Following the birth of the devil's spawn and Cas' death, Dean is not too keen on accepting Jack into their midst until the nephilim brings Cas back, and everything is well with the world again.
For a while, everything seems fine. They can kick back and relax. Cas joins them for a couple of cases where Dean gets to indulge his love of cowboys, and Dean is having the time of his life. That is, until Cas and Jack mysteriously disappear, only for Cas to come back cursed, with his wings on full display.
Dean would swoon over Cas' feathery beauties if not for the fact that Cas' life may be on the line again, and Dean would do anything to keep the angel safe. Especially since the remedy apparently involves lots of snuggling, plenty of spooning, and even some kisses on the side… even if things might be a bit awkward at first. After all, they're just friends, never mind that Dean has harbored feelings for Cas for years. He will do it, though, for Cas, but for fuck’s sake, he will not be the little spoon!
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The night was a thick, heavy darkness around him, the air cold and biting at Dean’s skin. Sam opened the passenger seat door and hopped out of the car as well, but halted at Dean’s signal.
Gun raised, step after step, Dean approached the patch of road they had swerved off of, unable through the shy moonlight to make out anything that might have explained what he had seen in the middle of the road.
A few dozen steps later the darkness subsided, giving way to a massive figure, a muscular body framed by two broad wings, spread wide and in warning to whoever might dare to approach.
After another step, Dean released a feeble exhale as the trench coat billowing in the mild breeze and the ruffled hair that he would recognize anywhere came into focus.
“Cas?” he gasped.
Cas’ wings dropped behind him, exhausted, and Dean’s stomach filled with a spark of worry but also wonder at the beauty in them. This was no time to be awe-struck by Cas’ wings, though, because… Cas had his freaking wings out, which meant something was terribly wrong.
“What the hell?” was the next thing that came out of Dean’s mouth. “Dude, I almost made pancakes out of you.”
“You need at least flour, eggs, and milk to make pancakes,” he replied with a squint.
Yup, this was his Cas alright.
Dean huffed. “What the hell happened?” he asked, putting away his gun in the back of his jeans and drawing near.
Castiel stepped forward as well, but his steps immediately faltered before the angel stumbled straight into Dean’s arms.
“I gotcha,” Dean murmured to Cas’ shoulder, hanging on tightly and swearing he wouldn’t let go this time around. Now that he had gotten his angel back, he was gonna keep him here with them if that was the last thing he did.
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“Can you tilt your face to the right? Just a little bit.”
Dean had to be careful not to drop his pencil. His palms were sweaty, no matter how hard he tried to calm himself.
„Like this?“ Cas asked. He lay on Dean’s bed, only dressed in thin cotton trousers.
The dim light hit Castiel’s skin in just the right way. It accentuated his facial features and gave depth to his muscles that were visible, now that the angel had rid himself of his shirt.
Dean took a deep breath and let his hand guide the pencil across the paper, let the pencil glide over the already sketched out lines until he found a rhythm.
Cas had found his old sketch book as they packed. Dean had never shown his work to anyone. He wasn’t an artist or anything like that. Drawing was just another way to release stress. At least it used to be.
And never had he been asked to draw someone. The people he drew were usually strangers, or his family based on memory.
When Cas had turned the pages to a drawing of himself, trenchcoat and all, standing in a field of grass next to a windmill, he had paused as his lips parted. He had looked at Dean then, and his gaze was so gentle that Dean didn’t know what to do with himself.
„Would you draw me now?“ Cas had asked. His voice was soft, almost unsure if he was allowed to break their silence.
„Of course.“
So Dean had asked him to make himself comfortable on the bed as he himself sat down in the chair at the desk.
That wasn’t exactly what he had planned for the evening, but he couldn’t deny that it excited him. It was the first time that his model was right in front of him and unmoving.
Cas lay perfectly still, his eyes the only movement Dean noticed. Cas observed him from his spot on the mattress. They didn’t speak unless it was about a change in position. The sound of the pencil on paper filled the room and after a while, managed to calm Dean’s nerves.
He didn’t know how long it took until he was satisfied with his work, but based on the pain in his neck, it took a while.
Dean licked his lips.
„Done.“
Cas began to move again. He sat up in bed and made space as Dean went over to him.
He carefully took the drawing from Dean’s hands, and the gentle expression found its way back onto his face.
Cas‘ fingers lightly brushed over the lines as he looked at it.
„Thank you, Dean.“
Dean let out a nervous laugh.
„Nothing to thank me for.“ Dean’s voice was quiet. He looked at Cas, let his gaze wander over his face and down to his chest. It was a nice chest.
When he looked up again, Cas smiled at him. It reached his eyes and let them appear bluer.
„What?“
„Didn’t you just spend hours looking at me?“ Cas tilted his head, and Dean knew the question was in good humour.
A little ficlet for @sketchbookdean on his birthday, with a very loose interpretation of the prompt “hands” ♡
Dean picked up on it a while ago, how Cas only healed him through touch. Or maybe more importantly, how he didn’t with anyone else.
Dean thought to ask Cas about it the first time it happened—after he’d come to the initial realization—but the werewolf they’d been hunting had thrown him around a little too much, and he was so lightheaded and dizzy that when Cas rushed over and placed a comforting hand on his arm, he forgot to mention it.
The time after that was just a paper cut—truly the smallest injury he’s ever sustained—but Cas insisted on healing it and didn’t wait for Dean to respond as he gently grasped his ring finger. Sam had been sitting across the library from them, head buried in a book, but Dean thought it best to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to embarrass Cas.
The third time—Dean can’t even remember how he’d been injured—but he remembers everything after. He remembers how Cas grabbed his face in his hands and asked him if he was alright. He remembers saying something about his head hurting, or maybe it was his back or his chest. Doesn’t matter. It had probably been a little bit of everything. He remembers looking into Cas’s eyes, and seeing a look of concern mixed with something else—something yet unspoken—that made Dean’s heart skip a beat. He remembers Cas continuing to cradle his face as Grace began to spread through his body. He remembers leaning into Cas’s touch, feeling the pressure of his palms and fingertips, rough yet warm against his cheeks. He remembers his heart beating so rapidly, he thought it might burst from his chest. And he remembers how after he’d been healed—when he felt Cas’s hands slowly slip away—he remembers being left with a feeling of profound emptiness, and a sudden, overwhelming urge to walk into oncoming traffic, just so Cas could heal him again.
Dean decided it wasn’t worth mentioning after that.
