worried Dean @ Cas: “I’m not bothering you, am I?”
---
It’s a widely accepted tenet in the art department that Castiel Novak is a genius.
Dean first hears rumors of Novak’s skills when he’s a freshman. He doesn’t believe them at first. He suspects they’re overblown by groupies who are too interested in trying to get into Novak’s pants (not that Dean can blame them: with his shock of dark hair, ice-blue eyes, and delicate scrollwork of tattoos spiraling up his arms to disappear under the sleeves of his very tight t-shirts, Novak is a walking wet dream). Then, at the end of his freshman year, he’s busy setting up the annual art show when a piece catches his attention.
At first glance, the painting is deceptively simple. A shadowed figure stands in the center of the canvas, his arms raised up to the sky. Around him are swirls of red, black, and gold, somehow blending into one color in the background. The more Dean looks, the more ambiguity he finds in the painting. Are the swirls of gold lifting the figure up or restraining him? Is the figure fading into the black or breaking free? Is the red coming from him or is he drawing it in? Are his hands raised in supplication or defiance?
Dean loses track of how many minutes he spends staring at the painting, admiring the shading, the color, the symbolism. Transfixed, he reaches out to touch at the rough surface of the painting before he recalls himself and snaps his hand back to his side.
“You can touch it if you want.”
Dean whirls around at the deep voice, his eyes widening when he sees Castiel Novak standing behind him, hands tucked deep into his pockets. Castiel raises a pierced eyebrow at him.
“Seriously. Go ahead.”
Dean shakes his head, aware of Castiel’s reputation. “I can’t...we’re not allowed to disturb the artwork--”
Castiel’s mouth twists and Dean doesn’t know whether he’s angry or deprecatory. “Well, I’m the artist, and I say you can.”
Castiel’s eyes rest heavily on him. Dean swallows, his heart picking up a rhythm that seems attached to the flick of Castiel’s tongue over his lower lip. Hand shaking, he reaches out to brush his fingers over the textured canvas.
“It’s rough,” Castiel says from right behind him (when the hell did he get that close?), “because becoming is always rough.”
And that’s how Dean Winchester decided Castiel Novak was a genius.
---
As school and life continues, Dean admires Castiel Novak from afar.
From what he can tell, Castiel doesn’t have many friends. He has admirers, which he ignores, and he has a few people who hang onto his fame, which he disdains, but actual friends? The only thing keeping Dean from volunteering is the thought that Castiel will turn the same withering look on him.
Castiel haunts the art building and, as Dean continues delving into the Art program at Carver Edlund University, he does the same. Sometimes he’ll pass Castiel on his way to his studio. Castiel always nods at him, but it’s a companionable gesture, the same that you might give to someone at the grocery store. He never stops to chat, doesn’t even remove his earbuds.
And that’s fine. So Dean’s harboring a crush that’s as much intellectual as it is physical. Plenty of people have crushes. It’s fine. It’s not like he’s obsessed. Not like he lurks around just so he can leave at the same time Castiel does. Not like he skulks through the dark halls so he can get a look at Castiel’s new project. That would make him creepy and pathetic, and those are two adjectives which certainly don’t describe Dean Winchester.
After a while, denial doesn’t even taste bad, just a little bitter.
By the end of his sophomore year, Dean’s accustomed to the status quo. He notices the light in the private studio allotted to Castiel (all senior Art majors get their own studios, but Castiel got the nicest of them), but he doesn’t stop on his way to his own (shared) studio. When he arrives, however, he screeches to a halt.
His studio is filled to the brim with snotty freshmen. His personal workplace has been completely commandeered by a freshman with a (barf) man bun. “What the hell?” Dean sputters. He can feel his face turning red with rage. “This is my time.”
Man-Bun pops his gum as he looks at Dean. His eyes are so hazy Dean’s surprised that he’s not deep-throating a bong at that very moment. “Um, guess again? We totally booked the studio for tonight?”
Seething, Dean storms to the schedule and checks. Sure enough, there’s a long list of names on the door for the studio space. “I always have Thursday,” he protests, but it’s an empty sort of rage. “I’m always here for Thursdays.”
Man-Bun shrugs, turning back to his psychedelic smattering of colors. “Not this Thursday, dude.”
Dismissed, Dean gathers his remaining dignity, and leaves. Standing out in the hallway, he reviews his options. He’s kicked out of his regular studio, and he needs to work tonight, otherwise he’ll never get his final project for figure drawing done. Every studio he passes is booked to capacity; clearly the art program is full of procrastinators. In fact, the only studio that has any sort of room...
“No. No. Shit.” Dean weighs the consequences of failing his class versus metaphorically throwing himself into a volcano. Finally, his fear of failure takes over, and he knocks on the door of his last remaining option.
The door swings open, revealing a Castiel who looks significantly more disheveled than normal (though normal Castiel usually looks like he was rode hard and put away wet). A smear of blue paint decorates one cheek while his earbuds dangle from his neck. Dean tries to ignore the spirals of Castiel’s tattoos, especially where they disappear under his shirt (he especially tries to ignore the thoughts of what those tattoos look like underneath Castiel’s shirt). Castiel blinks in surprise.
“Dean. What are you doing here?”
(The fact that Castiel knows Dean’s name comes as a shock. Dean assumed that he was one of the thousands of nameless faces Castiel passes every day.)
“Um, first let me say, it’s totally awesome if you say no, I don’t expect you to say yes, it’s a huge imposition--”
“Dean, you’re rambling.”
“Can i use your studio? Or share it? I wouldn’t ask, but a bunch of douchebags took mine and there are no other spaces open, and I really need to finish this project--”
“Sure. Come on.”
And with that, Castiel steps back and beckons Dean into his studio.
Dean crosses the threshold with something resembling awe. He never imagined, in his wildest dreams, that he would be allowed into Castiel’s inner sanctum. He tries not to gape too obviously as his eyes dart from corner to corner of the room. It looks...like a studio for the most part. Several canvases are hung around the room; if they’re discarded attempts or inspiration, Dean doesn’t know. They could easily function as either. Castiel finally steps in front of him, directing Dean’s attention to one corner of the room.
“Would there be good?”
Dean nods. “Yeah, that’s good.” He pauses, eyes darting nervously around the studio. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”
Castiel frowns, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “No, of course not. If you were, I wouldn’t have opened up the door.” With that, he seems to consider the topic of conversation closed, and retreats back a few steps.
He sets up his work and tries to ignore the fact that Castiel Novak is watching him. It’s almost impossible not to feel his eyes; the skin on the back of Dean’s neck prickles in awareness, but he perseveres.
He sets his sketch on the easel before casting a critical eye upon it. He frowns as he notices every imperfection. it’s based off a series of sketches he jotted down in class earlier that day. Dean remembers the careless grace of the model, the way that the fabric had draped artlessly over his waist and shoulders, but he can’t recapture the specific atmosphere of the room, which was what made that particular model striking. Every time he tries to put onto the paper how the room felt, his figures end up wooden and two-dimensional.
“You’re paying too much attention to the form.”
Dean jumps, his charcoal pencil scrawling an ungainly line across the page. Not a huge loss, he was already going to toss this one anyway. He turns around to find Castiel standing directly behind him.
Castiel nods towards his sketchpad. “In your drawings. You’re paying too much attention to the form. That’s why it’s coming out wrong.”
“The form is all there is,” Dean replies, a little peevishly. He knows the sketch sucks, but that doesn’t mean he wants Castiel freaking Novak pointing it out to him.
“The form is one part. But you have the lighting and shading and you have the intention. The intention is...the feel of the room. It’s what remains unsaid and unseen to those who weren’t there. It’s what you’re trying to capture by paying so much attention to the form. Of course, by concentrating too much on the technical, you lose the abstract.”
Castiel flicks over to a new page with a deft flick of his wrist. He plucks the pencil from Dean’s grasp with one hand. With the other, he poses Dean’s hand close to his face. Castiel stares at Dean for a few excruciating seconds before he turns his attention to the empty page.
Dean hardly dares to breathe as Castiel sketches. He’s not sure how he’s going to return to real life, knowing now the tiny crease that knits between Castiel’s brows or how the tip of Castiel’s tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. How is he supposed to live, knowing Castiel hums tunelessly as his hand works?
“There.” Castiel flips the sketch to face Dean. In it, Dean finds his own face, rendered in a few lines. It’s rough, certainly, but it’s a close enough likeness. More than that, Castiel’s managed to capture...
“Do I look that scared?” Dean blurts out, before he can stop himself.
Castiel actually laughs, deep and rumbling, from the diaphragm. It’s a lovely sound, one that fills the studio, and one Dean would gladly hear again and again. “You don’t look scared.” He sets the pencil down on the easel and turns fully to face Dean. “Anxious maybe. Hovering on the edge of anticipation.” He steps closer. His chest almost brushes Dean’s, which could be misinterpreted as Castiel not understanding the concept of personal space.
What can’t be misinterpreted is the unsubtle drop of Castiel’s eyes to Dean’s lips.
“I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I’ve really wanted to kiss you for almost a year,” Castiel says, his voice scraped rough around the edges. His eyes drag up to Dean’s, and Dean’s taken aback at the wild glint in them. Castiel steps closer and his clever fingers slip into the spaces between Dean’s fingers. “Please Dean,” Castiel breathes, raw and needy, “please, can I kiss you?”
“Fuck yes,” Dean murmurs, which is all he gets to say before Castiel’s hand cups the back of his head and his lips descend upon Dean’s.
Not that Dean’s bragging, but he’s had quite a few good kisses in his life (and been told that he gives quite a few good kisses). Castiel blows them all out of the water. Dean’s never been kissed so thoroughly before, like Castiel wants to own him, like Castiel’s interested in finding exactly what makes Dean tick. His teeth nip at the swell of Dean’s lower lip while his tongue delicately traces the seam of Dean’s lips. Dean eagerly opens his mouth, moaning into Castiel’s mouth as Castiel’s tongue slips in along his.
Hours or days later, when they part, Dean realizes that while one of his hands is cupping the spur of Castiel’s hip (holy fuck, those hips feel like handles for his hands), his other hand is still holding Castiel’s. It’s certainly the sweetest kiss that’s ever given him a boner.
Castiel laughs, a little breathless. It’s only then Dean realizes he’s a little taller than Castiel. “You do live up to expectations,” he murmurs, and Dean’s not sure whether Castiel’s talking to himself or not.
The words spark a recent memory in Dean, and suddenly nothing is more important than finding out the truth. “You said you wanted to do that for a year?” Castiel nods, his eyes suddenly shifting to the side. “Why?”
“Everyone always goes on about my art. How groundbreaking it is, how I’m a ‘once in a generation talent’.” Castiel uses finger-quotes, which should not be as endearing as Dean finds it. “And it’s nice, but none of them even bother to see my art for what it is. They just see my name attached to it and they lose their shit. But last year...You saw that painting. It didn’t matter to you who made it. You saw it and appreciated it for what it was. And I...I saw you.”
Castiel swallows. For all his suave confidence earlier, he looks oddly vulnerable now. “So, anyway. Yeah. For a year now. Um...” He glances at Dean’s easel. “I guess I’ll leave you alone now. Or if you want privacy, I can go.”
“Or,” Dean says, the pink flush on Castiel’s cheeks giving him all the bravery he’ll ever need. “You could stay.” Castiel’s eyes slice to him, their blue intense and jaw-dropping. Dean grins, a little predatory, like they’re on even ground.
“After all, I’m going to need a model for this sketch.”
Original Prompt: Imagine Dean asking your father for your hand and promising to protect you and love you no matter what happens.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Tags: proposal, nervous!Dean, sweet!Dean
Word Count: 1,731
(Gif not mine)
Dean beat his fingers on the steering wheel nervously. After everything he'd seen, there wasn't much that scared him anymore. This, however, was more nerve-wracking than any monster he had ever faced before. When he pulled up to the small cape cod style house, his nerves had him grabbing for his phone.
"Dean?" Sam asked, sounding surprised to hear from his brother so soon. "How'd it go?" Dean's palms were sweating like crazy, and he had to hold the phone with both hands as to not drop it.
"It hasn't yet. I'm freakin' out, man. What if he says no?" Sam sighed softly on the other end of the line.
"He won't say no. You already practiced what you're gonna say like ten times, all right? And this is what you want, isn't it?" Dean glanced over at the ring box in the passenger seat and let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.
"Yeah," he answered, feeling much more at ease. "I want this more than anything." Dean heard his younger brother chuckle.
"I know you do. Now go knock on that door and get his blessing. You've got this." Dean nodded.
"You're right. Thanks, Sammy." With a quiet beep, the call ended, returning the older Winchester to the hushed atmosphere with nothing but his thoughts for company. Dean took another deep breath before finally taking the small box in his hand and leaving the Impala. By the time he got up to the wrap-around front porch, his nerves were even worse than before. His finger hovered over the doorbell. "Come on," he muttered to himself. "What's the worst that could happen?" He paused and retracted his finger. "He could say no, that's the worst that could happen."
Dean turned around and headed back to the car. His hand was on the driver's side handle when the weight of the situation kicked in. "This is for Y/N," he had to remind himself. Secretly, Dean was embarrassed by how nervous he was, but then again, who wouldn't be? Your father was tougher and far more protective than his own was, and here he was about to ask him for your hand. He looked up at the house, which, despite its cozy appearance, was incredibly daunting. The front yard was a good size and went remarkably well with the picket-fence style. Dean smiled to himself. He could practically see you running around the yard as a young girl as he recounted stories you had told him of your childhood. He wouldn't mind having a little one that looked like you one day. Dean took yet another deep breath and shoved the ring box in his jacket pocket, stomping back up to the porch before he had time to change his mind. This was something he would not talk himself out of. The doorbell glowed a warm yellow as he pressed his thumb down on it, and as he did so, he heard the welcoming chime echo throughout the inside of the house. When no one answered after a moment, Dean checked his watch. 7:32. He didn't think that was too late. Just as he was about to ring the doorbell again, the front door swung open, revealing a balding man with a hard expression. "Mr. Y/L/N?" Dean asked.
"Yeah, that's me," your father answered.
"I know you don't know me, but my name is Dean Winchester. I work with your daughter." His eyes narrowed, and his expression darkened slightly.
"Is she okay?"
"Oh, she's fine." Your dad nodded, showing his relief, and then stuck his hand out. Dean wasted no time in returning the handshake.
"So, you work with my Y/N, huh?" he asked. "She still hunting those... things?" Dean's eyes widened in surprise. You had never mentioned that your father knew about hunting.
"Yeah, we hunt together," Dean explained. "She never told me you knew what was really out there." He gave a hearty laugh.
"That's because she doesn't know that I know." Your father opened the door all the way, gesturing for Dean to come inside. Immediately after stepping into the main hallway, he was greeted by pictures of you as a child, all the way up to your college graduation. Dean inspected the picture of you holding your diploma with curiosity.
"Holy crap," he marveled. "I didn't know she went to Princeton." Your dad grunted in acknowledgment.
"Don't take it personal, son. Y/N never really talks about college much. Brings up bad memories for her. She dropped out when we lost her mother." Dean placed the picture frame back down on the table, not saying another word. You had told him a couple years ago that your mom was the main reason you had joined the hunt, but he never dared ask questions for fear of upsetting you.
"So, Mr. Y/L/N," Dean said, following your dad into the kitchen. He turned around, grimacing.
"Just call me Roy," he insisted. "People say 'Mr. Y/L/N,' and I look around for my dad." Dean gave a slight nod to show his understanding.
"How did you figure out Y/N was hunting?" Roy laughed, a sound that reverberated pleasantly, and handed Dean a beer.
"Wasn't too hard to figure out. Y/N is my girl," he began. "Her mom and I raised her to be strong and kind. She's good-hearted and tough as nails, but she can't lie for squat." Dean let out a chuckle of his own as he recalled a failed surprise party you had planned for him last year.
"No, she can't," he agreed. Your dad took a swig of his beer.
"Besides," he continued. "I know the signs. Seen all the equipment before. Her mother was a hunter herself." Dean felt his eyes widen.
"Did Y/N know that?" Roy shook his head.
"No." Dean watched the gruff man across from him in disbelief as he tilted the neck of his beer bottle in his direction. "And I'd appreciate it if you kept that bit of information between us. I'd like her to hear that from me. If she ever comes around to see her old man again, that is." Dean took a long drink as he looked around at the house again. He could tell how much your dad loved you by how many pictures of you he had hanging on the walls. One, in particular, caught his eye. You as a child with your mother pushing you on an old wooden swing. Dean smiled to himself. You had told him a few stories of your mother here and there. From what he knew, she had a heart of gold and loved her family more than anything. He wished he could have met her. Both of you were grinning ear to ear in the picture, and you were the spitting image of her. Even as a young girl, you were still drop-dead gorgeous. When he turned his attention back to Roy, he was watching him intently.
"You and Y/N don't just hunt together, do you?" Dean hesitantly shook his head and set the beer down on the table.
"No, sir, we don't." Your dad also placed his beer down with a clink.
"Aw, hell." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "All right, son," he said, turning his protective father voice on. "You're here for a reason. What is it?" Dean took a deep breath. Here went nothing.
"Y/N and I have been dating for a couple years now. The day we met, she saved my sorry ass from a crocotta that had me knocked out cold. When she finally got me to come to, I thought I was in heaven at first because of how damn beautiful she was. She's the kindest woman I've ever met, and she dedicates her life to helping others." Dean watched Roy's face light up at his praises. "Y/N makes me the happiest man in the world, and she helps to make me a better person, too. She never lets me give up, and she saves me from myself when times get grim. I love her with all my heart, and more than I could even begin to put into words. With your blessing..." Dean anxiously took the ring box from his jacket pocket, opening it and setting it on the table. "I'd like to ask your daughter to marry me." Your dad carefully examined the ring, a small smile growing on his face. "And I know what we do is dangerous," Dean went on. "I know marriage sure as hell won't be easy with hunting. But I swear to you that no matter what happens, I will love your daughter, and I'll protect her with my life." Roy examined the ring for a moment before pushing the box back over to Dean.
"You really love her, don't you?" he asked.
"More than anything," Dean answered with a nod. Roy gave a soft chuckle, reaching for his beer again.
"I can tell by how you've been looking at her pictures all night. Your eyes light up, and you're looking at her the same way I used to look at her mother." Dean watched him anxiously as he mulled it over. "And you said you'll protect her?"
"With my life," Dean repeated. After several moments of looking thoughtful, Roy nodded, scratching his chin.
"I won't forget that, Winchester," he informed. "You better take care of my Y/N." Dean looked up at your father, hopefully.
"You mean-" Roy grinned and nodded again.
"You have my blessing." The two men stood from the kitchen table, shaking hands. And when the evening came to an end, your dad only had a few parting words. "You make my daughter happy, you hear?" Dean smiled widely.
"You can count on that," he promised. He headed for the Impala under the dim moonlight.
"Dean?" Dean stopped, turning on his heel. "Have Y/N come out to see her old man soon, would you?" Dean smiled and nodded.
"I will." As Roy closed the front door behind him, Dean could hardly contain his excitement. He snatched his phone from the passenger's seat, redialing his younger brother. It only rang once before he answered.
"Well?" Sam asked. Dean beamed.
"He said yes." He looked at the small ring box in his hand excitedly as Sam cheered and offered his congratulations. You were in for one hell of a surprise.
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One for Dean: A partner telling him he's pretty or calling him "pretty boy" in bed. Even though it's sincerely meant as compliment, it brings up way too much shit from the past . Dean will grin and shrug it off like it doesn't bother him, but he's no longer enjoying himself and just going through the motions. Ahh, my poor babies just need to be wrapped in fluffy blankets and given cocoa.
YES! Yes, please. ;-;
Sam’ll call him pretty - but he doesn’t say it all creepy and condescending. Like, he’ll be nuzzling Dean, and just go - “Dude, you’re way too pretty to be with me. Friggin’ gorgeous.”
As Dean woke up he knew exactly what he was about to do today. He had it all planned out days ago. He knew what he wanted to say, had all words stored in his mind ready to leave his mouth.
So when the eldest Winchester made his way out of his bedroom and walked down the hallway heading towards the bunker’s kitchen, he was up for almost everything.
One thing he did certainly not expect was his giant of a brother making coffee and humming to himself If I ain’t got you along with the radio that was quietly sending waves of Alicia Key’s song to his ears.
“Morning, Sammy.” Dean greeted and tried to sound not as disappointed as he was that his plans might be shattered. “Why you’re still here? No work-out today?”
But Sam just continued to hum, obviously choosing to ignore his brother, and poured some coffee in Dean’s cup.
Wait, what?! Dean’s cup?
Smugly grinning, Sam handed the cup to Dean and gave him a - what Dean assumed - should be an encouraging pat on the back.
“I’m going on a very long run today. So you can calm down and have your talk with Cas. If I’m back and you have chickened out again, I swear to God…”
That got a smile to Dean’s mouth because there’s no way and no excuse why he could push it along any longer.
Since three weeks, there was no darkness anymore. None of them were dying at the moment and Cas was cured of the spell Rowena had cast on him.
The only thing they were currently fighting were supernatural creatures with which they had dealt since they were able to hold a gun. Nothing they couldn’t handle. Nothing extraordinary.
The only thing you could call extraordinary was the fact that Cas was human – again. He had to extract his grace if he had wanted to survive Rowena’s spell and did not bother to put it back after his cure although he was free to do so. Something Dean did not understand in the slightest. But whenever Dean asked him about Cas not wanting to be an angel again, the black-haired man would just smile softly and say something like “Weren’t you the one to teach me free will, Dean?” Then he would ditch Dean dumbfounded.
“Don’t worry, Sammy.” Dean said. “Today is the best date to ruin my friendship with Cas. Seven years ago we’ve met and you know what they say about the seven-year itch. So I might as well screw everything up today, right?”
“You won’t screw up anything, Dean.” Sam snorted and rolled his eyes trying to seem annoyed when in reality he was concerned as he knew his brother all too well. Every single time in the past seven years when he thought that finally Dean would made a move he had another poor excuse for not doing what he should do, what he wanted to do.
“Hope you’re right but would not bet on it.” Dean sighed and received another tap on his back. Dean shrugged his annoying brother off and took a seat at the table under the lingering gaze of Sam.
Right as Sam wanted to quote (approximately) Nicholas Sparks on him, there were steps on the floor.
So Cas was up and it was way too early for him as he normally slept in until Dean was serving lunch.
And yes, Dean panicked. He thought he had still four fucking hours left to prepare himself for their conversation or rather for the moment when Cas would politely reject him and everything would get awkward between the two of them.
Sam grinned and gave Dean a thumb up.
That little bitch.
Then Dean heard Sam shouting a Good Morning, Cas down the hallway and Cas greeting a bit quieter with a yawning Good Morning, Sam that brought a tiny smile back on Dean’s lips that grew to a quiet laughter as Cas entered the kitchen.
The former angel looked as if he had fallen out of his bed rather than standing up. He wore one of Dean’s faded Led Zeppelin shirts and his light grey jeans with a few small holes on its left trouser leg as he always would kneel down on one leg when he needed to while working in his little garden empire he had set up at the backyard. Furthermore his hair was – once again – a mess. A mess Dean would like to mess up even more.
Cas looked good and Dean couldn’t get enough of the sight – a weak spot Dean had discovered years ago, accepted a few months ago and allowed himself the luxury of enjoying it a couple of weeks ago.
“Hello Dean.”
Dean snapped out of his trance alike state. As he did so Cas was already seated next to him and sipping at his coffee, looking at Dean, thinking, maybe sensing that their world would be turned upside down once Dean had opened his mouth.
“Dean, I was thinking of something.” Cas began and looked with that worried gaze of him at Dean. “I have that feeling that you’re avoiding me recently. So I think I should go -“
Oh no. No no no no. Just no.
Because, yes, it’s true that Dean had needed a little bit of distance from his friend but Cas’ conclusion was just wrong. He did not want Cas to leave. Like ever. He had simply needed some alone time in order to make sense of himself and the things he felt.
So Dean needed to interrupt his angel with a simple but nonetheless determined “No.”
“Dean, you - ” Cas tried once more but Dean wasn’t paying any attention to him and so the ex-angel fell silent, suddenly aware of the shift of atmosphere and the nervousness radiating from the hunter.
Something had changed but Cas couldn’t put his finger on it.
And then every single piece fell into place as Dean looked at him with that forest green eyes and began to speak.
“Remember when I said things like Don’t ever change and I need you? Can you remember the time when I told you that I did not leave you and later threw you out with a You can’t stay here?
I remember all of those times like that moments happened just yesterday.
I remember the last time I thought I’ve lost you when Rowena put that damn spell on you and the multiple times in the last years when I lost you for real. I recall as we saved the world as Team Free Will and I can still feel the pain every moment when we got separated on our way.
But what I remember most is that I never apologized for acting like an idiot. I know that you want to get the hell out of here now and I promise to accept your decision since I was acting like a jerk and avoiding you… but please believe me that that was on me. I needed time to figure myself out.
And now I am figured out. I…”
Dean was clenching is jaw, breathing heavily like it would hurt him physically to speak. He squinted his eyes and bit his upper lip.
“Dean, what’s going on?” Cas was asking as Dean seemed to have trouble continuing whatever he was going to say.
Sure, Cas was hoping, but the former angel knew his hunter and so he tried his best to ignore his human heart that beat like a fluttering hummingbird.
“It’s the 18th of September, right?” Dean whispered and Cas nodded quietly, not wanting to interrupt Dean. “It’s been seven years since you gripped me tight and raised me from perdition. You – you remember that, don’t you?”
“How could I forget our anniversary, Dean?” Cas asked and put his head askew.
“You can’t just say - “
- anniversary like you do. Dean completed his started protest voiceless as he wanted to get his message through. But the hunter got lost in Cas’ soft gaze and there they were again: the doubts and the fears of not being good enough for a man like Cas. Nonetheless, he had promised Sam and himself to get through with it.
“Never mind. I just thought… You ever heard of the seven-year itch where most of all relationships get fucked up? I… I don’t know… I was thinking maybe that’s the best moment when I will most likely ruin our friendship… I am… You know… The L-word… I…”
And the motherfucker next to him was giggling. What the hell?
“Dammit, Cas!”
Until that point his planned out speech had almost come out like projected.
“I am sorry but really, Dean? The L-word?” Cas’ giggles turned to a knowingly and kind smile.
“That’s your issue? That I can’t say that I’m in love with you, you dork? Not about the fact that I am in love with you? I - ”
Dean came to a stop when Cas took his hands and brought his knuckles to his lips.
Oh, he said it out loud.
“Why should it bother me, Dean? I love you, too.” Cas said matter-of-factly.
“You what? No, no, no! A few minutes ago you wanted to leave!” Dean objected and suddenly backed off.
The former angel frowned and sighed heavily after he figured out what Dean was talking about.
“I was suggesting to go to Claire and take you with me. You two seem to get along well and I was hoping that she would make use of her capabilities to set us up. I apologize if I’m sounding selfish but lately I was getting worried about our relationship and where we’re heading to.”
Still stunned beyond words, Dean was staring at Cas like he expected him to fly off anytime soon. But Cas’ didn’t want to leave and – fuck – Cas loved him too.
“So that means we’re visiting Claire as a couple like in we’re in a romantic-slash-sexual-slash-exclusive relationship?”
“Yes, Dean. And it also means happy anniversary and congratulations on surviving the seven-year itch.”
“Oh shut up and c’mere, angel.”
Cas just smiled when Dean did what he wanted to do for a very long time: pull his angel closer and kiss him properly.
Dean and Cas sitting side by side on a park bench. Cas has his hand resting in the space between them.
Dean's sweating. He swallows hard.
If he just... All he would have to do is reach out... He could totally be holding hands with Cas right now.
Only seconds pass but it feels like longer.
Dean's so stressed. What if he reaches over just as Cas moves? Would that be awkward? Or what if his touch is unwanted? What if Cas asks him what he thinks he's doing?
Oh, God, what if he's spent too much time thinking about it and the moment's passed? Is it too late?
"Dean," Cas says.
"Yeah?" Dean replies, voice tight.
Cas pointedly looks down at his own hand, now palm up on the bench. He wiggles his fingers.
It almost looks like an invitation.
"I'd very much like for you to hold my hand," Cas says.
Sounds a hell of a lot like an invitation, too.
"Okay." Dean, face burning, coughs into one hand as he places the other atop Cas's.
Cas squeezes Dean's hand. "Thank you, Dean."
"No big deal," Dean lies, as his heart thunders in his chest.
But Cas is warm and calm beside him, and as the seconds tick by, Dean starts to relax. Soon, he even starts to smile.
