“We should quit,” Dean says one day, a mostly-decapitated ghoul on the ground between them and apropos of absolutely nothing.

“Quit?” Cas asks. He’s not looking at Dean, instead focusing intently on the narsty grey ghoul guts skewered on his angel blade.

“Yeah. Quit.”

Cas still doesn’t look up at him, his mouth forming a rather adorable pout as he attempts to shake the stringy brain matter off the blade. “We just solved the case, Dean. What would we be quitting?”

Dean throws his eyes skyward. He should’ve known this wouldn’t be that easy. “No, I mean quit. Retire.”

That finally seems to get Cas’ attention. Slowly, he brings his head up, blinking wide, blue eyes, and nobody has the right to look that fucking cute with viscera in their hair. “You want to retire?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing. “Stop spending our time chopping up creepy-crawlies and be real people. We could get a house.”

Cas is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “You want to retire. And get a house.”

The dead ghoul smells like fresh, ripe ass. Dean probably could’ve picked a better spot for a sweeping romantic gesture. Or at least started with a coffee date, before jumping balls-deep into domesticity. “I mean, if you want. Or we can stay in the bunker. But I – I wanted…” The words are sort of barfing their way out of him now. “It’d maybe be nice. To have a place that’s ours. Y’know, now that you’re human again.”

Cas levels him with a squint so severe he might as well be closing his damn eyes. “The bunker is ours,” Cas says, slowly and patiently, like he’s talking to a four-year-old.

Son of a bitch. “No, not you-me-Sam ours,” Dean says. He casts his eyes around the cemetery for help, or willpower, or sanity, maybe, but all he finds is the slowly-rotting monster at his feet.

It has nothing helpful to contribute.

“I mean you-me ours.” Dean swallows, and looks back up.

“You want to stop hunting,” Cas says.


“And buy a house.”


Cas drops his chin, like he’s trying to nod but forgot the second step. “With me.”

It’s like pulling friggin’ teeth. “Yes.”

There’s a long, long silence as Cas just stares at him. Then, just as Dean’s about to suggest they move this radically life-altering conversation to somewhere with fewer corpses, Cas asks, “Until when?”

Of all the things Dean had been expecting Cas to say, that doesn’t even crack the top hundred. “What d’you mean until when? I dunno, until we die, I guess?” Cas’ eyebrows shoot up, and Dean rolls his eyes. “And I mean, like, normal die. From, y’know… chronic oldness. Or well, probably fuckin’ cirrhosis of the liver, in my case,” he says, grimacing.

Now Cas looks completely lost. “But… what if –” He cuts himself off, eyes finally leaving Dean’s face to dart around awkwardly. “You might want a family some day, Dean,” he says quietly.

“Oh my god.” Dean can’t take it anymore, and starts marching towards him “You’re a friggin’ idiot,” he says, then grabs Cas’ face and plants a kiss on his lips.

It’s… it’s pretty gross, actually. They’re both covered in sweat and grave dirt and there’s definitely some blood happening. Dean tries not to think too hard about whose it is as he pulls away and opens his eyes.

Cas is back to looking at Dean like he’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

“That’ll get better,” Dean blurts. “Next time.”

Cas’ eyes widen a little. “Next time?” he asks, voice so rough it’s making Dean stupid. Stupider.

“Yeah. When we’re cleaned up. And not, y’know, all gross.” Dean drops his hands awkwardly.

There’s another stretch of silence and staring, then Cas nods once. “Okay.”

And he turns on his heel and starts off towards the car.

“Wait, what?” Dean asks, still rooted in place. “Was that an ‘okay’?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Well, great!” That’s more than great, that’s fucking fantastic, but Cas is already halfway across the cemetery by now, not looking back. “Why the hell aren’t we celebrating, here? Where are you going?”

“We’re going back to the motel,” Cas calls over his shoulder. “To get cleaned up.”

Cas is trying to fix breakfast when Dean falls in love.

They’ve always been together, even when they weren’t. They’ve always known that whatever exists between them is cosmic, is a fate not even they can refuse.

But it takes Dean walking into the kitchen and seeing Cas squinting at the toaster to really accept it.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks warily.

Cas just stares at the toaster, leaning forward slightly, all muscles tense like he’s ready to take flight. “Making toast.”

Dean isn’t sure whether he should be rolling his eyes or leaving the room quickly. He decides on continuing to investigate. “You don’t eat toast.”

Cas still doesn’t flinch. “You do.”

Dean nods. “Thanks for that. But why do you look like you’re at war with the toaster?”

Cas brushes the question away with a shake of his head, concentrating. When the toast pops up, he jumps, arms raising slightly in an almost defensive stance.

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean asks, finally irritated enough to let it show in his voice.

Cas moves to the toaster, still wearing an undershirt and boxers and looking nothing like the warrior angel he is. “I don’t understand why the toast pops out so aggressively. Maybe it’s a way for humans to get their blood flowing in the morning. But I don’t trust it.”

Dean pauses for a moment to let that sink in, then starts laughing, deep and loud guffaws from somewhere so deep it almost never sees daylight. And that’s when he falls in love.

He walks forward and accepts the plate of toast Cas is proudly thrusting toward him, and sets it on the counter.

“Don’t you want to eat?” Cas asks, face falling slightly.

Dean runs his hands through that messy, dark hair, then pulls Cas into his arms, locking his hands at the small of Cas’ back. “In a minute.”

Cas’ face lights up again when Dean kisses him.

“You get called pretty a lot.” 

Dean laughs as he says it, and passes Castiel a beer bottle. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, not reaching for the drink and eyes Dean as he sits beside him. “I’ve noticed.” 

“You should figure out how to take the compliment without getting all tongue-tied,” Dean says, and takes a swig of beer. “Sure, it’s endearing, but at what cost?

Castiel glances down at his hands. 

“It’s an arbitrary compliment. I don’t know what to say in response.”

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. He, himself, has been called pretty enough to last anyone several lifetimes and definitely understands that it can be embarrassing at first, but Castiel has been around for almost ten years and has Metatron’s entire library of pop-culture floating around in his brain - he should know how to gracefully accept a compliment by now. 

“Just say ‘thanks’ and maybe throw in a wink.” Dean says and sets the drink down. “You know, something comprehensible.”

“But why?” Castiel says and glances back up at Dean. “They’re just remarking on my physical appearance.”

“Yeah, you’re a handsome guy.” Dean lets his eyes flick over his features, and he knows it’s one of the more truthful things he’s said recently.

But this -” Castiel gestures at himself, “- this has nothing to do with me. All they’re doing is complimenting the aesthetics of Jimmy Novak, and while that’s a gesture I’m sure he’d appreciate, it doesn’t feel right accepting words that aren’t meant for me.” 

Dean frowns. 

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Jimmy’s face isn’t who Castiel is. The dark hair and sharp features, dark lines under the eyes - all Jimmy. 

But the eyes - the eyes have never once fooled Dean into thinking that the being behind them is anything but cosmic. 

“Alright, sure. Jimmy’s a good-looking dude.” Dean says once he’s brought his thoughts back around, “But he’s not you. I’d take you over him any day.”

Dean tilts his head upwards and points his beer towards the ceiling. 

“No offense, Jimmy.”

When Dean looks back, Castiel is smiling at him softly. 

“Thank you, Dean.” 

“No problem.” Dean shrugs. “I mean, I have no fucking clue what you actually look like, but I’m sure you’re the prettiest damn eldritch being out there.” 

Castiel chuckles and finally reaches for his beer. 

“I suppose that would depend. How attractive do you find three-hundred eyes and four heads?”

Dean nearly chokes on his next swig.


Destiel AU: Dean Winchester leaves Lawrence on a whim to go to visit his childhood best friend, Castiel Novak, at Stanford. He breaks in, intending to make this a surprise visit. but things don’t quite go as planned when Castiel initially mistakes him for an intruder. [read the ficlet on ao3]

Dean didn’t know what possessed him to get in the Impala and drive across the country. Or maybe he did, but he was too much of a chickenshit to admit it. It certainly hadn’t been an easy trip. Stanford was thousands of miles away from Lawrence. Twenty-six hours of drive-time if you followed the speed limit (which he didn’t). So like it or not, ending up five states away at his best friend’s doorstep at 1am was not something he could brush off as an accident, and that scared him.

It scared him that Cas might look at his presence and know exactly what Dean was scared to say.

It was a good thing he had a lot of practice ignoring his own feelings, because if he’d really let himself appreciate the gravity of what he was doing, he probably wouldn’t have been able to get out of the car. He made his way to the front door, double checking the address on his phone. He could feel his heart rate speeding up in anxious anticipation. He couldn’t believe it had been months since they’d seen each other without the aid of computer screens.

Thinking about the last time he’d seen Cas wasn’t really something he liked to do. He knew he had no one but himself to blame for that day Cas had driven off, his long suffering Pimpmobile full to bursting with clothes and furniture for his new apartment.They’d exchanged goodbyes on the sidewalk. Dean had so many things he wanted to say but he’d swallowed them down so Cas wouldn’t hear the lump that was stuck in his throat.

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” Cas had said, trying to smile at him.

Dean wanted to remind him that he could call anytime he wanted, that they would Facebook message every day, that Dean would be thinking about him…but instead all he’d done was nod solemnly. Cas grinned at him like he understood and opened his arms for a hug.

Dean was usually the one who held back from physical contact but this time he’d surprised himself, pulling Cas in tight, breathing him in for what promised to be the last time in a long time. He’d patted Cas’s back, instead of burying his head against Cas’s shoulder the way he wanted.

After a moment they’d pulled away and Cas had given Dean that look he reserved for the times when he knew Dean wanted to say something but wouldn’t. That look that promised not to judge him, if Dean could only lend himself the same courtesy. But Dean wasn’t that much of a dick. He might have been in love with his best friend, and sure, he might not have admitted it to himself until the worst possible moment, but he certainly wasn’t going to ruin this day for Cas. His friend had a long day of driving ahead of him today, and yet another one tomorrow. He didn’t need to spend it thinking about how Dean was a giant cry baby who didn’t want him to leave. Cas had great opportunities waiting for him at Stanford, with even greater people, of this Dean was sure.

So after they’d said their goodbyes, as Cas was getting into his car, Dean had dropped his hand on Cas’s shoulder. For a moment he searched for the right words that would encompass everything he wanted to tell him.

That Cas was the best friend he’d ever had. That Dean was proud of him. That he was loved. There was nothing that could quite do the job, or at least nothing he could let himself say. But Cas was looking up at him with those big guileless blue eyes and Dean had to say something.

“Don’t ever change,” Dean told him, annoyed by the way his voice grew rough with emotion.

He’d thought about that moment a million times in the months that followed, going over it again and again and wishing he’d done it differently. But now was not the time to dwell on the past, now was the time to remember everything he’d ever read about picking locks.

Keep reading

“Angels are immortal,” Cas rolls his eyes at Dean when he points to an ad for a retirement home. But still, Cas buys the magazine for him, anyway, liking the way it made him smile.

“Angels don’t need food,” Cas says with a straight face, but when Dean offers it, he takes a bite of the pie, anyway, every time.

“Angels can just fly,” Cas reminds Dean when he holds open the car door for him. But, with one look, Cas slides into the passenger’s seat of the impala without another word.

“Angels don’t need to breathe,” Cas says after Dean’s eyes go wide when Cas stays under the water too long. And, when Dean still looks concerned, Cas grabs his hand and places it on his own chest forcing the air in and out in reassurance.

“Angels don’t need sleep,” Cas whispers when Dean covers him with a blanket after they watch a movie on the couch. But he quiets very quickly when he realizes the blanket is for both of them and lets Dean fall asleep on him instead.

“Angels can feel longing,” Cas says when he flies to Dean’s room and finds him wiping away the tears. And, instead, he replaces Dean’s hand with his, sweeping away the tracks with gentle fingers.

“Angels can heal,” Cas says, this time pleading to an unseen God when Dean’s insides are on his shirt, his eyes twisted in pain until he touches Dean’s cheeks.

“Angels can fall in love,” Cas declares so quietly and gently, when he’s holding Dean, finally healed, inside the crook of his arms, looking into green eyes and counting freckles like they’re flecks of gold he’d protect at all cost.

Sam is at the table in the kitchen, finishing his coffee and picking at the last of his just-the-wrong-side-of-crispy bacon, when Dean comes bounding into the kitchen. And he is bounding, that’s the only word for it, except perhaps skipping or – Sam would never say it out loud because it would absolutely guarantee An All Original Dean Winchester Ass-Kicking™ – but Dean’s basically prancing.

“Mornin,’ Sammy,” he says, flashing a wide, toothy grin and making a beeline for the coffeemaker. He’s just wearing his nasty-ass robe and there are honest to god slippers on his feet.

Sam stares at him. He frowns, looks over his shoulder in the general direction of the front door, then back to Dean again. “Did you go out last night?”

Dean frowns at him, starting to pour out his cup. “No? Why?”

“Uh, because,” Sam says. “You’ve got your I Just Got Lucky face on.”

Then something completely unexpected happens. Dean blanches.

Sam’s confusion is only growing; this is not at all the reaction he’s used to. Normally Dean can’t wait to divulge the gory details, just to try and make him squirm. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t – what are you talking about,” he sputters, his eyes wide and rather hunted. “This is, this is my, my normal face.”

“C’mon man. We’ve been living in each other’s pockets for a couple decades here. I know that face.” Sam starts looking at him, really looking, and then yep: there’s the shadow of a hickey, just peeking out from the collar of his t-shirt.

Sam’s about to needle him about it when Cas comes into the kitchen. “Good morning,” he says.

“Hey, morning Cas,” Sam says briefly, then looks back at Dean. He’s intent on resuming his interrogation, but then he stops.

Dean’s looking at Cas with panicked eyes, and his face shifts from white to red so fast it doesn’t even bother stopping at pink.

“What…” Sam starts, then he looks back at Cas, frowning. Everything seems fine; he looks normal.

But then Sam notices that his tie is on backwards.

Holy shit.

Cas is the night shift barista at a 24-hour Starbucks and Dean always comes to the drive through after the lobby is closed. Cas knows the Impala by sound and is kind of in love with Dean’s voice through the intercom and the brief smiles he gets when he hands him is late-night cup of joe. He never orders anything fancy so Cas doesn’t know why he keeps coming to this particular coffee shop. Probably just convenient.

After several weeks of this, Dean strikes up a conversation at the window. They start chatting about nothing for a few minutes every evening, swapping jokes and funny little stories about their daily lives. Cas starts writing things on Dean’s coffee cup, things he think will make him smile. Dean brings Cas a snack because Cas is sick of muffins.

Cas mentions this guy casually to the coworkers who work when he’s off, but they draw blanks. They might vaguely remember a guy in a cool car, but nothing else comes to mind. Cas can’t believe that he might be special or anything. 

Schedule and staffing changes require Cas to move to the morning shift. As happy as he is to get a little more regular sleeping hours, he misses the night shift when it was quiet and he had the place to himself and didn’t have to deal with the hurry-hurry-hurry of the morning crowd. But most of all he misses Dean. He liked their little private moments in the middle of the night. He doesn’t kid himself that he’ll ever see Dean again. It was a passing thing, nothing important. Nothing that could have gone anywhere anyway.

He tells himself that right up to the moment Dean is walking into the Starbucks, a little after the morning rush has died down, bleary-eyed and looking nervous. Dean grins at him, shy and pleased. Is he blushing? Cas thinks he might be blushing. Which, well, would only be fair, because Cas feels like his face is going to catch fire.

Dean orders his usual coffee. Cas wishes, not for the first time, that his usual was something more elaborate so that he could spend more time making it for him. Cas can’t control the way his heart races when their fingers brush around the heated paper cup.

He’s about to take his coffee and go when Cas opens his big fat mouth and asks, “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? I thought you worked nights too.”

Dean is definitely blushing when he laughs at himself before answering. “It’s stupid,” he says. “But, um. I asked what happened to the guy who used to work nights, and they told me you got switched to mornings. So. I, uh.”

Cas can feel his fingers trembling with his heartbeat. “So you came to see me?” he asks.

“Well when you put it like that,” Dean laughs, sipping at his hot beverage. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Cas can’t think of a single thing to say. His mind is a complete blank. But he can’t stand to watch Dean fidget, watch doubt and self-deprecation creep over his beautiful face, so he blurts out “I’m on break in ten minutes,” which isn’t technically supposed to be true but he can beg for coverage. “Will you still be here?”

Dean’s grin is brighter than the morning sun through the window. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be here.”

“I miss the handprint,” Cas blurts out one night. Dean watches as his face falls, like he instantly regrets saying it. Those bright blue eyes dart around nervously, like he wishes he still had the power to poof out of the bunker and just disappear.

“What, the handprint you left on my arm?” Dean asks, confused.

Cas nods, looking once again like he’s going against his better judgment, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He clears it and tries not to let his reaction show.

“Why would you miss that?” Dean asks.

Dean knows why he misses it. He misses the comfort it used to give him, the solace of knowing that someone saved him, that there was someone who would always save him, even if it meant literally fighting his way through Hell. And as long as he never discusses it with Cas, he can even pretend that it was a sign that Cas truly cares, and not just because it was his assigned duty once upon a time.

But why would Cas miss it?

“I…” Cas pauses and tilts his head as he considers his words. “It used to make me feel connected to you. Like you were m-” He closes his mouth abruptly. “Never mind. It isn’t important.”

Dean swallows hard, and with a heart pounding so loudly in his ears he can barely hear his own voice, he answers. “Like I was what, Cas? Like I was yours?”

Cas stares with wide eyes as he nods.

Dean steps forward, hands shaking a little, until their noses are almost touching.
“I am, Cas. Handprint or not, I’ve been yours.”

Cas exhales then like he’s been holding it in for a long time, and lets his hand run up Dean’s arm as he leans in, not stopping until his fingers settle in the place they belong.

“I think that if I ever met a mermaid, I’d want to talk with them about what it feels like to fly. I’m sure their swimming is a similar comparison.”

“Cas, you know mermaids don’t exist, right?” Dean said, a smile playing on his lips and one arm resting along Castiel’s shoulders. Cas rambling on about odd subjects while they lay in bed together was not an unusual occurrence, but an endlessly amusing one for Dean.

Castiel frowned and turned his head to look at Dean.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but I kind of come into contact with a lot creatures like that.” Dean shrugged his shoulders, gesturing at himself. “I think with all the hunters that have ever lived, one of us would have noticed if mermaids exist.”

“Not too long ago you would have said that angels didn’t exist.”

“Yeah, but -”

“And you do realize that you’re arguing with someone who has witnessed the creation of all of earth’s creatures since the beginning of time?”

“Um, I mean - I guess…”

“So, you can say with certainty - knowing that humans have only explored less than five percent of your world’s ocean - that there are absolutely no mermaids living there?”

Dean paused, snapping his mouth shut as he stared back at the angel, trying to read between the lines.

“Cas… are you implying that you know mermaids exist?”

Castiel’s amused smile faded into something more nonchalant as he sat up and stretched his arms above his head.

“I’m going to get a glass of water. Do you want anything?”

“Cas,” Dean leaned over to make a desperate grab at his arm to keep him in bed and missed, as Castiel had already stood up. “C’mon, Cas. Wait - are mermaids real??”

Castiel grinned and began putting on a robe, cinching it loosely around his waist.

The silence dragged on while Castiel walked over to the bedroom door, tugging it open and turning to glance over his shoulder agonizingly slowly.

“I’ll have to ask the Loch Ness Monster.”

The door shut behind him.

When Dean first tells Cas he loves him, it’s in the middle of a old diner, somewhere in Wisconsin. Sam is talking about the case they’re working, Cas is scarfing down a burger, and Dean can’t help but smile when ketchup gets stuck in the corner of Cas’s mouth.

Dean takes a bite out of his burger and chuckles. “I love you,” he blurts out with a big ol smile on his face.

Sam stops talking and Cas drops his burger.

“Did you just..?” Sam asks looking between the two.

Cas smiles and reaches his hand out across the table, palm up. Dean places his hand in Cas’s open palm and his green eyes dance when he feels Cas squeeze his hand.

“I love you too, Dean.” Cas says proudly.

Dean winks at Cas and turns to Sam. “So Sammy, you were saying you think it’s a ghoul?” He asks changing the subject.

Sam goes to question what just happened, but he knows better not to. So he dives back in and tells Dean and Cas about his theory on why he thinks they’re hunting a ghoul.

It happens in the middle of the kitchen, while Dean’s preparing a pot pie for dinner. He makes a joke – tasteful, and fucking clever, in his humble opinion, if someone were to ask – and by now, he knows he’ll only get disdainful looks, but he lets himself hope for a little indulgence from the guys. Dean turns to gauge their reactions from over his shoulder, getting that very look from Sam, who’s sprawled at the table, covering the surface with books and data. Then Dean looks at Cas and wiggles his eyebrows a bit, grinning and hoping for some other response, but not expecting, because it seems that no one in the bunker shares his wit. So he’s wholly unprepared for what follows.

Cas tosses his head back and laughs.

Dean’s too stunned to do more than stare.

Cas’s eyes and nose wrinkle, his grin wide and gummy – it’s the first time Dean has ever witnessed Cas like this, and god, he can’t take his eyes off him. Feels his heart stutter or stop or both; it’s warm and fluttery, and only increases in intensity. Cas has such a stupid laugh, and Dean loves everything about it.

When Cas eases into lingering chuckles, he gives Dean a smile that’s so filled with warmth and happiness. He just – he looks so good, leaning back against one of the counters, devastatingly handsome as always in loose-fitting jeans, a red threadbare tee, and bare feet. It shouldn’t be a surprise that, just so overcome with love and adoration for this man, this is the moment he finally makes his move. Dean stops what he’s doing, walks over to Cas, and grabs him by the face, forgetting that his hands are covered in flour and sticky dough. Then he kisses him right on the mouth, right there in the middle of the kitchen while Dean was making dinner. (Dean also forgot about Sam still being there, didn’t even bother to hesitate before making a move. He just went for it, because the love of his life just laughed at his joke and Dean loves him all the more and needed to kiss him.)

Cas stands still for only a brief second before he absolutely melts, making a soft noise and winding his fingers through Dean’s hair. Both of them are too caught up in each other to hear Sam’s indignant protest of Guys, we eat in here, but they do manage to control themselves – just barely, though.

As Dean pulls back from the kiss, Cas blinks a couple times, slightly dazed and like he’s in disbelief that happened. Then his eyes clear, and he grins wide again, all gummy and scrunchy. He lets out another laugh, this one softer and delighted, and he pulls Dean back in for more kisses.

Dinner is late, and this time Sam is giving his disdainful look to both Dean and Cas, who are rumpled and red-mouthed from a very thorough makeout session. They’re all happy, though, and the pot pie is delicious.

Cas cuddling up against Dean’s back as he sleeps, wrapping his arms around his waist and brushing the back of his neck with kisses, peppering them down his shoulders and up into his hairline. Cas breathing in the scent of Dean’s apple-cinnamon shampoo, and whispering ‘breakfast?’ into his dark hair. 

Dean shaking his head no, and pressing back against Cas’s warm body while hugging the blankets closer, murmuring ‘just five more minutes’ without even opening his eyes.

Cas smiling against Dean’s skin, wordlessly saying of course, because he’s held Dean all night while he slept, chased away his nightmares and waited patiently for him to wait up to start their day together. What’s five more minutes? Of course, Cas will wait.

It takes Cas weeks to make the mixtape.

He has to wait until Dean and Sam are sleeping, and he spends that first night just figuring out how Dean’s old boom box works.

And of course, all the music he has to choose from in the bunker already belongs to Dean, which he didn’t think about beforehand, so he has to spend another several nights making a list of all the music Dean already owns, then researching to find music to add to Dean’s collection.

And then it takes another few nights to settle on exactly the right songs, every single one chosen for a reason, a reason he hopes Dean will understand.

Buying the music and actually recording each song onto a blank tape is the easiest part of his endeavor, though it’s just as time consuming as the rest. It’s another week of stolen nights, hiding in a corner of the bunker he hopes they never use, pushing buttons over and over until he has a tape full of songs he hopes Dean will love.

“Here” he finally says, thrusting the tape at Dean the first second they’re alone.

He’s a little nervous, but he can’t stop the proud smile on his face. Surely Dean will love this as much as Cas loves the tape Dean made for him.

“What is this?” Dean’s staring down at the tape like he’s confused, even though it’s clearly labeled, and Cas’ nerves kick into high gear. Did he do something wrong?

“It’s-it’s a mixtape. Like the one you made me. I picked all the songs myself.”

Dean looks up to meet Cas’ eyes. “Did you use my tapes?”

Cas shakes his head. “No, I bought new music you didn’t already own.”

It takes a moment, and Cas isn’t sure what Dean’s facial expression means, but then he’s being pulled into Dean’s arms. He lands against Dean’s chest with a thud, has to pull his own arms out of Dean’s tight hold to hug him back.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean murmurs, so close to Cas’ ear that his breath tickles.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

Dean leads Cas to his bedroom, where they can listen to the songs Cas has chosen.

Where they can listen and laugh and be alone together.

Dean slowly realizes that Castiel’s vision is deteriorating. 

Or maybe it had never been all that great.

At least, his vessel’s vision isn’t great and all of that squinting Castiel does isn’t just squinting for the sake of squinting. Dean figures Jimmy may have worn glasses or contacts in his life that Cas had never bothered utilizing for whatever reason. 

He needs to hold his cell phone screen up closer to his face - then back - and then close again while trying to read text messages, all the while squinting.

Dean took him to the movie theater once just for the hell of it and had sat in the back row while Castiel had spent the whole time squinting and asking Dean which character was currently on screen,effectively sucking the fun out of that evening. 

Eventually, after enough evidence, Dean drags Castiel to an eye doctor because as adorable as they are, the squints were apparently a sign of visual impairment and not a constant state of confusion or suspicion.

Sure enough, Cas is blind as fuck and how he’d been getting around all these years is a miracle in itself.  

The doctor sets Cas up with a nice set of bold, black rims not too long after (which, first off, hell yeah) and Castiel actually fucking gasps when he slips them on and sees Dean clearly for the first time. 

“You’re beautiful.” Castiel murmurs, reaching out a hand to gently brush at the freckles along the bridge of Dean’s nose. 

Dean blushes profusely and gives an attempt at a sputter, but doesn’t say anything when Castiel stares at him in awe the entire ride home.

Every morning Castiel pads into the kitchen, brews a pot of coffee, and throws a couple slices of bread in the toaster.

When the toast pops up he spreads the butter on evenly and plops it on a plate. He then heads to the cupboard and pulls out three coffee mugs and pours the coffee into them.

Two black coffees and one with two sugars and a splash of cream.

He grabs the coffee mugs and plate of toast and makes his way to the library. Sam is already awake and sitting at the table with lore books scattered all over.

Cas drops off the plate of toast and a steaming cup of black coffee. Sam reaches for the toast, takes a bite and nods a thanks to Cas.

Cas smiles and makes his way down the hallway to Dean’s room. He gently pushes the door open and is greeted by a sleepy Dean sitting up in his bed.

Cas smiles brightly at him and enters the room. He hands Dean the coffee with two sugars and a splash of cream and takes his spot on the bed, right next to Dean.

Dean takes a sip of his coffee and sighs in contentment. He leans against Cas and places his head on his shoulder. “Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas smiles into his cup of coffee.

And that’s how they begin their mornings.

Dean had been adamant. No resolutions this year for himself. They were dumb, anyways. Dean had it pretty good. Him and Cas were finally sharing a room in the bunker- Dean had half expected Sam to say something about it but wasn’t that surprised when he didn’t.

He didn’t feel the need to make any sort of promise to “better” himself. What New Year’s resolution would he have, anyways? Exercise more? Drink less?

Not happening.

But Cas had insisted on making resolutions for himself, despite Dean’s criticism. He had been so excited when he found an idea on Pinterest about making a jar full of little resolutions, and sat at the big dining table with scrap-booking scissors and a big glass mason jar.

Of course, Dean teased him at first but then he really began wondering how Cas could have so many resolutions. The jar was nearly half full by the time he put his scissors away and sealed the jar up. He set it on the mantle next to the TV at 11:50, before settling down with Dean and Sam to watched the ball drop.

But Cas ended up falling asleep a few minutes after twelve. Dean carried him off to bed, kissing his forehead and tucking the covers up to his chin.

Then his curiosity got the better of him and he went back to look at Cas’s Resolution jar.

What a cute fucking dork.

He felt slightly guilty about opening it and snooping, but when he unfolded the first piece of paper and read what it said, his heart melted-

#27: kiss Dean more.

Even though Dean knew nobody was around to see him, he was embarrassed at the heat creeping up his neck.

#39: make breakfast in bed for Dean someday

#13: learn to make burgers

#40: shower sex

Dean was overwhelmed by a wave of sudden love for Cas. His resolutions were all ways to do kind things for Dean.

So Dean had an idea.

When Cas woke up in the morning, he padded barefoot into the bunker dining room to have breakfast and some coffee but suddenly turned his head, noticing something.

There was a second mason jar sitting beside his Resolution Jar on the mantle place.

He squinted, curious at what it could be. There was only one piece of paper inside, and it looked like it was ripped from the corner of a piece of notebook paper.

Cas opened the jar and unfurled the piece of paper.

#1: Love Cas better.

Dean really likes the new coat.

Like, really likes it.

He likes the way it sits across Cas’ shoulders, fitted and tight but not so tight that it bunches. It tapers in, just a little, at the waist, and when Cas holds his arm in just the right way, Dean can see the holy-hot-damn curve of his bicep, lightly defined, even through the fabric.

It’s a bit longer than the old one, and it’s got this really, really damn nice flow to it when Cas walks around. There’s a weight to it.

Dean likes the fabric, too. He likes the darker colour, the way it looks next to the new, blue tie. He likes the heavier feel, the way the canvas catches on the calluses of his fingertips.

What he likes most, though, are the lapels. He likes how damn… grabbable they are. He likes – he loves – fisting his hands in them, curling his fingers into the thick fabric and yanking Cas in.

He loves holding Cas in place, just so, and kissing him within an inch of his life.

There are some things Dean and Sam just don’t talk about. Things that would be weird or uncomfortable, things that can be ignored for the sake of keeping the peace. Sam never mentions the folder of kinky porn he found on Dean’s laptop. Dean never mentions the stress relieving facial mud mask and bath oils Sam keeps under his sink. And they never talk about Cas.

Sam doesn’t mention it the first time Dean makes a dirty joke, and Cas blinks at them in confusion.

“But Dean, last night you said you very much enjoyed when I-”

Dean starts talking over him, cutting him off, and Sam pretends not to have noticed anything strange.

Sam doesn’t say anything when he hears them through Dean’s closed door one night, relaxed laughter floating down the hallway into Sam’s room, followed soon by not-so-relaxed moaning. Sam just shuts his door, then invests in some noise canceling headphones.

Sam doesn’t tease them when Cas starts wearing Dean’s t-shirts around the bunker. The old faded cotton shits, with pictures of Dean’s favorite bands, are just a tiny bit too big for the angel, but he looks so happy in them that Sam can’t find the heart to even make a joke.

Sam keeps it to himself when he notices the two of them always sitting on the same side of the booth in diners and restaurants, their arms pressing against each other and disappearing under the table, where they are no doubt holding hands. Sam orders dessert so they can sit a little longer.

And Sam doesn’t say a word the morning Cas comes into the bunker kitchen, hair wild and mussed, a beaming smile on his face and a silver ring on his left hand. He just gets up, finds Dean in the garage where he is working on the Impala, and wraps his older brother in a hug. Dean’s cheeks flush, but he simply nods when Sam finally pulls away.

And that gesture is enough. There are some things they don’t need to talk about.

First Impressions



Castiel works as a teller at his local bank, and Dean is a new mystery customer that brings in a wad of cash and crumpled singles once a week to deposit into his account.

Working as a bank teller was definitely a unique and interesting experience - and one that Castiel generally enjoyed.

Of course, there were always the customers that raised hell when they walked through the door, complaining about incorrect overdraft fees or loan interests, but for the most part, the people were pleasant and Castiel didn’t mind plastering a smile onto his face for five or six hours at a time.

He and the other tellers had their favorite customers that they always talked about, whether for the entertainment factor, or because they genuinely liked them.

There was the nice old woman who always updated the teller on her grandson’s theater career; the middle aged man who generally arrived drunk and so sure that he was a millionaire even though he wasn’t; the college-aged girl who came in with a different hair color every time; and a younger man who kept trying to convince the teller that he was haunted.

Yes, Castiel was sure that he’d seen it all - and then one day, Dean Winchester came through his line.

The moment Castiel looked up as the new face approached the counter, he was thrown off. Sandy and deliberately coiffed hair framed a perfectly symmetrical face that he was sure he’d seen on a famous statue in some museum or another. Soft green eyes blinked at him with an even softer smile as he leaned forward against the counter and tilted his head.

“Hey,” the man said, his voice almost as smooth as the marble his arms were resting against.

“Hello.” Castiel cleared his throat and smiled, praying to God that it looked natural. “How can I help you today, sir?”

The man pulled out his ID and slid it across the counter.

Dean Winchester, it read.

Keep reading

It’s a sunday when Cas gives up his grace. He and Dean are sleeping in and the angel is tickling his husband’s naked back, drawing Enochian symbols in his skin with a lazy finger. Cas does this sometimes. Writes poems no one will ever hear, etched into Dean’s skin. Sometimes Dean will ask what Cas writes. Sometimes Cas will tell him.

But then, there are other times when Cas sends words of adoration to his hunter that don’t translate. Language that only an angel could understand.

But always, there is one symbol Cas ends with. It’s curved with soft unbroken lines, and it reminds Cas of an ocean wave, beautiful and strong. Like Dean.

“Tell me,” Dean whispers.

Cas smiles. He scoots closer, but still leaves room between their bodies for him to work and slots a bare foot between Dean’s calves.

“Today, I’m writing about your eyes. Your skin,” then, Cas’s hand runs up the back of Dean’s neck as he thumbs the bristles of hair. He kisses the spot softly, pulling back as he feels Dean shiver.

“Your hair,” Cas says softly.

He can’t see Dean smiling, but he knows he is when Dean scoots back into Cas’s arms, letting the angel wrap around him until they are back to chest, breaths unified.

And, this close, Cas sees it in the morning light, the soft, gray hair peeking out behind the hunter’s ear. He touches it, lovingly, the little symbol of time and growth and the fleeting moments he has with the man he loves. So small compared to the length of his existence, but more than anything has ever meant to him before.

He and Dean haven’t talked about it—the point when immortality and mortality will become important for them. But, they both know. Cas thinks of it as he traces the beautiful wave on Dean’s back. The symbol of the fallen angel.

He’s been carving himself into Dean’s back this whole time they’ve been together. Creating permanence below the hard cut of the hunter’s shoulder blades.

It’s just a Sunday. Not a special day with any kind of significance. But Dean is here, and the sun is shining through the windows like a blanket, and he suddenly knows that today is the day.

So, with a steady hand, he takes a breath. And, he calls his grace to the tips of his fingers.

“I love you, Dean,” he whispers.

Then, he’s placing his palm along the place on Dean’s back that holds their poems and stories. Slotting it in the space where he traced the story of the fallen angel who loved his hunter so much that he would give him anything in the whole world. Even part of himself. Slowly, he lets his grace float from him into the hunter, pouring from the angelic vessel that could hold it, into the human he loves where the grace will finally dwindle, diminish and die without its host.

It’s a death of its own as he watches the stories of his millions of years as an angel slowly disappear with the dying of his timelessness.

It’s painful, raw and beautiful. And, when the final bits of his grace descend into Dean, Cas is shaking, crying silently with the wonder of it all.

He’s staring at Dean’s back, watching as his shoulders raise and lower with every breath, the hunter sighing contentedly unaware of the sacred space the two of them just created.

Cas smiles, pulling the hunter to him and kissing his back with reverence, letting his tears fall silently on the pillow.

It’s just an ordinary Sunday. But in this moment, Cas knows that it’s the happiest day of his life.