ear.  Cas doesn't move away, so he moves a little and very very carefully puts an arm around Cas's waist.  Cas’s blue flannel shirt is damp with sweat. 

"You going to bed?" he asks.

"Yes," Cas says.  "I am saying goodnight."  

He runs his fingers down Dean’s arm and back up again.  He's tracing the lines of the plaid pattern on Dean’s shirt.  There’s this funny pause that keeps happening at the end of all their conversations these days. Like they’re both waiting for something to happen.  Sometimes Dean thinks if he just leans a little closer to Cas in those moments, something might change.  Cas turns his head, and Dean almost thinks, well, maybe...but then Cas just kind of pats his shoulder in a solemn and considered way and says, "Goodnight, Dean."

"Okay," Dean says, and releases him.  "Goodnight."

Something’s beating below the surface of their everyday movements.  It's in the sound of Cas scrubbing the blood off his jacket in front of the sink, in the measured he looks at Dean before closing his door at night.  It follows Dean through their house and into the garage, keeps him company in the passenger seat on those long drives, follows him into his room every night when he goes to bed.  It’s such a quiet noise that sometimes Dean wakes up thinking it’s not there, that it’s gone for good - but then again, Cas will turn to him and hold out a dishrag and oh, there it is, all over again.

He's half afraid to chase it back to its source, sure he’ll lose it along the way.  He leaves it alone for the most part.  He thinks sometimes that he's afraid to test its strength, afraid of finding it lacking in some way, but no: it always seems to be there when he needs to find it.  Sometimes it's less a beat than it is a line: the line of the horizon at dawn in the reaview mirror, the lines of Cas, stretched out in the back seat on the long drive home.  It’s there in the edges of darkness in that half hour after the sun goes down and before Dean will walk through the rooms, turning off all the lights.  It’s in the line of the door still leaning against the hallway beside Cas’s room, the crack of darkness from Cas’s room, the drops of water that slide down Cas's face when he steps out of the shower.  It's there in the shape of Cas’s mouth when he says, not quite in Dean's ear, I'm glad you're home, I missed you.

Sometimes he feels like he’s drowning in an undertow of I love yous, or I’ll be heres, or This is its.  Sometimes he wonders if he isn't following Cas in circles, Cas, who still leaves bright spots on the edge of his vision; Cas, the one good thing he’d never thought he’d get. 

Dean still deals with the ghosts at night.   He'll wake up at three a.m. with his heart beating fast and a taste in his mouth like ashes, and he'll have to push himself off his bed and make his rounds all over again.  

He'll check the salt lines once more, lift up the rug just in case, test the locks, pull back the curtains and look outside at the dark shapes of the junkers piled up outside the windows, and then he'll lean with his ear pressed up against Cas's door, listening for breathing.

He always does hear Cas breathing, but no matter how many times he gets out of bed to check on Cas, just in case, it never stops him from getting up again the next night, and the night after that.  

He wakes up and it's three a.m. again.  He takes a few deep breaths and tries to convince himself that he doesn't need to get up.  He goes over it in his mind.  He'd checked the locks.  He'd checked the salt lines.  He'd checked to make sure his pistol was loaded and in its usual spot.  It's pointless, because he knows he's going to get up again no matter what he tells himself.  

He tries anyway.  He knows he checked the locks.  He knows he checked the salt lines.  He knows he checked the locks.  

He gets up.

He checks the doors.  They're locked.  He checks the windows, and they're locked too.  There's not a speck of salt out of place.  He goes and sits by Cas's door, leaning up against the wall, and tries to breathe.  

Cas has left his door cracked open and his light on, which is nice.  He pushes the door a bit more open, and he can plainly hear Cas's deep breathing.  He can see Cas in the lamplight, fast asleep, with one arm hanging off his bed.  He thinks that it would make his nights a lot easier if Cas would just leave his door cracked like this every night.  

He listens to Cas breathing, and thinks, I checked the locks. He's fine.  He tells himself, I checked the windows, and he's fine.  I checked the salt.  He's here.  

He buries his head in his arms. He thinks over and over, I checked the locks. I checked the windows. He's fine. He's fine.  He's fine.

At some point he becomes vaguely aware of being shaken a little and lifted to his feet.  He doesn't really remember getting back into his bed, but later he thinks he can almost recall a pair of hands covering him with a blanket, a pair of hands smoothing the hair back from his face, and he can almost swear he feels a gentle touch to his forehead that he thinks, without ever really believing it, really might've been a kiss.

They don't talk about it in the morning.  They never do.  Cas shows up in the kitchen with dark circles under his eyes.  But he's humming a tune under his breath.  It sounds almost like the song Dean'd been playing on the guitar last night.  Dean hands him a plate of scrambled eggs and only says, "You fell asleep with the light on again last night."

Cas sort of squints at him.  "I guess so," he says, wary.  "I was reading."

“Electricity bill's going through the roof,” he says, and Cas's face goes pleasantly blank.  Dean thinks of it as his used car salesman face.  He’ll agree to anything Dean says and then convieniently forget about whatever terms they've agreed on at his convienece.  “Don't forget to turn off your lights.”

"All right," Cas agrees cautiously.

Dean's feeling kind of bold after that maybe-kiss.  He looks speculatively at the set of Cas’s shoulders as Cas sits down at the table and reaches for the newspaper.  He washes his hands at the sink and tries to recall the feeling of gentle hands on his face.  He can almost remember how it felt.  He decides to go for it.  He takes Cas by surprise and drops a kiss on the top of his head while Cas is busy frowning over the newpaper.  Cas ignores it mostly, but Dean catches him smiling a little, afterwards.

He kisses Cas whenever he thinks he can get away with it, even though Cas never tries to kiss him back.  He kisses the inside of Cas's wrist when he's buttoning up the cuffs of Cas's sleeves.  He kisses Cas's shoulder, once, when Cas brushes past him in the garage.  He tries to kiss Cas's cheek once, but he ends up kissing Cas's ear and recieving a squint from Cas instead.  

Cas leaves his door cracked those next few nights, and Dean isn't really sure what to make of it.  

He pauses just outside Cas's room on his way to bed.  He can see Cas inside, lying flat on the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says without at him, and it takes Dean by surprise.  He's not really sure why.  

“Night,” he replies.  He lingers by the door, but Cas just turns over, his back to the door, so finally Dean moves away.

When he wakes up at three-fifteen, he heads straight for Cas's door.  He sits down and breathes for a while.  Then he nudges at the door with his foot.  It swings open.  Five minutes, Dean tells himself.  Five minutes, then I'll go back to bed.  

He sits in the faint glow of lamplight and tells himself, very firmly, He's fine.  He's fine.  

He gets up and goes back to bed.  

Cas has his rituals too.  He walks around their motel room first thing, investigating the contents of the bathroom and minifridge.  He returns to Dean with handfuls of tiny soap bars and shower caps and little bottles of rum and tequila, along with his usual question of, "Dean.  Dean.  Is this free?"  Cas is pretty taken with the idea of complimentary.  

"Yeah," Dean says to the small piles of conditioner and hand lotion and mini packs of tissues, and says no to the bottles of alcohal.  Cas nods, puts the bottles back in the fridge, and thoughtfuly adds sugar packets and tea bags and single-cup bags of instant coffee to the little heaps of complimentaty items on his bed.  There's a drawer in the kitchen back home filled with nothing but ketchup and Spenda packets, Cas's contributions to their household.  Cas wanders back to the bathroom with the small leather bag containing Dean's razor and deodorant and comes back out with six rolls of what Cas probably considers to be complimentary toliet paper.

Dean takes the bathroom and opens his bag.  Cas has packed two toothbrushes and one tube of toothpaste.  One bottle of shampoo, Dean's hair gel.  Old Spice deodorant and the off-brand stuff Cas usually buys for himself because it's cheaper, Dean.  He wonders when they'd started to share a toiletry bag.  He wonders when it was that they'd started to split the space in Dean's duffel bag.  He wonders when it was that Cas had started to pack for the both of them, and how it had happened that his gold toe socks have been rolled into lumpy balls instead of tight rolls like his dad had taught him, and stuffed in a side pocket next to the grass-stained socks with the holes in the heels that Cas always wears and refuses to throw away.

He wraps himself up in a towel and comes out of the bathroom to rifle through the duffel bag.  He takes the pair of jeans Cas probably packed for himself, since there are holes in the knees, but he lets Cas snag the last clean t-shirt.  He catches Cas eyeing the towel around his waist and tells him firmly, "Not complimentary."  

"We need new towels," Cas informs him.  "All of ours have bloodstains."

"It's not my fault you can't figure out how to use bleach," Dean says virtuously.  

He watches Cas move through the motions of going to bed.  He misses this at home.  Observing Cas very thoroughly brush his teeth, staring seriously at himself in the mirror the whole time.  Cas adjusting his covers, rolling over, tossing pillows on floor.  Cas's heavy plaintive sighs, fingers tapping at the iron rungs of his headboard.  
The air is heavy with the sound of Cas not sleeping, fiercely and determindly.  Cas keeps them both awake.  Dean doesn't mind so much, when they're sharing a room like this.  He thinks that even if he does wake up at three a.m., he might could just fall back asleep, with Cas sleeping not so far away.

"Can't sleep?" he asks.

"No," Cas says.  

"No problem," Dean says.  "Talk to me."

"You sing something."

"I sing every night.  You sing something.  Never heard you sing happy birthday, you know."

"I can't sing," Cas says.

"Why do you say that?"

Cas rouses himself slightly.  "Angels don't sing."

"Huh," Dean says.  "Though you guys were supposed to have sung baby Jesus lullabies or something."

"I never did that," Cas says, like singing is the last thing he'd ever consider doing, and then sighs again. 

Dean rolls over to face him.  He pushes himself up on his elbow.  "You okay?"

"Yeah," Cas says, quiet.  Then he goes silent for a while.  Dean waits him out.  Finally he says, "No."

Dean thinks about getting up, going to stand by Cas's bed.  He thinks about putting his hand to Cas's forehead and brushing hair off his face.  He stays in his bed.  But then Cas says his name.  "Dean," Cas says, still quiet.  "I think I'd like it if you could hold my hand."

He needs a minute to catch his breath.  "Okay," he breathes.  "Give 'em here."  He puts his hand out in the space between their beds and closes his eyes.  He feels Cas's fingers close around his. "Hey, Cas," he says.  "Do you mind?"

"Mind what?"

"That I kiss you sometimes."

He feels Cas's fingers tighten around his hand.  "No," Cas says slowly, "I don't mind."

"It's just that you never say anything about it."

"Well," Cas admits, "I suppose I thought you might stop.  If you knew what you were doing."

"Oh," Dean says.  "I wouldn't stop.  Think you'd ever want to kiss me back?"

"I might," Cas says cautiously.  Then, "Would you mind if I did?"

"Nah.  Not too much."

Cas seems to think it over.  Then he says, "I'll mess up. I always do. Why should this be any different?"

"You won't mess it up."

Cas huffs at him.  "How do you know?"

"'Cause I know," Dean tells him.  He squeezes Cas's hand.   "Go to sleep."

Cas checks on him.  Dean catches him at it one night.  

He gets up at three a.m. and heads for Cas's door.  He sits outside Cas's room for a little while.  Not too long.  Just a little while.  Just long enough for his breathing to calm down.  Just long enough to feel normal again.  He tries to will himself into pulling himself away.  He'll get up and go back to bed, he tells himself.  Only he wants five more minutes right here.  He thinks five more minutes might be something he's allowed.

He's pulling at the covers, trying to get comfortable, when he hears Cas moving around in his room.  He stops and lies still.  He's feeling winded again.  He hears the sound of footsteps down the hall, and that stuttering heartbeat starts up again.  

His door cracks open, and it’s Cas, framed by the light trickling down the hall from the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe.  "Dean?" he asks, very quiet.  Dean can't help it.  He lets out that tiny little noise, hearing Cas's voice.  

"I'm okay.  You can come in," he says, and Cas hestiates, but finally he walks through the door.  He sits on the edge of Dean’s bed, under the window.  Cas still wears jeans to bed.  Well, Dean still sleeps with a knife on his nightstand.  They're both pretty fucked up.  It's okay.

Cas smoothes down the bedspread.  "Are you sure?" 

"Yeah," he says.  He can't help it.  He says, kind of awed, "You check on me."

"Sometimes," Cas admits.  "You fall asleep outside my door."

"Yeah, well, Dean mutters.  "I get worried.  You sleep with the lights on."  

Cas snorts.  "You have night terrors."

"You snore," Dean says.  "But you could stay here.  If you wanted to."  He thinks, but doesn't say, We could help each other.  We could have always helped each other.

Cas seems like he's thinking it over.  "Are you sure?" Cas asks finally, and Dean thinks there’s something funny about his eyes, about the way he’s looking at him.  

"I'm sure."  He pushes the covers back and holds his breath.

Cas slides under the sheets, and they face each other.  He puts his hand on Dean's waist.  Dean closes his eyes and breathes until he falls asleep.

Dean shakes him awake in the middle of the night, kisses him on the head once, then again, just because he can.  “Hey," he says.

He feels Cas stir under his hands, beneath the blankets.  “Dean?”

“I really love you."

Cas sighs a little.  “Yeah.  I know."

“Okay.  Good.”  He waits for a few moments, holding his breath, but Cas doesn’t say anything else.  “You said you loved me, once,” he says, and he knows he’s wearing that careful, cautious look that he has when he’s scared to death and doesn’t want anyone else to figure it out.  He's glad of the darkness.  He's glad Cas is mostly asleep.  “Could you say it again?”

"I could do that, maybe."

"You think?"

"Yeah. If you want."

"I think I'd like that.  If it's not too much trouble."

"It's not any trouble."  He feels Cas reach out and sort of pat at his chest.  "Love you," Cas says, and sighs again.  Like it's the sort of thing that hardly needs mentioning, but he’ll say it anyway, just for Dean’s peace of mind.

Dean lays his head down beside Cas's on the pillow and just breathes it in for a while.  "Thanks," he says finally.

"You're welcome."  Cas pauses, then states, "I want to go back to sleep."

"You do that."  

He feels Cas turn his head slightly, and then Cas's hands are reaching for him, resting on the sides of his face, and Cas is kissing him.  Only he kind of misses.  The kiss falls on the side of Dean's mouth.  

It's funny.  He’d almost expected for a kiss from Cas to feel like something.  Something stupid.  Like peace, or fulfillment, or coming home.  Like you hear about.  But it doesn't feel like anything but the light touch of lips, careful but sleepy and not quite reaching their intended mark.  Well, that's all right.  It's still the best kiss Dean's ever gotten.  

He hears a quiet murmur close by his ear.  “Goodnight, Dean.” 

"Yeah," he says.  He touches the side of his mouth, right where Cas had kissed him.  "Goodnight."