AU: Dean comes to new school, where draws attention of Castiel - a shy and silent boy. Dean is under his charm and they start dating. However, soon everything breaks down, because Dean fucking Winchester is not the type a boyfriend for longer. He leaves, leaving Cas with a broken heart. And then, 10 years later, they meet again…

“I want you,” Dean murmurs into Cas’s ear. Cas mumbles something incoherently and burrows closer into Dean, shifting so that his head rests comfortably in the crook of Dean’s shoulder.

“You just had me,” Cas whispers, drawing the covers over their cooling bodies, still slightly slick with sweat and the taste of each other. “Multiple times, in fact,” he says, and Dean could hear the grin in his voice. “Which is actually amazing, considering you’re thirty-five today.”

Dean shivers and pulls Cas in closer, resting his hand on his back. “What do you know about the relationship between aging and the amount of times a guy can come, huh?” he asks teasingly. “You were human for about five minutes-”

“And I’m a human now again,” Cas interrupts softly, reaching up and pressing a simple kiss to Dean’s lips.

“Which brings us back to what I was saying,” Dean murmurs again, returning the kiss, his body too tired for anything more. “My birthday was great,” he continues, “the birthday pie, and Sammy, and Charlie, and the special edition of Lord of the Rings, it was all-” he kisses Cas’s forehead, then his lips again- “awesome.”

“But?” Cas crinkles his nose, confused.

“Marry me,” Dean says. Cas’s jaw drops open, and Dean grins. “I want you. For my birthday.”

Cas hesitates, and Dean tenses, his nerves thrumming, but Cas only smiles brilliantly up at him. “You’ll have to apologize for my lack of a bow and wrapping pape-”

Dean kisses the rest of the sentence away, and their bodies forget how tired they’d been just minutes ago.

Shit. The thing with DeanCas.

Is that it makes you want to explain love a billion different ways.

They make you want to talk about love in the form of simple kisses underneath foliage of trees but also in sprawling metaphors of the universe’s energy and celestial bodies.

They make you want to define love through the the written word, the spoken word, the sung word, the drawn word. And you write a hundred thousand sentences, and you sing their ‘i need you’s, and you immortalize their faces on paper, and you speak in the tongue of the greatest love story that has ever been told.

They make you want to find love in a monstrous world; or in classroom halls, or in warm coffee shops, or in a little house with a garden, or by the ocean or maybe sea.

And the greatest thing, really, is this:

They make you want love to happen. Not even to yourself. But to somebody else. 

I don’t know about you.

But fuck.

We’re going to the future, Bucky Barnes says, and he hands Steve Rogers a copy of today’s paper, presses him close against his side, and they dream about warless times and flying cars.

Seventy years of sleep later, Steve Rogers lies on the glass of a dying helicarrier, gazes up at angry yet fearful eyes, touches the fist scrunched against his chest.

If this is the future, let’s stay in the past.

I stand before you, and tell you ‘I’m home’. Know that I mean it as such: you are my home. Your arms are my foundations. Your eyes the doorways. Your lungs the fireplace. Your ribs my walls. Heaven cannot compare to the sanctuary that is you. So let me come back; let me rest in your heart. I’ve been on the road for too long.
—  n.t.