Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean was a happy kid. His younger brother Sam was also a happy kid.

Life didn’t suck for people like them. Many things were handed to them on a silver platter—shiny and fresh (and most probably locally grown).

He grew up happy, him and his brother had a loving mother, Mary, and a father as well, John, who did the best he could. And really, there wasn’t anything more either sons could ask for.

Sam and Dean were no one special. They grew up happy and shielded, and the world spun right along. There was nothing unusual to be seen, nothing to be fought, nothing to worry each other with. All either of them had, were their aspirations. Their dreams. Both sons remember a warm summers night, years ago, when their mother and father had smiled and told them that the sky was the limit. Anything they wanted to do, anything they put their mind to, they could do it. They should do it!

Dean, however, knew where he saw himself. It was the same place he’s always seen himself: staying in town, with family. Finding someone nice and settling down. He wanted to work in town, which cut his options short. But really, he’d be happy to find himself at the Lumber Yard, or perhaps his fathers car shop when he got old enough. He’d make an honest living and take care of his parents when they got older. He didn’t have dreams high enough to touch the ceilings of their nice white house (picket-fenced and armed with a gleaming blue door).

He wanted to do what his father did. Work hard and honest and provide for the people he loved.

That is everything Dean Winchester wanted.

He didn’t see college or some fancy trade school after high school, no. Those dreams were reserved for his younger brother, Sam. Now, his dreams reached far and wide—they touched the stars and the moon, they bled into the sky and gave Dean’s life colour. He could help with that, he wanted to help him with that.

Every penny Dean made the minute his feet hit the dirt roads of the Lumber Yard went into an account for Sam. Every shift he worked at his fathers Car Shop, went into an account for Sam. If Dean was awake, he was working.

When he was at home, he would rest for the time that he could, and once he rose—tired and stiff from his long shifts—he would help his lovely mother around the house, or in the kitchen.

Their mother, who was wilting as the days went. She was sweet and kind, always humming, trying to keep their house in some sort of order, trying to keep herself useful no matter how much Dean and his father told her to take a break.

Dean can recall as a kid, having her kneel down and drag a soft hand through his hair, you’re a dream, Dean, she would say (especially whenever he helped around the house, he’d be grinning from ear to ear).

And later, a little older, she would take slow striding steps towards him when he came back from work. Smiling just as brightly to him, and she wouldn’t have to crouch down. Dean would take the time to hold her carefully. And she would click her tongue all the same, running a hand through his hair. Dean, you are a dream. He would smile and keep a strong face.

They did have separate rooms, Sam, and Dean, but as children, often, the two of them would find themselves crowded in either one. They’d stay up talking, trying to keep their laughter to themselves as the moon floated through the sky.

The two of them would dream up monsters and creepy things that leered at them in the shadows of their house. Rainy days led to many fitful nightmares with more than obvious results.

“Dean!” Sam cried one day: he was running up from the basement. His father had asked him to grab one of his many toolboxes, and he hadn’t been able to do it.

“What is it?” Dean asked, he turned from where he was helping watch over the stove.

“The toolbox—I couldn’t do it,” Sam’s got watery eyes and a big frown.

Dean snorted, they were young, but he was still four years older than Sam. And he had a feeling he knew what was wrong. “The furnace?”

“The furnace!” Sam repeated, he was tugging on his shirt.

Their furnace was old and neither of them all enjoyed much going down into the dusty-dark basement because of the loud way it rattled and shook. But Dean was able to be brave, especially when Sam was afraid. He turned off the stove, and turned back around to Sam. “We can do this, Sammy.”

Sam blinked a few times, eyes wide and innocent. “Together?”

Dean nodded big. “Together.”

It was the first of many slain monsters that the Winchester brothers dealt with.

But as they grew up things got… Complicated.

The monsters didn’t sit in the odd corners of their house, or around the playground, or even by the forest around town.

The monsters they were faced with couldn’t be fought with cardboard swords and blankets tied around like capes. No. Unfortunately, these monsters grew in people, strong and muted until it was too late.

They were called zōion.

And all Sam and Dean had learned about them was that they were walking monsters. They had been around for as long as people could remember. They were disregarded in all levels of society; they were devastating and insidious.

It was a small town they lived in; it was also awfully close knit. Everyone knew everyone else, and no one was the wiser. No one here was a zōion, and according to their father, this was an exceptionally good thing.

Dean remembers a time, just at the corners of his memory, when he and Sam had snuck into their father’s study. Aside from the large window that sat adjacent to his desk, he had extremely huge, towering wooden bookcases.

They had pulled down the highest books they could reach and noticed the title as well as the rest of the book was far too complex for either of them. Other than that, the language was completely foreign.

As they flipped through the pages, all they could make out were the diagrams. They were of people, yes, but with antlers sprouting from their heads, diagrams of people with scales as skin, someone crying and a black smear across their chest.

Dean was impressed, and Sam, well, Sam was deeply intrigued. He had not seen anything like it before. Neither of them had. The two of them kept flipping through, diagrams of more abnormalities that neither of them had ever seen before. Rabbit ears and webbed fingers, all of them with unique meanings surely.

Soon the two of them were shroud in books, all of them open on different topics and pages about—what they soon learned to be called—zōion. Dean didn’t wonder much as he flipped through the different books, but Sam? He was insatiable. Anything he thought he could figure out, he tried to: he desperately looked at all the different images and diagrams, trying to make sense of these zōion.

Occasionally he would look to Dean and ask him, ever so curious, what he thought. And really, Dean didn’t know what to think. He had less answers than Sam gave him credit for, but he didn’t want to let him down. Eventually, of course, Sam grabbed one of the many books he was peering at and ran off to find their father. Dean didn’t take after him, instead he kept lazily flipping through the pages of his current book in the warm afternoon light.

He yawned lightly and stretched. Some of the diagrams were getting repetitive, and the complexity of the words (aside from being in a different language) were starting to make his eyes ache. He goes to close the book, folding the back end over.

Though when he does, a flutter of papers (in English! No less) fall out from the back of the book. Dean sits up, immediately intrigued by the diagram he’s looking at.

It’s a man, yes, but his arms are outstretched on either side of him, and behind him, are these big, huge, fluttering wings.

His face quirks, he feels excited. The papers that fall out are notes, written fast and jagged, like they were done in a rush. Dean begins to slide through them, and things start to click.

These different zōion, they are bred from different… Illness? Dean’s brows furrow as he reads the notes. It’s when someone loses control, from what he can tell. Sometimes these differences are bred from being weak, and some are just born with them (glittery scales instead of skin, tails instead of tail bones). He keeps shuffling through the notes, seeing now that it can be a physical manifestation of someone’s problems, their issues. That they can be bred from internal factors as well as external factors.

The notes grow contorted as he continues to investigate, and he sees that there are even surgeries that help people with these ailments. He frowns, seeing that they’re considered cosmetic and irreparably painful, no matter how simple the issue (or ‘deformity’) may be. They do more damage than good, but those who get them seem to be at wits end—desperate to be normal again.

He flips back to the diagram like it’s something secret. All he can think, innocence brimming from the very centre of his heart, is why anyone would want to hide or get rid of a part of themselves. It didn’t make sense.

He just simply didn’t understand.

Finally, he closed the book, frowning and looking far too concerned for a kid his age. He trotted out of his father’s study, seeing him in the living room with Sam on his lap. They were talking about zōion, their father explaining it like a cautionary tale to Sam.

They were something to be feared, and god forbid Sam, or Dean—now that he had come over—should ever encounter one.

Sam was wide eyed all over again, but he didn’t seem convinced to stay away. This led to their father grumbling thanks that they lived in a small town—where no zōion would find itself.

The next time the two of them found themselves rummaging around their father’s study, the books they pulled out were nothing like before. Just encyclopedias and thick philosophy books that were unhelpful. The books Sam and Dean had found about zōion were completely gone. The two of them spent the rest of the evening (while their mother was out with an old friend, and their father was still at his shop) carefully going through the study, meticulously combing through each book, trying to find the collection they had seen last time. But to no avail.

It was gone—all of it was gone.

Sam voiced his disdain at such a loss, finding himself at the public library days later, asking if they had something, anything about zōion. They turned him away, almost offended that he would ask. Clearly, in their beautiful small, picket fence town, this type was not accepted.

And Dean, well, he never pushed. But he also never shared what he found in the back of Dad’s books all those years ago.

◊◊◊

It was his second summer out of school, Dean had graduated, and at the start of this year he turned twenty. It was tepid these long summer days, and Sammy was still studying even though the beginning of summer break had cracked, hot and muggy, over their town.

There was never much to do, Dean knew as much, but what he couldn’t ever seem to understand, was how Sam kept with the studying. Don’t get Dean wrong, he would read quite a bit—in fact, he enjoyed it.

The words of Whitman, Yeats and even E. E. Cummings scrawled across a page were enough during the cooler nights. Sometimes, when he knew he couldn’t rest (he often had shifts back to back, and occasionally would pick up a third if he was feeling especially restless), he’d trail back to his father’s study, and pick up some of the thicker books. He’d read the works of John Locke, or Rousseau, and he’d find himself dutifully thinking about his own morality, about what anything means, about what life means to him.

Soon enough, he came to a simple conclusion. That all there is to life, is living. That all there is to do, is to be happy. And all there is to offer, is your kindness. He would sit and think and let the drizzling golden light of early summer mornings ignite his thoughts like a wildfire, until he was engulfed and silently wondrous.

He was smart where it counted, he never thought himself more than someone simple, with simple needs. He didn’t crave knowledge the same way Sam did—like an endless river (or a way out), but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t care at all. The signs were there, small, and obsolete to most, but if they were sought out, they would be found.

Like the fact that many of Sam’s books were Dean’s first. And if anyone cared to flip to the front of the book, before any content, in the blank pages, Dean’s name would be scrawled there. Still, his hopes never sat with himself, not for long.

Dean always was optimistic for Sam. He knew there was a spark in him, something so bright and pleasing that he couldn’t help but be excited (and terrified) when Sam told him of his dreams to leave their town. To study far away. To learn the absolute most he could about what interests him. And Dean wanted that for him, he wanted to help Sam achieve that goal.

It would be dishonest to say that Dean didn’t feel betrayed, but Sam had always been different. He never wanted to stay; he expressed many times (especially after their mother had passed) that there wasn’t anything here for him. Dean tried not to be offended by that sentiment. He was here, their father was too (barely, really, but the point stood). Though Dean knew it wasn’t on him to convince Sam to stay, if he wanted to leave—get out and see the world, then he could. He should be able to. All Dean really wanted—and still wants—is for Sam to remember him. Like real family.

There was plenty of time to think on the Lumber Yard, even when he worked on cars down at his father’s shop. Dean never stopped, he didn’t want to stop, but it was Sam who he saw going out there and making a change. It was Sammy he saw becoming a bigshot, out, far, far away.

Still, he never resented Sam for it, he couldn’t. Not when every paycheck was going towards his education (or at least what Dean could chip off from it). And finally, at the end of last summer, it had payed off. There was enough there for Sammy, and the sucker had gotten some scholarships, so Dean even had some money left over. And when Dean wanted to go out and celebrate, Sam was determined to get a head start on buying his first-year books and reading up.

Their father wanted to help too, he wanted to give Sam and Dean a chance in the world. Or so he believed as much when their mother was alive. He was still a piece of work, of course, he was still strict and didn’t believe in affection all that much, but he had hope.

When their mother finally died, she took his hope with her. And at her funeral, he didn’t cry. Well, no one did.

Dean knew now it was that worry—something that everyone seems to cling to. The worry that they would lose control, that they would grow incapable of their own emotion, and suddenly they would sprout a tail, or a beak, maybe they’d lose their vision and suddenly have thick pointed ears. It was a dreadful thing, and no one wanted to lose control.

No one wanted to be different or show a sign of weakness. Not even Dean.

He had lived his life honestly, just like his dad. He did honest work, he saved every penny, and he had no desire for some ritzy splendid life that would sweep people off their feet.

Dean Winchester just wanted to be good.

To himself, to the people around him, his family, his friends. All of them.

It’s close to five when Bobby hobbles up to him. He’s got a paper in his hand, and judging from the way he looks sorry, Dean knows he’s going to have to make a trip out for another shipment of wood before the day is over.

“What is it, Bobby?” Dean asks, his voice is hoarse from the dust milling around, he’s drenched, his clothes are sweat stained and dirty.

“Another shipment,” he sighs, and he does truly sound sorry. “Roman forgot to drive it out, and he’s taken off for the night.”

Dean pulls off his pair of lumber gloves, running his sleeve across his forehead. “Again?”

Bobby shrugs. “Give the man a break, his wife’s been due for a week now.”

He shakes his head, “I can’t Bobby, Dad’s still sick from last night, Sam needs some dinner to eat, what with all the studying he’s been doing—”

“It’s summer break?”

“I know,” Dean sighs, damn the kid for being such an overachiever. “Look, I’m sorry, I can’t. You know I would if I could—”

Bobby’s grumbling, trying to reason with Dean. “Listen, boy, you deliver this, I’ll head over to your place, I’ll whip up dinner for Sam, okay?”

Dean still doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“You do this, I’ll get a bonus worked out for your next paycheck?” Dean very casually looks back to Bobby. His eyes drift down to the small paper slip in his hand.

“You’re really determined to get this thing out, huh?” He cocks his head, squinting one eye shut in the end-of-day light.

Bobby nods, running his hand under his hat before replacing it. “They need the shipment by the end of the day today, they’re staying out in that fancy guest house off of Elmira Street,” Dean’s eyes go wide.

“They own the place?” He asks, surprised.

“Yeah, it’s their summer home,” Bobby hands Dean the slip so he can verify the address for himself. “Think the lady on the phone said something about wanting to fix up the backyard up a bit—replace the wooding in the deck or something—I dunno, she’s got the guys over from Crowley’s working on it.”

“Crowley’s, huh?” Dean pokes. “So, they’re really not from here,” Bobby smirks. “Alright, I’ll do it, but if I get home and all you’ve done is defrost some chicken—I’ll be angry.”

“Yeah, relax princess, I know how to cook,” Bobby grumbles more, waving his hand absently, walking off.

Dean snorts and takes a walk down the lineup of unloaded lumber cars, finding the one that had the matching order number. It wasn’t a hefty order, but the selection of wood was on the pricy side. And to be fair, if these people really owned that big house out on the end of Elmira Street, it made sense.

He hopped into the truck, keys already set in the ignition, and got to driving. Dean knew he could take the direct route, right through the main street of town, but decided it better to take the open country roads.

Its not like there was traffic exactly, but the open roads were far nicer, there was room to breathe, and Dean could roll down the windows and let the air really push through his hair. He enjoyed it since the summers in town tended to be scorching and working in the sun all day warranted him getting a bit gritty, a bit sweaty, and in desperate need of a breeze.

When he turns onto the empty roads, with fields and trees on either side of him, he gets just that: a refreshing breeze, he smiles and licks his lips, tasting salt. He knows the moment he gets home Sam will hound him to bathe because he smells like forestry, thick and wet and potent as hell. For now, he lets himself enjoy the smell of the outdoors.

He enjoys the drive and slowly it becomes fragrant and suburban again. He’s turned onto Elmira Street, the whole place lined with clean cut green grass and flowers that seemed to grow into perfect blossoms. Not a thing out of place. Not one.

Well, except Dean.

He had never felt like he didn’t belong, not until he looked down and saw his dirt stained slacks, or his deep blue flannel which was muddy and, great, now that he looked down at it he noticed the chips of wood and wood dust that were tacked to it distastefully. He begins to brush at it, almost missing the thick, curvy, ornate iron gate stopping him from entering the property. He slammed on the breaks, letting the lumber truck come to a screeching halt.

“God,” he bit, rubbing the back of his neck.

Dean stayed in the car for a while, not entirely sure of how he planned on getting inside the property. Not many (if any at all) properties around these parts had huge iron gates on them. He drummed the steering wheel for another moment before easing off the shifted break, pulling the truck to park. He opens his door and notices the small black box on the side, he presses it once and doesn’t hear anything of value, so he presses again.

There’s a mechanical chime the next moment, and the gates begin to open inwards, Dean scrambles back into the truck, shifting it to drive forward.

The property was just as intimidating from outside the gate as it was on the inside. The actual house (more like mansion) stretched about a football field back from the gate and leading up to it was a dirt road that curved at the far end, with a fountain planted right in the middle.

All around Dean were exquisite pieces of cut shrubbery and green grass that sprawled out to the iron fence and all the way back past the house where Dean couldn’t see. From the looks of it, there were no trucks that belonged to Crowley or his crew, so Dean parked right in front of the blooming white doors that stood at least nine feet high, right off a beautiful mahogany and red brick porch.

Here, he knocked on the door, clasping his hands awkwardly in front of him. He wasn’t entirely sure how to act. Normally, normally, these shipments were given to the contractors who (if the delivery was on time, like it should have been) would most probably be out back, working on digging up ground or laying down a new foundation.

Since it was so clearly the end of the day, Dean had a pretty good idea that Crowley and his crew wouldn’t be around to receive the shipment, and thus, Dean would have to talk to the people who owned this intimidating property, and ask where to leave everything.

The front door opened with a gust and standing there was an older lady. She was in a pinstripe skirt and blazer. Her vivid red hair was pinned neatly. She grinned at Dean, extending a hand for him to shake. “Hi,” she greeted him warmly. “I’m Ms. Novak.”

Dean takes her hand with a smile. “Dean Winchester,” he nods curtly. “I’ve got your shipment here, sorry it’s a bit late.”

Ms. Novak shrugs lightly. “I was told it would be here by the end of the day, and it’s here—so I’m not upset, Dean, don’t apologize.”

Dean nods, though he does still feel a bit bad. “Well, I heard you’ve got Crowley and his crew fixing up your backyard, but I don’t think they’re still back there?” He cocks his head as to look past the porch, Ms. Novak looks down and shakes her head. “I thought as much, I can unload it for you. If you tell me where you want it—”

Now Ms. Novak has her arms up, waving the palms openly, going, “no, no, it’s okay, no you don’t have to do that,” Dean finally quiets down, and she continues. “You don’t have to do that, really, Dean, that’s a sweet offer, but you can unload it right here—out front, I don’t want to make you waste the rest of your evening, bringing it all to the backyard.”

And now Dean felt even worse, this lady was…Kind? She was sweet and didn’t seem to look down on Dean or his messy work clothes in the slightest. She seemed welcoming and warm and yeah, no, he was unloading all the lumber she ordered right where she needed it, not where she insisted. “Ms. Novak, it’s part of my job, I don’t mind, really.”

She gives him another pensive look before sighing and nodding. “Yes, alright, okay, you’re right,” she gestures for him to follow her in, but he doesn’t. She turns back and quirks a brow.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” Dean begins again, he’s trying to act professional, but he feels like a child playing grown-up. He was only twenty! “I should walk around back; I don’t want to get your—” he gestures to the entirety of the inside of her house. “—messy,” he finishes lamely.

Ms. Novak pinches her nose and sighs, a smile breaking out over her face. “You’re very polite for someone who does such arduous work, Dean,” she points out. Dean doesn’t respond, instead thinking it safer to nod in agreement. “Now come along, I’ll show you where you can put the rest of the supplies, and I’ll have someone open the back gate for you, alright?”

Dean clenches his jaw, taking a step inside. “Alright,” he echoes, feeling incredibly out of place the minute his feet hit the polished mahogany flooring.

She steered Dean out the back of the house, talking the whole way, explaining what she wanted done for her backyard, though the more she spoke, the less certain she was. And once the two of them stepped out there, he got a better idea of what she meant.

The whole back end of her house was overgrown and treacherous. The deck, that the wood had been purchased for, was rotting and clearly damaged. Originally, Dean could see how the small pond and sitting area placed to the far left, would have been comfortable on these long summer days. But now, the waters were an unhealthy green and the grass surrounding everything was overgrown and ratty.

“I know it’s a mess,” Ms. Novak admits. “My husband used to tend thoroughly to this backyard when he was a young adult, quite like you,” she smiles breezily at Dean. “This is our first time back, since he’s passed, it’s been quite a while,” she confesses quietly.

Dean is at a loss for words. It was clearly a gorgeous space, under the overgrown grass and weeds, he could see how the entire area could easily have been beautiful once before. Actually, aside from the deck work and some of the other areas, it would be a rather simple job. And then he thinks that he’d do a far better job than Crowley and his team. Shame.

“Anyways, you can leave those supplies right over there,” she points to an empty space by the entrance that led back. “I’ll have someone open up that gate, and if you get tired or need a break, feel free, okay? We’ve got a fully stocked kitchen, alright?”

Dean nods, albeit a little wide eyed. This was like a dream. Working for Ms. Novak must be awesome. She was considerate and kind and didn’t have a glint of callousness towards Dean—someone far different than herself. She steps back in the house, and Dean reaches into his back pocket for his lumber gloves, putting them on, seeing the back gate magically open.

As Dean walks down and through it, he realizes now that Ms. Novak had said ‘this is our first time back’. He dwells on this thought, our, he thinks. Okay she’s not alone. His mind hums as he pulls the first few planks from the truck. They were heavy but he was determined to get out at an appropriate time. He hadn’t seen anyone else as the two made their way through the house.

Any of the extra help Dean had been introduced to, all had names, and seemed fond of Ms. Novak. So, she couldn’t be talking about any of them. It was peculiar indeed, and he let his mind roll and mull around absently in his head as he walked back and forth, grabbing the thick planks, and setting them down where she had instructed.

He also takes back what he said about it being a small order. In respect to the other orders they got, it certainly wasn’t large. But it was still a lot to carry. Soon enough, Dean had worked up a sweat, the sun was clinging onto the horizon far past where he could see. Even sooner after that, the sky had gone from honey to mulberry to onyx over top of him, and he had barely realized it.

Only when he set the last of the shipment down, sitting on a part of the deck that wasn’t rotted, did he finally take a breath. He ran a gloved hand across his forehead—tired and thirsty, but not enough to warrant him dragging himself back into that stunning mansion of a summer home to grab a cup of water.

He still needed to head back to the Lumber Yard and drop off this truck, and then get back in his own car and drive home. He sighed at the thought. Dean was used to long days, but this was exceptionally long in comparison to most. He didn’t need to balance two jobs at once anymore, since he had done what he set out to do and saved up for Sam’s education. But, well, Dean had some ideas of his own. Ideas for his own future, that, one day, if he were lucky, and had enough, he’d act on. For now, though, in his future he saw a shower and whatever Bobby made for dinner. He even saw dragging himself, heavy as pencil lead, to his bedroom and passing out as soon as possible.

He was catching his breath, deep in thoughts of spaghetti? Steak? Maybe Bobby had done dinner on its head and made pancakes and bacon? his stomach rumbled at the thought.

“Um,” Dean heard from behind him, as someone cleared their throat.

He whipped his head around to look, and his jaw may as well have gone slack with how he was staring.

The person standing there was a little hard to see in the opalescent moonlight, but slowly Dean was able to make out the details. He had a tray in his hand, and on it was a pitcher of water with a glass. Balanced on the same tray were some fresh grapes and cut oranges. It wasn’t entirely the platter that this man was holding, but the man himself, that had Dean wide eyed.

His eyes were huge and blue, wide, and innocent like the ocean, drinking the moonlight and making Dean’s world go pearly. His lips were red and clearly bitten senseless, like an afterthought to all his actions. His hair was wild and messy, like the wind had caught him when he least expected it. He was also hunched in on himself, shaking a small bit, most probably because summer nights often betrayed the scorching days—becoming cold and ruthless.

Dean let his eyes slide for the barest second, noting that he was in ill fitted clothes. A loose and worn shirt and similar baggy sweatpants, even one of his socks was scrunched and caught halfway down his foot. He seemed to be about Dean’s age.

“Hi,” Dean finally says. “I’m—”

“Dean, yes,” the other person speaks. “My mother told me I needed to come say hello,” he doesn’t sound too…Anything about it. As he speaks, Dean realizes that his voice is flat and indifferent. He clears his throat. “I am Castiel. Castiel Novak,” he offers, not moving from his spot at the huge sliding glass doors.

Dean nods, standing up and turning to face him, he extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Castiel,” the name feels strange rolling off his tongue, and he isn’t entirely sure he’s said it correctly. It must show with how Dean is looking at him, because a smile breaks on Castiel’s face for a short second as he returns Dean’s gaze. He doesn’t take the step out to return Dean’s handshake, though, so Dean drops his hand awkwardly.

“I came to give this to you,” he holds up the tray before looking around at the rotting deck. “Though, perhaps it would be safer if you came inside,” Castiel’s voice is still flat, but Dean can hear the jagged edges that paint his words with worry. It’s ridiculous, Dean was a nice person—and he was certainly not one to judge someone who lived so casually with so much.

He dutifully ignores the warning in Castiel’s words. “Yeah, that would be great,” Dean offers with an honest smile. Cas gives him a curt nod, backing into the house until he’s out of eyesight. Dean hops up onto the good side of the deck, following him inside. He’s speaking as he goes. “You’ve got a great backyard out there,” he begins, stepping into the house and closing the door behind him. “I think with some care it’ll look as good as—”

He freezes in his spot, turned to see Castiel in the warm yellow light of his huge kitchen. He’s reaching up to a cupboard, standing on the balls of his feet, his arm outstretched, long fingers vanishing where Dean can’t see them.

But that’s not what stands out in the light, no.

It’s the vast, slender, black feathers that are sprouting from Castiel’s back. They fluttered down, bent and unkept near the floor, silky and darker than a starless night sky—they almost looked void of time and space. Like a part of the universe that was simply a hole or mark of more to come.

And then one of his wings extends and moves—ever so gracefully—upwards, outstretched like his own hand, but larger, it guards the entirety of Castiel. Dean can only see his calves now, as his wings stretch up with him—like all of him was trying to reach for something in the cupboard.

“You…” Dean begins thickly, his wonder isn’t coated, his curiosity is barred easily. And Castiel notices, snapping back to look at Dean with worry in his eyes. His wings snap as well, firmly pressed to Castiel’s back as though he was trying to hide them. He stands taller, hoping that he would be able to hide the towering things—but no.

Everything about Castiel makes Dean wade through time, he recalls being young and naïve, he and Sam sorting through books about zōion. How their father’s only wish was that they should never meet one because of what devastating creatures they are. He thought it would be horrific to meet a zōion, someone like Castiel. He thought it would be disturbing to see someone with an illness or disability so great it physically manifests. 

All he has known is how they are less human—how they can lash out and don’t deserve life…How they lack control. All these conflicting thoughts run through Dean’s head like a crack of thunder, his eyes light like he’s seen lightning, though.

Truthfully, the only thing he can focus on is how beautiful Castiel’s wings are. How they are simply a part of Castiel.

Of all the information Dean was able to study through the notes his father had crammed in the back of his books, there was incredibly little on those who sprouted wings. Dean learned that sometimes, those who found themselves in a deep and uncontrollable love would wake to see the smear of a swan’s marking across their chest, above their heart. He knew that sometimes, those who suffered immense abuse would find the designs of a monarch butterfly branched across their backs and arms. Some, born mute, would be birthed with small yellow beaks.

All of it was unfortunate, seen as a weakness, or sign of a disability. Back then, Dean searched for anything to do with wings. And now here, in the present, his mind looked across the banks of what he willfully held on to but came up blank. There wasn’t anything helpful his mind could supply. 

Instead he stared, daftly, eyes roaming up and down over and over. Part of him really wanted to get Castiel to turn or stretch them out, so he could get a better look. He took a step forward. Castiel took a step back. Now Dean sees that he’s holding another glass cup. He’s clenching it tightly with both hands, right against his chest. He has so many questions foaming at the top of his head and spilling over, making his arms feel tingly and his hands desperate to touch.

Dean takes a step back. He swallows and looks away. “Sorry,” he finally says.

Castiel’s jaw clenches and unclenches, he loosens up, body going lax. “It’s alright, Dean,” he says, setting down his empty cup on the counter. He walks out of the kitchen. “Goodnight,” Castiel says over his shoulder, his voice was the same as it had been this whole time—monotonous and heavy, but Dean could unmistakeably hear the disdain and weariness that gushed from each pause and step that he took away.

“If you would, sir,” one of the many people who resided as help in the house spoke to Dean then.

“Oh,” Dean jumped, unaware of anything other than Castiel. He took the front door out and back to the lumber truck, keying the ignition and letting the thing rumble to life. He didn’t take the scenic route back to the Lumber Yard, instead cutting through the main road of town.

He tried to let his mind carry him off and away, he was tired and didn’t want to think, but everything that his mind brought to him was about Castiel. His eyes, how his lips would tug as he smiled, his amazing wings that fluttered graciously despite how unruly and large they were, how his frame was lean and athletic.

He couldn’t get everything about him out of his head. And as Dean pulled the now empty lumber truck into the dirt lot and parked it, he found himself walking to his own car and sitting in the driver’s seat with his keys in the ignition, unmoving. His head was in the clouds, and he kept replaying the evening in his head, over and over.

“I’m Castiel, Castiel Novak,” Dean can hear him, and when he looks at the blue of the keychain Sam got him as a joke when he went on a field trip in the sixth grade, all he can think about are the deep blues of Castiel’s eyes.

Dean groans and thumps his head against the steering wheel of his car.

It was a foreign feeling that whirred through him. It was selfish and warm, and Dean imagined living his life feeling such a way. He couldn’t because he gave more than he got. Constantly. But not now. He thinks, not now and not ever again.

No. Right now, Dean wanted something. Or rather—someone.

The next morning Dean woke up earlier than he would care to admit. It was one of his days off, and after getting home, eating some remarkable pasta, showering, and passing out, he decided that he was feeling a bit stir crazy. Well, in a way.

He couldn’t get Castiel out of his head, right since he met him until now. He had an exhausted dreamless sleep, but even in the abstract darkness of being unconscious, he heard his name like a whisper. Something warm and comforting that wrapped him in assurance.

And when Dean woke, he knew exactly one thing: He wanted to see him again.

When he finally got out of bed and went to get ready, he made sure to clean up nice. He put on a fresh shirt and a nicer pair of pants, he even attempted to comb his hair—but he didn’t like it either which way, so he left it as it was—a bit bedridden, but clean.

It was a brisk morning, the suns gaze across town promised that it would heat up later in the day, but for now, the early light was cool and pleasant.

On his way out, Dean made sure to check in on Sam, who was sprawled across his bed, some textbook open but downturned on a certain page, there were notes scattered and crushed under him. Dean snorted, carefully moving everything to his desk and then proceeding to toss a blanket over his giant of a younger brother. He’d be out for a couple more hours for sure.

He stopped by his father’s bedroom as well, peering in, seeing the curtains shut, as they always were. There were a few bottles littered on the ground, he’d have to clean those up later. He could hear his father fuss from the bed, adjusting himself before going still again. Dean closed the door. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting out of bed today—like usual.

Before Dean left, he made some extra eggs, bacon, and toast for Sam. No doubt he’d be starving when he finally woke up.

Dean, however, ate truly little of what he made—including his coffee—before he was hurriedly walking out to his car, turning it on and taking the fastest route he could to Crowley’s.

He wasn’t sure what he’d ask, and he wasn’t sure Crowley would agree in any respect. The guy was cruel, and if he wanted to be mean, he would be. Plus, this job that he was currently working for the Novak’s was no doubt huge, no way he’d give it up—no way.

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said, lazily sipping on a morning coffee.

“Wh—Really?” Dean stuttered.

Crowley shrugged. “Wasn’t too excited to work it, to be honest,” he laughed. “Summer business has always been slow, and besides, the Novak job is more landscaping than it is,” he gestures loosely, “a contract.”

Dean purses his lips. “Right,” sometimes he forgets that Crowley can be picky. Though, to be fair, it normally is annoying—currently, it was coming in quite handy. “So, did you get any blueprints set? Anything finalized?”

He flicked his wrist towards a smaller desk in the corner, “the plans are somewhere there, but we didn’t get far—Ms. Novak couldn’t make her mind up on a lot of it.”

Dean walks over, seeing the blueprints laid out and open across the ruddy old desk. They were barely scratched, most of what had been worked out was the deck—but everything past that was up in the air. “Huh,” Dean said absently, rolling up the plans. “Well I’ll see what I can do,” he continues, turning away.

“Dean,” Crowley calls after him. He turns back around. “Why are you so interested in helping out Ms. Novak? Thought you were excited to take a break now that you’ve saved up enough for Sam?”

Dean forces the blush to evaporate from his face. He shrugs coolly instead. “Been feeling stir crazy,” Crowley squints at him for a couple seconds, trying to read the lie from his face. He gives up though, just sighing and nodding instead. Dean nods back, “thanks again,” he says calmly before beating it to his car. He didn’t want to stand around and give Crowley the option to say no—or worse: ask for something in return.

He throws the blueprints into the passenger side seat, struggling to get his keys in the ignition, his hands shaking from excitement. Finally, he managed, taking off and making his way back to Elmira street.

Once he made it, he saw that the gate wasn’t closed like he expected, so he drives right in, parking his car where he had parked the lumber truck the day before. He grabbed the plans from the passenger seat and hopped up the main steps to the large white doors. He rang the doorbell, but it wasn’t Ms. Novak who answered it, it wasn’t Castiel either, it was one of the many staff that roamed the grounds.

“Good morning, Mr. Winchester,” he greeted warmly.

Dean felt a twinge of panic, “Dean, really,” the man smiled and nodded appreciatively.

“Ma’am is inside, eating breakfast, did you wish to join?”

Dean scratched the back of his head, “uh,” he had the blueprints tucked under his other arm. “I don’t want to bother Ms. Novak—I just wanted to go over some of the plans she had for the backyard.”

He smiled warmly yet again, “ma’am will not mind, please come in,” and he stepped aside, allowing for Dean to walk through.

He thanked the man again before walking into the mansion. He felt better about himself today since he had taken the extra effort to appear showered and clean—instead of at the tail end of a rough day.

“Dean!” Ms. Novak excitedly stood up from her spot at the table. She wiped her mouth on a pristine white napkin and urged him to walk over.

The table she was sitting at could seat everyone in town, Dean thinks as he walks. It was ebony in colour, with rosy pink cushions on each seat. He extends his hand for her to shake, but she pulls him into a hug. “It’s good to see you too,” Dean says to her with a smile.

She laughs brightly and sits back down in her seat at the head of the table.  “Sit, please. Do you want anything? Coffee? Are you hungry?” Dean shook his head, taking a seat, she smiled and nodded. “Water then,” she turned to one of the ladies standing by the entrance to the kitchen, waving lightly. The lady nodded and trotted back into the kitchen.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” Dean begins, reaching for the blueprints.

“Oh, not at all,” she waved him off again, taking a bite of egg. “Crowley called me this morning and said you asked to be put on this project.”

“What?” Dean warbled.

Ms. Novak nodded eagerly, “I was quite happy when I heard, of course, he said you knew what you were doing better than any of them—and I was glad to hear it.” She pointed her fork at Dean before setting it down on her plate.

Dean’s brows furrowed, that wasn’t like Crowley at all, he was sneaky and conniving. He didn’t particularly give beaming reviews about anyone but himself. But he’d take it (and if he ever ran into Crowley again, he’d ask what he was playing at), for now, he needed this.

The lady emerged from the kitchen with a glass of water with a lemon slice on top. Dean’s face softened. “Thank you,” he said to her, before turning back to Ms. Novak. He cleared his throat. “I spoke to Crowley this morning, and he said that you were conflicted when he tried working on what you had in mind?”

Ms. Novak pursed her lips. “Unfortunately,” she sets down her cutlery on her plate and someone quietly takes it away. “It was hard to come back here and see the state of things,” she sighs. “We always had gardeners to take care of the front of the house while we were away, you know, to keep the flowers blooming and the fountain running smoothly. But my husband was passionate about nature too, he loved gardening, so he kept the backyard as his own space.” She looks out the floor to ceiling windows—to the backyard. “When Crowley asked what I wanted to be done, I couldn’t decide,” Ms. Novak looks back to Dean, “my husband always had such a strong vision of what he wanted—and I was lost.”

Dean nodded, taking a sip of water so he had something to do with his hands. He understood her loss, he had lost his own mother, but it was sealed and muted in the back of his head. He couldn’t understand entirely how she was so solemn about it—how she was so open about it. To an extent, it did make sense. But she didn’t seem dazed about it.

It was different from Dean’s father, who drank to keep numb. It was different from many of the townspeople he knew. He didn’t let his confusion show for too long, instead clearing his throat and pulling out the blueprints that he had set next to him. “I know that you had worked out that you wanted to expand the deck about three meters out—and you have the space to do that—but I was thinking that it would look really nice if you kept it the current size, and expanded the seating out by the pond?”

Ms. Novak’s brows furrowed, she thought about it for a second longer, nodding slowly. “And what would we do out here?” She points to the area out back where there was currently weeds galore.

Dean thought about it, “well, I could fix up the garden portion—make for some really great plots for some flowers,” he sketches a few squares in the spot. “I could open this up here, get some stones and put a bench or some sort of seating?” His brows furrow, the white pencil he had brough is soaring across the page, sketching out his idea. “Next to that, I could pave a small area for a fire pit,” he draws paths that stem out in the form of circular rocks, to the separate areas. In general, the whole area will be shroud in diverse types of flowers, hanging from above or sprouting below, but it still needed to be functional.

It’s another couple minutes before Dean realizes that he’s been talking and sketching out what should be done without a single word from Ms. Novak. He stops and looks to her, she’s just sat back in her chair, smiling at him. “You seem to know what you’d want to get done.”

Dean chuckles and looks down. “Yeah, I—I’m sorry if I’m overstepping. If there’s anything you don’t want, I get it—”

“Oh, god no,” she waves her hand. “I think what you’ve come up with is perfect, Dean.” She purses her lips to the side, opening her mouth and closing it a few times before she sighs and finally speaks. “I’m sorry—you met my son last night, Castiel?”

Dean’s brows shoot up before he has time to compose himself, “oh uh,” he swallows and takes a sip of water, clearing his throat. “Castiel, he’s the one with the—”

“Wings?” Ms. Novak says the same moment Dean says, “blue eyes?”

Dean chuckles, “right, the wings,” his heart was hammering. Not just the wings, his wings! Dramatic and beautiful and dark as ink. Castiel and his wings. All of him made Dean’s heart flutter in his chest and his stomach knot up. Castiel was the very reason Dean had taken this project so desperately when he could be spending his days off relaxing or reading or ugh sleeping. He had willfully gotten up early just so that he could take this project and see Castiel again.

Even in glimpses (though he knew that wouldn’t be enough) he would be more than happy.

“He’s around your age, you know,” Ms. Novak points out in a way which seems eager, which—no, no, she couldn’t be—surely not. “He turned nineteen during the summer after his twelfth year.”

Dean refuses the way the back of his neck prickles. He had just turned twenty, there was only a year between the two of them. “That’s nice,” he says, though it sounds strangled.

She laughs airily, “well anyways, I like what you’ve planned. The only issue is that I’m not the be all end all for these plans—well, aside from the deck.” She lifts her cup of coffee to her mouth, trying to hide a painfully obvious smile. “You’ll have to talk to Castiel.”

Dean nods, but it’s purely mechanical while his brain shorts out. “Right,” he rolls up the new plans. “Any idea where he’d be?”

Ms. Novak looks up, pensive, tapping her chin with a pointy finger, humming. “It’s not past ten, is it?”

“Uh, no ma’am.”

She nods firmly then. “Well then he’s asleep.” She stands up. “No need to worry, did you intend on starting on these plans of yours today?” Dean didn’t really intend that, but what the hell, he didn’t have anything better to do (he ignores his internal moping about how he could go home and sleep). So he gives her a nod.

“If you’re okay with that, then I’d be happy to,” Dean manages to say with a smile.

Ms. Novak pats his arm. “Well wonderful then, I’ll make sure he comes out to see you before you leave for the day, alright?”

Dean takes another sip of water, standing up with her. “Sounds good.”

The rest of the morning, Dean finds himself in the backyard, tearing up the old planks of the deck. There wasn’t too much left to rip up and throw away since Crowley and his entire crew had been working on it before Dean took over. But there were still some areas they had missed—or weren’t stingy enough about.

Once most of the deck was gone, Dean was able to get a better look at the foundation, which, to his surprise had kept nicely over the years. By the time early afternoon rolled around, he had begun measuring and cutting the planks of wood he had dropped off the day before. He was nailing the boards in place with ease, occasionally checking to make sure that they fit properly against the wood of the old deck. He enjoyed the contrast of the older more worn wood next to the newer planks that were now nailed together, but most people would prefer unity between the distinct types. He stands up straight from where he was crouched down over a new area of deck, huffing.

He adds white exterior paint to his growing list of supplies. Since rebuilding the deck was going easy, he’d have more than enough time to sand everything down and paint it nicely. Of course, he’d need to run the colour by Ms. Novak, though apparently, more important than her—

“Dean,” Castiel called out from where he was standing by the big glass sliding doors. His voice was heavy and flat, and when Dean looked to him, he almost snorted. Momentarily Dean was upset that Cas had caught him, dirty and sweaty yet again, though it’s not like Castiel was in a tux or anything.

He had clearly just woken up. His hair was still unruly, one of his eyes was closed as he looked at Dean in the hot afternoon light. Past that, his wings were a ruffled mess all over—not just the bottom most feathers like yesterday, but all of them from the top down. Dean seriously needed to can the urge to reach out and straighten them. Cas stepped out onto the deck, surprised when it didn’t give out under him.

Dean really laughed then, “Morning,” he smiles warmly, Cas frowns at him.

“It’s almost two in the afternoon,” he corrects seriously.

“Yeah well, you look like you just got up,” Dean shrugs, hopping over an empty slot of deck, setting down his hammer next to a pack of thick wood nails. He smirks to himself when Cas yawns and mumbles something behind him.

“I was told I need to be helpful,” Castiel says, though it sounds more like he’s repeating the words of his mother.

Dean is still faced away from Cas, looking forward. “You think you can be helpful?”

“Depends on what you need,” Castiel replies, deadpan like usual. Man, this guy is weird, Dean thinks as quietly as he can, before turning around with the blueprints in his hand.

Cas is right behind him, legs dangling off the side of the deck where Dean plans on putting stairs. He’s sprawled out, arms folded behind his head; his onyx wings outstretched far on either side of him. He hums contentedly, bathed in the marigold light.

Dean watches, almost mesmerized with how Castiel seems to be flexing and adjusting his wings without thinking—like it’s natural for him. They’re not so unruly stretched out like this, but wow, if he didn’t think they were huge before (if he didn’t want to touch them before). He takes a step closer, and Castiel opens an eye to look up at him. Dean can feel the heat that begins to pool at the tips of his ears and the base of his stomach. His wings flutter and Dean thinks it might be an affectionate action, like Castiel is beckoning him closer. Dean doesn’t take any more steps closer, in fact, he takes a step back. He tells himself it’s for space, but he knows that’s not true.

He knows that it’s so he can get a better look. His eyes aren’t staying in one spot, not even close. Dean is cataloguing everything about Cas as he goes. The way his arms are stretched out, letting the barest bit of his stomach show—the delicate skin there is shimmery as the sun caught it. From what he could make out, he had a bit of a leaner build than Dean, but not by much. Dean wasn’t exactly built himself, but he still had some muscle. Castiel had the body of a swimmer, or a runner—something lean but surprisingly strong. Alright, that’s enough of that, Dean thinks, looking back up to Castiel’s face.

And then Castiel smirks, and Dean thinks his knees might buckle right there, so much for keeping my mind out of the gutter. He clears his throat, looking to the left to hide the way his heart was beating out of his chest. He did need to show Cas the plans he had made, though It’s not like he could sit next to him without coming into direct contact with his wings (as tempting as that was, he didn’t want to make Cas uncomfortable). Castiel saves him the trouble of asking, sitting up, making room for Dean right next to him.

Dean sits, leaving space to spread the blueprints out between the two of them. “Now, I think the deck is coming along fine, but I need your input on everything else.”

Castiel twists his neck slightly, looking at Dean’s plans, he drags a finger across, as though he was imagining trailing through the garden once it was complete. He smiles when he sees the space Dean has left for gardening and flowers. “This is really nice,” he says, and it’s the first thing Dean thinks Castiel has said that sounds genuine.

He smiles, looking at the top of Castiel’s head. “Thanks, Cas,” he says absently. Cas looks up at him, clearly surprised at the nickname, but his face melts into something accepting and pleased. He looks back down at the plans, but Dean keeps staring at the top of his head, admiring the sleepy curls of his thick, deep brown hair that stuck up all unruly. He really wants to place a kiss there.

Neither notice when Cas’ left wing brushes up the side of Dean’s arm until Dean flinches, his face turning cherry red. Castiel himself also gets a dusty pink complexion to his cheekbones, his wings going flat behind him. The two of them freeze, staring at each other. It wasn’t a big deal for Dean it felt addictive. Really, he would be happy to let Cas do that again, but Castiel doesn’t look entirely pleased. He looked almost embarrassed, though Dean couldn’t really understand why. There was a possibility that it was important and he just had no clue.

Cas clears his throat and looks back down at the blueprints before getting to his feet. “Sorry,” says Cas, his voice is strained.

Dean watches him walk away and feels like everything else about Cas is telling him a different story. Dean looks, seeing the way his wings seem to be vibrating—desperate to move, but like Cas was holding back. It makes Dean smile, and he’s talking before he can bring himself to stop. “Hey! Cas!” He calls out. Now or never, Dean thinks.

Cas turns around at the doors, his face shading as the seconds pass. “Yes, Dean?” He asks, Dean can tell he’s trying to keep his voice as pleasantly neutral as he can.

“You ever gone out and seen the town?” Dean asks, cocking his head to the side.

“No, I haven’t,” Cas answers, brows furrowed.

“Do you want to go tonight?” Dean questions. It’s a casual offer, Dean wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t really want to, and Cas really made him want to. He was sure he could work all day, and still find the energy to spend time with Castiel.

The way that Castiel’s left wing slams against the glass door at Dean’s offer, is anything but casual. He’s getting redder by the minute, hands reaching to wrangle his wing—trying to make something unintentional out of that reaction. Cas thinks on Dean’s offer, but really, the way he was turning a strawberry shade, it seemed like his mind was made. “Alright,” he finally agrees. “Meet me at nine,” he manages to say before vanishing, slamming the door closed behind him.

Dean nods slowly, a smooth smile breaking across his perfect face. That wasn’t so hard, he thinks.

The rest of the day goes by at a snail’s pace. Dean finishes up the deck by dinnertime, and like magic, Ms. Novak appears right at his side.

“My goodness, Dean,” she gawks appreciatively. “That took no time at all!”

Dean shrugs, “there wasn’t much to do,” he’s packing up the rest of his tools, and thanks to the lovely staff of Ms. Novak’s summer home, there was very little cleanup that needed to get done. “I was thinking of sanding it down lightly, and giving the deck a fresh coat of paint, if you’re okay with that?”

Her eyes light up and she nods eagerly. “What colour did you have in mind?”

“I thought white would be nice, but it’s up to you,” Dean says over his shoulder, rolling up the blueprints and setting aside some of the extra wood that was left.

She hums, and Dean can hear the click of her heels as she paces. “Do you think we could do blue? Something dark?”

Dean mulls the idea over, finally it wasn’t his choice, but he didn’t mind the idea of an ocean blue deck—it would make the flowers and other furniture stand out nicely. “Yeah, absolutely, I’ll pick up some paint tomorrow morning and I’ll be back in the afternoon, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course, it is Dean,” Ms. Novak smiles, and he hears her walking back into the house. “Oh!” She perks up then, like an afterthought. “Could you have Castiel back by one? He sleeps in enough as is,” she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

Dean stiffens as he turns around to face her then, he nods, “yeah, of course.”

She cocks a brow at him now, her eyes unimpressed. “Relax Dean, I just don’t want him sleeping in more than he already does.”

Dean does try to relax, but no luck, he manages to nod stiffly again and Ms. Novak heads back inside, saying ‘see you at nine!’ Over her shoulder before disappearing.

He’s back home at seven thirty and already doing the mental math in his head. He could whip something together for dinner fast and then he could rush to shower before heading back out. Just the fact that he knew he was going to see Cas again was sending a delightful thrill through his spine. He haphazardly parks his car in his driveway before charging inside.

He almost immediately runs into Sam who was on his way out.

“Sam?” Dean says in disbelief. “You’re going out?” Sam purses his lips from where he’s sliding on his shoes. As though if he stays really, really still, maybe Dean would forget he was there. Dean rolls his eyes. “Sam.”

“Okay, yes,” Sam finally speaks, straightening out. He may be bigger, but he had no authority over Dean. “One of my friends—”

“Friends?” Dean jabbed ruthlessly.

“Yeah,” said Sam, exasperated. “They’re going to Stanford this fall too,” Dean’s brows upturn. “He’s throwing a party for some of the new students in our program.”

Dean visibly relaxed. So, it wasn’t a party party. It was like… A nerd party. That sounded far safer. “Alright,” Dean says, “That kind of works out—I’m headed out tonight too,” he closes the front door behind him.

“Really? Thought you were over at that summer home, working on their yard or something?” Sam asks, walking back into the house with Dean. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Jesus, does everyone know about that?” Dean asks, walking into their kitchen and filling a glass with water.

Sam shrugs. “Crowley’s got a big mouth,” Dean looks at him, unimpressed. “And Bobby called it when he came over to make dinner the other day.” Ah, there it is. “He and dad actually bet money on it,” Sam snorts.

“Dad was up?” Dean asks, wide eyed.

“For, like, an hour,” Sam replied. “He and Bobby spoke, but then it was back to usual.”

'Back to usual’ meant that their father would hole up in his bedroom and drink until he fell asleep. Dean expected as much, he just wished that Sam didn’t have to put up with any of it. “Alright, well have fun at your party,” Dean says after taking a long gulp of water. “Do you think you’ll need a ride home?”

Sam shook his head. “No, it’s not far, I’ll be fine to walk.”

“You mean you don’t want your big brother dropping you off at your first ever party? That’s a huge shock,” Dean chimes, grinning, putting a hand over his heart. Sam rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing tonight?” Sam asks then, and Dean accidentally inhales some of his water.

Suddenly he’s coughing, sputtering, and trying ridiculously hard not to respond, focusing on trying to breathe. “Nothing,” he heaves, eyes watering at the corners. “It’s no one—nothing.” And he’s coughing again.

It’s too late to take it back, Sam heard ‘no one’ and is running with it, no, he’s sprinting with it. “You’re going on a date?” He’s immediately interested. “With whom? Do we know them?” Dean is trying not to die, but he’s still got it in him to clarify that it’s not a date—no way. But Sam isn’t having it, not at all. “That’s what someone who’s going on a date would say,” he justifies, crossing his arms.

“You don’t know him—them,” if Dean could kick himself, he would, hard.

Sam clings onto this bit of information eagerly. “So, it’s a guy, huh?” He smirks wide. “Dean, you’ve got to tell me now—Every guy who lives in this town is either married or, like, fifty.” And okay, Dean can’t help but choke a laugh at that. It was true. “Last thing I need is Joanne from across the street beating you to death with her cane because you were sleeping with Earl,” Sam chuckles and Dean starts to choke again.

“It’s—It’s not Earl, I promise Sam,” Dean says, finally regaining his composure. “He’s…Well,” Dean straightens up, clearing his throat, running a hand across the back of his neck. Was he really going to tell Sam? Well, that was one thing: Telling Sam was no big deal. Hell, Dean was lucky enough that Sam didn’t care that it was a guy (he knew Sam would never care, but the reassurance was nice). And he knew that Sam wouldn’t care that he was a zōion if anything Sam would find him interesting—they’d probably hit it off great.

But everything was so new. So new, in fact, that there was almost nothing to talk about. That aside, he didn’t even know if Cas liked him like that. It wouldn’t be fair of Dean to go around telling everyone that he planned on sweeping Ms. Novak’s weird, quiet son off his feet before he even really got the chance to.

Sam must see the tension across Dean’s features, though, because he lays off. “You know what, Dean, it’s alright. I trust you—and I’m sure whatever you do tonight—it’ll be good,” he smiles and takes a few striding steps back. “Maybe one day I can meet him!” He calls over his shoulder, Dean hears the front door open.

“Have fun!” He calls out, Sam doesn’t respond but Dean knows he heard him as the door closes shut. He downs the rest of his water, looking at his watch, he scrambles when he sees that he’s got just under an hour before he needs to go get Cas.

He was still a sweaty dirt covered mess from working, so he hauled himself upstairs and to the shower as fast as possible.

It’s not that he needed to rush like crazy, but well, he wasn’t entirely excited to promise Cas something and show up late. He didn’t want to give Castiel time to doubt him—and he really didn’t want to start their night off on the wrong foot (or wing).

He’d rather have a relaxed drive over instead of a haphazard, rushed one.

Unfortunately, life plays by its own set of rules, and Dean—who was planning on wearing something comfy and casual finds himself struggling to add anything together. He’s still just in boxers and socks when eight forty rolls around, and he makes a pained sound as he grabs for some navy-blue plaid slacks and a black shirt. He didn’t have time to polish any of his nicer dress shoes, so he made do with his black work boots. Hauling on a coat in case it got cold.

He yells a general, “I’m going out!” To his dad in case he’s listening, before he bolts out the door and almost doesn’t touch the ground until he’s in his car, reversing and driving off like his life depended on it.

It’s exactly nine on the dot when he screeches into the driveway of the Novak’s summer home. He sighs when, for the first time all evening, he brings the car to a complete stop, resting his head on the steering wheel. He was here, he made it, finally, he can take a breath.

“Dean?” Castiel calls to him, knocking on the window of the car, his voice is muffled, but Dean snaps back up fast.

“Cas, hey—woah,” Dean, once again, cannot keep his emotions barred tight when he sees Castiel. He was in a full-on suit, navy and dark and his trench coat—which was light and beige in colour was a stark contrast.

Dean was at a loss of words. For one, Cas’ wings were completely covered, but also… Is this how all rich people dressed? Just casually whipped out suits for a night out? It must be, because Dean is floored, and he doesn’t think he could want Cas any other way.

Even though the first thing out of his mouth when Cas finally opens the door and sits in the passenger seat, is: “How do you fit your wings through all your clothes?”

Castiel shuffles a bit, reaching to buckle his seatbelt, and Dean follows—realizing he hadn’t buckled his belt the whole drive over. He laughs when he’s settled though. “I have a tailor, for my clothes.”

Dean nods, “that makes sense,” of course he would, dumbass, he’s probably got millions of dollars just to spend on clothes. He puts the car back in drive, starting to pull out of the driveway. The first thought to cross his mind is how when Sammy was younger, the two of them would share clothes—until he went and got taller, and suddenly he needed new clothes that they couldn’t afford because their father wasn’t working anymore, and Dean began to pull extra shifts here and there just to clothe him.

Even worse, he hates to think about how hungry Sam got when he was growing. He was tall and lanky and couldn’t grow the muscle he needed for his frame. And the whole time Dean felt like he was failing him—when he was trying his hardest.

He needed to remind himself that things were better now. Well, for the two of them. They were finally on track to having their own lives, and Dean knew that one day he’d think back to the days he struggled as some of the best days of his life. All it would take was a little time.

“Dean?” Cas asked cautiously.

“Yeah what is it, Cas?”

“Where are we going?”

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. He really needed to focus. Not when Cas was right next to him. Not when he wanted Cas so badly. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I was thinking we could go to the movies. That alright? They’re showing a new film—just came to town.”

Cas doesn’t ease up, but he nods, turning to look forward. “I’ve never gone to the movies before.”

“Really?” Dean smirks, “well you’ve got nothing to worry about. No one in town ever goes, it’ll be nice and empty.” He looks to Cas to reassure him, and he notices how his eyes are plastered to the sky outside, it was a middle ground out tonight, the sky wasn’t completely dark yet, but the stars and moon were already drawing forward from their usual absence.

It’s a lifetime of work to get his eyes back on the road. Dean really thinks he could stare at Castiel for the rest of his life and never get tired of how his delicate blue eyes reflect the world like a mystery—like the world is some place good and kind. He could stare and find something wonderful and new each time, he would catalogue every movement and twitch of his wings, his brows, his smile, if he could.

They make it to the movie theatre in time, and Dean was right when he said it wouldn’t be crowded. When Dean walks up to the ticket booth to grab a pair, the lady sitting inside seems marginally shocked. There were only four other tickets bought for the showing, all couples.

“You want anything?” Dean asked once they were inside the theatre. He himself was drooling over the idea of extra buttery popcorn and something so fizzy and sweet it would make his teeth ache, but Castiel had simply shrugged and gone: “No, thank you.” So, Dean swallows his own hunger and the two of them walk to their theatre.

Dean was a back of the theater kind of guy, but Cas really seemed to gravitate towards the center. And since the back two rows seemed to be taken up by the other two couples seeing this film, Dean was thankful for it.

They settle down, Cas less so than Dean. He’s writhing a little bit in his seat, trying to get comfortable and Dean knows already its because his wings must be plastered to his back—tight and restricted.

“You alright Cas?” Dean asks, trying to focus on anything other than the way that Cas is writhing his hips, trying to settle down.

“These seats are—” he groans a bit when he finds a comfortable configuration, and Dean needs to get a leash on his thoughts. “Tight,” he finally says with a relaxed breath, he’s laid out, sprawled in the chair like he’s spilled over. His arms are stretched over the head of Deans seat and the other empty seat next to him.

Dean clears his throat. “Well, as long as you’re comfortable.”

It was never bright in theatres to begin with, but the lights completely go out when the movie begins. Dean’s quite sure it’s a film about some girl and guy that fall in love, but the guy is struggling to pay any attention to their relationship because he must take over his father’s shoe store.

Really, it was a beautiful film, and Dean would find himself engrossed in it, surely. But with the way Cas is perked up in his seat, watching. His head whipping across the big screen, his eyes wide as he tries to comprehend the story. Dean can’t stop looking over at him, watching him.

Cas must notice because he leans in closer to Dean, “is everything okay?” He asks, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Yeah, fine,” Dean says, adjusting in his seat and shaking his head, his eyes dart back to the movie. Cas looks to Dean, more serious then, he parts his mouth slightly, brows lightly furrowed. He didn’t look entirely convinced, and Dean knows already Castiel can see right through his thinly veiled bullshit. He’s perceptive, Dean thinks, looking down to his mouth. When he looks to meet Castiel’s eyes, the movie crescendos into something dramatic, but all Dean can think about was the fact that Cas’ gaze was far lower than his eyes. Castiel was looking at Dean’s mouth.

He can feel his cheeks heat, and he licks his lips self-consciously, but Castiel’s eyes zero in more, razor-sharp focus bright in the small, dark theatre. Dean leans in, he’s been on dates before, but he’s never so desperately wanted to kiss someone, not just someone, Castiel. He really, really wants to kiss him. He’s getting closer, and his intentions are very clear, Dean’s heart slams against his ribcage when he makes out the short, unsure movements as Castiel leans in too—just barely, like he isn’t sure, but like he wants to. Dean resists the urge to put a hand on Cas’ jaw to guide him so that they could finally just do it.

They’re close enough that Dean can feel Cas’ breath shadow his face, but before he can do anything else—his stomach rumbles. It’s loud and evident and impossible to ignore.

Cas backs away, blue eyes meeting green. “You’re hungry?”

Dean clears his throat, adjusting in his seat, his hands were begging to grab onto Cas’ face, to pull him into a kiss right here—it was dark but Dean didn’t need to be an expert to know that the other couples in here were far more focused on making out with their counterparts than the film. Instead he backs down, and quietly goes, “yeah, sorry.”

Cas looks back to the screen and then back to Dean, clearly weighing his options. He bites at his lip slowly, letting it roll before he stands up. “Come on,” he urges, and he holds out his hand for him to take.

Dean would normally shush him and get him to sit (so as not to disturb anyone else in the theatre, but everyone else seemed rather occupied, so he wasn’t worried). He worries himself about taking Cas’ hand until he finally bites.

He doesn’t even slightly expect the way their fingers slide perfectly in lock, regardless of Dean’s clunky ring or Cas’ long fingers. His mind briefly zeroes in on nothing aside from how warm Cas is, and before he can process anything else, he’s getting dragged out of the theater.

The concession stand is closed, and Cas grumbles and keeps pulling Dean until they’re out of the theater. “Somewhere needs to be open,” he’s frowning, looking out at the dark street.

A considerable amount of time had passed since the movie began, and it showed with how dark it had gotten out on the street. The streetlights were glimmering dimly, and the roads were barren aside from Dean’s car that was parked across the street. Normally, Dean would try to make a move—but Castiel’s wings were practically vibrating under his coat. “Uh, Cas, it’s alright you know, I can eat later.”

Cas’ frown just deepened. “No, Dean,” he looks past Dean to the left and makes out the faint glow of a twenty-four-hour diner. “There,” he points past Dean, looking at the place like it held every answer he was looking for in the moment (it kind of did). He didn’t give Dean the chance to object, tugging him along, hands still locked together.

The place was worn down to its core, years of food, families, first dates, were worn across the walls and seats, tacked on year after year. The movie theatre was on the edge of town—and along the same strip was the diner. But Castiel didn’t seem to mind at all. He dragged Dean in, it was empty aside from a couple of men sitting by themselves at the front. Cas walked right past them, back and back until they were crowded in their own corner.

Dean’s heart was pounding in his chest. It was a corner booth, so Cas was still next to him. An older waitress came by and gave them both menus, Cas glanced over everything quickly. “Could we get two burgers, cheese on both, extra fries on the side,” his eyes roam over the menu, flipping it over, he was confused reading some of the options, but he worked through it. “A chocolate milkshake,” he flips the menu again.

“It’s only got the two sides, hon,” the waitress smirks, putting a hand on her hip.

“A slice of apple pie, too?” Cas sounds a little unsure as he completes the order, Dean is a little dumbstruck. “Please?” He tacks on at the end. The waitress just smirks and scoffs, muttering something about ‘boys being boys’ and Dean wonders what she would think if she knew how absolutely head over heels, he was, falling for this boy.

It’s a lot of food, too. More than Dean has ever taken to ordering for himself when he goes out—if he goes out. Normally, he’d order things like that for Sam, but never for himself. It was expensive. “Cas,” Dean clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t have to do that,” he almost sings.

Cas cocks his head to the side, and Dean needs to kick himself, so he doesn’t lean in right then and drag out whatever Cas was trying to say with his tongue. “You’re hungry Dean,” and when Cas says it, aw hell, it sounds so simple. If you’re hungry just eat. It’s common sense, it’s easy. Cas makes it easy.

“You’re right,” Dean licks his lips and looks away, watching their waitress scoop some chocolate ice cream from a huge tub and bat it into a tall glass. It was so simple, here, with him, to ignore everything Dean’s done just to get by. Like it really was as simple as some chocolate ice cream and whole milk blended with some whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.

“You can tell me,” Cas says it the same way he says everything else: bare, bold, honest. But it’s still quiet, intimate. Something purely between the two of them. A secret, quite like the fluttering under Cas’ coat and the fluttering in Dean’s chest.

Dean’s eyes flick down to the battered wood table, but he doesn’t look back up. He sees now the names carved into the table, mostly meaningless initials, but he runs a hand over them, trying to imagine what it must’ve been like for those sitting here, jittery on dates, the same way Dean was now. “I’ve got a younger brother, Sam,” he starts. “He’s a bright kid, honestly, and I’ve always wanted him to do the best he could,” Dean shrugs. It was true, just part of the much bigger truth.

He wanted Sam to succeed yes, he wanted him to be bigger than Dean (not literally) and when he first told Dean he wanted to leave and see the rest of the world, it terrified him. He wanted Sam to stay close, he always wanted family close. And for a while he was worried that he had put this idea in Sam’s head that to be happy he needed to leave and grow out in the world.

And in Dean’s defense, all he saw in the world was cruelty and evil. And all he wanted was to shield Sam from it. But he was his own man now, or, he would be soon. And Dean decided that it would be better, for both of them, if they did branch out and go their own ways.

Dean’s ideas for his future were a lot more muted, they were simpler, and most probably easier, and he was okay with that. He realized that he would need to have some hope that Sam would grow, they both would settle down, and one day they’d come back to each other—older, better off. It’s all he wanted for them both. For now, though, he clears his throat and keeps talking, “that kid’s got big dreams, wanted to go out, wanted to go to college,” Dean laughs looking to Cas. “I wasn’t doing anything important with myself, so I pulled a few extra shifts around and saved up so that he could go,” Cas’ eyes soften into something tender and Dean forces himself to look away. “Anyways, after I helped my dad with some other payments, I was able to focus all my time helping Sammy out,” he smiles. “That kid is really going places.”

Cas doesn’t say anything for an awfully long time, even when Dean looks back at him, catching the perfect ocean of his eyes in his own, he doesn’t speak. Dean moves his hand from the table when their waitress comes back with the milkshake, balancing two plates and everything else in her arms. As she begins placing everything down, Dean feels Cas take his hand in his under the table. He doesn’t even try to deny the way his chest goes lax as his fingers scramble to clasp around Castiel’s. He needed it.

“Alright, that should be everything,” their waitress scans the table, “I’ll go grab that slice of pie,” she nods at the two of them, walking back towards the kitchen.

Dean’s mouth waters at the sight, he blinks a few times, unsure where he should even start. He doesn’t unclasp his hand from Cas’ when he pulls a plate towards him. Cas let’s go when the waitress comes back around, dropping off a steaming slice of pie. Dean groans and dips his head down as the smell dances through the air, right to him.

Cas smiles at Dean when he looks back to him, pushing his plate closer. It’s a silent order, for him to eat, to enjoy, to relax. And for the first time in all of Dean’s life—he feels like he can.

He plows through his own plate at a record speed, and as he washes it down with that heavenly chocolate milkshake, Cas just eagerly slides over his own plate for Dean to take. Dean’s eyes go wide at the motion, and he swallows the fries he had stuffed in his mouth, Cas looks down at his lips when he licks them. “You’re not hungry?” Dean asks honestly.

Cas shakes his head, shoving his plate even closer. He was curious about Dean. He was different, he seemed so genuine… And kind. Castiel wasn’t used to such reactions from people. His father had always told Cas he was unique, he always told Cas that he was good, always. Even the day he died—he made sure Castiel knew he was everything he could’ve wanted.

And then after he died, Cas had gone out in the world, changed, and was despised and gawked at. He was hated, abused, and battered. He soon learned that it didn’t matter that he was smart, it didn’t matter that he was kind and compassionate, because no one could look past, well, him. They only saw what they wanted to see—and what they saw was far easier to understand than who Castiel really was.

Dean was different, he saw Cas. For what he was and who he is. And Castiel was impressed by such compassion. He was astonished at how Dean seemed amazed by his wings, by him—not disgusted in the slightest.

The way Dean looked at Cas the night they met… It warranted another burger for Dean. It warranted a million burgers. It warranted anything Dean could want, because Castiel had never been looked at like he was something special (in an enjoyable way). Dean looked at him in awe and wonder, not disdain and revulsion!

Oh, how now Castiel wanted to cherish the way Dean looked at him forever. How Castiel dreamed about running his hands over him in thanks, how he dreamed of letting him feel the silk feathers of his wings. How badly he wanted it!

“Uh, Cas, you alright there?” Dean asked, face full.

Cas blinked out of his trance, Dean was looking at his coat, which was twitching. “Oh,” Castiel began, he cleared his throat, working control over his wings, making them go flat and still. “I’m sorry, they can be a bit much.”

Dean shakes his head at the remark, furrowing his brows. “No, Cas, they’re not a bit much,” he cocks his head a little bit and Cas is certain his heart might just burst, so he looks away. Dean smiles at himself, pleased with the bare pink tinge that blooms across Castiel’s cheeks. “Here, try this,” Dean slides the chocolate milkshake towards Cas. It had come with two straws, but he hadn’t touched it.

He gives Dean a forgiving look. “I’m not hungry,” he slides the milkshake back, but Dean picks it back up and sets it down right in front of Castiel, taking another bite of his (second) burger. “You really want me to try it?” Dean nods, eyes crinkled like he was smiling. Cas sighs, shooting Dean a defiant look before he drinks some from his straw.

It’s sweet, like really sweet. And the texture is interesting. It’s not like Cas hasn’t had a milkshake before, but well, he didn’t eat much to begin with—he just found naturally, he wasn’t hungry much of the time. After sloshing the milkshake around, he swallows it, the chill of the ice cream and milk trickle down until he can’t feel it anymore. Dean looks at him expectantly. He hums, but shrugs. “That, uh, was very sweet.”

Dean frowns. “That’s it?” And no, that wouldn’t do, now he was determined. He stacks the two empty burger plates up and sets them aside, wiping his hand on some napkins before he brings the plate of apple pie between the two of them. He unravels cutlery, pulling out a fork, he carefully digs into the pie getting a piece that’s perfectly bite sized. He holds it up for Cas to eat.

“Dean—”

“Nope, I don’t even want to hear it,” Dean cuts him off, pressing the fork to his lips. Cas sighs and looks heavenward before begrudgingly opening his mouth. Dean feeds him the piece of apple pie and waits expectantly.

It’s not a dramatic reaction, but Cas makes a small sound like he’s impressed and pleased at the back of his throat, and Dean considers it an absolute win.

The two of them end up splitting the pie, and Cas pays for the meal (“you took me to the movies, this is for you,” Cas had rebuked when Dean tried to pay). Once they were back out, walking down the strip, back to Dean’s car, Dean stretched, sprawling his arms all big before draping one around Cas’ shoulders. And even nicer than that was the way that Cas leaned into it, pressing his side into Dean.

“Do you ever leave the house?” Dean asked seriously as the two of them walked, he could feel Cas shrug.

“Not particularly,” Cas answers honestly. “People aren’t too welcoming of someone like me.”

Dean nods, but he can feel anger in his chest. He knew that, especially here, his small town never outright said they disliked zōion, but well, they did. Absolutely they did. Dean didn’t know what it was like in other places in the world, but he had a feeling it wasn’t different. Be it full on hate crimes or small quips and rude remarks in conversation, they weren’t seen as equals. They weren’t seen as human. But as Dean got to know Castiel, he was gradually realizing he didn’t really care about the ‘not human’ identifier. Humans were flawed, cruel, things, and Castiel was not.

Instinctively he wraps his arm tighter around Cas, he doesn’t like the thought of someone being mean to him at all. It makes something possessive and ugly flare up in his stomach and throat. “Well, since this is a rare occasion, I have somewhere I think we should go, do you want to?”

Cas doesn’t even really think about it. He likes spending time with Dean, he likes his company, like a lot, like way more than he ever thought he would. So, he smiles and looks to him easily, “yes, please,” and the two of them only split when they get to Dean’s car.

Dean drives in silence; he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise of where he’s taking Cas. It’s a place that him and Sam had discovered when they were kids, and they never really told anyone else about it.

It’s right off the edge of a pond that ran past the forest on the other side of town. It was quite far from the usual trail that most people hiked on, and years later, Dean found out that there was a dirt path that led right to the spot—most probably for construction. But it seemed like whatever project they had planned for the space was abandoned. And right now, Dean was thankful for it. 

When he finally pulls in next to the space and parks, Cas gets out with amazed eyes. “It’s beautiful,” and he smiles to Dean before leaning down and running a hand across the delicate bushes of white dittanies and soft purple hyacinths.

Dean leans back on the hood of his car. Watching as Cas walks around the small expanse of land before it gave way to the pond that spread across the rest of their world. From where he is, he can see the way Castiel’s wings twitch under his coat. He sighs. “Cas, you can take your coat off,” Cas straightens out, looking at Dean across the small pad of space.

“I shouldn’t,” he looks unsure.

Dean shakes his head, walking towards Castiel. “It’s just me, Cas, it can’t be comfortable to keep those things all wrapped up.” Cas looks like he agrees, but like he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Dean finds his hands on the lapels of his coat, and Cas doesn’t object when he begins to drag it down his shoulders and arms, finally taking it off.

Cas is standing with his hands balled up on either side of him, not looking at Dean. He can see his coat in Dean’s arms. His wings are still wound painfully tight, he’s not entirely sure, but he is, in some ways certain, that this is what embarrassment and doubt feel like. And very briefly, he has a good feeling Dean will see him for what he really is: a monster.

“It’s alright, Cas, I’m not going anywhere,” Dean reassures, staring down at Castiel. He doesn’t look up at Dean, instead, his head ducks down more, but slowly his wings start to unfurl. Big and bold and as dark as cinder against the glittery waters. And again, the only thing Dean can think when he sees them is that they’re, “beautiful, Cas, they—you’re gorgeous,” he really means it too, he can’t think of anything else as they stretch out, flapping a few times in the open air. Cas’ shoulders relax too, and soon he straightens out, eyes shut. His head lolls back and he lets out an elated sigh, letting himself stretch. Dean speaks then, before he can even think, “Dance with me.”

Cas opens his eyes to look at Dean. He’s staring so intently at Cas, and he can see how Dean’s fingers twitch around his coat, like he wants to reach out. It’s just like how Castiel’s wings would twitch in their own right—desperate to feel and touch. “There’s no music,” he says, like this was obviously very necessary, all in that same, bold, and unabashed voice.

Dean thinks on this for a minute before hopping back to his car, he turns the key once so that the battery wakes, and he presses for the radio to play. It’s scratchy and the quality is terrible, but the song was something low and romantic, he turns it up, just so that it was loud enough to hear over the crackle of the connection. He sets down Castiel’s coat in the car and walks back, extending his hand. “There.”

Castiel smiles at him, ridiculous and warm, as he takes Dean’s hand, and lets him pull them together. Dean’s hand comes to rest at Cas’ waist, pulling him so that their chests are almost touching, Cas finds his hand grabbing at Dean’s shoulder. His wings instinctively curl in, dragging across the bare skin of Dean’s arms. The first time it happens, Dean relaxes and brings Cas closer, their heads almost tucked next to each other. “I’m sorry,” Cas begins, trying to wrestle his wings into a less intimate configuration.

"It’s okay,” Dean begins, pulling back to smile at Cas. They’re just swaying from foot to foot, no real structure or designation in mind. Dean feels Cas’ wings brush over his arms again, and the feeling is indescribable. It’s like crowding near a fireplace, hearing the wood crackle. It’s like getting carried through a stream, feeling the water roll and curl around you—refreshing and cool. It’s like seeing lightning and letting yourself get lost in the roar of thunder. “Better than okay,” he adds, and slowly, he can feel Castiel ease up.

Cas’ face is close, if he were to lean in, he’d hit Dean’s nose with his own. The thought makes him smirk, and though Dean asks what, Castiel just shakes his head and looks down at their shoes. “You really don’t mind?”

When he looks back up at Dean, he’s got a sort of nonchalance to his eyes, they’re flat. Almost as though he’s asking ‘really? You’re really asking me this? Right now?’ But if Cas can be anything, it’s stubborn. And he doesn’t let up at all, so Dean sighs, taking the bait. “No, Cas, I don’t mind. Not at all.”

Unease twitches at Castiel’s lips. “If anyone finds out, people will talk,” he begins.

Dean pulls his hand from where it’s clasped with Cas’, bringing it to tilt his chin up so that he can look at Castiel’s eyes. “I don’t care.”

“Dean,” Cas says, letting the weight of his head sway in Dean’s grip. He watches as Dean’s eyes go lidded, staring down at Cas’ mouth. He crowds in closer, bringing his eyes back up to look at Cas. Castiel thinks that Dean’s eyes look like emeralds in the midnight light. They glitter attractively, letting the beauty of Dean’s soul be read like a gift.

Castiel drinks in the wonder that is Dean Winchester.

“I don’t care,” Dean repeats then, his hand spread against Cas’ jaw, splayed half across his cheek and half across his jawline.

“Dean,” Cas protests. He didn’t want to let Dean ruin his reputation. He didn’t want people to question Dean’s compassion and kindness now that it was directed so openly and honestly to someone like Castiel.

“Cas. I don’t care,” Dean laughs and looks up to the moon, almost like he’s asking for help. No luck. He looks back to Cas, dragging his thumb across his cheek. He lets his eyes fall back to Cas’ lips. They were red and bitten like normal. The chill of summers night didn’t help. But still, Dean smiles, and it’s a reflection of all of him: Honest, loving, good, “I don’t.”

Castiel can feel the way his legs threaten to drop him, so he brings himself closer to Dean. He brings his arms to hold him tight and close, they sway together, foreheads resting against each other as the music pulls them away from worry and scrutiny. The night shields them like a blanket.

Neither are sure who leans in first, it feels like a joint effort to finally close off the small space between the two of them. But finally, they do, and Cas doesn’t think he’ll ever feel the way he does right now. He kisses Dean simply and finds himself losing any worry with the way his thumb brandishes over his cheekbones. Dean bites at his bottom lip, desperate for more, and Cas lets him, bringing his own hand to rest over Dean’s.

Dean lingers for a while, eyes closed as he learns about Castiel in this new way. It wasn’t his first time kissing someone, but it was his first time kissing Cas, and he was drunk with it. His body hummed with a desire that he hadn’t felt, well, ever.

He deepens the kiss, letting his other hand tangle in Cas’ hair—no doubt making it look crazier than it already did. Castiel’s wings crowded them both, large and majestic, they left Dean’s body asking for more, asking to feel more. They kissed with fervency, and wow, Dean was learning that Castiel left him with a hunger to be selfish. To keep Cas all to himself, for as long as he’d allow it.

Dean doesn’t voice what he’s feeling, but he does hope Castiel understands. And with the way that Castiel chases after Dean’s lips once they part is answer enough. Dean willingly supplies his own want, letting it tangle with Castiel’s—the two of them knotting their lives together.

They fall in love easily.

Chapter Text

It was a completely reckless and improbable romance.

Really, the two of them weren’t from the same world. They were cut from different cloth, but they did know, with certainty, that they were mad about each other.

Dean came home the night after their date and pressed himself against the inside of his front door, just trying to get his legs to work. He felt like he was on fire, he felt every cell of his being begging to drive out and see Castiel right that moment. He didn’t think he could feel longing, but oh he did, he really did.

There was nothing like it.

Cas had plucked a single white dittany from the bushes that shroud the pond and gave it to Dean. He had given Cas a confused look when he handed it over, but Cas held a second up himself. A sign that this really happened, he said to Dean with another kiss before he got out of his car and disappeared past the towering white doors of his summer home.

Dean thought it was ridiculous until he got home and realized that the whole night felt like a dream. He was grateful then, to pull the crushed flower from his pocket and try to tug the petals to lay neatly.

Sam caught him, and gave him a warm smile, so it went well, I take it? He asked Dean, slinging an arm around his brother with a raucous laugh. Dean smiled and looked down, really well, yeah, he had said back. And he rolled around all night, trying to sleep, trying to quiet his mind down. But he just couldn’t stop thinking about Cas.

Much of the week, Dean spent early mornings rising to go to his job at the Lumber Yard. He would shower and get dressed knowing that Castiel would only wake hours later, the scent of sleep clinging to him, warm and comforting.

Cas still didn’t find much joy in leaving his summer home. So, after work, when Dean would drive over to continue working on their backyard, Cas would bound down the front steps of his porch, joy radiating from his body. Dean would shake his head with a big smile and hold his arms out, letting Cas squeeze out all the space between the two of them. His wings would flutter and graze Dean in admiration and Dean would melt at their refreshing warmth—at Cas’ refreshing warmth.

And they would kiss. They would kiss all the time. Castiel would spend increasing amounts of his afternoons out in the backyard with Dean while he worked. He’d offer his help, but Dean learned soon that he shouldn’t take Castiel up on it. He was a distraction above everything else, and his job took longer and longer to do. Not that he minded.

Cas offered to sand down the deck with Dean to prep it for the ocean blue paint Ms. Novak had picked out. And Dean appreciated the offer, but he didn’t want Cas to do it (even though he was defiant to help). He just didn’t want Cas’ hands to get caught on rough sandpaper, or a splinter, so he assured Cas that he could help paint—but he’d be fine to sand everything down himself.

Obviously, Cas didn’t listen in the slightest, and the two of them ended up sanding everything down. Dean was weary, making his way to the steps that led down to the lightly trimmed grass (he had mowed it so that it wasn’t horribly overgrown), and since Cas was insistent, Dean told him to begin sanding down the railing. At least that way, Cas wouldn’t be bent on his knees, keeping his wings fanned upwards all afternoon.

Tragedy struck around thirty minutes in, when Cas groaned involuntarily. Dean wasn’t exactly far (since the deck was small) but he still ran over, worriedly calling Castiel’s name. Dean whipped him around, bringing his hands up to inspect. “What’d you do? Are you okay? Did you get a splinter? Do you need a bandage?”

Cas was talking over Dean, his voice level and calm, going, “Dean, Dean, you—relax—” over and over—trying to tell Dean he had accidentally squashed a pill bug.

Dean wouldn’t listen, lifting Cas’ arms up, running both hands over Cas’ torso, seriously (and then playfully) asking, “did you get hurt here?” Spinning Cas around and running a thumb across the back of his neck, “or here?”

Cas would writhe in his hands until they both were laughing, he’d shove Dean’s hands away and turn around to face him, “Dean, I’m fine,” he would get out. And when Dean would still insistently poke and prod and roam, Cas would bat him away with the expanse of his wings, fluffing them in his face, smacking at his hands until the two of them were a mess with one another.

Dean would find himself falling into Castiel like gravity, Cas would grab onto him and kiss him over and over, and he’d whine when Dean mumbles, “so you really are okay then,” against his lips.

Castiel would find himself shaking his head, “no, I’m not,” he’d lie.

Dean’s days got longer; he didn’t mind. Ms. Novak also seemed tolerant. When she caught Cas splattering paint across Dean’s front, laughing brightly at him before Dean returned the favour, she had smiled and simply told them she would be going out for a little while.

They did finally manage to paint the deck. Even though Cas had to order Dean to start at the far end so they could really focus. He didn’t want to, yet; Dean did as he was asked. He’d do anything Cas asked of him.

The sun was low when they were finally finished, laying out on the grass, staring up at the orangey, ochre sky. Dean was covered in paint because Cas found it endlessly amusing. He had managed to get Cas back, running a blue thumb across his cheek. He had laughed at that until Cas kissed the laughter out of his mouth, taking his brush and running a thick stripe up Dean’s arm.

Cas sits up, stretching his arms and wings wide before making a disappointed noise. Dean watches from where he’s sprawled out as Cas’ left-wing curls forward, and he begins rubbing at the long, unruly feathers, trying to get blue paint out of them. Dean snickers. “That’s what you get for splattering paint everywhere.”

Castiel gives him an annoyed look, but Dean can’t take him seriously with the stripe of blue brandished down his cheek. He pulls Cas down, Dean’s hands on his face as they kiss. It doesn’t last long; Dean pulls away and suddenly looks serious. “What is it?”

Dean doesn’t look away, his hands still running over the soft skin of Cas’ face. “I was thinking,” Dean begins. “When everything is set up back here, maybe you’d want to meet my brother?”

Cas is very still as he hears Dean’s words. He’s learned quite fast how much Sam means to Dean. How much Dean loves Sam, and it’s a wonderful offer. Because Cas understands now that Dean trusts him, Dean believes in what they’ve got, even though it’s brand new.

He believes so much so that he’s ready for Castiel to meet the people he is closest with. A smooth look sweeps across Castiel’s face. “You’re dumb,” he leans in and kisses Dean deeply. “But yes, absolutely,” Castiel say against Dean’s lips, Dean smiles. “We can invite Sam over once things are nice back here.”

Deans eyes light up at those words. Cas trusts Dean, he trusts that Dean wouldn’t hurt him. And it makes Dean feel like he’s flying. Castiel trusts Dean, just as much, if not more, than Dean trusts Cas.

Adoration aside, Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever seen the exact shade of green that Dean’s eyes are. In his whole life, he’s never felt himself get so breathless from the way he can dip down and drown in the oasis that lives in Dean. He feels like a dragon when he looks at his eyes—they’re like perfect emeralds, glittery and magnificent, and Cas can’t imagine anything he likes more about Dean.

Well, that’s only partially true. He loves everything about Dean. His eyes, his cheekbones, the way his brows furrow when he’s concentrated, the way his lips get red and he gets all doe eyed when Cas kisses him. Everything about him is wonderful, Cas decides.

Dean gets up not long after. “Alright, I gotta go,” he smiles and stretches, pulling his arms taut above his head. “Dinner calls.”

“Can Sam cook? Or does he not enjoy it?” Castiel asks, staring at Dean with genuine interest.

Dean thinks on the question, it’s not that Sam didn’t like cooking, Dean thinks he likes it, but any time he tries to cook anything there’s an eighty percent increase in the chance of something catching fire. “Well,” Dean stretches out. “I think he enjoys it, but he’s not very good at it,” he chuckles, remembering when they were younger, and he instructed Sam to scramble some eggs for Mother’s Day. It was an easy task, but Sam had added too much pepper and no salt, there were shells in every bite, and oh yeah, they were completely charred. But he had looked to their mother expectantly, hoping that she’d enjoy it. Dean recalls this memory with a deep fondness when he tells Cas, the two of them making their way out to the front of his summer home.

“You should get back then,” Cas says very seriously, and Dean laughs, pulling out the keys to his car. Cas drags Dean into another hug before letting him leave. He watches him the whole way, until he can’t see his car anymore.

When Dean gets home, Sam is sitting in the living room, reading an extremely heavy looking book. It does remind Dean of the book he was currently in the middle of, Leaves of Grass by Whitman. He makes his way to the kitchen, wondering if Cas would find his works interesting. He thinks he must, Castiel had told Dean that his days were usually exceedingly long and structured. His summers were a real break from the academic work he did during the standard school year. It was equally impressive as it was intimidating.

Dean spends the rest of the evening with Sam, and the two of them catch up over dinner, taking a ride for ice cream afterwards. Sam jokes that Dean is still treating him like a child, and Dean laughs, because it’s true. Sam would always be a kid to Dean. He’ll always see the little kid who was too scared to go into the basement alone. Before they leave, Dean knocks on his fathers bedroom door, he responds with a slurred yeah, and Dean lets him know dinner is on the stove, he doesn’t get a thanks, but by now this doesn’t surprise him.

The days continue, sliding past Dean and Castiel one by one. Though as they spend time with each other, they fail to notice. Things were simultaneously so simple for the two of them, and somehow so difficult.

Dean and Castiel tested each other constantly.

Castiel soon learned that there was much that Dean failed to understand, no matter how straightforward the matter was. It was infuriating, but for each of them, their mindsets contained a profound desire to put the other first. Dean found that Castiel was the same—there was little he would ration if it meant Dean wasn’t looked after.

Dean can recall the day after he had finally taken the time to nicely trim and water the long green grass of Cas’ backyard. He had spent that evening setting down soft grey paths of stones, cleaning out the artificial pond and placing seating around it. Ms. Novak had asked for an iron bench on the far end, she had also asked that surrounding the rocks of the pond, Dean plant lavender as well as white carnations. She was certain the contrast would look stunning, and she was right.

Once the bench was set in place, Castiel draped himself across it, laying down, his wings sprawled lazily on either side of him, one spilling onto the fresh grass and the other onto the stone under the bench, the very tips of his feathers lazily flicked across the freshwater of the pond.

Cas had asked about Sam, what he was like, why he wanted to be a lawyer; Dean answered everything. Cas asked about his father.

Dean looked up from where he was patting down soil. “He did his best to raise us, it was easy when we were younger, but,” he clears his throat and looks away from Cas, focus returning to patting soil and planting. “When our mom died, he took it worse than me or Sam.”

“So, he stopped raising you?” Cas asks bluntly, Dean shrugged. That was true, but Dean can recall the slow build of his father’s pain. How it was one drink a day, then two, and then three. How he went from caring, to pretending to care, to not caring at all. That was around the time he sold his shop and stopped working completely. And these days, he barely left, even to restock the alcohol in the house. He just didn’t care anymore.

“He was—is dealing with it, yeah in some ways that weren’t the best for me and Sam, but he’s working through it,” Dean reasons. He’s not sure he believes what he’s saying himself. But he needs to hold out hope. He knew his place was here in town with his family, and even though that was a crumbling dream, he knew he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

“That isn’t fair,” Castiel shakes his head, he is not impressed. “You were young too, what did you do?”

Dean stands up, pulling off his gardening gloves, dusting off his knees. “I grew up,” it sounds reasonable to him, but Cas’ frown deepens, his eyes are cold and burrowed under his brows. “Started working, yeah younger than most, but Sam needed someone to believe in him,” and they needed food, running water, clothes—they needed to live, even if it didn’t feel like they were.

It was tough for Dean, word spreads like wildfire in their small town, as soon as John sold his car shop and holed up at home, people were pitiful, and it soon turned to disgust. Dean’s white picket fence of a childhood went up in smoke. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try and keep things rolling for Sam.

“Your father should’ve been there,” Cas shakes his head and gets up, Dean watches his wings flick angrily at the edges. He was right, but Dean was jaded, his anger had rolled away like a tide that would never come back to shore. “You should not have had to raise Sam,” Cas admonishes, the farthest reaches of his wings flutter raggedly like he’s pointing a scolding finger down.

“Cas,” Dean sighs as Castiel walks past him. It wasn’t that Cas didn’t understand, Dean knew he did. And often he understood better than Dean gave him credit for, but Cas always had Dean first in his head. And hearing that someone Dean should’ve been able to trust treated him so poorly, made him displeased. Dean grabs Cas’ arm, “you don’t get it.”

Wrong thing to say. Cas doesn’t necessarily look angry; his face was usually quite flat while his eyes expressed everything he felt inside. He rips his arm from Dean’s grip, “I might be one of the only people who does,” and Dean can feel the layers of regret piling on, fine and delicate.

It feels terrible.

Of course, Cas understands, because his father wasn’t alive, and Dean could see how much Ms. Novak has been doing to raise him right—with encouragement and love. Castiel knew it was possible, he had experienced it. And as a zōion no less. Dean couldn’t imagine such compassion from his own father. He takes a step after Castiel, “Okay you’re right, I’m sorry,” he starts.

He knew it wasn’t the same. Because Dean never argued with his father, he never doubted him or spoke back. He listened to him, every order Dean was given, he learned to respond with a sharp ‘Yes Sir,’ and Sam did too, though he hated it. Dean knew that his father was trying his best, but he also knows how unfair it looks to anyone else.

He can remember with clarity, the day of their mother’s funeral, Dean’s dad took him aside and crouched down in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was hell. He looked Dean dead in the eyes, “Take care of Sam, alright? Whatever it takes,” and Dean clenched his jaw, shuffled in a suit that was a bit too big for him and nodded, “yes sir.”

Cas bats at his hands when they reach for his waist, “you shouldn’t be sorry. Your father should be apologizing, to you,” Cas voices, he doesn’t object when Dean nods solemnly, taking another sweeping step after him and grabbing Cas’ wrist to pull him back.

Dean brings his hands to his face, tilting his chin upwards so that Castiel must look him in the eyes. They stay like that for a while, regarding each other, eyes inspecting eyes, curiosity piqued where anger once was.

Cas doesn’t object when Dean’s hand slips from his wrist then, finding purchase at the waistline of his pants. Dean pulls him forward the rest of the way, pressing their lips together. It was an innocent kiss, “You’re right, Cas,” said Dean simply. It was more complicated than that, for sure. But Dean knew Cas didn’t care about the minutiae of it all. Cas cared about Dean, he cared about Dean being taken care of, and more than that, he wanted Dean to be happy. It was ridiculously good of him, and Dean wasn’t used to it.

In Castiel’s defence, it was no different when he spoke to Dean about his own life.

Castiel can recall the day that Dean had begun working on the plots of soil that would be home to yellow freesias, blue forget-me-nots, and white gardenias. The days leading up to today, Dean had built a swinging bench, and yesterday, he had hung it up to the gigantic oak tree that reside in the backyard.

Castiel was adamant to help plant the small buds of flowers that his mother ordered, and he knew Dean couldn’t refuse, since it was such an easy task. As they worked, Castiel talked about his family, his own father.

“He was an architect,” Castiel says, delicately patting down some soil, he’s got a peaceful look on his face as he reminisces. “Of our entire family, he was different.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, sitting back and taking a long drink of water.

Castiel sits back as well, “my family is quite large, my father has many brothers, though they were all much younger than him,” Cas looks to the small budding forget-me-nots. “They weren’t happy with my father, for many things.”

“Really? Like what?” Dean frowns, and to be fair, it did sound ominous.

“Well, my father, being the oldest, got reign of their family company, but he never wanted it,” Cas sighs. “So, he kept the title, but left his brothers to run everything. And when he went away and married my mom without telling any of them, it didn’t help,” Castiel twists his hand down into the deep green of the grass.

“And when you were born?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks to Dean, giving him a warm smile. “When I was born? It was wonderful, actually,” Cas thinks back to how his father described it. “It was like I had these big brothers, and they each were so different from one another,” his smile falters. “I never felt alone, it wasn’t possible,” Cas is looking down at his hand, watching the way it digs into the soft earth. His father was so thankful that Castiel was born, for he had brought his brothers back to him.

He can recall the long hot days when Gabriel would coerce him into playing foolish tricks on Michael (he was always so uptight; it did wonders to knock him down a peg). He remembers when Lucifer snuck the two of them out, late at night, and had given Cas a beer (and Castiel remembers his father catching up to them and scolding Lucifer before the three of them found themselves laughing, sprawled out in the cool grass). Lucifer had then taken the beer from Castiel and given it to his father. The two of them clinked the bottles together and spoke about the stars. And even Raphael, who would sit with Castiel, helping with his homework (and who would make him the most delicious food).

“And when my father died,” Cas’ gut twists in an unfortunate build. “I didn’t know what sadness was, I didn’t know I could feel so—hollow,” he hates reliving it, how sick he looked, and Dean must be able to tell with the way he’s now replaced his wings several times on the ground, as though they’re uncomfortable in every position. “I lost myself when he died. I lost control,” Castiel looks to his thick black wings, and finally up to Dean.

“They weren’t always this big,” Dean doesn’t speak, but Cas knows he is listening. “When my father died, I was lost, devastated, and one night I felt this release. It was painful at first, but it reduced to something freeing. I saw the next morning I had sprouted wings,” they were small, neat, and tidy, stopping right under his hip. “My mother was shocked at first, but far from disgusted. She told me that it was a part of me, and that was alright, I had no idea—” Cas looks to Dean, “that I could be rejected.”

Dean thinks he knows where this is going. He rolls his wrist outwards, assuring Castiel that it’s alright for him to continue.

“When they saw,” Cas’ eyes drop again, and they begin to sting. “They rejected me, so completely, they wanted nothing to do with me. I thought I knew loss,” Castiel can feel every feather ache as he thinks about the way Michael had looked so disgusted, how the next day, before his father’s funeral, they had left. “I had no clue. I wasn’t rejected by my father, Dean, he loved me, and he died. But my family? His brothers, who were so keen to raise me like their own—they live and breathe like I don’t exist to them.”

Dean understands. Castiel’s wings may have sprouted from his father’s death, but they have grown and manifested so greatly from the very rejection he had faced from his family. Dean pains at the idea of Castiel, so young and freshly hurt, crying, and hating himself for something he could never control. Castiel, turning to the people he thought he could trust—and having them so completely reject him. It must’ve made him crazy with loss and pain. Dean hates to think how long it must’ve taken Cas to finally be okay with himself again.

His Castiel, the young man who was sitting across him with mud stained on his shirt, his hair a wild mess of sleep, his eyes that Dean was certain he’d never be able to get out of his head. Castiel, who trusted Dean easily, when he had this looming doubt and worry. Now that was irreplaceable. It did put into perspective how much Dean had to lose, and even more so, how much Castiel means to him. “That was wrong of them,” Dean finally speaks, and he feels like he’s missed the mark by a million miles.

And yet, Cas looks at Dean like he’s spoken something blasphemous and cruel, he can hardly believe it. He has never faulted his family for their reaction—to him, it was reasonable, and that hurt even more. Hearing his pain validated… Cas could feel his wings writhe in thanks, skirting across the soft grass, reaching for Dean. Such simple words have bloomed in Castiel’s heart, he is certain if he were cut, petals would fall from his body instead of blood. Castiel found himself falling in love, he had never felt so captivated and scared.

“Come here,” Dean smiles, it’s bittersweet. He outstretches his arms, sitting cross legged. Castiel goes, kicking up from the ground into a crawl before collapsing in Dean’s arms. He lets out an elated breath, breathing in the smell of timber and sweat as his arms wrap around Dean, his hands twisting the fabric of his shirt as he burrows himself in his chest.

It wasn’t much, and Castiel knew Dean didn’t fully understand that he still, to this day, feels like a monster. Dean was just so inflexible and determined in Castiel, he didn’t see Cas as some inhuman shell that once was a full person. No, he saw only strength and power. He was a testament to staying alive, even if it’s just to skirt across grass and drown out his pain in Dean’s arms.

Dean brings a hand to his jaw, so that he can look at him. “You’re perfect, Castiel,” Dean speaks, and the jolt that Cas feel’s run down to his toes and the farthest feathers of his wings shocks him into action, spurring him forward to kiss Dean. He had spoken so honestly, so openly, Cas knew Dean wasn’t lying with the praise he gave, Castiel finds himself falling eagerly. Dean didn’t often say Castiel, often he preferred Cas, though, truthfully, Cas would be lying if he didn’t say how wonderful it felt whenever Dean said his whole name.

Dean hasn’t tried to touch Castiel’s wings, it’s not that he doesn’t want to, he really does. But from how Cas treats them—he can tell they’re important. He doesn’t want to give Castiel any reason to think he’d hurt him, or worse, reject him. He’s only ever expressed to Cas how okay he is with the way they graze over him, but that’s as far as he’s gone with it.

Castiel would love for Dean’s hands to run over the black expanse of his wings, much of that desire has been the fuel for many fitful nights of rest. But neither of them felt the need to rush into things. So, for now, Castiel lets himself get lost in the way Dean smells like cinnamon, his sweat sharp like whiskey, he leaves his wings so that they lay low and open for Dean to touch—but he never vocalizes such a desire.

It was like a prayer, a thanks, even a blessing. And Castiel finds that when Dean speaks to him like he has, his mind blanks into pure joy. It’s not that he hasn’t heard such delicate words before, but they mean something so great when coming from Dean. He shows his thanks well enough, his tongue pressing hot against Dean’s own, eliciting those honey sweet noises as Dean’s hands grip at Castiel’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

Cas breaks away, but doesn’t go far, kissing Dean’s jaw, trailing down his neck. Dean’s head lolls to the side, he huffs a hot breath, it was ridiculously fragrant, with the garden of flowers that had slowly taken space in the backyard. Dean wasn’t kidding when he told Ms. Novak he planned on filling close to all the space with flora.

The sun was simmering high in the sky, it was cloudless aside from a breeze, Dean watches the soft down of the undersides of Castiel’s wings fan out openly. He had only seen the silky abyss under his wings on a few other occasions, but it never failed to amaze him. How luxurious it looked, and with the way the sun lit them up, the spines (or rachis) of each feather gleamed like platinum. Just thinking about getting to run his hands across the fine expanse of Cas’ feathers was enough to leave Dean lightheaded and gasping. “Castiel,” Dean groaned, he bucked up involuntarily when Cas bit at his neck.

Cas was drunk off Dean, the way he spoke, the way he acted—so unyielding but kind. It took years of patience for Cas to sit back in Dean’s lap. He took a few steadying breaths, licking his lips and trying to keep himself focused on anything but how they tasted like Dean. All they had done was kiss and hold each other, but Castiel could feel a certain desire clawing at his throat, desperate to be acted on. Desperate to seal the two of them together in a way that certainly could only bring vast, incalculable joy. But he couldn’t, not now, not so soon, especially when Dean had no clue.

It was brimming on a month and two weeks since they had first met. Which in the grand scheme of things was truly little, but in the length of time the two of them had known each other, it was plenty. Of course, their lives turned with the planet. Castiel was still applying to different universities—far and wide, and Dean was still working at the Lumber Yard, saving up for his own future.

But they both would be lying if they said they couldn’t picture their future without each other. No matter how different things were for the two of them, Castiel could not imagine the world he lived in before, burrowed, and cold. And Dean couldn’t imagine living in a world where he couldn’t see Castiel. They wanted each other so deeply, so profoundly, yet so simply.

One week and five days later, the sun had fully set, everything was done, and Dean closes his eyes, letting out a relieved sigh, sprawling out on the side of the deck which was left without furniture so people could stand and lounge.

Dean hears the back door slide open before closing again. he makes out light footsteps and the soft fluttering of wings, he looks to his right, seeing that Castiel has joined him, sprawled out the other way so his wings can stretch wide on either side of him. They smile at each other before looking back up at the starry sky. Dean watches as a dark shadow soars overhead, disappearing to the left. “Can you fly?”

Castiel’s brows furrow, “No, Dean,” he says. Dean nods wordlessly, Cas looks back up. He thinks to say something else, but before he can, the familiar notes of Dean’s laugh start to fill the air, and Cas smirks and looks back to him. “Why are you laughing?”

Dean doesn’t stop, a hand wrapped at his stomach, another wiping a tear away. “You,” he begins. “You’re like a chicken,” as he says it, he begins to laugh harder.

Cas shoves his arm, he harrumphs. “Stop that,” Dean doesn’t stop. Cas frowns. “If anything, I would be a rooster.”

Dean shakes his head, laughter subsiding. “Yeah, no, chicken for sure,” he laughs again, the thought of Castiel being some large flightless bird, burrowed in a coup and squawking sends him into another bout of laughter. Both of his hands are clutched at his stomach, one of his legs bent upwards while he warbles joyful ow, ow, ow’s as his stomach cramps up. He pays no mind when Cas shoves at him again.

It does spark his interest more when Castiel twists himself so that he’s straddling him. “That isn’t funny, Dean,” Castiel chastises, but his overly flat and serious tone works wonders to make Dean laugh harder. He swats at Dean’s chest and hands until Dean catches them in his own.

“I’m sorry, Cas,”

“No, you’re not.”

Dean let’s out another bark of laughter before he sits up on the deck, Castiel’s hands still in his own. “You’re right, I’m not,” Cas looks far from impressed. Dean brings Cas’ hands to his chest, laced with his own and squeezes tight. “Cas, if you’re a chicken, I’m a chicken, alright?”

Castiel goes still in Dean’s lap, he tries to keep his cold disposition. But Dean brings the best out of him easily, and soon enough he’s ducking his head down with a smile, he ignores Dean’s triumphant ‘ah-ha!’ and chuckles. “You’re dumb,” Castiel says softly, squeezing Dean’s hands in his own.

Dean’s face eases, he nods, “I know,” he says lowly, eyes brightly looking to Cas, his smile goes lax as his lips part.

Cas nestles closer, their lips a breath apart, a smirk begins tugging at his lips. “If you’re dumb, I’m dumb,” and before Dean can laugh, he’s kissing him, drinking every noise from his mouth, and eliciting more.

When Dean left to drive home that night, Cas let him know that his mother was planning a small get together two days from now, on Friday, to celebrate the finished backyard. He had handed Dean two invitations, one for Sam, and another for his father, if he wanted to come. Castiel already told Dean he didn’t need to invite him, but in case he wanted anyone else to come, he had the option.

One for Sam, and one for… Someone else, Dean thinks once he pulls into the driveway of his house. Dean knew he couldn’t invite his father; he would love it if he could. But his father was—difficult to say the least. Truthfully, he could think about him later. He needed tell Sam about Castiel first.

He finds Sam where he usually is, even amid summer break, he has a book cracked open, diligently reading, transfixed. Dean knocks on the open door, and Sam jolts when he looks up and sees him standing there.

“Hey Dean,” he says casually, looking back down to his book.

Dean takes a few steps in. “You eat any dinner yet?” Sam shakes his head.

“Wasn’t hungry,” he says, putting a bookmark in place and closing his book. He’s sat cross legged on his bed, and shuffles back to make room for Dean.

Dean sits down by Sam, leaning forward. “How was that, uh, party you went to?”

Sam’s brows upturn, that party was a while ago now. “Oh, it was fun, really fun, I met a whole lot of people who’ll be there this fall too,” he smiles. “I think I’m more excited to go now, truth be told.”

Dean smiles, genuinely proud of his brother. “That’s good Sam, I’m glad,” Sam nods and turns back to his book, going to open it again. “Hey, uh,” Dean clears his throat, Sam looks back to him. “You know how I went on a date like a month and a bit ago? Same night as that party?”

Sam’s eyes light up. “Yeah, of course I remember, you said it went really well, right?”

“Yeah, yeah I did,” Dean rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “So, listen, I think you should meet them.”

“Him, you mean him,” Sam corrects with a smirk.

“Right, him,” Dean swallows his blush, but the tips of his ears are telling.

“So, who is he?” Sam asks carefully.

“He—well,” Dean laughs humourlessly. “You know how I’ve been working for Ms. Novak? It’s, uh, her son.”

“Her son,” Sam echoes.

“His name is Cas, well, Castiel,” as Dean says his name, he waves a hand in the air. “I met him the first night I went over to drop the shipment, he brought me some water and we kind of got to talking,” it wasn’t entirely true, but Dean would make his point soon enough.

“Huh,” Sam says, he’s nodding slowly until a smile breaks across his face. “So, all this time you’ve been going over there to help with her backyard, Cas has been there too?”

Dean doesn’t expect Sam to catch on so quickly, but by now it shouldn’t surprise him. “Uh, yeah,” he shrugs like its no big deal, though everything about this was important. Only one way to do this, Dean thinks. He pulls Sam’s invite, handing it to him.

He waits for Sam to read it over. “They’re hosting a party?”

Dean nods. “Pretty much. Cas gave me two invites. He said one was for you—”

“He wants to meet me?”

Dean snaps his mouth shut and smiles, nodding. “Yeah, but listen, there’s something else,” Sam looks at Dean expectantly, cocking his head to the side. “He uh,” god, why was this so hard to say? He just— “he has wings,” Sam’s brows furrow and then his eyes go wide. “He’s a—”

“Zōion,” Sam says, he looks away and huffs an excited breath.

“Yeah,” Dean purses his lips, he looks down at his lap.

“Wait, you said you have two invites,” Sam waves his invite in the air.

“One for you, and one for dad,” Dean says.

“Dean,” says Sam, and his concern is warranted. “You can’t—”

“Bring dad? Yeah, I know Sam, I know,” it’s not what Dean wishes was the truth, but it was, and it was unfortunate. He pockets it again. “I probably wont invite anyone else,” Sam nods, but he’s squinting and looking out the window. Dean knows that look, he’s thinking, but not quite, no, Sam Winchester is scheming. “I know that look, no, Sam, no—”

“C’mon, Dean! You haven’t even heard what I’ve got to say—”

“Nope, no, Sam whomever you’re thinking of bringing along—just—no,” Dean shakes his head and raises his hand in surrender, Castiel had a big weird family and Dean had a small broken one, in some ways they balanced each other out.

“Bobby,” Sam finally says, Dean gives him a strange look, brows upturned. Sam sighs, stuffing his hand into the interior pocket of Dean’s coat (Dean bats at his hand, but no luck). “Dean, you can bring Bobby,” Dean blinks blankly, Sam waves the invite, half-rolling his eyes and pushing himself closer. He looks to the open door of his bedroom, lowering his voice. “He’s always been around, and I mean, more after mom—you know, but he helped raise us.”

Dean nods and shrugs. “That’s true,” he purses his lips. “But I mean, it doesn’t really matter, right? Just you and me would be fine, I think?” Sam smiles but in the depths of his face, Dean can see he’s not okay with it. “Or not?” Dean tacks on.

“No,” Sam shakes his head, running a hand through his mane of hair (Dean remembers that he’ll need to corner him and trim some off before he goes to College). “It’s fine, totally cool, Dean, I get it.”

Dean frowns. “It clearly isn’t alright, Sam, what? You want him there?”

Sam takes a minute, tripping over his words before he takes a breath. “No, okay, listen, I get it. It’s always been me and you, we look out for each other. But this guy? Cas? He clearly wants to meet the people you trust,” He clenches his jaw and looks to his door before back to Dean. “Your family. And listen, you love dad, I do too, and one day I’m sure he’ll come around—he’s got the heart for it, but Bobby? He—I don’t know, Dean. He’s done a lot for us.”

“So, you’re saying that Bobby deserves to meet my,” Dean chokes on the word, really, he didn’t know what to label it, he shakes his head lightly. “Cas?”

“No, I’m saying that Cas deserves to meet Bobby,” Sam clarifies, handing the invitation back to Dean. “He means a lot to you, right? Then he deserves to meet the other people who mean the most to you.”

Dean thinks on what Sam said a bit longer, it was just so straightforward when he said it. It was so easy when he talked about it. He couldn’t think of any reason for why he couldn’t… Damn Sam for making such a compelling argument. Dean chuckles to himself. “You’re gonna make one hell of a lawyer, Sammy.”

He laughs then, an energetic laugh, and his smile finally reaches his eyes. “It’s Sam, not Sammy.”

Maybe things were looking up for Dean.

◊◊◊

Let it be known that Dean Winchester loves his car. Like, more than life itself. He remembers way back when his father drove it into their driveway. Sam was barely talking at the time, and Dean, well, he was in love.

He was in love with Baby the minute his father stepped out of her and spun the keys around his finger. Dean swears the world was in slow motion—his world, which was all black and steel with a leather interior.

The day his father promised that Baby would be his (as soon as he got his license), he began counting down the days.

Dean thought it would be perfect. He had always pictured that his father would teach him how to drive, take him to the test center, and the moment Dean had passed, he’d hand him the keys and sweep him up into a big hug. The first thing Dean would do was take Sam out for ice cream (and flirt with the girl working).

Truth be told, it wasn’t perfect like he thought it would be. Their mother had passed long before Dean got his license. And when Dean was old enough to ask for driving lessons, their dad was too inebriated to walk.

It was Bobby who taught Dean how to drive Baby. It was Bobby who was there when he got his license. He pat Dean on his back, and the first thing Dean asked Bobby, new license in hand, was if he could start picking up more shifts at the yard. When he drove home, it wasn’t to take Sam out for ice cream. It was to cook him dinner, and then help him with his homework.

For a long time, home didn’t feel like home. Hell, even now, it was hard for Dean to really feel like he fit in the small town he was raised in. But his Baby? She felt like home. For a long while, Dean would go to school, balance a job, help Sam—but in his spare time, he knew he could cruise down the long country roads of his home town before they gave way to the barren crops and thicket of forestry.

He felt more relaxed in Baby, driving at seventy-five miles an hour, than he did in his own bed. And for a long time, all he did in his spare time was learn how to drive her. He learned a lot about cars, part of that was thanks to his father and his shop, but much of it was intuition. Everything from a flat tire to reassembling the engine so it’d purr, Dean could do it.

It was soon after Dean realized he’d saved enough up to send Sam off to college that he had decided to take a long relaxing drive out. He never had a destination in mind when he drove, and that was exceptionally true this time around. He let the road guide him, Baby too, and really, by the time he was about three hours out from his home, he had zoned out.

Dean wasn’t too sure why he had taken such a far drive, and when he saw a dirt road that led off to the side, and a lake not too far past, he checked for any oncoming traffic before driving down it.

He wasn’t expecting anything, really, but as he continued down the firm dirt path, he could make out something towering and dead in the far distance. He soon realized that it was an abandoned estate. When he steps out of his car, he takes a few steps towards it, noticing the overgrown weeds and grass. Even the bashed in windows and wavering structure. It was garbage. Pure trash.

Dean decides then that he’ll come back one day, he’ll buy the entire thing, and he’ll make it something pretty.

He pats the hood of Baby and leans back on her, almost asking for approval, but he knows that he’ll be back. And it’ll be Baby who brings him.

If it hadn’t been mentioned enough, Dean loves his car—Baby, sorry. And he’s told Castiel every day that the two have been together. Cas has acknowledged it, told him it’s weird, Dean’s laughed perhaps too harshly, but no avail.

And now, he was sitting in the passenger seat, while Cas sat in the driver’s seat. They were on a long stretch of road that led no where in particular. Dean licked his lips and looked at Castiel expectantly. Cas just looked back, nervous.

“Dean, if you don’t want me to—” Cas begins, his eyes were particularly wide, and he blinked nervously.

“No Cas, it’s alright,” Dean doesn’t let him finish, he doesn’t want time to change his mind about this idea. Castiel’s wings are politely folded, but they flick anxiously. “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Dean pats the dash, smiling at Cas. “She drives like a dream.”

Cas nods, the key was already in the ignition. He gives Dean another worried look before chewing at his lip, turning the key. The car purrs to life and Dean hoots appreciatively. Cas has his foot like a brick on the break, shifting the car to drive and easing off. They begin to roll forward. Dean watches as Cas’ eyes go wide, “It’s moving,” he says worriedly.

“She, Cas,” Dean scolds. “And that’s a good thing, c’mon accelerate a little bit,” he eggs.

He does as he’s asked and soon enough the two of them are slowly gaining traction down the road. Castiel has never driven before—well no, he has, but not very successfully. He just never quite found it all too appealing to drive a two-ton death machine around. When Dean drove, it wasn’t scary, truthfully, Cas often found himself with his window half-down, smiling and dozing off.

But now? He wasn’t entirely enjoying himself. Well, he was, because Dean was cheering him on (being far too encouraging for how slow they’re moving), but that’s sort of where it ended. Everything else sucked, and the fact that Dean loved his car so much didn’t help.

Cas pushes down on the accelerator and the car jumps forward a few feet, he stamps the break the next moment, the car stops with a halt that leaves the two boys wrung out by their seatbelts. Castiel goes red with embarrassment, Dean laughs.

“You’ll get the hang of it, Cas,” Dean squeezes his arm, flicking his head over his other shoulder to signal for them to switch spots. “One of these days.”

Cas gives him a noncommittal nod, setting the car to park before getting out. He liked how Dean spoke, as if the end of summer weren’t slowly crawling towards them like an inevitable darkness. He’d not told Dean yet about the distance of some colleges he applied to (or how he’s heard back from all of them already). The world usually was against Castiel, but he was finding that for once, for once, things were looking his way.

Don’t misunderstand, Castiel knows that prejudice and hate will not go away the second his feet hit the pavement of some ivy league school, but he was used to that. Everyone who was like him was used to that. He’d spent his whole life working to get to where he is—and there were a lot of reasons for it. He knew he had something to prove—to himself and to his family, he knew that no one would take him seriously if he himself couldn’t be serious. And most of all, he knew he wanted to be successful.

He didn’t understand how Dean could be so tolerant and understanding, Castiel wasn’t used to it. He always worried about getting left behind, that if he couldn’t keep up, everyone would continue forward without him. Dean wasn’t like that, in fact, he derailed that entire notion that was the cultivation of years of self-doubt that Castiel had built up for himself. Cas ducked his head and wings down, sliding into the passenger seat of Dean’s car, closing the door along the way. Dean sighs happily, petting the dash and steering wheel, giving Cas an earnest smile before he sets the car to drive, taking off back to Castiel’s home.

Cas sank back into the leather of the car, he was in slight turmoil, thinking about Dean’s endless spout of patience. Dean bore it over Castiel, warm and bright. Whether Dean would whisper in his ear late at night—feeding praise that was as sincere as the sun, or now, in the afternoon light, grinning at him wildly, pushing him out of his comfort zone with delicate admiration. Dean loved to praise Castiel. He had said as much the first month the two had spent together, when Castiel had asked what it was about him specifically that made Dean want to spend time with him so badly.

Dean had taken a breath that day, shaking his head in earnest. “I don’t know,” he started, his eyes were wide when he looked to Castiel. “But when I see something I want—” he made a grabbing motion with his hand, taking a breath. “I just—I need it, if I want it, I mean, I go crazy for it,” he bit down on his lower lip, staring out into the unmade space of the backyard when he spoke, he turned to look at Cas. “And you,” he smiles with a sharp breath. “I don’t know—well no, I do. You’re just… So good Cas,” he says it with such a strong conviction that Castiel struggled to degrade his words. “In a way that I’m not,” he followed up with, dismissing his thoughts in the cool summers air.

Castiel thinks back to that conversation for a long time, as Dean drove him back to his house. He realizes then that Dean doesn’t think he’s good, Dean doesn’t think he’s something worth having. He doesn’t see himself the way that Castiel sees him. ‘In a way that I’m not,’ Cas’ gut knots at the words. It wasn’t true, it just simply wasn’t true. Dean gave and gave and sacrificed so much of his own life to help those around him. If anything, Dean was good in a way that Castiel was not.

Dean was the golden standard.

Cas could see it so clearly, and he knew that Dean would never be able to see that himself.

Castiel decides then that he’ll spend however long it takes to make sure that Dean understands how important he is. He thinks that it’ll be an easy task, but if he’s learned anything about Dean, it’s that he’s stubborn. He could be staring down the barrel of a shotgun and make a snarky remark with a cool grin. Still, this would just be yet another honest challenge—and Castiel was more than happy to take on such a task. In fact, he didn’t want to wait.

Dean’s car was lovely, like most cars in their time, there was no break between the front seats. And Castiel found it easy to slide closer to Dean—who had one hand on the wheel, and the other resting out the open window. Dean doesn’t flinch when Castiel turns to him and drags his hand up his arm with one stroke. Though when Cas dips his head forward, biting at the soft skin where Dean’s neck met his shoulder, he inhales sharply, his other hand gripping the wheel.

“Cas,” he bites when Castiel crowds closer, one of his hands splayed across the thin fabric over Dean’s abdomen.

Cas strokes the taut skin above Deans belt, “thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, dipping down and sucking the hot skin of his jaw.

Dean swallows convulsively, keeping his focus on the road. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how gravelly Castiel’s voice sounds right next to his ear. “Whatever for?” He manages to say, his head involuntarily tilting to the side, giving Cas some more room. He can feel Cas smirk but he’s too distracted to feel embarrassed. Partly by driving but also partly because of Cas—okay no, it was all Cas. Dean could drive backwards with his eyes closed if he wanted to.

“For everything,” Cas continues, and that’s the truth. Nothing he did seemed pitiful or like it was some twisted test of kindness. Their love wasn’t clandestine like Castiel worried it would be. Dean didn’t mind at all, and yet he still understood Cas’ own aversion to being seen and judged. Dean never found it annoying to hold and kiss Castiel in the quiet corners they had dug out in the world. And truthfully, he would just as easily admire Cas for the world to see and not bat an eye. It wasn’t that Dean didn’t care, he did. But only for Castiel, not the world. To Dean, the world wasn’t something sacred, but Cas? Oh, he certainly was.

Castiel could feel this from Dean in a way that was just like his own voice: blatant and honest. He drags his fingers upwards through Dean’s almost-blonde-but-not-quite coloured hair, rucking it messily as he bites at the skin under Dean’s ear. The sound Dean makes—something halfway between a groan and a whine—makes Cas do it repeatedly.

Dean didn’t hide how he was feeling, he was a vessel of brash cockiness and such a stubbornness that Cas was certain he could move mountains with a single glare. But right now, he was yielding and malleable as Cas’ fingers press into the skin of his hip.

He hardly expects the hard jolt of the car as Dean skids it to a stop, Cas’ wings keep him balanced but he looks up distractedly. He’s not expecting that they have already made it, albeit haphazardly, back to Castiel’s summer home. But even more than that, he doesn’t expect the way Dean’s hands are on either side of his face half a second after he shifts the car to park, pressing their lips together messily.

Dean groans as Cas catches his bottom lip between his own, his body often hummed with a pounding desire that he didn’t know how to quench. Kissing Castiel, he knew, could only lead to more—and surely his own physical reactions were obvious enough. Of course, Cas must know with how he greedily runs his hands over the most sensitive areas of Dean’s stomach and legs. Still, he was going a little crazy. He thinks now, that Castiel must also be going a little crazy.

Often Dean found that Cas would crowd over him with a strength he didn’t think Cas was capable of. He would burrow close and his hands would roam—like touching Dean was addictive all on its own (and Cas desperately thinks so. He cannot imagine a time in the past where he found the feel of another so addictive). But beyond this, Dean couldn’t ignore the swift, hot roll of Cas’ intentions whenever he found himself tangled with Dean. Be it here, in the cramped space of his car, or sprawled out in the fresh grass of Cas’ backyard.

Dean didn’t push, it wasn’t his call to make, no matter how desperately he wanted to make it. It was Castiel’s choice, and so for now, Dean would kiss him senselessly and buck into him with blank pleasure and wait to see what the next weeks would bring (Dean was forgetting they no longer had weeks, but rather days). Still, he wanted to do a lot with Cas, like burying his fingers in the lush silk of his wings.

As they kiss, Dean’s hands trail up Castiel’s back. He could feel the oversized metal buttons that were tailored into many of his clothes, allowing for him to easily fit his wings through his shirts before neatly pinning shut around the small feathery appendages. Many of Castiel’s finer garments were tailored in an equivalent way, while the clothes he lounged in at home were more torn and battered—worn by the expanse of his wings in a way that was old and familiar.

Dean’s whole body was buzzing, his hands tingled and trailed up with an urgency to touch something other than cloth. It feels like ages when he finally feels something stiff and spiny under Cas’ shirt, right below where his wings sprouted out. Curiously, Dean drags two fingers over it, trying to feel it out.

He doesn’t expect the way that Cas moans his name, snapping away from where he’s half straddling Dean in the front seat of his car. Castiel arches back, as if he’s trying to push back into his touch. “Dean,” he moans when Dean does it again, both of Cas’ hands are flat against his stomach now, using it as leverage, gasping as Dean repeats the action over and over again—each time more certain than the last. It’s the most expressive Castiel has been regarding Dean touching him. Of course, Castiel loves the feeling of Dean’s hands on him always, but this? It was something else, something intimate and downright righteous.

Dean’s other hand finds its way to another small bony spine under Cas’ other wing and repeats the action. Castiel gasps, head rolled back, jaw clenched tight, his eyes are closed but he opens them—heavily lidded, to look at Dean. The sight of Castiel coming so undone unlike anything Dean has seen before leaves him captivated with unmistakeable rapture.

It was already warm outside this afternoon, even with the windows rolled down, the breeze was almost nonexistent with the car in a standstill. Now, it was warming up more, with how Castiel’s wings seemed to sweep as close to Dean as they could in the small space. Once again, they presented themselves in a cherished manner, the soft void of luxurious black feathers—glittery and unharmed, gleaming in a way that made Dean tingly and hot, the feeling whirring down his spine like a need he’d never felt before.

Dean keeps rubbing what he realizes must be small feathers (or scapulars) that sprout from Castiel’s back. His reaction is undeniably addictive, it’s here that Dean realizes how bad he wants Cas. All of him. From the twitch in his brows when he’s focused, to the way his eyes smile in quiet contemplation, all the way down to the longest primary feathers that were always a sweeping mess. He’d be a disaster without Cas, he knows it now.

Castiel is shaking, his entire body is thrumming with a blinding desire. All he can focus on are the way Dean’s fingers massage the small sensitive area of his back where his wings sprout. He can barely focus when he finally manages to lower himself back down, pressing his hammering chest to Dean’s. He tries to kiss him, tries to give him praise, but he’s gasping, and his wings are writhing in a blatant display of reckless yearning—his whole body is. He’s so close to giving himself up, but Dean doesn’t understand, Castiel knows this, and his mind cries when he realizes that they can’t do this.

Castiel wants to give Dean everything, he wants to pick the stars from the sky, he wants to find every flower on the planet, every drop of water from the ocean. Cas wants him to understand how important he is, but it is incalculable. He knows there are no words to describe how Dean makes him feel, there is not enough beauty in the world to try and paint a proper picture, there is no amount of happiness that would even come close. It’s undeniably frustrating, Castiel realizes, that the only way for Dean to ever understand how paramount he is, how irreplaceable he is, would be for him to see himself from Castiel’s eyes.

And even then, he would not understand.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice is as strong and neutral as it normally is. “I adore you,” he begins, his body moves on its own, hands running up the sides of his chest, his lips mouthing, kissing, and biting where he can. “I cherish you.”

“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel can hear the barest undertone of prosaic objection. It’s shaded by his much more obvious arousal, but not entirely. Cas stops him with a kiss—something open mouthed and languid.

“You are whole, you are good,” Cas speaks against his lips, exaltation dripping from each word. He wishes he could press what he feels like a stamp upon the deepest parts of Dean. He tries his best with what he can: the pads of his fingers pressing and dragging along Dean’s chest, his sides, his waist. “It is unquestionable,” Castiel desires only for Dean to understand.

He feels the way Dean’s movements become choppy, losing the smooth undulating movements he had cultivated moments before; the truth sinking into the fog of Dean’s desire like piercing rain. He doesn’t believe it, and he refuses to accept Castiel’s honest praise. “You can’t know that, Cas,” Dean shakes his head nonchalantly, but Castiel can feel his pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

“I can and I do,” Castiel demands he knows. His body changes easily, going from a blatant amorous offer to a soft caress of reassurance, his wings fold back respectfully, only curling forward at the very bottom.

He kisses Dean again, briefly. “I know this because I know you,” he hardly misses the way Dean’s hands come to a slow against the small of his back, and then to his waist. Dean was writhing, Castiel’s words could only scrape away so much doubt. He noses at the space under Dean’s ear, teasing the sharp line of his jaw. “You are honest, you are beloved,” I know this because you are mine, Dean Winchester. Castiel wants to add, but he withholds.

Dean’s heart is still pounding, his body still hums with white hot need, Cas can feel him, strained against cotton and denim. But when Castiel looks to his eyes, he can see pinpricks of unease, the blush across his features melting into worry and embarrassment. He hides it well, but Castiel can see it, clear as a cloudless sky. Dean is unsure.

He leans back towards Dean, hoping that he can kiss his praise onto him. Dean sighs into it, relaxing with each bite and lick Cas offers him. His wings rub against the bare skin of his forearm and Dean tries to pull Castiel closer, his hands digging into hipbones and tugging.

Castiel goes willingly, the two of them have crowded into the corner of the front of Dean’s car, slouched against each other. Still, Castiel sits up, ignoring Dean’s protests, he pulls him up as well. Cas envelops Dean in a hug. He tucks his head against Castiel’s neck, hot breath warming the skin there. Castiel continues giving him honest praise, his words light and direct against the skin of Dean’s cheek. His voice is low, something just for the two of them. Dean begins to relax, and Castiel thinks he might begin to understand.

Dean’s hands snake under Cas’ wings, agonizingly fast and abruptly. Of course, he does it only with the intention to wrap the two of them tighter, blithely innocent of what such closeness means—or how intense the feeling of his hands may be to Castiel. It does makes Castiel jolt back in a cry of soft shock. His wings press back affectionately, but the feeling is far past the line of ‘too much’ and Cas’ hands end up shoving Dean from where he was nestled.

They have hugged before; they’ve held each other as close as two fibers twisted together. But Castiel has always kept his wings swept up over Dean, around him, feeling him with them, yes, but never the other way around. It’s brazenly intimate. And Castiel could not ask Dean for such praise (his mind cannot even comprehend such a thing, but oh how badly he craves it). He’s suddenly breathless when he opens his mouth to speak, to try and explain.

Before he can, the two of them hear the faintest ‘Castiel!’ from the second-floor balcony. He closes his eyes and shakes his head at such poor timing.

“I’m sorry Dean, I must go,” he turns to look out the front windshield and sees his mother’s heels standing high above, she is calling for him.

Dean pouts, tugging Cas back for another kiss, he complies, even when Dean whines ‘no’ against his lips. Cas smiles when Dean acts in such a way. So often he would hide himself under layers of nonchalance and bold nonchalance, acting tough in a way that kept him safe. What a compelling delicacy Dean Winchester was. He reminded Castiel of the soft fleshy insides of an artichoke, or like the delicate layers of a leek—hidden by rough green leaves. He was a feast and Castiel would devour him if he weren’t careful.

They stay like that for a moment longer, until Castiel’s mother calls for him again, this time, a bit louder. Dean sticks his head out the open window, waving at her, shouting a short ‘sorry!’ she gives him a happy wave back.

Castiel’s cheeks burn at his own disregard, he pulls away from Dean, opening his side of the door and stepping out. “Thank you, Dean,” Castiel repeats, and before Dean can object, or kiss him again, he’s running back into his house.

Dean shakes his head, he’d have to get Cas back for winding him up like that, leaving him high and dry. He laughs as he turns his car back on, waving out to Ms. Novak once more before circling around their driveway and out back onto Elmira Street.

◊◊◊

Thursday might be the most stressful day Dean has ever faced. He was at the Lumber Yard, like he usually was, yet in his pocket was an invite to Castiel’s get together. Sam had pestered him all morning, reminding him over and over to try and invite Bobby before Dean finally shoved some bacon in his mouth and made a break for it.

The day wasn’t close to winding down yet, but Dean felt every cell of his being just pushing him to go ask, what was the harm in that? If he were lucky Bobby would at least hear him out, and, if he were not lucky…well. No, thinks Dean. I can’t freak out, not now.

Dean was out back, some of the other guys were helping unload a new shipment of logs that would have to be added to inventory and cut to the specifications of whatever job they’d be used for. Dean had a lot of jobs on site, but he was best at the detail-oriented job of chopping logs and nitpicking anything that looked old or rotted. So, it’s not surprising when Roman hands Dean a clipboard with the requirements for the log order.

He still needed to talk to Bobby, so Dean quickly let the delivery men know where to drop off the shipment before walking off, looking for him. It was dusty, and the oaky scent of sap and wood clung to Dean like a second skin, though he didn’t mind. He spots him near the front of the lot, talking with some suit, Bobby looked pleased, holding a packet of thick papers in his hand. Dean walks over right then, if he takes too long, he’s going to chicken out again—he knows it.

Bobby looks at Dean as he approaches. “Perfect timing,” he smiles, patting Dean on the back. “Dean, you know Victor Henriksen, right?”

Dean smiles and nods, turning his attention to Mr. Henriksen. He ran the bank in town and had helped his father with the sale of his repair shop years ago. “Of course, I know Mr. Henriksen,” Dean says coolly, he pulls off his lumber gloves and gives his hand a firm shake.

“It’s good to see you Dean,” says Mr. Henriksen. He gives Dean a once over. “Last time I saw you, I think your dad was still carrying you around, boy.”

Bobby laughs, and Dean can feel his ears begin to redden. Henriksen was a busy man for sure, he didn’t often deal with the Winchesters. No, he dealt with people who had extra money to spend. “Dean, I don’t know if you know this, but Ms. Novak has given quite a few people in town strong word about the work you did on her backyard.” Bobby tells him.

Dean snaps back to look at him. “Really?” Bobby nods.

“That’s right,” Mr. Henriksen speaks up. “It’s actually why I’m here,” Dean’s head whips to look back at him. “I’ve got some work I need done. Now it’s not the same work as the backyard deal, but I was hoping you’d be able to come by for a look?”

“Really?” Dean repeats, he’s sounding like a broken record. But he couldn’t believe it. Hell, he could hardly believe it when Ms. Novak actually paid him. Don’t get him wrong, he knew that he couldn’t do the job for free, but she had given him far more than he expected. And when he denied the amount, she countered saying that’s exactly what she was going to pay Crowley.

It just didn’t feel entirely fair, with how Castiel and him had ended up falling for each other. It felt…personal. The whole thing felt like less of a transaction and more like a natural progression—like no matter whether Dean took the project or not—he and Cas would end up with each other. Still the amount of money was dizzying, and he would never feel like he really worked for it (but he did earn it).

“Yeah, it’s a sunroom,” Henriksen begins, he looks away contemplatively. “Well, it should be a sunroom, but it’s old and barely functional,” he looks back to Dean. “My wife meets Ms. Novak for Sunday brunch. You see, Ms. Novak was bragging about her backyard and when my wife went over to see for herself, she was floored,” Bobby and Henriksen chuckle. “Told me to get a hold of ‘John’s oldest son’ as soon as I could.”

Dean nodded; he should take it. The money would be good, but it really felt like a one-time thing when he did it for Ms. Novak, he didn’t plan on making a career out of it. He did really love the work that went into making something—fixing something up like new. It was nice, to work with something old, something with history, and let those parts shine bright while making it better. “When would I start?”

Bobby nods appreciatively, patting Dean’s shoulder. “Attaboy.”

Mr. Henriksen is distractedly fiddling with his watch. “Oh, probably the end of Summer,” he clicks something, and Dean hears the lightest tick, tick, tick before he looks back up with a smile. “It’d be easier with the kids back in school—that way they wont bug you.”

“End of summer?” Dean’s gut twists. “What’s that? A week away now?”

“Just under a week. That’s not a problem, is it?”

“No! No, of course not,” Dean says with honest consideration. He didn’t realize at all that there was almost no time before Castiel and him would have to face the reality they’ve been shoving aside. Everything seemed so easy, strung along the sweltering summer days like laundry set to dry. But winter was coming.

“Great,” Mr. Henriksen smiles, looking over to Bobby. “Actually, can I talk to Dean on his own? It’ll only take a second,” Bobby nods, letting Dean know he’ll be inside (there was a small office that was set in front and to the side of the Lumber Yard). Mr. Henriksen jerks his head, as if to say walk with me.

Once the two of them have started to walk, Henriksen pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs his forehead with it. “You know, Dean, I’ve noticed you have quite a bit of money saved up.”

“Yes sir?” Dean replies, nodding. He had already taken out what Sam needed, and yes, aside from that, he knew he had a considerable amount left. Well, considerable for someone so young.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m sure you’d love to get out of your house, right? Maybe get a place of your own?” Mr. Henriksen is asking something, Dean just isn’t sure exactly what.

“Yes sir,” Dean responds again.

Mr. Henriksen nods like he’s pleased, the two of them stop walking, “tell me, is there anywhere that you’d especially like to move to? Anyplace you’ve had your eye on?”

Dean has a bewildered look on his face when he finally finds his voice. “The Whitby Estate, Mr. Henriksen.”

He laughs, it sounds something like ‘oh-ho-ho!’ Though he didn’t seem surprised. “That property is garbage, son,” he puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Expensive garbage,” Dean clenches his jaw and looks down. It’s not that it’s garbage, he knows that—it’s the fact that it’s expensive. He really wanted to make the place his—he needed somewhere that could be his. “But, if you help me out with my sunroom, I think I can help you with the estate.”

“What?” Dean can’t help the shocked smile that breaks out over his face. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” Mr. Henriksen drops his hand from his shoulder. “Don’t you think you deserve something like that? Something you want?”

Dean nods warily, his smile falters, he didn’t believe that. He hadn’t done much good in his life—well, nothing that warranted such a gracious favour. Still, he looks to Mr. Henriksen, “yes sir,” and then, “thank you, so much, Mr. Henriksen, I really appreciate that.”

The two of them spoke for a moment longer, before a beautiful black car pulled up for Mr. Henriksen. Dean thanked him again, and once more before he got in the car before turning back and jogging to see Bobby in the small office.

It was hot and foggy inside, there was a small fan running, but it wasn’t doing any good—just fanning stuffy air around that was already trapped in the room. Bobby was the only person in the office today, shuffling through papers. Dean walked up and took the seat in front of his desk.

“It was good of you to take that job, Dean,” Bobby says, not looking up.

Dean nods airily. “Yeah I’m pretty glad I took it too,” he smirks. “Offered to help me buy the Whitby Estate.”

Bobby looks up at Dean, brows upturned. “You mean that pile of garbage out past route ten? Three hours out?” Dean nods, Bobby leans back in his seat, he nods approvingly. “Well done.”

“Yeah,” Dean says dreamily. His hopes were coming true. His! Not Sam’s or his fathers, his. He almost forgot what he had come in to talk to Bobby about originally. “But I had something to ask you,” Bobby nods. “Ms. Novak is hosting this get together,” he pulls out the invite. “Her, uh, son, gave me two invites for anyone I wanted to bring.”

Bobby took the invite and read it; lips tugged knowingly. “This the young man you’ve been spending all your spare time with?”

Dean stumbles over his words for what feels like an eternity before he just goes, ‘yes.’ He clears his throat. “But listen, there’s something else, uh, about him.”

Bobby is silent and unreadable before he sighs. “Get on with it, boy,” he gestures.

“Right,” Dean takes a deep breath. “He’s a zōion,” Bobby’s face drops completely, in fact, Dean thinks he’s blanched. He continues talking, “got these wings, uh, but he’s going to college in the fall—and he’s so smart, like Sammy level smart.”
“Dean,” Bobby begins, and Dean doesn’t like the sound of that at all, so he keeps talking, spurring conversation from nothing until Bobby slams the desk, with another firm ‘Dean’. It shuts him up long enough for Bobby to speak. “I don’t care.”

“Right, absolutely, I don’t think he’s a great cook though, I mean—wait, what?” Dean pauses his ramblings. “You don’t care?” Bobby shakes his head, and Dean feels flooded relief.

“Lot of townspeople have some pretty strong opinions. Your father included,” Bobby sighs, shaking his head. “Not me, kid,” He looks away from Dean. “Just seems cruel.”

“Wow, yeah, I agree,” Dean processes this information. “So, can you make it? It’s tomorrow.”

“I wish I could, I do,” Bobby sounds apologetic, well, as apologetic as he could. “I promised one of our suppliers I’d drive down to their warehouse tomorrow to get approval on a shipment,” Dean tries not to look hurt, he understood this. So many times, he had cancelled or avoided plans because of how busy he found himself, just trying to stay afloat.

“It’s alright, Bobby,” Dean feels a twinge of disappointment, and he knows he’s not hiding it well. “I get it.”

Bobby is quiet for a long time before he speaks again. “I think I’ve got something to give you,” he sighs, long and heavy. “You’re driving me home tonight.”

“But you drove in this morning, right?” Bobby shakes his head.

“And we’re picking up Sam too,” he adds. “I think both of you are owed something,” It wasn’t what Dean wanted, but he’d take it.

Once the day was over, Dean and Bobby drove by Dean’s house. He disappeared inside briefly, and Bobby saw him dragging Sam out by his ear. “Bobby,” Sam’s eyes were wide. “Hey.”

Bobby nodded. “Sam.”

Sam crowds into the backseat, there’s just barely enough legroom. Dean gets back in the front seat, driving over to Bobby’s house. He didn’t live entirely too far away, but it was nowhere near within walking distance. The car was peaceful for give or take eleven minutes, until Sam clears his throat. “Wow Dean, I sure can’t wait for tomorrow,” Dean sighed and muttered something. Of course, Sam thought he hadn’t asked Bobby.

“Sam—”

“I can’t wait to go meet Castiel,” Sam pokes even harder.

Bobby snorts. “His name is Castiel?”

“You know?” Sam gawks.

“He can’t make it Sam,” Dean lets him know, pulling his car to the curb, setting it to park. He looks back at his brother with a death glare. “I already asked.”

“Oh,” Sam almost sounds apologetic. But before he can say anything else, Dean’s getting out of the car.

The inside of Bobby’s house was similar in layout to Sam and Dean’s house. The inside was far messier, there were books everywhere, a lot of the furniture was old and could be refurbished, and in his garage, he always had some junk car laying around—waiting to get fixed up. Bobby led the two of them into his living room, which was just a lot of books and some furniture splayed out.

Sam and Dean got comfortable on one of the couches, Dean stretched out and tilted his head back, relaxing. He looked to see Sam giving him an annoyed look. But until Sam worked eight hours lifting logs and chopping them up, he didn’t get to talk (and this he knew).

Bobby came back not too long later, Dean sat up. He was carrying a thick stack of six books, Sam looked intrigued. But to Dean, they looked familiar. It was long ago for Dean, and even longer ago for Sam, no matter, the two of them didn’t entirely forget (they couldn’t). Sam just didn’t get it straight away.

“John came over one day, years ago now,” Bobby begins. He sets down the books on the uneven coffee table between the boys. “Dropped all of these off,” Sam picks up the first one and they both immediately recognize it. They were those thick old books from their father’s study—the one’s that were confusing and bewildering and mesmerizing all at the same time.

“These…” Dean begins.

Sam opens to a random page, and him and Dean go wide eyed as a few pages slip out. “There are notes?” Sam looks up to Bobby. “Since when?”

“Your dad,” he says easily. “He never kept them with the books—had a journal filled. But when he dropped everything off, I took my time reading them myself, finding his notes and matching them to the right entries,” Bobby reaches for a book in the pile five high, flipping it open to an entry on scales, handing it to Dean. “You should’ve seen how worried he looked when he told me you two had made your way into his study,” he shakes his head. “Worried but proud.”

Sam and Dean share a look, smiles breaking out over their faces. “He didn’t want us to find out about these books? His notes? Why?”

Bobby gave Dean a confused look. “Your mother, of course,” he spells out. Sam and Dean’s faces drop.

“What?” Sam asks, his voice is flat and cold.

“Your mom?” Bobby repeats. “Oh what, John never told you, did he?”

“Tell us what, Bobby,” Dean asks, his heart is pounding.

Bobby had a regretful look on his face, but he had said too much to go back now. “When your mother fell ill, it was clear that she needed help. But every hospital your father took her to, no one could figure out what was wrong. The only thing every doctor could see was that she was dying, her body had started failing her,” he looks to Dean and then to Sam. “Your father, he went a little mad. He began looking for anything that could be causing it,” Bobby clears his throat. “These books were a small part of the entirety of his research, actually.”

Dean nods, recalling the rushed and jagged notes he had uncovered all these years ago. The urgency in the words as he read about the surgeries that could be completed to remove the ailments of being a zōion, no matter how big or small, no matter how unnoticeable.

“He always thought they were unfortunate creatures—like most people, but he was different,” Bobby continues.

“How was he different?” Dean asks.

“He was desperate,” Bobby closes the book and sets it back on the pile. “He got this idea in his head that maybe she was a zōion, but that it had somehow manifested internally. Now, one thing you boys need to understand about zōion, is that one of their defining characteristics, is that the differences that manifest for them will always be external. Always.”

“But dad was hopeless,” Sam nods, looking down.

“There was a treatment at the time—sort of a hormone therapy,” Bobby looks disgusted, looking down, ducking away under his hat. “John, wanted to try anything, he was at wits end. It’s unbelievably inhumane,” he shakes his head, stopping there. The two of them didn’t need to listen to this. “Anyways, it only made her worse, and, well, you know the rest.”

The three of them are silent for a long time. Bobby lets what he’s been talking about wash over the two of them, he let’s the brothers process what they’re hearing.

Sam speaks up first, his voice is hoarse. “So why are you giving these back to us? Why now?”

“Well, because of Dean,” Bobby says, Dean’s brows upturn. “This, uh, Castiel you’re seeing,” Dean tries to keep his face from going ketchup red as Sam huffs a laugh. “If he’s a zōion, then there’s some stuff you’ll need to understand.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure you know already how these animal traits tend to show up as a manifestation of someone’s issues and all that?” Sam and Dean nod. “Well, sometimes—most times, these manifestations result in certain behaviours.”

“Okay,” Sam stretches. “And what do you mean by that?”

Bobby huffs, pulling the second book from the bottom of the stack, he flips through to a page regarding a change in eyes. Specifically, that of a short-horned lizard. “I was in Atlanta a few years ago, ran into a girl outside who was getting mugged. Before I could step in, the attacker fled. I was surprised until she told me that she was a zōion—past that, she was crying blood.”

“What?” Dean exclaimed; Sam blanched.

“That’s what I mean, to anyone else, you might not think anything of her darker-than-most eyes. But that is a defence mechanism that short-horned lizards inherently have,” Bobby turns the book towards Sam and Dean, pointing to the part of the page that explained how many times, this mutation came from young children living in extremely abusive households. “It works to scare and confuse predators.”

“So, you’re saying that Cas,” Dean swallows, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. “He might exhibit the behaviours of certain birds?” He wants to laugh, so he is really like a chicken.

Bobby half nods and half shrugs. “Partly, yes, and somewhat, no,” Dean gives him an exasperated look. “I’ll be honest Dean, there aren’t many zōion that have wings. The research on them is smaller than most other mutations, but yes, in general that’s the case. Of course, wings are like an extension—like hands, they’re a functional body part. So, in a way, they can also act similarly to the person who has them,” Dean nodded, that did make sense. And Castiel seemed to control them like an extension of himself, rather than a foreign mass.

“Do different wings, as in distinct species, mean different behaviours?” Sam asks.

“In theory, yes,” Bobby nods. “Not all lizards can shoot blood from their eyes, in the same vein, there are only some species of bird that fan out their wings as an invitation to mate,” Dean hates the way his face begins to redden again. Did Bobby really need to use that as his example?

“Zōion aren’t common to begin with, there’s tons of research that hasn’t been done because of the scrutiny they go though. Hell, I’m almost certain most of what has been collected for these books was taken more than it was offered,” He shakes his head, disgust returning. “In any case, I think both of you deserve these back,” he gestures to the books. “That one deals with mutations part of the bird kingdom. Wings are a small part of it, but it should help,” Bobby grabs the book from the top of the pile, flipping it open briefly and nodding, handing it to Dean specifically. He doesn’t look long, but he catches the exact diagram at the back of the book—the same one he had seen years ago, the same faceless man with his arms outstretched, big wings fanned behind him. His heart slams into his ribcage, this was kind of a long time coming, huh? He thinks silently.

“Thank you, Bobby,” Sam looks like he’s about to cry. He was devastated when the books first went missing. Having them returned felt like some secret blessing. Dean thanks him as well, he always had an idea of what Castiel may be saying with his wings, but truthfully, he had no clue. All he could do now was hope that he hadn’t been reading everything completely wrong. He’d be lying if he didn’t say he wasn’t scared.

“It’s not a problem,” Bobby shrugs, standing up. “If you two want to stay for dinner, by all means, but I’m cooking beans with some bread,” Sam and Dean snicker. That was Bobby for you: sustainable. Dean didn’t get how he could make such tasty food but would still be happy eating canned beans and toasted bread. It made no sense.

Dean thanked him once more, Sam grabbed the books, they make a beeline for Dean’s car. As the two of them turned around on the road to head back home, they waved before Dean floored it.

Sam already had cracked open one of the books, starting to read though the notes and journal entries. There were six books total, but Sam had set one aside, Dean peered over at the title, seeing it was titled ‘Zōion: Aves.’

“That’s the one Bobby said you should look at,” Sam said, not looking up from his book.

Dean nods, looking back to the road.

He’d read it—he had to read it. The rest of the drive home, he feels apprehensive. When they get home, Dean decides he’ll cook dinner and then read it. After dinner, he decides he’ll wash the dishes and then read it. And by the time he’s tucked in bed, thinking about seeing Castiel tomorrow, he decides it can wait.

Chapter Text

“Dean, you need to calm down,” Sam sighs from where he’s adjusting his tie. It’s deep green in colour, his light blue shirt barely matched, but it would do. He was doing better than Dean, who was still shuffling through every piece of clothing that he could find. He wasn’t the best at the whole dressing up thing.

He finally settles on a cream coloured dress shirt and a navy tie (it’s also one of the only ties he owns), his shirt is tucked into neutral slacks. Sam had polished their dress shoes the night before, and even though Dean told him to try and sleep early, he knew Sam was reading the books Bobby gave them. Neither of them had told their father yet, and to be fair, aside from coming down and eating some dinner and asking Sam when he’d be leaving for college, they didn’t get a chance to talk about anything else.

Dean had let him know that they’d be going out to a party today, but he didn’t show any interest. It wasn’t anything new, and Dean thought it might be better if their father was a tad bit more sober before he told him about his notes and the books (or Cas).

“I’m calm,” Dean lies, his hands are shaking as he ties up his dress shoes. “Totally calm,” Sam scoffs like he doesn’t believe it and Dean can’t really blame him. The two of them spent some time after dinner the other day making some dishes to take. Sam cut up some fruit and Dean made potato salad. The invite said to be there around five, Castiel let Dean know that dinner would be served around six, and Sam and Dean were finally on their way over, five minutes past five. They would’ve left earlier, but Dean decided at the last minute to try something more casual (he didn’t end up changing at all), and then the two of them left without their dishes and needed to turn back to grab them.

Dean wishes he could telegraph Sam’s reaction to Castiel’s summer home. He hides it well, but his eyes go wide, and Dean knows him well enough to know that the way he straightens up in his seat means he’s excited. There are a few other cars parked out front in a neat line down the dirt road, Dean parks near the end, the two of them step out.

“This place is huge,” Sam says, Dean looks to him, seeing that he’s blinking harshly—like he’s certain it’ll disappear if he’s not careful.

Dean snorts, noticing that the gate that led to the backyard was wide open and there were voices and overlapped chatter drifting over to the two boys. Dean pats Sam’s chest to get his attention and gestures his head to the open gate.

The two of them step through, and it’s clear that there’s a full party in swing. Dean notices that a lot of the help that Ms. Novak would have around the house were dressed up as well. They weren’t in the same groups as many of the other guests, but it was clear that they weren’t around just for work.

Dean found that Ms. Novak was a peculiar woman. She didn’t seem to hold many of the rigid (awful) morals that many of the people who lived in their time did. She didn’t treat those around her with disdain or hate, she was aware that life was difficult for people different from herself. And much of the help she kept around she treated quite like family.

When Dean worked on her backyard, many of the staff would offer to help him clear out any trash that accumulated, and he got to know some of them over the course of his time there. He learned that all of them had good rooms in the summer home. They could take what they wanted from the main kitchen, they had bathroom access, and often, they found that Ms. Novak would offer her own help. Dean understood why many of them were fond of her, she was certainly odd, but she was unbeatably kind.

Speaking of Ms. Novak, she spots Dean almost immediately. “Dean!” She says brightly, the two brothers look to her as she begins to walk over.

She had a glass of wine in one hand, and judging by how her cheeks were tinted, it wasn’t her first. Dean smiles and waves and when she’s close enough she envelops him in another hug. “It’s good to see you too,” Dean says to her, she laughs waving her hand in the air, he often found that this is how the two of them would greet each other (growing like an inside joke as the summer passed). “Ms. Novak this is my brother, Sam,” Dean tilted his head to the side.

Sam introduced himself and held out his hand for her to shake, but, yep, like usual she pulled him into a hug. “Sam,” she said warmly. “It’s so good to finally meet you,” she says, letting him go. She shakes her head, cocking it to the side. “Dean talks about you a lot, but he never mentioned that you were taller.”

Sam laughs, but before he can respond to that (and embarrass Dean further) Dean interrupts. “We brought some food.”

Ms. Novak clicks her tongue appreciatively, “thank you, that’s very sweet of you two,” she shakes her head turning and finding two of her staff to come and take the dishes to set away for dinner. Sam and Dean thank them. “So, Sam, I’ve heard that you’re going to Stanford this fall,” Sam’s eyes light up and he nods. “Well isn’t that just wonderful, actually, an old friend of mine is a professor there, and he’s been looking for someone to help with some of his research.”

“Really?” Sam’s jaw goes slack. “I didn’t think I’d be able to get any research assistant position since it’ll be my first year.”

Ms. Novak waves her hand dismissively in the air. “Nonsense, if you like to read as much as Dean says you do, then you’ll be perfect,” she turns away from the two of them craning her neck and looking into the crowd, she makes a small approving noise, waving at a stocky older man in the midst of a group of people. He waves back, “there he is,” she looks back to Dean, “Castiel was just around, if you find him, let him know that Donna might need help with dessert, okay?” Dean nods and watches as Ms. Novak drags Sam off to talk to the other guests.

He’s honestly relieved, that could’ve gone horribly. He walks through the crowd, noticing that there weren’t too many people he recognized, if that. He also realizes now that his definition of small and Cas’ definition of small were far different.

There was a lot of space in the backyard, and as Dean wades through the different crowds of people, many of them stop him and let him know that they were impressed by his landscaping. A few of them asked if he would ever be free to look at their own yards or bedrooms or greenhouses. Of course, Dean would like to, but truthfully, after taking on the project for Mr. Henriksen, he knew he’d have enough to buy and refurbish the Whitby Estate. Additionally, with Henriksen’s good word, he might even have enough saved to keep off work for a month or so once he’s fully done.

Still, he didn’t want to be rude, so of course he let each of them know that for now he wasn’t looking for more projects, but sometime in the future he would. One of the couples are quite kind, the wife is wearing glossy pearls and her husband has a tight hand around her waist. He tells Dean to consider his offer, and except for the fact that they live far away (which means Dean would have to figure out accommodations for the length of the renovation) he wants to say yes.

Instead, he catches the barest speck of black in his peripheral vision, and there, far back, laying down with his eyes closed on the swinging bench, is Castiel. The couple catch Dean staring and follow his gaze.

The wife sighs somberly. “So devastating, isn’t it?” She says and her husband nods.

“I wouldn’t wish something like that on anyone,” he adds.

Dean’s brows furrow and he looks back to them. “What do you mean?”

The wife pouts, leaning in, her voice hushed. “Not being a real person? Being broken like that?” She looks back to Cas briefly. “If something like that ever happened to me, I’d get that fancy surgery they have to remove it right away,” she says it so casually Dean struggles to keep his face neutral.

Her husband clears his throat. “I’m surprised Lynne hasn’t already sent Castiel off to get that done, to be honest. Isn’t he going to Princeton this fall?” His wife nods pitifully. “No one is going to take him seriously.”

Dean is baffled, and he isn’t sure that he can stand around and listen to the two of them for much longer, he misses it twice when the husband asks him what he thinks. He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, if you’ll excuse me,” he says it gruffly, clearly annoyed. Dean was good at hiding when he was nervous or scared—rarely did he hide himself when he was angry or annoyed. And he was pissed.

The couple share a look before wandering off, and Dean makes his way further back. He didn’t notice it before, but there’s close to no one sitting by the large oak tree where Cas was. The pond area was crowded with parents standing and talking, while the younger kids flicked the water amusedly. Even the seating around the firepit was overstuffed while one of Ms. Novak’s staff kindled the fire with some old newspaper. But the space around the oak tree was barren, even though Dean made it so that there would be plenty of space to sprawl out amidst the flowers.

It was just Castiel, his wings outstretched like normal, one of his wings resting at an angle that allowed for him to use it to swing himself back and forth.

Dean had learned that Castiel found the ‘angel’ comparisons rather old and cheesy, but Dean loved them (he never said them out loud, since Cas disliked it, but his mind certainly sang them whenever he saw Cas). It didn’t help that everyone in his family seemed to have a biblical name, and to Dean, the fact that Castiel had wings was the cherry on top. See, Dean was raised to believe that Angels were beautiful servants and children of God, that they were extraordinarily strong and consistently identified by their wings and halos.

Castiel partially agreed with him, but he also explained that there were large variations in what was written in the Bible when people spoke about what they saw whenever angels were depicted.

“Seraph’s varied greatly in scripture, much of the time, they were often four dimensional—an amalgamation of animal and other earthly traits that constantly shifted. Raw energy. Beautiful isn’t the right descriptor, they were rather…” Castiel trailed off, looking for the right word.

“Weird?”

Cas shakes his head, brows furrowed, “supernatural.”

Still, here in the present, Dean couldn’t help but think that Castiel looked downright angelic. The way his huge wings were fanned out, how the shade of the oak tree danced and flitted across his skin, the way the sunlight streamed through the empty spaces. Even the plethora of greenery and flowers that almost pillowed his very existence. Whether Cas agreed or not, he was a heavenly indulgence. Dean got close enough that his face blocked out all the light streaming down. Castiel stirred a small bit before his eyes opened.

Dean saw the shift from frustrated to pleased at a moments notice. Both of them knew better than to hug or kiss here, surrounded by people who didn’t accept Castiel, and who also probably weren’t the biggest fans of two young men who were crazy about each other (and even more than that—Castiel being with someone like Dean, who was part of a completely different social class).  Yes, they had a lot betting against them, but facing it together? It didn’t feel so bad.

“Dean,” Cas speaks, and even though he can’t tug him down and hug him, Dean finds that the way admiration drips from his voice feels just as good as a kiss.

 “Castiel,” Dean nods, equally charmed. Cas bites at his lip, sitting up, making room for Dean to sit next to him. He rests farther away than he normally would, Dean feels the barest sweep of cool water run across his hip and knows that it’s Cas’ wing as he tucks both back politely. “Sam is here,” Dean squints as he looks out to the crowd of guests, seeing him take a seat with a different group of people.

Dean never thought about it before, but Sammy would really have a great future laid out for himself. He fits right in here, and after he goes off and gets a better education, it’ll be like he never would’ve fit anywhere else. It’s not that Dean was jealous, he couldn’t be, this whole thing? Not really his scene. Of course, he’d be here for Cas, but if he had taken on this project for anyone else, he would’ve politely declined the invite.

“He’s the tall one?” Cas asks, following Dean’s gaze. Dean snorts, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“He was really excited to meet you,” Dean says, watching his brother laugh along with some other kids that look just a bit older than him.

Cas’ eyes widen, and he looks at Dean. “Really?” Dean nods. “That’s interesting,” he admits, brows furrowed. “That’s not normally the reaction I’m used to.”

“Yeah I can tell,” Dean says casually, but he knows by now that Castiel can see right through it, right through him.

“Dean, it’s alright,” Cas begins, Dean shakes his head, looking down before turning to look right at Cas.

“It’s not, Cas, it really isn’t,” his words arrow through decades of stigma and hate. Castiel wonders how he got so lucky. “And you’ve decided on Princeton?”

“I was going to tell you,” Cas says, his voice is uncertain.

“It’s alright, I’m glad you’ve finally decided.”

Cas bites the inside of his cheek. “Dean, it’s in New Jersey.”

When he looks up to Cas, Dean knows his eyes are wide and his brows are upturned, he blinks a few times, he smiles, though it’s weak. “That’s all right, Cas, really. I’m happy you’ve chosen where you want to go.” Castiel isn’t even mildly pleased, but before he can say anything else, Dean speaks up again. “Oh yeah, your mom said Donna might need help with dessert.”

Cas nods, “right, I should go check,” he gets up, and Dean gets up as well, Castiel gives him a confused look.

“What? I’ll help too.”

“Dean.”

“Cas.”

Another disagreement, something small and pointless and yet the implication that Dean who, to Castiel, was a guest; and for Dean, the implication that Castiel was only to help. They found themselves at opposite ends.

They were looking out for each other in a way that was rigid and inflexible. The two of them were young, brimming with energy and fire to burn. It showed with the way they gravitated so dangerously to one another, like two comets on course to smash into each other.

The truth was that the two of them were exactly that. They were flying through time and space with disregard. They left a streak of light against the skies of their hearts that would take years to bleed away. And they didn’t care. Because now, they could not imagine the sky without the stars, they each could not imagine life, without the sun. They were drowning together, falling deeper to black. Icy water filling their lungs, but neither of them cared. They were together.

Dean only breaks eye contact when he sees Castiel’s wing slowly begin to unfurl, each joint starting to stretch out. He’s seen them at their full length, not often, the act made Dean feel small, which was one word for it. The other word was something he refuses to think about.

He absolutely rejects the idea that the act makes him feel dominated. Any time his mind even skirts the very top layers of that notion, his head roars with want, his skin feels like it’s on fire—itching for contact. He can’t imagine how he’d act if he let himself indulge in those thoughts.

Castiel doesn’t get far before they both turn at the sound of silver against crystal. Ms. Novak was calling attention to herself; sat at the front of a long rectangular table. The other guests began taking their spots, Sam waved for Castiel and Dean to join him near Ms. Novak at the head of the table.

“Go sit, I’ll be back in a moment,” Cas directs, taking off without Dean. He watches as Cas smiles and shakes Sam’s hand. Sam says something and Castiel laughs brightly, nodding in agreement before taking striding steps inside.

Dean, of course, doesn’t listen.

He takes after Cas, stopping by Sam briefly. “I’ll be right back; I’m just going to go check on Cas.” Dean can hear Sam call after him, going ‘Dean, he’s fine—!’ But he, once again, doesn’t listen.

The kitchen is right next to the sweeping glass doors which exit to the backyard, as soon as Dean enters, he can see Castiel bracing part of the counter. There were some unfolded napkins in front of him, next to a large tub of vanilla ice cream. Dean noticed that one of the napkins looked like it was tossed down in frustration.

Quietly, he slides the door shut, it was just Castiel in the kitchen. Dean took a step towards him, it echoed in the empty house. Cas looked up to him then, and all Dean saw in his eyes was worry and disappointment.

“Dean,” Cas begins, his eyes are wide as Dean walks towards him.

“Shut up,” Dean practically begs, pushing Cas back against the counter, slamming their lips together in a bruising kiss. Castiel is rigid under his hold, and all Dean can hear himself say is let go, Cas, c’mon you bird, give it up, for me. He slots their lips together in a way that lets him bite and lick into Cas’ mouth. Its no longer than a second then, until Dean feels Castiel sway into it, his hands bunching in the fabric of Dean’s shirt. Dean finds his hands resting on Castiel’s hipbones. He can feel them the barest bit, protruding slightly against the cotton of his dress shirt.

Castiel can feel himself losing control as the seconds pass, he ends up switching them, using the grip he’s got on Dean’s shirt to push him back onto the counter. Dean makes an incomprehensible sound, and Cas slots a leg between his. Dean’s hands drop from Castiel’s waist, gripping the counter when his hands start to roam.

There wasn’t much room for error, too close to the left and there was a window that looked out to the backyard, too close to the right, and the glass doors were there. They were restricted to a ridiculously small margin of movement, which made every rock that Dean bucked against agonizingly shallow and light.

Cas breaks the kiss, and Dean’s head smacks into the mahogany cupboards behind them, he swallows, and Cas follows the roll of his Adam’s apple with his mouth. All Castiel can think to do is pull his tie loose and unbutton his shirt, raggedly dragging his fingers to drop the shirt from Dean’s shoulder. Dean shivers as Cas’ fingers brush his skin, and he moans when Castiel bites down on meat there. Dean’s hands shake as he reaches for Castiel’s buckle, and something in him snaps in place.

His hands are clasped around Dean’s within a breath, slamming them next to his head. They’re kissing again, and Dean arches into him when their tongues slide against each other. Cas’ belt is undone, and they both are still restricted in movement, but it doesn’t stop the carefully quiet huffs of breath that Cas feels against his ear as he moves to bite Dean’s collarbone.

“Cas,” Dean praises, his voice breaks as he speaks.

It’s hot between the two of them, like the air is thicker, almost sweeter. Castiel opens his eyes, looking and seeing Dean, he was glistening and tanned, his eyes hooded—the barest sparks of green visible. From here, Cas could count the freckles across his face, arousal ignites across his back when he wonders how much else of Dean’s skin has those perfect sun kissed speckles.

It’s only when he sees the way his wings have cocooned the two of them that Cas is able to snap out of it. He notices the way the longest feathers have pillowed Dean’s head, the shorter secondary feathers, grazing up and down his forearms. No wonder pleasure was clawing its way through his spine—his wings had pushed the feeling of his skin right through him. He drops his head down, catching his breath, Castiel drops Dean’s hands.

“Cas?” Dean asks, his voice is a slurred mess of want. He feels Cas’ hands run up his chest, working to close the buttons he had undone. And soon, the artificial bite of cool air was back around the two of them. Dean felt Cas’ wings pull back, retreating like a storm—brewing and thunderous before all he could feel was the disappointment of a cloudless sky.

“Dean, I—” he takes a breath. “What I was going to say before,” he takes a step back, and Dean whines at the space. “What you want from me, I can’t—we can’t.”

“What do you mean we can’t?” Dean’s head is still foggy, but he wades through his thoughts until he can focus on what Cas is saying instead of just the way his lips are wet and red. “Do you mean we can’t right now? Because I get that.”

“No, I mean we can’t,” he looks away from Dean. “It’s complicated, with someone like me, there are,” Cas clenches his jaw, ashamed. “There are some differences.”

“Differences?”

Castiel nods. “Differences that I can’t ask you to bear, not for someone like me. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Dean’s brows furrow, “someone like you? What—” realization hits him like a truck. ‘In the same vein, there are only some species of bird that fan out their wings as an invitation to mate’ he recalls Bobby telling him.

“Where did you hear that?” Said Cas, and Dean realizes he must’ve said that aloud. Cas is blushed and embarrassed. He’s bracing for impact, and Dean won’t give it to him.

“That—that doesn’t matter,” Dean finds the courage to take a step towards Cas. “How many times do I need to tell you, Cas? I don’t care.”

Cas shakes his head silently, “you should care, Dean. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“And I don’t care,” He grabs Castiel’s hands.

“Dean—”

“I don’t care about what it all means,” Dean ducks down, catching Cas’ eyes in his own. “I’m asking for you, Cas. You.” He smiles when Cas looks back at him. “Everything that comes along with you—I’m okay with.”

Castiel’s heart wrenches in a way that feels blinding. He can feel his eyes water as he hugs Dean, he mumbles, “thank you,” into his shoulder, but it barely touches how he’s really feeling. It doesn’t even break the atmosphere for how he feels about Dean, and now Castiel thinks that he can show him.

Dean chuckles, tucking him against his chest. “Ha, alright Cas,” he feels his wings fan out and graze against him. “Nice try, but in case you forgot, there’s a whole party going on out there.”

Castiel looks at him, head cocked to the side. “In case I forgot? You were the one who ran in here after me,” his wings brush closer to Dean, bringing warmth to his monotone words.

“Yeah, good point,” Dean smiles, he’s got a hand on Cas’ tie as he backs off until he’s walking back out to the party. “Come on.”

The two of them return outside, a respectable distance away, they laugh and joke until they sit down; Dean next to Sam and Castiel across from the two of them. Ms. Novak welcomes them warmly and stands up to make an announcement.

Dean smiles at Sam who gives him a ‘you’re-not-subtle’ look. “What?” Dean asks quietly.

Sam leans in. “You look like you just walked through a storm, Dean.”

Castiel snorts from across the table, and Dean glares needles into him, casually trying to straighten his shirt and comb his hair down.

◊◊◊

It’s around three on Sunday when Dean wakes up. The party was two days ago, but neither Sam nor Dean had ever eaten so much food in one night, it was a record for sure. The two of them had also stayed much later than the other guests, helping clean up. And once that was done, the three of them sat out on the deck and hung out until it was early in the next day.

Dean was right when he said that Castiel and Sam would get along—they really did. Both enjoyed many of the same subjects and books. Truthfully, for much of the night Dean sat back and ate some (way too much) pie. It was nice, and after Sam and Dean left, Castiel believed that the Winchester brothers were kind beings at their very core.

Dean stretched out, today, there was no work to be done. He could see Castiel later, he ignored how the days were dwindling down to the very last few. Sam’s room was completely packed up, and Dean would be driving him down to the airport the same day Cas was leaving to head home. It was all slowly coming to fruition: all the things that Cas and Dean had been ignoring were slowly coming to a head. By Wednesday, Castiel would be gone. Sam too.

Dean never felt lonely before, or rather, he never let himself dwell on the thought of being alone. But now, with everything winding down—he wishes he were more prepared. Soon it would just be him, and up to this point, his life had been so full of all the people he cared about. Now? It’d really be empty; he really would be alone.

Still, he thwarts that raincloud of a thought away, groaning and rolling onto his stomach. The sun drew fine lines against his bare back, and unfortunately that sends his mind down the most predictable path of thinking about Castiel. His wings felt similar; in most ways, they were incomprehensible in feel, but they constantly were presented to Dean in every wake of nature. be it a refreshing breeze, or the trickle of icy water, or a kiss from the sun. Dean felt him in all of it and judging by how he was growing desperate and shameless under the sheets, between his legs, he needs Castiel.

He partially understood what Cas was talking about the other day. That there were distinct differences between a human and zōion, and those differences depended on the mutation. Dean could see the book Bobby had handed him (and the one that Sam had left for Dean and Dean only), old and untouched, right on his bedside table. He should read it, he owed that to Cas. He reaches out, grabbing the leathery spine, twisting to sit up. The title, ‘Zōion: Aves’ was inscribed in gold, there was a thin border of that same gold around the front. All the books had an analogous look. Each were leather bound, golden colour pressed into the covers, with a thin red bookmark that was attached to the spine. The size of each book varied, and this book was one of the smaller ones.

Dean cracked open the book, seeing now that the table of contents had been translated, he noticed Bobby’s scrawl in the blank space. The first main chapter seemed to deal with skin mutations, after that there were facial mutations, and the list continues until the last few chapters. Dean flipped back, close to the end of the book, the title of the section ‘Viðaukar’ Dean saw his fathers writing above it, ‘Appendages (rough translation).’ He flipped past the first few pages of writing, it read like an introduction.

The first diagram he comes across is of four different wings, the shapes were similar, with minor differences that gave the wings unique features. Dean looked for any notes. Wings—similar shapes, each give a distinctive purpose, he drags his hand across the foreign names that have been crossed out, rewritten in English. Primary feathers, secondary feathers, covets, alulae, scapulars, Dean thought about these different sections in terms of Castiel’s wings. The joints and bones were labeled as well, and similarly with the anatomy of a single feathers. Dean skimmed through, noting inner vanes, rachis, barbs, hollow shafts and so on.

He continues reading the preliminary notes, taking time to understand the fantastic engineering that is the creation of wings. His father’s notes are also crammed between pages, already lined up with the according entries (thank you, Bobby) It’s quite a few pages later he finally sees the direct changes in mutation. There were short subsections on varied species of birds, and the accepted meaning behind the mutation. Dean zeroes in on the subheadings, Bulbul, Barn Owl, Duck, Eagle, Heron, Ibis, Macaw, he flips the page, Nightingale, Parrot, and finally, many names later, Dean sees Raven.

His heart is hammering, it’s not like ravens were the only bird to have black wings, but from what Dean had taken note of earlier (wing shapes and sizes), Cas’ wings seemed like a picture perfect parallel.

Manifestation of pain, Dean scoffed, he knew that much. Castiel had told him so, the day his father passed, he lost control and his wings manifested. He turns the page, a loose piece of paper begins to slide out, but Dean catches it, ravens often represent despair, death, and ill-luck. This is especially true of their mammal adaptation. Like human hair, raven’s wings will be thicker and shiny depending on diet and health. It made sense, Castiel did take care of his wings and it showed with how healthy they looked.

He folded the paper and tucked it tight to the binding of the book, the sections were tiny, and the chapter ended the next page over. Bobby translated the following heading, ‘Hegðun,’ above that, was written Behaviour. In the introduction, Bobby had underlined a few sentences, the translation jammed in the empty space. These behaviours are what have been witnessed in zōion with winged mutations—most behaviours that have been spotted in the general vertebrate community are unlisted.

Grooming, Dean reads. Those with winged extensions will card their fingers through their feathers which can leave them fluffed or bothered in appearance. And then, this act is common only in zōion who have active debris irritating the natural weight or position of feathers. Dean recalls the day he and Castiel painted the deck, how Cas had ended up spending ages after delicately trying to get the small flecks of paint off. He realizes now that it must’ve been uncomfortable.

Fluffing. Typically, an act of over-excitement, a desire to bond, or agitation. There’s a small diagram, showing smooth feathers and next to it, how they would present if ruffled. Dean worries over the ‘desire to bond’ part. He knew that something about that very principle was throwing Cas for a loop. He skips ahead, much of the other behaviours he had a general idea about. Flipping and flicking wings when angry or annoyed, sprawled out to dry, or to sun oneself, each section was short, only about a paragraph each, still, Dean was grateful.

The next large section was translated to Courtship, Dean sees now the red bookmark has been placed at the front of this chapter and his cheeks heat. He briefly wonders if it was Sam or Bobby who placed it before his eyes catch the first few notes Bobby has left. Many birds have courtship acts that have shown up prominently in zōion of all types. Depending on the species of the mutation, these differ, but are common.

Preening. It is common to diffuse worry or aggression. Zōion will bite, as well as expel distance to show this. It is a sign of trust, an indication that no harm will occur. Dean feels a flare of heat rise in him, thinking about how Cas had bit at his shoulder, sinking his teeth down, like he was anchoring himself there, expelling distance, Dean thinks. He realizes now that each time that they got close, Castiel would end up biting and nipping at his neck.

Displaying, is on the next page. The act of outstretching wings, in a display meant to show health, suitability. Similarly, in zōion, they will do this as an intimate invitation to touch the sensitive underwing covets and inner vanes of feathers. Underlined twice, this is a sign of bonded trust.

Castiel trusted him? He wanted to mate (or bond, Dean wasn’t sure of the difference though he couldn’t imagine that he’d be displeased). This whole time, Dean didn’t have a clue, he didn’t know what Castiel was doing. Now that he did, he wanted to ask Cas why he hadn’t just told Dean that he trusted him, that he wanted him. It was obvious that it was mutual, right? So why had he stopped the two of them before they could?

The next section gives Dean some much needed insight.

Mating. It’s been observed that zōion will undertake this specific bond entirely. While one mutation, say that of a hummingbird, will find itself desperate to mate only at a certain time each year, the winged mutation of a swan will find that it can mate any time. For birds it is important to understand that mating is separate to a bond. Zōion have these crossed. Dean’s brows furrow as he continues to read, Bobby’s translations are crammed and smudged (Dean is certain it’s the same for each book), but he feels close to something, an answer.

Most birds do not stay with their mated partner, and this detachment is common in zōion. Is that why Castiel kept slamming on the breaks? Because he couldn’t bring himself to really want Dean? He can’t bear to think of that, the idea looms over his head as he continues reading. There are, however, several exceptions to this rule. Puffins, Barn Owls, Swans, Ravens, and Ospreys are some. There’s a note Bobby left to check the back of the book for the complete list. When zōion with any specific mutation from a bird known to bond for life, detachment isn’t possible once mated. This is what is meant when it is said that mating is not separate to bonding.

So, it’s the opposite, Dean hums to himself. Relief washes over him, it’s not that Castiel can’t bring himself to want Dean, he does want Dean—but to Castiel, it wasn’t something that could be taken so lightly, it’s frustrating but also a relief. Because Dean wanted Cas like that too, his face got hot just thinking about it. Being bonded to Castiel for the rest of their lives? It sent a jolt of freeing pride through him.

He does slowly realize as he reads, that this whole time, he’d been treating Castiel like how he treats himself. Completely human, but it felt like there was truth to the fact that he wasn’t. It wasn’t an insult, in fact that truth made Dean warm with adoration and delight. It was a good thing. Cas wasn’t just human; he was more than that. He was the sweeping ocean, dark blue and ravenous, or like an ageless tree, long roots coiling in dirt. Castiel was like a perfect mirror of nature itself, and Dean felt washed clean, devotion rising from his heart.

Unrepresented mating behaviours include bringing offerings such as food, as well as building structures for nesting. That line itself gives Dean a brilliant idea. He’s out of bed the next second, setting the book back down and darting to the washroom, getting ready.

By the time he’s skidding to a halt in Cas’ driveway, Dean sees him walking out of the front door. Dean finally feels the empty banks of knowledge he had held onto for so long fill in his mind. He was enriched, and he knew now, with absolute certainty, that he had met his match. Cas smiles when he sees Dean, and the way that he bounds down the steps (like he always does) into Dean’s arms reminds him that even a few days without Cas is too much to bear.

Cas hugs him, Dean doesn’t give him the chance to tuck his head away, instead nuzzling their lips together. Castiel is happy enough to return the favour, though neither of them remains complacent for long. Castiel pushes Dean against his car, and only breaks away when he hears his mother call for him.

Dean watches Cas swallow, looking at Dean’s lips and biting his own. “There’s somewhere I want to show you,” Dean admits. “Do you want to go?”

Cas looks back to his house, but nods. “Let me grab my coat,” he takes a few steps back before turning around and heading back inside.

Dean kicks off his car, getting into the driver’s seat. Cas skips out the next moment, beige trench coat flying behind him as he gets in. It was too warm for a trench coat (or even the suit that Castiel always wore), but he never seemed to mind, even though his wings were restricted and insulating heat.

“Where are we going?” Cas asks once they’ve hit one of the vast country roads that fanned out from town.

“It’s a surprise.”

Cas gives Dean a peculiar look. “How far away is it?”

Dean is silent for a long time. “It’s, uh, kind of far.”

“How long, Dean?” Cas pushes, his voice dropping an octave.

Dean keeps his eyes trained on the road, clearing his throat, and adjusting in his seat. “Three hours—”

“Three hours?” Cas repeats, his voice is the same as always, but Dean’s gotten good at hearing the hidden undertones. He was annoyed.

“It’ll be worth it, Cas,” Dean reasons, grabbing the wheel with his other hand, resting his other on Cas’ knee. He hears Cas murmur ‘it better be’ under his breath, slouching down on the passenger side, resting his head with his eyes closed. Dean squeezes his knee reassuringly.

The drive to the Whitby Estate was quiet, the roads were empty, and the sun was bright amber in the sky. They had only made it on the road just after four thirty, hopefully the sun wouldn’t be threatening to set right as they arrive. Dean was hammering the accelerator a bit more harshly than he usually did, though when Cas finally managed to relax and drift off, he eased up, not wanting to bother him.

Castiel, Dean learned, had extremely flimsy sleeping habits as it were (staying up all night, or sleeping for ages and staying in bed until late in the afternoon). So, if there was a chance for him to get some sleep, Dean wanted him to have it.

It had only been a summer, but already Dean found it easy to sit in silence with Cas. There was never a need to fill time or make the most of it. They had many simple days after Dean finished the backyard—even during—when there was little to do, Cas would beckon him to come sit. He’d run his fingers through Dean’s hair and shrug when Dean told him that he was dirty from a long day of work, Cas didn’t care much. They sat and thought their own thoughts in the company of each other, Dean thinks he should’ve found it strange, but it was all too familiar.

“Cas, hey—Cas,” Dean lightly shakes his shoulder, the way Castiel’s breath catches as he mumbles lightly, mind still addled with sleep, makes Dean want to let him rest for as long as he needs. Though they were only minutes away now, and he couldn’t just leave him in the car. He shakes his shoulder again.

“Dean?” Cas blinks, swallowing and sitting up. “Did I fall asleep?” He sounds regretful.

Dean looks to him and smiles. “Yeah, but it’s alright, we’re almost there.” Cas nods, stretching his arms and rubbing his eyes.

He peers curiously out the window, head cocked to the side. “Where are we?”

Dean purses his lips to one side, “the middle of nowhere,” he says as he finds the turn into the estate. He checks for oncoming traffic and makes a left. The asphalt turns to dirt, and the empty countryside fields are hidden by a looming trees and wild untrimmed grass. He parks the car and turns it off further down the path.

Castiel gets out, eyes fixing on the lake that ran far past what either of them could see. The sounds of bugs buzzing, the light breeze that disturbed the trees, and even the distant chirp of birds was beyond relaxing. They really were in the middle of nowhere. Cas tilts his head up to the amber sun, feeling its warmth heat up his cheek. He sighs into it.

Dean watches Cas take off his coat, leaving it hanging through the window. His wings unfurl easily, and he stretches them in a similar fashion to his arms. Dean sees now that each wing is easily more than eight feet in length. How he keeps them hidden is beyond comprehension—it must be uncomfortable, that’s the only valid explanation that Dean can think of.

Castiel notices Dean staring and gives him an unreadable look. Dean smirks but looks away, tilting his head towards the estate, a sign for Cas to follow. There were a lot of important things Dean was planning to say, and the whole way over he had worked it out down to every pause. But walking into the garbage pile that was the Whitby Estate, it felt like all his words were slipping from his mind at an alarming pace.

Dean clears his throat once the two of them are standing inside the large main area of the first floor. “This is the Whitby Estate,” he begins, gesturing around to the carcass of a house.

Castiel nods slowly, looking around at the cobwebs and questionable staircase off to the side. “It’s hardly a formidable place to live,” he says honestly, Dean laughs.

“Well I’m going to fix it up,” he gestures around. “I’ll fix up the floor, add some electrical,” he shrugs, following Cas into one of the adjoining rooms. “Make some furniture, maybe fix up the balcony.”

“That sounds nice,” Cas turns around to face Dean. “I think you’ll need to fix more than that, though.”

“Yeah?”

Cas nods and takes a step back to him. “You’ll have to fix up the outside too, you know,” he points out one of the broken windows, the wisps of long grass that are caught on the wainscoting make his point. “Maybe add a dock by the lake, so we can take a boat out.”

Dean cocks a brow and smirks, “you want a boat?” Cas nods, putting his arms around Dean’s neck. “Anything else?”

Castiel looks up contemplatively. “I want the whole thing to be grey limestone, with a big archway leading to the front door,” Cas’ chest rises with a small laugh. “I want big windows, so we can watch the sunset, and a balcony facing the water.”

“Okay,” Dean smiles, looking at Castiel, hands resting at his hips. “Anything else?”

Cas shakes his head. “What do you want?”

Dean thinks on that for a moment, the truth of the matter was that he had always wanted to bring the Whitby Estate back to life. He always wanted to renew the house and mow down the overgrown grass—but he had never given it much thought past that. What Castiel wanted, he realized that he wanted it too, everything. He understands that Baby did bring him back to the Whitby Estate, though not for the plot of land itself. She brought him back for Cas. Because yes, Dean would make this place a home, but not just for himself like he thought. It’d be theirs together. “You,” Dean finally says. “I want you.”

Castiel’s wings flutter, and finally Dean understand the unspoken sing of euphoria that is drawn from the trenches of his very soul. He feels joy mixed with an itching annoyance, how had he gone so long not knowing how clear it was that his feelings were reciprocated. Castiel catches him staring, and he unravels his wings a bit more, but instead of fanning them out wide, they’ spread out lower to the ground. Dean catches the glimmer of silvery spines curled and messy around the softer insides, Castiel is displaying himself.

“Cas,” Dean begins, his wings begin sliding up over his clothes, and he takes a step closer. Dean lets out a shaky breath, soft feathers ruffling his hair, pushing Dean forward. Preening, Dean thinks. He also realizes that Cas has no clue that Dean knows now. He knows what Castiel is asking for—even though he’ll deny himself exactly that when he feels like he’s pushing Dean too far. His worry and embarrassment constantly outweighing his desire. Not this time, Dean thinks. “Cas, I know,” said Dean then, and Castiel freezes.

“What?”

“Your wings,” Dean starts slowly, his hands still resting at Cas’ hips. “Bobby, he gave me these old books. And they, uh, had some valuable facts in there,” Castiel’s wings begin to withdraw, it feels strained, but Dean doesn’t stop it, letting him retreat for the time being. “I gotta say, Cas, you’ve kind of been holding out on me.”

Cas drops away from Dean’s neck, putting some space between them. “Dean, I—” god he sounds mortified, Dean thinks. Cas doesn’t finish his sentence, he just trails off, and Dean violently searches for what he had intended to say.

“It’s cool,” Dean begins (it’s a weak proclamation, but he needed to start somewhere). “More than cool, Castiel, I just,” he sighs. “I wish you told me. I wish you told me as soon as you were certain.”

“Certain about what?”

“Preening? Displaying?” The terms sound strange with no context, but the way that Castiel flinches and begins to go red makes Dean’s point. He takes a step closer. “You could’ve told me, Cas.”

“You don’t get it,” he says blithely. “There’s—it’s—it’s not right.”

Dean shakes his head. “What’s so wrong about it, Cas? What? Is it the fact that you can only pick one person to bond to?” Cas’ wings thrash, for the first time with a flicker of anger. Dean doesn’t stop, he needs to drag this misconception out of Castiel. He wants so badly to show Cas how he endlessly accepts his pain and anguish as part of him. How he accepts all of him.

“Stop, Dean.”

“No, Cas, I don’t get why you’re so scared of it,” Dean takes another step towards Cas, the distance was growing small and when Cas’ wings create a barrier between the two of them, Dean doesn’t push. “What? You think I don’t want to?”

Cas doesn’t say anything, but he looks down. “You don’t.”

Dean lets out an exasperated sigh. “And you know this, even though you haven’t asked me?”

“It’s better this way, Dean, I can’t ask you to—” he starts.

“Can’t ask me to what? Be your chosen mate?” Cas’ wings flinch between the two of them, they fluff and Castiel looks to them, his control was veering, Dean was glad. “You don’t want to ask me for my permission because you’re worried, you think I don’t know what I’m doing? That’s it?” Castiel looks into Dean’s eyes, them both fighting a silent war. “You’re worried that I don’t know what I’m asking for,” Castiel remains tolerant, the corner of his mouth twitching, like he was conflicted about speaking or not. “You’re scared I’ll hurt you—”

And okay, Dean isn’t entirely expecting the way that Cas’ wings roll back, in exclamation, creating a huge gust of air that sends dust and debris flying. “No,” he growls, and finally, finally Dean can see Castiel for himself. The fog of doubt gone. “I’m worried I’ll hurt you, Dean,” he storms the last bit of space between them, hands balled into fists against either side of him.

“You couldn’t,” he says very calmly, Cas’ eyes soften, his anguish burned away in seconds, “you could never, Cas. Not in a million years.” Dean sighs, working Castiel’s hands apart, bringing them to his chest. “You’ve given me everything, and I—I didn’t even know it.” Dean gives him a small smile, “I want this,” it sounds right, but not quite. “I want you, exactly how you are, for what you are,” better. Neither notice that Castiel’s wings have folded out again, curved invitingly towards Dean, almost cocooning him closer. “I—” Dean murmurs, bringing a hand to Cas’ jaw. “I’m in love with you, Cas.”

Castiel almost buckles in Dean’s arms, he can feel those words burrow themselves in every atom of his being, his wings twitch, and Cas does not try to control them when they pull Dean closer. Their chests are pressed together now, he kisses Dean, it’s something languid and desperate, and when he pulls away Dean is right there, “I’m in love with you, too, Dean,” and before he can continue, Dean is kissing him again. They stumble back against one of the barren archways, and Castiel finally allows his wings to greedily press against Dean, keeping him pinned close.

Dean shudders when Castiel’s wings drag against his back. He’s working slowly too, bringing his own hands up Cas’ back. It’s Dean’s attempt to accept his invitation, he didn’t want to outright splay a hand across his wings (he’s got a fairly good idea that’d be a jolt of sensory overload). Dean also realizes that there’s something cosmic about Castiel, how he feels like a burning star in his hold.

Cas groans and rocks into Dean when his hands finally trail against the scapulars of his outer feathers. It was too faint under cloth, and before Castiel can stop himself he’s got his hands on the buttons of his shirt. Dean moves his hands to help and Cas wants to cry at the abrupt stop of contact, but he allows it. They both needed to be careful, they were set to sail amongst a violent sea, and if they didn’t work together, they would be swallowed.

Once Dean works the last few buttons, he drags his fingers under Cas’ belt, tugging his shirt out, he doesn’t completely tug it off, hands moving to unfasten it from around his wings, But Castiel impatiently huffs, reaching back and hauling the whole thing over his head, the rest of the metal fastenings undo with a pop, pop, pop. There’s a moment of silent questioning between the two of them. Cas drops his hands to his sides; his shirt slips to the floor giving Dean a strong look.

Their shoes and socks were long gone. Dean’s hands trail their way up Castiel’s back again, the drag of his fingers decisively against skin light him up from the inside out. He let’s Cas’ wings corral him back closer, his hands working on the buttons on Dean’s shirt. Cas kisses Dean again, luring more enticing sounds from him. Though when Dean finally, finally runs his hands directly over the smooth (and then feathery) joints of his back Cas makes a sound that, God, has Dean in complete rapture.

It’s been too long, Dean thinks. How long has he wanted to make Cas feel good, how now, here, he realizes that there isn’t anyone else for him. There couldn’t be anyone, ever. Something hot twists in him and the next moment he’s flipped Cas away from him, Dean’s facing his back.

“Dean?” Cas asks, and before he can ask any more questions, Dean’s pressed up behind him his mouth on the back of Castiel’s neck. “Dean,” Cas repeats, this time less a question and more of a warning. Dean doesn’t respond, instead ducking his head down, beginning to kiss lower and lower.

Cas is a little bit shorter than Dean, so the angle is a bit off, but Dean doesn’t care, the closer he gets to the soft skin around Castiel’s wings, he can feel his pulse thrum. Its interesting, Dean always wondered what Castiel’s back would look like—specifically the skin that gave way to his wings. Interestingly, it wasn’t marred or ruddy like he expected. If anything, his back seemed muscular (most probably to accommodate the weight of his wings). There was a firm line right down the center, and to the left and right were these gorgeous strains of muscle that sat under his skin before breaking way to the huge tendons of his wings. It was a seamless transition, aside from the smaller feathers that were part of the break.

Dean drags his hand down the dip of Cas’ back, resting it at his hips. He follows the line with his mouth, stopping at the space between Castiel’s wings. He noses there, waiting for Castiel to relax. The moment he does, Dean kisses the skin where wing meets flesh, Cas gasps, his wing twitches and Dean can only assume it does so in delight. He kisses again, sliding his hands back up from Cas’ waist, dragging them across the smaller feathers. Cas moans, “Dean,” again and he arches forward. He kisses and noses every bow and curve, his hands massaging where his mouth isn’t.

Dean thought it would taste strange, dusty, or like a mouth full of cotton, but it’s bizarre—his skin is almost sweet mixed with the silky cool taste of his feathers. Addictive doesn’t even begin to cover how Dean feels about the sensation. He almost forgets that there is anything more that can be done, his hands have begun carding through the rest of his wings (or rather, what else he can reach), letting that same silky feeling send brushes of cool desire burning through him.

Castiel is panting, his hands are crossed and he’s resting his head against them. His wings thrash in a bold display of shameless desire. He allows Dean’s exploration, mainly because it feels deliriously good, but also because he needs Dean to know that he accepts his praise. He accepts that Dean doesn’t think him some inhuman monster, he knows he must accept it, he must believe it. He rocks back into Dean, feeling where he’s hot and needy under his almost undone clothes. Cas cries at the contact and Dean moans. He does it again, harder this time, a hand reaching back and grabbing at Dean’s shoulder to keep the two of them steady. Dean bites down, and the pleasure is almost blinding.

Cas barely manages to take a breath before he’s shoved away from his position, arms wrapping around Dean’s neck, head tucked down, biting at his collar bone. His wings slump forward in a boldly intimate position and Dean’s hands curl into the downy undersides. Cas slumps forward breath hitching as Dean’s hands leave him feeling senseless. He drops his hands, forcing them between, working the (infuriating) buttons of his shirt, clawing it off, dragging it down his shoulders and to the floor, working off his undershirt next. Dean’s hands abandon his wings in favour of Cas’ belt the same time Cas finds his own hands on Dean’s belt, the two of them clumsily tangled together, desperate to feel skin.

The cold swish of air that Dean feels against his bare legs feels like freedom, and before he can stop their union, Cas is licking and biting at Dean’s neck hard enough to leave deep red love-bites, shoving him down to the dusty floor. His wings cradling him close. “Cas—Wait, we should get a—a something,” he begins to say. “Not your wings,” he adds. Because yes, they felt silky and cool against his back (racking him in something brasher than pleasure); but he didn’t want them to get dirty or catch on a nail. Castiel doesn’t care, and shuts Dean up with a kiss.

He was on all fours above Dean. Cas could feel quite a bit through his wings, it wasn’t the same feeling as his own hands, but it was intense. He couldn’t quite make out what he was feeling specifically, there was just something about it that was distinctly Dean, and he lapped it up—starved for it. Cas bites Dean’s bottom lip, soothing it the next moment with a swipe of his tongue, Dean’s whole body arches upwards. Cas’ body buckles, sweeping into the action that promised not only sweet relief, but also perfect communion.

Dean is surprised when Castiel’s wings help him roll upwards, the two of them were almost floating together, it felt like. The next time Dean bucks his hips, one of Castiel’s hands abandons its place next to Dean’s head, instead gripping at Dean’s hip to help their angle. Cas rolls down again, guiding Dean and it racks anointed pleasure through them both. Dean’s breath hitches on a moan as he throws his head back, letting his messy wheat coloured hair mesh with sable. One of his hands is hitched on Cas’ shoulder, the other grabbing at the base of his scalp, scratching at the hair there as Castiel worked on another love mark on Dean’s shoulder.

Cas ground down against Dean again, and Dean’s hand left his for his hip, forcing Castiel down. He didn’t want him any further than that, and now when Dean rolls upwards, mind fogged with desire, Cas meets him at the same time. It’s obscenely provocative, it’s perfect, Dean gasps when Cas begins to work a filthy slow beat. He strains against him, but Cas is freakishly strong, and he finds soon that he can’t rock upwards. “Cas,” Dean finds himself pleading, and if the scenario was any different, if Cas wasn’t, well Cas. Then the desperation in Dean’s voice would make his stomach boil. But he finds quite easily that he doesn’t care.

“Dean,” Castiel speaks then, he is struggling himself, he could feel raw energy tickling the back of his throat, his spine, every feather, and every finger. He could feel the bond—thick and strong and not like anything he’s ever felt before. Quite pointlessly, he finds himself talking to Dean. Saying ‘I’m in love with you’ and ‘darling’ and ‘I trust you’ over and over, like it might ground him from his pleasure. No luck. Dean was coaxing his praise without saying a thing, to Cas, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, was enough.

Their legs are hooked, their chests are pressed together, and their hands roam with the intent to feel everything they can. Dean’s mind had dipped low into many of the thoughts he often ignored, and this left him with a hot blush across his cheeks, streaking his ears obviously. The first time his hand moves from Cas’ hip to wrap around him, his back sparks with interest, and the low groan that Castiel lets out is more than enough fuel for him to start pumping.

It's slow and Castiel is rocking into it, which also gives Dean something to rut against. He doesn’t wait for Dean to pick up the pace, instead setting it himself. Castiel is panting again, fucking into Dean’s hand faster, he looks to Dean—and the sight is really something to be held.

Castiel’s hair is a mess, his eyes glazed in lust, breaths short with promise, his cheeks are blooming red, his lips wet. He’s a masterpiece, the very image of unkempt perfection. Dean kissed him with faith and reverence and prayed that the two of them would not drown. But, how could they? Castiel would wade in the waters of their fears and fly the two of them away. They were in love, a love so much deeper and passionate than the very tides they fought. Dean is in love with Castiel, his mind is loud with it, his body is trembling with it. How could I not? He thinks harshly, swallowing thickly.

Cas was worried of rejection, he feared loss and pain. Dean understood these emotions but couldn’t fear them—it wasn’t in his nature. To ask Dean to be afraid of such things would be like asking him to fear the very air he breathes. Yet, Castiel is here, open and on display for Dean to reject, but he doesn’t— he never will.

They are both braving a storm with nothing but each other, clinging to one another as the world rages and clashes around them. Love, Castiel thinks, and trust. But it’s not quite right, he runs a hand through Dean’s hair, grasping at it harshly, trying to kiss him between the tension that was beginning to build across his back, tight at the base of his skull. Their movements become more frantic, their breath hot and biting against the cool summers breeze which swam through the cracks and old windows.

Necessity, Castiel thinks, and his mind dips into ecstasy, Dean is necessary, something in him unravels and bounds forwards like a lion. The only thought in his head is Dean and he cannot stop. I could not live deprived of you, without living devoid of myself. Dean moans, Cas watches his blush redden, it’s like his thoughts are being telegraphed, like Dean can hear him without him opening his mouth. The thought of the bond barely flits across Cas’ mind.

Dean is close, Castiel is too, they’re slick with sweat, and when Dean licks his lips all he can taste is Cas. It’s decadent, their pleasure is gratuitous with nothing but each other. Castiel’s hands grips Dean’s shoulders, he arches upwards like a snake, using Dean’s body as nothing but leverage as he thrusts. Dean thinks to sit up with him, but Castiel pants, no, stay, and the feeling of being needed sparks Dean’s body forward, hot, heavy, and blooming across his stomach. Castiel releases a hand from his shoulder, working Dean through his orgasm, prolonging it, and something in Dean’s mind is unhooked and pushed open.

I could not live without you, to kill myself would be to kill you, Dean gasps, words and actions binding pleasure over his body like fireworks. Castiel is no sooner from that, Dean watches as his mind blanks, he slumps back forwards across Dean, kissing his way through his own orgasm, Dean works a hand into the base of his feathers the moment he can and Castiel’s entire body gasps in heady thanks.

They stay plastered together long after, the sun had set some time ago, and the sound of crickets were a soft song in the distance. The world is a blanket around them. Castiel is still cocooning Dean in his entirety, wings grazing to soothe rather than to please. He knew that bonding could feel overwhelming, and Dean’s breaths were coming out long and quiet, he was clearly exhausted. It would be strange, Castiel knew, for Dean, to feel so intertwined with someone else. It would be an extension, like a new limb, and he would have to learn how to use it, like riding a bike.

It would be something new for Castiel as well, he’d never though he would wind up with anyone so closely as he has ended up with Dean. Suddenly, he’s washed with a feeling of foolishness. How could he have let Dean talk him into such a thing when he was leaving so soon?

Dean stirs and Cas can feel his own unease bleeding into Dean’s head like a hemorrhage. He quiets his panic, burying it deep where Dean will not know where to look for it, and Dean relaxes again. Cas replaces his head against the crook of Dean’s neck, his arm is resting over top of his chest, his thumb stroking the ridge of his collarbone, feeling it slope down to muscle. Something fuzzy kisses Castiel’s thoughts and when he looks up, he sees that Dean is awake. He’s smiling, lopsided and tired, but it’s there.

“What?” Castiel asks quietly, Dean snorts and shakes his head, looking away. “Dean, what is it?”

Dean stretches, the two of them were a mess of one another, and laying around naked in an abandoned house was ridiculous itself. But being with Cas made it feel okay. “Unrepresented mating behaviours include bringing offerings such as food, as well as building structures for nesting,” Dean recites perfectly, he doesn’t even really look down to Castiel, feeling his blush as though it were on his own face. “This house is like my nest to you.”

“It’s a pile of garbage,” Dean’s laugh rakes them both with joy and Castiel wonders briefly how he ever lived without this. It’s clearly translated to Dean, and though the confusion of being able to understand that without words is evident, he accepts it without question.

“It’s my pile of garbage, to you,” he smiles warmly. Castiel shakes his head in good nature, moving to sit up, his wings, and therefore Dean, follow. Cas can hear a tardy ‘bluh’ in thought across Dean’s mind, he would’ve enjoyed laying down for a bit longer. He sits up regardless, grabbing his undershirt and cleaning the two of them off. He doesn’t put it on, deciding it better to just throw on his button down instead.

They redress and get up far too quickly for either of their liking. Dean buttons Castiel back up around his wings, each metal button clicking together, he strokes the steel-like bone of Cas’ wings and feels the soft press of elation nestled in his chest. “You’re going to have to walk me through this whole bonding thing,” Dean says.

Castiel turns to face him, giving him a quiet smile, his wings are outstretched lightly, Dean would go as far as to say they were relaxed. “Well, what did you think being bonded would bring?” He asks honestly.

Dean shrugs, taking Castiel’s hand in his own, walking the two of them backwards out to the main room of the house. “I don’t know, to be honest. I thought it wouldn’t feel like anything,” Cas cocks a brow. “Okay, no, I thought it would bring us closer, but not in any way other than usual.”

Castiel nods, “you’ve mistaken them.”

“What do you mean?” Dean is hauling Cas through the house, working their way further in.

“The act of having sex, or what you’ve called it, mating, is what brings the bond to the surface,” Cas thinks on this for a moment. “It’s not supposed to, but I’m sure you’ve read that it gets… Incomprehensible,” Dean nods, the two of them are standing by a barren doorway, where the outside meets inside. “A bond, it’s bred from zōion, like myself, who’s natural human instinct is crossed with my,” he swallows, and Dean is starting to understand as the experience of having a bond allows him to feel Castiel’s unease.

“Your animal one, I get it,” Dean and Cas aren’t staring at each other, instead they’re looking out to the unkempt backyard, just past the trees, watching the lake.

“In nature, the act of bonding is brought forward so that both creatures develop a connection, it promotes a sort of cooperation,” Cas continues. “It’s a lot of work, but the attachment is made through deep trust. It’s no different for us, but we don’t fend for ourselves every day.”

“So, the bond isn’t reduced to grooming, or hunting for food?”

Castiel nods. “Or building a nest,” he deadpans, Dean shoves at his shoulder. “For zōion and their bonded, it’s more of a cognitive flow of information. It becomes extremely hard to hide things from one another. Humans have always put a great deal of stress on aspects of trust and respect in relationships, so those things are amplified. Like how for, say, a fox, the ability to dig a proper burrow is considered important, so that is amplified.”

Deans brows furrow, he looks to Cas. “You lost me.”

“It might be easier to demonstrate. Stay here,” Dean nods and Castiel walks back to the front of the house. Dean gives him a confused call, and through the bond Cas reassures him.

“Whoa,” Dean says surprised, part of it felt like he could feel Cas telling him it’s alright, but not like he was speaking whole words, it was a feeling, like a heartbeat.

Castiel takes a breath, standing at the front doorway, he closes his eyes to concentrate. And he lets himself think about Dean. Everything about him, his mind sighs with it as his memories light up.

He thinks of his eyes, bright and confident; and then his nose, Greek and pointed. He thinks of the colour that runs rampant over his freckles; the tips of his ears turned hot. His lips tugged into that overconfident smirk and his perfect teeth. He thinks of his heart and soul, which feel so pure and blindingly bright under his sternum. Cas hums tilting his head to the side, he can feel Dean’s shock and amazement zip through his head like a thread. Now, he was getting it.

Cas thinks of his stubbornness, his care, like a tidal wave, like a rock. He thinks of his humor, his nonchalance, it feels like freedom. His voice, smooth and baritone like the truth, like love. Then Castiel is thinking of Dean and love and he can feel Dean’s surprise at the pleasure that’s now chirping at them. Castiel is in love with him, Castiel trusts him. He thinks about his own want, his own desire, and Dean zips across again, this time amazed and understanding.

And then Castiel is the one caught off guard. Though, he should’ve expected as much, Dean is a fast learner. Suddenly his own body thrums and it is Dean who is communing with him. Cas gasps when Dean shares the feeling of touching his wings, energy igniting his whole body as he remembers kissing Castiel for the first time. Dean’s heart pounding when he sees Cas really smile, his adoration for Castiel’s strength. Dean continues, and Cas’ heart is pounding at his praise, he’s walking on his own before he knows it, maneuvering through the dark hallway, he needed to make it to Dean.

On his way back, he slams into something in the hallway, the bond yelps in mutual shock.

“Cas?”

“Dean?”

The two of them are quiet, realization coming to the forefront. Joy ripples through the bond then, and the two of them are laughing in the empty house. Dean reaches out for Cas, pulling him flat against his chest. “This is kind of awesome,” Dean admits. He glides over Castiel through the bond.

Cas warms with it, “it is,” he agrees, kissing Dean.

The next thing Dean hears is the crunch of dirt under tires, followed but clamoring steps, the rickety estate shakes with it, and Castiel and Dean break away as the front door flies open. It’s Sam.

“Sam?” Dean’s brows furrow, “what are you doing here?”

He swallows. “Bobby drove me, dad’s been looking for you.”

“Me?” Dean blinks. “Why?”

Sam shakes his head, looking away, nervous. “Crowley told him, about Cas, Dean. I’m sorry.”

This wasn’t good, no this wasn’t good at all. Not even a little bit. His worry is trembling, and he buries it, he takes a deep breath. “Alright, it’s alright,” it wasn’t alright. “We need to head back,” Sam nods in solidarity. Dean swallows. “Okay we’ll be right behind you two.”

Sam nods, and the three of them leave the house together.

The ride back is painfully quiet, Dean had told Bobby to really step on it, this way, the four of them made it back to town just over two hours later. It was past late, Bobby and Sam didn’t take the turn into their neighborhood, instead driving down Elmira Street and into the long driveway of Castiel’s summer home. Dean pulled the car to a stop, seeing his father’s truck parked outside as well.

Cas got out, running inside, Dean followed.

The inside of Castiel’s home was dangerously quiet aside from the snippy voices that the two of them could hear from the sitting room. They look at each other nervously, walking further in and seeing Dean’s father talking to Ms. Novak.

“Dad?” Dean huffed surprised, he turned to look at him, and Dean knew that look. He was sober.

“Dean, glad I could finally get a hold of you,” he says it calmly, but Dean knows the look, his disposition. He was furious.

“Dean, Castiel,” Ms. Novak begins to scold. “You two were out awfully late.”

“Mother, I—”

“Not a word,” she stands up. “Upstairs, now.”

Cas swallows, his coat was back on, but everyone here knew. A wash of sorry fills the bond, and Dean snaps to look at Castiel. What could he be sorry for? He tries to ask, but Castiel mutes out his confusion with more ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ as he walks farther away and up the stairs.

“Dean,” his father says, getting up himself. “A word.”

Dean swallows his own worry, following his father back outside. The cool night was no longer reassuring, and Sam and Bobby perk up from where they were waiting around the car. “Dad, what are you—”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean?” His father asks, a cruel smile tugged at his lips. “You know I sacrificed a lot for you and Sam, and you pull this?” His voice is a sharp sting.

Dean feels his own anguish flare across the bond, Castiel tries to soothe it, and Dean’s heart aches a bit more. “Dad I’m sorry,” he’s embarrassed, he’s humiliated. Castiel is sending a calming pulse across, like water to fire, and Dean feels tears falling before he can stop himself.

“You’re not sorry,” he shakes his head, pure disappointment stabbing through summer air.

“If you met him—” his father dismisses that line of thought with a humourless laugh.

“It, Dean. Why would you ever fall prey to such a,” he looks off, smiling but cold, “such a lost thing?”

“Dad, you’re being harsh—” Sam speaks up.

“You don’t get to talk,” their father points to him. “You’re leaving in a few days, what’re you defending him for?” Sam’s face contorts into something angry; he opens his mouth to say something back. “I should kick you out.” John says to Dean.

“John,” Bobby speaks up then. “It’s late, I’ll bring Sam home, we can talk about this tomorrow.”

John looks far from convinced, his mouth curls and he shakes his head. He mutters something under his breath, walking back to his truck, he gives Dean one last disappointed look before taking off.

Dean wipes his tears, his only thought is don’t lose control, don’t freak out over and over. Castiel is absent, speaking to his own mother, her words are muted to Dean’s ears which worries him more.

“Dean, you okay?” Sam shakes his shoulder a bit, frowning.

“Yeah, Sam, I’m okay,” he swallows thickly. “Go home, alright?” His eyes are stinging, and his body feels weak, but at least he can hide it from Sam. He thinks to their father, sober, pacing and waiting for Dean to return, how Sam will inevitably be dragged into the fight. “Wait, no, don’t.”

“No? What do you mean no?” Sam pouts.

Dean looks up to him, giving him his best attempt at a smile. “I’ve always wanted you to stay, Sam—you’re my brother,” his voice catches and breaks, he looks away, don’t cry, he thinks, and is grateful Castiel doesn’t soothe his anguish. “But no, not anymore, you’re—growing up. So, go,” Dean looks to Bobby. “Take him home, grab his stuff and then go to the airport, get him on the next flight out—”

“What? Dean, no, I’m not leaving you—”

“Sam,” Dean pushes harshly. “You go. Get out of here. Don’t come back.” Sam opens his mouth to protest. “I’m serious,” he looks away again. “It’s what’s best, we both know that.”

“Dean—”

“I don’t want to hear it, go,” Dean doesn’t look to him again, or Bobby, turning away. The world is still and finally, Dean hears Sam get into Bobby’s truck, the two of them take off.

He takes a deep breath once they’re gone, going to sit on the stairs of the porch, his eyes are wet and devastated and sorry for Castiel. He blinks harshly and isn’t surprised with the droplets that get absorbed by the material of his pants. He shakes his head, and slowly Castiel trickles back in, taking Dean’s anguish as his own. It’s painful, Dean thinks, to feel someone care so deeply. To feel Castiel try and bandage Dean’s wound—gushing and deep—with his own body. Trying to shield him from pain, like it was raining, nailing him, and leaving him soaked.

Castiel is soothing, and he will not let Dean feel what he is going through, and it hurts him just as much, that he cannot coax his own pain out—that he cannot bat it away like pesky bugs in the summer. He asks Castiel as much, or is about to, before a jolt of anger hits their bond like a headache.

The phrases start seeping through, and Dean shoves a hand to his head in pain. A good man, but not for you, Castiel, his mother chides, and another jolt of anger stabs at Dean, he gripes aloud. Dean stands up, breath hitching as he gasps. He can feel how Castiel disagrees, how he disagrees so strongly, but the hurt has worked its way to Dean. Summer romances do not last, Castiel, Dean cannot tell if it’s the bond, or the thin walls, but he can hear Castiel speak in loud protest.

Dean offers a flimsy, it’s all right, to Castiel, but it is a drop of water amidst a forest fire. Because Dean agreed with his mother. He knew he was no proper match. Even with Castiel’s wings, the world danced at his feet, while Dean was constantly clawing his way through mud. Soon Dean’s own thoughts turn from it’s okay to I’m sorry. And Castiel’s anger is ceased immediately, traded with a desperation to be close that leaves Dean walking to his car. It wasn’t going to work, it couldn’t.

“Dean? Dean?” he hears the front door burst open, and Castiel’s feet scrambling on gravel. He squares his shoulders, turning around. Castiel runs himself into his arms, his own eyes wet and hurt. “Dean, I’m sorry, this is all my fault.”

Dean smiles, clearing his throat. “What? No, Castiel. No,” he brings his hands to Cas’ face, wiping his eyes. He kisses him on the forehead. “It’s alright, Cas, really.” They stay like that for a moment longer, Cas kisses Dean’s thumb when it brandishes across his lip. “I should go.”

Worry is jagged across their heads. “Why? Dean, no, stay, you can stay here,” Cas reasons. Dean shakes his head, Castiel brings his hands to Dean’s face.

Dean bites at his lip, pushing out of Castiel’s grip, it was overwhelming, the love and want and care that radiate over Dean’s mind. He felt like he was in the dessert, hot and prickly, hallucinating bodies of water. “You know I can’t.” Castiel tries to soothe him again, but Dean stops him before he can.

“Dean—”

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he can feel how Castiel refuses to understand. “Your mother is right,” he spells out. “I can’t give you what you’re looking for.”

“Dean, you can,” Castiel begins, and he brings a hand to his own head, blinking harshly as Dean’s denial hits their bond harder.

“You don’t get it,” Dean complaints then. “You’re going to college, you’ll have the world to do whatever you want, I can’t give that to you.”

Cas shakes his head, stubbornness taking over his gentle worry. “No, I don’t have to go, I can stay—”

“No,”

“Why not?” Cas protests, his stubbornness met with Dean’s.

“You have to go to school; you cannot throw that away and stay here. You have the chance to really become someone,” said Dean.

“I’m someone with you,” Castiel protests.

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not going to hold you from that. I refuse.”

“Then come with me,” Cas says, his voice is as calm as ever, but Dean feels the way his body aches with desperation. How he’s pleading for this to work out.

“You know I can’t,” Dean looks away. “It’s not,” he begins, “I don’t know how we can do this, Cas.”

Castiel huffs, looking up to the moon. Their bodies were vessels of anguish and worry, the world was a crumbling mess around them. They could feel fear within each other, pooling at the surface like a hot knife slicing skin. “I hate you,” his voice is a whisper, it wavers, and Dean can feel Castiel’s reverence burn through their bond hotter than before. Neither of them had answers, neither of them had a clue. The bond was a foolish mistake kindled by young love.

“It’s not going to work,” Dean says, and it feels like a kick in the gut. Cas’ wings flick resentfully, anger sears the two of them, but Dean doesn’t fight it. He accepts it.

They each were so stubborn. So stubborn to be together in a world that didn’t want to give them such a thing. They hated each other, because they loved each other—and now they knew why they shouldn’t (but more importantly, why they should).

Each of them could see it now, that they never should’ve done such a thing to themselves or to each other. Because if this is what love felt like, neither of them could bear it. Truthfully, they were certain they could. They could bear it, but only with each other. Separately? This heartbreak was pure agony.

Dean walks back to his car, leaving Castiel behind on the dirt path, he doesn’t follow. Their bond still sung and wept and Castiel protested every step Dean took away, his mind firing hatred and adoration like arrows that hit Dean dead center.

Love, Dean realized, was a cruel and hopeless thing. And yet, he couldn’t get enough. Even as he drove off, leaving Castiel behind. His bones ached for him; his heart pounded with miserable life. And Castiel? Well, he wrapped Dean around in comfort.

Chapter Text

The following days were some of the emptiest days Dean had lived since his mother died. By the time he went home, Sam was gone. His father and him fought, and Dean found himself sitting out on the street in three days time. He couldn’t take much more of it when Bobby saw him with his head in his hands, keys to the impala and most of his things next to him. He didn’t have a real plan until Bobby decided to take him in.

“It’s only for a little while,” Dean thanked him again. “Just need to finish up Henriksen ’s sunroom and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Bobby had shaken his head. “You’re not a burden, Dean, take it easy.” And Dean didn’t respond, he wasn’t sure of that.  

Castiel had ended up leaving with his mother that night, and though neither of the two boys could communicate with one another, the bond was a redeeming quality, allowing Dean the knowledge that Cas was gone. Neither of them had tried to fight it, there was a low hum of acceptance between the two of them, like white nose from a television.

It wasn’t reassurance, there were no promises. Castiel knew now he and Dean were bonded and while Dean could find love again, with anyone else, Cas was stuck. He had picked Dean and could not pick anyone else. Unless Dean died, which made Castiel’s stomach twist. Though, even worse, Dean could break the bond alive, if he knew how, he could slam it shut, and the thought of Dean doing that made Castiel’s body feel sick with fever. One way or another, only one of them would come out living if the bond broke.

Distance didn’t play a role with the bond, so when Castiel was sitting in the back of his mothers car, curled in on himself, eyes stinging and red, he could feel Dean’s own pain even as the small town faded into the distance. And no doubt Dean could feel his. There was still an air of stubbornness treading through to one another, but under those layers of protest, Cas knew (and Dean knew as well) that they was a fine silver thread weaving it’s way to one another—that they are relieved that they can still feel one another.

All Dean began to do was work. Summer closed off and he spent every moment working with Bobby on the Lumber Yard, and after his even earlier starts and even later ends, he would work on the Henriksen’s sunroom. Weeks passed like this, and before Dean knew it, the leaves were turning different shades of orange, and the mornings no longer promised hot humid days.

He never took weekends off anymore, he didn’t write to Sam as often as he should’ve, but Sam made sure to write to him. Dean was more than glad to hear how Sam was doing, how he had felt welcome the moment he set foot on campus.

Sam also apologized, for everything, even though nothing he had done was his fault even slightly. Dean wrote back then, telling Sam many things far from the truth. He told him he was doing okay, he told him that soon enough everything would be back to normal, he told him that he and Castiel parted on good terms. He said that dad would come round soon enough, but until then Sammy wouldn’t find it any more enjoyable being back than Dean would find it fun to board a plane. He lied.

He didn’t want Sam to know that he lived his life like there was a bullet lodged between his ribs. He didn’t want Sam to know that he couldn’t let him self sit and think because the way he felt became blinding. Because no one knew that he was bonded to Castiel other than, well, Cas. And if he lay down for too long, or if he sat in silence, if he weren’t moving or working, the bond would grow from a calm stream to a waterfall. Dean would wake up, sweat beading at his forehead, his heart pounding, terrified that it was gone, or worse—that it would swallow him.

Castiel would never bother Dean, and it was the same of Dean to him. But nights like that, where Dean’s fear would twist its way to Cas like a begging hand, Castiel would cave. He’d unsheathe a tendril of relief like a flower in spring and offer it to Dean. Even though things felt hopeless, those small acts would bring Dean immeasurable support.

Henriksen’s sunroom was a lengthy project. Everything about it down to the infrastructure of the room itself needed to be updated and remade, Dean was thankful for that.

He spent all the spare time he had building plans and buying materials, he plotted out furniture and when Mrs. Henriksen had said she wanted ‘a personal touch’ Dean leapt at the opportunity, offering that he would be happy to build custom pieces of furniture for the room. She accepted, and Dean gratefully added another two months to the length of the project.

He worked on the foundation of the room, he rebuilt the foundation, and re-insulated. He tore up the old tile (that was too hot in the summer months, and too cold in the winter months), replacing it with dark stained hardwood. And when he was done with the grunt of the work that needed to be done on site, he would drive back to Bobby’s and spend much of the night building furniture.

Bobby didn’t speak, he didn’t judge, but Dean could see he was concerned. He knew, better than anyone, that Dean was working through quite a bit. Mostly, Bobby hoped that when the Henriksen’s sunroom was done, he’d be able to talk Dean down.

 Dean didn’t talk to his father anymore either. He had tried, a few days after Bobby let him move in, to see him. It was a short conversation, Dean tried to apologize, his father degraded his honesty and Dean barely managed to ignore the way his father looked at him just a bit differently.

Dean threw himself into his work, and one night when he was sanding a leg of a chair down in Bobby’s garage, he came in and set a beer down on one of the workbenches.

“What’s this for?” Dean asked, he swiped at his forehead, it was cold out, but he never failed to work up a sweat.

Bobby smiled. “It’s nothing big, I didn’t think you’d want anything much for your birthday,” he shoves the beer closer to Dean.

He blinked; brows furrowed. Had the year really changed? Had that much time passed? He grabbed at the cold bottle, taking a speculative look at the label. Dean had drunk before, but he never cared for it much (his father was a stellar example as to why drinking wasn’t all that great). Now, when he tipped the bottle into his mouth, the taste flooded him. It was thick and oaky. The fizziness was refreshing and tart. He downed half without even thinking.

Bobby smirked and they clinked bottles before Dean drank the rest of his.

It’s a slippery slope.

Dean knew better than to lose his wits, but it turns out that the fine hum of alcohol really worked the edge off living. He started with beer and soon enough had worked his way to things that were far stronger. He never let his days escape him, he never was so inebriated he couldn’t walk, and he certainly didn’t have so much that he couldn’t drive. But he always drank enough just to take the edge off. Just enough so that life was tolerable. By many extents, he wasn’t happy, but he could finally manage.

He thought that having the bond would be enough, he though it would be enough to feel Castiel’s presence. He thought it would be soothing, that things would become easier. But no, the two of them learned it was quite the opposite, it was painful. Neither could deny that.

Castiel found one day that the bond was exceptionally quiet, and he tested it, barely poking it the same way a child might poke a dead animal with a stick. Dean responded, absent and tired, but there. He was calmer, Castiel could tell, but in an unnatural way. It had been months apart, Castiel was at school himself, and yet Dean loomed in his mind, swimming like a fish in his subconscious, occasionally breaching the solid waters, coming to surface before dipping back down.

It was close to the end of the winter months when Dean and Mrs. Henriksen sat down in the close-to-complete sunroom, she had millions of gardening catalogues and she was pointing out the different floral accents she wanted around. Since sunrooms brought in so much light, many of the plants she wanted were more foliage than flower. Like a few potted arrowhead plants, hanging ferns, lady palms in the corners and a single golden pothos for the far wall, where it could sprout upwards.

“I’ll head over to Jo’s shop and place the order,” Dean gave her a small smile. “It’ll be here within the week.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Mrs. Henriksen clapped excitedly. “And just in time for spring too, huh?” She laughed. “I cannot wait for that evil Doreen to come by and see my beautiful sunroom—oh, she’ll be so jealous.”

Truth be told, Dean was dreading placing the order, it was the last step before the sunroom would be complete. He knew he couldn’t delay the inevitable, but he wishes he could.

Jo’s shop was a small flower store on the main street of town. Dean pulled his car to the side of the road, parking and getting out. It was a popular place for tourists moving through town, and during the hotter summer months, when people would drop by and stay for a few weeks (for anniversaries, getaways, that kind of thing) the shop would be buzzing with life.

Luckily for Dean it was right at the end of the day when he walks in. The only noises are that of the bell ringing the front door and the steady flow of water trickling through from somewhere deeper in the store. Past the first few aisles he could make out the top of her head, blonde hair ducked down, tending to some potted garden mums. She straightened out when she noticed Dean, however. Giving him a small wave.

“Dean, hey,” she smiled, “you need something?”

“Ah, yeah,” he responded, pulling out a list from his back pocket, Jo took it out of his hand, reading down the list with upturned brows. “Mrs. Henriksen has a pretty thorough list there.”

Jo chuckles in agreement, “I can get this stuff in by the end of the week,” she frowns. “It’s a lot of green, though, don’t you think?”

Dean shrugs. “I hadn’t thought about it much,” he admits. It was a much different mindset he had when he was working on Ms. Novak’s backyard. He had found himself drowning in the same gardening catalogues with Castiel, trying to pick the exact right plants (and he and Cas would get rather distracted, but even thinking about that made his head and heart ache).

“You know,” Jo begins walking back to the front counter of the store, she takes a seat, cataloguing the plants. “I think some white dittanies would go really lovely in a sunroom.”

“Really?”

She nods. “They need lots of light,” she shrugs. “They’re pretty resilient, and they’d be a nice contrast to all the green.”

Dean is leaning against the counter, lips pursed to the side, something ugly was blooming in his gut. He shook his head, “no, it’s alright, Mrs. Henriksen was pretty certain with her choices.” Jo nods looking back down to the list.

“Sure,” she shrugs. “I’ll bill these to Mr. Henriksen?” Dean nods. “Cool, they’ll be in by Wednesday, that work?”

“Yeah, that’s perfect, actually,” Dean smiles and Jo hands him the receipt, he offers a small thanks in return before leaving.

Once he sat down in his car, the pit in his stomach felt like it had popped. Dittanies. Jo would suggest white dittanies. Dean hits his head against his steering wheel.

A sign that this really happened, Dean’s stomach twists again. He had tried shoving Castiel out of his mind, he knew he couldn’t really, but he wanted to. He could feel him now, brushing the darkest parts of his mind with a gentle hand. He wrapped his hands around his stomach. How could he live like this? He knew it was rhetorical, but he still looked to the dimming light of the sun like it could give him an answer.

They had made no promises to each other. And that guilt was reeling for Dean, every day. He shouldn’t have just driven off; he should have stayed. He should have told Castiel that just maybe one day the two of them could figure things out. He should’ve told his dad right away. He was growing in regret, like a weed. He took a shuddering breath, lifting his head up. He just needed to stay strong. Just for a little longer, he would tell himself. And subsequently he would ask, how much longer?

It was dreadful, but the reality was that Castiel and Dean were a picture-perfect example of two young men who had found love in the middle of a tumultuous time. And yet they walked, hand in hand, down a twisting road with no concern for consequence.

It was too late for promises, it was too late to fix things that were now broken. And the darker Dean’s thoughts turned the more he realized how Castiel felt like a dream. His brows furrow and a pained gasp breaks him. He’d give everything to go back to last summer, to do things differently. Regret claws at him and he allows it.

He doesn’t expect Castiel to arrow through his mind and it scares him. It’s too much, this is personal, its wrong. “Out,” Dean seethes to himself. He grabs at his head, as a startling ache begins to writhe through the bond.

Castiel himself, hours away, crammed in a library booth on campus, trying to study, is also clutching at his head. He felt the thinnest strand of emotion tug at him. It was the most Dean had given him since the summer and Castiel had greedily leapt at it. He broke into his mind like it was a bank vault. Dean was rightfully alarmed.

He just wasn’t expecting such a sharp pain when Dean pushed him out. He tried reaching back out, his own hand extended out as though to stop Dean, like Cas was reaching for him.

Dean gasped, it felt like he was tearing open a wound. It had seemed so effortless to have the bond when Castiel was around. It felt like second nature. Now? It felt unnatural and immeasurably painful. Dean slams the bond shut over and over, twisting and denting it. He doesn’t know himself if he’s trying to barricade Cas in or lock him out. Yet, every time Castiel snakes his way through, he walls himself defensively, tightly, until Castiel’s presence is more like a trickle, a leak, a memory, and far less like the ocean that threatened to drown him.

Cas swallows harshly, the bond was still there, but his skull was pounding. It had felt like he had smashed his head repeatedly, banging into a cement wall over and over. If he pushed hard enough, he could break through, but he was getting the idea that Dean didn’t want that. All he wanted was to say sorry, to apologize, but Dean had acted so adversely. He didn’t know what to do. It hurt for other reasons too, part of him was trapped in Dean’s head, he could feel the strange disassociation, memories hazy and yet clear. Dean was keeping him and pushing him away all at once.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, starting his car. His mind was stuffy feeling, almost swollen. He begins to drive, and he just barely feels the catch of Castiel, like a leaky faucet. He ignores it, focusing on the road.

Dean was proud of how the sunroom looked once the potted plants had arrived. It was grand and a clean white colour, he had built much of the furniture in that same colour with light green fabric sewn in. It felt cooler now that it was properly ventilated, and in the winter, it would be warmer because he had properly insulated it.

“I’ve got to say, Dean,” Mr. Henriksen spoke, “You’ve done quite an excellent job in here.”

Dean extends his hand and Mr. Henriksen takes it with tenacity. “Thank you, Sir,” he replied. Mr. Henriksen’s wife was already sat down with one of her friends who had dropped by, just a few feet away, and the two of them were talking back and forth easily, her kids ran around Dean’s feet before running off. Dean had gotten the cheque for his work here last night while he was setting up the final changes, and he almost buckled at the amount of money that was being presented.

He didn’t have a rate; he didn’t even really ask for much other than the fact that materials got covered. Labour? He’d been doing that his entire life, he didn’t know what to charge for it, and yet he always felt like he got more than he deserved.

“Hell, if you’re the one that wants the Whitby Estate, I’d say it’s in good hands,” Mr. Henriksen laughed, ushering Dean back into the main house.

“Yeah, well, that won’t be for a while now,” Dean sighed. He had enough, but the process of getting a property in general wasn’t an easy task.

“And why do you say that?” Mr. Henriksen asked, he was turned around, pouring something dark into two glasses, bringing one over to Dean who was standing awkwardly in their living room.

“It’s a lengthy process,” he began to explain. “Though I’m sure you know that.” The banker laughs.

“Dean,” he sighs, sitting and offering for Dean to sit with him. “You’re right, I do know. I know better than most people in this town what goes into properties, and I’ll be honest. For a kid at your age? it isn’t easy.”

Dean nodded and looked away. This, he knew. Though he hated to be reminded of it.

“But not with me,” Mr. Henriksen rebuffed the next moment, Dean looked back, and extended in his hand was a thick envelope.

Dean went wide eyed, looking from the envelope back to the banker and back to the envelope again. He was breathless when he spoke, “what is,” he tried. “What is that?”

“I think you know.”

Dean sets down his glass haphazardly, scrambling for the envelope. He unwinds the red twine and reads the first few lines on the first pages, Whitby Estate Property Declaration. He looked back to Mr. Henriksen. “How did you…”

He shrugs, “well it wasn’t difficult, the Whitby Estate is garbage. Hell, the family offered it up cheaper than the listing price.”

“And you—”

“Got the property details in your name, payments set up on a monthly basis—even though I know you’ve got it in full, this just gives you time to adjust, you know?” Mr. Henriksen smiles. “It’s all yours, Dean.”

“I don’t know what to say, I—I really don’t, I thought this would be a longer process,” Dean is babbling, Christ he cannot stop talking, but his mind was bubbling higher and higher. This was what he wanted; this was his goal! He did it! He finally owned the Whitby Estate. Finally.

“Well, how about a thank you?”

Dean halts, swallowing and letting a more courteous nod shadow his face. “Thank you, Mr. Henriksen. Really, thank you so much.”

◊◊◊

Castiel is sitting in a lecture, his mind has been elsewhere for ages now, he decided to take an extra term during the summer once his mother told him that they would not be returning to their summer home any time soon.

He knew this would happen, of course, she had said so the day they left, and Castiel was too devastated to tell Dean. He hoped most of all that he wasn’t holding out any sort of hope that Cas would return, because he ached vastly at the prospect of Dean waiting.

His professor was talking about Rosseau, their reading for the semester was a compilation of his works. Castiel was listening, but as he spoke, all he could think about was Dean. How many nights over, Dean would murmur what he really thought in Castiel’s ear. How Dean let his real voice be heard by Cas. He let himself be seen. What a gift that was.

What a gift he was. 

Castiel wondered constantly what Dean was doing, and while the bond trickled and gave small slights of insight, it was nothing compared to what they had before. All he hoped, all Castiel wanted, was for Dean to be happy. All he wanted was for him to get everything he wanted out of life.

And in a way, Dean was finally getting what he wanted.

He had packed up and moved out of Bobby’s within the week. He didn’t have much, and Bobby told him he’d be welcome back any time. Dean wasn’t sure where he’d live, truthfully. The house would be under construction for a long time, he’d have nothing much to keep himself on. Still, he didn’t care, because when he took the drive back out to the property, his car loaded with everything he had to his name, all he could think about when he parked the car, was Castiel.

He knew then that he wouldn’t leave.

The truth was that Dean had suddenly been bestowed with the brilliant idea that this would be his home. It would be a proclamation to Castiel, even if he didn’t come back to Dean. He’d leave the house to him, just how he wanted it. He never cared much about leaving a legacy, he didn’t care about being forgotten after death or having statues dedicated in his honour.

He thinks, if Castiel realizes that Dean loved him with all his heart, then he didn’t care what people thought. If they got that right, he didn’t care what anyone else had to say.

The bond wavered in his mind like a flame in wind. It threatened to catch and grow, Dean wanted to allow it, but he could feel it rescind like a wave, the gravity was gone all too quickly.

The first thing Dean did was demolish the second story. The structure of the house was holding, but it was bare bones at best. The beams that ran across the ceiling of the first floor were sturdy for the time being (until he worked up more structural integrity across the entire house, he wouldn’t be able to make large changes to the layout). He wanted to raise the ceilings on the first floor, but to do that, there were a lot of changes that would have to be made.

The house already had quite high ceilings, but as Dean got in his car, a rope attached to a back hook, and drove forward—bringing the front roof hip crashing down—he knew that Castiel would have more than enough room to stretch out.

In fact, when Dean had taken the trip out get a permit for his plans, the Property Standards Committee had told him as much, that it would be an exceptionally large and spacious house (they sounded impressed). One of them, a willowy man with cold eyes and noticeably minimal blonde hair, told him it would be beautiful, and admitted it would be interesting to see the Whitby Estate restored.

His mind was still stuffy as the days passed him. Castiel’s presence turned from a steady drip to a scratch, and instead of letting his mind flood and roar, he eased it by working on the house. His temperance grew and raged calmly. Working on the estate made for a good outlet, every waking hour Dean would fix it up. He’d work late into the night with lanterns scattered and would only go to bed once he could feel his eyes growing heavy.

He didn’t drink much anymore, part of that was because he didn’t have the money for the habit currently, but also because he wanted to stay focused. The edges of the world came back to him—sharp and stinging, but he allowed it. In a sense, he felt he deserved it.

Truth be told, Dean didn’t feel like he was a good person. It’s all he wanted. But he consistently felt like in every aspect of his life, he messed up, or only realized too late.

It’s been about another two months by the time Dean has worked out the new footing, foundations, rough plumbing, and rough electrical on the estate. Today, he’s working on the roof, taking a crowbar to the rusted shingling, and detaching it from the rafters. It was still cold at night, and the roof wouldn’t be done before the exterior walls and insulation was set; Dean would be sleeping in his car until he properly sheathed the structure.

The process of bringing this house back to life was not an easy task, and yet, it’s the only thing Dean would bother himself with. The next month he completed the rest of the electrical, plumbing, heating, ventilation, all of it. It was a tedious process, but Dean was familiar with much of it already. He worked out many of the admonitions he held out on the house. In some ways, his own transgressions fanned the fire inside him. He would work until his hands were raw and red, until his skin was wet with sweat, until his boots filled with dirt. He’d wake up sore and thirsty, only to repeat the process.

It was only at the end of the next month, when Dean had begun insulating the house that he got word that his father had died. Dean had been away from home about the same length of time Sam has been at school. He’d been working on the house for just over a year, Bobby came by and broke the news.

Dean expected to feel enraged, he expected to feel anger and longing and a desperation to have him alive, to have him back. But he didn’t. His father had died long ago, the man that would be getting buried was not his father, he hadn’t been for a long time.

Sam came back from school for the funeral and procession, he was far more broken up about it than Dean expected. And he soon learned why.

“We never got along, I never tried to know him,” Sam begins. “I wish it was different,” he adds, and Dean can see he’s biting the inside of his cheek, distraught.

“He loved you, Sam,” Dean let him know. It felt hollow to say, but Dean needed to believe that. His father, so long ago, had told Dean to look after him. The same man who had little to no regard for Dean, the same man who had left him to raise Sam on his own. It had to be true—that their father loved Sam. He always had, and always a bit more than Dean.

The funeral was one thing, the procession after was another, some asked what would happen to their family home and Dean decided that whatever their father had left for him, he didn’t want. Sam could take it all. The only time there was any actual healing, was the night after the funeral, when Dean and Sam sat out in the backyard of their family home and talked.

Sam asked about the house, he asked how Dean was holding up, and this time, Dean couldn’t hide behind paper and pen. He answered honestly, but mostly he veered the conversation towards Sam. How’s Stanford? Meet any cute chicks? It was easier like that—to focus on anyone other than himself.

Once everything was done and he drove Sam back to the airport, he took the trip back out to the estate. It was a relief that everything was as he had left it. There was a sense of relief at his reality. This house was all he had for himself.

The days began to stretch thin; he could only tell time was moving from the rise of the sun and dip of the moon. He was working on drywall today, setting up thin planes over the packed insulation, when he realized what he was trying to capture.

He was working in hopes that one day he’d be able to hear the sirens call of a time when he was happy. A time he wasn’t sure existed anymore. He was working in hopes of calling Castiel, even Sam and his father, really, anyone he cared about. He felt displaced, heavy in his gut and tight in his mind.

Dean was pleading with forces he didn’t understand, reaching for comfort, familiarity, and even a belonging. He realizes this, and stops working to write a letter to Sam, he hopes that this indescribable pained need he feels to recapture his feelings will ease if he does.

It doesn’t.

The following weeks to come bring rain, but that doesn’t stop Dean. Construction on the house is set off, but he begins to work the treacherous job of landscaping each acre. He knew that he wanted the grass cut short and kept healthy, he knew he wanted to keep the overgrown oak trees—and above it all, he wanted a garden.

Something luscious and fragrant. This, he felt, would be an especially important part of rebuilding the Whitby Estate for Castiel. The doors that lead to the backyard, Dean had decided would be large sliding panes, folding glass. Everything he did, he kept in mind Castiel’s preference and size. He wanted him to have all the room in the world, he didn’t want to cage him.

By the time the rolling clouds parted, the rest of the materials Dean needed to build the exterior had finally arrived. Cement, sand, trowels, a hose (since he had managed to upgrade the plumbing and electrical, he had running water and could soon install working lights), a compactor and grey limestone.

Lots and lots of grey limestone.

It wasn’t a common material for houses, this Dean knew. It was far more expensive than brick and over three times the cost of vinyl. It was tedious to lay and space correctly, and each block of was undeniably heavy. Dean nearly passed out just from setting the first layer down as a base for the rest of the first story wall. It took all day, and by the end his arms felt like they were going to fall off.

Of course, over time, it became easier, he learned from his mistakes, and slowly he began to work a steady beat: Lay, lift, set, adjust. Another nine weeks passed Dean by, when he finally had cemented the entire first level of the house. It was a relief, and now that it was structurally sound, he would be able to continue work on the second level, where the process would start back over.

He needed to rework much of the second floor, the layout, like many houses in his time, was usually closed off. He had fixed the height issues on the first floor, extending them from eight feet to twelve. The second floor he knew couldn’t be so tall, since it would impact the structural integrity of the house—so instead, he kept it at the standard nine feet, but intended to vault the ceilings.

He fixed up the front of the house, raising large white pillars above the front door—a big archway. In the meantime, Dean had managed to refurbish and restore the workshop that sat at the side of the property. It was a little way away from the main house, but Dean turned it into a nice garage and workshop. He managed to fix it up between building the house, setting up different areas as he needed them, and when more shipments of lumber arrived, he fashioned the spare pieces into counters, using spare steel tubing for legs.

The house was his, yes, but he was fashioning it for Castiel, this he knew, and he was thankful that the bond eased as he worked—he was grateful it let him work.  All he had left in his head were memories, dreams. He knew if he wanted, he could tear down the barricade he had built, but he didn’t want to—he was scared to. He was scared he’d open his mind to Castiel again and he would leave, sweeping every memory with him.

The garage and workshop he built felt more like his space. It was scraps jumbled together to create something, it was spare metal and smelled like car oil and lumber. He managed to clear up the loft area of the workshop and had moved everything of his up there. His car finally moved from the dirt path, seeking shelter with him.

Four more months pushed past Dean in a snap, the first floor was finally complete. He had finished painting the drywall a neutral white, adjusted the interior trims, and had made sure he was happy with the dark espresso varnish he had worked into the hardwood flooring. He had built the paneling for the Picture Windows that would sit at each wall, and once the panes of glass had been delivered it was a rout.

In the next weeks Dean’s appliances arrived along with more smaller details. He ignored the strange looks the service men gave him as they installed the stove or set the fridge in place.

“This is, uh, quite an interesting house, son,” one of them had said, his eyes roamed over the wide space and tall ceilings. Dean didn’t say anything back, just nodding and signing for the order.

Really, as Dean worked, he didn’t go out of his way to see anyone from his town, he had become a bit of a hermit. He wrote to Sam, and he knew if Bobby were really concerned, he would come and make sure he was okay, but the plain truth was that Dean had just gone a little mad.

He repeated the process on the second floor, he had already expanded the staircase, leading to a landing before three separate rooms—one being the master, and two spares. There were three full washrooms in the house, but Dean had left those fixtures for last, just so he could test plumbing again. There was a balcony that faced the water, leading out from the master bedroom as well as the main landing. Laying the limestone was just as tedious if not more, but he managed. He vaulted the ceilings as well and finished installing the light fixtures.

When the second floor was complete, Dean finally could finish the roof. He intended to use regular asphalt shingles, but he decided last minute to do metal—it’d be more durable and that’s all he cared about—he didn’t want the place falling apart.

Things were finally ending. All there was left to do now was to finish some exterior grading around the house, install amenities in the washrooms as well as in the laundry room. He’d need to install some mirrors, make sure the floors were holding together, all that would be left would be furnishing and landscaping.

The house was empty, it echoed with memories of a time in Dean’s past and rang forward with hollow wishes for his future. In fact, as he looked around the first floor, watching sunlight spill through the windows and over the empty walls, he could feel Castiel with him. Like he was watching over him, and in a way, he was.

Dean had barricaded parts of Castiel in and blocked out the rest. It wasn’t healthy, Dean was growing, and he knew Cas was as well, but he couldn’t bring himself to share the way he had grown. His skin was always tanned from the long days he would spend outside, working. His eyes were sharper, he rarely shaved as much as he used to and thus had stubble shadow his face consistently. His charm was chipped off, he used his looks like a dagger, hoping that he could keep people away if he were a touch too cold, if he didn’t smile.

He didn’t let himself think too much longer, shaking his head. He stepped down from the front porch, walking over to his workshop. The next step would be furniture, and he had quite a bit to make.

He furnished couches and chairs, dining tables and side tables. Bobby had come by to check on Dean a few days ago and brought over his father’s book collection. It had been a long time since his father’s funeral, and he still passionately believed that he didn’t want anything of his fathers.

Yet when Bobby handed over box after box, all of them filled with his father’s books—all of them, Dean had read before. He found himself elated, his heart aching, and tears he refused to believe he had in his eyes. The last book Bobby handed Dean was ‘Zōion: Aves,’ and Dean excused himself to his workshop, where he broke the chair he had been building. Sam had taken all those books with him when he left for school, Dean didn’t know he left that one. It reminds him that he needs to respond to Sam’s latest letter before the day is over.

Dean offered that Bobby stay for dinner, and Bobby looked so shocked that Dean laughed—a real laugh. The two of them spent the rest of the evening putting away all of John’s books on the built-in shelves Dean set in his own study. It was more of a glorified book room, and he knew that he’d only ever sat in here to write back to Sam and now, he supposes, he’ll sit in here and be able to read.

“What do you think of the place?” Dean asked, the two of them were sitting out back on the porch that Dean had built for the backyard. He would soon begin planting flowers and eventually hook up the swinging bench. In time.

Bobby took a long sip of beer, turning to look back, his eyes roaming over the tall ceilings, past the back door, he looked at the clean grey limestone and wooden wainscoting. “It’s nice, Dean,” Bobby admitted. “You did a damn excellent job, boy,” he said honestly.

Dean smiled. “Thanks,” and really, he didn’t expect much else. It was an interesting style of house for the era. It was open concept. There were few and far doors between areas of the house, instead, Dean had made large archways between rooms. Even the divide between the master bedroom and the master washroom was just a large, wooden, sliding barn door that could stay propped open.

Anyone else would look at the way Dean had built the house and probably complain about the grand archways, they would find the huge Picture and Bay windows revealing and shameless (even with the long, soft, curtains). The lack of doors would be surprising. Most people would say it’s far too much room for one man, it’s far too large of a house for any human.

Dean was grateful Castiel was not completely human.

The World was not tailored for him, but this Estate was. Much of the furniture did not have rests, so Cas would be able to stretch out and find comfortable compositions. Dean upholstered and engineered the couches he had built so that he could unhinge the armrests and force them flat, Castiel wouldn’t have to cram himself anywhere.

The bedroom was no different, he had made sure the bed was large and propped on a firm bedframe so that Castiel would be able to burrow close or sprawl out. Dean realized that there was much about Castiel that he had yet to discover, it pained him to think about how he’d never learn such things.

Still, Bobby left that night and Dean was surprised to find himself feeling recharged. And when he went into his book room to write to Sam, he told him to visit when he got the chance.

In a week’s time, Dean had gotten word that Sam would be back on Saturday for the weekend, he would arrange for a drive over. It was perfect timing, Dean realizes, pulling off his gloves and flipping the letter over. By the time Sam would come by—the Whitby Estate would be complete.

Sam arrives on Saturday around four in the afternoon, Dean walked out of the front door to greet him and smiles when he catches the awe-struck look on Sam’s face.

Sam’s eyes finally trail down, seeing Dean standing, leaning against one of the gleaming white pillars. “Dean! Hey!” He waves and Dean walks over, the two of them hug. “This place looks amazing,” he huffs. Dean laughs, walking around to the back of the taxi and grabbing Sam’s suitcase from the trunk.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean smirks, ignoring the way Sam rolls his eyes. Dean gives him a mean laugh, the two of them head inside.

“Holy shit,” Sam gawks. And to be fair, it was a magnificent house now that Dean had reworked it. Yes it was a strange style, and yes Dean could see it in Sam’s face that he knew it was so open concept for Castiel (even though he didn’t say it), but still, it undeniably was a gorgeous property—all freshly cut green grass and a vibrant display of flowers. The lake still glistened delicately off to the left, but now it was visible past the grass and dirt that gave way to the dock Dean had built.

Dean leaves his luggage next to the stairs, “come on, I bet you’re starving,” and Sam begins to deny, asking to see more of the house, but his stomach gives him away.

The rest of the night is effortless, Sam and he talk about everything, catching up easily. The two of them really were close, and now that Dean had him here, he was thankful.

Still, it was only when the early hours of the morning threatened to break over the horizon that Sam told Dean he had met a lovely girl at Stanford.

“What’s her name?” Dean asked, the two of them were sitting in the book room, they spent a long time talking about their father and mother.

Sam smirked, looking down at his glass. He wasn’t old enough to legally drink yet, but Dean wasn’t going to run and tell. “Jess.”

Dean nodded, leaning back in his seat. “Jess,” he repeats. “Is she nice?”

Sam doesn’t look up at him. Neither brother was all too good at being vulnerable, but Sam had always been more than willing to try. “She’s really cool,” he clears his throat. “Actually, she uh, she’s a zōion, Dean,” Sam said, and something cracked in Dean’s head.

All he said was, “really?”

Sam nodded again. “It was coincidence, actually, I don’t know, we just really clicked.”

“Do you mind—?” Dean asked, his voice sounded thick suddenly, almost unintelligible to himself.

“Antlers,” Sam nods and pouts. “It’s weird, I didn’t think I could get past it at first. But now? I don’t know.”

“You can’t picture her any other way?” Dean answers, his brother snaps up to look at him.

“Yeah, actually…Exactly that.”

It’s Dean’s turn to look away. “You’re a good guy.”

He chuckles, “I don’t understand why we were taught to fear them—why we were taught to hate them.”

“What do you mean?”

Sam frowns like he’s trying to think about how to go about this, but eventually he just takes a strong breath and quits biting his tongue. “When I met Jess, I knew she was special, right? I just wasn’t expecting her to ever tell me how her antlers came to be.”

“Go on?” Dean urged, taking a sip of his drink.

“I kept dad’s books,” this, Dean knew. “And the mutation for antlers? They’re a form of authority, power, and the ability to grow.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I think we’ve gotten this all wrong from the start. I think we were taught wrong from the start. These mutations—they don’t sprout when someone is weak, ill, or invalid. They sprout in tune to someone’s strength to act on their emotions,” Sam looks to Dean, clearly thinking if he should share what he’s about to say. “Jess, she told me that the day she kicked out her father is when her antlers sprouted.”

Dean is wide eyed; he blinks and looks out to the creeping light clawing above the horizon. “That means—”

“Castiel?” Sam says, and the name cracks down Dean’s center like lightning. “He’s not weak, Dean, he was never weak—though you must’ve realized that.” Dean nods. Sam was right. Castiel was mourning his father, his family, he loved them all deeply and honestly. That made him strong.

Dean was looking away; his eyes were stinging. He downed the rest of his drink and sighed. “You’re right, Sam,” he nodded and looked back to him. Dean purses his lips, he bites the inside of his cheek, the two of them thinking, wondering. Both so much older than when they first heard about zōion, but now, with so much more compassion in their hearts.

They talked about how they were taught wrong, how they were grown with the misconception and that fed their realities. What a dangerous concept, they realize together. How much hate the world had for people like Jess and Castiel, without even really trying to understand them—all like them. It was systematic, like so many other prejudices, it was insidious and institutionalized. This angered the brothers, but they both felt glad to be free of the shackles of the fallacy of their reality.

It wasn’t much longer that the two bothers split up, anger washed over with exhaustion. Dean headed to his bed while Sam quickly showered and fell asleep in the guest room.

The issue was that Dean couldn’t fall asleep. He couldn’t. What they had talked about before they had split was clawing at his head, he couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think on anything.

There was nothing else, there were no more projects, no more responsibilities. Dean was free, he had finally done what he set out to do. A simple man with simple goals. He had done it—so why did it feel incomplete?

His mind is beating to his heart, the debris of his thoughts pulse like a rabbit, scoring through his mind like a dagger. He’s got everything and yet nothing, he feels complete and so disproportionate. He was free but trapped.

His body hums, warm on alcohol and desperate for sleep—but he can’t rest. Not yet. Everything was right as it should be, everything was the way Dean had seen it. He swallows, brows furrowed. Everything was the way he saw it. Everything but Castiel.

Castiel, he thinks. And his mind begins to crumble. He’s missed this. He thinks Castiel repeatedly. Hands tearing at the barricade he had built. Repeating his name like a prayer. Castiel, Castiel, Castiel, he can’t stop—he’s spiralling, the world is a blur, but one thing is clear: Castiel.

It doesn’t feel like a wound anymore, his admonishments were long gone, lost in the foundations of the estate, buried under rose bushes, and trapped in ivy. He let himself think, he let himself feel and wonder, his mind has been stuffy and closed for so long now. So long had he been afraid to lose.

Now he had nothing, he didn’t care. Dean let himself think about Castiel and his mind began to fill. Sloshing back and forth like liquid gold, trickling thick like honey. Neither of them believed that their love could conquer the wildest seas, neither believed it was grander than the mountains or could tame the fiercest winds. No, that wasn’t true.

Their love had been theirs and theirs alone. It resided in their touch, their words. And that itself was more than enough: just having each other was enough.

Dean realizes this and lulls his mind to ease. He thinks about Castiel, though now, so long since the two of them had seen each other, he knows it’s inaccurate. He thinks about his eyes, he thinks about his perfect voice, he thinks about the thrill of meeting him—of dancing with him. Each thought feels like a kick or shove. It felt like he was banging his way through door after door, trying to find out what was at the end.

He keeps going, thinking about his barely-there laugh and light blush. He thinks about the way he trusted Dean, and his mind breaks through.

Cas? He feels open, a window unhooked, a cage ripped apart. The sunlight is climbing higher in the sky, he can see the early morning light bounding across the sky. He cannot stop now, his mind is snowballing, thinking about Castiel, about everything he’s wanted to tell him, about how sorry he feels. He swims to him, heart pounding in a way that leaves him begging. Castiel, he thinks and his mind rockets into pure joy. It’s unnervingly quiet, but Dean doesn’t stop—he doesn’t want to stop.

He feels longing, and love, God, so much love that neither of them knew how to deal with. He thinks and thinks and pleads and apologizes. He only stills when he feels stirring, his mind blanks, his heart is pounding.

Dean. He feels it and shoots up in bed. Dean, Dean, Dean, Castiel thinks. Dean gasps at the feeling, letting it twist down his spine, he returns the notion easily, his mind elated and bright, as soft as rabbits.

Castiel thinks of him and Dean swallows thickly, he can feel Cas’ muted exhaustion, slowly replaced with confusion and then wide awake, relieved. He saw Dean for who he was, and he had never been so overwhelmed to bring Cas where he was. He let himself want Castiel here, and this he knew now, was being perfectly transcribed to Cas.

He feels Cas’ own desperation bleed into his mind, his own want, and his apologies. They were skimming each other close. Any closer and Dean knows that it would feel like far too much. The bond thrums like a hummingbird and Dean thinks about the night they came to the Whitby Estate; he thinks about the promises he made Castiel then and understanding blooms across them both.

Castiel cannot respond, he’s shocked. He had been waiting for Dean, of course he was, he didn’t have a choice. Dean did, though, and this sudden press—it was so new yet familiar and Castiel found himself out of bed before he could change his mind. Dean was at the Whitby Estate. He was there waiting for Castiel.

But before he can do any more the bond begins to slide again, becoming warbled and staticky. It throws Castiel off balance, and he falls to the floor, the bond was sliding shut and Castiel felt worry jolt through him. Dean?

Castiel.

Dean leaps out of bed—it was still incredibly early, but he was freaking out. The bond was thinning out and he was losing his mind. He knew the only was for Castiel to break the bond was if he were dying or dead (and that is all Castiel knew—that the only way the bond would be wavering and breaking is if Dean was dying himself, or this was his sick and twisted way of saying goodbye before he broke it).

It’s seconds then, his world goes dim, and he collapses back on his bed. Fear clawing at his throat, his mind short out on exhaustion, he finally let’s sleep take him, praying that all of this was some sick nightmare.

Castiel is also startled and shocked, desperate for answers. He doesn’t go back to bed, though.

Dean only gets up when Sam shakes him awake, he shoots up and immediately regrets it as a headache prickles at his temples. “Sam? What time is it?” He asks, his voice shot.

Sam laughs. “Close to two in the afternoon, I thought I’d let you sleep since we went to bed pretty late. But my flight is at five and the airport is pretty far away.”

Dean groans. “Right, no problem,” he rubs his eyes. “I’ll get ready and we’ll go, sound good?”

Sam smiles and nods. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Dean keeps good on his promise, showering, cleaning up, downing some coffee and greasy food before the two of them get in his car and they roar out and down the street. He looked happy, but his mind was confused and conflicted.

There was no reason the bond should’ve broken, and the possibilities as to why it had broken was too devastating to think about. So, Dean focuses on the road, he’s pushing the speed limit like usual, though Sam hardly seemed to care.

He blasts some music, Sam laughs, and the two of them sing along as the wind whips past them. Thanks to Dean, they get to the airport in record time.

Dean doesn’t go past the gates (why would he?), so he and Sam say goodbye to one another outside by Baby.

“Gonna miss you Sam,” Dean says honestly. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to be alone again. He realizes now, that even with how he had barricaded the bond all this time back, he still could feel Castiel with him. Now, he truly felt alone.

Sam smirked and hugged Dean, patting his back. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah right.”

“Well I’ll try, okay?” Sam pouted, picking up his luggage. “Don’t be a total hermit, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean huffs. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

The drive back is a quiet one, Dean’s music is a whisper, the world is easy around him and the roads are empty. He didn’t think he could go back to the Whitby Estate; his mind was far too quiet; it was unnerving to only have his own thoughts. He couldn’t feel Castiel at all, nor the barricade he had put up.

The sun still shone lovingly across the hood of his car as he amped up the speed, but he was not eager to go home. Not even a little bit. Still, driving was one way he managed to relax, and by the time he was taking the turn into the estate, he felt a bit less tense.

What he wasn’t expecting, was company.

He slowed down and squinted, looking at the dark blue car that was parked along the long stretch of dirt that worked as a driveway.

He parks his car behind it, craning his neck to see if there was someone around, but he couldn’t make out anyone. Dean steps out, walking to the right, between the hood of his car and the bumper of the other one. He hears footsteps, and turns in the direction of them, there was a grand oak tree that acted as a small barrier between the dirt path and the lawn, it was blocking his view.

He keeps walking forward, quirking a brow as he made out two nicely polished black dress shoes. His heart catches, he freezes.

Beautiful black dress shoes and fitted navy dress pants are just visible until a beige trench coat cut them off. The coat runs up, and Dean’s eyes trace it, the seams fitted perfectly at the shoulders, the collar tucked neatly. He takes a short step forward, feeling like he was losing his mind. He could make out the small twitch under the trench coat and Dean was now certain he had completely lost it.

One arm was extended upwards, shading his eyes from the sun as he stared up at the house. Dean took another step forward. His head turns and Dean freezes, seeing the barest hint of a smile, the slight cock of his head in quite observation.

“Cas?” He finally finds his voice, he’s shocked but still finds the power to square his shoulders and snap his mouth shut, letting his eyes grasp who was in front of him.

He turns.

Dean’s heart slams against his chest. Castiel is here, his skin tanned from the summer, his eyes still soulful and deep, but his hair combed neatly, his coat buttoned up.

Castiel smiles, really smiles, he takes a step forward, arms limp at his sides.

“Dean.”

Chapter Text

It feels like a moment in time that shouldn’t end. There is a balance here, between the two of them, frozen, as they look to each other. They both want to speak, they need to get closer, but instead they keep their distance, just a touch over far and much too quiet.

They’re circling one another, figuring out this new terrain, each of them so, so, so immeasurably curious.

“I thought—” the two of them begin at the same time. Dean snaps his mouth shut, letting Castiel continue.

“I thought you were dead,” he says, and Dean can feel cheeks heat and his ears burn, how he’s missed his voice.

Dean doesn’t elaborate that he also thought Castiel died. Instead, he furrowed his brows, mask back on. “What would you have done? Raise me from the dead?” He knows how ridiculous it sounds, but Castiel just takes another step closer, the balance between them wavers under Dean’s feet, so he takes a step closer as well.

“Dean, I would have done anything,” Cas admits airily, like he was ordering breakfast, like he really believed that.

Like Dean was worth saving and coming back for.

He takes another step closer; Dean follows. “Right,” he says, and Castiel doesn’t need some sort of bond to know that Dean doesn’t believe him.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asks, his brows furrow as he tilts his head to the side, eyes digging into Deans. His voice is softer than normal, he steadies himself easily, taking another step closer, this time Dean doesn’t follow. And Castiel can feel the imbalance.

He does finally realize, of course. His mind trails back to the first time he had tried to get Dean to understand. The two of them, in Dean’s car, he knew him then and Cas realizes he still knows him now. Dean hadn’t changed, and Castiel can see this easily. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

Dean’s jaw squares, he straightens out. He could see that he and Castiel both had grown. Castiel seemed aged in a way Dean didn’t expect, he seemed powerful, like a bolt of lighting, like raw energy. And Dean felt like a metal pole in an empty field, reaching out towards the sky, hoping to get hit.

Still, he didn’t enjoy getting told what he already knew. He was beyond relieved to have Castiel back in his life, it’s all he wanted. But he forgot how they tested each other, he forgot that Castiel would always make Dean want to be his best self, he forgot how Cas wouldn’t let him settle. He takes a step forward, only with the intention to walk past, but the balance restored is a weight off his shoulders, so he stays.

They’re quite close now, the wind rustles around them, the warm sun is a patina across Castiel’s coat and Dean longs for it to go. He knows what’s under there, he wishes he could see his raven coloured wings; sprawled in the air, knotted in wispy grass. He wants to see Castiel set free.

He wants to ask why the bond broke, why they had been banished from each other, like death. But Dean cannot think to ask, he doesn’t want to break the slow build of balance. He cannot sense how Castiel is feeling, and yet he still brings a hand to his jaw. The sheer action of such a simple touch has never felt so valuable, Dean finds many relieving answers in the way Castiel slumps towards him. “I’m someone when I’m with you,” he says. It’s an echo to them, words spoken in their past, in the heat of their love only to spur hatred. Now, they soothe.

Castiel looks like he agrees. “I’m someone when I’m with you, too,” his hands run up Dean’s chest, over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the way he was more filled out, how much of his boyish charm was trimming away. They both lean in, their foreheads smack and look to each other, surprised.

Dean huffs and Castiel smirks, shaking his head and looking down. Okay, so they were both still young, they were both still growing. It had been almost three years since they had last seen each other—time had not yet eluded them, and here it reminded them of that fact. Dean’s hand was still pressed to Cas’ jaw, and Cas’ hands were still lightly resting on his shirt. His wings twitch and Dean’s hand instinctively rests at the joint above his coat (Castiel has missed the feeling infinitely), pressing their chests together, he grips Dean’s shirt with intent.

They lean in again, slower this time. Cas gasps when Dean’s stubble scratches at his face, Dean melts, rocking his weight into Castiel, he is anchoring himself with him, hands bringing him closer as Castiel’s hands abandon Dean’s chest to wrap around his neck.

Dean’s hand slides from Cas’ jaw to the nape of his neck, his thumb strokes the shorter hairs there, pressing him closer. They are intertwining yet again, and it feels like it’s been too long already. Castiel presses deeper and Dean reciprocates, his mind warms, it’s familiar and a static connection. It surprises them and they break apart.

They stay standing together, holding on, catching their breath, minds confused. To both of them, it felt like the bond—like it was rebuilding—still, neither of them were sure, and neither wanted to ask.

Dean clears his throat. “How long were you planning on staying in town for?” He asks, trying to sound casual. Castiel shrugs, the motion was accurate to how he was feeling. He had left everything behind. He didn’t think to bring anything to Dean but himself and a suitcase. Dean bites the way he feels pained, he didn’t want Castiel to be unsure, but everything about this was wavering and unsteady. Instead he offers something else, something easy: “It’s getting late, if you want to stay for dinner?”

Cas looks down but nods. He drops his hands from Dean’s neck, Dean drops his hands as well and Castiel turns back to look at the house. “You really did it,” he says to Dean.

Dean is standing near him; Cas can feel him shrug. “I made a promise,” he says. Castiel snaps back to look at him, and Dean cannot understand where his annoyance is coming from, but he can feel it, like a needle jabbing at soft skin. He ignores it for the time being, walking past Cas and urging him to follow. “C’mon.”

Castiel follows him in, his eyes catalogue everything: the limestone, the large archway leading to the doors, the balcony that faced the water, even the dock set out by the lake. He remembered, well, really, he never forgot. He was waiting for Dean to say something about it, but he never does. He never brings up the fact that this place was far too spacious and large for just one man, he doesn’t speak about the fact that most of the chairs didn’t have rests, he explained briefly that the couches could have their armrests unhinged and flattened down. He does so with a bitter nonchalance, and Cas can almost feel the disdain in him at acting so casual about something he had poured his heart and soul into.

Castiel was rightfully amazed, the sun had begun to set when he arrived, and now outside was dark. He noticed that many of the curtains in the house were drawn shut—especially the entire back wall of the kitchen and dining area. Thick blue curtains drawn shut against what Castiel assumed was the backyard. He didn’t pry, though, instead walking back into the kitchen and giving Dean company as he cooked.

Dinner was steak and salad, Dean pulled out a beer for himself and Castiel grabbed a glass of water. They don’t sit close to each other, no, Cas takes one side of the table and Dean takes the other. They eat in silence for a while, the only sound is of cutlery scraping porcelain and glasses lifted to mouths.

“So how long did you say you were in town for?” Dean asks again, focusing on cutting steak on his plate.

“I didn’t,” Cas responds, looking to Dean through his lashes. “But I don’t think I was planning on staying for too long, I’m not sure,” he admits even though it pains him to say it. Dean is looking at him in a way that’s familiar and foreign, Cas sets down his cutlery. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Dean.”

Dean nods, lips pursed as he looks to the drawn curtains and back down to his plate. “Well I’m doing alright, so,” he salutes with his fork, biting on it down a bit too harshly.

Castiel sighs. “I left quite a bit behind, I can’t just forget all of that.”

“What did you leave behind?”

“Well, I had a job,” Cas smiles, “it wasn’t important, I was just an accountant, but I did really enjoy it,” he looks up seeing Dean looks alarmed, he huffs a laugh. “I have a really nice townhome close to downtown,” silently Cas thinks about how yes, it is nice, but it was cramped. His eyes roam around the soaring ceilings in this house. He was still wearing his trench coat, Dean hasn’t told him to take it off yet, and truthfully, he didn’t trust himself to keep his wings under control. It was obviously uncomfortable, having them wrapped up and pinned to his back, but it was better like this for now. “What about you?”

Dean shrugs. “Nothing big, I moved out here just over six months after Sam left for school. I’ve been working on the place since then,” He looks to Castiel, seeing him with a tender look on his face. His heart sighs warmly, he had lost Cas before—he wouldn’t survive that again. “You know,” he clears his throat, swallowing. “It’s kind of a long drive back to the nearest hotel, if you want, you’re free to spend the night here.”

Castiel’s wings flick enthusiastically from where they’re sheathed, and he must work ridiculously hard to feed oxygen to his lungs. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“You wont,” Dean promises, downing his beer. “I’ve got a spare bed, Cas.”

It wasn’t about the bed. It wasn’t the space that was an issue (clearly). It was the bond, it was Dean, it was the fact that there was so much they were each pushing aside. They were both trying to be the people they were before—and they weren’t those people anymore. Neither of them was ever any good at fitting in a mould and trying to do that for each other was killing Castiel, he could see it eating away at Dean too.

Of course, some things never change, like their stubbornness, and Cas hopes now that their love for one another hasn’t changed either. But he is failing to hold out hope. He was afraid the two of them were chasing and echo, he was terrified that the two of them were holding out hope on a candle that had no wax. Castiel bites his lip, finally looking to Dean. “Alright, sure, thank you,” Dean gives him and warm smile. “Could I have a beer as well?”

The rest of the night comes easier like that, the beer does help Castiel relax, he and Dean end up talking until the moon was high in the sky. It was a comfort, having Dean here with him. Even more, guiding him. Castiel walks back to his car to grab his suitcase, and when he walks back into the house, he finds himself wavering in the front foyer, looking at the grand archway that led to a room left of him. He squints, thinking intensely of something.

“You okay there?” Dean asks, leaning against a different archway, beer in hand.

“This room feels familiar,” Castiel muses, he blinks, staring at the white trim, his eyes look to the window and back. Dean snorts.

“Yeah I’d hope so,” he says, voice muffled as he takes a sip of beer.

Castiel looks at him when he says it, brows furrowed, he cocks his head. “You hope so? Why—oh,” realization is a heavy thing, and memories begin to come back to Cas. He remembers when this estate was just a pile of garbage. He remembers Dean saying he’d fix it for him, he remembers the two of them slick and enthralled with each other, naïve and in love.

“Yeah,” Dean smirks, it doesn’t reach his eyes and he doesn’t linger, Castiel is grateful, shaking his head and following Dean upstairs to the spare bedroom. Dean had quickly remade it—shucking the sheets and fitting the bed with new ones for Cas.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel repeats for the hundredth time. Dean snorts, watching Cas lie down on the bed—not bothering to remove any of his clothes. He closes his eyes and exhales something relaxed and pleased. Dean turns around to leave, going to close the door behind him, when Castiel speaks again. “We had something real, didn’t we?”

Dean freezes at the door, turning back around to see Castiel sat up, staring at him with solemn eyes. He forces himself to look away, “yeah, I think so.” The two of them stay like that for seconds but it feels like hours.

“Dean?” Cas calls for him to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I don’t have to be alone,” and Dean feels a small grin tug at his face.

“Goodnight, Cas,” he says, turning back around.

“Dean,” Cas whines again, he straightens out sighing and turning back around, asking ‘what?’ with his whole body. “Let’s do something tomorrow, together.”

Dean smiles, “Sure, we can do that,” and finally Castiel lies back, a pleased smile on his face. Dean turns off the light and closes the door, immediately closing his eyes and putting his cold beer bottle to his forehead. This was going to be tough. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Castiel here, he did, but at the same time, he was wading through tumultuous waters.

The next day, Dean realises that some things never change. The fact that Dean is wide awake at around ten and Cas was still deep asleep didn’t surprise him at all. He was making breakfast, thinking about the conversation he and Castiel had the night before they went their separate ways.

Cas had asked Dean if they could do something together, Dean, of course was still trying to figure out what that could be. He looks to the drawn curtains that lead to the backyard and decides that what they could do together could be as simple as a nice picnic in the backyard—he had worked exceptionally hard on it. Hopefully, Cas would stay asleep for a few hours longer.

The land of the Whitby Estate was moor-ish in its size and breadth. The long curls of sweeping grass that Dean mowed down to a fitting length still caught the breeze and danced. There was a lot of freedom, Dean realized, in having so much land.

Of course he fixed up the house for Castiel, of course he did so entirely out of love (and a small hope that it would bring Castiel to him—and since it had, he was determined not to lose him). But the gardens surrounding the property? The sweet perfume of flowers and fresh cut grass? The sound of calm waters and the laughter of wind? These were all things Dean wished to give Castiel as well. He had spent just as much time working on the house as he had working on landscaping it.

He walks over to the blinds that sat shut at the folding glass doors that led to the backyard. This house was a profession of his love for Castiel, but the garden was his like his heart, it was the part of himself he rarely let people see. It was cathartic to spend so much time planting and pruning and keeping it looking nice, truth be told, the lands of the Whitby Estate felt enchanted. Everything blossomed healthy, butterflies and bumblebees made frequent visits.

There was no fence surrounding the back end of the house, and Dean was certain he wanted to keep it that way. He eventually decided he would create a smaller section that led to the rest of the gardened estate—like a backyard but not as closed off. He planted shrubs to close off the space but left a free exit at the far end that led to the rest of the estate. Sometimes, if he peered out on hot days, he’d see a squirrel run up the thick trunk of one of the oak trees, or in one of the corners, sprawled out, would be a rabbit.

It was another hour and a half until he was done setting up what he wanted, and thirty minutes later when Castiel finally came downstairs, clean and far too put together, he brought his suitcase down with him, leaving it by the front door.

“Dean?” He called out, walking back to the kitchen.

“Back here,” Dean called back, he was rummaging in one of his cupboards for napkins when he sees Cas, trench coat and all. “Hey,” he grins, “glad you’re up.”

Castiel nods, squinting and looking back to the front of the house. “I wanted to thank you for letting me stay.”

“What, you’re leaving?” Dean says confusedly.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Castiel stumbles over his words, which was very new and very intriguing. “You are, and I don’t want to overstay.” He knew he had asked that the two of them do something together today, but it was more of a drunk rambling, his own confession to Dean. He woke up feeling uneasy that he had even asked.

Dean nods. “Right, well that’s not possible, so. Come on, there’s something I want to show you.” He walks past Cas, refusing to give him the option to reject the idea and argue that he really should get going.

It’s a short walk to the thick blue curtains, Castiel gives Dean a curious look, Dean smiles and pushes them out of the way. On the other side were huge, glass doors. But that isn’t what caught Castiel’s attention, no. It was everything else he was seeing.

The sun was bright in the sky, and as Dean opened the doors and folded them to the sides, the soft breeze and comforting temperature was evident. Castiel steps out, eyes wide and reverent as he takes in what he’s seeing.

The deck was white in colour, and the pergola that towered above it was as well. Castiel ran his hand upwards upon one of the gleaming beams, his eyes trail to the winding flowers that were twisted in the matrix of wood, spilling down and brushing Castiel’s hand and shoulder as if to say hello. He wasn’t sure what this plant was called, and he looks to Dean for an answer.

“Camellias,” he supplies, still standing a little way back.

Castiel smiles and turns back, running a hand over the bunch of pink petals. He can’t entirely place the scent, it’s something almost lemony with hints of tarragon. It’s very faint, but he still appreciates it. He looks to the right, walking past the camellias which seem to grab and whine at him to stay, there’s another plant draped and twisted adoringly across the bounds of the pergola. This he recognizes easily as honeysuckle; the strange explosion of its petals is a familiar shape and he invites the thick scent of honey and fruit to haze his mind. He leans into it, smiling to himself as the leaves ruffle his hair.

He looks back to the left, seeing now that there were also small garden statues placed around, he cocked his head curiously, walking further down the deck. He can see it now, a statue of a hare, resting on the deck, a lazy smile carved into it’s face with heavy eyes that promised rest.

He studied the statue a bit longer, breaking into a grin when the hare lazily blinked, looking at him. There are more potted plants in this corner of the deck, the hare almost guarding them. He recognizes the vibrant purple of heliotropes and the scent of vanilla and marzipan kisses him. He doesn’t know the other potted plants, but they seem to reach up to him, begging him for attention.

“Those are hyssops,” Dean clarifies before Cas asks.

Cas takes a closer look, it’s a very sharp green looking plant, and the scent leaves him refreshed and light. It’s clean and soft but not unpleasant even slightly. The rest of the garden calls for Castiel’s attention and he straightens out, seeing now, that Dean had set out blankets and a basket (most likely filled with food and some cool beers) in the centre of the space. He looks back to Dean and gives him a bashful smile, descending the stairs down from the porch to look at the rest of the garden.

From here, he notices the rose shrubs that are a healthy height. The scent is familiar, both potent and well, rosy. They invite him closer, but as his fingers trace one of the petals he belatedly remembers the presence of thorns and unwillingly pulls away. The shrubbery is a mix of rose and some form of hibiscus. It doesn’t have a strong smell, but Castiel still finds himself enthralled by the texture of the delicate petals. His eyes trail further, and he begins to walk towards the large tree that shaded part of the garden. He smiled, when he got closer, running a hand over the bench that was hung from one of the thick branches.

Around the tree, and most of the garden Castiel has noticed the presence of shallow fields of forget-me-nots. Their tiny blue petals stretch from the ground, reaching for him as though they wish to be picked up. He’s dutifully been avoiding stepping on the plush loam that they were sleeping on, and he crouches down taking a closer look at the childlike petals, such simple flowers and yet, he was amazed. They were planted in no real place and had no order, blooming shallow and lush, beautifully ignorant.

When he looks forward, he sees a small statue of a cat, it’s laying out at the base of the oak tree, placed among long tendrils of fern. Its mouth is parted and its eyes skewered shut, he can hear it’s laugh, the cat’s tail is lax against the ground, the end of it curling upwards just barely. The cat invites Cas to laugh with him.

The garden has quite a bit of long grass and winding green foliage that creates soft wisps of cloying, saccharine scents that the wind bathes Castiel in. He walks past some slated rocks, jagged and medium-sized, placed like a marker by the back exit. A warning, Castiel thinks, but for what? The rocks do not tell him.

His attention wavers from the warning, he continues to walk towards tall bushes of pink and white carnations, they are tangled and holding on to each other graciously, affectionately. Their petals and shape are a cacophony of innocence and remembrance, and Castiel brings himself close enough to smell the clove-like scent that’s sweet and oaky, like whiskey. It paints his cheeks and he feels like a fool when he brushes his lips against the petals and thinks of Dean.

Castiel raises back up, seeing Dean standing a respectful distance away, hands in his pockets. Dean gives Cas a relaxed smile, he reciprocates, turning around once he hears the quiet sound of chirping. Further to the right is a stone bird bath, the flora is lush around it, all white with every shade of blue. He’s recognized the white dittanies Dean had planted in most areas, like an accent, a resonance, or a reminder. He also recognizes the sweet purple asters that are weeding up at him, brushing at the hem of his navy pants, sweeping lovingly against his ankles.

Past the long ferns and forget-me-nots is a stone statue of a small fawn, curled inwards, its chest rising and falling peacefully, no worry of threat looming in its closed eyes. The fawn is tucked away, and Castiel finally takes slow striding steps to the bird bath. It’s a white stone with veins of darker grey thundering through it, the clear water doesn’t move, a beautiful pattern of light dances at the bottom.

He takes a closer look, there are no birds resting on the rim, but he does notice one last statue—its much smaller, like a delicate figurine.

It’s a traditional angel, small and slender. One hand is extended as to lazily graze the water, the other arm pillowing his head. His eyes are peaceful and closed, the barest smile on his face, his hair is a mess of curls. His wings are draped over his bare body. Castiel studies the figurine for a long while and cannot help but see himself.

when the angel opens his eyes, looking up at Castiel with judgement, almost asking ‘what are you staring at?’ His own wings flick in response, he feels a seam pop from his coat. He had forgotten about his own wings, they were desperate to fan out, and here, with Dean, he could let them fall open. It’d be so easy, and unfortunately, Castiel finds that he wants to. Still, it all suddenly starts to feel a bit overwhelming, the gesture, Castiel could feel it, from Dean. A pinprick but he knew the feeling of his love. His tragic, unyielding love.

It bubbles in him, strong and agonizing. He pushes past, shaking his head and looking down. Anger and hurt filling the hollow space in his chest. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t. How had Dean done all of this for him? But blocked him out? How had Dean done this a managed to break the bond? What kind of cruel fallacy was he building? He remembers Dean telling him that this house would be his nest to Cas, he remembers the two of them spending the summer tangled together.

“Cas?” Dean calls, seeing Castiel begin to make his way back inside. “Cas!” Dean calls out after him again, running and catching him as he tripped over some rocks.

Castiel bats out of his arms, stepping away and to the side, he feels the blanket of cotton under the heel of his shoe. “Why did you do this? All of it?” He doesn’t give Dean a chance to respond, and when Dean steps closer, he shoves him away.

“Cas,” Dean shakes his head, arms outstretched, beckoning him quietly for a hug. “I did this for you.”

“Why?” Castiel pushes. “Why would you do any of this for me?” Dean looks confused, Cas frowns. “You—you broke the bond, you blocked me out, you shoved me away, Dean—that’s all you did.”

“I didn’t break the bond,” Dean says back, his voice raising to match Cas’ own. “I didn’t know what happened, I thought you were dead, Cas.” He takes a step closer and Cas puts his arm out to stop him, rage bubbling into ruthless conviction. “I didn’t block you out, I was desperate to keep you in,” Dean gripes, shoving at Castiel’s extended arm. “I didn’t want to lose you, I was scared, alright?”

“You wouldn’t have lost me, Dean,” Cas seethes. “I didn’t want to leave; I didn’t want to go. You left me. You made me—”

“Yeah, because you were wasting your time, Cas,” Dean cuts him off, his voice loud, thunderous. “You think I would’ve been happy if you stuck around with me? If you slept in the back seat of my car when my dad kicked me out? You think I would’ve wanted you to be crammed in this garbage dump of a house before it was done? Do you really think I would’ve been able to live with myself if I put you through that?”

Castiel doesn’t laugh, his eyes grow dark and angry, his brows furrow and he shoves Dean back. “That wasn’t your choice and you know that.”

“Yeah so I made the only choice I could, and I left you,” Dean shakes his head, he knew how stubborn Castiel was, how he would never do what Dean asked of him. “It was better that way.”

He laughs now, mirthless and agonizing. “You don’t understand, you’ll never understand,” Dean doesn’t retort, instead he snaps his mouth shut, his green eyes venomous, his jaw sharp. “You’re good, Dean. I would’ve considered myself incredibly lucky to be with you through that, if you had let me,” he huffs in annoyance, they were raging a storm together. “I cherished you, I missed you every day, I loved you, every single day.”

“Cas—” Dean speaks, it’s tender, something hidden under the tremor of gusto. Castiel doesn’t let him finish.

“I’m still in love with you, Dean, I still think you are good, I respect you, I admired you the minute I met you. You made me question everything, even after I left, you were impacting my life in ways I would never have imagined,” The steadiness in Castiel’s voice is gone, he lacks any sort of temperance.

“Cas—” Dean tries again, eyes wide, he takes a sloppy step forward, Castiel is too distracted to notice.

“I wanted to stay with you just to remind you every day, until you understood Dean. I hoped we’d grow up like that. Together. And I’d tell you that I’m in love with you, until you finally saw what I saw.” He takes a step back onto the blanket. “What I still see, Dean. Until you learned to love what I love—”

There are no more words to be spoken, or so Dean thinks when he kisses Castiel. He doesn’t think he’ll see what Cas wishes he would, and yet, he was desperate to let him try. He would accept Castiel’s praise if it meant he would stay here, he’d do anything he wanted, if it meant he would just stay.

The way they kiss is how Dean wishes he had at first. It’s sweet and open mouthed and every sound that Castiel makes, soft elated gasps, desperate whines, they are all teased out of his mouth in a way Dean was determined to relearn. The air is sweet and floral between the two of them, each hopeless to the weight of their desires.

The stress of the years separated threatens to bury them, and Dean is barricading in refuge with Castiel. He groans as Dean runs his hands through his hair, rucking it messily, gripping lovingly at the soon-to-be-mess of deep brown locks, guiding him with rough hands. He tugs harshly, licking and biting at Cas’ bottom lip hungrily.

Cas’ hands are scratching at Dean’s shirt, bunching the fabric, tugging it off. Dean helps him, his shirt tossed aside, he leans back in, to kiss Castiel, his hands find themselves on the lapels of his trench coat and all Dean can think is goddamn finally, as he rips the thing off. Truthfully, Castiel is hardly displeased, the feeling sending a rippling shock through his wings. They stretch out, really, stretch out, Dean breaks the kiss to stare. He’s missed this, and he watches as Castiel’s wings surge towards him, but not just him, they brush against his hands, begging to be touched. There is no gentle coaxing from Dean, there is no need be doubtful. Not anymore.

Castiel takes a step closer to Dean, his head resting against his collarbone, hands resting against his bare chest. It’s a silent plea, given reason when his wings prod at Dean’s hands, pulling them from Cas’ forearms. Dean doesn’t stutter, gently carding through the soft black undersides, Cas takes a long breath, his weight swaying into Dean. The feeling of Dean’s hands along his wings is something that Castiel had missed consistently, his mind patters, desires clouding common sense and his teeth sink down against the firm muscle that is Dean, it’s age old instinct, buried somewhere in him to leverage himself, pin Dean and keep him still until their communion is complete.

He bites, licks, and tastes the intoxicating mix of cinnamon and earth, it’s heavy against Cas’ nose and is sweet nectar against his tongue. “God, Cas,” Dean strains. His hands have worked down to the sensitive tendons blooming from Cas’ back, and Dean bucks when he feels Cas’ slender fingers clasp around the waistline of his jeans. Gently clawing at the smooth skin underneath is a hot, tantalizing movement that Dean responds eagerly to.

He nudges against Cas’ face until their lips are pressed to each other, Castiel bites down on Dean’s bottom lip. Dean gasps, hands gripping tight around his wings in response. It sends a shock of dizzying thrill through Cas, and something in him snaps. His hands are on the button and then zipper of Dean’s pants, undoing them with haste and hunger. Dean whines, the pinprick of their bond grows, they each are elated to let it take them back.

Dean’s hands pull from Castiel’s wings, scrambling at his blazer, impatiently tugging it off until Castiel finally let’s go so that it can fall. His shirt is next, Dean’s fingers are quick to get rid of the tie but shaky at each button, collective eagerness pools through them both, the bond begins to rebuild, trickling like a crack in a dam. They each can feel it and it fuels their long-denied desire, spurring into fervency, leaving their blood humming, mouths hungry. The second Castiel’s shirt is finally gone Dean takes a step forward, pushing Cas into him—using his wings as support. The feeling of their skin touching is a dangerous yet promising sensation.

Castiel feels like he’s digging through mud, scrambling to pull Dean back up into his mind, desperate to grip him tight and raise him from the dead. He’s never felt anything better than the sweet scratch of his stubble, the electricity whenever his hands grip amorously at the soft down of his wings. His wings have fanned out around Dean, the long angular primary flight feathers crying with joy as the brush against Dean’s bare back, the feeling of muscular, warm skin is translated with striking precision and it takes every ounce of restraint Castiel has to break the kiss, his mind drunk with it.

Dean looks decadent in the afternoon light, the sun is a watchful eye amidst the garden, casting shadows under his eyes from his (unfairly long) lashes. Castiel takes a step back, just to watch for a moment, the rise and fall of his chest, his broad shoulders, the way his blush is barely there but the tips of his ears are telling. The ‘v’ that dips past to where Cas cannot see. It’s a compelling image, and Cas’ wings give up his thoughts, slumping low and wide, snaking to their full length, desperate to get Dean back close enough to feel every part of him—Castiel hardly disagrees. He restrains for just one more second.

Dean watches Cas take another step back, their eyes are locked until Castiel kicks off his shoes, he looks pleased at the feeling of soft cotton and soil under his feet. Dean is mesmerized, watching Castiel undress. First his socks and then his undershirt, he unbuckles his belt and slides it off, popping the button and sliding the zipper undone. He but stops there, and Dean doesn’t catch himself in time, frustratedly whining.

Castiel’s eyes glint with a familiar determination and coy playfulness when he sits down on the spread of blankets, legs sprawled, his arms are leveraged to keep him up. But his wings—they keep low and open, fluffing and flicking in sweet little movements that make Dean feel intoxicated. Being reminded that Castiel wants him in a way he must think to keep under control is ecstasy. The sun paints his tanned skin, warms the sable expanse of his wings from the inside out, the wind rustles past him and he rolls his head back at the refreshing feel of it, closing his eyes, the fragrance of rosy marzipan is delicate but syrupy, wafting from the flowers and through the air like a love story. Dean doesn’t think to move forward, he forgets that he can move, his mind blanks on want, he forgets that Castiel is displaying himself for him. That in the only way that matters, Castiel is asking for Dean.

He doesn’t think to join him until Castiel lazily opens one of his eyes to look up at him. He smiles just so, acting innocent, Dean swallows, Cas was good at it. “Come here,” he finally orders, and Dean remembers that oh yeah, he can move.

Crashing into Cas, feeling hot silk wrap around his bare arms—tickling under the band of his pants, feeling the firm digits of Cas’ fingers wrap around his shoulders and then down his sides before he flips them is purely indecent. Every action is debauched. It’s all I want, Dean thinks as he rocks his hips upwards head lolling to the side, kissing Castiel’s wings getting reminded of the warm taste of cool silk is an explosion across Dean’s taste buds. It’s a unique desire.

Castiel was lost in sensation, the feel of Dean under him is an inconceivable pleasure. The air is hot between them, sultry in both temperature and emotion. Castiel’s wings are draped over the two of them, shifting constantly to feel every part of Dean, yes, but are never all at once absent. Dean’s legs hook around Cas’, his shoes long gone, he grips and tugs—all thighs and calves—desperate to get Castiel’s pants off. His appetite is strong, and it digs at him, soft soil giving way to fresh air, the voice of the bond is almost hoarse in him.

Castiel groans, lips breaking from skin, he pants, velvety and erratic, grinding down on Dean with everything finally out of the way. The rest of Dean’s clothes were shucked off in the process, and the work of kicking the last of it away is more than tumultuous, which leads to more than exceptional friction. They’re pressed together from head to toe, Cas has Dean’s hips pinned down, getting lost in the wispy shocks that tease him whenever Dean writhes. Dean’s hands grab at Castiel’s waist pressing him downwards, giving him something to grind against. His mind bursts easily, and the feeling leaves Cas catching a growl in his throat grabbing Dean’s hands by his wrists and pinning them down next to his head.

The pleasure Dean feels is suddenly acquiescent through the bond, Castiel shakes with it, his mind moaning with a desire to take total control. He can feel Dean’s cravings, free and reckless through the bond, Castiel thinks that for all the good he has done, he deserves this. He grips his wrists tighter, trailing his hands up until they’re laced together, his mouth dips to trail his jawline, the space under his ear, lower and lower. He can feel Dean’s short breaths as though they are his own and he pulls him up. Dean, Castiel serenades through the bond and Dean whines. Oh, how Castiel has missed this.

Castiel purrs praise to him, and Dean responds, his thoughts foggy yet razor-sharp all at once. What he knows for certain is washed over Castiel with undeniable, violent love. How he wants to give everything to him, all of him, his blood trembles with it, red-hot and throbbing. Castiel smiles to himself, though he is certain Dean can feel it against his neck and his bliss through the bond. Dean pleads, silent to the world but loud to Castiel. He can feel Dean, heavy and needy, making small moans between short puffs of breath, the bond is cloying, an indulgence, it feels like, to be able to see Dean so intimately. He gives him what he wants.

First, he dips down, rubbing the surface of the bond with pure, taunting movements, he bathes Dean in soft silky promises, his thoughts are blessings, the way he moans, his body tensing in a sharp line from his heel to neck, is a holy sight to see. Castiel presses the next moment, suggestively, he sinks down and Dean rolls, his mind a mess.

He’s begging Castiel to move, begging him to take him, to fuck him. His mouth is a stubbornly silent thing—wordless but for the shameless yelps and desperate gasps. But Castiel can feel his pleading wails, he’s babbling and mindless in his own pleasure.

This, Castiel realizes, is the beauty of the bond. He can feel Dean’s desires like his own, he can respond in tune to his own wants—which many of such fit Dean’s like a puzzle piece. He is so easily able to kiss him and make him writhe with the sheer force of himself; swimming in Dean’s mind, dragging a hand across the sensitive flesh of his thoughts. When he breaks the kiss, looking down at Dean he sees his eyes, lidded and sparkling, tanned skin and freckles, wet red lips, Dean cannot bring himself to crane upwards to Castiel, he’s a mess. It is utterly maddening, Dean realizes, to be used in such a way.

And then Castiel brushes back to him, dropping his hands from his wrists, gripping his waist, lips biting at hot skin. It’s a vowing yes, that Castiel gives Dean, and he gasps, one leg hooking around Castiel’s hip. Castiel’s hands trail down his abdomen, stiff skin in his palm, he finally strokes it, leaving Dean thrashing. He arches into it and Castiel hums contentedly, dragging another of course, Dean through the bond. You’ll never have to fight for my attention, not anymore, Dean swallows and grasps Cas’ shoulders, head tipped back. Never again.

His hands are gone from Castiel’s shoulder the next moment, thrown back to the side of his head. Castiel doesn’t notice, he himself reduced to his own desires until something velvet is slathered across his hand. Its clear, warm, and silky, it has the barest scent of coconut. If Castiel wasn’t so completely thrown by the lascivious feeling of Dean batting his hand away and slicking the two of them up, he might just take the time to ask what exactly it is.

Don’t get him wrong, to an extent, he did know. But at the same time, queer men in their time struggled enough with just making a life for themselves. It was hard to imagine Dean had planned this well enough to make the hour trip to the nearest pharmacy by town. His mind is gone, still, he can feel Dean’s thoughts, he can feel his hands, one grasping for purchase at his back, leaving a trail of warm oil in its wake, the other, palming Cas.

Castiel can feel the smug satisfaction in Dean, his pleasure rising from Castiel’s own. He slumps completely against him, rutting into his hand, muscle tensing and writhing. His wings shudder with a giddy zip as they rub Dean, and when Dean grabs the bone of Castiel’s wing, his hand curling around and satiny to the touch, Castiel is thrown.

It’s a slide from there, the feeling of Dean so clearly pushed through each feather, each scapular and rachis, down to the tendons and bones—told like Cas’ favourite story he is engulfed in feeling. His mind is weaving with Dean’s and he cannot help his demands, loud and dominant. You’re mine, Castiel presses into Dean, over and over; mine, mine, mine. Dean weakly agrees, the feeling of such scathing adoration feels like a comet.

Cas sees the jar of oil. It glints warm in the light and Castiel barely can bring himself up. Dean watches, invested, but the bond and Cas’ wings are clinging, desperate things, and they ache to be pressed to Dean. They ache with the desire to wind the two of them so tightly together that even breathing different air feels like just as cruel a fate as death. This, of course, is being transcribed in perfect harmony to Dean, who reciprocates with an equal level of agreement.

Castiel adjusts the two of them, just barely so that he’s sitting with Dean in his lap, he is spilled like an afterthought in Cas’ wake, legs sprawled haphazardly, latching on to Castiel as though he were a tree. It makes it difficult to take the glass jar and tip it between the two of them, but he manages, smearing their chests in oil, taking a bit more on his hands, and reaching down Dean’s backside, gripping and massaging him closer.

Dean clings closer, Castiel continues to coax him, gentle fingers working a rhythm that leaves Dean grinding back, hands scrambling to grab Cas’ wings with oil-slick, greasy hands. Dean uses him as leverage, anchoring himself with Castiel’s hidden strength. His mind dives, thoughts delved into dark waters he never let himself venture to. His desires rise to the surface—no, not even close, Dean offers them to Castiel, in a sense, he offers himself. His body twitches with unconscious movements as Castiel brings his wishes to fruition, working Dean just how he wants.

Dean’s hips roll forward, it’s an instinctive movement, he barely thinks in the haze of his arousal, letting his body do the talking while his mind cradles Castiel in adoration. It’s the delicate press of one finger that leaves Dean breathless, arching towards Castiel in a sharp, curved line, pleasure and disbelief ringing through the bond, every action transcribed in a firm sense of finally, finally, finally.

It’s a slow build, Castiel knows Dean more than he might think, and while he physically toils back—while Dean verbally curses and begs him to speed up, Cas knows the beauty of patience. He adds a second finger in time and Dean drops a hand, leveraging his entire body back, meeting Castiel farther yet so much closer. His wings still crowd them, trembling in heat, the feeling of Dean (so molten and throbbing), is almost unbearable and Castiel easily finds himself drowning in the scorching promise of Dean’s building orgasm.

The two of them are now damp, coated in soft oil, it makes traction rough, but it’s perfect. Castiel vows his praise through the bond, over and over. A promise to stay, a promise to Dean that they were for each other and each other alone. Dean does not deny it. Dean bites his lip, head lolling back and body wailing with pleasure when Castiel takes Dean in his other hand. The rhythm is undeniable, and Castiel is enraptured by the sight of Dean in ecstasy. The air is fragrant with honey and vanilla, yes, but also the heady scent of Dean, messy and wet, creating something salty-sweet, enmeshed with Castiel.

“Castiel,” Dean calls then, his voice is broken, the pants of his breath are promising, but not quite. It’s a warning, or a plea. Regardless, it pushes Castiel in a way that is purely animalistic, his wings fan out dominantly, cradling him in a way that holds him in place rather than a way that implies comfort.

He just barely manages to gently pull away, pushing Dean down on his back, wings pinning him. Dean doesn’t hesitate when Castiel aligns them, cradling his legs around his waist. Cas pours the rest of the oil, carefully anointing himself and Dean, smearing sweet praise as he massages everywhere, his hands can touch. When he finally crowds over Dean, their mouths press together in vowing promise. The bond did not demand grandiose promise from them, this time not built on uncertainty and the woes of young love. Now, it was a bridge, perfectly structured and powerful.

Dean feels the light pressure of Castiel against him for a moment, grinding slowly, he can see Castiel’s hips twitch in desperation, keeping the pace slow for Dean’s sake simply wont do. Dean arches when Castiel does it again, this time one of his heels burrowing into the blanket below, feeling the give of the flimsy fabric and the dig of soil.

Castiel catches where Dean is gentle and pauses, they both do, desperately careful in execution. Their minds are a hazy mess, lined up in a way that is agonizingly intimate just as it is pleasurable. Slowly, Castiel pushes through, and Dean’s breath catches as he goes slack jawed. “Cas,” he finds himself begging, the feeling hot and shocking, the desire to meet him maddening since he cannot with Castiel huddling him—pinning him down.

Cas himself is barely hanging on, he draws back and Dean whines, his arms reach up and Cas’ wings unfurl more, pinning him down by sheer weight alone. It’s the first joints (carpals) that rest above Dean’s hands, and when Castiel pushes back, Dean keens, biting his lip and grabbing at Castiel’s wings desperately. Bony human fingers rucked in lush midnight feathers. There is a small warm breeze, but it does nothing to cool the scorch of their skin, Castiel is sunbathed in kisses, the two of them blanketed by the Earth. They both, are mollified as Castiel’s hands roam Dean’s torso, bringing his lips to a love-bite that will soon be fully formed.

It’s hard to anchor himself as he works a rhythm, and he ends up with an arm next to Dean’s head, cradling him as the other grips his hip in hopes of control. They are each huffing, eyes sparking off each other, the bond is igniting—a constant loop of desire growing bigger, ricocheting back and forth until Castiel brings Dean closer, the angle changing ever so slightly. Castiel’s mind erupts at the sudden roar of pleasure from Dean that leaves him gasping as Dean whines a high, “oh fuck.”

Castiel repeats the movement, keeping the angle. Soon, the soft undulating rhythm grows faster and harder, needy, until Dean’s heels are digging into Cas’ back and the grip he has on his wings is white-knuckled. It’s maddening for them both, all walls down, their pleasure is fed back, like two rocks smashed together, sparks are indeed flying. Cas can see it in Dean, stronger, growing potent as the moments pass, his back arches up.

“Dean,” says Castiel, his voice hot against his neck, he rocks purposefully, and Dean throws his head back. His voice demands to be heard, he demands subservience from Dean, but he does not give it to Castiel, no.

Instead, Dean groans frustratedly, leg hooking Castiel in, a silent disagreement—though what else is new? Castiel tries to feel displeased, but he cannot. Not when Dean is desperate for him in every way that he can offer himself. Cas takes a stuttering breath, Dean breathes with him, feeling his orgasm like an eruption, they are each gasping, panting. Castiel moves his hand from Dean’s hip, gripping where he’s hard and dragging his hand up and down as gracefully as he can manage, it’s not too long after that where Dean tenses, toes curling, heart thrashing.

It’s a cacophony of pleasure and sounds, but through it all, Dean stuck out. And Castiel understands. Finally, he gets it. Of course, Dean doesn’t see himself as worthy, very few people do. He sees this in Dean, the way he doesn’t think any of the good he has done warrants thanks. Like the way rose bushes have thorns, or how jagged unassuming rocks pose a threat with their existence.

Truthfully, they were still madly furious yet enthralled with one another, but their jagged edges have been soothed. Smothered down from sharp coral to soft water. It was insight that surrounded them both. Finally, they understood that they wouldn’t leave each other, that what they had was permanent. They’d stay together.

And Castiel knows now that their bond is jarred, sealed, and complete.

The wind is a gentle aid now, calm breezes rolling through the garden grant Castiel and Dean a balm. They haven’t moved much if at all, they were still laid out on the blankets, and when Cas collapsed on top of Dean, going pliant, he was happy to stay entangled for as long as Cas would have him. He was exhausted himself, but the pleased hum that winded through the bond as his hands lightly trailed the spines of each feather, or the delicate dip of his back, was a comfort.

Castiel must feel the shortness in Dean’s breath and grazes a bout of pure endearment to him before hitching a contented breath, dragging himself next to him, latching to his side with a heavy arm anchored across his chest, one of his legs hooked around Dean’s. His wings are sprawled out lazily, adjusting in small stretching movements as to sun themselves. Dean stretches, tangling a blanket around himself, Cas just crowds in closer, forcing himself under.

He was far enough from Dean for him where he could see one of his arms pillowed under his head, sleepy smile at his lips, eyes closed, lashes fanned gracefully. The grass smelled dewy, the ground was soft under the blanket of the two of them, taking shape around their tangled, sprawled bodies. Dean is staring down at Cas, he knows he cannot hide his thoughts and really, he’s grateful. He easily thinks about his messy hair, the ruffle of mahogany brown bedhead curls, he thinks about his skin, his adoration for the blue of his eyes. Castiel shifts closer, Dean thinks about his disdain for Castiel hiding his wings—hiding a beautiful part of himself. He thinks about how much he hates his tan trench coat and Castiel huffs a short laugh (he did really love his trench coat), still, he soothes Dean’s thoughts with kind, sleepy agreements. He was happy, with his hair a mess, his coat long gone, Castiel felt like himself.

Dean looks away from Cas, craning his head back to the rest of the garden, it was nice. Like their own little world, a space carved for the two of them, built for the two of them. His eyes catch the small Cat statue laying by the oak tree, the cat yawns, inviting Dean to fall asleep.

Tiredly, he turns back to Cas, bringing him close to plant a kiss to his forehead. Contentedly, he finally relaxes. Finally, Dean rests.

◊◊◊

Dean comes back.

His personality, his quips, his laughter, his determination. Castiel can see it. The fire that burns bright in his chest is a warm thing. It’s righteous and beautiful. Castiel tells Dean as much, that he can feel it in him, roaring under the sinew of his muscles. He’s a vessel of it, stronger than ever, brighter than ever. It feels as though he’s been brought back to life, rising from the ashes like a phoenix.

Castiel comes back too.

His curiosity, his care, his bedhead, all of it. Dean can see it. He is free. A soothing ocean is in him, refreshing waters that bless every feather and every bone. It has Dean scrambling and falling to his knees, scathed from walking through a dessert, Castiel grants him relief. He feel’s the way his anguish is so easily solved, popped like a bubble in the wind.

They had grown together at such a pivotal time in their lives, they had loved each other so simply, unafraid, uncaring for consequence. They were burned by it, and yet, neither of them could bring themselves to care. Neither of them would have anything go any differently. Being together, they felt validated, united. Their relationship was profound.

The following days were some of the fullest days Dean had lived since his father died. They, each of them, spent lots of time after Castiel came back, filling each other in on the last three years of their lives.

Dean remembers how he and Castiel were crowded together on the sofa in the entryway room, he had unhinged one of the arm rests, and Castiel was laying out over top of him. Dean was lazily tracing the wisps of his hair, watching specks of dust flit in and out of view in the midday light, turning gold before going unseen. The bond was a curing thing in such moments, feeling Cas’ ease root into his head. Constant reassurance that he wanted to be here, that even though his life was left behind. They would have to deal with all of that in time, but for now, Dean knew now that he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“He died about a year after I moved out,” Dean spoke, his voice was calm and low.

Castiel takes a deep breath and nods, his arms are wrapped around Dean’s torso. His left wing grazed Dean in one fell swoop. “I’m sorry Dean, I know how hard losing someone can be,” he feels Dean nod. More than that, he can feel his anguish barred. He prods at it through the bond, a feeling of soft agreement, of understanding, fills Dean. Castiel looks up at him, seeing the chill in his eyes. “What’s the matter?” Castiel asks, because Dean will not let Cas acquiesce his tremors through the bond, he’s buried it, somewhere he cannot reach on his own.

Dean’s eyes go wide and his brows furrow when Castiel asks, he can feel him digging the stain of his emotions and it hurts. He allows it, he needs to. Taking a shaky breath, he sighs and buries his face to the top of Cas’ head, wrapping his arms around tightly. Castiel reciprocates, pressing into Dean. “He tried the best he could,” Dean begins, something is scratching in him. “And it wasn’t good enough.” His eyes begin to water as he comes to terms with this. His voice wavers as he holds back, his throat burns, and he knows Castiel can feel it.

He is still burying something, like an unreachable itch. Having Dean feel so anguished, Castiel needed to do something about it. He lets go of Dean, pulling away and holding himself up with one hand. Cas looks at him, a hand wiping at Dean’s wet eyes. “Can we go see him?” He asks.

The car ride is quiet, Castiel holds Dean’s hand. It wasn’t a long drive, Dean keeps the windows rolled down, Castiel was slouched close to passenger window, the feeling of warm air is a pleasing feeling and he lets this small indulgence soothe the both of them.

Castiel was not wearing his coat, he hadn’t put it back on since Dean had tugged it off him just over a week ago. He had run out of clean clothes (he only packed for a couple of days) and wearing suits every day felt constricting. Cas took to washing things like his underwear and socks but had ventured into Dean’s closet for other clothes.

They spent one evening cutting out holes for Cas’ wings in some of Dean’s old shirts, adding a few mismatched buttons for leeway. It was far from Castiel’s perfectly tailored business suits, but he was incredibly happy with it. Truthfully, most days, Castiel would find himself close to naked, lounging with no shirt, often just boxers or Dean’s sweatpants. He didn’t feel any sort of embarrassment to being naked, it felt natural.

Now however, he was dressed more formally. Two bouquets of flowers sat in the back seat, Dean took a right into the cemetery, driving around the loop of graves until the two of them were at one of the further plots. He parks on the side of the path, Castiel can feel something flare in Dean, anxiety partly, but mostly fear. He squeezes his hand tighter before smiling and getting out of his car, opening the back seat, and grabbing the bouquets. Cas had picked them from Dean’s garden, wrapping them with some twine.

Dean was plastered to the side of his car, Castiel can feel his dread and erratic pulse like his own. He didn’t want to go; he didn’t want to see. Castiel walks around to him, “Dean, it’s alright,” he promises. He’s blinking harshly, jaw wound so tight Cas could see the tension in face, he could feel the slight twinge of physical discomfort. “You don’t have to join me,” he smiles, his empathy kisses Dean, comforts him. Dean hadn’t done this before, not honestly.

His memories were jarred and jaded; they were painful things that Dean couldn’t bring himself to look back on. This was not something that could be cured so easily. Dean gives him a short nod, going ‘okay’ quietly.

Castiel nods, giving his hand one last squeeze before he walks towards the graves. He makes out Mary’s first, a white headstone with her name chiselled in directly over the year she was born and the year she died. Cas lets his head fall, he feels heavy, his wings are folded respectfully, as he gets to one knee. He sets the bouquet down, still on one knee, he doesn’t leave just yet.

He closes his eyes, smiling, he reaches to Dean, he’s close but his mind is far. Castiel asks, which is something rare for a bond as close as theirs (as open as theirs) for a memory of his mother. Something for him to hold on to. Dean is silent, but his pulse flutters. Please, Dean, Castiel reaches out.

The silence of a bond is a unique thing, Castiel has learned to appreciate the peace that comes with it. Suddenly, softly, his mind is warmed, words in a voice he doesn’t recognize breezing past like the wind. Dean, you are a dream, he hears. I believe in you, he knows he’s hearing Mary, Dean is giving what he wants to. Castiel respects this, even though they both know he could just swoop in and take anything of Dean’s—there was no point in that.

Cas sees her, blonde haired and bright eyes, a smile. He feels Dean’s love for her, he feels his pain from her death. He feels the instant he grew up—forced and unfamiliar. Castiel thanks Dean and takes a breath, he looks to her grave and smiles.

A warm surge of affection cascades from Castiel, genuine and respectful, Dean can feel him pay thanks to his Mother, he gasps at the sincerity of it. He is thanking her for all that she had done for Dean, thanking her for being strong, for believing in him. Dean is blanketed in an understanding he didn’t think himself capable of. Castiel speaks as though Dean’s mother can hear his words, and for the way that she reignites back in his head, he thinks that just maybe, she can.

Castiel rises after another quiet moment, stepping to John Winchester’s grave. The stone is darker, name chiselled in the same font, analogous in every way. He gets to a knee again, smiling, he places the flowers to rest with him, and does not get up. Dean urges him to, anxiety spiking high when Castiel denies him this, asking instead for the same: memories.

Dean wants to deny him this, his father had done more damage than good, and that is decidedly what he pulls forward, offering it to Castiel like a poison dagger.

Castiel feels Dean’s memories of his father harshly. Take care of Sam, alright? Whatever it takes, he hears him say, and Dean’s sorrow darkens. It, Dean, Castiel hears him, the memory of the night they split up, he had never heard what Dean and his father spoke about, and now, Dean shows him. Dean lets Castiel see his wounds. Why would you ever fall prey to such a—such a lost thing? Dean shares this with him, shares this part of how his father had hurt him.

Castiel takes these tempestuous memories and still indulges Dean with thanks, Dean doesn’t understand, feeling the calmness inside Cas. He looks over from his car, seeing Cas with his head ducked down. He feels his smile as though it’s shadowing on his own face.

Dean feels winded when a torrential downpour of understanding drenches him. Castiel understands, he feels it so honestly, so openly that Dean chokes. Castiel’s head is bowed down, and he forgives. He clears Dean of it, succinct yet filled with compassion, he demand’s John know that he is sorry the love of his life died, he is apologetic that he didn’t get a chance to properly meet him. A gust of strong dissent billows past next, for how he treated Dean. And yet it is burned away the moment next when Castiel hopes, so genuinely, that he is alright now. That he is resting peacefully.

Dean is a mess, frozen in his spot, jaw wound so tightly that his teeth ache and his head is pounding. Castiel walks back to him, just as collected as before, and Dean clamps down on his bottom lip, looking away.

Cas catches his eyes, bringing a hand to his shoulder. Dean looks to him and Castiel wraps him in a hug, he’s rigid as Cas holds him, body shaking, something clawing up his throat. Castiel takes a deep breath, cradling his head. “Thank you, Dean,” he says.

Something in Dean spills over, he chokes on a breath before he can stop himself, lip quivering from under where his teeth have sunk into it. He shakes his head, anger and sadness rocketing out of his body, he hurts. He takes a shuddering breath and feels the damp cloth of Cas’ shirt. It feels like his head is spinning, like the ground is going to give out from under him, he burrows himself deeper in the crook of Castiel’s neck, aborted sobs muffled as Cas strokes his head, his other hand wrapped around his shoulder. His wings were fanned out lowly, brushing with reassurance. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ back, grasping his shirt and skin underneath, begging for something to ground him.

Castiel is right there with him, a house amidst a storm, he helps Dean through his misery. He offers gentle tendrils of support, thin strands of saffron like sweetness, blooming ochre yellow and deep red. It was an assurance that he would be okay. That he is not alone, that he does not have to be afraid.

He doesn’t care to rush Dean, the two of them could stay here for as long as he needed, they could sleep in the car if Dean needed. He doesn’t keep count of how long the two of them sway like that, and yet, slowly, the scratch of discomfort Castiel felt in Dean earlier, the unreachable blotch of discomfort slowly dissipated, melting away in Dean like an ice cube sat in the sun. His short quiet wails soon turn back into relaxed soft breaths, his grip around Castiel lightened and he pulls away.

Cas observes Dean, bringing a hand up to feel the imprint folds of his shirt on Dean’s cheek, his eyes were exhausted and heavy looking, his lips sore from biting down on them. But all Castiel could feel from Dean was a sense of solidarity, harmony, a gradual acceptance, a pinprick of peace.

Dean leans in to kiss him briefly, Castiel offers to drive. “Let’s go home,” he said.

Summer nights are really something to behold, Castiel decides later that day. It was a quiet one—like most of the days since he had come here, there was an easiness to existing. Dean was calmer, lighter even, Cas had noticed. And that feeling only increased after their visit to see his parents. Before they had left, Dean took Castiel’s hand in his own and had walked the small walk to their graves. They stood in silence before Dean swallowed thickly, letting Castiel gently tug him away.

He was worn out; Cas could feel his exhaustion as he stood in the kitchen washing up the last of the dishes from their dinner. Dean had gone to grab some more firewood from out by his workshop at the last minute, since the grey skies outside promised rain. He told Dean he didn’t have to, but he insisted, dragging himself up and out. Castiel knew this about Dean, how he needed a purpose, a reason to move and feel useful. He finishes setting the large pot they had cooked pasta in to soak, drying his hands off when he hears Dean walk back through the front door and to the living room where he set down the new logs of firewood.

Castiel walked to him, his wings flick a light gust towards Dean, fanning him gently to alert him of Cas’ presence (Castiel learned that apparently he moved rather quietly when he walked around, and often he would scare Dean with his abrupt presence). Elation zips, and Dean straightens out from where he was crouched, Cas pulls him close, hugging, breathing the barest hint of timber. “You’re exhausted,” Castiel tells Dean, head tucked against the crook of his neck.

Dean hums in agreement, “I need to write Sam though, he’ll want to know how I’m doing.” It was true, Sam would be pleased to know that Dean was really doing better, that Castiel had come back, that things were finally not so rocky.

“You can write him tomorrow, Dean,” Castiel assures, pulling away, hands twisted together, he draws him back towards the staircase leading up.

He follows Cas, “he’s expecting to hear from me, I’m sure,” Dean protests, but doesn’t stop Cas when he begins up the stairs.

“I’m sure he is, but it’d be unintelligible,” Castiel reasons, clearing the last few steps up with a hop. “You’re exhausted.”

Dean follows slowly, “I’m happy,” he rebuttals, a playful thought is spread across the two of them like butter and Castiel gasps, turning to look at him from the door of the master bedroom.

“Dean Winchester you need to rest,” he opposes cheerfully. Dean’s exhaustion slowly ebbs away and Castiel cocks a brow at him.

Dean smirks and pulls Cas to him, “I’ve got you, though,” he murmurs to Cas, nose tracing his ear, following the line of his jaw.

Castiel huffs, the back of his neck felt weak and warm, his weight threatened to sway into Dean. It was dark in the room; the only glow was from the strands of moonlight. He turns to look out at the panes of glass to the right of him.

The master bedroom was a considerable size, the bed was quite large and sat in the middle of the room pushed to the back wall. Castiel had noticed that it was always a mess of blankets and pillows—the first night he stayed in Dean’s bed, he was pleased with how he could stretch and burrow. There was enough room for all of Castiel and all of Dean.

Delicate moonlight fell to the hardwood, barely shining though the billowy drapes. He could hear the soft pitter-patter of raindrops, their reflections caught in the pearly light. Castiel nudged against Dean’s cheek, turning him so that their noses brushed, and their lips pressed together. It was easy to stay like this as Castiel gently coaxed Dean back to the bed.

Once they were closer, he slid his arms down Dean’s front, wings brushing against the coarse material of his jeans. Pulling off his shirt is a magnificent pleasure, and Dean is more than willing. It’s easy enough to get him out of his jeans and Dean smirks into the kiss when he shoves Cas down on the bed. Castiel goes easily, though perhaps with far different intentions than Dean (who could be so despicable).

(Castiel is far from upset, of course)

With all of Dean’s tension unravelled, he was fast asleep with little space between the two of them. Their legs were tangled under the sheets, one of Cas’ feet poking out from their nest of blankets. He was tired too, but he enjoyed Dean when he was calm like this. Soft contented breaths, brows downturned lightly in thought, mouth slightly parted. Castiel couldn’t reach in and see what Dean was dreaming about, but the sensation of his drowsy delight and ease was a hug to the bond and left Castiel feeling content and beholden.

He mumbled something lightly, adjusting his head before going still again. From here, Castiel could almost make out the small freckles that decorated his face. He corrals Dean just a bit closer, lifting his hand from where it’s splayed across his bare chest. Castiel gently trails upwards, innocent curiosity glinting warmly, he brings a hand to Dean’s face. He traces lightly, finding his jawline a rugged mystery, constellations in his freckles, the planes of his cheekbones confident, his brows prideful, even his nose held esteem.

Cas burns time away like this, delicate drags of his fingers, memorizing Dean’s face, committing it to memory. Dean doesn’t stir, and his feelings of delight and ease only grow deeper. Castiel finds his fingers trailing through his hair, then through his stubble, thumb brushing against the lithe pout of his lips. He does eventually drift off, hand resting above Dean’s, their world going quiet and dark.

Dean is up early the next morning (like usual), he wakes to find Cas sprawled out over top of him, leg hooked at his hip, arm lazily clutching at his shoulder, heavy wings sprawled out, fluffed and rucked from peaceful rest. He knew he could wake Castiel up if he wanted, gently shoving at him, watering him in praise and letting him rise. He just looked too peaceful, Dean could feel the way his conscience was clear, his contentment was vibrating in him like a mellow purr.

It’s hard to get up himself, Dean realizes, when he’s looking at Cas like this. He had, for so long, dreamt about this. The moment he met Cas to now, he wanted this. He thinks about when they were younger, their summer together, all that time that had passed the two of them by. Yearning echoes through him to Castiel, reverberating, shaking the bond in a collective hatred for the time they spent away from each other. Cas stirs, feeling Dean’s longing cut through his conscience, he mumbles something in his sleep, brows furrowed.

He should withdraw, he should let Cas rest, subside his anguish for a few hours more. He should. But all that is running though his head, is panic. Even with Castiel here he was certain for some reason, that he would lose him again. That Cas’ life back wherever he had settled down was still lurking somewhere around in his mind, that with a small push, he’d be back there in no time. And he’d leave Dean here. Too little, too late.

“Dean?” Castiel speaks, his voice is ragged with sleep, his brows are furrowed and he’s trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Dean jumps at Cas’ voice, and the zip of shock makes Cas grunt, swallowing, bringing a hand to his head. “What’s wrong?”

Dean stammers, going to sit up is a tough notion with the way Castiel is hazed with rest, trying to get a grasp on his surroundings. He does it anyways, and Cas lets himself get dragged upwards, there’s a tiny cut, and Dean can feel Cas’ exhaustion whine before he bats it away (Dean wishes he could have such control over his emotions). “It’s nothing important, Cas,” Dean starts, “just me being—”

“Upset?” Castiel finishes, he’s still a tangled mess, wrapped around Dean, though he’s pulled away enough to meet his gaze, one eye closed and brows furrowed.

Dean doesn’t respond, slouched back on pillows, his head thumped against the wooden bedframe. He knew that Castiel was right, but he was also, in some ways, self-conscious. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was the end. If Castiel didn’t plan to stay. He brings a hand to his face, shaking his head and pinching his eyes. He couldn’t lose him again, the thought of Castiel leaving was a devastating one.

Castiel’s hands are on Dean’s hands the next moment, pulling it away. “Dean… you can tell me what’s wrong,” he speaks in the same way he always has: boldly, flat. But across the bond, Dean can feel his worry, his eager reassurance is barely withheld, gliding through to Dean like a paper airplane.

It's times like these that Dean is so incredibly grateful that him and Castiel are bound, tangled in red thread, for the rest of their lives. It’s comforting, taking a deep breath, and squeezing Cas’ hand, letting him flip through the pages of Dean’s mind. He lets him read all the things he knows he wouldn’t know how to explain: the echoes of the people they were that summer, how he’s clinging to Castiel now—desperate not to lose him again.

But Castiel can feel so much more than that. He can feel so much more than Dean would ever bring himself to tell him otherwise. He can feel the way this house brings him joy, pride, worry and pain, he can see the trophies and ribbons of regret in his mind. Dean does not think himself worthy of Castiel staying with him, yet he want’s it so eagerly. How he is angry at himself because he would understand if Cas decided to leave.

The bond did not inherently exist to quell emotions or doubts in such a way, so when Dean identifies Castiel’s disbelief, it confuses him, and when a zap of humour buzzes from Cas, he’s shocked. Dean just didn’t quite get what was so funny. His confusion only seems to etch in the edges of whatever Castiel finds amusing, though, and soon, Castiel’s laugher bubbles tiredly from him, low and gravelly.

It’s a beautiful sound. Dean finds that it spurs him forwards, Castiel accepts him, letting Dean plaster himself. Cas’ joy was serene and reverent, thanks to Dean. His head is ducked down into Cas’ chest, blankets knotted around the two of them even as Castiel’s wings fan out around Dean, their weight acting like a grounding factor, keeping Dean flat against him.

Dean can still hear the light thrums of laughter from Cas, even after he calms down, Dean can feel Cas’ hands gently pet at his head. “I don’t want you to go,” Dean mumbles, his head still tucked away. He can feel, from Cas, the way his baritone voice shakes his sternum, how it’s pressed to his heart, his ribs. Cas’ wings bring him closer. “Stay.”

Castiel drags a hand down from Dean’s head to his chin, bringing his face to look up at him. He gives Dean a quiet smile, thumb brandishing his cheek. “Okay.”

“I’ve got quite a lot, Dean,” Castiel frowns. It was around midday now, the two of them were standing in the kitchen eating some strawberries. Cas was wrapped in a deep blue blanket, it was large and drapey, his hands clasping it against his chest. His wings weren’t restricted though—Cas was holding on loosely, his wings had enough room to move, and Dean could see the unruly primary feathers peaking out from under the blanket.

“You’re really sure you don’t need me to go with you?” Dean frowns, popping a strawberry in his mouth.

“It’s not a pleasant drive,” Cas sighs. “Besides, I’ll only be gone for a day or so,” he shrugs. It wouldn’t be a long trip, but Dean absolutely had separation anxiety about the whole ordeal. Bonded or not, he wanted Cas close.

“If you’re sure,” Dean purses his lips to the side. “You’ve just got to quit your job and pack up your entire place and bring it down here,” he adds sarcastically.

“I don’t need to quit my job,” Cas dodges Dean’s hand as he tries to force feed him a strawberry.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, still trying to shove a strawberry in Cas’ mouth.

“I quit already.”

“What? When?” Dean quits it when Castiel says that, cocking his head to the side.

Cas conveniently looks out the window overlooking the backyard, ignoring Dean’s gaze. “The day that you reached out,” he says, suddenly extremely interested in the potted hyssops.

Dean is silent until he fully processes what Cas said. “Awwww,” Dean coos, breaking into a hearty laugh. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“That is not funny, Dean,” Castiel scolds seriously, snapping back to look at him, cheeks tinted and dark brows downturned. “I thought you were dead.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs happily. “But I wasn’t,” he sings, smirking at Castiel, he tugs him forward grabbing on the blanket and pulling him close. There’s more unsaid, between the blank spaces of their words, there are universes filled with endearment and love.

Castiel lets himself get pulled over, Dean’s hands snake under one of the open folds of the blanket, cool fingers making Cas jump. “Keep this up and you will be,” Castiel deadpans, Dean chuckles, fingers dancing across the lean muscles of his abdomen, tracing every bow and curve.

Dean never saw himself as a very touchy-feely kind of guy, but with Cas he couldn’t help it. And to be fair, Castiel often would just show up behind Dean, or next to him with little to no warning, and Dean would bump into him (Dean does remember one fun morning where Cas had shown up behind him and shocked him so intently that Dean jolted backwards, knocking the two of them over).

Now, Dean couldn’t keep his hands to himself, he didn’t want to. He never wanted to forget the way that Castiel felt: his skin and sharp bones that fed his frame, his muscles, which were so hot and downright beautiful when he moved—the way his wings framed him against the night sky, like an angel. He can feel Cas roll at the comparison, the two of them were far closer now, Dean belatedly remembers that Castiel can hear his thoughts.

“You won’t be gone long, right?” Dean asks again, his mind was far gone, eyes roaming Cas’ face, eyes, nose, lips, stubble, jawline, and back up. Dean’s hands were at the small of his back, pulling Cas flush against him, wings pressed against the granite island.

“No, Dean,” Cas reassures with brevity. Dean smiles, nodding against his neck. Castiel swallows, “I do have a lot of things though,” he huffs when Dean kisses a sensitive love-bite there. “Books, mostly.”

Dean hums. “About that,” he begins, pulling off Castiel, remembrance blooms and Castiel is mildly upset, it makes Dean laugh. “There’s somewhere I meant to show you.”

Dean leads Cas through the house, one of further rooms is his glorified book room. There were shelves galore in here, and while Dean had many books, much of the space was empty.

Castiel’s brows upturned when he entered the space, head peering speculatively at the empty shelves. He grabs the blanket in one hand, reaching out with one hand and feeling the empty spaces and then the filled shelves.

“You can keep your books here, all of em’,” Dean shrugs, walking in after Cas. “I’m sure there’s enough room, and you can sit in here and read too—if you want.” Castiel turns to look at him, a surprised look on his face. “It’s one of the reasons it’s so deep in the house, just so that it’s nice and quiet,” Dean shrugs.

Castiel is completely floored, amazement zips and before Dean can keep talking Castiel melts into him, his mind sparking into something blatantly amorous, he watches Dean jump, his pupils blowing wide and his mouth parting.

“God, Cas,” Dean huffs, suddenly breathless. “Warn a guy first.”

Castiel is taking slow steps towards him, but his mind is right there. To Dean, he thinks about the way he loves running his hands over him. Castiel thinks about the way he wants to kiss Dean senselessly, the way he wants to dig his fingers into his hips and Dean lets out an erratic huff. Castiel thinks about how in love he is, he thinks about how happy he is, and at the forefront—how much he wants Dean.

The study was a nice room, and the beautifully upholstered armchair and couch off to the side of the room were made for Cas. So, Dean couldn’t complain when Castiel pulls him back onto the couch, kissing the whole way.

Its slow and languid and when Dean loses the majority of his clothes and Cas tosses the blanket aside, Castiel keeps a slow pace. Only moving faster when Dean begs him to.

It’s just so easy to get lost in the feeling of laying with Dean. Even after, the two of them stuck to each other on the couch, Castiel’s hands still dragging contemplatively over Dean’s features, feathers a fluffed mess around the two of them.

Castiel has never been happier.

When Castiel returns, his car jammed with boxes, it’s Dean who bounds down the steps of their house to him, and it is Castiel who stands there with open arms.

The days following are spent unpacking, Castiel settles in easily amidst it all. Those days are a little tedious (especially when it comes to Cas’ book collection) but they are undoubtedly fun. During this process, Dean finds out that Cas’ mother herself promised to help break his lease and pack his things.

Dean’s brows upturned, blinking wide-eyed at Castiel who’s head was resting in his lap, the two of them sitting on the swinging bench in the backyard (taking a break from cutting open cardboard boxes). “Really? She said she would help you move back here?”

Castiel nods, his eyes are closed. “Yes, it was very nice of her to offer.”

“But why did she?” Dean asks, a hand petting Cas’ hair. “I didn’t think she wanted this for you.”

“At one point, yes,” Castiel admits easily, he knew Dean was referring to the night they were forced apart. “But the day you had reached out. The day the bond broke,” he sighs. “I called her and told her I needed to come to you, I must have sounded so desperate.”

“Why?” Dean asks.

“She burst into tears over the phone, she apologized for keeping me away all these years.”

“She was trying to protect you,” Dean reasons, and Castiel’s appreciation for the way that now (years later) they both finally understood that their parents (in a twisted and still unacceptable way) were trying to save them from pain.

“Yes, and we know that now,” Castiel nods. “Similarly, now, she knows that it was wrong of her.”

Dean smiles. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, I am too.”

Dean really thought he knew everything about Castiel, but as days turned to weeks and soon to months, he realized there was plenty left for him to learn.

He always knew Castiel had read a lot, but now, he realizes that he easily read more than the average person. It also seemed like he knew every language known to man and then some.

“How’d you get stuck as an accountant?” Dean huffed one day; slack jawed for the way Castiel was working him undone amidst the different books that were spread around them.

They spent a lot of time like this, each of them curled together or separately, reading books of all sorts and on all different subjects. Castiel would often take to Dean’s books and Dean would take to Cas’ (Dean recalls the day that Castiel had finally noticed his copy of ‘Zōion: Aves’ and had huffed a laugh before replacing it).

“How did you get stuck as a hermit?” Castiel replied, cocky before his head lolled back down. Dean’s back arched upwards and his hands were strained against the onyx of Cas’ wings, pinning him down.

“Fair point,” Dean gasped.

It was a double-edged sword of a quip. They both had lost a part of who they were when they split that summer, and now, together again, they were able to rediscover themselves. They were finally able to really grow into the people they had intended to be—it was a completely freeing experience and truly it was something that Dean (and Cas) would never get used to.

Of course, Dean was far from surprised when Castiel had told him he wasn’t passionate about accounting, but he had pursued it because he knew it would be a stable job. He no longer cared about proving himself, and he certainly didn’t care about being happy. Castiel had said as much.

“I knew I wouldn’t be as happy as I was that summer,” he sighed against Dean’s neck. “So, I gave up. I waited and hoped but in the end I just, couldn’t wait any more. I couldn’t keep hoping.”

Dean grabbed onto Castiel tighter as he told him this, brows downturned in thought.

“But here,” Castiel looks to Dean. “All I have now, is hope.”

Dean reciprocates this as best as he can. Letting his thoughts unfurl like an orange, thick, bitter skin revealing soft, sweet flesh. He shows Cas as much, re-building the Whitby Estate, the house plans, all of it, for Castiel.

He didn’t exactly try and hide this fact from Castiel, and Dean was certain that by now Cas had put those pieces together. That this house was a promise from Dean to him that he’d be here forever—they both would be. Cas understood, of course, the large archways, the decadent furniture, the space. He knew the moment he set foot on the property and saw the grey limestone and wooden dock that Dean had done this for him.

Dean stirred in bed, he had spent the morning with Castiel, the two of them reading and eating, dancing, just lazing the day away, doing what they felt like. He barely remembers heading to bed for an afternoon nap, but he does wake up remarkably contented.

Cas hadn’t joined him, but it only took a small tendril of curiosity from Dean to the bond to know that Castiel was relaxing himself, though wide awake.

He doesn’t sit up straight away, instead opting to roll onto his back and stretch out as wide as he can. The firm stretch of his muscles is a welcome pleasure and he sits up, a lazy smile at his lips as he looks out to the setting light outside.

He blinks a few times, exhaustion already ebbing away with one last stretch, blazing red blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he steps out of the bedroom. The bond is a peaceful thing, and yet he can still feel Castiel, breathing, his heartbeat, even the slightest flutter of a nerve—it was transcribed to him easily. Briefly, he wonders if Castiel could feel what he was dreaming about.

Dean knew himself that when either of them slept and dreamt, only the feeling of the dream would be pushed through, be it happy or sad, angry, or aroused. He can only imagine that whatever he was dreaming about must’ve been something pleasing and serene, otherwise Castiel would be agitated, waking Dean up with an urge to soothe.

He could reach out, this he knows, he could ask Castiel what he was feeling, he could reach in and see for himself, but he withholds, walking down the stairs, Dean freezes at the bottom.

The stairs were exactly opposite to the grand sitting room on the far end of the house. Aside from the couches and other furniture in there, Dean had gotten a piano. He didn’t know entirely how to play, and he didn’t really know Castiel knew how to play, but when he saw it, he felt a strong impulse to buy it. He wonders now if this is why.

Dean hears the gentle notes, ivory ringing into onyx, the pace soft. The delicate notes of a melody sing to him. It’s a tune that echoes back in his mind, bounding over his memories, ringing back over midnight waters, over purple hyacinths, and white dittanies.

Castiel is playing the song that he and Dean danced to. All this time ago.

Dean’s mind reels, he remembers seeing Castiel standing against him, nervous and worried. How that small bound of space felt like it stretched for years between the two of them. How the years they were separated felt shorter than the three steps it took for Dean to meet Castiel there.

How agonizingly good it felt, to take his hands then, and press their chests together. How addictive Castiel was, then. How he is still addictive here, now. How in love Dean found himself then, and how in love he found himself, now.

Dean stands at the doorway, looking to Castiel, noting his kind expression, his long fingers dancing over the keys. Even his wings, loosely trailed behind him, fluffed (as they usually were these days), seemed happy and relaxed in disposition.

Their lives, Dean realizes, have always seemed to wind together, which was a great relief. And he knew now that they would live together until ivy began clinging at the walls of their home, until the soft loam of the earth welcomed them, until the sun burned out.

They would live together until there was no more life to live.

Most importantly, they would die together.

A full life, a legacy that they could fulfill:

Loving another with their whole hearts and entire beings.

Castiel looked up to Dean then, a smile that spoke volumes sparked across his face and the bond rang with a hopeful urge for Dean to join him.

The realization dawned upon Dean that he had a lifetime of this waiting for him. A lifetime of Castiel with him! To annoy and love and praise and fight with.

Dean sighed, happy, walking over.

He couldn’t wait.