Dean should’ve known something was wrong when the eerie silence settled over the house. Calm before the storm or some shit like that. Plus since when is the Winchester house quiet?
One second he’s holding a beer and the next a sound that can only be described as a high-frequency shriek pierces through the room. The bottle shatters to pieces in his hand, the shards of glass and last remains of liquid falling unceremoniously in his lap, and the lightbulb in the closest lamp explodes spectacularly.
Dean doesn’t even have time to reach for his ears, to try and protect his eardrums from busting, before the sound stops, replaced instead by the sounds of two small, guilty voices speaking in increasingly frantic whispers down the hall.
“What the hell guys,” he calls as a warning, pushing himself up from his chair in the living room, huffing at the twinkle of glass hitting the floor. He’ll deal with it as soon as he makes sure his children haven’t committed some sort of felony.
Dean should've known something was wrong when the eerie silence settled over the house. Calm before the storm or some shit like that. Plus since when is the Winchester house quiet?
One second he's holding a beer and the next a sound that can only be described as a high-frequency shriek pierces through the room. The bottle shatters to pieces in his hand, the shards of glass and last remains of liquid falling unceremoniously in his lap, and the lightbulb in the closest lamp explodes spectacularly.
Dean doesn't even have time to reach for his ears, to try and protect his eardrums from busting, before the sound stops, replaced instead by the sounds of two small, guilty voices speaking in increasingly frantic whispers down the hall.
"What the hell guys," he calls as a warning, pushing himself up from his chair in the living room, huffing at the twinkle of glass hitting the floor. He'll deal with it as soon as he makes sure his children haven't committed some sort of felony.
As he stalks down the hall towards the source of the noise, he tries not to smile at the way the bickering voices swell into a heated argument.
"You said it wouldn't hurt!"
"Well you said you weren't a baby!"
"I'm not a baby!"
"Hey," Dean calls again, this time softer as he approaches the bathroom where Jack and Claire have clearly holed themselves up. The door is mostly closed, though when Dean presses his hand to the thing, it swings open easily.
"What the hell is going on in here?" are the first words out of Dean's mouth, but with a few quick glances between the two, he can pretty much figure it out. Claire's got a sewing needle in one hand, a bloody tissue in the other, and Jack's eyes are big and wet with tears as he holds a hand up against one of his ears, shielding it from Dean's sight.
The two exchange a guilty look and Dean waits for the blame game to start.
It never does, though, because his kids don't snitch.
Instead, Claire smoothly pulls her hands behind her back, a sense of calm smoothing over her features.
"Nothing," her voice is cool and collected as she shrugs one shoulder, "Jack got stung by a bee. I was helping him get the stinger out."
To anyone else, she might have been able to pull off such a lie. She was dangerously good at it, which Dean knew was partially his fault.
Dean shot her a look, then turned to Jack, eyebrow raised in question. The kid may not be a snitch, but he also wasn’t a liar, his bottom lip quivering as he looked from Dean to his sister and back again. His loyalty seemed to lie with Claire for the moment, but he couldn’t bring himself not to answer.
"Claire," he pleads as he turns back to her, quietly begging her to release him from having to lie.
She rolls her eyes begrudgingly, bringing her hands back out in front of her. "He said he wanted his ear pierced like mine. I thought he could handle it," she huffed out, shooting Jack an accusatory look as she adds, "I didn't realize he was going to try and blow my eardrums out."
"I didn't mean to!" Jack's response comes quick, a flood of emotion and a few tears letting loose now that the truth was out. "You said it wouldn't hurt but I thought you would count or something. You didn't give me any warning that you were going," he cried in her direction, then turned his round face up to Dean, murmuring sadly, "I didn't mean to."
Dean hums his displeasure but reaches one arm out towards Jack. Jack gladly takes the invitation and crashes against him, burying his face into Dean's chest. He's not crying so much as shuddering, and Dean suspects that it's more from shock and embarrassment than from pain. When Dean looks at Claire over Jack's shoulder, the girl rolls her eyes and murmurs, "Such a crybaby."
"I'm not," Jack murmurs into Dean's shirt.
"Enough," Dean quiets both of them, rubbing Jack's back for a moment before tapping it gently, "Come on, let me see."
Jack takes a step back, his face miserable as he takes one last look at Claire before moving his hand away from his ear. Dean puts a hand under his chin and turns the kid's face to get a better look. There's a little bit of fresh blood smeared and the skin underneath is bright pink around the spot where a stud with a gold star has been shoved through his ear.
"That's not so bad, kiddo. I think you'll live," he teases assuredly, rubbing a thumb across Jack's cheek absently as he looks to Claire, asking, "Please tell me you sterilized this earring before you put it in his ear."
She rolls her eyes again, the picture of teenage scorn. "I'm not stupid," she huffs, gesturing towards a lighter balanced on the edge of the counter.
He shakes his head, tempted to point out that the very fact that they were in this situation meant she and Jack were both a little stupid, but decided against it. Didn't need to kick 'em while they were already down.
"No more piercing in this house. If anyone wants anything pierced, they're going to a professional," he says, looking first at Claire then at Jack, this time directing the question to him. "Why didn't you come to me in the first place instead of asking your sister to mutilate you, huh?"
Jack leans back against the counter, looking first to Claire and then down at his feet.
"Because you would've said no."
The heavy sadness in Jack's voice was enough to tug at Dean’s heartstrings, and now he was the one looking guiltily from Jack to Claire. She shrugged one shoulder again, effectively agreeing with Jack's assessment.
The worst part was that Dean knew they were right. If Jack had asked him to go and get his ear pierced, would he have actually been supportive? No. No, he probably would've balked and sent him on his way, which probably would've landed them right back in this situation. Maybe on a good day he would've deferred to Cas, but then Cas would come back with the question of whether they should allow it or not and Dean's gut reaction would be no.
"Alright," Dean concedes, shuffling his feet slightly before saying, "I don't want you to be afraid to ask for things, okay? Either of you." His gaze shifts between them, his stern dad-voice softening as he continues, "Even if you think I'm gonna say no, I'd rather you ask me first so we can have a discussion about it."
They both nod slightly and Dean gives them a half-smirk, adding, "Besides, if you really think I'm gonna say no, go to Cas first. You know he's a total pushover with you guys, and if you get him on your side first, then it'll be two against one when you have to bring it up to me."
This brings easy smiles back to their faces as they nod and agree because when it comes to their kids, Cas is a total pushover.
"Good," Dean nods, taking a step back as he looks between them again, "Claire, clean your brother up while I clean up the glass all over the living room, alright? Then we can do something that doesn't involve either of you bleeding out in the bathroom, like watch a movie."
The kids exchange a look, before Claire pipes up, "But we're not done."
Dean raises an eyebrow again, looking from her to Jack, waiting for an explanation.
"Claire has three," Jack says sheepishly, pointing at his sister's ear which does, in fact, have three piercings crawling up its side.
Dean takes a deep breath to consider how exactly he's supposed to respond to that. When he finally comes up with it, the answer seems simple enough. "Fine. Clean up in here, I'll clean up out there, then we'll go to the mall," Dean gives in.
This seems to light them both up, Claire bouncing on her toes. "If he's getting more piercings I want a new one too," she beams, quickly scurrying to wet a fresh towel and wiping tenderly at Jack's ear.
"Fine," Dean concedes again, nodding, "You can get one too."
She pumps her fist victoriously and Jack beams at both of them, offering, "And Dean, you can get one too."
This suggestion delights Claire and the entire drive to the mall they're both chattering excitedly about what kind of ear piercing Dean can get, despite the fact that he refuses to entertain the conversation.
When Cas returns home that night from his day trip to a plant nursery one state over, his smile is a carbon copy of the one illuminating the faces of his son and daughter as they trip over themselves to show off their new ear piercings, including the matching gold hoop hanging from each of their right ear lobes.
It’s all Dean can think about as he gets up and starts his day. Rubbing the restless sleep from his eyes, trudging through the quiet halls of the bunker, pouring himself a cup of coffee, sitting himself down in front of his laptop and the same pile of books as the day before.
Six months on the same case, the same question with no answer.
It's all Dean can think about as he gets up and starts his day. Rubbing the restless sleep from his eyes, trudging through the quiet halls of the bunker, pouring himself a cup of coffee, sitting himself down in front of his laptop and the same pile of books as the day before.
Six months on the same case, the same question with no answer.
How do we get him back?
Jack joins him at the table first, a quiet "good morning" murmured as he opens a notebook where he's been recording his research. Some mornings he's more cheerful, bounding in with enough optimism that it's contagious, but today isn't one of those days. He quietly reviews his notes from yesterday before cracking one of the books on his stack.
Sam and Eileen swing by an hour later with donuts, which is a nice gesture, even if Dean's stomach is too sour to really enjoy the taste of the maple bar he plucks from the box.
At least the kid seems happy, carefully choosing an unnaturally pink donut with colorful sprinkles to munch on while he reads.
They make some small talk, mostly about what today's leads are and who is researching what. At one point Eileen puts a hand on Dean's back and rubs a soft circle over his tense shoulders, but mercifully she doesn't ask him to talk about what he's feeling.
Because what he's feeling is failure. What he's feeling is shame and loneliness and fear.
What he's feeling is a loss of hope.
"Dean?"
When he looks up from his laptop, the donuts and coffee have been cleared and replaced with a bowl of pretzels and bottles of Gatorade.
"Yeah bud?" he says blearily in Jack's direction, rubbing his face to distract from the way he's made himself wince. Bud. Buddy.All the stupid fucking names I called him.
There's no answer and it's only when Dean drops his hand away from his eyes that he sees why.
In Jack's hand is an envelope with Dean scrawled across the front. The handwriting is familiar enough to send Dean's heart racing.
His eyes dart from the envelope up to Jack's face with an unspoken question.
"I was saying I grabbed this tome because I think I have a lead on a combination of sigils that seems promising," Jack smiles timidly as he taps the large book in front of him with his free hand, "And this was tucked into the pages."
This time, Dean's eyes look from the envelope to Sam, trying to suss out if he knows anything about what it contains. His brother shrugs and shakes his head.
So he turns his attention back to Jack, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to take the envelope. "Good find, Jack," he murmurs quietly as he pushes himself from his seat, giving them all a weak smile as he excuses himself from the room.
When he's in his room, the door closed to separate him from his family, Dean tears the envelope open. He pulls out a few delicately folded pieces of lined paper, the careful handwriting a perfect match to his name scrawled across the front.
Dear Dean,
Just reading the greeting makes him dizzy and he has to sit down, perching himself on the end of his bed and bracing himself for whatever may come next.
Dear Dean,
It's a Sunday night and as I'm writing this, you have just said good night and gone to bed. But before you left the room, you looked at Jack and then you looked at me and you said, "Today was a really good day."
It was a good day. It was the best day.
And for some reason, I just thought I needed to write it down. I don't think you get to live in the good days enough. I don't think you memorialize the times where you get to just enjoy your life. So I thought maybe if I wrote it down, you could look back fondly and remember this good day. Some day.
Dean's vision is already blurring at the edges but he continues reading.
It was a slow day – or as you called it a "do nothing day". We don't have any cases at the moment and all of the longterm problems seem to be just distant enough that we've collectively decided on a day off.
Over breakfast, Sam informed us that he and Eileen had made plans for the day, though he wouldn't elaborate, no matter how much you prodded him. When you gave up trying to get him to reveal his plan, you turned your attention to Jack and I instead, asking us what we wanted to do.
Of course I defaulted to Jack and, of course, he defaulted to me, but when we finally got him to choose what he wanted, he said simply that he wanted to drive until we saw something new, something he'd never seen before. He's wonderful that way.
I expected you to put up a front or maybe tease him a little the way you do, to prompt him to give a more solid suggestion, but you didn't. You just smiled at him and said that sounded as good as any other plan.
Then Jack looked at me, thrilled, and said "Shotgun?" – the end tilted up like a question, as if he was asking permission to call it.
You laughed and put a hand on my shoulder, saying "he's learning" with something like pride in your voice and I wished there was something I could say. But there wasn't, so I just smiled.
I couldn't tell you both that I didn't mind sitting in the backseat of your car when he's riding in the passenger seat. I couldn't say that when I watch the back of your heads turned toward each other as the two of you speak over the radio, it helps me remember that there was a time you two existed together without me before. Reminds me that you two will be together without me when I go.
We drove down a long highway with no particular destination in sight, enjoying each other's company and the pleasant weather. I still don't know if you had a plan of where you were taking us or if you were really just waiting until something caught Jack's eye.
After a couple hours or so, something did, though I think you were starting to pull over before he even saw it.
"'Pick Ur Own Strawberries'," he read the words off the hand-painted sign, looking to you then back over the seat at me, "We should do that!"
I agreed that it sounded fun and your answer was slowing to a stop just in front of the roadside stand, a small smile on your face even as you made some grumbling comment about Sam and his penchant for fresh fruit.
We spoke to the woman at the stand and she gave us each small baskets, though you handed yours off to Jack so that he had two. Then Jack led us through the strawberry patch, stopping every couple of feet to bend down and pick the strawberries that he liked. I would follow just behind, pointing out ones he missed or filling my own small basket with the berries he purposely left on the vine for me.
You acted with your usual bravado, too cool or too masculine to do something you deemed childish or soft, but at one point I could see that you realized you were missing out on some part of the experience, so I handed you my basket and we switched places without saying a word.
It was so easy, so nice to be together like that. No threat of horror hanging over head, just you and me and Jack.
At one point I looked over and you two were studying a perfectly formed strawberry. You had it held between your thumb and your forefinger, the sun casting light over your heads so that you both looked golden. You said something that made Jack laugh and then you looked up at me in all your glorious triumph, your smile brilliant, and I wanted to say, "This is what I want. I want you and I want this for us, forever."
But I didn't. I couldn't, for fear of what might happen. If the Empty came to take me – not in front of Jack.
I hope that if it happens – when it happens – Jack isn't there to see it.
When we'd all finished, we brought our baskets up to the stand and paid for our gatherings, the woman handing over a scratch-and-sniff sticker to Jack who enthusiastically displayed it on his sleeve.
He walked in front of us on the way back to the car, his bag of strawberries swaying gently at his side.
You put your hand on my shoulder and looked over at me with this warm, satisfied look on your face and I just thought 'He must know. He has to know that I love him more than I ever thought possible, that every day I love him more than the day before.'
And when the thought crossed my mind that maybe you didn't know, I almost told you. Almost.
I hate the deal I made. I hate the way it looms over me because I see these glimpses of happiness with you and all I want is to say it – even if you told me you didn't feel the same, even if you told me you could never feel the same.
We drove home the way we came, though this time the Impala was filled with the fragrant scent of fruit as we took turns picking berries from the bag and eating them joyfully. You said you'd never knew fruit could taste so good.
When we arrived back at the bunker, we set some aside in the fridge for Sam, then continued gorging ourselves on strawberries as we watched a movie (Jack's turn to pick – he chose Shrek).
What if every day could be like this? What if there's a life for us outside of cosmic wars and supernatural crusades?
Maybe you'll find this letter before I ever tell you about the deal and we'll find some loophole to fight our way out of it. Maybe you'll never find it at all and this overly long letter will be lost forever.
But if you do find it, whether I've worked up the nerve to tell you in person or not, I think you deserve to know how much I love you, Dean. If I could document every day that made you feel good, every moment that made you happy, just so you could remember that you deserve to feel good and you deserve to feel happy, I would. I'd dedicate my life to making you understand how worthy of love you are.
Maybe I already have.
So I love you, Dean Winchester. For as long as I've known you and until the end of time, I love you.
Yours always,
Cas
The sheets of paper shake in Dean's hand as he reads and rereads the last few lines, only stopping when he realizes he's crying – because if the stupid tears fall on the page, they'll ruin the words Cas has inked there.
He won't ruin another thing of Cas's.
He remembers the day that Cas described, remembers the sun on his face and his fingers in the dirt as he knelt down next to Jack. He remembers the way Cas's blue eyes looked in the rearview mirror, scrunched up from smiling so much.
He remembers how extraordinarily, stupidly happy he was that day. How happy he was with Cas.
And he lets it all out in racking sobs, the letter dropped to the bedspread. He puts his head in his hands and cries the same way he did six months ago, letting the grief and defeat consume him for a long moment.
A few minutes later, when the worst of it has passed, he wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands and his face with his jacket sleeve. When he's sure his hands are dry, he folds the papers back the way he found them, placing them back in the envelope with care. He places the envelope in the drawer of his nightstand, taking one last look at his name so lovingly written across the front before sliding it shut.
As he exits his room, rubbing at his face again to try and clear the evidence of what he's gone through, he expects to return to a room full of pitiful faces, their sympathy oozing out of them. It's almost too much to bear.
Instead, when he crosses the threshold he sees a flurry of activity, Sam scribbling something with one hand and sloppily signing with the other as Eileen nods, pointing to a different piece of the paper excitedly. Jack is hovering over the tome from before, reading off some passage that sounds ancient.
When he hears Dean come in, Jack whirls around to face him, a euphoric joy spilled out over his face. "Dean!" He throws himself against Dean hard, his arms pulling tight against Dean's body. When he pulls away, he nods, "I think we found it."
"What?" Dean's throat is tight with disbelief, his eyes still burnt out from crying.
Jack is practically bouncing on his toes, looking from Dean to Sam and Eileen to the book again. "Where the envelope was, in the book, a new translation of that last spell combined with different sigils," he says excitedly, the most energized he's been in months, "I think we found a way to get Cas back!"
His name spoken aloud for the first time in days, maybe weeks, is enough to jolt Dean into belief. If they weren't sure, if Sam and Eileen weren't absolutely sure, they wouldn't be scrambling the way they are now.
And if Cas had left the envelope in that specific place on purpose, then he must have believed it could have been a solution too.
"Alright," Dean says, clearing his throat and moving back to his spot at the table. "What do we do?"
"I spy with my little eye something that is...pink.”
The words cut through the soft rumble of the Impala’s engine as they roar down some two lane highway. On either side of the road, farmland stretches out as far as the eye can see. The few breaks in the scenery have come from the small towns that they breeze through every fifty miles or so, but for now they’re in the thick of the country, with nothing but crops and pastures to fill the space in between.
The tape deck is broken and the radio is too far out in the boonies to pick up anything but various church sermons, so they’ve been riding in comfortable silence for the last hour and a half. Until Cas speaks up, of course.
“Pink?” Dean replies incredulously, any severity in his tone cancelled out by the amused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Pink,” Cas repeats, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them. His lips twitch too, but he makes an effort to smooth them out before glancing over at Dean, nodding sincerely.
Dean looks over at him and tries not to give away how delighted he is that Cas has decided to start a game.
Over the years, when they’d spent an inordinate amount of time on the road, traveling to and from hunts, there had been a few chances to teach some of the good ol’ American car games of his youth to the angel. While Cas had found the license plate game tedious, and didn’t enjoy the casual violence of slug bug, he’d been quick to catch on with I spy. Once he’d gotten the mechanics of the game down (the primary rules he struggled with being “you have to choose from the range of colors that humans can see” and “you can’t choose something you saw two hours ago”), Cas had loved it.
Dean sweeps his eyes over the road, noting that there’s no one on the road anywhere near them, which rules out other cars or items inside other cars. The farmland to the left seems to be entirely comprised of cornfields, the tall height of them reminding Dean of some old horror movie. He looks to the right hand side of the road, taking stock of a rolling pasture dotted with fluffy sheep and–
“Cow’s nose,” Dean answers triumphantly, adjusting his gaze so that he can look at Cas’s face for confirmation that he got it on the first try.
The confirmation doesn’t come automatically. If anything, Cas seems to hesitate for a long moment. Those impossibly blue eyes turn to meet his gaze and Dean thinks that for the briefest flash of a second, they drop to glance at his lips.
Then Cas is looking him in the eyes again, a slight nod of concession. “A cow’s nose,” he says softly, clearing his throat as he adds, “It would’ve been more accurate to say the nose of the female Holstein calf, approximately eight months old, just over 400 pounds, with a marking like a cloud on her head about a quarter of a mile back. But I suppose you still get that one.”
Dean huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he nods, “Yeah, I think I still get that one.”
He looks back at the road, but can still feel Cas’s eyes on him. Before he can ask why, the angel prompts, “It’s your turn.”
Dean nods, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he scans the scenery again. Nothing jumps out at him right away, the competitive voice in his head pointing out that everything in sight is the same three colors and way too easy to guess.
He’s still searching for something as he starts, “I spy something...”
“With your little eye,” Cas prompts.
Dean looks at him pointedly. “I spy, with my little eye,” he emphasizes, which earns a satisfied smile from his passenger, “Something that is...”
His voice trails off because he blinks and the only color in the world is the color of Cas’s eyes.
“Blue,” he exhales, forcing his eyes back to the road ahead and fixing them on the black asphalt. If he looks over at Cas again he’ll give himself away in more ways than one and he can’t handle that thought.
A sound of consideration.
“The sky?”
Dean thinks he should just say yes, but he never chooses something so easy, so he shakes his head.
Another sound of consideration. Dean thinks for a second that if he listens hard enough he can hear the sound of Cas tilting his head to the side, furrowing his brows.
“That mailbox?”
Dean hadn’t even seen the mailbox Cas is talking about. He shakes his head.
The next pause is long enough that it draws Dean’s intrigue and even though he’s begging himself not to do it, he looks over anyway. Of course Cas is staring right back at him and of course is head is tilted in just the way Dean thought it would be.
“My tie?” Cas asks, the tone of his voice more searching than before, as if this is the last possible option he can come up with.
Again, Dean knows the easy way out would be to just say yes, but he can’t get himself to. He doesn’t like cheating at games, at least not when he’s playing with Cas.
So he shakes his head.
There’s another impossibly long pause and Dean has to cut in, his eyes fixed ahead of him again as he asks, “Give up?”
Usually Cas is more stubborn, will keep on guessing for as long as it takes to get it, even if Dean has grown sick of the game. But this time he seems to want the answer as much as Dean doesn’t want to give it.
“I give up,” Cas concedes, his eyes burning a hole in the side of Dean’s head as he asks, “What is it?”
Dean hesitates, his brain’s last ditch effort to conceive of an out, but he gets nowhere.
“Your eyes,” Dean says, punctuating the answer with a hard swallow.
The sound of consideration again and Dean can’t make out Cas’s reaction from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse.
Either way, the game is over and they ride the rest of the way in silence.
not to be like fully 2013 on main but there MUST be a destiel hunger games au! somewhere right?? like...dean volunteers when sam is reaped, he and cas are unlikely allies turned lovers etc etc
for a long time, even after the nature of your relationship has changed, you wonder if he’ll ever really touch you in public.
of course he claps his hand on your shoulder, and of course he nudges your elbow with his, but they’re all safe, familial touches. they’re the same kind of physical gestures he uses with sam or with jack.
comfortable, familiar, and while they are loving, because everything he does is with love, they are not affectionate touches. not the way they are in private.
and you really don’t need more from him. having him in your life at all has been everything and more, so public displays of affection aren’t necessary to prove anything to you.
still, sometimes you see couples holding hands or pressed against each other’s bodies and you wonder.
then one day, it just happens.
you’re in a crappy little bar with him, a place for him to stretch his legs because he’s been driving all day and the two of you have another six hours to go before you make it home. he’s not even drinking a beer, he's chugging a soda and devouring a bacon cheeseburger. you remind him that you aren’t in any rush, he doesn’t have to speed through his meal, but you know he’s just itching to get back to the bunker.
ever since the two of you began sharing his bed, he’s preferred it to random motel beds. you have to admit, you like falling asleep in his bed, in his room, too. it’s become your sanctuary, your home.
after the meal is finished and the check is paid, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. while he’s gone, you hum along to the song playing from the jukebox.
when he gets back, he pats his jacket pockets, assuring himself that his keys are where he left them, as he asks, “ready?”
“ready,” you nod, pushing yourself back from the table and raising to meet him.
as you turn towards the door, his left hand is in your right hand, his fingers locking with yours as he starts to say something about how he can probably get them back to the bunker in four and a half hours if he really pushes it.
you’re so startled, you almost don’t get to enjoy the warmth of his palm pressed against yours, something that until now you’ve only experienced in the privacy of your home.
when you glance over at him cautiously, careful not to spook him into pulling away, you can see the thoughts swirling through his head. you can see the anxiety rooted in a deep, dark fear, but you can also see how he’s working against it too. you can see that he wants to be at ease, even if he isn’t entirely there yet.
it makes you smile.
which makes him smile, makes the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears blush. he doesn’t look over though.
“don’t look at me like that,” he huffs as he pushes the door open with his free hand, using his grip on your hand to guide you outside. he follows you out, your hands never breaking from each other’s.
“like what?” you ask, even though you know what he means.
“you know like what,” he says, then goes back to detailing his plan of using some shortcut that will somehow get them home faster.
it’s only a few more moments before you’re back at the impala, but he hesitates for a second before he lets go of your hand, slipping around the front of the car to the driver’s seat. you slide into the passenger side, your smile even wider now.
he glances over at you as he starts the car and pretends to roll his eyes.
“stop it, cas,” he tries to put on that act he does, as if he hasn’t just changed your world again.
you consider pointing out that that was the first time he’s held your hand in public, but you know that he knows. and you know if you make a big deal of it or call too much attention to it, he may not try again for a long time.
so you don’t mention it. instead you let your smile soften and murmur, “i love you, dean.”
his blush deepens, his smile breaks through his facade, and he looks down and away to try and hide these things from you. but you see them. and it only makes you love him more.
“asshole,” he chuckles softly, turning his face to yours after a moment and saying, “i love you too.”
it’s the first time he’s said the words outside of your home. it feels like he’s shouting them from the mountaintop for everyone to hear.
twenty minutes into the drive, he reaches over to hold your hand and doesn’t let go until you’re home.
