Dean enters the room to Sam's laughing voice, and glances around to take note of the occupants. Cas is sitting with his chin in his hands and wide eyes, cross-legged at the edge of one bed (his and Cas's, Dean guesses), while Sam is sprawled out on the other, pink-cheeked (drunk) and shaking with mirth (drunk again), the storyteller of the evening.
The sight makes his stomach drop — kind of — but in a good way, and he bites his lip to contain a smile as he puts the dinner on the closest table and goes back to lock the door.
It's been a while since all of them shared a room, but it's almost Christmas and motels are crowded, so here they are.
And as much as Dean loves sharing a bed with Cas every night, even if they're not at the bunker (also, minus the unenviable cost of Sam bitching his ears off about needing brain bleach the entire next day, even if all they did was spoon and Sam's obviously the one with the problem) — sometimes he misses the three of them just hanging out. And there's no better place than a shared motelroom for it. Case-free, stuffed with diner foods, and up to absolutely nothing of 'import'.
"Dean wanted to be Santa so bad." Sam finishes, and Dean's pulled back to reality; the one where letting Sam and Cas spend time without him mostly just meant them feeding each other fodder (blackmail, usually for laundry-related situations, or plain, simple annoyance ammunition) about Dean.
"That's fascinating." Cas says, sounding absolutely delighted, because of course he is.
Dean picks up the food.
"Screw you both."
"Hello, Dean." Cas smiles up at him, reaching up with a hand Dean belatedly realizes he's supposed to take. He does then, blushing, and Cas beams, squeezing as Dean sits down beside him (and starts untying his boots with just one hand because goddammit, he still wants to get his feet under the damn covers) and turning back to Sam. "What happened then?"
Sam gives up on his (failing) attempts to fake-gag effectively, easily ignoring Dean using his not-occupied-in-being-held hand to flip him off, and continues. "Epic things, Cas. So Dean shows up, right, at the audition — or, you know, whatever it was supposed to be, choosing ceremony, christmas cult initiation, something — and there's all these kids, about his age, but they're all dressed up in tights, and —"
Dean groans, cutting him off.
He remembers this story.
It had been one of the longest hunts until then, and Dean credits that now to having been just a month away from thirteen — the perfect age, John decided, to leave Sam with him for days without checking in. That's about when it started to become the norm.
Dad had moved them from a ratty motel to an even rattier, and considerably colder apartment before leaving. One bedroom, one couch (although Dean avoided it with a passion; it was springy, smelled odd, and felt too obviously not theirs, so they ended up living almost entirely in their beds that December) and a kitchen so cold Dean remembers debating with himself if he should just bring the damn plates to the bedside table and call it a day.
God, he'd hated living there.
Way more than he ever did in worn-out, roadside motels with staff you could befriend and most guests (albeit concerned, but) easily persuaded to make conversation. It had felt more deserting, more abandoned, and certainly more alone.
But of course he'd played it up for Sam — the kid was eight for hell's sake — and the building-wide Christmas gig (weird, for such an otherwise to-each-their-own sorts of people, but semantics didn't bug Dean at the time, and they don't bug him now) had seemed like a perfect opportunity to solidify his claims of this being a better place to spend the holiday season, Dad or no Dad.
So he'd decided to be Santa.
(In Dean's defense, when the building manager had showed up — old, gruff, but not unlike Bobby Singer — he'd told them they could participate in whatever way they wanted to, and shortly after, told them about the Santa Claus & Elves gig.
Probably because he thought Sam (not Dean, right?) might be into something like that.
He'd obviously not anticipated a skinny twelve year old boy would pick up from those informations that he wanted to be Santa, or he would've stressed a little more on the options, well, skinny twelve year old boys had.
More specifically, green-pointy-hat and striped-tights-wearing options.)
He sighs.
Dean can tell Sam notices it all coming back to him, because the bastard's dopey smile widens. (Way too little tolerance for being the size of a friggin' door, Dean would've claimed, but he's more than familiar with Sam's eggnog recipe.)
"What's the matter, Dean?" Sam snorts, clearly pleased with himself for having brought up an embarrassing enough story, god knows how. "Let me finish for Cas, at least, geez. Don't —"
Dean buries his face in his palm.
"— be elfish."
Cas tilts his head. "I believe you mean selfish, Sam."
"Oh no," Sam cackles. "I really don't."
*
The night ends soon after a late dinner, with a smug Sam passing out and starting to snore the minute he's on his pillow (bitch really just played into all ridiculous drunk stereotypes, Dean scoffs) and Dean emerging from the shower to find no Cas in the room, and the door unlocked.
He spots the ex-angel staring at the sky the moment he steps out of their room to look, and joins him, circling an arm around his waist to slide a hand into Cas's warm pocket, entwining his fingers with the latter's.
Cas leans into his warmth. It's midnight. "Merry Christmas, Dean."
Dean presses his lips to Cas's cheek, just for a second, because they're not in their room and he isn't keen to get into a fight at twelve am on Christmas Eve because a random dickhead sees them. "Merry Christmas, babe."
The air is cold, heavy, but it doesn't remind Dean of that godawful kitchen — just waking up blanketless, because the love of his life is a sworn-to-denial blanket hog. Similarly, the sky's speckled with stars, and he can tell it invokes emotions — nostalgia? — in the former angel, but he doesn't look sad. He just squeezes a little more snug against Dean.
As if in each other, they've found ways to forget the pain, the guilt, and the sadness. It's not just the proximity, not just the heat, but the reassurance, the company and the comfort.
And isn't that exactly what love's about?
"So," Cas gently breaks the quiet, as if he understands that Dean's thoughts have drifted somewhere. "Santa Claus, huh?"
"Man, I'd even borrowed a hat." Dean grumbles back.
"Don't elves wear hats too?" Cas teases, mouth quirked in a half-smirk, radiating happiness and fondness, with a hint of pride at probably understanding a relatively human concept, and he sounds so much like himself, and so adorable, and god, Dean loves him.
So he buries his face in Cas's shoulder, hiding a smile he can't hold in.
“Well, hell if they thought I was confused before.” Dean tells his soaked sneakers and rolled uo jeans, a hint of wry amusement in his tone. His knees bounce as he swings his legs - only sometimes kicking the water, wrecking the lake’s calm. “Bi, and greyace.” He exhales tightly. “Jesus.”
“Dean.”
Cas’s foot taps against his knee. He’s sitting cross-legged, and staring at his best friend.
“Uhhuh?”
“You’re -” Eyebrows meet above squinting blue eyes, as Cas searches for the right word. Wonderful - Dean’s wonderful. Kind, and intelligent, and beautiful, and humble, and so, so good. Dean’s everything. But that’s not what he needs to hear right now.
Dean looks at Cas, waiting. The air weighs with confessions, some uttered and some not - and thickens with vulnerability.
“You’re valid.”
Half a chuckle - more like, a long-held breath let go. “You don't say,” and Dean’s eyes crinkle, though his lips slant into one of his patent smirks. Cas has always vastly preferred his smiles.
“You know what I mean.” He leans in to shove at Dean’s shoulder, not too hard. It ends up milder, but would’ve certainly been more effective if he’d drawn back after.
If he’d been able to.
But Dean’s fixed him with a stare, eyes locked in wordless conversation - except Cas has no idea what his are saying - and they’re too close already, too close to linger, too close to stop -
“Cas.” Dean breathes, and Cas knows he’s lost.
He’s gone ahead and done it.
Dean knows.
And of course he does - because he closes his eyes, takes in a breath, and kisses Cas. Soft, warm lips are all Cas feels for a moment, and he’s breathless, eyes fluttering shut - until he feels a hand on his face, gentle, cradling; and then, he feels Dean’s breath, light, his nose nudging Cas’s cheek, and Dean pushing into the kiss, so he pushes back.
They kiss softly, chastely, carefully - melting into each other for a few seconds, before Dean pulls away, shifting his weight back, palm planted behind him on the rocks.
“I’m -” Cas goes looking again. Words. They used to come so easy.
“Proud of me?” Dean teases, in complete contrast to the blush pinkening his cheeks. It brings out his freckles - and for some strange reason, the dense curls of his eyelashes. It’s distractingly pretty.
Cas shrugs, aiming for similar nonchalance. “Always, but I was going to say, in love with you.”
Dean smiles, wide. Delighted. “Oh?” It’s directly entirely at Cas, and makes him a little dizzy. Definitely butterflies-in-the-stomach-y. “Is it my awesome new label?”
“That, and all of the rest of it.”
And then he kisses Dean again, slow and languid and deep, their hands held on the ledge between them, and eyes closed - everything lovely, everything perfect, and everything just the way it ought to be.
Sometimes I think I miss it. That I might miss who he use to be, the feirce warrior, protector, hunter. The perfect weapon.
The Dean Winchester I met all those years ago was anything but inexperienced, yet somehow also such. He had spent nearly 30 years training and learning and following orders. Fighting for his brother, the world, himself. Over the course of 7 short years he became even more a master of fight. Honing skills he picked up along the way, things he'd learned in hell.
Then there was the mark. It turned him into a monster. Made him deadly. Even after we rid him of it, we could both tell there were lingering effects. His movements at times more fluid, less controlled and even more terrifying. And now, years later I can still see the bloodlust in his eyes after an unsatisfactory kill. Anything too easy and he stays agitated.
He often uses that as an excuse to spar with me even though at times I think there's something else, another reason he's not telling me. He quips that he just likes beating me up but rarely do we ever do more than pin and grapple. We have gotten better at openly communicating but I think there are some things that he just isn't ready to speak about.
It's still confusing at times because he's still Dean, but he's not the Dean I remember. After Michael he was the same for a while and then one day he wasn't. That was a memorable morning. It started out in rage and ended with his head on my shoulder. Sam had been so relieved claiming that his brotherse outburst had been a long time coming.
After that day he's been quiet. He still speaks, just not as often or as loud. He laughs more. Not the full body, head thrown back laugh I've whitenesd before, but a quiet ginuine chuckle. They're mostly directed at me, but there are a lot spared for Jack and Sam. He's not as mean or sarcastic. He still teases me and Sam at every chance but his jabs are accompanied by a soft smile or a nudge of the shoulder.
He's more affectionate than he use to be also. I'm often roused from my thoughts or stopped mid sentence by his hand on my back, or a small "side hug" when he enters a room. When we have down time he likes to sit with me and watch TV. More than once Sam has come home and caught us shoulder to shoulder engrossed in our own world. He's not into the all same shows he was before either. Now we watch Top Chef and HGTV. I don't mind though, I was never as big a fan of cowboys as he was anyway.
For a while I wonder if he'd been injured or traumatized by Michael's presence. Especially when he started eating healthier and lost interest in the bar scene. I gathered my courage and asked him about it one day. His eyes glossed over and in a rare moment of vulnerability he grabbed my hand and said, "Cas, sometimes people just learn to appreciate the things and people they've been given." We didn't speak of it again but what he said has stuck with me.
We were so worried he'd never heal and it took more time to realize than it should that he's not broken. He made that decision as a scared, lethal, dangerous man. He came back seeming as if he'd lost a part of himself, and It's true that he is different now. He says he's just 'going soft in his old age' although he's not yet 45. But, I still think back on the first words I heard him speak when he expelled my brother from his 'true vessel'. I had caught him when he fell holding his body limp in my arms, praying he was ok when a pair of bright emerald eyes looked into mine....
Cas is ticklish and Dean doesn't know that till Cas becomes human and he is not one of those, don't blow raspberries o know my belly kind of ticklish person. Dean once touched his knee to get his attention and Cas broke down in fits of laughter. When they are making out, all foreplay, is basically Dean trying to be sexy and one soft touch to Cas's skin and he is a mess of giggles and and Dean kisses those, shutting him up.
for @bend-me-shape-me's spn advent calendar 2020. prompt IV: cooking and baking.
Footsteps approach the kitchen, and Dean Winchester turns back to the stove with a widening smile. The second stack is almost done. Perfect timing, he tells himself, smug, and only maybe swaying his hips more than what comes naturally while cooking breakfast in pyjamas to a background of Freddie Mercury wanting to break free.
The footsteps reach the doorway just as Dean flips his pancake.
"Remind me never to ask you why you love me." He throws over his shoulder with a grin, wondering indignantly for a second how it's at all fair that he's blushing at his own words.
But then life would be a lot easier, and way less fun, if all things weren't fair in love.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean finally turns, pancake ready, about to launch into a half-rehearsed, half-gleefully-winged monologue about love languages and food, pancakes, and being the best husband of all time.
But he stutters to a halt before he's even begun, eyes glued to Cas.
Cas, in his unfastened robe and bedheaded glory — perfect, pink lips pursed, still grumbly from sleep. Cas's shoulders, his chest, hipbones, and beyond. Cas, with his adorably bleary stare, quick to flip to hungry once they fall upon the plate in Dean's hand, blue, and unerringly pretty.
Cas, looking like the stuff of Dean's dreams, barely even awake. And Cas, the love of his life.
Just — Cas.
Dean's heard of head-over-heels before, but he's never quite expected it to literally feel like toppling over, and going flying through the sky — kind of like in the animated cartoons Cas wordlessly watches with him (for the plot, he insists, and for Dean, Dean knows, because he's the best friggin' thing that ever happened to him, that's why.)
"Remind me," Dean whistles, going for suggestive though he's pretty sure he's objectively too dazed for it. "To never ask you why I love you."
Cas tilts his head, tradition and all, eyeing Dean mildly as if he's not quite sentient enough to do the human equivalent of reading Dean's mind — "understanding you involves picking up on everything you don't say as well, Dean, and that is not unlike angelic thought extraction!" — yet, but can tell there's been a revelation he's missed.
"Unless you're joking," Cas says at last, ponderous, and pulling a chair. "I'd like you to know you can ask me anything."
Dean tsks.
"Although," he keeps going. "You've never asked those things before, and the chances of you asking them in the future don't strike me as many."
Dean rolls his eyes fondly, putting the plates on their wooden table-for-two, and sitting down across from Cas.
(When it's just them, they've started having breakfast in the kitchen — less distance to carry the dishes, more easily served helps, and occasionally Dean manages to persuade Cas into making out with him sat on the counter, general rules of domesticated living abandoned and Cas between his legs, since there's nothing quite like a post-breakfast kitchen-makeout to wake you up, he'll never stop claiming.
When Sam and Eileen are over (every Saturday) or Jack or Claire are visiting (they just pop in whenever really) or Jody and the the girls, of course, there's always the big dining table in the real dining room.)
"It's like Humaning 101 every morning with you." Dean informs Cas around a mouthful of pancakes, and Cas wrinkles his nose in indignance, laced with disapproval.
"That's unfair."
"Okay." Dean smirks, putting his fork down, and propping his chin in his palm. "So the robe, you know, the whole frontal nudity thing you've got going on today, it's a conscious choice?"
"I —"
Probably for the first time since morning, Cas looks down at himself. Dean waits, watches his eyes widen in realization, and ultimately close with a sigh of regret.
"Oh, son of a bitch."
And that's it.
Dean throws his head back and bursts out laughing because nothing could possibly get more human, or more perfectly fitting an end to this morning than that, and when he's able to breathe again, he leans in to kiss Cas's disappointed frown off — and Cas meets him in the middle, because he's awesome like that — and this right here?
Breakfasts, and falling a little deeper in love every morning for no particular reason, and random profanities, and kisses?
It's exactly Dean wants to do for the rest of his days.
And that's a whole bunch of perfect in itself, so there's that — and there's them — and by handwritten fate, and some strokes of incredibly good luck, they're it.
There are a few things everyone knows at Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc.
The coffee bagels are inedible, Adler will fake-fire someone on your first day, and you do not hit on Dean Smith, Senior VP.
(Not that Sam wants to - gross. But apparently it's salient information, because it's the third ever text message Gabriel Milton (HR) sends him. Maybe because he'd just joined as Smith's intern, Sam reasons. Well, to hell with stereotypes. Smith is going to be nothing more than a boss - or mentor, if he'd so be willing; Sam's heard of him, and he's kind of a genius after all. That's it.
Plus, Sam's in love with, and engaged to a nurse thankyouverymuch.)
And in any case, it's not like he'd needed a memo.
Smith is obvious enough.
Obvious, with his packed lunches and secretive screensavers. Obvious, in the way he unfailingly redoes his hair before leaving, cause he's "picking Cas up first" - and with his bright smile on Mondays, because "Cas only has Sundays off".
He grins non-stop, the half hour before lunch, and then spends it holed up in his office entirely - and if Sam returns early from his own break, he can't not catch the unicorn laughs emerging from there, glass walls be damned.
Once, in fact, a package got misdelivered, and Sam returned from lunch to a bouquet on his desk, labelled on a recycled paper card with a pickup line so ridiculous - wordplay on 'honey', in fact - that it almost verified the domesticity singlehandedly.
Dean Smith is married.
There can be absolutely no other explanation.
*
As days pass, Sam's workload increases, but he's learning what he's here to learn and is grateful for it.
He also notices him and Dean grow into a friendship of sorts - finding common ground in football, not liking pineapples on pizza, and having a Navy dad - and just like that, mentions of the latter's wife start coming up more casually.
Nothing unprofessional, or overshared - just a, "you know who eats burgers like no one's business? Cas." When he brings Sam a couple of burgers back after an assignment runs late into his lunch break - or even a, "Cas's brothers are dicks," when Sam goes into his office to submit a report from Sales, and finds him, as he rarely does, texting.
As long as Dean isn't dismissive of the work Sam puts in, and he never is, Sam's fine with it. To be honest, it's kind of refreshing to see a guy be a total goner for his wife. And he is - Sam can tell from his heart eyes, if not the fondness that envelopes his voice whenever he speaks of her.
It makes him happy as well, cause he's worked here about five weeks now, and it's enough to see that Dean deserves to be as happy as 'Cas' makes him.
All things considered, Sam's definitely getting used to it.
Until one friday, when Dean shows up at nine am and declares that Cas will be picking him up today.
"There's a strike at the library."
"I see." Sam returns, eyebrows raised.
"Isn't that ridiculous? Libraries going on a strike?" Dean grins. "It's like, you know, a book-march."
Sam fights the whelming urge to bitchface.
"Stop that." Dean swats at the air. Sam hasn't said anything, so he bites his cheek. "You're basically dying to roll your eyes. Friggin' take my jokes for granted." Sam shakes his head, suppressing a smile. "No, seriously. Go on, do it. Didn't stop Cas either."
At that, Sam breaks.
Mirrors Dean's grin from before he'd put on the mock-offended glare, and Dean soon joins in.
"I'll just save my fantastic sense of humor for later."
"For Cas?"
"Nah, someone who can appreciate it -" Dean cuts himself short. "Hell, who am I kidding? Yeah, for Cas."
Sam grins wider.
"I'll be leaving at five today." Dean informs him, before disappearing into his office. Seeing as the office hours are nine to five in the first place, that isn't off the norm, but since Dean finishes late almost regularly, it's probably worth pointing out.
This way or that - Sam knows he's going to be waiting for it to be five almost as eagerly as Dean.
He's heard so much about this woman. There's almost an air of mystery surrounding her at this point. All the facts Dean's ever dropped are cloaked with something close to fictional, because Sam doesn't know her at all.
And now he's finally going to meet her.
It's not like all he does, the entire day, is think about it. But it does make writing the reports for, and inputting April 2020's data into the server that much more of a fast process - since time flies until it's five.
And then, relatively, decides to stop.
Sam stares at the elevator.
He's done with his day - prepared to leave after Dean does, though definitely not before.
Waiting, he realizes, that he's formed something of a mental image. She's blonde in his imagination - probably a generic 5'5 or 6. Blue-eyed, cause Dean's mentioned that at least twice. And not to be creepy, but he assumes she'd be pretty too, cause his boss isn't exactly what he'd describe ugly.
So without meaning to, Sam's got an eye out for someone who fits the mold.
First man in, at two past five, is short and stocky. Second is Mrs. D'souza, a receptionist on the seventh floor.
Third and fourth are interns.
Fifth is a trenchcoated guy, squarer than Sam, with a wonky tie.
Sam sighs.
It's almost ten past five - and tardiness really isn’t his thing. Or Dean’s, for that matter. Staring intently in the direction of his elevator, he’s about to start getting righteously annoyed on Dean’s behalf when there’s a tap on his shoulder.
Sam swivels in his chair, taken by surprise - and slowly, his eyes widen.
Dean’s arm is slung about the fifth guy’s shoulders, grin directed entirely towards him. And he - Jesus, he - is six feet tall, trenchcoated, and wearing a tentative smile as he looks down at Sam.
Blue eyes complete the picture - plus a five o’clock shadow which never came up - and Sam’s head reels as he finally pieces everything together.
“Dean!” He exclaims, and it must count as a greeting, because it can’t really count as oh-my-god-Cas-is-a-man.
“Hey!” Dean beams. “Figured you should meet Cas.” And turning to Cas, “That’s Sam. My prodigy, basically.”
The heart-eyes have never been more obvious.
Sam’s an idiot.
He can’t even grin like he’s supposed to - earning himself half an eyeroll form Dean - because he’s trying to figure out how he hadn’t figured it out yet.
“It’s good to meet you, Sam.” Cas says - and the fact that it’s the lowest he’s ever heard a voice go, makes him refocus enough that he can respond.
“You too, Cas.”
Dean’s still beaming, and finally, finally caught up with himself, Sam grins back.
He’s an idiot.
Cas just smiles wider.
(Well, one thing he got right. He’s definitely pretty. But measured against a scale of everything else he got wrong - there’s a long way to go.)
“Okay so,” Dean declares, far more chipper than usual. Someone could just’ve painted smitten across his face, really. “We should go. You probably guessed this but Cas isn’t the biggest fan of where I work.”
“You have a treadmill desk, Dean.”
“And I don't see you complaining about my stamina.” Dean throws back, and their eyes lock in a silent stare - heavy enough, that neither notices Sam looking away as subtly as he can. He’s not really supposed to witness them flirting - misdelivered packages asides.
Thankfully, the stare-off breaks when Cas points out that they were leaving.
And to the backdrop of Dean grumbling about Cas’s hatred for his job, Dean puts on his overcoat - well, he hands Cas his briefcase so he can properly do so, and then Cas just holds onto it - and they say their goodbyes to Sam and take off, walking close enough to brush arms all the way to the elevator.
Once they’re out of sight, Sam slumps in his chair, scrubbing his face with an incredulous laugh.
Of course Dean Smith is married. And of course, Cas is his husband.
dedicated to the very talented @xojo. love you, and your blog!!
***
“Guys.” Sam says, passively frowning at his beer. “We need to get back.” He pauses, contemplating, and then as if he reached a decision, promptly finishes off his mug. “While I can still drive.”
Dean squints and looks around himself.
The club is insanely crowded.
And Cas is blurry and drunk, with his arm hooked around Dean’s waist - and it doesn’t feel like he’s looking to let go soon, so it’s perfect. Dean can feel his warmth through all the layers in between; Cas runs hot, leans heavy, and is currently pressed up against Dean bodily, and Dean far from minds it.
(They’re celebrating, and it sure feels like it.)
“Well, you’re drivin’, Sammy.” Dean throws the keys at him, terribly - so out of it, that Sam actually has to put in an effort to catch them. “Let’s get outta here.” He adds, to the trenchcoated man wrapped around him - who doesn’t really take notice.
“I literally just said that.” Sam returns, the soberest of the three, and leads the way to the exit.
Dean follows, keeping track of only his tall, hairy head above the crowd, because anything else, and they’d have gotten lost - while Cas hitches a ride, holding on like he absolutely must.
Dean loves it.
Drunk Cas is pretty much everything Dean had no idea he wants Cas to be - well, sometimes, anyways.
It’s not easy to get him floored, but Jesus, is it worth it. In goes an unbelievable amount of alcohol, and out comes a wonder. Flirty, grumpy, clingy. It’s glorious.
“Get in the back with him.” Sam tells him when they get to the car, and well, Dean was going to do that anyways - because there’s like six to one odds that Cas falls asleep within five minutes, and Dean kinda (really) likes it when he does it on his shoulder.
“And you take care of Baby.”
He yells at Sam, force of habit, as he piles Cas in the backseat, nudging at him to scoot - and the trenchcoat getting in the way, as always.
“I’m your -” Cas starts, jolting awake, and wriggling about two inches further on the seat disgruntledly. It’s ridiculous, but Dean squeezes fit - mostly on the bulky coat than leather - immediately greeted by Cas leaning into his space. One hand goes around his shoulder, the other turns his chin. “I’m your baby.” He growls, in a monotone.
It’s fucking adorable.
“Cas, she’s always been Baby.” Dean points out, face flushing with color. “You’re my babe.”
“Babe.” Cas repeats, and holy shit, that’s not even just cute. That’s the turning-Dean-on-way-too-much-to-be-in-the-same-car-as-his-brother territory.
“Sounds good?” Dean mutters, shifting. Their faces are way too close to not be kissing right now, and really, Dean won’t mind - but his husband has other plans.
“What else am I?” Cas asks, gravel and cigarettes and a completely wrong octave.
“Uh.” Dean pauses. “Sweetheart. Honey - Huckleberry?” Cas nods, as if he agrees - as if he’s not satisfied yet. Dean looks up at the root, thinking. “Sunshine, I guess. Angel, sometimes. Sugar, that too. In the mornings.”
Cas hums appreciatively.
“And then there’s the times you’re being adorable on purpose, pretending you don't get references? Bang, baby in a trenchcoat. And how you act like you’re basically capable of getting high on hugs, so huggybear? There’s that. There’s Happy Meal, and you know, hot wings. Darling.”
He keeps going, easily drunk enough to not notice he’s rambling. All the way to the end.
“ - so that’s all, I guess.” Dean grins, eyes downcast, shy. “Oh, and you’re hubby sometimes, when I know you’re not listening.”
“He’s not listening.” Sam quips, and Dean scrambles to his senses, about to flip him a bird before he realizes he’s actually got Cas slumped over his side.
Face in his neck, nose in his flannel, hair tickling Dean’s chin.
“But hey, I was.” Sam adds, smirking pointedly at the rearview mirror,and Dean reddens furiously.
“Shut your face.”
“Sure.”
“And keep your eyes on the road.”
“I’ve been driving twenty years now, jerk.” Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean catches the bitchface in even his voice. “But this is the first time I’ve heard the words ‘huggy bear’ come out of your mouth.”
“I -” Dean huffs, too drunk to think of comebacks. “Bitch.”
Sam laughs. “Whatever, Cas’s hubby.”
And Dean has absolutely nothing to say to that, because Cas’s dorky little ‘what else am I’ cameo had pretty much given Sam the edge in all their future fights ever.
But as long as he’s got his ridiculously dressed husband snoring quietly in his arms, he lets himself believe he’ll make it through.
Dean projects himself onto Cas’s bed, ending up sprawled on his front, with an arm slung over Cas’s lap.
On receiving no more greeting than Cas’s hand landing in his hair and starting to card through it, he lifts his face from the comforter, props himself up on his elbows - chin tucked in a palm - and stares at his boyfriend.
Cas looks upset.
The corners of his lips tilt passively downwards, eyebrows carrying most of the weight of his frown.
“Cas?” Dean asks, neutrally - already regretting his overhyped entrance.
“I’m sorry- I don't feel -”
Words fade out, and Cas pauses. Then he turns to actually look at Dean, the sadness seeped into his eyes, and Dean doesn’t waste a moment getting up, knee-waddling over into Cas’s space and pulling him close.
Cas comes easily, planting his head on Dean’s shoulder, and exhaling a tired breath when Dean runs a hand over his back.
“What are you feeling?” Dean asks, after a beat, now trying to soothe Cas’s tense shoulders, rubbing gently over the cotton. Cas leans into his touch.
About three years of therapy, and nearly six years of being roommates - undergrads, and then actual friggin’ grad school - with Cas, basically Dean’s personal mascot for healthy communication, has led him to definitely know that it’s always a better alternative to talk about what you are going through, instead of what you aren’t.
(Or, you know, what you think you should be, just because your dumb, insensitive boyfriend who’s been obsessed with Pride since finally coming out and-slash-or best-friending up with Charlie Bradbury, is. And rather loudly, at that, because Dean Winchester’s a goddamn idiot.)
“Disappointment.” Cas says, morosely, but almost as soon as he hears his own words, he rephrases. “Uh. I’m the disappointment.”
“Well, did you secretly sneak out and mark yourself absent for the entire semester in all your 4.0 GPA classes when I wasn’t looking?”
“Dean.”
“Fine, 3.7.” Dean throws back. “Big friggin’ deal, nerd.” Cas lets out a huff of breath which almost resembles a chuckle, and Dean squeezes his arm around Cas. “You know that would’ve totally been a four if I’d been less distracting.”
“Interesting.” Cas corrects.
“Hot.” Dean throws back, just because he knows it’ll make Cas crinkle into one of his fond ‘what-do-I-do-with-you’ smiles. It does.
“Perfect.” And Cas throws in a sigh, as if to solidify his point, and leans in to nuzzle Dean’s neck in a way so intensely Cas, that if anyone else had ever tried it, he’d either end up being tickled to death, or running the hell out of dodge.
“We’re on you right now, Cheesy McCheesington.” Dean smiles back, and goes on.
He’s not willing to let Cas close up into a ball of repressed emotions with happy only on the outside. That’s way more Dean’s thing - or rather, used to be. He knows he’s bettered his coping mechanisms. Mostly because every part of his life involves Cas now, and anything with Cas is good.
They’ve grown a lot together - grown through a lot as well, and this is how they’ve done it. By talking through, the Castiel way. It still throws Dean off sometimes, how far they’ve gotten.
So when Cas whines in protest into Dean’s shirt, he knows exactly how to turn it into a side-hug. One of those, where they end up staring at each other from a three-inch distance.
Staring hard, Dean says it. “You’re the farthest thing from a disappointment, Cas. To anyone.”
The lecturers all adored him, their friends made it a point to keep proclaiming their affection out loud (thank god for Charlie Bradbury and co.), and Dean doesn’t think he could be more proud of Cas if he tried.
He was a goddamn wonder.
He’d gone from a lanky, private-schooled, what’s-a-Star-War schmuck to one of Dean’s favorite people in the world. He was hilarious, and a genius, and kind. He’d grown into his shoulders, and into a stubbly kind of an age, and into this awesome, intelligent, pancake-making man of Dean’s dreams, and into his bee obsessions and organizational neatness - and complete, total perfection.
(Dean needs him, appreciates him, and (not that subtly - to his credit), loves him in a forever sort of way.)
But before Dean’s properly began to remind Cas of any of it, he’s interrupted.
“I’m disappointing me, Dean.”
There’s resignation in his tone, and evidence in every word he says.
“June’s over. Again. And for all the marching with painted cheeks and the megaphones? For all the parades, and the celebrations of our identities, the togetherness, the being proud of being ourselves?” Cas lets out, bitterly, and Dean realizes he knows where Cas is going with this. “And I still haven’t come out to my family.”
Dean waits, sure that Cas isn’t finished.
“How have I not done it yet?” Cas hisses, and it almost startles him - he’s swapped the upset for angry. It’s rarer. “I’ve known since I was a teenager - and we’ll have been together for five years in three months, Dean, and I just - I cannot believe I still can’t do it.”
He sounds helpless, and Dean wants to jump in, but he needs Cas to get the words out first.
“What’s the matter with me? Am I not brave enough, or strong enough - or am I still hanging onto the hope that they’ll suddenly become better human beings and not disown me when I tell them?” Cas scoffs.
He’s pissed at himself.
“Maybe I still lack, as you say, free will.”
Dean has to step in at that. “That was six years ago, and you know I wouldn’t say it now.”
“Why not?” Cas challenges. “I couldn’t tell them then, either. I clearly haven’t changed.”
“Other things, Cas.” Dean says, and grits his teeth. This isn’t supposed to be them yelling. Cas is frustrated, and Dean’s listening - he can’t be frustrated back at him for the way he expresses it. “Other things have changed.”
Cas gives him a look, but Dean holds his end of it until it crumbles. Cas changes his offense. Mellows down - probably when he sees Dean’s restraint. “This is important to me. I want to do it. Then why can’t I tell them?”
He’s asking himself, but he’s also asking the only person who knows him as well as he knows himself, yet he’s also not asking at all - simultaneously, it’s also rhetorical.
Dean licks his lips.
“Whatever be the answer to that, Cas, first things first. This doesn’t imply you’re not proud enough.”
Cas looks away.
“Or, for that matter, not panromantic or demisexual enough.”
Sigh. Shuffle, shift. And then he looks back up at Dean. The tears weren’t there before. “How do you know, Dean?”
“‘Cause I know this doesn’t decide that.”
“Why not?” Cas says, quietly.
“‘Cause,” He repeats. “How queer you are isn’t measured on a scale of how soon you come out once you know.” He pauses, judges the air. “It usually isn’t measured at all, unless we’re talking about a magical thing known as the Kinsey Scale.”
He judged right.
Cas coughs, and it’s definitely to disguise a reluctant snicker.
“And you know, even if it were measured on the weird first thing,” Dean adds, serious again. “There’d totally be a different clause, and a separate key, mind you, for the people with douchebag families.”
“They prefer conservative, I think.” Cas says, smally, after an entire minute, as if he’d actually been rerunning Dean’s speech in his head for that long.
Dean shrugs.
Cas almost smiles. He’s calmed down.
“The strange thing is that it makes no sense.” He begins, heavy, albeit less severe on himself. “I’m twenty six. We co-own this apartment, and we pay our bills. We’re completely independent.” It never stops sounding surreal. That’s for another time. “Mother calls me on third Sundays, Gabriel sends Christmas cards. Other than that, I only spend Thanksgiving lunches with them, each year more horrible than the last. I know I wouldn’t miss any of them, nor regret being written out of the will. Or have my Novak cemetery spot passed onto Michael’s oldest. Or the gardener.”
Dean snorts at that. The Novaks are truly something else.
“There is no reason I can’t just come out. I just -” Cas cuts into his own sentence with a sigh, one signifying that he’s finally done speaking, and he reclaims Dean’s shoulder once more.
What’s important right now, is to make him feel better. A resolution to this isn’t within grasp at the moment, and Cas sounds drained. Dean - well, he does what he does best. He segues.
“Wait.” Cas lifts his head. “You didn’t actually say you’re not out, did you?”
Cas squints at him.
“Dude. Being out doesn’t just mean telling your family. And getting subjected to toxicity and trauma, by means of it.” Dean points out, earnest. By that logic, courtesy of a long-dead mom, and a relatively-shorter-dead dad, he’s in the closet as well. “Hell, you put your hand in my back pocket at KFC, yesterday.”
“Oh.” Cas blinks.
Dean grins, and Cas’s surprise makes it easy to do so. “You bet my publicly grabbed ass, it counts.”
Cas knows it counts. He knows everything that counts. But he indulges himself, and he indulges Dean - his bad mood slowly dissipating. “What else?”
“You kissed me at Wendy’s last week.” Dean informs him, eyebrows raised. “Held my hand for a really long time in a Starbucks queue on Saturday. Oh, and all the gay bars count, buddy. Especially the bits where we grind on the dance floor, and then I blow you in the stall.”
Cas opens his mouth to protest that has only happened once, but Dean meets his eyes with a pointed look. He’s got to bring it up.
“Every time I’ve ever taken you to a steak joint counts too. ‘Cause trust me, those are always dates, whether you know it or not.”
“Long drives are a date to you.” Cas deadpans.
“Yeah, and Baby will never say you’re not out.” Dean throws back, and Cas actually makes it to a smile this time. Dean’s left feeling accomplished. (And sort of dazed, because it’s going to take a lot more than six years for him to get used to Cas being so easily beautiful, and being it right next to him.)
“You said you loved me for the first time at the Roadhouse.” Cas says.
Dean blushes.
“And then you ran away before I could react, got really drunk and karaoke’d I’m Too Sexy on the stage, and passed out on my lap right as I tried to say it back to you.”
This is definitely not his favorite story, but it always lights Cas up, and that’s all that matters, really - so he rolls his eyes half-heartedly and Cas smiles wider.
Silence prevails for a moment.
“Look.” Dean ends up being the one to break it. Cas listens, hanging onto each word. “You’re the only one who knows why you can’t do it, okay? My best guess would be an internalized decision to avoid conflict. Maybe you call your old therapist tomorrow - like, I dunno, a cameo from Castiel, unresolved coming-out issues sorta thing. Of course, we can talk about it too. Get six cheeseburgers and twelve beers, and figure things out on your own. But it’s up to you.” Cas exhales into a little smile. “All I know is, it doesn’t matter to anyone that you haven’t told your family, if it doesn’t matter to you.
Cas nods, a couple of times, and there’s the barest hint of tears again, but this time doesn’t make Dean want to punch God.
It makes him want to hug Cas, so he goes for it.
“Even if you were in the closet, Cas? I’d say the same.” Dean adds, as an afterthought, about a minute into a hug which doesn’t seem to be nearing an end. Not really. No one minds, so there’s that. “This community, this month - everything about Pride is about all of us, and if Charlie’s ever called me handmaiden, trust me she’s said this a million times. It means everyone. Includes people in the closet, every bit as those who’re out.”
Cas hums in agreement, and tilts his head against Dean’s.
“In any case,” Dean teases. “Your family’s over in Illinois, anyways. Here, where it counts? You’re as out as you can be.”
“I could kiss you in more Wendy’s.” Cas contemplates, because he’s awesome like that.
“What has Burger King ever done to you?”
Dean listens to him considering it with a thoughtful note, and mutters a “Dork.” It helps keep him grounded for he feels like he’s floating right now - ‘cause there’s something about the way Cas holds onto him. Tighter.
Like somehow, even after all this time, they managed to fall a little more in love today.
