Archive of Our Own ^beta

Two weeks after the fall of the angels
Men of Letters Bunker, Lebanon, Kansas

Dean wakes slowly, melting into the pillowy warmth surrounding him. He’s been sleeping so well lately, it feels like a stolen luxury. His usual four hours has morphed into eight, nine if he’s taking the day off from cooking breakfast (he doesn’t trust Sammy around a stove, especially after he attempted to serve Dean turkey bacon. And Kevin, poor kid, can barely manage a bowl of cereal without over-thinking it). But Dean doesn’t mind breakfast duty; in fact, he likes cooking. The routine of it was something he mastered at a young age, when getting up early to cook for Sam and John made him feel steadier in his bones, and more importantly, useful. He liked being able to take a set of ingredients and create something completely new, create something that made his dad and brother happy, that comforted them, kept them healthy and strong.

Dean blinks his eyes open, squinting at the way the shadows cover the room in soft grays and darker blues. He’s grown used to the lack of natural light spilling into the bunker, nothing hinting at the bright summer day. There are some things you miss living in an underground Hobbit hole after all, even if everything else about the place leaves Dean feeling a bit giddy and child-like: the sheer immense size of it, the libraries full of books on lore and monster mythology, the swords and magical objects that make it feel like they’re living out an Indiana Jones’ movie.

Time to get up, Dean keeps telling himself, but he doesn’t move, still feeling mellow and soft-boned, his body lax under the soft bed-sheets. The familiar hard line at his back is also comforting, a reminder of the person spilling all that warmth behind him. Dean wonders if all former angels run as hot as Cas does. He’s like a small furnace, and Dean wonders if maybe years of holding grace has left his remade vessel with enough heat to power a small nation state.

Castiel shifts behind him, his breathing stuttering, and Dean can tell Cas is on the verge of waking. They seem to always wake up around the same time, their bodily clocks weirdly attuned to each other. And Dean wonders if that’s also some leftover angel mojo thing, or if it’s just some naturally-occurring phenomenon stemming from the amount of time they’ve spent together.

Cas is a lean, solid presence against his back, arms pressed soft and pliant down the line of Dean’s spine. The first few nights, Dean shied away from touching, tried to leave as much room between them as possible. But it was useless. Cas was like an octopus (okay, well maybe Dean was too), and they’d somehow both wind up clinging in the middle of the bed. Yeah, okay, it’s kind of embarrassing. But they don’t talk about it at least.

They also don’t talk about the fact that more nights that not, they end up sharing Dean’s bed. The first night it had happened – the first night after Castiel’s return – Cas had curled into Dean’s bed, seeking a pillow, seeking company, or maybe just seeking Dean out, and Dean hadn’t known what to say the next morning. The words, Are you okay, Cas? What’s going on? Talk to me, seemed too much, too prying, too soon.

So Dean didn’t say anything. He just left the light on the following night, and the next night, and the next. And Cas…he kept coming back. Now here they are, two weeks into this new holding pattern, and Dean’s mattress knows Castiel’s body as much as it knows his own. It remembers them both. And, it’s…weird to say the least.

Last week, Sam had caught them coming out of Dean’s room together early one morning. In typical Sam-fashion, he had stared at them wide-eyed while they passed, a slight confused frown marring his forehead, and his mouth opened as if ready to launch into twenty questions, courtroom attorney-style. Just don’t, Dean had whispered, because whatever was up with Cas, they’d figure it all out in time.

So Sam had closed his mouth, not saying a word about it. But, given that this is Sam, Dean’s baby brother continued to cast furtive, questioning looks at both Dean and Castiel the entire day. It’s not like Dean knows what to say to Sam about whatever the hell he’s probably been thinking. Because here’s the thing…Cas needs to get sleep, right? And if sleeping in Dean’s bed helps the cause, then…that’s got to be good. And it’s not like it’s a big deal. Dean’s just making sure Cas is okay. Doing a favor for a friend who’s had a real shitty thing happen to him. And if anything, his friendship with Cas has never been conventional by any measure of the word anyway. So, sharing a bed? No big deal.

Dean finds that the longer his brain continues its spiral into but what the fuck am I doing, it’s harder to try to reclaim any of the deep slumber he’d experienced earlier. He still feels sluggish though, and Castiel’s body heat isn’t helping Dean want to get up. It’s weird to wake up with Cas still here, pressed close, his body lithe and warm, sleeping like…well, like a human, in an easy tangle of limbs and soft snores.

As if on cue, Castiel presses closer, and their legs touch under the sheet, thighs all the way down to their ankles. Dean sucks in a breath, wondering if he should move further away, and trying not to think about how his dick seems to be enjoying his current touching predicament a little too much.

Shit. Castiel twists again in bed, pulling Dean out of thoughts he knows he’s better off not exploring. When Castiel’s arm falls against him, knuckles grazing the back of Dean’s spine, Dean does the smart thing and actually scoots over, sliding onto his back. He scratches absently at his belly, and watches the shadows play across the ceiling. “Cas?” Dean says.

"Hmmm?" Castiel hums, snuffling into his pillow and rolling closer to Dean.

"Just…" Dean starts, pausing. "Making sure you’re up, dude."

Cas shifts slightly, and mumbles, voice deeper than usual, “Still sleeping.”

Dean chuckles and turns on his side to face Cas now. There’s just enough light to make out the other man, the sheets tangled around the bottoms of his legs. He’s sleepy and utterly unaware of the sight he makes, his dark nest of hair pressed into Dean’s extra fluffy white pillow. He’s shirtless too, like Dean, wearing only a pair of slim black boxers that fit tight to his skin. The lines of his back are sun-brown even in the shadows. Dean’s eyes trail from the corded muscles of his shoulderblades to the soft dips along the curve of his spine, down past his hipbones, to the thick hair on his thighs and legs, dark against the hazy glow of the beige sheets. Cas is all compact frame, long lines of muscle, and sharp ridges of bone. Some mornings Dean likes to watch the lean muscles in Castiel’s back shift, move in and out of shadow. He likes the mechanics of it, the machinery of the body creating art. Creating Cas.

Dean doesn’t know how long he stares, but he knows he’s being a total creeper, and eventually forces himself to turn away. It’s nothing. It’s just weird seeing Cas so human, so…present. Shaking himself, he shuts his eyes for a long moment, tries to force the recent images to the back of his mind. Satisfied, he sits up, yawns, and climbs out of bed. He pulls on his robe and stuffs his feet into his favorite pair of fuzzy slippers, not saying a word as he turns to look down at Castiel’s slumped form in the middle of the bed one last time.

Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Dude, you gonna wake up or what?”

A grunt in response.

A smile slips across Dean’s face. “Eight million years of not sleeping and you decide to catch up on all of it in one month?” he asks, teasing.

Cas humphs, curls tighter into a ball, and mumbles into his pillow, voice rough with sleep: “Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve decided to do, Dean. Now please go take a shower.”

"You’re an ass," Dean sighs, shaking his head and bending down to throw the comforter back over Castiel’s shoulders. "Breakfast will be ready in thirty. Be there or I’m feeding it all to Kevin."


Another grunt in response, and Dean heads toward the bathroom, cackling. He hears Castiel turn over in bed as he reaches the door, and he swears he can even feel the other man’s eyes rake down his back as he exists the bedroom. But Dean doesn’t turn around, just makes his way toward the large bathroom suite he’s been blessed with. He performs his morning routine quickly, brushing his teeth and taking a piss before hopping into the steam-filled shower. The pressure is amazing.

When he climbs under the warm spray, his body moves on automatic as he slicks his cock with soap, fists it slow and steady, runs his thumb over the slit, grips with the right amount of pressure. He bites back a moan at the rush of blood spiraling toward his groin. He pumps faster, trying not to think too hard on the fact that he’s felt on the edge of this for hours now, needing this like he’s needed to breath, dreams full of furnace-warm touches, lean muscle, and slick skin. His pace increases, a magma hot pressure building in his balls, and he’s cursing as he comes, thick and hard, coating the porcelain tiles of the shower. He bites at his bottom lip to hold back another moan, trying his best not to let any half-broken sounds, especially one particular name, stumble out of his mouth.

Dean’s breathing hard when he steps back under the spray, letting the steady beat of the water wash over him as he calms down, every nerve in his body still sparking with his release. He performs a perfunctory cleaning of his body and a quick wash of his hair before stepping out and toweling dry, still not thinking about anything he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about.

He pulls on a clean pair of boxers and a faded grey t-shirt, and tosses on his robe before heading out of the bathroom and down the hall. He still feels a little shaky from his morning activities, and something is rioting in his stomach. But what he needs right now is to get in front of the stove, to find some steadiness in the calming routine of prepping a greasy, filling, home-cooked meal for the people he’s looking out for.

Cooking breakfast is something he can do. 

Dean’s frying sausage patties, these huge, thick cuts he found at that hippie-dippie Wholefoods place Sam made them go to last week. The smell of grease is thick in the air, crackling out of the pan, when Cas finally stumbles into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing at his eyes.

Kevin’s already at the table, head buried in his Macbook. Sam’s out on a morning run, feeling better and looking healthier than he has in weeks. Dean and Sam still haven’t quite figured everything out between them yet, a lot having gone unsaid and undealt with, but Dean thinks things are better between them than they have been all year.

Dean flips over the pancakes he’s got browning on the stovetop, and turns to watch Cas stumble forward. The guy’s kind of a big grump in the morning, sucking down coffee like it’s salvation in a battered old mug.

"Morning, sunshine!" Dean calls out, playing it up for the fun of watching Castiel grimace.

Kevin’s smiling over at Cas too, pointing at the empty mug Dean had set out in Castiel’s spot at the table. “Grab it. I just made a fresh pot.”

Cas shoots them both a tired, surly look as he passes by the table; his eyes squint into the room as if the light of the kitchen is personally offending him. Dean turns to watch him as he makes his way to the counter, noting that the other man is getting really scruffy-looking, his stubble coming in thick and dark. There’s something about him that looks smokey-wild too, untamed and rebellious, with Dean’s old Metallica shirt sliding off his shoulders, and Dean’s old sweatpants barely hanging on by the cut of his sharp hipbones. Dean has to turn away when he catches himself eyeing Castiel’s hips for too long; he clears his throat and concentrates on flipping another pancake. “Pancakes, sausage, and eggs on the way,” he says. “Make yourself some coffee, dude, and join us in the land of the living.”

Dean looks back up in time to see Cas playing with the coffee machine. It’s one of those fancy frou-frou espresso and cappuccino makers Sam picked out for them when they did a group trip to Target last weekend to find more modern-day household appliances for the bunker. They had slowly begun to realize that they would all be shacking up together for the foreseeable future. Dean’s come to think of the bunker as a sort of place of last refuge: a home for wayward boys, orphan castaways, and strays – those unlucky enough to be fucked over by the forces of Heaven and Hell.

Dean pulls his sausages out of the pan, placing them on a napkin so that the grease gets soaked up. It’s another few minutes before he’s serving them up alongside buttery, floppy pancakes, scrambled eggs, and maple syrup. Kevin seems satisfied if the pleased smile he’s wearing is any hint, and Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise as he takes his first mouthful of pancake.

Mission accomplished, Dean slides into a kitchen chair and digs into his own plate, watching as Cas takes another bite of pancake drowned in syrup. “Good Cas?” he asks, talking with his own mouth full.

Castiel swallows hard, nods, and says, “I find your cooking to be…very enjoyable.” Cas licks at his lips then, pink tongue flicking out to circle his bottom lip, sticky with syrup. Dean clears his throat, looks away, and definitely does not think about anything he’s not supposed to be thinking about.

Dean’s busy munching on his sausage (this organic shit is actually pretty good), when Sammy returns from his run, sweaty and breathing hard, mouth curling into a smile as he takes in the domestic scene waiting for him in the kitchen. “I hope you saved me some,” he says, his overlong hair tied back – and Dean can’t make this shit up – in an actual ponytail.

Dean doesn’t fuss as Sam bends over his plate, cuts a wide chunk from the tall stack of Dean’s pancakes with a fork and chews loudly. “S’good man,” he mumbles, reaching down for more.

"Get your own plate, bitch," Dean mumbles, snatching his plate out of Sam’s big bear paws as his little brother laughs and goes to wash up.

When he looks up Cas is watching him, a soft smile peeking out behind his glass as he sips from his milk. Dean smiles, looks away. Something warms in his belly. But he doesn’t think about it.

A set of thunderstorms moves through the Midwest in early June, and it leaves behind Kansas mornings that are cool and sharp, ripe with the smell of distant rain. Lebanon is the geographic center of the contiguous United States, and Dean is not surprised by this Kevin-supplied fact given that the Men of Letters had a penchant for archaic symbology. The town itself is rural and quaint, a population of 250 at the last census. A wide dusty Main Street, houses nestled between thick tree groves, a country store and a stop light, miles of farms providing a solemn quietness that Dean finds nice after the year (years) they’ve had.

Saturday afternoon Dean returns from the latest grocery run to Eileen (the closest town with a Super Wal-Mart, just an hour away). Four men go through a ton of food in a week, and Dean thinks they’re going to have to start hustling a lot more once their credit cards max out. Charlie’s been able to help, transferring funds their way from her weird computer hacks, but Dean doesn’t want her to get in trouble again, so he’s asked her to tone it down.

Dean unpacks the backseat of the Impala, eyes sweeping over the bunker’s Hobbit-sized entrance, taking in the soft morning light that shimmers over everything around here. It’s desolate out here, in their small piece of the forest, but just above the hill there are always wide skies and chirping birds, air swelling thick with the summer heat. In the evenings, he likes to drive out to the grassy plains to the north, watch everything fade to purple and pink, and disappear over the soft edge of the earth. Their world seems a lot smaller these days, softer in ways Dean’s not sure he understands.

When he finishes unpacking the Impala, he turns to find Cas coming out of the bunker’s front door. He leans, shirtless and barefooted, hair wild and windblown, against the railing and watches Dean.

"Hello, Dean."

"Heya, Cas," Dean says, dropping grocery bags on the ground beside him, trying not to stare too hard at Castiel’s bare chest. Cas has a tendency to go around half-naked at the best of times; he says he finds clothes restricting in his human skin. Dean doesn’t question it. Humanity definitely has a way of being restricting. "Sam and Kev inside?"

"Engaged in a fierce game of chess," Cas says, and he flashes a small smile, eyes crinkling as he peers over Dean back toward the Impala, its dark paint sparking in the bright fall of sun. "Successful shopping trip?" he asks.

"Stocked up at the Costco," Dean says. He notices the sheen of sweat on Castiel’s face, his neck, his chest. "Been out in the sun long?"

"I just returned from a run," Castiel says, and Dean nods. Dean first took Cas out running three days after he arrived, as a way to relieve some of the fallen angel’s pent-up tension, to get his mind on things other than his brothers and sisters plummeting from the sky. They’ve been out running together a couple of times a week ever since. Cas took to the morning workout routine like a fish to water; he’s got great form, his long legs and arms pumping rhythmically along the trails, picking up speed and wind the more miles they covered. Dean thinks Castiel’s body was made for a long-distance track star. Or the vessel of an angel. Same difference, maybe.

"Been going without me?" Dean says, giving a lopsided grin. "I’m hurt. But I guess you must like it then."

"It…it reminds me of flying," Cas says evenly, his eyes meeting Dean’s as he says it, and Dean…yeah, he gets it. Growing up, running was one of the only times Dean felt like he had room to be alone in his head; to think the kind of thoughts he could never share with anyone. One of the only times he felt like he was free.

"Help me with these bags?" Dean asks, watching Cas watch him. The sun leaves a soft haze at the edges of his vision, turns Cas into this shining, distant thing. Everything goes quiet for a long moment, still and tense.

Castiel’s soft grumble is the first thing to break the peace. “Of course,” he says, nodding, his eyes flicking away from Dean’s to take in the grocery bags settled at the foot of the Impala. He walks over, kneels down, and lifts two bags in his arms, and Dean watches the muscles work in his shoulders, the stretch and give beneath the flesh.

Dean picks up two boxes of canned goods and follows Cas into the bunker. As they circle the balcony overlooking the lower room, he sees Sam and Kevin situated at the table in the center of the room, chess board between them, intense nerd frowns on their faces.

"Hey, if you two can leave the match for a moment: Sammy I got a box of that soy crap you like outside, and Kevin I brought you some more ribs," Dean announces. As expected, neither of them bothers to pay Dean any mind, not when it’s the epic battle of the nerd brains, and Dean laughs quietly, shaking his head and heading toward his favorite place in the bunker (other than his own kick-ass bedroom): the kitchen.

Cas is already restocking the refrigerator when Dean comes in; he’s bent low enough that Dean catches an eyeful of jean-clad fallen-angel ass.

This is getting ridiculous, Dean tells himself. He drops his groceries on the table, and Cas turns to him and points to the giant bag of Kenyan dark roasted blend coffee beans Dean made sure to pick up for him from the Trader Joe’s. It’s Castiel’s favorite.

"Coffee?" Cas asks.

"Beer," Dean says, grinning.

Cas digs around the fridge and turns to toss Dean a beer, and Dean pops the cap and leans back against the kitchen counter, watching Cas work the coffee maker.

Dean drinks a long sip of beer. Burps loudly, and says, “Going shirtless again, dude?”

"Do you prefer that I wear all your shirts?" Cas asks, glancing at Dean over his shoulder.

Dean’s mouth drops open, but he closes it quickly, taking another large gulp of beer and avoiding the question. When Cas finishes with his coffee, he takes his mug and settles beside Dean at the counter. Dean feels the fresh heat radiating off of Cas as he moves closer, smells his sweat, the damp scent of grass and summer fields. Cas is always close these days, too close.

Truth is, it’s weird having Cas in such tight quarters for so long. For the last few years, they’ve spent more time apart than together, wars and plots and cosmic schemes making their relationship – friendship – a long-distanced one. And a difficult one.

"I never thought much about human clothing," Castiel says, stopping to sip from his steaming mug of coffee before continuing, "They seem very unnecessary in the summer months, don’t you think?"

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Sam’s gonna have to take you to the nude beach, not me, dude,” he says, smiling wryly.

Cas turns to look up at him. And they’re so close, too close. Dean can feel Castiel’s coffee-tinged breath against the side of his face when he says, “Actually, I think I’d like to go to the beach with you, Dean.”

Dean almost chokes on his sip of beer. He coughs, setting his bottle down hard on the counter. He turns to Cas, who seems to be even closer now, eyes wide and curious. Their shoulders slide together, arms bumping as they settle back. It’s fine, though. They’ve touched a lot over the years, hands on shoulders and arms; carrying each other, punching each other, saving each other. But Dean’s surprised by how much it affects him, even now. The way their fingers brush when they’re both reaching for the TV remote, how their knuckles scrape when they’re passing each other in the bathroom after brushing their teeth, how their knees bump under the table, and the way their legs brush against each other in bed. They touch all the time, and it’s weird, but Dean feels hungry for the contact, like he’s been starving for years and years.

Like now, Dean watches the shimmer of perspiration on Castiel’s collarbone, and he has the urge to reach out and touch it. Yeah, Cas needs to put on a shirt, and not stand so friggin’ close. But any mind-reading powers Cas may have had probably disappeared along with his mojo, because instead of pulling away, he’s coming closer, reaching absently around Dean for the canister of sugar on the counter behind him.

Dean knows he should just move out of the way. But he can’t seem to do that. Instead he stands perfectly still as Cas leans, stretches, and reaches around him, his arms brushing against Dean’s waist, his chest pressing against Dean’s shoulder, their hips touching momentarily with a rough scratch of denim. Dean wants to arch, push into the touch. But instead he closes his eyes and tries not to think, and gives thanks to a God he knows isn’t even up there when Cas finally finds what he’s looking for and settles back beside Dean. Of course, not before Dean’s lost about nine seconds of his life simply not breathing.

The heat in the kitchen is suddenly unbearable. Cas though, seems to be oblivious to everything, humming around a mouthful of coffee, watching Dean with a quiet expression. The sweaty expanse of skin covering Castiel’s chest is unblemished by scars, but Dean knows that’s not going to last. He’s human now, and there’s already the hint of sunburn on his shoulders, along his neck, along the line of thick scruff covering his chin. Dean licks his lips, and he swears he can almost taste the sweat on Castiel’s skin.

"Personal space, Cas," Dean whispers, voice rough.

"Sorry," Cas whispers, sliding further away. He stands up taller, looking down at himself. "Oh, I must smell awful."

Dean frowns, because Cas doesn’t. Sure, he’d been running for god knows how long out in the hot sun. But Cas…he just smells like the outdoors: dirty, raw, real. He smells like a man is supposed to smell, strong and spicy; earthen. Dean flushes, and turns away. The fact is, Cas has a human scent now, something that’s so easily captured in the freshly-laundered sheets Dean stretches over his bed each week. Sometimes at night they swap pillows by accident, and Dean feels lightheaded from the smell locked in the thin cotton, his belly quivering and flushing hot when he breathes it in, a slow panic rolling through his bones. Sometimes his cock strains in his boxers, and Dean has to get out of bed, lock himself in the bathroom, and take a cool shower. He has to consider his bad life choices, and how he has a way of screwing up everything he touches. Including his friendship with Cas.

"Hell, no," Dean manages after a moment, shrugging uncomfortably and moving restlessly from foot to foot. "You smell good, Cas. I mean…you smell fine. Never mind. Look, let’s just…go get the rest of the groceries and then watch some Firefly, yeah?”

Cas frowns, but shifts closer, close enough for Dean to catch his scent again. “I like that idea,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes.

Like always, it takes Dean a long while to look away.

Storms roll in through the next week, dousing their afternoons in pounding rain showers and shaking the world with rolls of angry thunder. Between the dungeon, the libraries, the sleeping quarters, and the living spaces, the bunker is big enough that even though they all have to stay inside, no one’s feeling too claustrophobic; there’s space enough for everyone to spread out, read, research in the archives, or watch movies. In fact, the rest of the world could cease to exist, and they wouldn’t even know.

Dean spends time with Cas and Kevin in the firing range, showing them both how to shoot; Sam’s taken to spending hours pouring over the map, tracking the fallen angels, looking for signs that the world is falling apart. But there’s been nothing since the freak meteor shower that shocked the planet, that had religious zealots and cults taking the streets, and astronomers puzzled for weeks. It’s been quiet; eerily so.

On Tuesday morning, Castiel actually rises first, and it’s Dean’s turn to pretend to sleep, lying under the covers, stretching and lazily kicking his legs out. The floorboards creak as Cas shuffles out of the bed, and Dean watches him go, the lean muscles of his back curving with the shadows. Cas is an expert at the showers now, stays in them for long periods of time, so Dean knows he has a while still before he returns. Dean rolls onto his side, runs his hand against the waistband of his boxers, palms his morning wood; closes his eyes and sleeps.

When he wakes again, Cas is standing by the side of the bed, running a towel thought his mop of tousled hair. “Morning, Cas,” Dean says, yawning wide and loud.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas says, rolling the towel across his face and patting his beard dry. One thing Dean has noticed with Cas walking around half-naked and in Dean’s borrowed clothes: Cas is a hairy little sucker. Dark hair covering his legs, under his arms, thickening across his cheek and chin. Dean purposely doesn’t think about the line of dark hair trailing from his belly button downward.

Dean clears his throat, and squints up at Cas. “So, man, I know the peach fuzz is working for you and all,” he comments, propping himself up on his elbows. “But I can show you how to shave. If you wanted.”

Cas frowns, hand coming up to slide over his thick scruff again. “I hadn’t thought of it.”

"It’s cool if you want to keep it," Dean says. "Sam and I shave because it’s routine for most of the federal agencies we impersonate on the job," he explains. Truthfully, Dean was never as hairy as Sam or his dad were. Those two couldn’t go a week without growing a full beard. It takes Dean a while to get up a substantial amount of scruff; hell it took him most of his adolescent life before he even sprouted his first chest hair.

But he likes the look on other people, and Cas is rocking the beard nicely, all Survivor-island style. Dean felt it prickle against his skin last night when Cas rolled against him, but Dean’s trying not to think about that.

Cas looks down at him, says, “I think I’d like you to teach me how.”

Dean’s chest goes tight, his hands go loose where they grip the sheet. “Okay, yeah, let’s do that then. Give me ten minutes and then meet me in my bathroom. Bring another towel,” he says.

Cas simply nods and turns around as Dean climbs out of the bed. A few minutes later, they find themselves standing face-to-face in Dean’s bathroom, and Dean doesn’t know why he’s feeling nervous. It’s just Cas.

"You can take a seat there," Dean says, pointing to the tiled edge of the giant bathtub. Cas settles there, and Dean opens up his cabinet and picks up the stylized wooden box containing his shaving supplies.

Dean looks over at Cas, who’s watching him curiously. “Okay, so I’m going to show you the fine art of shaving with a straight razor. You know, Sammy loves those packs of Gillette razors you can get at Wal-Mart,” he says, smiling. “But my dad showed me how to shave with a straight razor. So when I found this baby in the attic here, in my grandfather’s…Henry’s things, well, yeah. These kinds of blades can last decades if you take care of ‘em, and I only had to hone this one a little to get it as sharp as I needed.”

"I recall these," Castiel says, reaching for the razor, which Dean hands to him. Cas examines it closely, frowning. "Still, it seems a bit small for a blade."

"I know it’s no Angel blade," Dean huffs with a shrug. "But it’s all we need for what we’re about to do. It’s what the barbers used in the shops in the ’40s. Ain’t nothing like ‘em. It’ll save you from buying those crap disposable ones, and it’ll get your face smooth as a baby’s bottom."

Cas tilts his head to the side, eyeing Dean curiously. “Why would I—”

"Just go with it, Cas," Dean chuckles. "And it may look small, but this can double as a lethal weapon. Straight-razor shaving definitely makes us look badass."

Castiel arches a brow, lips quirking in a semblance of a smile. “I doubt we have a problem with looking badass.”

"Yeah, yeah warrior of God," Dean says, rolling his eyes.

“Former,” Castiel corrects, and something dark passes over his gaze as he meets Dean’s eyes.

Dean’s smile fades slightly, but he keeps looking at Cas as he says: “You’re still pretty badass though.”

Cas actually looks like he wants to laugh or maybe cry, but he doesn’t do either; he just lets the soft smile pass across his face all the way this time. “So what do I do first?”

"All you gotta do is sit there and let me work my magic," Dean says. "I’m gonna shave you first, just so you can see how it’s done. And I’m gonna try to take it slow, careful. It’s been a while since I’ve done this to someone else, and—"

"I trust you Dean," Cas cuts in.

Dean snorts. “You really shouldn’t trust me with a razor, man.” He hadn’t meant to say it like that, didn’t mean for the next set of thoughts to pass through his mind in rapid succession: You know what I did in Hell. In Purgatory. Slit throats, carved skins, how I sliced and diced until I was swimming in carnage and blood. All with a single blade.

Instead Dean says, “You’re human now, and you can get hurt.”

Castiel’s eyes are hot, sharp, on Dean’s face. ”And yet, I still trust you.”

Dean’s voice catches in his throat, but he manages to say, “Whatever, Cas.”

"I mean it, Dean," Castiel says, words resounding loudly in the bathroom.

Dean clears his throat, feeling like they’re talking about something else entirely; something he’s not sure he’s ready to talk about just yet. But he nods anyway, turning around to gather the rest of the supplies out of his kit, setting them in neat rows along his counter. “Yeah, I trust you too, Cas,” he murmurs.

"Not yet," Castiel says, and Dean turns to see Cas watching him with sad eyes. "Not after everything I’ve done. But I will regain your trust. One day."

"Cas," Dean says, setting aside a bottle of shaving cream, and running a hand through his hair before he turns to look him in the eye. "I know we hit a rough patch there, and I was mad about things, but…"

"Dean, I almost beat you to death," Cas cuts in quietly; there’s a shake to his voice, something Dean barely recognizes.

Dean grimaces, closes his eyes against the memory of pain and blood, the fear not just for himself, but the fear that he’d lost Cas too; for good. “I’m fine now, okay. And you were under Naomi’s control.”

Castiel exhales sharply, jaw clenching tight. “I was under my own control when I left. When I told you I couldn’t trust you with the tablet. When I disappeared.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment, trying to figure out what he has it in him to say. He settles with, “Cas, you’re not going anywhere right?”

Castiel frowns, surprise flickering across his features. “No, I don’t believe so…”

Dean leans his hip against the sink and runs his fingers along the marble top. He doesn’t look Castiel’s way as he adds, “So as long as you’re not up and disappearing on me anytime soon, we can figure all this out, right?”

Cas is quiet for a beat, but he eventually whispers, “I hope so.”

Dean inhales deeply. This is the kind of stuff Dean isn’t ready to talk about. Cans of worms that shouldn’t be opened. Dean’s doing fine. A lot of bad shit happened this year, but he’s dealing. Sam’s safe. Castiel’s safe. And that’s what matters. Everything else, it’s just better if he pushes it down. Deep.

Dean stares at the razor on the sink, at the soft gleam of steel shining in the bathroom light. Cas is trusting Dean right now, trusting him with helping him to better acclimate to Dean’s world, and something in Dean’s belly warms at that level of trust. For a long time, Dean felt like there was something about him that Cas just couldn’t trust, didn’t want to be stuck with; couldn’t believe in.

But Cas came back, and Dean doesn’t know how to read it. Does he want to be here? Is this his choice or does he feel trapped? Dean can see that Cas is still reeling from his world imploding; the he doesn’t know where he fits into this new world yet, that he doesn’t know how to grieve the loss of something so intrinsic to who he was: his grace.

"Dean."

Dean blinks away his thoughts, turns around to find Cas standing right next to him, his left hand settling heavy on Dean’s shoulder; the touch is grounding.

"What was it like for you?" Dean asks him, words tumbling out without warning. "Falling?"

Cas seems to consider the question for a long moment, face clouded over with exhaustion, with grief. “Like I was ripped in half,” he answers eventually, his voice rolling low and honest. “Like I lost something so vital. Like I am left…without.”

Cas glances up at Dean, and Dean sees the tiredness in his eyes. The barely-hidden heartbreak. Cas hasn’t talked about the angels falling; not once. He also hasn’t looked up at the night sky since he’s been here. The stars stopped falling weeks ago now, but Dean knows Cas still felt every single one. Crash after crash.

"If you need to talk," Dean offers, reaching up to settle a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, so that they’re standing before each other, poses mirrored. "You got me, okay?"

"Thank you," Cas says roughly.

"Okay, then," Dean nods, even though he knows it’s far from okay; he knows what it feels like to keep everything bottled up; to keep everything inside; to keep from breaking. Grief flows like ash in Dean’s blood, and he knows Cas feels it in his own human veins now too, feels their kinship with loss, knows that soul-deep ache.

Despite knowing something of what Cas must be feeling, Dean doesn’t actually know what to say to make things better. When it comes to Cas, there are things Dean’s only ever been able to say when he was so close to losing him. When his mouth finally uttered words that only his heart had been able to recognize.

That you’re like a brother to me.

Don’t make me lose you too.

We’re family. We need you. I need you.

"Dean," Cas breaks into his thoughts again, voice low and heavy as he asks, "Are you ready for me?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, swallowing hard, his world coming back into focus: Cas standing in front of him. "I’m ready for  you, Cas." 

Dean starts slow. He sets out his whetstone and leather strop. Takes out his brush and empties shaving cream into the wooden bowl he always uses to stir the foam. Castiel is settled in front of him on the bathtub’s edge, wearing only a pair of red-and-black checkered boxers, looking at Dean’s preparations with careful, assessing eyes.

"First we hone the blade," Dean says, placing his whetstone down gently. He rubs oil onto it to lubricate it, and then dries his hands with a towel. In slow, calming strokes he begins to scrape the straight razor across the stone, sweeping the blade from heel to point, motioning sideways as he works, so that the edge is sharpened evenly. He repeats this a few more times, honing the blade until he’s satisfied, testing the sharpness against his thumbnail.

He turns to catch Castiel’s eyes, and the other man seems to be following, taking it all in, quiet and determined.

"And then comes the stropping," Dean says. He hangs his strop from a drawer under the counter, the leather side facing up. He pulls it taut, then runs his blade over it, back and forth in slow and even strokes.

When the razor is as sharp as he desires, Dean wipes it off and sets it aside. Then he turns around, gets a towel from the shelf behind him, and soaks it in the sink under flowing hot water. He rings it dry, and then turns to hand it to Castiel. “I’m going to have you wrap this around your face for a few minutes, okay?” he says.

Castiel’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t argue. He takes the towel from Dean and places it around his face. Dean smiles, the blue of Castiel’s eyes settled on him, standing out in stark relief against the white of the towel.

"It helps to soften the whiskers," Dean explains. He waits a few more moments, and then takes the towel away from Castiel.

Dean turns back to the sink, to the wooden bowl he uses to prep his shaving cream. He favors rich, thick shaving creams and foams because, simply put, they feel damn good on his face. He’s a man of few luxuries, this being one of them. He has a fine-tipped badger-haired brush that he uses to mix the cream thoroughly, to lather it up until it’s nice and thick. When it’s ready, he turns back to Cas. “Tilt your head up for me, man,” he says, voice low and quiet between them.

Cas turns his head to look up at Dean then, and in that one movement, Dean sees it: the exposed vulnerability of his throat, the soft skin…and it’s incredibly human. Dean hesitates for a beat; swallows thickly. “Okay, gonna start now,” he says, voice gone rough.

Dean stands directly above him, and Cas doesn’t move; he captures Dean’s eyes with his own, and Dean sucks in a steadying breath and leans down and gently begins to smear the cream onto Castiel’s face, circling the brush slowly and meticulously around his cheeks and pushing the cream with smooth strokes under each whisker.

It’s been maybe a month, but Castiel’s grown in a good amount of stubble, and Dean lathers him up in slow, swirling motions, massaging the cream along both of his cheeks to his chin, over his upper lip and under the soft pink flesh of his bottom lip, and finally below his ears. They’re so close they’re basically sharing the same breath, a hint of minty and coffee-tinged air exchanged back and forth between them.

When Cas is covered completely, Dean steps back and observes his work. Castiel’s furrowed brow, tousled hair, and foamy face is quite the site. Dean’s trying not to laugh. Really he is. “Dude, you look kind of ridiculous,” he announces, teasing softly. “Sort of like a reject Santa on acid.”

Cas arches a brow and gives Dean what Dean would call Castiel’s I’d kick your ass right now if I wasn’t sitting half-naked in your bathroom waiting to get shaved by you look. Smitey with a dash of I’m bored and confounded by everything you do, please get on with it . Dean loves this look, and tries to get Cas to shoot him with it every so often. Usually while shopping for breakfast cereal.

"Well then," Dean huffs, turning around to pick up his razor. "Heads up, bucko," he says leaning forward again into Castiel’s space, and it’s weird because this is weirdly intimate, and Dean’s not sure where the boundaries are anymore, if the two of them ever had any in the first place, given that Cas first touched him in Hell, saw Dean at his barest, most vulnerable, most exposed, filthiest; Cas has seen Dean more naked than anyone ever has. For crying out loud, he carried Dean’s soul in his glowy angel hands, and then put Dean’s body back together, piece by piece. And if that’s not enough, Cas was the only person Dean ever cried in front of, other than Sam, after Hell. After Alastair.

So sharing a bed and shaving each other – that’s nothing compared to everything else they’ve shared, right? Right, Dean tries to tell himself as he closes in, blade in hand. Dean’s hand doesn’t even shake as he presses the blade under Castiel’s chin, drawing it forward in one smooth stroke. Dean settles his other hand on the side of Castiel’s head, above his right ear, pulling the skin of his cheek taut as he makes his next stroke, then the next, shaving in long, downward motions until he’s cleared most of Castiel’s right cheek. He wipes the blade off on a towel in-between swipes, before focusing in for another line of strokes.

Cas is perfectly still the entire time, his eyes trained on Dean in that freaky, unearthly way he hasn’t managed to lose despite losing his grace. For a moment, their eyes lock just as Dean holds his breath, watching Castiel’s intense, concentrated gaze fully loaded on him.

Shit, Cas. Don’t look at me like that, he thinks.

For the past few days, Dean’s wanted to talk to Cas about everything. About what went down with Naomi, with Metatron. About all the falling angels. About Cas being human, being without the one thing that had defined his existence for so long. Does he blame Dean? Does he want to leave again? Does he feel like popping a pill and drowning his misery?

What do you want, Cas? Dean wants to ask, but the words just won’t come. All Dean can do is leave his light on, cook every recipe Dean ever learned growing up (when he use to jot down recipes from library books and the faded wrappings covering the side of canned goods they got at the food pantry), meals he knew would make Sam or John happy. All Dean can do is offer Cas a home, some clothes, a close shave, a good meal, and maybe a night or two of watching shitty B-movies and drinking cheap beer.

What’s that compared to Heaven, even a Heaven full of dickbags? Dean doesn’t know. What he does know is that this close up, Castiel’s eyes tell a lot of stories.

Dean doesn’t let it distract him though; he slides the steel across Castiel’s right cheek and jaw until he’s finished the entire right side of his face. Dean then pulls away and looks at his handy work: a surface of smooth, soft, pale skin. And not a dark whisker in sight. No blood either.

"I didn’t nick you at all," Dean says, letting out a surprised laugh.

Castiel’s eyes go back up to his, and he opens his mouth as if to say something, but Dean shakes his head. “Shave first, fuss at me later, alright?” Dean offers, since he’s already got the blade resting against Castiel’s face again.

Cas frowns, but Dean takes that as a yes. Dean uses his free hand to direct Castiel’s head back, elevating his chin, and exposing the skin under his left jaw. With the razor in his hand, Dean shaves upward, blade slicing smoothly through the shaving cream, scraping over Castiel’s left cheek and chin, pulling the skin taut as he goes. Dean bites at his lip with a nervous energy, positioning his hand at the base of Castiel’s throat for leverage. He tracks the rhythm of the blade, the slow, even stripes, the right amount of pressure it takes to push steel across human skin and leave no trace. It’s weird to do this on someone outside of himself; it’s even weirder to use a blade on someone, and for the end goal not to be bringing pain, drawing blood, or causing death.

Dean stands back and studies Cas for a long moment before he goes back to drawing the blade across his neck. He makes multiple passes with the razor, wanting that smooth-as-a-baby’s bottom-feel, something to match the smooth, pale skin around Castiel’s collarbone and upper chest. But it means they stay close for a longer time, and Dean’s getting use to the feel of Castiel’s warm breath on his skin, the way Castiel watches him. It’s quiet in the room, just the soft hint of their breathing and the low scritch-scratch of hair being sliced away.

Dean pauses mid-stroke, his tongue peeking out between his teeth. Castiel’s eyes seem to track the movement, his gaze settling on Dean’s mouth. Which of course has Dean’s eyes going to Castiel’s mouth in turn. Cas leans in, their faces are even closer, and the smell of the shaving cream is so thick now, the air in the bathroom so humid, it hangs heavy around them, between them, makes it hard to think. Dean’s having a real hard time thinking, and that’s never a good thing.

"Uh, Cas," Dean says, and he has no idea why his voice comes out sounding a little breathless.

Cas flits his eyes back up to Dean’s, and Dean takes that second to stop thinking about Castiel’s pink lips and that tiny dip at the hollow of his throat. “I…uh, I think I’m done, man,” he says.

Castiel seems to understand that, so Dean takes Castiel’s chin in hand and turns his face to the side so that he can look at the newly-revealed smooth skin. Satisfied, Dean lets go, turns around, and runs a washcloth under warm water. He then settles back in front of Castiel and uses the wet towel to wipe smooth stripes across his face, cleaning away the remaining lather. The entire time Castiel remains silent, eyes tracking Dean’s movements.

Dean pulls away and stands back. “And that’s all folks,” he announces, turning around to wash off his razor and to rinse out his towel, letting the white foam drain down the sink. He then packs his shaving supplies in their box, putting everything back in order. “How does it feel?” he asks when he doesn’t hear any noise coming from Castiel.

Cas is running his hand over his jaw and cheeks, and he’s smiling as he looks over at Dean. “I feel remarkably lighter. Thank you,” he says. There’s something in his face that Dean can’t quite read, something that flickers and shifts and moves so fast that Dean wants to catch it, but thinks he might not understand what he finds if he did.

So he says, “Anytime, Cas.” He dries off his hands, puts away his shaving kit, and steps toward the bathroom door. “I’ll let you finish cleaning up. Do you need anything else?”

Cas looks up at him then, but he seems lost in thought. “I don’t think so,” he says slowly. “But I’ll let you know if I do.”

"You better," Dean says, and he’s humming softly as he leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind him. He feels lighter too, but he doesn’t quite know why. All he did was shave the guy, but for some reason it feels like they’ve had some huge breakthrough, come to some new understanding, that whatever momentary trust and quiet they shared together in the past half hour broke down months of walls and misunderstandings. And…Dean doesn’t know what to make of that.

They’re getting ready for bed on Tuesday night when Cas starts talking.

Dean’s pulling off his socks when Cas comes into his bedroom, a book from the library in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Sam’s been teaching Cas about the importance of hydrating – 8 glasses a day! – especially given Castiel’s early-morning running routine. Sammy’s filling Castiel’s head with a lot of other health-nut mumbo-jumbo that Dean’s been trying his best to counter by introducing Cas to good old-fashioned homemade barbeque sliders. Dean knows he’s an awesome best friend, okay.

Cas is already ready for bed, decked out in a pair of too-big boxers and Dean’s old AC/DC t-shirt. His legs are bare, runner’s thighs made even stronger by actual running, thick, coarse dark hair covering the pale skin.

The small lamp near the bed is on, and the room is flooded with a dim, yellow light. Cas places his book and glass on the nightstand, and sits down on his side of the bed (and when did Dean start to think of it as his anyway?). Cas says to Dean, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

"Did ya hurt yourself?" Dean asks, grinning wide and looking up from hopping on one foot in an attempt to tug his flannel pajama bottoms up his legs. "I’m hilarious I know."

Cas sighs, a put-upon look in full effect before he settles back against the headboard and tilts his head toward Dean. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About talking to you,” he explains quietly.

Dean nods, tugging his pants up around his waist. He climbs onto his side of the bed, not saying a word until he’s facing Castiel across the covers. “Hit me with it, Cas.”

Castiel’s hair is still a little damp from his shower, the wet ends curling against the pale skin of his collarbone and neck. He runs a hand through it, a very-human tick he’s picked up recently, and turns to look at his wet palm. “I failed,” he says on a soft growl, fisting his hand and punching the bed between them. “And my brothers and sisters, they paid the price.”

"Shit, Cas," Dean whispers, shaking his head. "We all fail sometimes. It sucks. It hurts like a motherfucker. But you can’t save everyone. A good friend once taught me that."

Cas looks up at him, sighs, and turns his head away. He looks at the far side of the room, at the play of shadows on the wall. “I’m useless to you without my powers,” he says without looking back at Dean.

Dean snorts, because that’s bullcrap. “Look man, your powers saved my ass and Sam’s ass a time or two, I’m not denying that. You’ve come through for us,” he admits quietly. “But being some kind of powered-up Superman is not all you are. You…shit Cas, you…” he trails off, because really how does he even sum up what Cas it to them? ”You’re my friend, Cas,” he finishes lamely, because it’s the truth, even if it doesn’t feel like it fully sums up everything. So he adds, “And you’re my family.”

Dean coughs, feeling uncomfortable by the nature of the discussion. They’re both quiet for a moment before Castiel turns back toward Dean and brings a hand up to Dean’s cheek, his fingers touching the rough hair of his unshaven face.

Dean’s shocked still by the unexpected motion. “Cas, what are you—?”

"Maybe you’ll let me shave you too," Cas interrupts, palming Dean’s cheek as his thumb grazes over his chin.

Something hot swoops low in Dean’s belly, so he pulls away gently, his own hand coming up to touch the stubble on his cheek. The last time Cas touched him there, on that cheek, had been in that crypt when Dean had just got the living hell beat out of him.

Dean coughs again and starts picking at a loose thread on the comforter. “Uh, yeah, maybe sometime.”

"This trust runs both ways," Cas says quietly. "At least I hope."

Dean looks up, meets his eyes. “I do trust you, Cas. Naomi, she tried to fuck with me about you trying to kill me, and yeah, then the stuff with Metatron happened,” he says, pausing and inhaling deeply. ”So look, I’m not saying we don’t have shit to work through. Baggage a mile wide and ten-feet deep. And I’m not saying that I’m not still mad about a lot of stuff.”

"So, what are you saying?" Castiel asks, his eyes focused and clear. Sharp and unafraid.

"I’m saying," Dean breathes out, running his hand over his thigh. "I’m saying it’s been a hell of a year. And you’re still getting your sea legs. And, I don’t know, maybe we can fix what needs fixing. With time."

"Okay," Castiel says, nodding.

"Okay," Dean echoes. He then settles on the bed next to Cas, his back against the headboard. He pulls out his dad’s journal, while Cas pulls out his book. They’ve been reading before bed lately, but tonight, Dean feels like doing something more. So he starts talking too, about nothing, about everything, about his crazy life as a human: sharing his memories, the good ones and the painful ones too. About how he taught himself to cook when he realized the shit he stole from the Piggly Wiggly would go further if he knew what to do with it. About the summer he taught Sam to read. About Bertha from Oakdale and the way she kissed. About dropping out of school the year they spent living out of that sleazy truckstop on Highway 56 outside of Reno. About his first gun, his first fuck, his first arrest.

About himself.

Cas listens; he doesn’t say anything, but Dean knows he’s listening.

"Was that a good talk you think?" Dean asks him about an hour later as they slip beneath the covers, legs bumping against each other as they get comfortable. It’s instinct the way they both roll over to face each other, eyes locking across the two inches of memory-foam mattress between their pillows.

Cas is looking a bit smug as he says, “I think you were as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Dean’s laughter, soft and relieved and honest, follows them both into sleep.