Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Is this the library with the kids’ storytime?”

Cas looks up from the computer at the circulation desk and right into a pair of tired green eyes. He stares at them for a few seconds before taking in the rest of the man in front of him. He doesn’t look much older than Castiel himself, if not fresh out of college then close to it, and is wearing a worn reddish leather jacket and dark jeans, a beat-up messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Next to him is, Castiel presumes, a child—even if all Cas can currently see of him are his small fingers gripping the edge of the counter and a mop of unruly brown hair.

When Cas doesn’t answer right away, those green eyes go slightly wide. “ Please tell me it’s the library with the kids’ storytime,” he mutters, shoving a hand through his hair. Cas knows what he’s thinking; the only other library branch is at least half an hour away, and if they’re at the wrong one, there’s no way they’d make it there on time. Judging by the way Cas can see the little boy practically bouncing with excitement on the other side of the desk, he guesses that missing storytime wouldn’t go over particularly well.

“It is,” Cas finally gets himself to answer, smiling when his response provokes a fist pump from the little boy. “You’re a little early, but we’ll be setting up near the bean bag chairs, if you’d like to reserve yourself a seat.”

The boy looks up at the man, taking a few steps toward the children’s section as he does so. “I can go early, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, go have fun, nerd.” He ruffles the little boy’s hair affectionately, and Cas smiles to himself as the sleeves of the little boy’s oversized sweatshirt slide down to expose his forearms as he swats the older man’s—brother’s, probably—hand away before making a beeline for the children’s section.

“Manners, Sam!” the brother calls after him. Sam, unsurprisingly, doesn’t respond, and his brother chuckles to himself before mouthing a quick thanks to Castiel and heading to a nearby table. Castiel watches distantly as he goes. He likes the way he walks, with a subtle confidence that’s just as unassuming as it is assured. It’s a far cry from the way Cas moves through the world, that’s for sure. He flings the messenger bag onto the table in front of him, then pulls out a notebook and a couple of textbooks. There’s a pair of headphones looped around the back of his neck that Castiel hadn’t noticed before, and he slides them up and over his ears before fiddling with his phone and getting to work.

It’s nothing much, but it’s still more than enough for Castiel to realize that he could easily spend the rest of the afternoon watching Sam’s older brother, even if all he does is write. He looks up suddenly, and Cas averts his eyes, clearing his throat and busying himself with the small pile of books in front of him. He’d been too obvious, of course he’d been too obvious, and now Sam’s brother is probably going to grab all his stuff and actually take Sam to the other library branch, half-hour drive be damned, all because Cas—

A dull thud echoes through the otherwise quiet library, and Castiel’s eyes dart toward where it came from in the children’s section. He smiles to himself when he sees that Sam’s plopped down onto the green bean bag—the one smack-dab in front of the tiny plastic chair Cas will soon be cramming himself into, mid-twenties knees be damned—nose already stuck in a book while he waits for storytime to begin.

Cas glances back down at the books scattered atop the circulation desk. Before Sam and his brother had arrived, he’d been trying to decide between three different books for this morning’s storytime, but now he thinks he might be able to tap the expertise of someone much more qualified.

He grabs the books he’d been trying to decide between and edges out from behind the desk. Sam’s brother doesn’t move, and Sam himself flops down over the edge of the bean bag, holding the book— Coraline , Cas sees as he gets closer—close to his face as he keeps reading.

“Sam,” he says quietly, unable to hide his small smile when the boy rests the book on his chest and looks up at him curiously. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I actually might need your opinion on something…”

He’s so good with Sam.

That’s not the first thing Dean notices about him—that honor would probably go to his eyes, his jaw, the way that old-man light gray sweater vest somehow makes said eyes look even bluer than they already were—but it’s probably the most important.

Dean had tried not to be obvious about it, but he’d watched the way the librarian had gone over to Sam, knelt down to be at his level, and fanned out a few books. Sam, who had been lying on his back, book held close to his face like he does on the floor at home, had flopped onto his stomach and thrown on his thinking face—Dean can recognize it anywhere—but only waited for a few seconds before jabbing a finger toward one in particular. The librarian had nodded and set the book down on the floor, then resumed his work back at the circulation desk.

Fifteen minutes later, the guy’s got his knees tucked up close to his chest, sitting in a green plastic chair designed for a five-year-old, and reading the book Sam had chosen to all the other rugrats sprawled out on the carpet in the kids’ section.

The whole scene’s fucking cute, and Dean can’t help but think the same of the guy himself.

Dean spends some more time working out a chunk of his English paper, but after another ten minutes or so, he decides that he’s gotten as far as he’s gonna get today, and starts packing up his stuff. He leaves his notebook out, tucking it under his arm, and heads for the bank of computers next to the kids’ section. They’re all occupied, but he figures if someone asks why he’s standing around like a creep, saying that he’s waiting for a computer to free up (as much as it’d make his life easier, a laptop is so far down on his list of priorities, it’s not even funny) is a better response than waxing poetic about how it’s easier for him to see the librarian and his too-blue eyes from here.

He makes himself comfortable leaning against one of the pillars at the entrance to the kids’ section, arms crossed. He can see the book Sam had chosen from here— If You Give a Mouse a Cookie —and he can hear the librarian’s voice much better, but he can also hear Sam’s near-constant barrage of questions clear as a goddamn bell.

Dean loves Sam, but he knows as well as anyone that Sam can be… well, the kid’s a lot. Smart as hell, but that leads to questions, and lots of them (most of which Dean doesn’t have the answers to). But the librarian is patient and kind, fielding the constant interruptions and questions like a pro, so much so that Dean wonders if he’s got his own little brother at home.

“When he’s finished, he’ll ask for a napkin. Then he’ll want to look in the mirror to make sure he doesn’t have a milk mustache… yes, Sam?”

“What would happen if you really did give a mouse a cookie and milk?”

“Well, I imagine that the mouse would be quite appreciative.”

“But are you supposed to give them milk and cookies? Wouldn’t they get sick?”

“They might,” the librarian allows patiently. “But that’s one of the best things about books. Reading them gives us the opportunity to pretend. Real-life rules don’t apply.”

Dean feels the edge of his mouth quirk up in a small smile; the guy had just more or less verbatim shared Dean’s favorite part of reading. The answer also seems to satisfy Sam, and the story continues.

“When he looks into the mirror, he might notice his hair needs a trim. So he’ll probably ask… another question, Sam?”

“Does a mouse’s hair grow back? Wait, is it even hair, or is it fur? Did the book make a mistake?”

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean mutters under his breath as he watches the librarian start to put together another answer. At this point, he wouldn’t blame the other kids if one of them decided to up and clock his kid brother just so they could finish the story without interruption, but the librarian seems to be holding his own well. He answers Sam’s questions thoughtfully, feeding bullshit like it’s his job.

For whatever reason, Sam seems to get the hint after that, and the group finishes up the book without any more interruptions. Once the story is over, the librarian gets to his feet—much more gracefully than Dean would’ve—and shows them where to reshelve the book, taking care to emphasize making space on the shelf for it before sliding it between the others.

It’s stupidly sweet, and Dean relaxes further against the pillar.

The kids amble off after that, some heading further into the stacks of the children’s section, others making their way over to the pint-sized aquarium set up in one corner. Sam’s in there somewhere, but they’ve got some time before they have to leave so Dean can get to work on time, so he lets him wander for a bit longer.

While he waits, he can’t help but gaze at the space. The library’s done a hell of a job creating a haven for young readers like Sam—and himself when he was a kid, if he’s being honest. He would’ve loved a place like this, full of books and colors and comfort. It hadn’t been in the cards for him, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make sure it’s there for Sam, Sam and his voracious appetite for books, half of which Dean’s never even heard of— 

“Do you need help finding something?”

Dean startles, whipping around so sharply that he almost hits the person who’s snuck up next to him with his messenger bag. The librarian (of fucking course, because the universe seems to hate him no matter what he does) is standing beside him now, a small stack of picture books in his arms and a curious little smile playing on his lips.

“Just, uh, was waiting for a…” Dean jerks his thumb back toward the computers, but trails off when he notices that two of them are empty and, by the looks of it, have been for a good few minutes now. “...a computer.”

The librarian nods slowly. “You know, our storytime is open to all ages,” he says teasingly. He shifts the books under one arm and pulls one out, tapping it with his finger. “I, for one, can never say no to a good picture book, so I get it. You’re welcome to join us next time.”

Dean can feel the back of his neck going hot, and he rubs at it with an awkward laugh. “Ha, yeah, maybe next time.”

Sam, god love him, chooses that moment to show up at Dean’s other side. “I think we should give the mouse in our basement a cookie,” he says. “That way you wouldn’t have to use one of those traps you hate.”

Dean smiles tightly, throwing his arm across Sam’s shoulders and gripping just a bit too hard. “Yeah, so, uh, we gotta get heading, right, Sammy?” 

The librarian smiles at him, then nods. “I hope you’ll be by again, Sam. I appreciate being kept on my toes during storytime.”

Sam fucking beams at him. “I’ll be here, even if I have to walk the whole way.”

Dean chuckles, shoving Sam gently toward the exit. “Yeah, yeah, Ranger Rick. Let’s get going. Thanks,” he adds over his shoulder, nodding toward the librarian.

He waves, and Dean ducks his head, blushing furiously as they head for the parking lot.

“Can we come back next week?” Sam asks, bouncing excitedly on the Impala’s bench seat once he’s buckled his seatbelt. “I think we should come back next week.”

Dean leans back against the seat and glances out the window at the library. He thinks of the librarian, of his patience, of his soft, warm smile, in stark contrast with the roughness of his voice. Of the fact that Dean thinks, if their mom had been here to take Sammy to the library, she would like him too.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he says, turning the key in the ignition and reveling in the way the Impala comes to life around them. It’s one of the only things they’ve got left of their parents, and sometimes, if Dean concentrates and suspends his disbelief hard enough, he can imagine the warmth of the heater is his mom hugging him, the rumble of the engine the sound of his dad’s laughter as he held Dean close, long before he stopped laughing at all. “Yeah, I think so too.”

Cas loves the book sale.

He’d spent all morning setting up, taping signs around the library—Used book sale right outside! Bargain books looking for homes, $1-$3 each—and arranging several folding tables into a U-shape. Each one is devoted to different genres, fiction and non, thriller and horror, sci-fi and fantasy, as well as a small selection of DVDs. As far as Castiel is concerned, the place is a treasure trove, a holy grail of all things literary, and he’s excited by the dozen or so people milling about, picking up new additions to their own collections.

After a busy few hours of channeling his inner bookseller, it takes an insistent little grumble from his stomach for him to realize that he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Combine that with the sun beating down and the fact that they’re quickly running out of anything smaller than a twenty to make change with, and Cas has no choice but to retreat.

He tapes a hastily scrawled be right back sign to the front of his checkout table and scoops up the lockbox with the book sale’s profits. When he returns a few minutes later, manila envelopes full of small bills in one hand, cashbox tucked under his other arm, and a Three Musketeers bar dangling out of his mouth like a cigar, he startles at the line waiting at his table. It’s only about five people deep, and none of them seem particularly annoyed by having to wait, but he still scrambles back to his post, head down and apologies dropping from his lips.

“Sorry about that,” he says quickly, stuffing the rest of the candy bar into his mouth and pulling the next pile of books toward himself without looking up, recording their names and prices.

“These are some great choices,” he adds once he’s swallowed the bar. “I love…” He trails off when he finally looks up, once again into a familiar pair of green eyes.

Seeing them the second time is just as disconcerting as the first, almost moreso. The man is looking at Cas with an uncertain little smile—if Cas had been feeling particularly confident, he may have even described it as shy —and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of what Cas recognizes as a mechanic’s jumpsuit. 

The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and there’s a faint smudge of grease underneath one eye that he must have missed while cleaning up. Castiel’s eyes eventually land on his chest, the name Dean embroidered in red cursive thread inside a white oval. 

Dean.

A strange sort of warmth settles in Castiel’s stomach at the name. It’s simple but strong, warm, much like the man in front of him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Dean.”

Dean blinks, surprised, then follows Cas’ gaze down to the patch on his chest. “Right,” he says, gesturing toward it awkwardly with a small chuckle. “Don’t wear it out or whatever.” And then, miracle of miracles, he sticks his hand out for Cas to shake. “Might as well make the introductions official, since I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

It’s Cas’ turn to blink this time, and Dean’s pretty green eyes go a bit wider, darting away from Cas’ gaze. “I, uh, because Sammy likes storytime so much,” he stammers, gesturing to where Sam is standing next to him, a wrinkled wad of dollar bills clutched in his fist. “It’s all he’s been talking about for the past week.”

Castiel smiles down at the pile of books Dean and Sam had chosen, and continues writing down their names and prices. “I’m glad he enjoyed it. I’m Castiel, or Cas.”

“Cas,” Dean says, testing the name out, letting it sit on his tongue for a few seconds. “Yeah, Cas, kid’s loving it. Hey, uh, does this,”—he pauses, then gestures vaguely around them—“mean you’re not gonna be doing it today? Storytime, I mean.”

The disappointment hits Castiel like a ton of bricks (or in this case, books). He hadn’t even thought about it, but Dean’s right, and he shakes his head. “Unfortunately not,” he says. “But my coworker, Garth, will put on such a good show, I’m sure you won’t miss me at all.”

Dean nods thoughtfully, a look on his face like he doesn’t quite believe Cas, but is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt anyway. When Cas gives him their total, Dean gestures for Sam to hand over his money, then starts digging into his own pocket as well to make up for the missing amount.

“Hey,” he says slowly, leaning in a little closer. Cas has to fight the urge to pull forward himself, taking in the faint whiff of motor oil and coffee on Dean’s clothes. He drops a few extra bills on the table to add to Sam’s total and taps them with two fingers. “Take this with a grain of salt, but you know what could be cool? Add a little more excitement to this whole thing?”

Before Castiel can answer, Dean reaches for the two cups Cas had set down next to him at the beginning of the day, one of water, one of coffee, and sets them an arm’s length apart from each other in front of Cas. “Two tip jars that double as a competition. I’ve seen it around for football games, rival teams or whatever, and people put their money in the jar of whatever team they want to win. You can choose book franchises to pit against each other, and everything will go to the library. Win-win, right?” 

Too lost in his own thoughts of Dean Dean Dean Dean , Cas doesn’t respond immediately, and Dean looks down, the tops of his ears going a bit pink. “Yeah, it’s probably a stupid idea,” he mumbles. “But think about it, okay?”

Castiel nods slowly, handing their books and change across the table to Dean. “Thank you, Dean. I will. Enjoy storytime today.”

Dean points at him with a small smile, and Cas watches as he and Sam enter the library. Once they’re out of his line of vision, he turns around and immediately starts gulping down the incredibly gross dregs of his coffee, then his water, before digging in his pocket for a Sharpie.

Cas spots them an hour later heading out of the library, and he knows he isn’t mistaking the way Dean’s face lights up when he catches sight of the two cups stationed at the front of Cas’ table, one reading Lord of the Rings and the other Harry Potter . Dean had been right; the competition had been a hit for visitors all afternoon, with many contributing even more to their chosen series with the promise of all proceeds going to the library.

“Ooh,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes at the options Cas had chosen. He’s only there for a split-second, though, when he drops a crumpled dollar into the Lord of the Rings cup without another second’s hesitation. “No fuckin’ contest.”

Castiel smiles. “Thank you for the donation,” he says. “Of both the dollar and your idea, which was the furthest thing from stupid.” He’d realized soon after Dean had left that he hadn’t said anything to quell Dean’s fears about his idea, and since running after him and reassuring him that it hadn’t been stupid at all had been out of the question, this had seemed like the next best thing.

“What’s Lord of the Rings?” Sam asks curiously before Dean can reply, shaking his hair out of his eyes and scooping up the cup, peering at the money inside.

“We’ll read ‘em once you finish The Hobbit,” Dean says, easing the cup from his little brother’s hands and placing it back on the table.

“Oh, that’s one of my favorites. You’re in for a treat, Sam.” Cas smiles at him, then turns his attention back to Dean (unsure, honestly, of how he’d managed to pull it away from him in the first place). “How was storytime?”

“Garth was great,” he says. “Had voices for the different characters and everything.”

“Oh,” Cas says, hoping he’s doing a decent job of hiding the faint trace of disappointment in his voice. Then again, he doesn’t know what he had been expecting. Garth really is so good with the kids, and his sock puppet, Mr. Fizzles, is always the talk of the children’s section; it’s not like Dean would have preferred that Sam listen to—

Dean reaches across the table and nudges Cas playfully in the shoulder with the heel of his palm. “But you’re way better.”

Cas can feel his cheeks going hot, and he clears his throat, adjusting the Lord of the Rings cup just slightly. When he glances up again, Dean is smiling at him knowingly. 

“Are you gonna be reading next week, Cas?” Sam asks.

Cas looks at Dean first, who shrugs. “Told you,” Dean says, leaning down and wrapping an arm loosely around Sam’s shoulders, using his other fist to give him a noogie. “Kid can’t stop talkin’ about you.”

Sam tugs himself out of Dean’s grip and turns on his heel at that, lips pouting and arms folded across his chest. “Neither can you!”

Neither can you. Those three words run on a loop in Castiel’s mind, over and over. He almost wants to pinch himself to make sure they’re real, that he isn’t imagining this entire exchange, but he doesn’t have to, not with the way Dean’s face goes red in embarrassment right in front of him, his teasing demeanor long gone.

“Jesus, Sam,” he breathes, just barely loud enough for Cas to hear him.

“I’ll be there,” Cas says, opting to answer Sam’s original question once he’s managed to bring his brain back online. “I’ll see you then?”

Sam nods eagerly, and Dean chuckles, but any hope Cas had had of them sticking around is quashed when Dean says, “You’re pretty slammed here, man. We don’t want to keep you any longer. But we’ll see you next week.”

I’m looking forward to it, Cas wants to say. I can’t wait. I’m already counting the days. Instead, though, all he says is, “Enjoy the books.”

For the second time that afternoon, Cas watches them go, laughing a little when he catches Dean shoving Sam to the side on the way to the parking lot, probably as payback for his earlier comment. Absently, he runs his hand over where Dean had nudged him just a few minutes earlier, the warmth and buzz from Dean’s touch and Sam’s words tripping over each other in his head.

Neither can you.

It’s funny, he thinks, forcing himself back to reality, a polite smile on his face as he starts sifting through a small pile of books from the next customer in line. Dean’s embarrassed that his little brother shared his secret, but if Cas had a little brother of his own, he’s confident that said little brother would have the exact same secret to share.

Other than the brief series of fuckups—seriously, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” and then Sam pulling that, “neither can you,” bullshit, what the fuck—Dean thinks he’s been keeping his steadily growing feelings about Castiel in check. He smiles and tries hard to stay cool when he and Sam visit the library, treating Cas like he would any other friendly librarian.

But goddamn does Castiel make it hard.

Last week, he’d tucked an article about humane mice traps into the copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay Dean had taken out, a hastily scrawled note—I hope this is sufficient for your house guest :)—written in the corner in Sharpie.

A few days later, he’d set aside a copy of Cemetery Boys, well ahead of the dozen other holds in line, because Dean had mentioned looking forward to reading it (Cas had claimed the early opportunity was due to a computer glitch, but Dean’s not a goddamn idiot).

(He’s also not not going to read the book—like he said, he’s not a goddamn idiot.) 

At the last storytime they’d gone to, he’d called Sam up to the front and offered to let him read a few pages to the rest of the kids (and Sam, of course, had agreed before the entire sentence had left Cas’ mouth).

Today… well, today, he’s not really doing much of anything out of the ordinary, but for the first time since they started talking, Dean focuses on his name badge.

Dean’s been coming to the library often enough that he’s noticed all the librarians and other employees wear lanyards holding badges with their names and favorite books written neatly on them. The first thing Dean notices of Cas’ is the lanyard itself, dotted with book- and pop culture-related pins (other than the one with a cartoon book that reads “Resting Book Face” on its cover, Dean’s favorite is a small enamel rainbow with the phrase “Y’all Means All” fused above it), but it’s Cas’ badge that really gets his attention—namely, the line where his favorite book should be.

It’s been covered with narrow strips of masking tape at least a dozen times, and during his last visit, Dean had managed to catch a glimpse of the latest title: Pastoralia . Sounds intriguing in and of itself, and it’s an added bonus that it gives Dean another thing to talk about with Cas, so it’s with an especially present sense of bravado that Dean heads up to the circulation desk and asks, “ Pastoralia?”

Cas looks up at him curiously. “Bless you?”

Dean feels his mouth quirk up in a grin. “Appreciate it, but I’m actually talking about that,” he says, tapping a finger at his own chest, in the general area of where Cas’ badge hangs. “On your badge.”

Castiel’s cheeks go pink, and he starts toying with his lanyard, eyes back down. “Oh, of course. Well, it’s a book. Or more accurately, a short story collection.”

“Stories really are your thing, huh?”

Castiel chuckles, a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest that has a tremor of heat running up Dean’s spine. “I guess you could say it comes with the job description.” His fingers run across the badge, looking almost affectionate, and he continues without looking up. “Stories have always meant a lot to me, and I have trouble picking a favorite. I know this is just a formality and that most people don’t even really look at what we write here—my supervisor told me I was wasting ink by reprinting my badge so often with new favorites—but there are so many wonderful books and authors out there, if I can share them with even one person…” He trails off and offers Dean a tiny shrug. “I think it’s worth it.”

And hell, Dean’s indulged in his fair share of rom-coms, but the look on Cas’ face right now is ten times more endearing than anything even the most suave protagonist has tried to pull off between the pages.

“Is it free?” Dean asks quickly. “Pastoralia? Like, can I get a copy of it now?”

“Manners, Dean,” Sam says, and goddamn it, Dean had thought Sam had headed right for the kids’ section like he usually does; leave it to him to butt in when Dean’s trying to make some progress on the librarian who seems to personally embody every synonym in the thesaurus for kind, smart, and fucking adorable.

Dean rolls his eyes, but adjusts his statement all the same. “Can I get a copy of it now, please?”

Castiel smiles. Every time he does, Dean notices, he gets to see a tiny bit more of a glimpse of his gums, a wider smile. Dean reflects it right back at him, hoping he’ll get to see an even bigger smile next time. Cas spends a few seconds typing into his computer, then nods.

“You’re in luck, we’ve got one copy left. If you’ll follow me…”

And yeah, Dean thinks, waiting for Cas to walk out from behind the circulation desk and absolutely not stealing a quick glance or two at him as he leads them into the stacks, he sure as hell will.

Saturdays, Castiel decides as he returns the hundred-watt grin Dean throws his way before heading over to his usual table, are now his favorite day of the week. Sometimes Dean and Sam will surprise him with a midweek visit, but no matter what, he can always count on them to walk through the doors on Saturday mornings a few minutes before storytime kicks off.

Dean’s in his work clothes again, and Cas watches distantly as he pushes up his sleeves and opens another textbook. He’s knocking out some credits at the local community college, he’d told Cas one day. It’s one of the few personal things Castiel has been able to glean from him—others include that it’s just him and Sam, that he’s been working at a local garage since high school, and that he’s trying to save up enough to let Sam adopt a dog one of these days—so he clings to the fact like a life preserver, a tiny piece of the mosaic that is Dean Winchester.

Storytime passes without incident (or commentary and questions from Sam), but Castiel notices about halfway through reading that Dean’s hunched over his textbook, arms curled up under his head as a makeshift pillow. 

Once he’s finished reading the book and the other kids have scrambled to their feet to find their parents, settle into their own reading, or explore the new video game station in the children’s section, Sam asks Cas if he can help him find some new books to read. He glances over Sam’s shoulder and sees that Dean hasn’t moved—he’s probably in an even deeper sleep now—so he agrees.

“Dean must be tired,” Castiel says, following Sam around the stacks in the children’s section. The younger Winchester browses the books with a practiced eye, occasionally plucking one from the shelves, giving it a once-over, and dropping it behind him into Cas’ waiting hands. He’s already got the first three A Series of Unfortunate Events books and is now considering The Lightning Thief.

“Yup,” Sam says, running his fingers along the spines of the books. “I said we could sleep in today, but he didn’t want me to miss storytime.”

“That’s nice of him.” Cas notices the latest book Sam’s pulled, Bridge to Terabithia , and his eyes go wide. “Ah, let’s skip that one. Too sad.”

Sam looks up at him, then shrugs and continues his trek. “I guess. I know it’s really because he likes going here, though.”

Castiel chuckles. “Is that right?”

Sam nods, tugging a copy of the latest Dav Pilkey book off the shelf and scrutinizing the cover. “It makes him happy. He’s always in a better mood after he talks to you, I can tell.”

There’s nothing in front of him, but Cas still has to stop himself from stumbling at Sam’s words. “Don’t you mean when he goes to the library?” he asks, not sure if he even wants clarification with the answer. He can be happy living in some fantasy world where the highlight of Dean’s visits to the library is seeing Cas; he can absolutely live with that, because there’s no way it’s reality—

“Yeah, sure,” Sam says, nodding. He makes an executive decision and tosses the book onto his ever-growing pile. “He likes the library, but he likes it when he gets to see you more.” He grins, as if exposing a secret, then adds, “He’s grumpy when you’re not here.”

And that, well, that has Castiel coming to a full stop. Kids don’t lie, right? Isn’t that one of their biggest claims to fame? But no, that can’t be right. Dean probably just likes it when Cas is here because he knows all the books he likes and can give him recommendations and a break from looking after Sam during storytime. That’s it, he realizes with steadily growing disappointment. That’s really it.

A dull thud in front of him jerks Cas back out of his thoughts and he looks up to see Sam staring at him in confusion, a book he’d presumably planned to hand back to Cas lying on the floor between them.

“Sorry,” the two of them say simultaneously, but then Sam must take in Castiel’s blush and overall flustered state for the confession it is, because he grins widely.

“You like him too, don’t you?”

Cas isn’t one to swear in front of children, but that doesn’t mean he can’t let loose in his mind. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He’s got to be careful here; anything he says to Sam is practically guaranteed to get back to his brother, and Castiel doesn’t think he’ll be able to deal with it if Dean doesn’t reciprocate and decides to stop coming altogether.

“I, uh… your brother is a very kind person,” Cas stammers. “I look forward to seeing him—well, both of you—whenever you come to visit the library, but—wait, did you say ‘like him too?’”

Sam doesn’t answer, just keeps grinning, holds out his arms for Castiel to drop the books into, and races for Dean’s table, where he’s still sound asleep.

“Rise and shine, Dean!” Sam shouts, dropping the pile of books down close next to Dean’s head. Dean startles awake with a grunt, looking around wildly as if expecting the worst. Cas winces at the red imprint on Dean’s cheek from resting against his textbook while he slept.

“Wh’s goin’ on, Sammy?” he asks. His voice sounds slurred and thick with sleep, but his eyes are sharp and alert, caregiver mode activated in a matter of seconds. It’s sobering, Castiel thinks, when he realizes that he’s only really seen that kind of expression in the eyes of parents, not siblings.

“You’re drooling on the table,” Sam informs him. “And on your books.”

Dean glares at him, but still swipes the back of his hand over his mouth anyway. He doesn’t seem to have fully registered that Cas is standing there, but once he does, he blinks, startled, and scrubs a hand down over his face before offering him a small, apologetic smile. 

And for someone who makes his living surrounded by words, the warm, fond look on Dean’s face currently has Castiel at a loss for them.

You like him too.

“Shit,” Dean says, running a hand through his hair. “Were you on babysitting duty this whole time?”

“It’s all right,” Cas says with a small shrug, shoving his hands deep into his pockets to hide the way they’ve slowly started to tremble. “We did some browsing, and besides, it looked like you could use a bit of a break.”

“Yeah, well, thanks. Hope he wasn’t too much of a pain in the ass. You already got other people doing your dirty work, Sammy?” He ruffles Sam’s hair again, and Sam swats his hand away with a glare. Once he’s out of Dean’s reach, he holds up his ring finger and sticks out his tongue triumphantly.

Dean’s brows furrow together, and Cas’ gaze darts between the two brothers. “The hell is that supposed to be?” Dean asks.

Sam gapes at him, obviously disappointed that his gesture isn’t having the desired effect. “You did it to the car that went in front of us on the way here.”

Dean pauses, trying to figure out what Sam’s talking about, then bursts into laughter. “Was that you flipping me off?”

“That’s what you did!” Sam insists, which just makes Dean laugh harder. He stands and takes a few steps forward just so he can ruffle Sam’s hair again.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, kid. Go entertain yourself while I check these out, you menace.”

Dean packs up his practically unused textbooks into his bag and helps Cas carry Sam’s stack of books over to the checkout desk while Sam makes a beeline for the video game setup back in the children’s section.

“Sam’s got good taste for the classics,” Cas says, holding up a copy of Matilda before scanning it into the computer system.

“Yeah, he’s been on a Roald Dahl kick lately.” Dean smiles down at the countertop, tapping his open palms in a staccato drumbeat. It’s then that Cas realizes Dean, ultra-smooth, ultra-confident, ultra- everything Dean, for the first time since Castiel has met him, actually seems nervous.

Could he be upset that Cas didn’t wake him up? Cas’ stomach drops at the thought, a flush creeping up his neck. Dean had seemed so tired, he thought he’d been doing him a favor, but he supposes he can see how it might be misconstrued, especially by someone as protective of his younger brother as Dean.

Dean’s still not looking at Cas, digging through his wallet for his library card, and Cas wills his heart to slow down. He can practically see the tension between them, and decides that it’s now or never; he needs to get to the bottom of it.

“Listen, I didn’t…”

“Listen, I know…”

The two of them stare at each other, just as nervous as they are curious. For a second, Castiel wonders if they’ll be stuck like this, but then Dean grins at him and motions for him to continue. “You first.”

Cas glances down at the keyboard in front of him, willing himself to pull it together enough to sound coherent. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t overstep my boundaries, letting you sleep and all.”

Dean chuckles. “I didn’t sleep; Sam nearly dropped a pile of books on my damn head.”

“Before that,” Cas corrects, but he can’t help but smile. “We may have drawn out our book excursion long after storytime. Sam had just been saying how tired you were this morning, and I figured you could use the extra time, even if it wasn’t that long, but I understand how you might have had places to be, or how you could’ve just not wanted him staying with strangers.”

Dean studies him for a few seconds, but then his face relaxes, and any anxiety Cas had been feeling slips away. “Cas, you’re not a stranger, man. Far from it. Just glad he had you to hang out with while I was conked out. Can’t say I’m not jealous of him, though.” The last line is paired with a wink, and that flush under Cas’ skin comes roaring back. “I promise, you’re fine. I appreciate it.”

Cas smiles at him, relief washing through his system. He copies Dean’s gesture from earlier, and Dean clears his throat. 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Cas’ fingers grip the edge of the counter just a little bit tighter. “Mine’s a little stupider, way less noble, I guess, and I know it’s a big ask, but do you know if the library’s got any, like, rooms available? That I could rent?”

“Rooms, as in—”

“Party rooms. Or, well, not devoted party rooms, I guess, but rooms where you could conceivably hold a party. If you wanted to, or whatever.”

Cas’ brows furrow together. “You know this is a library, right?”

Dean huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I get that, smartass. But you know how some kids have their birthdays at the movies, or a bowling alley? Sam’s birthday is in a few weeks and he wants his party at the library, the nerd,”—Cas doesn’t miss the affectionate smile Dean tries and fails to hide—“and I just… I can’t do everything for him that the other kids in his class get, and I figured this might actually be worth a shot, so I just… I really want to make it happen.”

Cas can feel his face softening, watching the way Dean rubs uncomfortably at his neck, scuffing the soles of his boots against the smooth tile floor.

“I know it’s probably a lot to ask, but he’s just been going through a lot, and if I could—”

“Absolutely.”

“Yeah, I know, so if it’s too much—”

Cas shakes his head and reaches out to grip Dean’s shoulder. Dean cuts himself off at the contact, those eyes looking up at him curiously—and, if Cas is correct, with a tiny glimmer of hope. Cas smiles and squeezes his shoulder briefly.

“We’ve got more rooms here than we know what to do with,” he says. “We’ll make it happen.”

That glimmer of hope bursts into full-fledged relief, and for a second, Cas wonders (okay, more like hopes ) if Dean might actually hug him. Instead, he smiles wide, giving an incredulous little shake of his head.

“Awesome,” he says. “Awesome, man, thank you.” He grabs Sam’s stack of books and smiles gratefully at Cas one more time. “We’ll see you soon, then?”

Cas nods, mind already going through a mental catalog of which room he could set aside for the party. He watches distantly as Dean gives him a cross between a wave and salute with his free hand, then heads to the children’s section to pick up Sam.

You like him too.

Castiel just wishes—god, does he wish—he could convince himself of the same thing.

“Here, Cas,” Sam says later that week, smacking a piece of paper down on the circulation desk. Before Cas can even pick up the paper, Sam adds, “See you there!” and heads off into the stacks. Cas glances after him for a second, then looks down at the piece of bright yellow construction paper.

SAMMY’S TURNING EIGHT! it says in the careful, scrawled writing of a soon-to-be eight-year-old. If Cas looks close, he can see the faint pencil markings from where Sam must have tried to outline the words and then trace over them in magic marker. Those words are followed by pictures of a lopsided cake and a handful of lumpy presents. The when, where, and RSVP info is written near the bottom in what must be Dean’s handwriting, neat and precise.

When he looks up, Sam’s long gone, but Dean’s looking at him with an amused grin on his face. “So,” he says, resting one elbow on the circulation desk and leaning closer to the invitation—and by extension, Cas. “Think you can make it?”

“Dean, he didn’t have to invite me.”

Dean shakes his head. “He wanted to. You were the first one he said when I asked who he wanted to be there.” 

Cas looks down at the invitation in his hand, then back up at Dean. “Should I call you, or is an in-person RSVP sufficient?”

Dean’s cheeks go pink. “How about this,” he says after a few seconds. “You got a scrap of paper?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow, maintaining eye contact as he reaches under the desk for a pad of paper, the Thompson Library logo stamped across the top, and a pen. Dean tugs the cap off with his teeth and is about to start writing when he freezes and glances up at Cas. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles around the cap. “Do you want me to, uh…?” He gestures to the cap in his mouth, but Cas shakes his head.

“It’s yours now.”

Dean’s lips quirk up around the cap, and he starts writing. “Here,” he says, sliding the paper across the desk toward Cas and tucking the pen behind his ear. “Put this in your phone.”

Cas looks down at the pad, at the neatly written phone number (and handwriting that matches the bottom of Sam’s invitation). His heart starts beating faster as it hits him: this is Dean ’s number. Dean just gave him, Castiel Novak, his phone number.

And it’s not even a dream.

Working hard to hide the way his hands are starting to shake, Cas pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts slowly typing in the digits. Once he’s finished, he looks up at Dean, who gestures with his hand toward Cas’ phone.

“Now, RSVP.”

And Cas can’t help his smile growing wider as he opens his text messages and types out a new one.

Cas, 3:32pm: Hello, Dean, this is Castiel from the library. I’d like to RSVP to Sam’s birthday party, please.

He hears a faint buzzing noise from across the desk, and watches as Dean pulls out his own phone, eyes scanning briefly over the screen. “Well, would you look at that,” Dean says, looking up at him  with a small smile. “You’re the first RSVP.”

Cas can feel his cheeks going pink, and he smiles down at the desk, tapping its dirty, scuffed surface with his fingers. “Would you look at that.”

“Thank you, man,” Dean says. “Seriously. This is gonna make his year, all thanks to you.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that—”

“I do.” That crooked, genuine smile is back again, and Castiel nods. “Listen,” Dean continues, “we gotta go, I gotta get to work, but we’ll see you next week, right?”

“Yes. Room 481 has your name on it. Figuratively, of course, but I’m sure I can pull some strings to make it literal, at least for the day, if you’d like.”

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t want you losing your job over a kid’s birthday party. Figuratively is more than fine.” He shoves his hands back into his jacket pockets and looks up once more. “I’ll see you soon, Cas.”

“Have a good week, Dean.”

As Cas watches Dean and Sam exit the library, he jumps a little when he hears his phone buzz on the desk. When he looks down, his heart jumps up into his throat and his eyes dart up to the library’s entrance, then back down to his phone screen, and makes a mental note to add Dean’s name to his phone as well.

785-555-0128 “loved” your message.

Chapter Text

Dean had hoped he could be smooth and discreet about the whole “spending the day throwing a kid’s birthday party” thing, but as it turns out, wrangling a bunch of pipsqueaks while balancing a hastily decorated cake (the thing’s got globs of icing starting to drip down along the edges, but Dean hadn’t had enough time to let it cool properly if they wanted to make it to the library on time) in one hand and a fistful of gaudy balloons in the other, a small bag of gifts slung over his shoulder, is harder (and much more obnoxious) than it looks.

“No running!” he shouts, but as expected, Sam and his friends are off, careening around the parking lot like little human pinballs, and Dean sighs when none of them even bother to glance back his way in acknowledgement.

Whatever. At least he can say he tried.

They’re halfway across the parking lot when he sees Cas come out of the library and wave. Dean juts his chin up and out in acknowledgement— keep it together, Winchester —then glances around to see if any of the kids are close to running into him.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Let me take some of this,” Cas says in response, not waiting for Dean to reply before easing the cake out of Dean’s hands.

“Sam, you didn’t say your brother would be bringing his boyfriend,” one of the kids—Tyson Brady, if Dean remembers correctly—squeals from nearby. Dean can feel his cheeks go hot. Out of all Sammy’s friends he’d picked up on the way to the library, Brady’s by far his least favorite, and he could goddamn strangle the kid right about now, but this is Sam’s day, so Dean just rolls his eyes and brushes it off.

When he looks back at Cas, he’s glancing down at the cake in his hands as they head toward the library’s entrance. “This looks delicious,” he says.

Dean barks out a laugh. “You got a thing for lumpy books and runny frosting?”

Cas studies it for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “Sam’s going to love it.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Sam shouts from near the entrance to the library, “Dean, look!”

Dean looks up to see Sam standing in front of the library’s marquee sign, waving his little spaghetti arms like he’s trying to keep himself from drowning. Dean doesn’t get why; he’d never tell Cas, but the sign’s nothing special. It’s just got “Thompson Library” written across the top with a few backlit lines for special announcements.

When Dean gets closer, though, he damn near drops everything he’s carrying.

The usual announcements on the sign—storytime dates, adjusted hours, bookish puns, shit like that—have all been removed in favor of HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM!

Dean stares at the sign, stunned. He’s not sure what to say, but the absolute fucking glee on Sam’s face is more than enough of a reaction for the both of them.

“We don’t have any exclamation points,” Cas says apologetically from behind him, nodding toward the end of the message, “but I thought some mild vandalism was a fair exchange for some added birthday cheer.”

“Mild—” Dean looks closer, noticing the slightly jagged way the top half of the exclamation point has been cut off, and Dean chuckles in disbelief. He’d taken a capital I and cut it apart, all to add some…some exclamation to Sam’s party, and Dean could fucking kiss Cas right now.

He feels a small tap on his shoulder, and turns to face Cas, who, for some reason, actually looks worried. “Is this too much?” he asks. “I know you had felt a little uncomfortable with me letting you sleep the other day, but I really just wanted to make Sam’s—oh.”

Dean pulls back slowly, his lips still burning, and he focuses on the apple of Cas’ cheek that he had just kissed. He watches as Cas’ cheeks go pink, his fingers going up to ghost along where Dean’s lips had been, and Dean’s heart sinks at his lack of reaction. He couldn’t have misread things that badly, could he? There had been something there, right?

Yeah, something, Winchester. Pity. That’s all you ever get.

“Shit, Cas, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I just thought—”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to be cut off, and his heart damn near bursts out of his chest like some Saturday morning cartoon character when he feels Cas’ lips brush against his own. It’s not much, barely even anything, really, but it’s enough, and Dean’s lips are buzzing as he smiles helplessly at the librarian he’d been crushing on ever since Sam’s very first storytime.

Sam’s friends have gathered around by now, attracted by the noise like prepubescent moths, and before he has the chance to embarrass himself in front of a posse of preteens, Dean decides to pause his blossoming crush: he flashes Cas another small smile that only gets bigger when Cas reflects it right back at him, then shrugs off the bag of gifts and shoves the balloons into Brady’s fist—“Here, kid, make yourself useful,”—before pulling his phone out of his back pocket.

“Lemme get a picture of you in front of that, superstar.”

Beaming, Sam hops in front of the sign. He makes sure he’s not blocking any of the words then points at his name, the nerd, and Dean takes a few photos. Before he can tuck his phone away and start to head inside, Sam shakes his head.

“No, no, I want you and Cas in one too!”

Dean glances next to him at Cas, an eyebrow raised in silent question, and Cas nods. “It’s a good thing I wore my best sweater vest,” he says seriously, setting the cake down gently and running his palm down the front of his sweater vest to smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles.

“You’re not kidding,” Dean says with a grin, and he can’t resist bumping his own hip against Cas’. It doesn’t send him heading for the hills (the exact opposite, actually, Dean realizes as Cas leans in close next to him, Sam crouched down in front of and between the two of them), and if they didn’t have a birthday party to get to, Dean would’ve pulled Cas close, asked him out to dinner, then made out with him on the library grass for the rest of the day.

Next time.

“This is the best, Cas!” Sam says excitedly before heading to his group of friends, who are waiting impatiently in front of the main library doors.

“Manners, Sammy!” Dean shouts after him.

“Thanks, Cas!”

Cas laughs, crouching down to pick up the cake. When he’s straightened up, he smiles fondly at Dean, who has to fight not to avert his gaze; after weeks of doing just that to avoid seeming like a creep, it’s weird to think that he might not need to anymore. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Was that… was all of that okay?”

“Yes,” Cas says, looking up from where he’d been studying Sam’s cake. When he does, he takes a few purposeful steps forward to close the gap between them, and kisses Dean once more. “That was all very much okay.”

Dean stares after him, slack jawed, as he makes his way to the library’s entrance like he hadn’t just turned Dean’s entire goddamn world upside down. Acting on autopilot, he gathers up the bag of gifts. He glances down at the photo on his phone again and his stomach flips when he realizes that he doesn’t know what he loves more, the photo itself, or the fact that Dean kissed Cas, and Cas fucking kissed him back .

It’s the kissing, he decides quickly, repocketing his phone and hurrying to catch up with the rest of the group. Definitely the kissing.

He’s so good with them.

Cas had known Dean had to be good with kids—he’s completely selfless with Sam—but seeing him interact with the rest of his friends is even better. He’s gentle but firm, stopping spills and accidents (and one potential fistfight over who the best iteration of Spider-Man is) in their tracks while still ensuring the kids have a good time.

It’s a small party in one of the open conference rooms, a large table pushed off to the side that’s been covered with a paper tablecloth, presents, and cake. Sam and his friends, Eileen, Brady, Sully, and Amy, spend the afternoon playing board games, reading and exploring different sections of the library, and competing against each other on the library’s extra Nintendo Switch Cas had managed to wrangle from the break room.

In all honesty, the whole day is something Cas’ younger self would’ve adored.

He smiles to himself, sipping on his soda as he watches Sam and Amy play Super Smash Bros. against each other while Brady cheers (and jeers, depending on who’s winning) them on. Dean, on the other hand, is sitting on the floor across from Eileen, who’s slowly showing him how to fingerspell his own name in American Sign Language. 

“D-E-A-N,” Eileen says, her small fist moving at lightning speed.

Dean furrows his brows together, the tip of his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration as he tries to follow Eileen’s movements. Cas has read descriptions of characters doing exactly that in dozens of books, but somehow, seeing Dean actually doing it has a spark of warmth and fondness building quickly in his chest.

“D… E… what’s A again? Right, okay, A… N.” Dean looks up hopefully at Eileen, who nods, smiling widely. “Hell yeah,” he says, pumping his fist. Dean gives her a fist bump, then leans in close and says, “Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite of Sammy’s friends. Bar none.”

Eileen beams at that, then hops to her feet and heads over to join the rest of the kids. Dean stands too, stretching his legs out for a few seconds before grabbing the seat next to Cas.

“That was impressive,” Castiel says.

Dean laughs, slouching back in his seat and extending his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Yeah, yeah, save your applause.” He pauses, seems to consider something, then adds, “Y’know, Eileen taught me one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

Dean looks seriously at Cas, then touches the fingers of his right hand to his chin before bringing them forward toward Cas. “Thank you. Seriously, man. This is perfect.”

Cas opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a thought hits him: Dean would’ve had to have asked Eileen how to do that particular sign. There’s no way she would’ve shown him for no reason, not when she had been teaching him how to fingerspell. 

You like him too .

“That’s a very simple sign for such a long statement,” Cas says, and when Dean laughs again, Cas is sure it’s the best thing he’s heard all day.

Dean doesn’t think it’s cheesy to say that this was a Saturday right out of a storybook—hell, he can’t think of anything more appropriate. He got to kiss his crush, threw his little brother a kickass party, and doesn’t have to subject the Impala to the little fucking terrors also known as Sam’s friends anymore.

So, really, it only makes sense that the whole thing should wrap up with his very own chance at a knight in shining armor moment.

Eileen waves at them from the backseat of her mom’s car as they pull out and down the street, leaving the library’s parking lot nearly empty, faint wisps of dusk just starting to swipe their way across the sky. The whole thing should be pretty peaceful, and Dean’s got plans to leave Sam to pig out on the rest of the cake and pass out on the living room couch once they get home, but before he can fade too far into that fantasy, the sound of a car—Cas’ car, he realizes—stalling echoes across the lot.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Sam says. Dean cranes his neck to glance at him past the oversized foil balloon in the shape of the number eight that he’d insisted they take home with them. He’s still wearing one of his party hats, nose already stuck in one of the books his friends had gotten him.

“Sure doesn’t,” Dean says, more to himself than Sam as he throws the Impala in reverse and heads over to the car.

As he gets closer, he sees Cas slumped back against the driver’s seat, the heels of his palms resting against his eyes. He’s not sure if Cas even knows they’re there, so instead of honking, Dean rolls down the window and leans out.

“You good?”

Castiel still startles, though, looking for all intents and purposes like a frazzled kitten, and Dean bites down on his bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Oh, I’m fine,” Castiel answers, smacking the steering wheel lightly with the heel of his palm. “My car, on the other hand…”

Dean chuckles. “Shit the bed, huh?”

“In a word.”

Sam’s head pops out from behind the balloon. “Dean’s a mechanic!” he chirps helpfully. “I bet he could help!”

“So he is,” Cas says, no doubt remembering when Dean first made a fool of himself in front of him at the book sale with his stupid embroidered nametag. “Do you, uh, do you think you could take a look? I’d pay you for your trouble, of course, but I just can’t justify calling to get it towed and then having to come back here for work in the morning.”

It’s probably nothing. Dean knows it’s probably nothing, that the car just needs a jump or something simple, but since when has the universe ever thrown him as big a softball as this one? If he’s going to do anything in the next thirty seconds, it’s shoot his fucking shot.

“Tell you what,” Dean says slowly. “It’s late, already getting dark, and you gotta be back here tomorrow. I can drop you off and take a look at it in the morning. We, uh,”—come on, Winchester, keep it going, the guy just fucking kissed you earlier, work with that—“we don’t live too far, you could stay with us. ‘m sure Sammy would love to show you his book collection.”

“Dean, I couldn’t—”

“Sleepover!” Sam screeches from next to him, and Dean winces in spite of himself. “Yes, Cas! Come sleep over!”

“Really gonna deny the birthday boy?” Dean asks teasingly. “Seriously, Cas. It’s the least we could do, after you helped us throw a whole goddamn party for him.” 

Cas looks like he wants to protest, but Dean doesn’t miss the small grimace that crosses his face when he looks down at his steering wheel.

Finally, he looks back up at Dean, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, and with the creak of his car’s door opening, Dean knows he’s made his decision. “Well, if you insist.”

“I do. Sammy, grab that balloon monstrosity and float over to the backseat.”

Cas is going home. He’s going home with Dean Winchester.

Sure, it would’ve been easy enough for him to insist that Dean drive him home instead; he doesn’t live far away either. But, surprising even himself, Castiel had realized that while he could have done that, it wouldn’t have been what he wanted.

What he wanted was to be able to spend as much time as possible with one Dean Winchester.

There’s a shoebox holding an extensive cassette collection at Cas’ feet, but instead of music, the drive is soundtracked by Sam’s chattering in the backseat about his new books, how much fun he’d had at his party, how he knows all the other kids in his class are gonna be jealous.

Dean chuckles to himself, and Cas takes a moment to take him in—the ease with which he seems to maneuver the car along, the way he seems so casual, so content in this moment, like the simplicity of it is exactly what he’s been looking for. His grip on the wheel is loose, one hand steering smoothly, the other… the other resting between them on the bench seat.

Cas’ eyes lock on it, and he’s taken by surprise when Dean makes a turn. Before he can stop it, his hand brushes against Dean’s, and Cas pulls it back like he’s been scalded, hoping that the rapidly darkening sky is enough to hide his blush at the inadvertent contact.

He forces himself to focus on the road ahead of them, looking forward through the windshield without distraction, but when he sneaks a glance back down, Dean’s hand hasn’t moved.

“That’s okay,” Dean says quietly. He’s still got his eyes on the road when Cas looks at him, but when Cas looks back down, his hand is in the same position it had been before, palm up… not expectantly, per se, maybe invitingly.

Cas hesitantly rests his hand on top of Dean’s—not holding it, per se, but damn close—and when Cas glances at him one last time, he swears he can see his lips quirk up in a tiny little smile.

“Home sweet home,” Dean says, pushing open the front door. “I’ll track down some clothes for you later, Cas, but in the meantime, you hungry?”

“Oh, Dean, you don’t have to—”

“Want to,” he says with a shake of his head. “Nothing special, but it’ll fill you up.”

The dinner, as it turns out, is reheated Spaghetti-os, a staple Cas remembers fondly from his youth. “Leftovers,” Dean says by way of apology as he starts doling the food out onto three separate plates. “Didn’t have time for anything else after putting together the cake.”

“It looks delicious,” Cas says.

Sam, however, seems to have other thoughts. “Seriously, Dean? We just had Spaghetti-os,” he moans, pulling out a chair at the small kitchen table and resting his chin in his hands.

“Don’t start with me,” Dean says warningly, using his spoon to point at Sam. “It’s good and it’s here, so we’re eating it.”

Sam pouts, slouching down in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t look at the plate when Dean sets it in front of him, opting instead to keep his glare in place as Dean takes his own seat at the table. “I want chicken. Chicken parm.”

Dean closes his eyes and takes a breath. “There’s pasta right there; that’s half of chicken parm anyway. We’ll get some frozen chicken next week, okay? Promise.”

“Brady says you’re supposed to get whatever you want on your birthday, and I want chicken parm. Brady gets chicken parm even when it’s not his birthday.”

“Yeah, I bet his silver spoon ass sure does,” Dean mutters through gritted teeth. Cas watches as Dean’s grip on the table goes tighter, and he drums his fingers on the tabletop before grabbing his own spoon.

“Sam,” Cas interjects quickly in a sloppy attempt to diffuse the tension, “I actually really enjoy Spag—”

“It’s my birthday, and I don’t want it.”

Castiel jumps in spite of himself, taken by surprise when Dean pounds a clenched fist down on the table, making it shake incrementally. “Damn it, Sam, did you miss the fucking birthday party I just threw for you? You’re not getting anything else until I get paid, and you’re gonna deal with it. I didn’t raise an ungrateful kid, but you’re sure as shit acting like it right about now.”

Sam freezes at the outburst, and Cas bites anxiously on the inside of his cheek. He shouldn’t be here, especially because he’s too paralyzed to do anything but stare at Dean right along with Sam. The only difference is that while he’s sure he looks a bit shocked, Sam’s face is painted with nothing but betrayal.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to self-correct, his face pale as he shoves a hand frustratedly through his hair, struggling to find the right words to try and rectify the situation. “Sammy, I’m—”

Sam cuts him off with nothing but the shove of his plate away from him toward the center of the table. He glares hard at Dean, face getting red, eyes wet with frustrated, unshed tears. “Whoever told you you were good at this stuff was dead wrong . Brady’s mom says it all the time, and she’s right. I wish I lived with them.”

Cas winces. Judging by Dean’s stunned face, Sam, like all eight-year-olds, seems to know exactly where to drive the knife in, as well as when to twist to create the most damage. Without another word, he shoves himself back from the table and gets to his feet, stomping as hard as he can across the wooden floor toward the hallway.

Realizing that the situation is deteriorating faster than he’d anticipated, Dean scrambles helplessly to salvage it. “Sammy—”

“And no more ‘Sammy,’” Sam adds over his shoulder. “I’m not a baby anymore. It’s just ‘Sam.’”

Cas dares to glance over at Dean, and for whatever reason, it’s clear that last jab seems to have left him more crestfallen than the earlier insults. He doesn’t even flinch when Sam slams the door to his room with all of his newly-minted eight-year-old might at the end of the hallway.

The two of them are left in a heavy, uncomfortable silence made even worse by the overpowering smell of processed tomato sauce. Desperate for some way to alleviate a bit of the tension, Cas scoops up a spoonful of the pasta.

“I for one think it’s delicious,” Castiel says awkwardly, and Dean huffs out a laugh. Despite the halfhearted attempt at a compliment, Dean gathers their plates and starts transferring the Spaghetti-os back into the Tupperware container.

“Glad somebody thinks so.”

The next hour or so passes with Cas helping Dean clean up the kitchen, Dean dropping off a slice of cake at Sam’s door for dinner—“Kid’s gotta eat something, and I ain’t above sucking up in desperate times,”—and the two of them dropping down onto the couch, Dean turning the channel to some reality cooking competition. Cas has seen Dean check out cookbooks before; he knows it must kill him not having access to the array of ingredients these chefs toss around like nothing as part of their competition, but it seems to take his mind off things, so Cas watches with him in silence.

“Sure you don’t want me to drop you off at your place?” he finally asks with a hollow chuckle during a commercial break.

“If you’ll have me, I’d like to stay,” Castiel says carefully.

“I’m not usually this bad at this,” Dean says in response, like he’s pleading with Cas to believe him. “Just caught me on an off day, I guess.”

“Dean, I see how you and Sam interact on a daily basis. I know you’re good at this. Better than good, even. We’re all allowed to have bad days, even you.”

“Yeah, say that to Sam.”

“In my experience, eight-year-olds don’t always have the most understanding mindsets when they’re upset. But ask him in five years, and I guarantee he’ll say the same.”

Before Dean can respond, they hear footsteps coming down the hall, and Sam enters the living room, toothbrush in hand. He’s wearing an oversized purple sweatshirt with a dog printed on it paired with gray pajama pants, and looks at Dean expectantly.

“You coming?”

For whatever reason, Dean looks surprised, and even a little relieved. He glances at Castiel, but doesn’t say anything to him, instead replying to Sam, “Uh, yeah. Give us a few minutes, okay? We’ll get our PJs on and meet you in there.”

Once Sam’s out of earshot, Dean finally offers an explanation. “He won’t, uh, I need to brush my teeth with him. You don’t have to come, but—”

“And risk disappointing my dentist even further?” Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

Dean laughs at that, a real, genuine chuckle and a smile for the first time since their drive home from the party, and Castiel’s heart swells as he smiles back. There’s no questioning it this time, not even for his overly anxious, second-guessing mind: he put that smile there. He did.

“Well, come on, then,” Dean says, getting to his feet and gesturing for Cas to do the same. “That gingivitis ain’t gonna fight itself.”

Cas stares at himself in the mirror, dressed in sweatpants and a soft, striped blue shirt Dean had tracked down for him and watching the Winchester brothers brush their teeth as Dean halfheartedly hums a song Cas doesn’t recognize under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Cas can see Sam looking up at him, smiling around his toothbrush.

“Isn’t this cool?” he asks around a mouthful of spit. “My teacher said we’re supposed to sing ‘Jingle Bells’ four times to make sure we’re brushing for two minutes, but Dean said that’s for nerds, so we brush to ‘Highway to Hell’ instead.”

Dean’s exhaustion is clear through the dark circles under his eyes, the sluggish way he moves, how he blinks slowly, and it’s all made even more prominent thanks to the bathroom’s harsh, unforgiving fluorescent lights, but he’s still humming through it all. His faded Led Zeppelin shirt and plaid pajama pants look worn and comfortable, like he could fall asleep in them standing up. He reaches down and ruffles Sam’s hair affectionately, reminding Castiel of the first day he’d met them at the library.

Sam leans over the sink and spits, then turns his full attention to Cas. “Sometimes Dean does air guitar too, but I think he’s too tired tonight.” He turns on his heel and looks at Dean now. “Are you tired?”

Dean sighs, quietly enough for Sam not to notice it, and nods. “Yeah, Samm…” He trails off, and Castiel’s heart lurches in his chest at the effort he’s going to to respect his little brother’s wishes. “Yeah. Just tired.”

When Dean drops his hand away from Sam’s head, Cas reacts without thinking. He reaches over, careful to make sure Sam doesn’t see, and entwines his fingers with Dean’s. Dean glances at him, and Cas gives Dean’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Cas smiles around his toothbrush when Dean squeezes back.

“Hey, uh, sorry for making you sit through all that.”

They’re back in the living room, sprawled out on the overstuffed sofa. Sam’s tucked into bed—“He’s probably reading when he should be going to sleep, but ask me if I give a shit tonight,”—and Cas is picking at the label of the beer bottle Dean had thrust into his hand without preamble a few minutes earlier.

“You didn’t make me do anything, Dean. I’m grateful you’re letting me stay the night.”

“Sure about that? Nothing like some good old Winchester drama to get folks heading for the hills.”

“I haven’t been surer about anything in a very long time. I promise.”

“You’re just saying that because the only other option was sleeping in your car.”

Cas purses his lips. “Speaking from experience,” he says slowly, “the bean bags in the children’s section make for a fine sleeping arrangement, as well.”

Dean leans back against the couch with a laugh, taking a sip of his beer. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Surprising even himself, instead of responding, Cas changes the subject by reaching for the necklace Dean’s wearing, tapping gently at the cord. “I’ve never seen you wear this before.”

“It’s usually under my shirt,” Dean says. “Sam gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago. He says he got it from his school’s librarian, who told him that it’s an ancient relic with protective powers, but I’m pretty sure he found it at one of those holiday shopping things they put on for the elementary school kids in the school gym.”

“Sounds like Sam’s got himself a regular Giles for a librarian.”

“Yeah, hopefully with less vampires that need slaying. Kid’s got enough to deal with already. Don’t need to add that to the list.”

“It sounds to me like you both have enough to deal with.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that, and for a few heart-pounding seconds, Cas wonders if he’s overstepped his boundaries when Dean, his voice smaller than Cas has ever heard it, answers, “I try. Damn it, Cas, I know he doesn’t mean it, that he’s just a kid, but I try so fucking hard to give him everything he needs, everything I needed, and with bitches like Brady’s mom looking down her stupid fucking nose at me at every turn—”

“I know,” Castiel answers. “I don’t know what I can do to help, but I know. I’ve seen a lot of children in my line of work, Dean, and trust me when I say that Sam is the best of the best. He’s patient, and he’s kind, and he sees the best in people. Did he tell you about how he helped another library visitor with their reading after storytime?”

Dean stares at him in surprise. “No.”

“Or how he noticed an older guest was having trouble with a computer program, and went over to help them?”

Dean shakes his head, a bewildered but pleased smile on his lips. “No, but Sam’s a good kid. He knows when to help. He gets people.”

Cas shakes his head this time. “You can deny it all you want, but that selflessness, that desire to help? I haven’t known you long, but I already know he learned it all from you.”

Dean opens his mouth, ready to protest, so Castiel cuts him off before he can. “That doesn’t just come out of nowhere, and if you don’t want to give yourself credit for it, then I will. Dean Winchester, you are smart, you are kind, you are caring. Sam is lucky to have you. We all are.”

Dean stares at him, stunned. Castiel has half a mind to apologize for making Dean uncomfortable, but then decides to hold his ground; Dean needs to hear these things and have someone stand behind them, not treat them like mistakes.

Instead of saying anything though, he leans forward and pulls Cas into a hug. He hugs him hard, and Cas reciprocates, holding him close and breathing him in. He’s careful to follow Dean’s lead and doesn’t let go; when Dean finally does, it’s so he can lean back just far enough to kiss him. Warm and cautious and excited, Cas sinks into the feeling of Dean’s lips against his own. Castiel can taste the lingering sting of mouthwash on Dean’s tongue, and smiles against his lips. After one last kiss, Dean rests his forehead against Castiel’s.

“Th’nks, Cas,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Cas’ mouth. 

Cas squeezes his knee in silent affirmation and smiles. “Whenever you need a reminder, let me know.”

Dean huffs out a laugh at that, running a hand through his hair as he pulls back. “Hey, so, I don’t know if you’re up for it, but I got a couple of movies at that book sale a few weeks back, if you wanted to…”

“I’d love to,” Castiel says. “Your choice.”

That’s easy enough for Dean: when he learns that Cas has never seen Jaws —“Jaws, Cas, really? It’s a fucking masterpiece. Next thing you’ll tell me you’ve never seen Jurassic … you’re kidding me,”—he throws it into the DVD player. 

The movie itself is interesting enough, but what really catches Cas’ attention is the eventual weight of Dean’s head resting on his shoulder, his breathing low and even. He smiles to himself and closes his eyes, his fingers loosely tangled with Dean’s on the couch between them.

They don’t talk much the next morning, moving through the Winchesters’ small home with a quiet ease as Cas and Dean get ready for their days. Dean presses a plastic bag holding a Tupperware container of Spaghetti-os into Cas’ hands, silencing him with a single, no-nonsense look when Cas opens his mouth to protest.

Sam’s still fast asleep, and Dean and Cas pass the Winchesters’ next-door neighbor, a kind, bubbly woman named Donna who Dean had asked to keep an eye on and get some food in him whenever he wakes up. The whole thing has a very second-nature feel, one Castiel hadn’t been expecting the night after an impromptu sleepover, but for whatever reason, it feels like he and Dean have already effortlessly fitted themselves perfectly into each other’s lives.

He can’t say he minds.

“Got your keys?” Dean asks gruffly once they’ve pulled into the library parking lot, Castiel’s old Lincoln Continental sitting abandoned in a corner parking spot. He rubs the sleep out of his eye with the heel of his hand, trying and failing to stifle a yawn before holding his hand out. “I’ll take a look before heading into work.”

Castiel nods, pulling his keys out of his pocket and dropping them into Dean’s outstretched palm. He smiles when he sees Dean grin at the only keychain he has attached to them, a small enamel bumblebee wearing a cowboy hat and little boots on each of his tiny legs, beehaw! coming out of a small speech bubble above him.

“You’re such a nerd,” he says affectionately.

“Takes one to know one.”

Dean looks at him, a bit surprised at the retort, then laughs. “Guess so,” he says, tossing Castiel’s keys up into the air and closing his fingers around them when they land back in his palm. “Hey, uh, I don’t wanna make you late or anything, but would you, if you want, maybe want to go out again? To an actual dinner or something?”

In retrospect, Castiel thinks he should have taken his time answering. Kept his cool like protagonists do in all his favorite books. But instead, he says, “Yes.” He says, “Yes, of course,” just seconds after the words leave Dean’s mouth.

“Awesome,” Dean says again, the smile on his face more than enough to assure Cas that they’re both on track to have good days. He watches as Cas opens the passenger side door of the Impala and climbs out, running his hand gingerly over the steering wheel. “We’ll have your own baby good as new in no time.”

Cas closes the door behind him, the loud creak warm and familiar in his ears. “Have a good day, Dean. Thank you.” He holds up the plastic bag holding his lunch, and Dean gives him a quick salute.

“See ya, Cas.”

Cas hasn’t even made it half an hour into his shift when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

Dean, 8:47am: all set, speed racer. keys are under the backseat floor mat. have a good day, okay?

Cas, 8:50am: Thank you so much, Dean. For this and for last night. I’ll see you soon?

Dean, 8:54am: beehaw.

It’s weird, Dean decides, having someone else he can count on. For the first time in what feels like forever, he has someone he can share everything with. And not just the bad, either—Cas is the first person he tells about his promotion at the garage, the B+ on his English lit essay, Sam’s student of the month certificate.

It’s weird, but he also doesn’t hate it.

On his way home from the garage one day, he stops to get the photo from Sam’s birthday printed, which is where he notices a flier—a goddamn flier of all things, where are they, the nineties—for a midnight screening of the latest All Saints Day movie, with a special appearance by the director and David Yaeger’s stunt double. 

The whole thing is campy and weird and a little bit ridiculous and exactly what Dean needs.

He pulls his phone out and snaps a photo of the flier so he can buy tickets later, which is when he notices the date. Tonight. That spark of excitement that had been building inside him is snuffed out in an instant; there’s no way he can swing finding someone to watch Sam on such short notice. Hell, he shouldn’t even be asking someone to spend their Saturday night at his house with his kid brother while he goes out.

Disappointed, he shoves his phone back into his pocket and grabs the photo order. He’s got to get to the library to pick up Sam anyway.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

Dean sighs. That’s the thing about Cas—they haven’t been dating long, but he already seems to be able to pick up when Dean is frustrated, upset, or just off. If asked, Dean would say he hates it, that he hates having someone who can see through him right down to his weaknesses, but if he’s being completely honest, he doesn’t understand how he’s gone so long without it.

“Nothin’,” he says anyway. “Just tired.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Cas says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the circulation desk, and studies Dean curiously.

Dean sighs. “There’s a midnight screening of one of my favorite movies tonight, and I really want to go, but I don’t have anybody to watch Sam.”

Castiel tilts his head slightly to the side, a move that Dean unconsciously mimics. He knows Cas does it when he’s confused, but he also knows that imitating it makes Cas smile, and it doesn’t fail this time.

“I’ll watch Sam,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Dean shakes his head. “Cas, that’s not why I brought it up. I’m not asking you to—”

“I don’t mind—”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll catch the next one. Be more prepared or whatever.”

“Why won’t you just—”

“Because I wanted you to go with me, okay?”

Cas pauses, clearly unsure of how to respond to Dean’s outburst, and if he’s being honest, Dean isn’t sure, either.

“I would’ve wanted you to come,” Dean says quietly. “I have no idea if you like these, but if you don’t, we still could’ve just had popcorn and made fun of the shitty special effects. That’s half the fun of these movies, anyway; it makes everything less scary.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I thought it could’ve been fun. Like a, like a date. But we can’t do that if you’re watching Sam.”

Glancing around the library, Cas walks out from behind the circulation desk and takes Dean’s hand, leading him over to a more isolated corner near the start of the nonfiction stacks. “You’re right,” he says. “We can’t, but you still can.”

Dean shakes his head firmly. “Cas, I’m not gonna just dump—”

“You’re not,” Castiel says, taking Dean’s hands in his own and squeezing them in reassurance. “I promise, you’re not. I’m volunteering to do it. I enjoy spending time with Sam, and you deserve to have time for yourself, and I want to help you do that.”

Dean’s heart aches. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s had something like that, someone who’s willing to put him first, especially for something as stupid and self-centered as a horror movie screening.

“It’s just a stupid movie,” he says helpessly. He tries to pull his hands out of Cas’ grip, but Cas just tightens his fingers around them, just strong enough to make his point.

“Will it make you happy?”

“That doesn’t mat—”

“Will it make you happy, Dean?”

Dean takes a breath, thinks back to all the shitty All Saints Day novelizations he’s checked out of the library, the marathons he’s stayed up late to watch, the director’s commentaries he’s scoured the internet for. Seeing one of these movies with people who get it, who love that universe, that hint of fear just before the bad guy loses time and time again, would it make him happy?

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

Cas squeezes his hands once more. “Then it’s settled,” he says. “What time does it start?”

The side of Dean’s mouth quirks up in a small grin, and he can’t help but start to get excited at the fact that he gets to go, he gets to fucking go. “Uh, midnight.”

“Right,” he says slowly. “Midnight movie, right. Makes sense. Then I’ll be there at 11:30. Would that give you enough time to get there?”

“More than enough.” That small grin turns into a full-on smile, and Dean leans forward for another kiss. “Thanks, Cas. Seriously.”

Cas smiles too, then ghosts his thumb along the line of Dean’s jaw. “We’ll go to the next one together.”

Sam, as expected, is thrilled with the arrangement. According to Dean, he should already be fast asleep by the time Cas arrives, but only a few minutes after the Impala’s engine roars to life and fades away down the street, Castiel hears Sam’s hesitant footsteps.

“I thought you were supposed to be asleep, Sam,” he calls into the darkness of the hallway.

That’s a step too far, apparently, and Cas chuckles as Sam comes scrambling into the living room as he prepares to plead his case. “If Dean’s allowed to go out late, so am I.”

Cas considers this, then slides over to make room for Sam next to him on the couch. “Has anyone told you you’d make a good lawyer someday?” he asks as Sam hops up and grabs the remote.

“Yup,” he says matter-of-factly. “What’cha watching?”

In addition to books, Sam, as it turns out, is also a big fan of nature documentaries. They spend the evening learning about flamingos and giraffes, then different kinds of spiders (which, honestly, has Castiel second-guessing every itch he feels and shadow he notices out of the corner of his eye, but Sam seems to enjoy it, so he suffers through), before ending on a series about deep-sea creatures.

“Do we have any water?” Sam asks suddenly.

Castiel chuckles. “Is the ocean making you thirsty?”

Sam shakes his head. “You can’t drink ocean water,” he says. “You’ll get sick. Probably even die.”

“Good to know.” Cas gets to his feet and heads for the fridge. He digs through the Winchesters’ cabinets, stumbling upon a series of mismatched cups and glasses in one of them. He grabs one for Sam, and when he passes the fridge on the way to the sink, stops short.

There, stuck under a magnet for a place called Singer Auto, is the photo from Sam’s birthday. And not just the one of Sam alone, but the three of them. Castiel sets the glass down on the counter and studies it, his heart full in his chest as he takes in the happiness radiating from all three of them. Sam, thrilled to be having his moment in the sun, he and Dean flushed from their first kiss.

It’s perfect, and the fact that Dean’s deemed it important enough to hang on their fridge (that’s one thing he’s noticed about the Winchester house; there aren’t many framed photos, but the few they do have are stuck up on the fridge doors, a rite of passage if Cas has ever seen one) has Cas feeling like he’s on cloud nine.

He makes a mental note to ask Dean to send him the picture as he fills the glass and makes his way back to the living room.

“Your majesty,” he says teasingly, handing Sam the glass.

Sam accepts the water and takes a long sip without taking his eyes off the screen. “I’m glad you’re here, Cas,” he says in thanks, setting it on the coffee table before easing himself back onto the couch.

“Yeah,” Castiel answers. He watches as Sam curls up against one arm of the sofa, and carefully arranges another blanket across the younger Winchester as he yawns, slowly starting to succumb to sleep. “I am too.”

The rest of the night passes with Cas tuning in and out of another wildlife show while Sam sleeps. He’s half asleep himself when he hears the familiar rumble of the Impala pulling into the driveway, and smiles to himself. 

Dean’s quiet when he enters, closing the door as softly as he can behind him. He doesn’t turn on any lights as he moves through the small house, and Cas smiles when he hears the affectionate huff of laughter coming from behind the couch.

He looks up, careful not to disturb Sam, and cranes his neck back to give Dean a kiss.

“Good night?” he asks softly.

Cas doesn’t need any light to see the way Dean’s face lights up at the question. “ Great night. Got selfies with the director and Jaeger’s stunt double.” Cas can hear him shake a DVD case softly in the dark, and smiles. Dean walks around the couch and takes a seat on the edge of the coffee table. “What about you two?”

Cas looks at him, then at Sam, who’s barely stirred since his brother returned home. He’s tucked the blanket up tight under his chin, and Cas nods. “Same.”

He’s seen bits and pieces of it at the library, but the tenderness and care with which Dean gently lifts Sam from the couch, being careful to carry the blanket with him. Castiel follows him into Sam’s bedroom and watches as Dean tucks him into bed (Dean lets out a soft chuckle when Cas leans over to swipe aside a few books scattered across the comforter). Sam mumbles something in his sleep, holding onto Dean’s wrist when he tries to let him go, and Dean murmurs something in his ear, running his free hand through Sam’s hair and tucking the quilt around him. Sam finally rolls over, cocooning himself even deeper into the nest of blankets, and Dean smiles.

“Night, Sam,” he whispers, just barely loud enough for Cas to hear.

Back in the living room, Dean hops onto Sam’s spot on the couch, grabbing another blanket on the way. He tucks one end against his shoulder, holding the other open until Cas burrows in next to him. Cas sighs deeply against Dean’s shirt; he smells like movie theater popcorn and brisk, late-night air, and he snuggles against him a little deeper.

“I’m glad you had fun tonight,” he says.

“Thanks to you,” Dean says quietly, toying with a few stray strands of Cas’ hair.

Cas spends a few peaceful moments leaning into the touch, then looks up at Dean. “Tell me about it?”

Dean looks at him, his grin getting wider the longer Cas goes without backtracking. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

And Cas would never tell him, but having Dean next to him, watching the animated way he talks about the things he loves, acting out different parts of the movie with cartoonish, overexaggerated motions, is infinitely better than any movie Cas has ever seen.

Father’s Day is tough.

It’s always tough; has been for as long as Dean can remember, ever since they lost their mom and, by association, their dad. He’s coached himself, then Sam, through the Father’s Day activities at school, the ones that assume everyone has one big happy nuclear family, tried not to drown his sorrows too obviously, and always sprung for a pizza or something special for that day.

Even though the incident is over a month old, Dean chooses chicken parm from the fancy Italian place across town as their meal this year.

He’s throwing together the basic mixings for a salad, sniffing the air occasionally to check on the status of the garlic bread in the oven, when he hears the doorbell ring over the faint music he’s got playing in the background on his phone.

“Sam, door!” he shouts.

He picks up the pace, setting glasses and plates onto the table, and when he looks up, Cas is standing in the kitchen entryway, plastic bag in hand and a warm smile on his face.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and Dean’s shoulders instantly relax.

Cas’ first Father’s Day with them feels like a big deal. Still feeling around their newly minted relationship—god, it still blows his mind if he thinks about it too much; he and Cas are in a fucking relationship —the two of them haven’t yet had any milestone events together. 

Having Cas now makes him wonder how the hell he ever did any of this stuff all on his own. He helps with Sam’s lunches, his homework, hell, Dean even adds him to Sam’s list of approved adults to pick him up at school—based on Cas’ reaction to that, he may as well have just proposed on the fucking spot.

“Thanks for being here,” Dean says—and not just for the particular day.

Cas leans in and gives him a kiss in response, setting the bag of food down on the table. Sam appears seconds later, wasting no time in poking through the bag. He looks up at Dean in surprise.

“No pizza?”

Dean gapes at him. “No p—you said—you know what, no,” he says, shaking his head tightly. “Next time, okay?”

“I guess.” Sam’s about to go in for the food when he realizes, “Oh! Wait, hold on, I have something for you guys.” He scrambles down the hall in the oversized slipper socks Cas had picked up for him.

“Don’t run!” Dean shouts after him, wincing when he hears Sam stumble. “Kid’s got a fucking death wish,” he mutters.

“I do not!” Sam emerges from his room a minute later, holding something gingerly in his hands the way Dean imagines he’d handle a baby bird. “We made this in school on Friday,” he says, thrusting a small box wrapped messily in tissue paper into Dean’s hands. “Open it.”

Dean glances at Cas, and the two of them start slowly tearing away the paper. Inside is a thick frame made of cheap plywood, the kind at arts and crafts stores. It’s been painted a light blue with little splotches of yellow and green dotted randomly around it—so random that Dean’s half-convinced they’re the result of an accidental paint spill Sam decided to lean into instead of starting over—and he recognizes Sam’s messy handwriting spelling out HAPPY FATHER’S DAY across the top. He chuckles to himself; Sam had started the letters too big at the beginning, the letters to DAY scrunched up small at the end.

What has his breath catching in his chest, though, is the photo Sam had chosen for the frame.

It’s the selfie from his birthday, the one of the three of them crowded in close with the library’s lightboard behind them - Sam must have swiped it from where they’d stuck it to the fridge. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean murmurs, letting his thumb run over the wood of the frame.

“Manners, Dean!” Sam chirps from behind them, then scoops up his plate, piles it high with chicken parm, and bounds toward the living room.

Once Sam is out of earshot, Cas leans in, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder and snaking his arms around Dean’s waist. “That’s lovely,” he says quietly. “You must be proud, to have him make you a present like that.”

Dean keeps his eyes on the photo, but Cas doesn’t miss the way his back straightens a little. “Didn’t you hear him? It’s for both of us.”

“Dean, you’re his father figure, not me.”

Dean shakes his head, maneuvering himself awkwardly in Cas’ arms so that they’re chest to chest. “Hello, do you see this picture?” He turns it around so that Cas can see it clearly. “Sam and I have taken tons of photos together, and he chose this one. Kid knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t know…” Cas trails off, but then freezes. “Dean,” he says softly, “look.”

Cas gently moves the frame around in Dean’s hands so that it’s facing him again, then points to the bottom right corner. Dean follows Cas’ finger, and goddamn it, Dean’s only got three rules: he doesn’t do shorts, no eating in the Impala, and he sure as shit doesn’t cry on Father’s Day. But Sam, apparently, is hellbent on making him break one of those, because scrawled in the corner, small and inconspicuous, is LOVE SAMMY.

“That little shit,” he mutters with a relieved grin. 

Cas leans in close, resting their foreheads together before pressing a quick kiss at the top of Dean’s head. “Manners, Dean.”

And Dean can’t help it; he throws his head back and laughs, pouring everything he has—delight, relief, peace, completeness, and hell, even a little bit of love, into the kiss he presses to Cas’ lips. 

Fuck the books, he decides, looping his arms loosely behind Cas’ head and kissing him again. He’d spent years and years being told that they don’t make storybook endings like this, not for anyone, most definitely not for him, and now, for the first time in ages, he finally has what—and most importantly, who —he needs to write his own.