Humble Pie [19/20]
“He’s lost a huge amount of blood, but I’ve given him a transfusion and put him on an IV drip, which should counteract both the blood-loss and the pain. The stitches you put in last night are good, they’ll hold for now, so as long as he doesn’t get infected, I think I can safely say he’ll make a full recovery. Naturally, there’ll be some scarring, but considering his injuries I think that’s a very small price to pay.”
Dean isn’t listening. He stopped listening at ‘Castiel will be okay’. So now he just sits and looks at Castiel lying peacefully in one of Bobby’s spare beds, propped up on his side so as not to hurt his back any further, and lets Dr. Sam Carr’s words flow over him. Dr. Carr, in Bobby’s address book because of his slightly alternative views on morality and the law, had been perfectly happy to come out here this morning and treat a gravely-injured patient who bore a remarkable resemblance to the stolen slave who was recently all over the news, no questions asked.
Bobby’s address book is worth its weight in gold.
Dean doesn’t pay attention as Dr. Carr instructs Bobby on how and when to change Castiel’s dressings, what temperature to keep him at, what to feed him, how to replace the IV bag for the drip, and when he’ll be back for another checkup.
At some point during the conversation, everyone else leaves the room, because suddenly it’s very quiet, and all Dean can hear is his own breathing and Castiel’s.
He leans back in the chair and watches Castiel’s eyes move beneath his eyelids. Dreaming.
He’s okay. No one is going to hurt him, not anymore. He’s going to wake up, and then he’s going to get better; and then, when he’s fully recovered, Gabriel will take him away somewhere nice and safe, where he’ll be happy and live to a good old age, a normal, settled life, with friends and partners and a job. And Dean will never see or hear from him again. Oh, maybe they’ll exchange a text or two every once in awhile, at least until one of them changes their number and forgets to tell the other. And then that will be the end of it, for ever.
It’s makes sense. Why should Castiel want to remember this, what must be one of the worst experiences of his life?
It doesn’t matter, anyway. Dean doesn’t care - why would he? Castiel’s just one in a long list of people who’ve walked out of his life. He’s a big boy now. He can deal.
Not that there’s anything to deal with, because, let’s be honest, he knows Henricksen better than he knows Castiel. If Castiel wants to leave, that’s fine - good, in fact. Dean doesn’t care.
And as he sits by Castiel’s bedside, hour after hour, with nothing but his thoughts for company, Dean tells himself that he’s okay with being alone.
Castiel is going to be fine. Everything else is just details.
Castiel sleeps for two days straight, and if he does wake up it’s only for a few minutes that he won’t remember later. Dean spends all this time by his bedside. Keeping an eye on him, he says.
Dean spends a good amount of this time sleeping, too; mainly because there’s not much else to do and he’s starting to feel like a pervert, watching Castiel sleep all this time. When Dean sleeps, it’s deep and dreamless and black most of the time.
One time, though, he dreams.
He dreams that Castiel is happy, and this isn’t a dream; it’s a nightmare.
Dean approaches a small, pretty house by the sea, and he knows that it’s Castiel’s house, even though he’s never seen it before in his life. There is no wind, the long grass absolutely still, and the sun is shining with a cool heat that never quite reaches Dean’s skin. Everything is bathed in a vaguely honey-colored glow.
Castiel is sitting outside his house, drawing. Dean has never seen Castiel draw before but now it seems like the most natural thing in the world, the arch of his wrist perfectly normal, the light frown of concentration fitting easily onto his brow, soft pencil strokes dark against the pulp of the paper. He can’t see what Castiel is drawing.
There is the smell of food from inside the house, dinner cooking, and it smells good. Dean pauses for a moment to take it all in; and then Castiel looks up. And he is radiant.
Dean has never seen Castiel happy, but the expression belongs with the man’s face so perfectly, so comfortably, he thinks it must have been a strain for Castiel to be anything but happy. The frown-induced lines on his face are gone, replaced with lines of laughter, crinkles around his eyes, and Dean wants to make Castiel laugh. He wants to see the flash of white teeth as Castiel smiles. He wants to be the one to make Castiel happy.
But although there is happiness in Castiel’s eyes, there is nothing else. No spark of recognition. No surprise, no anger, no pleasure. No distaste, no hatred, no welcome.
Castiel is happy, but to be so he has forgotten Dean completely.
Dean will not remember this dream. When he wakes, it will be with tears on his cheeks, and he will not know why. He will brush them away, embarrassed, but some part of him will recall the way his soul was destroyed by one simple look from a man he barely knows.
Castiel wakes up properly for the first time on the third day. Dean left his bedside to relieve himself (the only reason he ever leaves Castiel’s bedside these days), and when he gets back, Castiel is just beginning to stir. Dean stands in the doorway, leaning against the wall, and watches as Castiel gets his bearings. The man’s breathing hitches for a moment before evening out again as he realizes where he is; and then, before Castiel can see him, Dean slips away.
While Castiel was asleep, things around Bobby’s house reached a certain pattern. With the Harvelles, Charlie and Henricksen no longer there, Dean would spend all of his time in Castiel’s room ‘just in case Cas needed anything’, or ‘making entirelyheterosexual eyes at him’, depending on who you listened to; Gabriel wandered around dejectedly; Crowley threw himself into his work, hogging Sam’s laptop and being utterly vile (everyone understands because he’s genuinely concerned, but it still hasn’t stopped Bobby from trying to kill him. Twice.); Sam poured over the stuff Charlie got from Divinity; and Bobby tried to pretend he wasn’t everyone’s maid when in real life he was the only one doing anything even remotely practical.
Now that Castiel’s woken up, however, the pattern has changed a little.
Dean spends as little time inside as possible. He keeps himself busy, preferring to pretend that nothing’s wrong than be alone with his thoughts. He cleans out and reassembles all his guns, then all Sam’s and Bobby’s, too. He tinkers with the Impala and moves around the scrap metal in Bobby’s backyard. He pesters Henricksen for developments about the case and contacts every lawyer Sam knows of. He talks to Ellen and Jo on the phone when they call and goes over Charlie’s findings with them. He deflects Sheriff Mills when she comes by looking for Bobby. He does anything and everything he can think of to keep himself moving, keep himself distracted, just so long as he doesn’t have a chance to actually stop and think.
And almost every day, Sam comes to him, telling him how Castiel is doing, that Castiel is asking for him, that he really should go talk to Castiel because it’s been five days now since he woke up and Dean still hasn’t even said ‘hi’, and considering he spent the entire time Castiel was asleep by his bedside practically bawling his eyes out (Sam’s words, not his), it’s a bit stupid for him to be hiding out here now. And Dean is always busy, always has an excuse ready. Because he can’t go inside, he can’t climb those stairs and enter that room. He can’t speak to that man.
Because someday soon that man will be gone. And Dean’s tired of losing people he cares about. So it’s better not to care.
He goes up to see Castiel when everyone else is asleep. It feels more private that way.
Castiel isn’t asleep. Dean knew he wouldn’t be. The moment Dean appears in the doorway, still battling with himself about whether to cross over the threshold, Castiel rolls over to face him and transfixes him with those damned eyes of his.
“Hey.”
Dean swallows, but his voice, when it comes, is still scratchy. “Hey.”
He walks into the room and perches lightly on the side of Castiel’s bed. If he sits in the chair, he might be tempted to stay here all night. They’re both quiet for a moment, until Castiel breaks the silence.
“Sam says you were often here while I was sleeping.”
Dean shrugs. “No more than anyone else.”
“That’s not what Sam said.”
Goddammit, Sammy, always sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted. He’s going to kill him. “Yeah. Well. He exaggerates.”
Castiel’s silence conveys perfectly just what he thinks of that, and in the pause that follows, Dean is acutely aware of the other man’s eyes on his face.
“Thank you,” Castiel says finally, and it’s so unexpected Dean blurts out “for what?”
Castiel’s face is earnest. “Everything.”
Dean shifts uncomfortably. Being the hero doesn’t sit well with him. It’s so much easier to do good things if people never know. Then you don’t have to worry about the spotlight, you don’t have to worry about people feeling like they owe you. You’re equal to them. Being a hero ... It’s too lonely for a guy with abandonment issues.
“So, it looks like Divinity Incorporated will be going down, thanks to the evidence Charlie found,” he says, speaking loudly to fill the silence because it’s stretching on too long now and he’s starting to consider doing all sorts of irrational things that would definitely not be a good idea.
Like kissing Castiel.
Fuck.
“Uh ... Charges have been dropped against me and Sam,” he ploughs on bravely, willing his mind to change tracks. “So that’s good. Uh ... We’re trying to hurry through your citizenship papers so you’ll have them sooner rather than later and stuff …” He trails off as he meets Castiel’s eyes, such a unique shade of blue. They’re like the sea, those eyes, always changing, always unfathomable. Sometimes they look like the most wind-tossed storm, others like murky depths, and then sometimes, like today, they’re clear and light, reflecting the sky.
Castiel’s smell is in his nostrils, soft and lazy, almost like a baby’s scent. Castiel’s hair looks like feathers. Like a cygnet’s gray, fluffy down. Dean’s fingers ache to stroke it, caress it, hold Castiel’s head. There’s an itch in his chest whenever he thinks about Castiel, and it’s terrifying because, if he scratches it, he knows it will overwhelm him, and this has never happened before.
He bites his lip. Their faces are so close. It would take so little to just lean in ... close the gap ... and ...
Castiel’s mouth is rough, his lips dry but warm, and they taste vaguely of sleep. And the moment Dean’s lips touch his, he knows he’s made a terrible mistake. Instead of melting into the kiss, Castiel goes rigid, tense, every muscle in his body freezing up. Dean pulls away almost instantly, but the damage is done - to both of them.
Before either of them can speak, Dean stands and turns to exit the room, because he doesn’t trust his voice not to break.
He never had much of a chance with Castiel. But not only has he just ruined the only one he had, he’s just confirmed to himself that he ... that Castiel ... means something to him ... means a lot to him ...
Fuck.
He’s almost out the door before Castiel stops him.
“Dean, wait.”
He could keep going, ignore Castiel, leave and not come back, but he can see the expression on Castiel’s face even without looking; he can see the plea in his eyes, and he can’t quite bring himself to just walk out. He owes the man an explanation at the very least. So he stops and turns, not moving any further away, but not coming any nearer, either. And he waits for Castiel to speak.
“Why did you do that?” Castiel asks at length, and Dean laughs, hoping it will hide the tremor in his voice.
“I don’t know. I wanted to, I guess. It was a mistake.” He runs a hand over his face, too tired to be having this sort of emotional conversation. He’s embarrassed and hurt, and because he’s Dean Winchester, this naturally translates to him lashing out in some sort of fucked-up defense mechanism.
“Do you regret it, then?”
This is both so unexpected and yet so undeniably Castiel - only he could get to the heart of the situation so quickly and bluntly without seeing any problem with that - that Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settles for shrugging and muttering “yeah”.
Castiel tilts his head slightly, frowning, and Dean clenches his fists at the gesture.
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t want it,” he blurts angrily. “Okay? I made a mistake - I didn’t think about what you want, I was selfish, I acted without thinking, I did what I always do - I screwed up. And now ... now ... Never mind. I’m going to bed.”
“How can you know what I want if all you do is avoid me?” Castiel asks, and Dean feels another wave of guilt wash over him.
“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “What do you want, Cas?”
He means it almost as a joke, but Castiel takes it seriously, like he does everything, and sits there for a moment, considering. Dean can see thoughts running across the other man’s face but doesn’t have the tools to read them, so he perches awkwardly on the bed beside Castiel, and waits. He figures that if Castiel is taking this seriously, then maybe he should, too.
“I want to be happy, Dean,” he says finally, looking up at him with an open face. “And you ... I want you to be happy, too, after all you’ve done for me - you saved my life-”
“If that is what this is about, save your breath,” Dean says harshly. The idea that all Castiel sees him as is a guy who happened to help him and who he somehow owes hurts almost as much as the rejection did. He stands sharply, turning to leave again, only to find a hand on his arm, stopping him, gentle but insistent. He moves his head to look at Castiel, look him right in the eye, and what he sees there catches his breath in his throat.
“You caught me by surprise, Dean,” Castiel says, voice rough. “I didn’t think-” He stops, his breathing loud in the darkness, and then they both lean in at once and meet sloppily in the middle, teeth clacking together painfully. Dean pulls back somewhat sheepishly, and they try again, more slowly this time, more gently, Dean placing his lips softly over Castiel’s in a chaste kiss. With anyone else, he might be rough, rushed even, but with Castiel he is nothing but gentle. The time for more will come later. For now, all he can think about is Castiel: Castiel’s scent, sweet and musky, filling his nose; Castiel’s eyes, april-blue, locked on his; Castiel’s stubble-studded face in his hands. And his stomach does somersaults as he realizes what this means.
It means he hasn’t screwed up. He hasn’t made a mess.
It means Castiel ... He …
When he pulls away, he gently runs a finger over Castiel’s ear and asks if this means Castiel is staying.
And, honest to God, Castiel chuckles.
“Of course I’m staying.”
Dean isn’t listening. He stopped listening at ‘Castiel will be okay’. So now he just sits and looks at Castiel lying peacefully in one of Bobby’s spare beds, propped up on his side so as not to hurt his back any further, and lets Dr. Sam Carr’s words flow over him. Dr. Carr, in Bobby’s address book because of his slightly alternative views on morality and the law, had been perfectly happy to come out here this morning and treat a gravely-injured patient who bore a remarkable resemblance to the stolen slave who was recently all over the news, no questions asked.
Bobby’s address book is worth its weight in gold.
Dean doesn’t pay attention as Dr. Carr instructs Bobby on how and when to change Castiel’s dressings, what temperature to keep him at, what to feed him, how to replace the IV bag for the drip, and when he’ll be back for another checkup.
At some point during the conversation, everyone else leaves the room, because suddenly it’s very quiet, and all Dean can hear is his own breathing and Castiel’s.
He leans back in the chair and watches Castiel’s eyes move beneath his eyelids. Dreaming.
He’s okay. No one is going to hurt him, not anymore. He’s going to wake up, and then he’s going to get better; and then, when he’s fully recovered, Gabriel will take him away somewhere nice and safe, where he’ll be happy and live to a good old age, a normal, settled life, with friends and partners and a job. And Dean will never see or hear from him again. Oh, maybe they’ll exchange a text or two every once in awhile, at least until one of them changes their number and forgets to tell the other. And then that will be the end of it, for ever.
It’s makes sense. Why should Castiel want to remember this, what must be one of the worst experiences of his life?
It doesn’t matter, anyway. Dean doesn’t care - why would he? Castiel’s just one in a long list of people who’ve walked out of his life. He’s a big boy now. He can deal.
Not that there’s anything to deal with, because, let’s be honest, he knows Henricksen better than he knows Castiel. If Castiel wants to leave, that’s fine - good, in fact. Dean doesn’t care.
And as he sits by Castiel’s bedside, hour after hour, with nothing but his thoughts for company, Dean tells himself that he’s okay with being alone.
Castiel is going to be fine. Everything else is just details.
Castiel sleeps for two days straight, and if he does wake up it’s only for a few minutes that he won’t remember later. Dean spends all this time by his bedside. Keeping an eye on him, he says.
Dean spends a good amount of this time sleeping, too; mainly because there’s not much else to do and he’s starting to feel like a pervert, watching Castiel sleep all this time. When Dean sleeps, it’s deep and dreamless and black most of the time.
One time, though, he dreams.
He dreams that Castiel is happy, and this isn’t a dream; it’s a nightmare.
Dean approaches a small, pretty house by the sea, and he knows that it’s Castiel’s house, even though he’s never seen it before in his life. There is no wind, the long grass absolutely still, and the sun is shining with a cool heat that never quite reaches Dean’s skin. Everything is bathed in a vaguely honey-colored glow.
Castiel is sitting outside his house, drawing. Dean has never seen Castiel draw before but now it seems like the most natural thing in the world, the arch of his wrist perfectly normal, the light frown of concentration fitting easily onto his brow, soft pencil strokes dark against the pulp of the paper. He can’t see what Castiel is drawing.
There is the smell of food from inside the house, dinner cooking, and it smells good. Dean pauses for a moment to take it all in; and then Castiel looks up. And he is radiant.
Dean has never seen Castiel happy, but the expression belongs with the man’s face so perfectly, so comfortably, he thinks it must have been a strain for Castiel to be anything but happy. The frown-induced lines on his face are gone, replaced with lines of laughter, crinkles around his eyes, and Dean wants to make Castiel laugh. He wants to see the flash of white teeth as Castiel smiles. He wants to be the one to make Castiel happy.
But although there is happiness in Castiel’s eyes, there is nothing else. No spark of recognition. No surprise, no anger, no pleasure. No distaste, no hatred, no welcome.
Castiel is happy, but to be so he has forgotten Dean completely.
Dean will not remember this dream. When he wakes, it will be with tears on his cheeks, and he will not know why. He will brush them away, embarrassed, but some part of him will recall the way his soul was destroyed by one simple look from a man he barely knows.
Castiel wakes up properly for the first time on the third day. Dean left his bedside to relieve himself (the only reason he ever leaves Castiel’s bedside these days), and when he gets back, Castiel is just beginning to stir. Dean stands in the doorway, leaning against the wall, and watches as Castiel gets his bearings. The man’s breathing hitches for a moment before evening out again as he realizes where he is; and then, before Castiel can see him, Dean slips away.
While Castiel was asleep, things around Bobby’s house reached a certain pattern. With the Harvelles, Charlie and Henricksen no longer there, Dean would spend all of his time in Castiel’s room ‘just in case Cas needed anything’, or ‘making entirelyheterosexual eyes at him’, depending on who you listened to; Gabriel wandered around dejectedly; Crowley threw himself into his work, hogging Sam’s laptop and being utterly vile (everyone understands because he’s genuinely concerned, but it still hasn’t stopped Bobby from trying to kill him. Twice.); Sam poured over the stuff Charlie got from Divinity; and Bobby tried to pretend he wasn’t everyone’s maid when in real life he was the only one doing anything even remotely practical.
Now that Castiel’s woken up, however, the pattern has changed a little.
Dean spends as little time inside as possible. He keeps himself busy, preferring to pretend that nothing’s wrong than be alone with his thoughts. He cleans out and reassembles all his guns, then all Sam’s and Bobby’s, too. He tinkers with the Impala and moves around the scrap metal in Bobby’s backyard. He pesters Henricksen for developments about the case and contacts every lawyer Sam knows of. He talks to Ellen and Jo on the phone when they call and goes over Charlie’s findings with them. He deflects Sheriff Mills when she comes by looking for Bobby. He does anything and everything he can think of to keep himself moving, keep himself distracted, just so long as he doesn’t have a chance to actually stop and think.
And almost every day, Sam comes to him, telling him how Castiel is doing, that Castiel is asking for him, that he really should go talk to Castiel because it’s been five days now since he woke up and Dean still hasn’t even said ‘hi’, and considering he spent the entire time Castiel was asleep by his bedside practically bawling his eyes out (Sam’s words, not his), it’s a bit stupid for him to be hiding out here now. And Dean is always busy, always has an excuse ready. Because he can’t go inside, he can’t climb those stairs and enter that room. He can’t speak to that man.
Because someday soon that man will be gone. And Dean’s tired of losing people he cares about. So it’s better not to care.
He goes up to see Castiel when everyone else is asleep. It feels more private that way.
Castiel isn’t asleep. Dean knew he wouldn’t be. The moment Dean appears in the doorway, still battling with himself about whether to cross over the threshold, Castiel rolls over to face him and transfixes him with those damned eyes of his.
“Hey.”
Dean swallows, but his voice, when it comes, is still scratchy. “Hey.”
He walks into the room and perches lightly on the side of Castiel’s bed. If he sits in the chair, he might be tempted to stay here all night. They’re both quiet for a moment, until Castiel breaks the silence.
“Sam says you were often here while I was sleeping.”
Dean shrugs. “No more than anyone else.”
“That’s not what Sam said.”
Goddammit, Sammy, always sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted. He’s going to kill him. “Yeah. Well. He exaggerates.”
Castiel’s silence conveys perfectly just what he thinks of that, and in the pause that follows, Dean is acutely aware of the other man’s eyes on his face.
“Thank you,” Castiel says finally, and it’s so unexpected Dean blurts out “for what?”
Castiel’s face is earnest. “Everything.”
Dean shifts uncomfortably. Being the hero doesn’t sit well with him. It’s so much easier to do good things if people never know. Then you don’t have to worry about the spotlight, you don’t have to worry about people feeling like they owe you. You’re equal to them. Being a hero ... It’s too lonely for a guy with abandonment issues.
“So, it looks like Divinity Incorporated will be going down, thanks to the evidence Charlie found,” he says, speaking loudly to fill the silence because it’s stretching on too long now and he’s starting to consider doing all sorts of irrational things that would definitely not be a good idea.
Like kissing Castiel.
Fuck.
“Uh ... Charges have been dropped against me and Sam,” he ploughs on bravely, willing his mind to change tracks. “So that’s good. Uh ... We’re trying to hurry through your citizenship papers so you’ll have them sooner rather than later and stuff …” He trails off as he meets Castiel’s eyes, such a unique shade of blue. They’re like the sea, those eyes, always changing, always unfathomable. Sometimes they look like the most wind-tossed storm, others like murky depths, and then sometimes, like today, they’re clear and light, reflecting the sky.
Castiel’s smell is in his nostrils, soft and lazy, almost like a baby’s scent. Castiel’s hair looks like feathers. Like a cygnet’s gray, fluffy down. Dean’s fingers ache to stroke it, caress it, hold Castiel’s head. There’s an itch in his chest whenever he thinks about Castiel, and it’s terrifying because, if he scratches it, he knows it will overwhelm him, and this has never happened before.
He bites his lip. Their faces are so close. It would take so little to just lean in ... close the gap ... and ...
Castiel’s mouth is rough, his lips dry but warm, and they taste vaguely of sleep. And the moment Dean’s lips touch his, he knows he’s made a terrible mistake. Instead of melting into the kiss, Castiel goes rigid, tense, every muscle in his body freezing up. Dean pulls away almost instantly, but the damage is done - to both of them.
Before either of them can speak, Dean stands and turns to exit the room, because he doesn’t trust his voice not to break.
He never had much of a chance with Castiel. But not only has he just ruined the only one he had, he’s just confirmed to himself that he ... that Castiel ... means something to him ... means a lot to him ...
Fuck.
He’s almost out the door before Castiel stops him.
“Dean, wait.”
He could keep going, ignore Castiel, leave and not come back, but he can see the expression on Castiel’s face even without looking; he can see the plea in his eyes, and he can’t quite bring himself to just walk out. He owes the man an explanation at the very least. So he stops and turns, not moving any further away, but not coming any nearer, either. And he waits for Castiel to speak.
“Why did you do that?” Castiel asks at length, and Dean laughs, hoping it will hide the tremor in his voice.
“I don’t know. I wanted to, I guess. It was a mistake.” He runs a hand over his face, too tired to be having this sort of emotional conversation. He’s embarrassed and hurt, and because he’s Dean Winchester, this naturally translates to him lashing out in some sort of fucked-up defense mechanism.
“Do you regret it, then?”
This is both so unexpected and yet so undeniably Castiel - only he could get to the heart of the situation so quickly and bluntly without seeing any problem with that - that Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settles for shrugging and muttering “yeah”.
Castiel tilts his head slightly, frowning, and Dean clenches his fists at the gesture.
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t want it,” he blurts angrily. “Okay? I made a mistake - I didn’t think about what you want, I was selfish, I acted without thinking, I did what I always do - I screwed up. And now ... now ... Never mind. I’m going to bed.”
“How can you know what I want if all you do is avoid me?” Castiel asks, and Dean feels another wave of guilt wash over him.
“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “What do you want, Cas?”
He means it almost as a joke, but Castiel takes it seriously, like he does everything, and sits there for a moment, considering. Dean can see thoughts running across the other man’s face but doesn’t have the tools to read them, so he perches awkwardly on the bed beside Castiel, and waits. He figures that if Castiel is taking this seriously, then maybe he should, too.
“I want to be happy, Dean,” he says finally, looking up at him with an open face. “And you ... I want you to be happy, too, after all you’ve done for me - you saved my life-”
“If that is what this is about, save your breath,” Dean says harshly. The idea that all Castiel sees him as is a guy who happened to help him and who he somehow owes hurts almost as much as the rejection did. He stands sharply, turning to leave again, only to find a hand on his arm, stopping him, gentle but insistent. He moves his head to look at Castiel, look him right in the eye, and what he sees there catches his breath in his throat.
“You caught me by surprise, Dean,” Castiel says, voice rough. “I didn’t think-” He stops, his breathing loud in the darkness, and then they both lean in at once and meet sloppily in the middle, teeth clacking together painfully. Dean pulls back somewhat sheepishly, and they try again, more slowly this time, more gently, Dean placing his lips softly over Castiel’s in a chaste kiss. With anyone else, he might be rough, rushed even, but with Castiel he is nothing but gentle. The time for more will come later. For now, all he can think about is Castiel: Castiel’s scent, sweet and musky, filling his nose; Castiel’s eyes, april-blue, locked on his; Castiel’s stubble-studded face in his hands. And his stomach does somersaults as he realizes what this means.
It means he hasn’t screwed up. He hasn’t made a mess.
It means Castiel ... He …
When he pulls away, he gently runs a finger over Castiel’s ear and asks if this means Castiel is staying.
And, honest to God, Castiel chuckles.
“Of course I’m staying.”