Fic: Vita Nuova VII
Title: Vita Nuova
Pairing: destiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sex, profanity
Length: 12 chapters; estimated 70K words?
Summary: AU. Dean Winchester takes a job as a teaching assistant to get his little brother into a prestigious academy. He doesn't quite expect such long nights and snobby kids, but the real surprise is professor Castiel Novak: or falling in love with him, that is.
AN: Thanks for reading! All my love :)
The next few weeks fly past before Dean can catch his breath. He gets the job at the all-night diner, and if Sam notices the dark circles under his eyes, he doesn’t say anything. Every now and again Castiel might look at him a bit concernedly, but Dean always kisses the expression away, and that’s usually enough of a distraction. Castiel’s beautiful house is empty again, and on the weekends it belongs to the two of them, a private oasis in the midst of work and school and keeping secrets. It’s actually gotten to the point where one morning Dean wakes up and realizes that his toothbrush is still in Castiel’s bathroom.
Maybe he should be worried, maybe he should try to slow down, but he isn’t worried, and he can’t slow down. The funny thing is that he actually wants to worry, to find some sort of flaw in this situation, but he doesn’t, no matter how hard he looks. Life is absurd, actually. He’s exhausted, and his grades are slipping a bit, but it’s not drastic, and - well, again, everything is just absurd. He’s bordering on happy. Absurd.
Then, the week before spring break is there, looming up without warning as March blends into April. Dean’s terrified of planes, but Rome is worth a flight or two. The city is beautiful, and Dean can’t deny that it’s sort of touching to see the kids so engaged, as thrilled by the history and language as their professor. And that’s a plus, too: even though Dean can’t touch Castiel until the week is out, it’s enchanting to see the new luster in his eyes, the obvious joy he takes in discovering, teaching, experiencing this incredible place.
But even so, it seems an eternity of slow strolls through art galleries, darting beneath the towering legs of ancient Roman arches, buying rounds of gelato for two dozen kids every afternoon, each a different flavor, of course. At the end, Dean’s voce is hoarse from shouting above the deafening echoes of footsteps in vacuous stone caverns, and his willpower is worn threadbare from being so close to Castiel in such a magnetic state, but he’s overjoyed with everything, and he wishes more than anything that Sam could be there and see all this, too. As he and Castiel send the kids off with the other chaperones (their extended stay has been explained to the academy as research), Dean resolves that one day - no, one day soon, as soon as possible - Sam will be here, too.
Once the kids are gone, it’s suddenly awkward, almost overbearing. Dean has been outright longing to be alone with Castiel since he first got on the plane, but now that they’re finally crowded together in the back of a taxi, enveloped in silence, his pulse is fluttering like it’s their first date, and he doesn’t know what to say. Castiel seems to be making an intent study of his hands; it’s not like him to be so hesitant, and Dean almost wonders if something’s the matter before Castiel finally looks at him with one of those earnest smiles that chases away any doubt.
Without a word, Dean leans across the seat to meet him halfway. It’s a slow kiss, gentle because they’re trying to be considerate of the taxi driver, but thickly laced with meaning, promise. Dean exhales softly when Castiel pulls away, and doesn’t open his eyes for a long time, savoring the closeness, the feathery rush of Castiel’s breathing.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” mumbles Castiel unexpectedly. “It was all I could do not to attack you on that tour of the Coliseum, you know.”
Dean is feeling self-indulgent; he luxuriously kisses the bow of Castiel’s lip. “Why’s that?”
Castiel tips forwards, trying to get at his mouth again, to no avail.
“The way the sunlight hits your face - no, you’re going to make fun of me.”
“I won’t.”
“Yes you will.”
“I promise I won’t. I want to hear.”
Castiel groans. “Look, it’s just that you are a very attractive man, Dean. But I mean that in the worst way possible, so don’t let it go to your head.”
“The worst way possible?” Dean nudges forwards, smirking. “What does that mean?”
Castiel outright glares.
“Dean Winchester, you may talk all you want, but I have waited an entire week to kiss you, and so help me God, I am going to do so right now whether you are quiet or not.”
Dean’s snarky reply is muffled by Castiel’s mouth. He halfheartedly tries to protest, but then hands hook into the collar of his shirt, drawing him upwards for a better angle, and he gives up, contentedly knitting his fingers into Castiel’s hair. The lights of Rome slide through the windows, casting eerie geometric patterns of light over Castiel’s face, highlighting the quirk of his smile, the delicate creases at the corners of his eyes. It’s flattering, and Dean can’t stop smiling. Ridiculous. And it gets worse. Even once they’ve stopped kissing, trying not to overstep the bounds of decency despite the thick pane of glass between the backseat and the taxi driver, Dean keeps their fingers wound together on his knee, unwilling to let Castiel go just yet. To be fair, a week is an awfully long time to go just staring at someone, after all.
Castiel has booked a different hotel for the rest of the trip, of course; the first place is part of the Hilton chain, and he seems vaguely offended at the mere idea of staying there any longer. Instead, the cab pulls up to a tiny place tucked into a quiet nook of the city. It’s a modest white terracotta building befit with carefully sculpted awnings and surrounded by a little courtyard dotted with olive trees. Dean swallows because it’s obviously expensive, and designed to be very romantic, what with the soft lighting, the small rooms with iron-wrought balconies, the secluded gazebo out back, everything. It’s clearly a place for couples, and although he’s never thought of his relationship with Castiel as an insult to his manhood, he’s not necessarily eager to flaunt his homosexuality either. Nonetheless, he tries not to care. After all, it wouldn’t be classy to bring up such issues now, of all times.
The receptionist seems a little too thrilled at the sight of them, tired and rumpled from a long day, leaning on each other a little bit. She hands over the keys with a soft giggle, fluttering her eyelashes, and Dean pretends not to understand Italian. Castiel rolls his eyes in the elevator.
“She was sweet.”
“She was objectifying our relationship.”
Castiel shrugs. “At least we know we’re cute enough to attract a following.”
“We are not cute.” Dean steps out into the hallway, dragging his suitcase behind. “And a following would be a very bad thing, Cas.”
“In Italy, though?” protests Castiel absently, reaching down to take Dean’s hand smack dab in the middle of the hallway. Dean tenses and almost tears away, but he gets a hold of himself just in time. It’s going to take some getting used to, but it’s not bad, being so casual about their relationship.
Their room is beautiful, all mahogany and creamy white linens, soft pillows and delicate curling architecture. The balcony overlooks a sweeping vista of the ocean, and even at night Dean can imagine the mosaic effect of the city, stacked up with houses piled together like an avalanche of stone and tile. He opens the window and gets a whiff of the breeze, letting the salt flow into his hair. Castiel sorts out the suitcases and joins him, resting his head on his shoulder. Eventually Dean bends down to catch his mouth, and Castiel reaches up to balance his hand at the curve of his jaw.
They stand there kissing for a while, but they’re both exhausted, and in the end they just end up kicking off their shoes and belts and nestling on top of the sheets. Castiel nudges up just beneath Dean’s chin, kissing aimlessly at the curve of his throat, and Dean winds his arms close around his waist, tangling their legs together. In the silence, they can hear the rush of the breeze, and the dull murmur of the city, cars rushing past and talk and laughter carried on the breeze. It’s absurdly peaceful.
“A whole week, just the two of us,” murmurs Castiel after a long time, tracing little circles over Dean’s chest with his index finger. “It seems too good to be true.”
Dean blushes and kisses the top of Castiel’s head to hide his smile. “Do you have plans?”
“Naturally.” Castiel seems to take offense at the thought that he wouldn’t. “We’ll spend tomorrow and part of the next day here. Then we take the train to Paris and stay in the city for two more days, maybe explore the countryside a bit. It’s lovely this time of year. Lastly, we’ll head out to the Spanish coast, and then catch a plane home to get back on Sunday morning. Sound good?”
“Unbelievable,” says Dean honestly, too stunned for pretenses. “Jesus, Cas. You really don’t do things by halves. How can I ever- ”
Castiel cuts him off with a firm kiss. “You already repay me a thousand times over just by being here with me, Dean. I want nothing more than to share this with you. Please don’t mention it again.”
“Alright,” whispers Dean. “Thank you.”
Castiel sighs, dropping a kiss on his chin as he props himself on one elbow, carding a hand slowly through his hair.
“Do you want to hear more? I have so many ideas, so much to show you.”
Dean nods and lets Castiel curl him close into the crook of his shoulder, stroking at his hair as he explains everything he wants to see and do. The students, he murmurs, saw the educational side of Rome: the history, the language, the art. That’s all well and good, but Castiel wants to show Dean the romantic side, the best food, the softest beds. He finishes off that thought with a little kiss at the bridge of his nose, and Dean’s stomach plummets. He can’t remember when things got so serious between them, and he’s not sure how to handle it yet.
He tries to lose himself in the rough lull of Castiel’s voice, that gravelly tone so well-designed to give lectures, even sermons, rhythmic and grating at the same time. His nose is pressed into the curve of his neck, and he smells a trace of cologne, sweat, the grime of travel, the starch that was in his collar. While Castiel talks, he unbuttons his shirt, and somehow it’s entirely chaste. After all, they’re both too tired for anything but halfhearted kisses, and it’s nice to feel Castiel’s bare chest against his, the beat of his heart so near.
Halfway through a tangent mostly composed of soft nonsense syllables and not words at all, Castiel lets out an enormous yawn that seems to consume his entire face, and Dean chuckles softly, stretching up for a lazy kiss before coaxing Castiel back onto the pillows, working the sheet out from beneath their combined weight. To Dean’s surprise, Castiel nestles into him the moment they’re settled beneath the covers. He swallows. They share a bed whenever they can, but it’s not often that they cuddle so closely together.
For a long moment, he’s tense, unsure of how to proceed. Then it occurs to him that he might as well just let himself go for once and follow suit. A little spooning isn’t so bad, he thinks, pulling Castiel into the crook of his body by the waist, even more secure, warm and pliant against Dean. He’s content to rest his chin on his shoulder, listen to the soft come and go of his breathing, mingling with the murmur of the city to produce an effective lullaby. Dean closes his eyes, trying to shut out his thoughts, abandon himself to sleep.
Never in a thousand years would he have imagined himself in such a situation, but he is indisputably curled around a serious boyfriend - yes, that term, he supposes, applies well to their relationship - in Europe, of all places. It’s amazing; it’s impossible; he can’t really believe it. His last thought before he falls asleep is that there’s no more doubt to be had: he definitely has to tell Sam everything the moment he gets home.
-
Dean wakes first, still tangled up with Castiel, lips resting against his forehead. Generous slabs of sunlight cut across the floor, turned creamy yellow-gold by the curtains, and if at night the sound of the city is a murmur, at day it is a dull rattle, comforting in its own offbeat curiosity. Dean can’t help but smile at the sight of Castiel in his arms; he trails his mouth down his forehead, the bridge of his nose, until he reaches his lips, persisting until he feels him stir awake, return the kiss in a slow blossom of warmth.
After a minute, Dean notices that Castiel is pressing hard against his thigh, and thinks he ought to do something to fix that. With a last kiss on the bow of Castiel’s lips, he sinks lower, dotting kisses at his throat, collarbone, the dips and nuances of his chest, until he reaches the dark javelin of hair that juts downwards from his navel. Castiel is still scarcely conscious, more of caught between waking and sleeping, but he understands what’s happening and knits his fingers into Dean’s hair, mumbling that he doesn’t have to do this before his words bleed away entirely into soft and unsteady breathing as Dean litters kisses at the tender junction of his thighs.
Dean doesn’t draw it out too long; he’s too sleepy to tease much, and takes Castiel in all at once, humming softly in the back of his throat. Castiel gives a gentle groan, and peering upwards Dean can see the erratic bob of his throat, the flush that spills from his neck to color his chest. He smiles, gratified, and deepens the hum, bobbing his head and swirling his tongue until Castiel comes with a little cry, hands contracting in his hair for a moment before his body goes slack.
Dean swallows, and rises onto his elbows for a kiss, worrying only at the last minute that it might be too obscene. Fortunately, Castiel is still malleable with sleep, and doesn’t seem to mind one bit, winding his arms enthusiastically around Dean’s neck. Between kisses, he promises to get Dean off in the shower, and they don’t make it out of the hotel until just before ten o’clock, damp and content.
The sunlight is splendid, and Dean hardly notices when Castiel takes his hand to lead him down the street, even though he can’t help wondering at the ease of the gesture, and then at what it might imply. But he pushes the thoughts from his mind and tries to focus on the brilliant morning, on the sky stretched high like a taut blue canvas above them, on the city rumbling and alive all around. They stop at a bakery for breakfast and Dean is pleased to learn that his conversational Italian is still spotless, lilting off his tongue without a hitch. Castiel eyes him mysteriously whenever he talks, caught between a smile and some nameless expression that stirs something up deep in Dean’s gut.
When Dean asks, he shrugs, the smile sharpening into a smirk over the edge of his coffee mug, and replies that language is sexy. At that, Dean blushes, and focuses on his eggs, trying to ignore how Castiel nudges at his ankle beneath the table. Footsie has never been a priority of his; he’s not the foolishly romantic type, and even if Castiel brings out lots of qualities in him that he never dreamt of possessing, he doubts that much will ever change. Eventually, Castiel relents, but he doesn’t stop smirking, and Dean has trouble keeping his attention on breakfast.
Castiel won’t tell him much more about his travel plans. He gives cryptic answers whenever Dean asks where they’re going, eyes aglow with what must be happiness. He does look very, very happy, and Dean breathlessly wonders if that could be his doing, if he could somehow have such an effect on Castiel. It seems impossible, but then again, so does the entire situation in and of itself, so maybe it’s not out of the question.
In any case, after breakfast they find themselves at the foot of a fantastic cathedral: the Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano, Castiel explains, the first Roman church and the seat of Christendom. Dean starts to protest that the whole thing sounds like just another history lesson, but Castiel rolls his eyes and leads him inside, shamelessly tucking his hand into his elbow. That makes Dean tense - it is a church, after all, and he doesn’t want to upset anyone - but he doesn’t pull away, and if Castiel notices the tight rhythm of his breathing, he doesn’t say so.
It’s still early, so the cathedral isn’t too crowded, and their footsteps echo long and eerie, reverberating from the walls. Dean’s never been a terribly religious man, and he gets the feeling that the same goes for Castiel, but there’s something humbling about the arching ceilings and the profound silence. The architecture is breathtaking, impossibly intricate, and enormous paintings span the walls at intervals, detailed with gold and stunning delicate color. They walk slowly to the altar, and Dean doesn’t realize that he has his neck craned almost all the way back to get a look at the ceiling, slack-jawed with amazement, until Castiel chuckles and presses his arm affectionately.
“Would you like to light a candle?” he murmurs, gesturing to a little room tucked off to the side. “To bless a loved one, I mean. I’m not terribly devout, but I always like to leave one for someone when I’m in a place like this. My sister, this time, I think.”
After a moment, Dean nods, throat constricting. They each drop of euro in the donation box and choose two candles, lining them up side by side. Dean thinks of his mother, beautiful and golden and gone too soon, as he watches the wick blacken with the flame, the wax beading up to curve slowly down the sides in fat droplets. Castiel presses his arm again, and because nobody else is in the room, Dean tilts his head for a kiss, brief and sweet and a little sad. A portrait of Christ is mounted on the wall, gazing dolefully down at them, and Dean shoots the Lord and Savior a wink before dropping an extra kiss at the tip of Castiel’s nose just for luck. Castiel rolls his eyes, but he can’t repress a smile. Dean grins.
“Can I ask you something?”
They’re leaving the cathedral, off to lunch, and Castiel nods, dropping his hand from Dean’s elbow to wind their fingers together. Dean’s still nervous about all this, the easy touching and hand-holding, but he makes an effort to push his insecurities away and focus on Castiel. Quietly, trying to be sensitive, he asks what happened to Castiel’s sister, the pretty redhead who seemed so self-possessed when Dean first noticed her at the academy. Castiel sighs, and Dean presses his hand, suddenly remorseful.
“You don’t have to answer,” he says gently.
Castiel shakes his head. “No; it’s nothing terrible. I just…I like her a great deal, and it saddened me to see her stray so far. Or perhaps it should not be called straying; she merely became involved with things of which my father did not approve. The details are inconsequential; in short, our father does not believe that we should associate with her any longer, and therefore we have promised him that we will not do so. In fact, to have allowed her to stay in my home even for a short while was exceptional disobedience, but I could not turn her away.”
He looks so guilty that Dean bristles.
“Of course you couldn’t.” He grips his hand tightly. “You’re family, Cas. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. You did the right thing.”
“I’m not ashamed.” Castiel stays focused on the road, eyes distant, mournful. “I only wish it did not have to be like this.”
Dean’s anger fades at the bleak note in his voice. “Christ, me too, Cas. I’m sorry.”
Castiel cranes his neck to kiss him on the cheek, and Dean’s heart stutters; when Castiel looks away again he can’t help but scan the crowd, wondering if anyone has noticed.
“It’s hardly your fault,” Castiel is saying, “but thank you. It means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it,” mumbles Dean. “So where are we headed, anyways?”
Castiel smiles, and that’s a relief, to see happiness overtake his expression again, that is. “First things first, we should stop and get some lunch. Afterwards, I don’t really have a plan for a while. I thought maybe we’d walk around and take in the city a little more. I know it’s a bit mundane, but we’ve been too busy keeping track of the kids to really admire everything, and it would be a shame to miss such a beautiful city. Then - well. You’re going to think it’s silly.”
Dean shrugs. “If I’m going to do it, I might as well know. Unless it’s a surprise, that is.”
“It’s not.” Castiel focuses on the ground, unusually shy, and that only sharpens Dean’s curiosity. “There’s a place to watch the sunset - the Pincio - and I thought we might stop there before dinner. Then we can walk back to the hotel, maybe stop for a nightcap. I don’t know. I didn’t want to be too scheduled.”
Dean’s neck feels hot and scratchy, and he can’t meet Castiel’s eyes, because it’s too sweet, the bashful shade to his expression and the awkward way he rubs at the back of his head. He clears his throat, trying to compose himself, gather up the scatter rhythm of his thoughts, which have all fled to remote corners of his mind screaming about serious relationships and commitment and one word that he doesn’t dare to acknowledge yet.
“That sounds great,” he says gruffly, pressing Castiel’s palm to make up for his ineloquence. It works; Castiel gives an audible sigh of relief and tilts his face up with a smile. Dean’s kiss is brief and uncomfortable - he really doesn’t know what to do with all these public displays, can’t translate their meaning, get accustomed to the feel of what seems a hundred eyes pressing down on them at once - but it doesn’t seem to matter to Castiel.
Rather, in fact, he thrums with life, leading Dean stumbling through winding cobblestone streets and shouting vendors, pointing out the details of the architecture and the history with such impressive enthusiasm and breadth of knowledge that Dean is sharply reminded that he is indeed a very learned scholar. Sometimes, everything Castiel represents takes Dean’s breath away, setting him on edge and bringing every ignored insecurity into painfully sharp focus. But he tries not to think about that; no matter his logic, Castiel has done all this for him, and he wants nothing more than to enjoy it.
Lunch is so delicious - fresh seafood and good coffee in a charmingly cramped restaurant tucked into the framework of the city - and Castiel so radiant that Dean forgets the worries chewing away at the corners of his mind. He doesn’t even mind that the bill is ripped from his hands before he can so much as take out his credit card; the meal was expensive, anyways, and Castiel is downright territorial when it comes to finances. Even after coffee, they dawdle in the restaurant, talking and smiling stupidly at each other over the table, and if it’s not obvious that they’re ridiculously enamored of each other, Dean doesn’t know how else it could be.
It’s already mid-afternoon by the time they leave the restaurant to stroll through the city. Castiel strikes up a slow, rhythmic pace, and Dean falls happily into step beside him, finally relaxed with their hands clasped together, swinging gently from side to side. He’s starting to realize that Castiel was right. Dean never really noticed the beauty of the city with the kids around, always needing advice and money and supervision. Now he’s amazed, left speechless by the sight of Rome cloaked in the soft gold of the afternoon sun, the shadows liquid, sliding gradually from building to building, highlighting old stucco roofs and dripping into the cracks in the sidewalk.
“I have got to show this to Sam,” he breathes at some point, and is surprised at the sound of his own voice. He didn’t mean to say it aloud, but Castiel only smiles, and presses his palm affectionately.
“You will,” he says simply, and for some reason, Dean’s more grateful to him for that than anything else. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by a fierce pressure in his chest, and right smack dab in the middle of the street he bends down and kisses Castiel fervently, and only thinks to be embarrassed once he’s broken away again and Castiel is staring at him with wide eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what - what that was.”
Castiel chuckles, and says that he doesn’t know, either, but that he certainly liked it. Dean grins, ducking his chin to hide his blush, and Castiel keeps leading him in a hectic pattern through the streets, stopping every now and then to gawk and once to buy fresh fruit from a ramshackle stand on the corner. As he peels an orange, Dean thinks that this whole thing is idyllic, quintessential, almost unbearably clichéd, and that he loves every minute despite himself, despite everything.
They end up tucked away in a little nook that seems to overlook the entire city, spread before them, an intricate and pockmarked blanket of stone. The sun has sunk to the cusp of the horizon, molten and pouring liquid over the edge, and the clouds are feathery and indistinct, stained pink and orange by the light. Castiel sits down on the wall that rims the edge of the street and dangles his legs over the edge; Dean joins him, and lets their twined hands rest on his knee, sappy as that might be.
They don’t talk much; words aren’t necessary, and neither of them wants to spoil the peace and quiet stretched fragile over the city. At some point, Castiel shifts closer, and after a strained moment lets his head come to rest on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tenses but doesn’t pull away, even though every nerve in his body screams that they’re too exposed, too open, that something is going to go wrong. He exhales gradually, trying to measure his breathing, and works to focus on the comfortable weight of Castiel pressing into him, pushing all other thoughts from his mind because in that moment, things are impossibly good, and that’s all that matters.
A long time passes before dusk begins to fall and the color starts to drain from the sky, replaced by a modest palette of greys and blacks and the vibrant yellow of the streetlamps. It’s Castiel who breaks the stillness, standing with a soft groan before helping Dean to his feet, dropping a kiss on his forehead as he rocks upright. He murmurs that dinner is next, but he won’t tell Dean where they’re going, just gives an expression caught halfway between a smile and a smirk and heads off down the road again.
They walk in comfortable silence until they reach the river, at which point Castiel comes to a halt and gives Dean a shy smile. He points to the gleaming water and Dean is confused for a long moment before it occurs to him and his mouth falls slack.
“Aw, Cas - shit, no. Oh man.” He runs a hand through his hair. “That is so sappy, even for you.”
He meant it affectionately, but worry flickers across Castiel’s expression, darkens his eyes.
“Forgive me, Dean. I didn’t - ”
“No, shut up.” Dean takes his hand and wonders when they had broken away. “It’s cute. A dinner cruise on the river, I mean - well, it’s damn gay, but also cute.”
A moment’s pause.
“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is low and measured, the tone he uses when he’s trying to disguise amusement. “I should hope you are aware that you are in fact a participant in a homosexual relationship.”
“I know,” replies Dean cheerfully, tugging Castiel towards the dock. “But this has got to be a new achievement in gay. I mean, come on - stop me before I get goddamn butterflies.”
“Butterflies?” Castiel cocks a brow. “I highly doubt that will ever be the case, Dean.”
He goes to give his name to the hostess, and even attempts a conversation with her, smiling with a charming bashful edge that melts her down in a matter of seconds. Such awkward Italian would usually make Dean cringe, but with Castiel it’s almost adorable, and he hangs back, listening to him stumbling over the verbs and nouns for a long time before intervening just to make sure he has everything straight. Castiel looks at him gratefully, and Dean unthinkingly presses his hand, fighting down a grin.
The smile the hostess gives him is almost unbearable, laced with poorly-concealed delight at seeing such well-groomed men so appropriately paired. Dean’s a little bit rude to her, but Castiel can’t hear the difference, and seems merely thrilled at the fact that they’re sitting down to eat on the water, bobbing gently with the current so that the candles atop the table threaten to spill over every other second. He goes for the wine list before Dean can protest, and gives Dean a lengthy selection to translate to the waiter once he materializes.
Even though Dean doesn’t fancy the bitter taste of wine, and the constant rocking of the cruise makes him a little nauseous, he can’t bring himself to be unhappy. The lights strung up on the deck reflect off the trembling surface of the water before ricocheting back into Castiel’s eyes, pooling soft yellow across his face, warm gold in his hair, illuminating the pretty color in his cheeks. Castiel has a very curious beauty, touched in places by a distinct femininity but nonetheless undeniably male, and sometimes Dean doesn’t know what to make of it, can’t quite understand the indefinite pink curve of his mouth and the impossible blue of his eyes. It doesn’t matter, though; he’s so magnetized to Castiel that sometimes he can scarcely stand it.
It occurs to him, rocking gently to and fro in the candlelight, sharing a caprese salad and not even feeling unnerved by the pallid slabs of raw mozzarella because Castiel shows him how to properly layer the fresh tomato and the vinaigrette, delicate fingers dancing over his fork and knife, brushing once or twice against Dean’s wrist, little pinpricks of electricity, that they are very much a couple. Of course, this is hardly a surprise; it’s been the case since that conversation on Castiel’s couch, but Dean thinks that there’s a new dimension to their relationship, a certain gravity and permanence that are only just beginning to seem comfortable.
And what should he make of it? Well, he thinks it’s a good thing, but he’s not sure, and as Castiel is picking apart the last of his entrée he does something that he can’t remember ever doing before in his entire life.
“Hey, can we talk a minute?”
Castiel dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “We’ve been talking all night, Dean.”
“Come on, Cas.”
A shade of worry comes into Castiel’s eyes, and Dean wants nothing more than to push it away, because it’s absurd that Castiel should still be insecure about anything; he’s far too good for Dean, anyways, and has no reason to question himself. Castiel quietly sets down his fork and knife.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” says Dean quickly. “I just - this has been fantastic so far. Too good to be true, really.”
Castiel eyes him warily. “I am glad you think so. So far, I have enjoyed myself as well.”
He always speaks in clipped sentences and loses contractions when he’s nervous, on his guard. Dean hates that. He lunges across the table and takes Castiel’s hand where it’s resting beside his plate. Castiel furrows his brow, but he presses back, winding their fingers together.
“Dean, I don’t- ”
“This is getting pretty serious, don’t you think? Between us, I mean.”
Castiel’s jaw goes slack. “Well - yes, I would say so. I thought- ”
“It really freaks me out.”
Castiel stares, tilts his head to the side, probes Dean with that trademark intensity, and at last relents, evidently fruitless in his search for answers. His face goes blank, eyes distant, and he loosens his hold on Dean’s hand.
“I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. Such was not my intent.”
Dean lets out a short laugh.
“It does make me uncomfortable. Like you wouldn’t believe.” But he doesn’t let Castiel pull his hand away for good. “But I mean that in the best way. Sorry. I suck at saying these things right and all. But trust me, this is the good kind of freaked out. Like - fuck. With you, I’m glad to be on edge all the time and stuff. And - well, cut me some slack here. Do you know what I mean?”
Castiel rolls his lower lip between his teeth. “Maybe. Do you - is it okay to be serious, Dean?”
“Christ, yeah.” And despite himself, Dean brings Castiel’s hands to his lips, kissing each of the knuckles. “If you can tolerate me, that is.”
Castiel watches in abject amazement, color spreading across his cheeks, spilling down his neck, eyes crystallizing back into the vivid shade of blue that can’t possibly exist, must be an illusion, a trick of the light.
“Dean, I should hope that by now you know that it is hardly a matter of toleration.”
“If you say so.” He bites softly into the knuckle of Castiel’s pointer finger. “Hey, I know it’s kind of stupid, but what should I call you?”
Castiel’s tongue darts out pensively. “Boyfriend? That’s what I call you in my head, anyways.”
Dean raises an eyebrow.
“In your head?”
The color in Castiel’s cheeks deepens, and he doesn’t say another word on the subject. Dean chuckles and says that boyfriend sounds just fine to him; with that, he finally lets Castiel’s hand drop back to the table, but Castiel hangs onto his thumb, smiling softly and ducking his chin, uncharacteristically bashful. Dean can’t stop grinning, and it’s stupid, but he can’t bring himself to care. In that moment, he’s pretty happy, and that sort of thing doesn’t happen to him very often, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasts.
Soon, the waiter sweeps by to take their plates; he offers coffee and dessert, and when Castiel proposes that they share a slice of tiramisu, Dean doesn’t say no, even though his cheeks get hot as Castiel orders in stumbling Italian and the waiter does a bit of a double take. He considers kissing Castiel full on the mouth right then and there just to show him a thing or two, but only gives a strained smile and waits for him to disappear back into the kitchen. He does, and then they’re alone again, and it’s as if they’re the only two people ever to exist, completely secluded in this little bubble of light bobbing along the river.
“Thank you, Dean,” murmurs Castiel unexpectedly.
Dean stares, caught off guard.
“What for?”
Castiel shakes his head and leans across the table, lips nothing more than a whisper against his before he’s back in his seat and the space between them suddenly seems impossibly vast.
“Nothing, Dean.” He smiles in a way that’s almost too tender for comfort. “Nothing at all.”
Pairing: destiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sex, profanity
Length: 12 chapters; estimated 70K words?
Summary: AU. Dean Winchester takes a job as a teaching assistant to get his little brother into a prestigious academy. He doesn't quite expect such long nights and snobby kids, but the real surprise is professor Castiel Novak: or falling in love with him, that is.
AN: Thanks for reading! All my love :)
The next few weeks fly past before Dean can catch his breath. He gets the job at the all-night diner, and if Sam notices the dark circles under his eyes, he doesn’t say anything. Every now and again Castiel might look at him a bit concernedly, but Dean always kisses the expression away, and that’s usually enough of a distraction. Castiel’s beautiful house is empty again, and on the weekends it belongs to the two of them, a private oasis in the midst of work and school and keeping secrets. It’s actually gotten to the point where one morning Dean wakes up and realizes that his toothbrush is still in Castiel’s bathroom.
Maybe he should be worried, maybe he should try to slow down, but he isn’t worried, and he can’t slow down. The funny thing is that he actually wants to worry, to find some sort of flaw in this situation, but he doesn’t, no matter how hard he looks. Life is absurd, actually. He’s exhausted, and his grades are slipping a bit, but it’s not drastic, and - well, again, everything is just absurd. He’s bordering on happy. Absurd.
Then, the week before spring break is there, looming up without warning as March blends into April. Dean’s terrified of planes, but Rome is worth a flight or two. The city is beautiful, and Dean can’t deny that it’s sort of touching to see the kids so engaged, as thrilled by the history and language as their professor. And that’s a plus, too: even though Dean can’t touch Castiel until the week is out, it’s enchanting to see the new luster in his eyes, the obvious joy he takes in discovering, teaching, experiencing this incredible place.
But even so, it seems an eternity of slow strolls through art galleries, darting beneath the towering legs of ancient Roman arches, buying rounds of gelato for two dozen kids every afternoon, each a different flavor, of course. At the end, Dean’s voce is hoarse from shouting above the deafening echoes of footsteps in vacuous stone caverns, and his willpower is worn threadbare from being so close to Castiel in such a magnetic state, but he’s overjoyed with everything, and he wishes more than anything that Sam could be there and see all this, too. As he and Castiel send the kids off with the other chaperones (their extended stay has been explained to the academy as research), Dean resolves that one day - no, one day soon, as soon as possible - Sam will be here, too.
Once the kids are gone, it’s suddenly awkward, almost overbearing. Dean has been outright longing to be alone with Castiel since he first got on the plane, but now that they’re finally crowded together in the back of a taxi, enveloped in silence, his pulse is fluttering like it’s their first date, and he doesn’t know what to say. Castiel seems to be making an intent study of his hands; it’s not like him to be so hesitant, and Dean almost wonders if something’s the matter before Castiel finally looks at him with one of those earnest smiles that chases away any doubt.
Without a word, Dean leans across the seat to meet him halfway. It’s a slow kiss, gentle because they’re trying to be considerate of the taxi driver, but thickly laced with meaning, promise. Dean exhales softly when Castiel pulls away, and doesn’t open his eyes for a long time, savoring the closeness, the feathery rush of Castiel’s breathing.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” mumbles Castiel unexpectedly. “It was all I could do not to attack you on that tour of the Coliseum, you know.”
Dean is feeling self-indulgent; he luxuriously kisses the bow of Castiel’s lip. “Why’s that?”
Castiel tips forwards, trying to get at his mouth again, to no avail.
“The way the sunlight hits your face - no, you’re going to make fun of me.”
“I won’t.”
“Yes you will.”
“I promise I won’t. I want to hear.”
Castiel groans. “Look, it’s just that you are a very attractive man, Dean. But I mean that in the worst way possible, so don’t let it go to your head.”
“The worst way possible?” Dean nudges forwards, smirking. “What does that mean?”
Castiel outright glares.
“Dean Winchester, you may talk all you want, but I have waited an entire week to kiss you, and so help me God, I am going to do so right now whether you are quiet or not.”
Dean’s snarky reply is muffled by Castiel’s mouth. He halfheartedly tries to protest, but then hands hook into the collar of his shirt, drawing him upwards for a better angle, and he gives up, contentedly knitting his fingers into Castiel’s hair. The lights of Rome slide through the windows, casting eerie geometric patterns of light over Castiel’s face, highlighting the quirk of his smile, the delicate creases at the corners of his eyes. It’s flattering, and Dean can’t stop smiling. Ridiculous. And it gets worse. Even once they’ve stopped kissing, trying not to overstep the bounds of decency despite the thick pane of glass between the backseat and the taxi driver, Dean keeps their fingers wound together on his knee, unwilling to let Castiel go just yet. To be fair, a week is an awfully long time to go just staring at someone, after all.
Castiel has booked a different hotel for the rest of the trip, of course; the first place is part of the Hilton chain, and he seems vaguely offended at the mere idea of staying there any longer. Instead, the cab pulls up to a tiny place tucked into a quiet nook of the city. It’s a modest white terracotta building befit with carefully sculpted awnings and surrounded by a little courtyard dotted with olive trees. Dean swallows because it’s obviously expensive, and designed to be very romantic, what with the soft lighting, the small rooms with iron-wrought balconies, the secluded gazebo out back, everything. It’s clearly a place for couples, and although he’s never thought of his relationship with Castiel as an insult to his manhood, he’s not necessarily eager to flaunt his homosexuality either. Nonetheless, he tries not to care. After all, it wouldn’t be classy to bring up such issues now, of all times.
The receptionist seems a little too thrilled at the sight of them, tired and rumpled from a long day, leaning on each other a little bit. She hands over the keys with a soft giggle, fluttering her eyelashes, and Dean pretends not to understand Italian. Castiel rolls his eyes in the elevator.
“She was sweet.”
“She was objectifying our relationship.”
Castiel shrugs. “At least we know we’re cute enough to attract a following.”
“We are not cute.” Dean steps out into the hallway, dragging his suitcase behind. “And a following would be a very bad thing, Cas.”
“In Italy, though?” protests Castiel absently, reaching down to take Dean’s hand smack dab in the middle of the hallway. Dean tenses and almost tears away, but he gets a hold of himself just in time. It’s going to take some getting used to, but it’s not bad, being so casual about their relationship.
Their room is beautiful, all mahogany and creamy white linens, soft pillows and delicate curling architecture. The balcony overlooks a sweeping vista of the ocean, and even at night Dean can imagine the mosaic effect of the city, stacked up with houses piled together like an avalanche of stone and tile. He opens the window and gets a whiff of the breeze, letting the salt flow into his hair. Castiel sorts out the suitcases and joins him, resting his head on his shoulder. Eventually Dean bends down to catch his mouth, and Castiel reaches up to balance his hand at the curve of his jaw.
They stand there kissing for a while, but they’re both exhausted, and in the end they just end up kicking off their shoes and belts and nestling on top of the sheets. Castiel nudges up just beneath Dean’s chin, kissing aimlessly at the curve of his throat, and Dean winds his arms close around his waist, tangling their legs together. In the silence, they can hear the rush of the breeze, and the dull murmur of the city, cars rushing past and talk and laughter carried on the breeze. It’s absurdly peaceful.
“A whole week, just the two of us,” murmurs Castiel after a long time, tracing little circles over Dean’s chest with his index finger. “It seems too good to be true.”
Dean blushes and kisses the top of Castiel’s head to hide his smile. “Do you have plans?”
“Naturally.” Castiel seems to take offense at the thought that he wouldn’t. “We’ll spend tomorrow and part of the next day here. Then we take the train to Paris and stay in the city for two more days, maybe explore the countryside a bit. It’s lovely this time of year. Lastly, we’ll head out to the Spanish coast, and then catch a plane home to get back on Sunday morning. Sound good?”
“Unbelievable,” says Dean honestly, too stunned for pretenses. “Jesus, Cas. You really don’t do things by halves. How can I ever- ”
Castiel cuts him off with a firm kiss. “You already repay me a thousand times over just by being here with me, Dean. I want nothing more than to share this with you. Please don’t mention it again.”
“Alright,” whispers Dean. “Thank you.”
Castiel sighs, dropping a kiss on his chin as he props himself on one elbow, carding a hand slowly through his hair.
“Do you want to hear more? I have so many ideas, so much to show you.”
Dean nods and lets Castiel curl him close into the crook of his shoulder, stroking at his hair as he explains everything he wants to see and do. The students, he murmurs, saw the educational side of Rome: the history, the language, the art. That’s all well and good, but Castiel wants to show Dean the romantic side, the best food, the softest beds. He finishes off that thought with a little kiss at the bridge of his nose, and Dean’s stomach plummets. He can’t remember when things got so serious between them, and he’s not sure how to handle it yet.
He tries to lose himself in the rough lull of Castiel’s voice, that gravelly tone so well-designed to give lectures, even sermons, rhythmic and grating at the same time. His nose is pressed into the curve of his neck, and he smells a trace of cologne, sweat, the grime of travel, the starch that was in his collar. While Castiel talks, he unbuttons his shirt, and somehow it’s entirely chaste. After all, they’re both too tired for anything but halfhearted kisses, and it’s nice to feel Castiel’s bare chest against his, the beat of his heart so near.
Halfway through a tangent mostly composed of soft nonsense syllables and not words at all, Castiel lets out an enormous yawn that seems to consume his entire face, and Dean chuckles softly, stretching up for a lazy kiss before coaxing Castiel back onto the pillows, working the sheet out from beneath their combined weight. To Dean’s surprise, Castiel nestles into him the moment they’re settled beneath the covers. He swallows. They share a bed whenever they can, but it’s not often that they cuddle so closely together.
For a long moment, he’s tense, unsure of how to proceed. Then it occurs to him that he might as well just let himself go for once and follow suit. A little spooning isn’t so bad, he thinks, pulling Castiel into the crook of his body by the waist, even more secure, warm and pliant against Dean. He’s content to rest his chin on his shoulder, listen to the soft come and go of his breathing, mingling with the murmur of the city to produce an effective lullaby. Dean closes his eyes, trying to shut out his thoughts, abandon himself to sleep.
Never in a thousand years would he have imagined himself in such a situation, but he is indisputably curled around a serious boyfriend - yes, that term, he supposes, applies well to their relationship - in Europe, of all places. It’s amazing; it’s impossible; he can’t really believe it. His last thought before he falls asleep is that there’s no more doubt to be had: he definitely has to tell Sam everything the moment he gets home.
-
Dean wakes first, still tangled up with Castiel, lips resting against his forehead. Generous slabs of sunlight cut across the floor, turned creamy yellow-gold by the curtains, and if at night the sound of the city is a murmur, at day it is a dull rattle, comforting in its own offbeat curiosity. Dean can’t help but smile at the sight of Castiel in his arms; he trails his mouth down his forehead, the bridge of his nose, until he reaches his lips, persisting until he feels him stir awake, return the kiss in a slow blossom of warmth.
After a minute, Dean notices that Castiel is pressing hard against his thigh, and thinks he ought to do something to fix that. With a last kiss on the bow of Castiel’s lips, he sinks lower, dotting kisses at his throat, collarbone, the dips and nuances of his chest, until he reaches the dark javelin of hair that juts downwards from his navel. Castiel is still scarcely conscious, more of caught between waking and sleeping, but he understands what’s happening and knits his fingers into Dean’s hair, mumbling that he doesn’t have to do this before his words bleed away entirely into soft and unsteady breathing as Dean litters kisses at the tender junction of his thighs.
Dean doesn’t draw it out too long; he’s too sleepy to tease much, and takes Castiel in all at once, humming softly in the back of his throat. Castiel gives a gentle groan, and peering upwards Dean can see the erratic bob of his throat, the flush that spills from his neck to color his chest. He smiles, gratified, and deepens the hum, bobbing his head and swirling his tongue until Castiel comes with a little cry, hands contracting in his hair for a moment before his body goes slack.
Dean swallows, and rises onto his elbows for a kiss, worrying only at the last minute that it might be too obscene. Fortunately, Castiel is still malleable with sleep, and doesn’t seem to mind one bit, winding his arms enthusiastically around Dean’s neck. Between kisses, he promises to get Dean off in the shower, and they don’t make it out of the hotel until just before ten o’clock, damp and content.
The sunlight is splendid, and Dean hardly notices when Castiel takes his hand to lead him down the street, even though he can’t help wondering at the ease of the gesture, and then at what it might imply. But he pushes the thoughts from his mind and tries to focus on the brilliant morning, on the sky stretched high like a taut blue canvas above them, on the city rumbling and alive all around. They stop at a bakery for breakfast and Dean is pleased to learn that his conversational Italian is still spotless, lilting off his tongue without a hitch. Castiel eyes him mysteriously whenever he talks, caught between a smile and some nameless expression that stirs something up deep in Dean’s gut.
When Dean asks, he shrugs, the smile sharpening into a smirk over the edge of his coffee mug, and replies that language is sexy. At that, Dean blushes, and focuses on his eggs, trying to ignore how Castiel nudges at his ankle beneath the table. Footsie has never been a priority of his; he’s not the foolishly romantic type, and even if Castiel brings out lots of qualities in him that he never dreamt of possessing, he doubts that much will ever change. Eventually, Castiel relents, but he doesn’t stop smirking, and Dean has trouble keeping his attention on breakfast.
Castiel won’t tell him much more about his travel plans. He gives cryptic answers whenever Dean asks where they’re going, eyes aglow with what must be happiness. He does look very, very happy, and Dean breathlessly wonders if that could be his doing, if he could somehow have such an effect on Castiel. It seems impossible, but then again, so does the entire situation in and of itself, so maybe it’s not out of the question.
In any case, after breakfast they find themselves at the foot of a fantastic cathedral: the Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano, Castiel explains, the first Roman church and the seat of Christendom. Dean starts to protest that the whole thing sounds like just another history lesson, but Castiel rolls his eyes and leads him inside, shamelessly tucking his hand into his elbow. That makes Dean tense - it is a church, after all, and he doesn’t want to upset anyone - but he doesn’t pull away, and if Castiel notices the tight rhythm of his breathing, he doesn’t say so.
It’s still early, so the cathedral isn’t too crowded, and their footsteps echo long and eerie, reverberating from the walls. Dean’s never been a terribly religious man, and he gets the feeling that the same goes for Castiel, but there’s something humbling about the arching ceilings and the profound silence. The architecture is breathtaking, impossibly intricate, and enormous paintings span the walls at intervals, detailed with gold and stunning delicate color. They walk slowly to the altar, and Dean doesn’t realize that he has his neck craned almost all the way back to get a look at the ceiling, slack-jawed with amazement, until Castiel chuckles and presses his arm affectionately.
“Would you like to light a candle?” he murmurs, gesturing to a little room tucked off to the side. “To bless a loved one, I mean. I’m not terribly devout, but I always like to leave one for someone when I’m in a place like this. My sister, this time, I think.”
After a moment, Dean nods, throat constricting. They each drop of euro in the donation box and choose two candles, lining them up side by side. Dean thinks of his mother, beautiful and golden and gone too soon, as he watches the wick blacken with the flame, the wax beading up to curve slowly down the sides in fat droplets. Castiel presses his arm again, and because nobody else is in the room, Dean tilts his head for a kiss, brief and sweet and a little sad. A portrait of Christ is mounted on the wall, gazing dolefully down at them, and Dean shoots the Lord and Savior a wink before dropping an extra kiss at the tip of Castiel’s nose just for luck. Castiel rolls his eyes, but he can’t repress a smile. Dean grins.
“Can I ask you something?”
They’re leaving the cathedral, off to lunch, and Castiel nods, dropping his hand from Dean’s elbow to wind their fingers together. Dean’s still nervous about all this, the easy touching and hand-holding, but he makes an effort to push his insecurities away and focus on Castiel. Quietly, trying to be sensitive, he asks what happened to Castiel’s sister, the pretty redhead who seemed so self-possessed when Dean first noticed her at the academy. Castiel sighs, and Dean presses his hand, suddenly remorseful.
“You don’t have to answer,” he says gently.
Castiel shakes his head. “No; it’s nothing terrible. I just…I like her a great deal, and it saddened me to see her stray so far. Or perhaps it should not be called straying; she merely became involved with things of which my father did not approve. The details are inconsequential; in short, our father does not believe that we should associate with her any longer, and therefore we have promised him that we will not do so. In fact, to have allowed her to stay in my home even for a short while was exceptional disobedience, but I could not turn her away.”
He looks so guilty that Dean bristles.
“Of course you couldn’t.” He grips his hand tightly. “You’re family, Cas. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. You did the right thing.”
“I’m not ashamed.” Castiel stays focused on the road, eyes distant, mournful. “I only wish it did not have to be like this.”
Dean’s anger fades at the bleak note in his voice. “Christ, me too, Cas. I’m sorry.”
Castiel cranes his neck to kiss him on the cheek, and Dean’s heart stutters; when Castiel looks away again he can’t help but scan the crowd, wondering if anyone has noticed.
“It’s hardly your fault,” Castiel is saying, “but thank you. It means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it,” mumbles Dean. “So where are we headed, anyways?”
Castiel smiles, and that’s a relief, to see happiness overtake his expression again, that is. “First things first, we should stop and get some lunch. Afterwards, I don’t really have a plan for a while. I thought maybe we’d walk around and take in the city a little more. I know it’s a bit mundane, but we’ve been too busy keeping track of the kids to really admire everything, and it would be a shame to miss such a beautiful city. Then - well. You’re going to think it’s silly.”
Dean shrugs. “If I’m going to do it, I might as well know. Unless it’s a surprise, that is.”
“It’s not.” Castiel focuses on the ground, unusually shy, and that only sharpens Dean’s curiosity. “There’s a place to watch the sunset - the Pincio - and I thought we might stop there before dinner. Then we can walk back to the hotel, maybe stop for a nightcap. I don’t know. I didn’t want to be too scheduled.”
Dean’s neck feels hot and scratchy, and he can’t meet Castiel’s eyes, because it’s too sweet, the bashful shade to his expression and the awkward way he rubs at the back of his head. He clears his throat, trying to compose himself, gather up the scatter rhythm of his thoughts, which have all fled to remote corners of his mind screaming about serious relationships and commitment and one word that he doesn’t dare to acknowledge yet.
“That sounds great,” he says gruffly, pressing Castiel’s palm to make up for his ineloquence. It works; Castiel gives an audible sigh of relief and tilts his face up with a smile. Dean’s kiss is brief and uncomfortable - he really doesn’t know what to do with all these public displays, can’t translate their meaning, get accustomed to the feel of what seems a hundred eyes pressing down on them at once - but it doesn’t seem to matter to Castiel.
Rather, in fact, he thrums with life, leading Dean stumbling through winding cobblestone streets and shouting vendors, pointing out the details of the architecture and the history with such impressive enthusiasm and breadth of knowledge that Dean is sharply reminded that he is indeed a very learned scholar. Sometimes, everything Castiel represents takes Dean’s breath away, setting him on edge and bringing every ignored insecurity into painfully sharp focus. But he tries not to think about that; no matter his logic, Castiel has done all this for him, and he wants nothing more than to enjoy it.
Lunch is so delicious - fresh seafood and good coffee in a charmingly cramped restaurant tucked into the framework of the city - and Castiel so radiant that Dean forgets the worries chewing away at the corners of his mind. He doesn’t even mind that the bill is ripped from his hands before he can so much as take out his credit card; the meal was expensive, anyways, and Castiel is downright territorial when it comes to finances. Even after coffee, they dawdle in the restaurant, talking and smiling stupidly at each other over the table, and if it’s not obvious that they’re ridiculously enamored of each other, Dean doesn’t know how else it could be.
It’s already mid-afternoon by the time they leave the restaurant to stroll through the city. Castiel strikes up a slow, rhythmic pace, and Dean falls happily into step beside him, finally relaxed with their hands clasped together, swinging gently from side to side. He’s starting to realize that Castiel was right. Dean never really noticed the beauty of the city with the kids around, always needing advice and money and supervision. Now he’s amazed, left speechless by the sight of Rome cloaked in the soft gold of the afternoon sun, the shadows liquid, sliding gradually from building to building, highlighting old stucco roofs and dripping into the cracks in the sidewalk.
“I have got to show this to Sam,” he breathes at some point, and is surprised at the sound of his own voice. He didn’t mean to say it aloud, but Castiel only smiles, and presses his palm affectionately.
“You will,” he says simply, and for some reason, Dean’s more grateful to him for that than anything else. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by a fierce pressure in his chest, and right smack dab in the middle of the street he bends down and kisses Castiel fervently, and only thinks to be embarrassed once he’s broken away again and Castiel is staring at him with wide eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what - what that was.”
Castiel chuckles, and says that he doesn’t know, either, but that he certainly liked it. Dean grins, ducking his chin to hide his blush, and Castiel keeps leading him in a hectic pattern through the streets, stopping every now and then to gawk and once to buy fresh fruit from a ramshackle stand on the corner. As he peels an orange, Dean thinks that this whole thing is idyllic, quintessential, almost unbearably clichéd, and that he loves every minute despite himself, despite everything.
They end up tucked away in a little nook that seems to overlook the entire city, spread before them, an intricate and pockmarked blanket of stone. The sun has sunk to the cusp of the horizon, molten and pouring liquid over the edge, and the clouds are feathery and indistinct, stained pink and orange by the light. Castiel sits down on the wall that rims the edge of the street and dangles his legs over the edge; Dean joins him, and lets their twined hands rest on his knee, sappy as that might be.
They don’t talk much; words aren’t necessary, and neither of them wants to spoil the peace and quiet stretched fragile over the city. At some point, Castiel shifts closer, and after a strained moment lets his head come to rest on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tenses but doesn’t pull away, even though every nerve in his body screams that they’re too exposed, too open, that something is going to go wrong. He exhales gradually, trying to measure his breathing, and works to focus on the comfortable weight of Castiel pressing into him, pushing all other thoughts from his mind because in that moment, things are impossibly good, and that’s all that matters.
A long time passes before dusk begins to fall and the color starts to drain from the sky, replaced by a modest palette of greys and blacks and the vibrant yellow of the streetlamps. It’s Castiel who breaks the stillness, standing with a soft groan before helping Dean to his feet, dropping a kiss on his forehead as he rocks upright. He murmurs that dinner is next, but he won’t tell Dean where they’re going, just gives an expression caught halfway between a smile and a smirk and heads off down the road again.
They walk in comfortable silence until they reach the river, at which point Castiel comes to a halt and gives Dean a shy smile. He points to the gleaming water and Dean is confused for a long moment before it occurs to him and his mouth falls slack.
“Aw, Cas - shit, no. Oh man.” He runs a hand through his hair. “That is so sappy, even for you.”
He meant it affectionately, but worry flickers across Castiel’s expression, darkens his eyes.
“Forgive me, Dean. I didn’t - ”
“No, shut up.” Dean takes his hand and wonders when they had broken away. “It’s cute. A dinner cruise on the river, I mean - well, it’s damn gay, but also cute.”
A moment’s pause.
“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is low and measured, the tone he uses when he’s trying to disguise amusement. “I should hope you are aware that you are in fact a participant in a homosexual relationship.”
“I know,” replies Dean cheerfully, tugging Castiel towards the dock. “But this has got to be a new achievement in gay. I mean, come on - stop me before I get goddamn butterflies.”
“Butterflies?” Castiel cocks a brow. “I highly doubt that will ever be the case, Dean.”
He goes to give his name to the hostess, and even attempts a conversation with her, smiling with a charming bashful edge that melts her down in a matter of seconds. Such awkward Italian would usually make Dean cringe, but with Castiel it’s almost adorable, and he hangs back, listening to him stumbling over the verbs and nouns for a long time before intervening just to make sure he has everything straight. Castiel looks at him gratefully, and Dean unthinkingly presses his hand, fighting down a grin.
The smile the hostess gives him is almost unbearable, laced with poorly-concealed delight at seeing such well-groomed men so appropriately paired. Dean’s a little bit rude to her, but Castiel can’t hear the difference, and seems merely thrilled at the fact that they’re sitting down to eat on the water, bobbing gently with the current so that the candles atop the table threaten to spill over every other second. He goes for the wine list before Dean can protest, and gives Dean a lengthy selection to translate to the waiter once he materializes.
Even though Dean doesn’t fancy the bitter taste of wine, and the constant rocking of the cruise makes him a little nauseous, he can’t bring himself to be unhappy. The lights strung up on the deck reflect off the trembling surface of the water before ricocheting back into Castiel’s eyes, pooling soft yellow across his face, warm gold in his hair, illuminating the pretty color in his cheeks. Castiel has a very curious beauty, touched in places by a distinct femininity but nonetheless undeniably male, and sometimes Dean doesn’t know what to make of it, can’t quite understand the indefinite pink curve of his mouth and the impossible blue of his eyes. It doesn’t matter, though; he’s so magnetized to Castiel that sometimes he can scarcely stand it.
It occurs to him, rocking gently to and fro in the candlelight, sharing a caprese salad and not even feeling unnerved by the pallid slabs of raw mozzarella because Castiel shows him how to properly layer the fresh tomato and the vinaigrette, delicate fingers dancing over his fork and knife, brushing once or twice against Dean’s wrist, little pinpricks of electricity, that they are very much a couple. Of course, this is hardly a surprise; it’s been the case since that conversation on Castiel’s couch, but Dean thinks that there’s a new dimension to their relationship, a certain gravity and permanence that are only just beginning to seem comfortable.
And what should he make of it? Well, he thinks it’s a good thing, but he’s not sure, and as Castiel is picking apart the last of his entrée he does something that he can’t remember ever doing before in his entire life.
“Hey, can we talk a minute?”
Castiel dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “We’ve been talking all night, Dean.”
“Come on, Cas.”
A shade of worry comes into Castiel’s eyes, and Dean wants nothing more than to push it away, because it’s absurd that Castiel should still be insecure about anything; he’s far too good for Dean, anyways, and has no reason to question himself. Castiel quietly sets down his fork and knife.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” says Dean quickly. “I just - this has been fantastic so far. Too good to be true, really.”
Castiel eyes him warily. “I am glad you think so. So far, I have enjoyed myself as well.”
He always speaks in clipped sentences and loses contractions when he’s nervous, on his guard. Dean hates that. He lunges across the table and takes Castiel’s hand where it’s resting beside his plate. Castiel furrows his brow, but he presses back, winding their fingers together.
“Dean, I don’t- ”
“This is getting pretty serious, don’t you think? Between us, I mean.”
Castiel’s jaw goes slack. “Well - yes, I would say so. I thought- ”
“It really freaks me out.”
Castiel stares, tilts his head to the side, probes Dean with that trademark intensity, and at last relents, evidently fruitless in his search for answers. His face goes blank, eyes distant, and he loosens his hold on Dean’s hand.
“I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. Such was not my intent.”
Dean lets out a short laugh.
“It does make me uncomfortable. Like you wouldn’t believe.” But he doesn’t let Castiel pull his hand away for good. “But I mean that in the best way. Sorry. I suck at saying these things right and all. But trust me, this is the good kind of freaked out. Like - fuck. With you, I’m glad to be on edge all the time and stuff. And - well, cut me some slack here. Do you know what I mean?”
Castiel rolls his lower lip between his teeth. “Maybe. Do you - is it okay to be serious, Dean?”
“Christ, yeah.” And despite himself, Dean brings Castiel’s hands to his lips, kissing each of the knuckles. “If you can tolerate me, that is.”
Castiel watches in abject amazement, color spreading across his cheeks, spilling down his neck, eyes crystallizing back into the vivid shade of blue that can’t possibly exist, must be an illusion, a trick of the light.
“Dean, I should hope that by now you know that it is hardly a matter of toleration.”
“If you say so.” He bites softly into the knuckle of Castiel’s pointer finger. “Hey, I know it’s kind of stupid, but what should I call you?”
Castiel’s tongue darts out pensively. “Boyfriend? That’s what I call you in my head, anyways.”
Dean raises an eyebrow.
“In your head?”
The color in Castiel’s cheeks deepens, and he doesn’t say another word on the subject. Dean chuckles and says that boyfriend sounds just fine to him; with that, he finally lets Castiel’s hand drop back to the table, but Castiel hangs onto his thumb, smiling softly and ducking his chin, uncharacteristically bashful. Dean can’t stop grinning, and it’s stupid, but he can’t bring himself to care. In that moment, he’s pretty happy, and that sort of thing doesn’t happen to him very often, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasts.
Soon, the waiter sweeps by to take their plates; he offers coffee and dessert, and when Castiel proposes that they share a slice of tiramisu, Dean doesn’t say no, even though his cheeks get hot as Castiel orders in stumbling Italian and the waiter does a bit of a double take. He considers kissing Castiel full on the mouth right then and there just to show him a thing or two, but only gives a strained smile and waits for him to disappear back into the kitchen. He does, and then they’re alone again, and it’s as if they’re the only two people ever to exist, completely secluded in this little bubble of light bobbing along the river.
“Thank you, Dean,” murmurs Castiel unexpectedly.
Dean stares, caught off guard.
“What for?”
Castiel shakes his head and leans across the table, lips nothing more than a whisper against his before he’s back in his seat and the space between them suddenly seems impossibly vast.
“Nothing, Dean.” He smiles in a way that’s almost too tender for comfort. “Nothing at all.”