Sometimes, Cas can’t believe he can have this.
Can’t believe he can lay in a soft bed in his own room, a tapestry he bought hanging on the wall, curtains he picked blowing in the gentle breeze of the open window, soft grey carpet so he can pad around on bare feet covering the floor. A rainbow flag is on his nightstand, the one on the right side of the bed, and if that wasn’t unbelievable enough there’s a matching nightstand on the left side, a couple mixtapes stacked on top of it next to a knitted coaster and a glasses case.
Cas can’t believe that this bed he doesn’t need is king-sized, that the cat that hides under the bed wasn’t even his idea. He can’t believe that he can have coffee in the morning, that he eats dinners that only sometimes taste like molecules and always taste like love, and that he can have–
kisses, pressed to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. Hugs, from behind, from the side, from the front, long embraces that are endless. Fingers curled into his beltloop, arms tucked between his shirt and trenchcoat, hands pulling gentle at his tie. That he can have soft and sleepy I love yous, I love yous like a fact, Love ya so much, sweetheart. That he can even have sweetheart, baby, honey, darlin’, beautiful, angel. That he can have the ring, wrapped around the third finger on his left hand.
Cas can barely believe he has Cas and not Castiel, some days, let alone the windows on the wall and the guns locked away. But mostly–mostly–
he can’t believe he can have this–
the warm weight pressed on his chest, the soft snuffles of air against his neck, the tiny fingers, curled around just one of his. Soft, fine hair, smooth under his hand, tiny little feet tucked against Cas’ ribs where he lays on the bed. Jack exhales another sleepy breath, and Cas wants to preserve this moment in amber forever, just him and his baby, tucked in bed on a fall afternoon, golden sunlight streaming through the windows.
The door creaks open, but Jack doesn’t stir. With effort, Cas tears his gaze away from the toddler on his chest and to Dean, leaning against the doorway. Dean smiles, so softly, and Cas can’t help but smile in return.
“There you are,” Dean says, voice quiet, and he tiptoes into the room. Climbs onto the bed, nice and careful, gently pulling the blankets back up over Cas’ legs, Jack’s back, Dean himself. Dean lays on his side, sheltering Cas and Jack in the soft parts of himself, back to the door, always protecting. He puts a careful hand on Jack’s back and dips his forehead to Cas’ shoulder. Cas tilts his head so it rests on Dean’s hair.
Yeah, Cas thinks, staring up at the ceiling and hoping he won’t begin crying from the sheer love he feels, from his husband and his baby and just inside himself, sometimes he can’t believe he has any of this.
But Dean’s second hand squeezes Cas’ arm, just below where Jack’s hand is curled around his finger, and Cas does have it. He has it all.
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