Hell, let's be honest, after all the bullshit of his entire life, he hadn't expected to make it to the wedding, a wedding, any wedding. He'd given that dream up years ago, because no one in their right mind would look at Dean Winchester and think, yeap, that's they guy I'm gonna marry.
Lucky for Dean, Cas was crazy. Crazy like a fox. Which worked just fine since Dean wasn't exactly on his rocker either.
Dean was determined to not take any day, any second, for granted. He had plans. Schemes, even. He was gonna rock Cas' socks clear off.
It all started before the sun came up. For once, Dean was the early riser, too excited for the day to sleep too much. The February morning dawned clear and cold as Dean snuck around their house, quietly pulling things out and setting things up.
The breakfast nook was set up just so, the sunny yellow table cloth, flowers in a vase, and a new, leather-bound journal carefully placed beside Cas' plate, a honeycomb decorated pen clipped to the cover.
By the time Cas rolled out of bed, the coffee was already made and the bacon had just finished cooking. Dean poured batter into the Death Star waffle maker, one of their awesomer wedding gifts, as the floorboards creaked, announcing Cas' entrance into the kitchen.
Dean turned around, Cas' coffee mug in his hand, the special one from Jack that only a parent could love. Cas' eyes were still sleepy but soft as he looked at what was waiting for him.
Dean grinned and held out the steaming mug, "Happy anniversary, sweetheart."
Cas smiled and took the mug, taking a slow sip and then setting it down on the counter behind Dean. He reached up and placed his hand on Dean's cheek, drawing Dean into a slow, tender kiss.
"Good morning, my love," Cas said, voice still rough with sleep. They kissed again, impossible to stop at only one. "Happy anniversary," Cas murmured as two kisses turned into three, four, five.
The waffle maker beeped, time and space re-asserting themselves.
"Don't want the waffles to burn," Dean mumbled, before diving in to steal one last kiss from Cas' smiling lips.
Cas hummed and leaned back before Dean could steal another. "Wouldn't want to waste all of your hard work." He grabbed the plate of bacon off of the counter and took it to the table.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled with a grin. "Just save me some of the bacon this time, okay?"
"I make no promises," Cas said around the crunch of smoky, salty, meaty perfection.
"Love you too, asshole," Dean laughed, the sound of Cas' chuckle music in his ears.
The rest of the day went off without a hitch, Dean and Cas trading surprise gifts. When Dean went out to his wood shop to do a little work, soft new work gloves were waiting on his bench. A sturdy leather messenger bag, the White Tree of Gondor worked into the flap, was hanging on the hook by the door, a replacement for Cas' old, threadbare foraging bag. New boots were sitting by the back door when Dean came in for lunch, black and shiny and almost too nice to wear outside. Cas was wearing the belt that Dean had left coiled in the drawer, with that gaudy purple "Cowgirl" belt buckle leftover from their bachelor party, the one that matched the pink buckle stored in Dean's top drawer.
Dean might've had to open that belt up, get down on his knees, and indulge in a little afternoon delight right there in the kitchen. It hadn't been part of the plan but who gave a damn. The sight of Cas above him, panting, eyes closed and face flushed as he came down, was worth a little detour.
Or a long detour. Whatever. It was their anniversary, they could fuck if they wanted.
Dinner was candle-lit, because Dean was a romantic, goddamnit. The pot roast had been braising low and slow for most of the day and Cas had made the best cherry pie that Dean'd ever eaten.
Soon enough they were lazing on the couch, lamplight golden around them, watching the fire in the fireplace flicker and spark.
"I have another present for you," Cas said as his fingers combed slow and lazy through Dean's hair.
"Well ain't that lucky, cause I've got another one for you, too," Dean drawled.
Getting up from the couch was hard, but Dean'd been waiting for weeks to unveil this last gift.
The bundle he pulled out from its secret hidey hole in the back of the closet unfurled into a long leather coat, soft as butter and lined with wool.
"Oh, Dean, it's wonderful," Cas said. He pulled a box out from behind his back and they traded bundles.
Dean set the box down and lifted the lid carefully off. His eyes went wide when he saw what was inside, and he couldn't help bouncing and clapping his hands, just a little.
"Is that what I think it is?" Dean asked, voice a little breathless and a touch giddy.
"I'm afraid I've played right into your cowboy fetish," Cas said with a long-suffering sigh. He reached around Dean and pulled the cowboy hat out and placed it on Dean's head. It fit perfectly. Of course it did.
Cas' arms were secure around Dean's waist and he dropped a kiss on the back of Dean's neck. "I love you, Dean."
Dean turned in his arms and kissed him soundly on the lips. "I love you, too. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
He pulled out of Cas' arms and grabbed his wrist, tugging him urgently toward the bedroom. "Come on, buddy. I've got a cowboy to ride."
Cas groaned, but followed quickly behind him. "I've created a monster."
Dean found the picture wedged in a corner of Baby's trunk. It was him, circa 2002, or somewhere thereabout. It's some old polaroid shot, overexposed and grainy. Just him, tilted and off-center, poleaxed expression on his face.
He grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket. Didn't wanna look at it, definitely didn't want to think about it. Some stuff couldn't be changed so it was best kept buried.
Course, that's not how it ever worked. The image, specter really, kept popping into his head at the randomest moments. He'd be sanding a table or opening the fridge and that face would stare back at him out of his mind's eye.
The thing was, he'd forgotten most of his early twenties. Not on purpose and not for any real reason. He just didn't think about them that much. It'd sucked, sure, but compared to the rest of his life the trauma didn't really stack up. It was a time that he'd lived through, no more, no less.
What he did remember, in sighs and sepia tones, was the wide open road and the scent of lighter fluid, how lonely he'd been and how old he'd felt.
But that guy in that photo, Dean wasn't sure he recognized that guy. That guy looked like a kid, the kind Dean'd never gotten to be. Some dumb son of a bitch who thought hungover was the worst he'd ever feel.
He can't get over it, the distance between the kid he could see and the guy he remembered being.
One day, Cas found him staring at it. He'd pulled it out and set it right in the middle of the kitchen table, propped up against a carpentry book Cas'd dug up at the thrift store. It was too easy to get lost, not in the memories, but in the emotions, the emptiness.
Almost like poking a bruise, the dull ache, the electric jolt, the sharp feeling that papered over some kind of empty void deep inside.
Dean heard Cas step into the kitchen, his footsteps always loud and purposeful. He felt Cas walk up behind his chair and rest a hand on Dean's left shoulder.
"Handsome son of a bitch, isn't he?" Dean said, tone light but voice a little too rough.
Cas hummed. "I haven't seen this one before."
"Yeah. Found it laying around." Dean tapped the corner absently. "Kinda wild that I was ever that young."
Cas hummed again, a deep, thoughtful sound, and absently combed his fingers through Dean's hair.
Dean let himself lean into that touch, if only just a little.
"Time comes for us all, I suppose," Cas finally said.
Dean leaned back and twisted around to get a look at Cas' face. Cas' hair was thicker and wilder than it used to be, dark with streaks of white. He had a beard no, too, a littler grayer than his hair, and lines that creased around his eyes and mouth as he concentrated.
"Even for you?" Dean asked in a voice just a little too serious to be a tease.
"Especially for me," Cas promised, eyes staring into Dean's, deep and blue and earnest.
"Yeah. Okay." A weight lifted in Dean as the moments ticked away, counterbalanced and lightened by the steadiness in Castiel's eyes.
The emptiness, that loneliness, had been his only companion for a long time. His one real friend for large chunks of his life. But he could release it, let the good times now fill up the holes that solitude had left behind.
"Here you go." Dean picked up the photo and handed it over. "You can stick it in with all of the rest."
Cas held it carefully, long fingers gently gripping the lower edge. "As you wish."
He came awake slowly, wrapped securely in soft blankets and curled up close behind Dean's sleeping warmth. There was always a weight to Dean's slumber, one that anchored him during the difficult nights and that held him securely now.
Dean's deep, slow breaths meant comfort and safety. All was well and they could rest.
Cas had been dreaming before he woke, a dream vast and empty, lonely but not alone. The images eluded his waking mind, memory sliding away, slipping faster and faster the more he strained to recall.
The anxiety clicked higher in its place. Dreams, memories, the forgetting of what he had been, all reminding him of what he had lost and what he would never be again.
He did not regret his choices, but his grief remained with him.
Dean sighed, a low deep exhalation, and rolled over. His eyes slitted open, barely visible in the slow-gleaming light of the still-gray dawn.
"Go back to sleep, sweetheart," Dean grumbled low, not even half awake. " It's early."
Dean's arm curled over Cas' waist, pulling him closer. He kissed him, warm and slow and a little sour, his eyes already drifting closed.
"All right," Cas mumbled. Love and fondness swelled in his chest, smoothing anxiety's sharp edge. "All right."
Cas closed his eyes and matched his breaths with Dean's. He drifted back to sleep as the birds outside began to sing.
The cold, autumn rain had set in early and hard. October had hardly begun and the leaves had already been stripped off the trees by the never-ceasing rain.
It was gray. It was cold. It was damp. And the weather had lied, promising a warm, sunny day--a break, a chance to put the garden to bed for winter--but instead the rain persisted.
It was wicked, evil, an abomination. Cas wasn't sure why he'd even gotten out of bed.
Dean had left earlier, soon after breakfast, errands to run in town. He'd invited Cas along, but the thought of a day spent driving in and around town, music too loud on the radio, surrounded by crowds and hordes of people, was more than Castiel could bear.
His day was already ruined and a meaningless day of excursion would not improve it.
Dean had smiled at him, too wide and bright for such a grim day, and told him to enjoy being miserable.
Castiel would enjoy being miserable. He would be the most miserable he could possibly be. He refused to go back to bed, instead he did the dishes and started the washing machine.
If he couldn't do what he wanted, he would do what he despised instead.
Now he sat at the table, mug of tea long gone cold, as he struggled to read a book that Sam had recommended to him. The subject was compelling but the text was tedious and overwritten.
Typical.
He was so caught up in staring at the sad, scraggly remains of his vegetable garden--shriveled brown vines, dripping and sad--that he missed the sound of the truck pulling up to the house and the engine shutting off.
Dean had already put the Impala away for the winter, unwilling to risk it to ice and salt and the precariousness of country roads. Not even that one joy remained to them.
Cas absolutely did not startle when Dean draped himself over his back, chin hooking over Castiel's shoulder, nose chill against Cas's cheek.
"Hey, sweetheart. I got you something." Dean's voice a rumble that Cas felt more than heard.
Dean reached over and deposited a small plastic pot beside Cas' abandoned mug. It was an African violet, leaves tinted with yellow and a few petals knocked loose.
Castiel felt a clenching in his chest, a fist squeezing around his heart. It was easy to forget that there were things that made the pinpricks and paper cuts of disappointment and inconvenience worth it. Things like plants that needed care and someone who would bring him flowers to brighten his day.
Cas turned in his chair, angling himself to look back at Dean, to see the softness in Dean's eyes and the affection in the curve of his mouth.
"Thank you, Dean. I love it." Cas placed his hand on Dean's cheek and kissed him, soft and lush and perfect.
They were Dean's special blend, just the right blend of ground beef varieties, with a couple secret herbs and spices massaged into the patties. All topped off with salt and pepper and seared by hot charcoal.
He had a gas grill, a gift from Cas and Sam and Jack back around Father's Day, but for a burger it had to be charcoal.
The sliding door into the house was open, and through it Dean could hear the rapid fire patter of Cas' knife. In his mind, Dean could see the graceful curve of Cas' fingers around the handle, the loose but precise way he held it as he chopped through vegetables like some chef on TV.
Dean would eat those vegetables and he would love them. Because Cas made them for him.
Dean flipped a burger, the scent of charred meat and grease spreading out through the air around him. He glanced at the spatula, the scars on his knuckles and calluses on his fingers. A history of violence, pain, and death memorialized on his skin.
All he had ever wanted was this: a home of his own, a person to love and share it with, a future to create not just to survive.
He flinched a little, the clatter of plates set down on the table behind him snapping him out of his thoughts.
Cas came up behind him, careful to step on the creaky board, to make a noise, to announce his presence, to not startle someone who had spent his life in fight or flight mode. Always so careful with Dean.
Cas hooked his chin over Dean's left shoulder. "Those smell great," he said, voice a warm rumble in Dean's ear, body warm and snug against his own.
"Should be nearly done," Dean replied. "Grab me the plate?"
"Of course," Cas said, and Dean could hear the smile in his tone.
Before Cas could step away, Dean reached over and grabbed his hand. Dean looked at him, their eyes met and held, and he raised Cas' hand to his lips. He kissed Cas' knuckles and squeezed his long, beautiful fingers.
Cas gazed at him, golden in the late afternoon light. Eyes full of fondness and love, eyes that Dean could finally see a future in.
Dean loved Cas, with all that was left of his soul.
Corn stalks rustled in the evening breeze. The stalks' hollow scraping rattled down the long rows, snaking around the hard-beaten path and sending a shiver down Dean's spine that he could almost blame on the night's sudden chill. Almost.
The warm, golden afternoon had dimmed, the wind turning chill as the sun sank. Now, instead of high-pitched children laughing as they through the twists and turns, his only companions were the sound of his own breath, the hollow tramp of his footsteps over hard-beaten ground, and the cold, clear light of the moon.
And the corn. Always the corn.
He plowed onward, around the hard turns and past the blind corridors, shadows flickering in his periphery. He knew the maze, now. And he knew what waited at its heart.
Then, past the last turn, the land widened into a round, barren meadow, the place where all paths met. And there, in the middle, stood Castiel, long coat billowing around his legs, head tipped back and eyes fixed on the sky.
Dean came up from behind Cas to stand at his left side. Their shoulders brushed and Dean reached down to grab Cas' hand, cold fingers finding warmth, the contact always electrifying. He was Cas' and Cas was his.
"Come on, man," Dean said, eyes caught on Cas' profile, the graceful curve of his mouth. "It's time to go. They're closing up shop."
Cas lowered his eyes from the sky. His mouth curved into a smile as he caught Dean's eyes, the smile he saved only for Dean. The smile that broke Dean's heart and mended it again.
He leaned into Dean's shoulder and squeezed his hand.
"Of course, Dean," he replied, eyes glinting warm in reflected moonlight. "Let's go home."
Cas went to the used bookstore in town every time he had the opportunity.
Over the Bookshelf was tucked away in the small Main Street shopping area, sandwiched between a Domino's pizza on one side and a sandwich place on the other. It was, in Dean's words, more hole in the wall than a hole in the wall, but Cas found something delightful whenever he visited.
He was beginning to understand why humans put so much emphasis on olfactory sensations, because that first hit of old books, decaying paper and glue, sent dopamine and oxytocin swirling through his brain; a sensation almost as strong, almost but not quite, as what he felt every time he walked into his and Dean's home.
Their home together.
This visit to the bookstore was no different. He grinned as he meandered through the narrow aisles, books shoved willy-nilly into overstuffed shelves. He hadn't arrived with any particular goal, no preconceived book to purchase or purloin. He would know what he was looking for when he saw it.
Amongst a shelf of dusty paperbacks, a particularly lurid cover caught his eye. When he read the title he couldn't keep himself from flipping to the first page. The temptation was simply too great.
That's where Dean found him, his head thrown back in uproarious laughter. Cas rarely laughed so hard that tears leaked from his eyes, but he couldn't stop. The whole thing was too ridiculous.
"What's got you chuckling, sunshine?" Dean asked, a grin on his face.
Cas wiped his eyes and handed the book over. "This thing is entirely absurd."
Dean's eyes widened, a look of shocked horror on his face. He shuddered and dropped the book on the floor, rubbing his hands on his jeans as if to wipe them clean.
"Were you seriously reading one of the Supernatural books?" Dean grimaced. "What the fuck, Cas. I could practically hear you laughing from the street. Didn't realize my life was that funny to you."
Cas bent down and picked the book up, placing it back on its precarious perch. He took a breath and considered how to best respond. Dean could be very sensitive about some things.
He looked up and caught Dean's eyes with his own. "I didn't read them before, there was no point at first and even less later. Reading it now--" Cas paused and placed his hand on Dean's cheek, guiding his eyes back up to meet his own.
"Dean," Cas continued, voice low. "I don't know who that character in the book is. He shares your name but he isn't you. Chuck could not conceive of you, not the real you. He lacked the imagination to understand all of your best and brightest parts. He could never see you, not truly."
"Sweet talker," Dean muttered, eyes suspiciously bright. "But you can see me, is that it?"
"Of course," Cas replied, steady and certain as a mountain. Knowing Dean, seeing Dean, was like knowing and seeing himself; intrinsic and all-encompassing.
Cas crowded up against Dean, pushing him backwards against another tottering shelf. He felt Dean's breath hitch, his pulse speeding, eyes wide again, but not in horror.
He kissed Dean, the pressure going from light and teasing to dark and promising within the space of a gasped breath. Dean opened to him and in that moment, like so many others, Cas marveled at the enormity of Dean's heart.
"Plus," Cas mumbled deep beside Dean's ear, hand going lower to brush teasingly against where Dean was hot and yearning. "He conspicuously undersells the heft of your 'throbbing member.'"
Dean yelped and pushed Cas away. "What the fuck! That was the one where I was full frontal? Seriously, Cas?"
Cas shrugged, though he would hardly use the term "full-frontal." Chuck was a sub-optimal erotica writer.
Dean pointed at Cas. "You're sleeping on the couch." He turned and stormed away.
Cas rolled his eyes. He caught up to Dean, grabbing onto and holding his hand for full effect. "No, I'm not." Cas declared.
Dean had the temerity to roll his own eyes, but he squeezed Cas' hand "Fine. You're probably not."
Cas grinned, secure in his victory. They held hands as they left the store.
"Was that monster truck actually racist?" Cas asked, unable to stop himself.
Dean glanced over, eyes narrowed. His mouth twitched. And then, there, in the middle of the sidewalk, on a clear autumn day, Dean started to laugh.
It had all started on a hunt. Because of course it did. It had been during those off-kilter days after Cas came home again, finally, to stay. Days when Dean had ping-ponged between needing to wrap Cas in cotton and wanting to shake him until his teeth rattled.
Dean was obnoxious. He knew he was being obnoxious. And he couldn't stop himself.
Because Cas was back, he was here, saved from an eternal, oily black nightmare, the final miracle from a short-term God. And Dean couldn't handle it. He was an entire mess when Cas was gone and he wasn't much better when Cas came back.
Frankly, he was an asshole. Such a huge asshole that Sam practically threw a hunt in his face, telling him to get the fuck out until he pulled his head out of his fucking ass.
Okay, maybe not in those exact words, but his meaning had been pretty fucking clear. Dean might have been a mess but he wasn't a moron.
Anyway, the cabin had been owned by some guy named Paul or Pwilliam or what the fuck ever. It'd definitely been a poltergeist problem, one that Dean cleared up with gusto and more than a little flare, if he did say so himself
He'd certainly impressed Partholomew, enough that the dude had flat-out given him the cabin before running out of town with his tail between his legs.
It's possible the cabin had electrical issues. And septic tank issues. And raccoons living in the attic. And a sketchy title history. But those weren't anything that a little sweat and discreet hacking of county databases couldn't fix.
On the drive back to the bunker, Dean started making plans. He spent enough time back in the bunker to pack up the essentials and sweet-talk Cas into coming with him. All in all, it wasn't long before he was back on the road, his best friend and not so secret love of his life riding shotgun.
Some people (Sam) thought that Dean was being impulsive and maybe a little self-destructive. But some people (Sam again) didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. Dean might not have planned on owning a cabin, but he'd had so many dreams over the years of getting out, living his own life and being free of the weight of his past. So many fantasies had fluttered past his eyes as he'd fallen asleep, or hazy visions met somewhere before the bottom of the bottle; soft illusions of sunshine and warm smiles, of happiness that he wasn't brave enough to believe in, let alone take for himself.
It wasn't impulse to grab a hold of a good thing when you saw it. It was bravery. For the first time in Dean's life he was brave enough to be selfish.
It wasn't easy, there were too many long days and longer nights. There was sweat and blood and one particularly vicious fight with Cas. But none of that mattered, not really. Dean was happy. Cas was happy. They were happy together.
