Prompt: omega dean/alpha cas where they're just about to get mated and cas is teasingly wondering where to place his bite
“Hmmm, let’s see…” Castiel drawled playfully, giving Dean’s still sweaty and completely bare body a once-over. The clear amusement in his eyes had replaced the overwhelming desire of their mating mere minutes ago, since now that both of them were spent and their bodies united through Castiel’s knot, he had enough wits to tease Dean instead of wanting nothing more than making him scream. Which was for the best, especially seeing as in their throes of passion, Dean had asked -- no, begged -- him for the first time in his life to bite and properly claim him, crying out for his Alpha with tears in his eyes. And Castiel, mindful of not taking what might not have been given with proper consent, had offered to delay it for a bit by promising Dean he would claim him wherever he wanted him to if he still craved that bite once he was satisfied and still.
“Now, where should I place my bite?” Castiel continued, jokingly scanning the lines of Dean’s body in search for a proper place.
“Cas,” Dean sighed with a roll of his eyes. His Omega had always been of the impatient sort, which had endeared him all the more to Castiel.
“Yes, Dean?” Castiel asked lightly, not even bothering to hide his smile.
“You know where I want it.” Dean replied.
“Mhh, that, I do know,” Castiel confirmed, swivelling his hips just enough to make Dean gasp.
“And you know what I mean,” Dean pressed on, more breathless now. “You promised you’d bite me if-- y’know--”
“If you were a good boy for me and just waited a bit longer?”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded.
“And were you a good boy for me, Dean? Did you do as I told you to, trust me to take care of you, so that I can properly claim you now?”
“Alpha,” Dean whimpered.
“Answer my question,” Castiel said, giving Dean a small thrust without even meaning to.
“I was--,” Dean licked his lips, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting against his own demons and those many years of lacking acceptance for himself, “I was a good boy for you.”
“Oh yes, you were,” Castiel immediately agreed, pleased with Dean’s admission. His Omega never failed to make him proud. “A very good boy, indeed. Which means that you shall now have your reward.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathed out in apparent relief.
“But still,” Castiel continued, once again dipping into a more playful tone, “that doesn’t answer the question of where I should mark you, onto which part of your lovely body I should put my unmistakeable claim. Where I should bite you at last, make you mine.”
It was Dean’s turn to swivel his hips now, almost unwittingly seeking even more pleasure from his Alpha. The sweet little motion of his hips was as much of an indicator of how much he both hated and loved their little game as was his slowly returning erection.
Just how had Castiel gotten so lucky?
“So, I was thinking,” Castiel deliberated loudly, “ that I could put it on your thigh, hm? Make it so that it would stay our secret in public, but that any other Alpha trying to touch you would see and know -- know that you are mine.”
Languidly, he lifted Dean’s right leg over his shoulder, not just improving the angle of how his knot was situated, but also allowing him to press a series of kisses along Dean’s knee and thighs. Furthermore, the position thickened the sweet scent coming from down below and granted Castiel a clearer view of the stiffening Omega cock.
“Stop toying with me,” Dean grunted out, somewhere between annoyance and arousal. “You know I don’t want it on my thigh.”
“On your chest, then? High enough to not be utterly obscene, but at such a sensitive spot that there could be no doubt about the intimate nature of the claim?” He thought for a moment, for the first time actually giving consideration to that placement, and finding himself not wholly disliking the idea. “I could place it right over your heart. Right where you feel and think the strongest. The most stubborn part of yourself.”
With the hand not holding Dean’s leg, he now traced over Dean’s chest, halting right where he suggested his claim to go, and spreading his fingers over it, his big palm encompassing all of Dean’s left breast.
Moved, at once, by the strong and wild beating of his Omega’s heart, Castiel’s lips fell open and he could do nothing more than listen with his whole body and being. The heart’s rapid pace spoke of more than arousal, but of anticipation, too -- the utter excitement that could only ever stem from love, not a mere meeting of physical forms, and that swelled deep in the chest.
Lost as Castiel was in the heartbeat, he only noticed Dean moving when his Omega placed his own hand on top of his, intertwining their fingers. The gaze that Castiel caught spoke of the same feelings as the heartbeat, and mixed into them was a quiet determination.
“Alpha,” Dean said once again, more steady and at once more tender now. Dean had never been as beautiful as in that moment, when he titled his head to the side, confidently and trustingly baring the long line of his neck to Castiel, and demanded, “Bite me here. Bite me where everyone can see, and where everyone will know. Bite me where I can see and feel it at all times, as part of my own reflection in the mirror. Make me yours, Cas.”
And what else could Castiel do in that moment but cover Dean with his body and with kisses and drive not only the proof of his desire but his sharp fangs deeply into Dean’s body, as deeply as he could, and claim and love him over and over again?
The turn of the wrist, so much easier than he had thought it would be. For all those years, what he had anticipated was more difficult than this, almost impossible: reaching out for someone who would not reach back, to crave a being that knew no craving.
It seemed he was wrong, however.
Nothing to fear but fear itself proved to be true once again. The sting of jealousy, the fallen face as not hide his shame, the hands drawn tightly inwards to protect whatever there was left to protect of his heart. Had he not been in shambles all along, he certainly would have shattered at some point along the way. As it was – as it always had been – there had been nothing for him to lick but his own wounds and his own lips, not those he truly did want to, however often he did so from a safe distance.
Safe. Ain’t that just the biggest joke of ‘em all. As if there had been anything safe about either their distance or their proximity.
Bridging the gaps, cracking open the distance, bursting and burning and finding each other again and again and again.
It was tiring, really. Or should have been. But however often he lost – the fight, his family, himself – there was something he could not lose, someone he could not rid himself off, too deeply imprinted he was for that. That steady, ever-returning win. More terrifying than life, sharper than a sword, mightier than a stray dog, though no less c—
No less cute, yeah.
Pressing his fists into his own eyes, he sees stars where there are none, ought to be none. But will be again. Sooner rather than later, no matter how dark it seems: his light will return to him.
Without knowing, he knows.
Now, clenched as they are, his hands cannot hold. Not yet. Soon, though, it will commence: the turn of the wrist, the opening of the hand, the acceptance of palm against palm, fingers between fingers – the steady grasp of love, the final fall, peace.
shout-out to @perlukafarinn whos kept me updated on all the spn drama ever since the (english) love confession dropped because without her, i probably wouldve remained in turbo ignorance to this very day
Extremely sappy DeanCas Christmas fluff (Warning: Brief mention of John being abusive) | On AO3 | 2k
Castiel finds Dean in the living room, bathed in the light of the Christmas tree, sprawled out all over the sofa, his entire body loose and lax, and his eyes half-closed. He cannot help but want to kiss him as he is, this very picture of relaxation, and so he does: with quiet steps, he bridges the small distance between them, cards his hand through Dean’s hair, who does not rouse beyond blinking up at him and sighing softly, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
Dean’s eyes flutter closed at that, in that content and fulfilled way they used to only ever do once the two of them had found their pleasure in each other, especially so at the beginning of their relationship, when Dean seldom allowed himself any display of vulnerability or honest emotion. But, it happens frequently now. The sight of which never fails to elicit a sense of deep satisfaction within Castiel, and he simply has to lower himself to his knees to reach even better Dean and kiss him again.
The smile that curves Dean’s lips up at the unexpected gesture makes it just as worth it for Castiel as the scent of his hair, the feel of his soft skin, the taste of his husband’s lips. Dean’s mouth is slack, but not unresponsive; it is obvious that he did more than just lie here, probably had fallen into a state of rest, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, and is not fully conscious, yet is still receptive to Castiel kisses. He still wants them; wants him.
The heat that blooms within Castiel’s chest upon this realization almost wants him to take Dean back to bed, just not for sleep, and to enjoy him in this utterly vulnerable and incredibly beautiful state, in which he is conscious enough to consent, but not enough to even attempt to put up a barrier. Not that he does so often with Castiel, not anymore. Still, for Castiel not even having to coax him into letting his guard down, to instead just receive Dean’s sweet sighs and open kisses like this, must be the greatest gift he has received tonight.
He pulls away from Dean as he feels his own kisses to grow headier while Dean’s stay the same, without heat or hurry, and places his forehead against his to calm himself. In careful measures, he inhales and exhales again, willing his body and heart to be satisfied with this merely level of physicality without urging for more.
Dean gives a half-snort at that -- as always amused by how easy his mere presence serves to arouse Castiel --, closes his eyes as their foreheads touch, and breathes with him. That he does not push for more or less shows Castiel that he has made the right call; that Dean indeed wishes for merely this.
Castiel blows out a long, slow breath, and then opens his eyes again, although he does not even recall closing them. From beneath him, Dean is already looking back at him, his own gaze not quite as half-lidded as before, yet still far from fully awake. Maybe it is because of all the food and drinks he consumed today that he seems only semi-conscious still.
“You okay there, babe?” Dean murmurs so sweetly and sleepily that Castiel simply has to catch his lips in yet another short kiss. It is a peck more than anything else, for Castiel fears that he might not be able to hold himself back again if he received yet another proper taste.
“I missed you,” Castiel says honestly, “when I woke up, you weren’t in bed.”
“Hmm, I woke up and couldn’t fell back asleep, so I came down here.” He shifts minutely, the tip of his nose brushing Castiel’s cheek.
“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, concern seeping into his desire and content. Just like Dean used to be prone to shying away from showing any sort of vulnerability when their relationship was a new and tender thing, so was he prone to nightmares and uneasy sleep. Throughout the years, due to many sessions of therapy and to some small degree probably also due to Castiel’s unconditional love and support, he has become better about both of these things, but every now and then, the demons of the past come back to haunt him. He is only human, after all.
“Hey, now, no need for that face,” Dean chides, his lips following the path that his nose took moments before in a soft line of kisses along Castiel’s cheek. Castiel does not even know what sort of face he must have made for Dean to attempt to -- by all intents and purposes -- kiss him bcretter, but he decides to simply accept his husband’s loving treatment. “‘m okay, no worries. I just got into thinking about the last few days, the entire Christmas time, really, ‘n wanted to see the tree again. And the decorations. And everything.”
Any other time -- not in the middle of the night, for starters --, Castiel might have simply found Dean’s actions adorable, smiled to himself at any excitement Dean might have had about the Christmas tree or the twinkling decorations in the window. But he could not shake off his concern nor could he ignore that wistful, preoccupied expression on Dean’s face. “Is this about your childhood?”
This time, Dean snorts fully. Probably, as Castiel belatedly realizes, because of the bluntness of his statement, and because Dean has long since given up on trying to teach him more tact. “Yes and no. But a bit, I guess. It’s about my childhood to the extent that it’s not about it. I mean, you know how we grew up, Sammy ‘n me, that we didn’t have all--,” he makes a tiny jerking motion with his chin, but it is enough for Castiel to know that he is gesturing towards the decorations, the house, himself, “that, and I found myself thinking about how I do have it now. The holly-jolly, the merry and bright, the goddamn silent night, and I was…” he drifts off for a moment, his gaze flitting away from Castiel and towards the Christmas tree, decked with red and golden baubles and ornaments, one of the most traditionally decorated trees Castiel has ever seen, “I was thinking about how lucky I was. As a kid, I always believed I’d never get anything like this, that not being hungry or-- or being beaten was all I should be asking for for Christmas. That it would be enough. Just Sammy ‘n me, some stolen snacks, a candy cane or two, and badly-wrapped gifts. And look at me now: hosting a real Christmas dinner for Sammy and everyone else who’s family now, decorating the house that I bought with my own family and that belongs to me and that I only share with my husband, who supports me and loves me and makes me feel so good and…” Although the Christmas tree is the only source of light in the room, Castiel can still see the tears shimmering in Dean’s eyes. “So, yeah, I’m lucky.”
Castiel’s arms are slung around Dean’s shoulders before he has even made the conscious decision to do so. Simple kisses would not suffice; he needs to be as close to him as is possible, as close as he can get aside from entering him, which he could not do right now.
Dean is trembling in his arms, though only slightly so -- and his breathing is steady. He is not breaking apart like he used to; and it is Dean’s strength that has Castiel speak with his voice dipped as low and intimate as the cradle of them calls for.
“You’re not just ‘lucky’ , Dean. You have worked very hard for this. You did not let how your father treated you stump your growth, but instead, you worked for a good education, you worked for a rewarding job, you took up therapy, you worked on becoming a man capable and deserving of a fulfilling relationship, and none of it was luck. All of it was you. Surviving.” He places a kiss onto his forehead. “Persevering.” To the tip of his nose “Earning your reward.” And to his gently parted lips.
“Cas,” Dean whines into the last kiss, but Castiel accepts no objections. Instead, he takes Dean’s face into his hands and licks into his mouth, well-aware of how his own desire will flare up again for naught, but also of how content Dean is to just receive kisses like this, open and earnest, even -- and some days especially -- without any ultimate purpose.
As they break their kiss this time, Dean finally looks fully awake. There is still a shimmer to his eyes, but also something darker -- Dean’s desire swelling in kind --, the sight of which Castiel has grown familiar with over the years, longs for so often that is is pitiful at times.. For yet another time in his life, Castiel catches himself realizing how helplessly in love he is with Dean, that there is nothing he would not do for him.
“If childhood-you could see you right now,” Castiel says, a bit more breathless than he wants to be, “I am sure that he would be as proud of you as I am today. You are not the child from so long ago anymore.” Dean’s hands are on his neck and shoulders, pulling him back in, pulling him onto him. “You are a man now.” Castiel goes willingly. He twists himself from their rushed embrace to fully drape himself on top of Dean, one hand in his hair, the other on his chin, all of their bodies connected, one solid line, from head to toe. “You are truly yourself now.” Dean presses up against him, warm and willing, tempting and beautiful, making it almost impossible for Castiel to control himself any longer. “And an incredible husband, too,” he sighs into Dean’s ear, earning himself a shuddering moan.
“Cas, please, ” Dean begs.
“Please what, Dean?” Castiel asks, not as a tease, but a reassurance. Despite the evidence of Dean’s desire pressed up against his own, he needs to know that Dean truly wants him like this right now, whether this is alright. Because heat has been growing inside of Castiel ever since he had come downstairs, and he does not want to burden Dean with something he might not be in the right headspace for right now.
Apparently, though, he is not alone in his longing.
“I want you like this,” Dean whispers, sweeping Castiel with relief, “I want you here.” In the light of the Christmas tree, surrounded by the proof of everything he has achieved, everything he has become, he does not say, but Castiel hears it all the same -- understands.
Because the true meaning of Dean’s words is in his hands that stroke the shoulders and side of his husband, gently guiding Castiel into a rhythm; it is in the comfortable Christmas pajamas underneath which his skin still carries scars, but underneath which his skin is also growing warmer alongside his arousal; it is in his eyes, which are dark with memories and desire but which also reflect the lights of the Christmas tree, the fruit of his own labor.
“I will have you wherever you want,” Castiel promises, with nothing but truthfulness in his voice and heart, “I want you however you will have me.”
And when Dean responds with yet another sigh, this one even sweeter and softer than any before, Castiel muses that this is, after all, what Christmas is truly about. What it should have been about whenever John hurt Dean and what it was about whenever Dean wrapped yet another stolen present for his brother. And also back when Dean and Castiel met each other for the first time in their lives, one cold Christmas Eve, in a run-down bar at the edge of town, drunk out of their minds and seeking nothing more than another lonely soul to spend this most painful of nights with, to forget about what they did not have.
Yes, it is and was and will always be about love and peace, and finding home.
1.2k of Cas and Dean trying to bullshit themselves and each other | Warnings: language, references to sexual content, unhealthy relationship approach
“What, you thought I came here to whine about my bullshit problems againand then have you make sweet goddamn love to me in your bed, roses and candles and all?”
Castiel stays where he is, attempting to appear unmoved by the defensive nonsense flung his way, but his hand tightens around the book of matches he had taken from the drawer. But he feels his eyes darken, his previous intents clouded over by anger.
“You take offense at me meaning to light a few candles?”
“Yeah, sorry, buddy, but I’m neither drunk nor needy enough for that kinda crap. I only came here ‘cause I’m horny and, truth be told, you really how to use that big dick, not ‘cause I was lookin’ for some heartfelt conversations and gentle lovemaking in the candlelight. Just, Bar Fling Round Two. You get it?”
With slow and measured movements, Castiel puts the matchbox back into the drawer, shuts it, and then levels Dean with a look. “I am awfully flattered,” he begins, his voice as deceptively calm as the expression on his face, “and I would apologize for being so presumptuous as to even consider lighting a few candles for a simple ‘bar fling’, yet it seemed appropriate, given that you drove 500 miles just to see me and given the rather intimate knowledge that you imparted on me the other day.”
Shame visibly creeps into Dean’s cheeks, and he sputters, “It’s called a booty call, Cas. Ever heard of it? Honestly, I’ve driven farther for a gallon of milk, and thought you might appreciate gettin’ down and dirty again. Also, you really can’t hold the kinda shit I say when I’m absolutely wasted and being fucked into the mattress against me, man.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow at that, unimpressed. “You have had two beers, Dean, maybe three, when I took you home.” He steps away from the kitchen drawer and closer towards the man who still has his shoes and jacket on, all of him clean and made-up, and who still keeps on pretending that he only came here for a hard and fast round of sex. “Even for a lightweight, that would have hardly been enough to get ‘absolutely wasted’, let alone for someone like you, who told me about the quantities of alcohol you usually consume. Among other things you have told me about.”
Dean does not retreat as Castiel reaches him, close enough to touch yet not close enough to breathe him in, but he does flinch. “Such as about your want for human connection, for experiencing things and people as you never have before? Such as finding love, settling down, allowing yourself what you have denied yourself so vehemently up until a short while ago?”
This up close, it is easy to shame and anger warring in Dean’s face, heating it up, and to follow Dean’s tongue wetting his lips.
Dean takes a deep breath, shuddering somewhere on the verge of anger and whatever Castiel’s proximity is so obviously doing to him, and denies again, “Damnit, I told you, throes of passion!” His hands twitch as if he wants to throw them up, yet in the last moment, he seems to realize that he would have to necessarily either touch Castiel or throw them around him at least, so all he does is curl them into fists. “Like you’ve never spouted shit like that before when you were about to come or trying to get someone to fuck you! You seemed like the kinda guy who falls for the good ol’ daddy issues routine and who has enough of a savior complex that he would try to heal the broken guy with his magical dick or whatever, so that was what I was going for.”
Briefly, Castiel wonders about if Dean were see his own face in a mirror now, whether he would see the same that he does: the tightly pressed lips, the hurt lining of his brow, the plea in his eyes. Or still that facade he is trying to put up.
Castiel has to close his own eyes against the sight for a moment, to compose himself, to remind himself that he did indeed not mean to do this anymore -- deal with the broken ones, as Dean accuses him of, pick up the strays with nowhere else to go, those who beg for his attention even with bravado on their lips in one moment and pretty moans in the other.
He cannot help himself, though. Cannot let this man go just like this, send him his 500 miles back without touching him again, without tasting him again, maybe indeed attempting to heal him with affection alone, even though he should know better. Which is most certainly his issue, something he should work through some time in the future, with a professional or someone else equipped to do so. Certainly with someone who is not Dean Winchester, made up for him, tense in his anger, and all but begging for Castiel’s touch.
“Is that what you are going for right now as well?” Castiel asks, suddenly tired of himself, of this charade, of anything that further keeps him from kissing the saltiness off Dean’s skin. “Making me feel sorry for you, so that I take you to bed and attempt to fix you there, with you beneath me and me inside you?”
Dean’s eyes go round and his mouth falls open just so, for nothing but a second, before he regains some of his composure again, and shuts it. The flush, appealingly dusting his cheeks, stays, though. “No, man, I was just tryin’ to tell you how it is. I’m not playing right now, no broken-man-act. I just wanted to come clear, so that we’re both on the same page, just two consenting adults hooking up, no candles, no bullshit, no nothing.”
Castiel sends a brief prayer to the heavens above, asking for their strength, because dear God, this man is trying . “This is who you are?” he asks, slowly, as if there were any other answer than the one is about to receive.
“Yep,” Dean says, popping the ‘p’, far too adorably for Castiel’s own composure, “nothing but the real me, Dean Winchester, handsome devil extraordinaire.”
The sigh that Castiel lets out is long and deep, and resigned. Because just like that, he knows he is in too deep already, that they both are, and that he has already lost.
“Well, then, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, stressing his name, gaining his unwavering attention, “allow me to properly make your acquaintance.”
And before he knows it, his hands are already reaching for the man in front of him, doing what he has wanted to do ever since Dean swaggered over his threshold, one stroking his hair and face and pretty lips, making his mouth fall open again, the other hand pulling him in by the waist, warm and close against him.
All Dean does, just like last time, is melt like butter in his arms. He willingly presses himself against Castiel’s chest, obediently sucks in Castiel’s thumb when he pushes it inside, and moans and sighs so sweetly and with such open enjoyment that Castiel knows that, even if he might regret his decision to let Dean in again soon enough, he certainly does not now.
It took a lot of time for Dean to trust Castiel enough to allow him to do this.
‘This’ being probably one of the most elementary tasks of being hunters, actually: patching each other up. Sure, he had gone out on hunts with the guy a couple of times before, trusted him to the extent that he would have his back against whatever creature they had teamed up against, and for him not to machete or shot or burn him down ‘by accident’, but still. Hunts are when they have a common goal; they are, in fact, the only reason they interact with each other to begin with, so that part is easy, knowing that the other will not kill him since they want to kill the same monster. At least, as easy as it could ever get for a hunter. None of them are known for being particularly trusting, after all. And sharing a motel room or at least the bathroom of one with each other, undressing and disarming while within the same space, offering up whichever hurt or broken part of themselves for the other to clean and touch and heal, that’s… an entirely different ballpark, really.
So, yeah, it takes Dean more than his fair share of hunts with Castiel and one massively bleeding gash on his back that he would not be able to take care of by himself, no matter how much he would like to, to allow Castiel to enter his motel room and cut whatever remains of his flannel and any other layer of clothing off his upper body.
Castiel is extremely careful as he does so, which comes as a surprise, though maybe it should not. Dean has seen him hunt, after all, knows how meticulous and serious he is about every single thing he does, so for him to treat Dean’s gaping wound with called-for cautiousness should be expected. Even if what may throw Dean off is not so much the ‘careful with the gaping wound’ and more the ‘careful with Dean’ part. Because Castiel’s thoroughness is often accompanied by a certain kind of level-headedness that borders on coldness, borders on cruelty, even. It is only ever extended towards the creatures they hunt, sure, and he has never seen Castiel be anything but fair to the people they had to deal with, but for some reason, Dean expected the same cruel treatment to be applied to him.
That is not what happens, though. Not at all.
Once Castiel has cut and peeled off the last tatters of Dean’s clothes, he does not ridicule him for the groans and moans that Dean lets out when the fabric is worked out of his wound. He shushes him, strokes the unhurt side of him, and works as quickly and efficient as is possible. He does not prolong the pain nor does he rip the shreds out of Dean’s wound, tearing it even more open; he does as he should do, as anyone who possesses even the tiniest speck of compassion would. He even stuffs some rolled-up piece of fabric into Dean’s mouth, one that smells suspiciously like Castiel himself, giving him something to bite down on as he starts pouring the alcohol onto the gash, disinfecting it.
Incapable of staying still, Dean writhes and moans, cries out in pain and begs for him to stop, but Castiel holds him down. As merciless as merciful, he keeps Dean in place, cleans his wound off any dirt and bacteria, stitches it back up, and then sticks a big adhesive plaster onto it.
By the time he is done, the fabric in Dean’s mouth is soaked, as is the pillow below him, and all of the bedding, too. Any other time or in any better state, Dean would feel truly ashamed of his display of weakness, his pathetic fight against what he knew to brace himself for. But he has troubles feeling much of anything when his back is still burning like hell, exhaustion and his flight-or-fight-response are warring with each other within him, and Castiel’s hand is still on his skin, soothing him with words spoken so low, Dean cannot even understand him.
It does not matter all that much, though, whatever Castiel might be saying, as long as he keeps on speaking and stroking Dean, as long as he stays by his side. And what a weird thought that is. Just for a few hours, of course, just until the pain subsides and Dean can move again, and not a minute more. Or perhaps until Dean feels safe and weak enough for sleep to take him, to fall into a restless slumber, and then Castiel can leave. Or maybe, just maybe, he can stay for a bit longer than that, too. Until dawn breaks, for example, or until Dean is brave enough to finally face him, to see and be seen without a facade, and thank him like he wants to.
Charlie is the first one he tells. Not just because he knows for sure that she won’t judge him – she proudly came out as a lesbian many years ago, after all – but also because he thinks she might already have some kind of inkling of his sexuality. At least, going by her calm explanations whenever Dean messes up and spouts some uninformed crap about queer issues again, and by the warmth of her smiles whenever Dean talks to Cas – which he never manages to do without blushing these days – or any other guy he might find attractive.
It goes even better than he thought it would. Charlie squeals and hugs him, and thanks him for telling her. He feels nothing but pleased when they sit on the couch and play video games afterwards, their bellies full of pizza and beer, and he doesn’t feel the need to hide anymore how handsome he finds Geralt.
*
Sam is next. Dean has to do it over the phone, what with Sam being in Stanford and thus thousands of miles away from him, even though he would’ve liked to tell him in person. Sure, he could’ve done so during Thanksgiving, when Sam did in fact come to visit them, but he was too chickenshit back then. Besides, catching a quiet moment during which to tell him, without all the other family members and friends around, was pretty much impossible.
Sam makes a thoughtful noise once Dean’s let the cat out of the bag, which goes on for a bit too long. Right as Dean feels his heart sink, Sam hastily reassures him that he doesn’t mind, that he’s just been taken by surprise. He is completely cool with it, really, it just came a bit out of the blue, and once he slept a night over it, he’s sure he’ll have adjusted. He keeps babbling, thanking Dean for telling him sometime between explaining all about Stanford’s LGBT+ group and asking if there is anyone Dean is interested in. Despite his awkward attempts at saving the conversation, it tapers off quite quickly after that.
Dean knows Sam is pretty liberal in any way, knows that he means it when he says that he is cool with it and was just taken by surprise - even so, Dean can’t help but feel disappointed. For some reason, he expected something… well, maybe not more, but something different. Sam is the great big university braniac, after all, and as far as Dean was concerned, he thought it meant that Sam would just accept it and go with it right away. Maybe the disappointment isn’t even directed at Sam alone – maybe it’s because Dean always thought that, in academia at least, there would be easy acceptance of this. If not there, where else could he ever hope to find it?
When he calls Charlie afterwards, she tells him it’s normal for people to be open to different sexualities in general, but some simply don’t expect close relatives and the like to be anything but straight. She is sure Sam will come around – more than he did – and that Dean shouldn’t worry.
The next day, Sam sends him a picture of a photo of when Dean was a kid and staring completely slack-jawed and with flushed cheeks at an Indiana Jones impersonator. His caption says, “Already so obvious back then!”, and although everything feels a bit awkward and stilted at first, Dean takes it as a sign of Sam’s goodwill and a step in the right direction.
He texts back, “& yet u didnt pick up on it. should i call stanford & tell them what kinda hacks they accept?” and laughs when Sam just replies with an emoji that is sticking out its tongue.
*
Then comes Cas. Dean can’t look him in the eye while he tells him; not because he’s ashamed of it – not that much, at least, not anymore – but because he feels it would reveal too much, not just about his sexuality, but about what it means in relation to Cas, about Dean’s feelings for him. Cas is as calm and non-judgemental as Dean knew he would be. Just like Charlie, he’s been out for some time now, and thanks Dean for telling him in a warm voice. When Dean finally musters up the courage to at least glance at him, he finds a small smile on Cas’ lips and shining blue eyes.
That right there is precisely the reason for why Cas wasn’t the first person he told – because he was the reason Dean realized and accepted that he wasn’t all that straight, and wanted to come clear about it in the first place. Not for Cas – not primarily, at least –, but it is difficult to keep kidding yourself about being straight when you wake up in the middle of the night with sticky underwear, pleasant tremors wrecking your body, and your best friend’s name still on your lips.
Nothing much happens after Dean tells Cas, though. Not right away. They keep on talking and joking as usual, maybe just a little lighter than usual, that bit more honest. Finally unguarded.
*
His mom takes the news with a stoic face. She nods as he talks, doesn’t reply or react in any way, and afterwards just sits in silence for a long time. Dean expected as much. She comes from a different generation than him – and hell, even people from his generation aren’t necessarily all that open when someone’s sexuality doesn’t meet the norm –, so he tries not to take it personally.
When she finally breaks her silence, she asks a few questions about Cassie and Lisa and all his other ex-girlfriends. Asks whether his feelings for them were real and– and he has to explain to her again what bisexuality means, and that he loved all of them, still likes women as a whole, just like he likes men.
She doesn’t thank him for telling her, but she hugs him as he leaves, pats his cheeks and tells him that she’ll love him no matter what. And that he shouldn’t tell John.
*
He doesn’t tell John. Not because his mom told him not to, but because he hadn’t intended to do so from the get-go. As an ex-marine and all around self-perceived men’s man, Dean has no doubt John would come all the way from Kansas to thrash him if he knew, or at least disown him. He’d certainly never talk to him again either way.
Dean tries not to mind as much. Sure, he does mind, on some level, but he knows there is no way in hell John would accept him as he is, just like this. Maybe someday, should Dean find a man instead of a woman to settle down with, to marry, he might tell him. Pretty hard to hide being married, after all. It would be John’s decision, then, whether he wants to open his mind or keep it closed.
Briefly, Dean considers that he might do John an injustice. That John might accept him, perhaps, or tolerate him, at least. He doesn’t dwell on it for too long, though; if he told John, he’d know for sure, but there’d also be no way back, no way of unknowing. He’s not brave enough for that yet; maybe he will be in the future, perhaps with someone kind and strong by his side, to help him come to terms whatever might happen if he told John.
For now, he chooses to remain ignorant. Cas tells him that he is right to do so, that he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation, that he doesn’t need to share this part of him with anyone he doesn’t want to share it with. Dean knows as much by now – in the same way that he knows that there are some people he wants to share it with. Starting with those who thank him for it.
