“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.
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’?”
“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.”