Dean’s always prided himself on his need for speed mentality on the road. Flying down the freeway? No problem. Figure eights? Cake.
…But zipping away from the Bunker at 120mph on the back of a ’56 Indian is a different story. This isn’t really because he has an aversion to motorcycles themselves, but more that he’s terrified of the way Cas leans into his turns.
Dean squeezes Castiel’s middle tightly, heart caught in his throat as they hug the edge of the road. He hears Cas shout something from inside his helmet, and hopes to fuck it’s an exclamation of joy. He shuts his eyes just in case.
They’re on the road for about an hour, just driving around backcountry roads and zipping through fields, and by the time they’re entering the Bunker garage, Dean’s fingers are white and stiff from how tightly he’s been gripping Cas’s jacket. He stumbles off the bike with a faint, echoing sense of relief and pulls off his helmet, unzipping his jacket and flexing his fingers. “So, how’d you—”
Dean’s words trip over his tongue.
Cas has pulled off his own helmet, his longer hair flopping every which way as he shakes out the sweat-drenched strands. He tucks the helmet between his side and his arm before using his teeth to pull of his gloves, tugging down the zipper to his tight leather jacket. He looks over with the goofiest, biggest Cas-smile Dean has maybe ever seen.
When their eyes meet, Castiel smiles even bigger. “What?” he asks.
And yeah, he may drive like a yahoo. And Dean may worry himself sick until Cas gets off the damn bike, but he looks so—happy. He looks so happy.
Dropping his own gear on a nearby shelf, Dean strides towards Castiel and grabs his face, planting a kiss squarely on his mouth. When he pulls away, Cas is dazed. “What…?”
“Uh,” Dean huffs through a quiet laugh. “You’re…” He brushes a thumb over Cas’s bottom lip. “You’re a good flyer, Cas.”
Cas blushes under the praise, leaning in to apply a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. When he moves back, it’s with a head tilt towards the bike.
“Thanks for giving me my wings.”