Fic: Vita Nuova IIX
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: As always, thanks for reading!
They took the afternoon train to Paris after a lazy morning spent wrapped up in each other in the hotel. Castiel ordered room service, a luxury that Dean had never so much as considered, and they actually ate breakfast in bed, with the sunlight drenching their tousled hair and pooling in the creases in the comforter. After that, they kissed for a while, soft and lazy at first, but more deliberate later on, hands and tongues and the indistinct outlines of words dropped between the sheets. Of course, that meant that they ended up dawdling in bed longer than intended, but Dean didn’t really mind missing a last tour of the city, because Castiel looks awfully good with his hair tousled and his lips a bit swollen at the edges, and it’s easier to relax on a train when you’re a little bit worn out, after all.
The ride is beautiful. Just outside the city, the countryside becomes a pastel blur of green and blue watercolor, punctuated occasionally by white streaks of sheep or clouds. Dean feels that it’s all so liquid that he could somehow drown himself in the sight. Castiel rests his head on Dean’s shoulder as he works on lesson plans for the rest of the year, and Dean thumbs slowly through La Vita Nuova, raising questions at his leisure and carefully noting down every answer. They have a light dinner just before pulling into the city, rested and content and absurdly comfortable.
Dean’s only ever thought of Paris as some housewife’s dream vacation, a destination for repressed women with unfulfilled ideas of grandeur and luxury, but his stomach swoops a bit at the sight of the city set aglow for the evening, a spread of brittle buildings and yellow light, antique and beautiful in a way he didn’t really expect. Castiel grins at him as they hail down a taxi, and Dean doesn’t even care that he’s being made fun of; he practically presses his nose to the window as they drive past.
“They really weren’t kidding when they said it was beautiful,” he mumbles.
“They?” Castiel sounds immensely amused, but Dean doesn’t really mind.
“Everyone!” Dean’s eyes widen as they speed past an enormous lawn turned gold in places by the light of the streetlamps. “I wasn’t expecting all this.”
Castiel shrugs. “It’s prettier by night. In the morning, it’s actually pretty dirty. But don’t let anyone overhear you saying that.”
“But I don’t speak French.”
“Oh, everyone speaks English. They’ll just never admit it.”
Dean laughs and leans across the seat to drop a kiss in Castiel’s hair; things have become so natural between them that he doesn’t even think twice, just does it, and revels in Castiel’s gentle smile afterwards. Even if it’s scary that this whole thing is getting so serious, that Dean is starting to place Castiel higher and higher in his heart until he might even reach that pedestal that Dean can’t acknowledge quite yet, he thinks for the umpteenth time that it’s worth all the trouble a thousand times over. Castiel is worth it, and Dean wants nothing more than to do right by him.
The hotel is in the center of the city, and Dean doesn’t even want to think about how much even a single night must cost. Supposedly it’s a famous spot, but he doesn’t want to think about that, either; it still makes him uncomfortable that Castiel goes to such lengths of excess without batting an eye. He knows that it’s not just for show, that Castiel is only trying to make things more enjoyable, that he doesn’t even think about the extravagance, but it’s easier to ignore the gold accents in the wallpaper and the lengthy history in the information brochures than compare the place to all the crummy motels that Dean’s been used to for his entire life.
The valet brings up their luggage and Castiel tips him lavishly. Even if it’s the second time Dean’s heard him speak French, this time the conversation is longer and untainted by the rumble of the city outside the taxi, and he shivers at the cadence of the syllables, the new richness in Castiel’s voice, a deep and electric roll like summer thunder. He busies himself unpacking as Castiel dallies with the valet, who is apparently an excellent conversationalist, and tries his best to ignore it. The effort is largely unsuccessful; when the valet finally leaves, Dean all but lunges across the room to grab Castiel by the waist and kiss him fiercely, swallowing his surprise and digging his hands into his hair.
Castiel’s eyes are luminous when Dean finally lets him go. “What was that for?”
“Nothing,” mumbles Dean, suddenly bashful. “You just - well, you make French sound really good.”
Castiel gazes at him wonderingly until Dean turns away, too embarrassed to stand his intensity much longer. At last, he hears Castiel chuckle, and when he looks over again he’s folding clothes out of the suitcase, smirking at nothing in particular.
“If that’s the case,” he says. “I’ll have to make conversation a little more often.”
“Shut the hell up.”
Castiel shakes his head fondly and Dean grins, helping him with the clothes for a while before he takes his shaving kit to the bathroom. He nearly spills it all over the floor in shock. The hotel in Rome had luxurious facilities, but it was nothing compared to this. There’s a full whirlpool tub, first of all, not to mention a shower in the corner, and a television mounted on the wall. There are stacks upon stacks of thick white towels, and even if Dean can only barely muddle through the labels on the toiletries, he can tell that they’re the ridiculously fancy sort.
He swears loudly, and Castiel materializes in the doorway a moment later, head tilted inquisitively. Dean throws his hands up in the air.
“Look at this place,” he exclaims. “Who the hell needs a sink that big?”
Castiel shrugs. “Someone, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, right. And look at this - a shower and a bathtub? Come on, Cas. It’s downright frivolous.”
“That’s a nice word.” Castiel comes inside and wraps his arms loosely around Dean’s waist, resting his chin in the bend of his shoulder. “I don’t know. I, for one, could think of at least one use for the bathtub, at least.”
Dean glances over his shoulder, and his stomach drops at Castiel’s expression.
“Really? Enlighten me.”
“Dean.” Castiel sounds like he’s frowning. “Don’t play dumb.”
Dean grins and turns around to take Castiel’s hands, sort of swinging their arms back and forth, tilting on the balls of his heels. “But it suits me so well.”
Castiel’s frown deepens. “Don’t say that. You know it’s not true.”
“Maybe.” Dean bends down to kiss him quickly, leaning back with a chuckle when Castiel stumbles forwards to get a better angle on his mouth.
“Dean-” Castiel sounds genuinely frustrated, and Dean laughs, pressing his lips to his forehead to cut off the rest of his sentence.
“I am feeling a little grimy from all that traveling,” he murmurs. “How about we finish unpacking while the water runs?”
Castiel bites down on his lower lip, but Dean can tell that he’s only trying to fight back a smile.
“Fine,” he grunts. “You win.”
Dean beams, and they get both suitcases unpacked before the water even reaches the halfway point of the tub. The bathroom is ripe with steam when they come back and Castiel winds his arms around Dean’s waist again. It’s comfortable at first, but after standing in the center of the floor kissing Castiel for a while, however, Dean starts to feel a little irrationally nervous. It’s an absurdly romantic idea, sex in the bathtub, and he’s not sure exactly what it entails. Maybe it’s silly to be worried, but he can’t help it.
He trusts Castiel, though, and lets him slip off his shirt and jeans and lead him into the steaming water. At first, it’s totally innocent; Dean is propped up against Castiel’s knees so that he can knead shampoo into his hair, and they have to wait for the suds to drain away twice before the water is clear again. Every once in a while, Castiel peppers a kiss at the bend of Dean’s neck, but it’s a long time before he turns him around by the shoulders and circles his arms around his neck to draw him in close.
Dean finds himself nestled at the juncture of Castiel’s legs, stretched up over his stomach and chest, knees pressed to the bottom of the tub. In any other situation, it might have been uncomfortable, but with Castiel fastened to his neck, carding his fingers slowly through his damp hair, surrounded by steaming water, it’s hard to care that he’s going to be sore later on. He cranes his neck to kiss Castiel properly, opening his mouth and winding his hands up beneath him to cradle his back, fingers splayed out at the powerful planes of his shoulders. This goes on for a while; the water laps softly at the edges of the tub and curls of steam twist into the air, and Dean drowns a little bit, lost in the water, lost in Castiel.
At some point, Castiel changes the rhythm, shifting upwards so that their hips slot closely together, and Dean realizes that they’re both already hard, pressing gently into each other. He drops his mouth to Castiel’s jaw and reaches down; Castiel gasps in surprise as he closes his hand, fingers contracting viciously into his hair.
“Is this alright?” Dean pulls away to get a good look at Castiel’s face, flushed with steam, mouth drawn askew. “I’m not sure - how, exactly.”
“Fuck, Dean - you’re an idiot.” Castiel kisses him sharply, biting down on his lower lip, one hand balanced at the back of his neck. “It’s perfect.”
Dean smiles and draws his hand upwards in one long stroke; Castiel sighs and Dean feels his hips jut forwards instinctively. He lets out a shuddering breath as they kiss again, and the steam is almost suffocating, yanking the breath up out of his lungs. It gets worse when Castiel finds purchase at the small of his back and pulls him forwards so that they press together so fiercely that water laps from the edge of the tub to form little puddles on the floor. Dean groans, flicking out his thumb, and Castiel sort of melts into his arms, fingertips digging hard into his skin.
At some point, Castiel drops to kiss the bend of his jaw, the soft skin of his neck; he bites softly at his thrumming pulse and Dean lurches forwards, chin jutting into the curve of his shoulder. Castiel murmurs his name, soft and indistinct, just the impression of sound, really, and Dean meets his gaze. Even through the haze of steam, his eyes are brilliant pinpricks of blue, crystallized and blown bright like new glass. Dean swallows. Words are bubbling to his lips, turned liquid by the hot water and Castiel’s expression, and he has to restrain them, even if he’s not sure he can.
Fortunately, Castiel chooses that moment for a kiss, stirringly passionate, truly unique in that regard, quite unlike anything Dean’s ever experienced, and when his hips ease forwards again Dean breaks down in his arms, breaking away to cry his name softly into the crook of his neck. He manages a few more rough strokes, and then Castiel comes apart, too, just bits and pieces wrapped up in Dean, murmuring nonsense against his mouth. For a long time they lie helplessly in the water, breathing against one another, limp and unwound.
“That was a good idea,” mumbles Dean after a long time, cheek pressed into the valley of Castiel’s chest. Castiel plucks his hand from the water and starts to toy with his fingers.
“I told you there was a good use for this tub.”
“You were right.” With no small effort, Dean props himself up for a kiss, and at last manages to clamber out of the tub, fumbling about for a towel. “Fuck me. I’m beat.”
“Me too.” Castiel lets Dean pull him from water, stretching up to kiss the tip of his nose before wrapping a towel around his waist. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Do we?” Dean goes ahead into the other room and finds a pair of flannel pajama pants in a drawer; he’s not sure if they’re his or Castiel’s, but it doesn’t really matter. He can’t help but stare as Castiel drops his towel and steps into old sweatpants, admiring the artful bend of his waist and the javelin of dark hair that runs down from his navel. Castiel catches him, of course, and kisses him fondly before clambering onto the bed without bothering to turn out the lights.
“We do,” he murmurs as Dean eases onto the mattress, curling one arm loosely around his shoulders. “There’s a lot to see and not a lot of time.”
“I trust you to make the most of it.” Dean gives a big yawn and tries to kiss Castiel on the forehead, but only ends up landing at his eyebrow. “Sorry.”
Castiel starts to run his hands through his hair, slow, rhythmic, and Dean sighs, trying to resist leaning into his fingertips without much success. Castiel chuckles.
“Go to sleep, Dean.”
Dean nods, burrowing halfway into the pillow and halfway into Castiel’s shoulder. He feels soft and sticky with exhaustion, like his arms and legs cling together whenever he moves. For a moment, his mind flickers to what he almost said to Castiel in the bathtub, but he pushes that out of his mind. He wants to sleep, and that’s too troubling for the moment, requires too much consideration.
“Bonne nuit, Cas.”
He hears a soft laugh, and then there’s the suggestion of a kiss at his forehead.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
-
He wakes to Castiel gazing down at him. It’s a little unnerving, the trained focus of his eyes, but it’s mostly endearing, and Dean smiles, reaching up to run his knuckles gently down his cheek because maybe he’s been turned into a giant girl and likes doing stuff like touch Castiel’s face over and over again just to learn the structure of his bones. Whatever; Castiel leans into the touch, and the softness in his gaze is worth a little emasculation. Dean props himself up onto one elbow for a kiss; it’s soft but lingering, and when he pulls back, Castiel is still staring, almost wonderingly, like Dean can’t be real.
“Good morning.” Dean pushes his hair from his forehead. “Were you watching me sleep?”
“Yes. I think you were dreaming.”
Dean smiles because he doesn’t know what else to say, and at the look in Castiel’s eyes, profoundly tender, what he hasn’t said is coming up in his chest again, threatening to break free. He doesn’t know quite what to do with it, so he makes his best effort to shove it down again, forget it in the wash of sunlight and the cottony taste of Castiel’s mouth as they kiss again.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” he murmurs. “Don’t tell me we have to get out of bed.”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “Dean, I am not wasting another morning solely because you have the libido of a sixteen-year-old. You can get yourself off if necessary. I’m going to experience culture.”
Dean groans as Castiel winds nimbly from his arms and goes over to the dresser to find some clothes, but eventually he gets out of bed, too, and rummages around for a comfortable shirt. He gets a whiff of coffee and realizes that there’s already breakfast set out on the balcony; Castiel is fixing two plates when he finishes shaving and comes out to get a glimpse of the city. They eat in companionable silence, letting the rush of the streets and the clink of silverware against china fill the air. Dean’s endlessly grateful that he and Castiel don’t always have to talk, that they’re both prone to long intervals of quiet, and maybe not quite introspection, but something close.
They leave the plates for the cleaning service and head out into the balmy morning. Castiel doesn’t even bother with a map; he lived in Paris for a few years when he was a child, and he’s come back to visit countless times since, so he knows the city almost by heart. Dean pesters him to figure out the plan for the day, but he doesn’t divulge much more than a grunt, and eventually there’s no other choice but to relent and enjoy the sun and the winding streets without knowing where they’re headed.
They’re not going to see the Mona Lisa; Castiel says that’s too cliché, not to mention underwhelming, and he outright rolls his eyes when Dean asks if they’re going to have baguettes for lunch. At first, it seems they’re simply on a prolonged walking tour - Dean catches a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe, and later on in the morning they even pass Notre Dame. Of course, the Eiffel Tower is always in the backdrop, but when Dean asks about that Castiel gets a shifty sort of look in his eye and only shrugs.
“Don’t be such a tourist.”
Dean takes that to mean he’s onto something.
But for the meantime, Castiel doesn’t seem to have a distinct destination in mind. They stop for lunch at a bakery, and Dean actually does buy a baguette; even if he stumbles over the French and the cashier looks less than impressed, it’s worth it to see the glower on Castiel’s face. They head down to Luxembourg Gardens and find a bench, and Dean chucks hunks of bread at the geese while Castiel watches, caught between amused and disapproving.
“You bought that to eat,” he says at some point.
“I ate some of it.” Dean nails a goose in the head with a lump and it squawks in alarm, sending the whole flock into a chaos of flapping wings. “Oops.”
“You’re a child.”
“Whatever.” Dean takes a bite of bread. “You love me anyways.”
Dean is in the middle of chewing and has to swallow too suddenly; the weight of the words settles uncomfortably in the back of his throat, a lump weighing down his breathing. Castiel, however, doesn’t seem to have noticed; there’s a half-smile on his face and an absent look in his eyes as he watches the geese settle down again, squawking amongst themselves and fanning out their wings like they’ve got someone to impress. At length, once Dean’s heartbeat has quieted and his breathing has evened, he reaches for Castiel’s hand and eases back into the quiet comfort of his presence.
They wander the gardens for a while, holding hands without quite realizing it, and the afternoon starts to wane away, the sunlight aging to a brassy sort of yellow that plays funny tricks on the blue of Castiel’s eyes. When Dean spots a group of children playing on one of the spacious lawns, shrieking and stumbling over each other, he’s painfully reminded of how badly he wants to share all of this with Sam. Maybe Castiel senses the sudden shift in his mood, because he draws closer so that their arms brush together, and Dean decides to take the gesture as a silent reassurance, pressing Castiel’s palm in gratitude.
Eventually, Castiel leads him out of the park with the promise of dinner, but they end up walking halfway across the city again before he shows any sign of stopping. Dean can’t complain, though - the city is beautiful at dusk, with the streetlamps gradually flickering to life and the streets otherwise cast in the murky penumbra that can only exist in that tiny slip of time just between afternoon and night. At last they cross a tile patio crammed with people and emerge onto a long green that swells up to the base of the Eiffel Tower. Dean grins like a madman.
“Come now, Cas. Don’t be such a tourist.”
“Shut up.” Castiel tugs him forwards. “Some clichés exist for a reason.”
Castiel, perhaps in a fit of insane romanticism, has actually booked a reservation for dinner on the first tier of the tower. If Dean thought the meal on the river cruise was corny, this is a new achievement to say the least. He bristles at the look on the hostess’ face when she spots them heading towards the front of the restaurant, but Castiel puts a hand on his arm and he swallows his anger, even though he hates it when people get off on the novelty of their relationship.
Castiel examines the wine list at length, but Dean just orders a beer; the waiter raises an eyebrow, but he honestly can’t be pressed to quell his lack of culture at the moment. It’s a bit dizzying to be here with Castiel in one of the most romantic spots in the world, living out pretty much every housewife’s dream with his boyfriend of scarcely two months, and he wants something a little more grounding. Castiel laughs for about a minute straight once the waiter has vanished with their drink orders, mumbling something about how Dean never fails to surprise him, and when Dean asks if he meant that in the good way or the bad way, he smiles softly and says he meant it in the best way possible.
It’s stupid, but Dean is thrilled, and they’re grinning at each other like fools, and don’t stop for the rest of the meal, no matter what sort of looks the waiter casts about from the corner of his eye. At some point, a couple dining at the next table over gets up to leave, but before they go the lady comes over and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder with a warm smile. Dean doesn’t catch what she says, but Castiel’s ears turn pink, and he mumbles merci with uncharacteristic shyness. Dean is, of course, ferociously curious.
“What did she say?”
Castiel exhales, still tinged pink in places. “She thinks we’re adorable.”
“Oh.” Dean takes a sip of beer. “How nice of her to comment. You know, that’ll look real good in the customer review section.”
“Stop. It was sweet.”
“It was unnecessary.”
Castiel shrugs. “It made me happy.”
“Well, you’re weird.”
The waiter cuts off the rest of Castiel’s argument, and Dean digs enthusiastically into dinner even if Castiel rolls his eyes and takes birdlike bites just to make some sort of inexplicable point. It’s a fond sort of discord, though, and by the end of dinner they’re stupid and affectionate again, and Castiel even taps at Dean’s ankle under the table even though he knows footsie makes Dean nervous. By the time Castiel very firmly denies dessert and pays the check, night has fully descended into the city, and the tower is aglow like you only see in pictures.
They take the stairs for as long as they can, and then cram into an elevator with what must be hundreds of other American tourists. It’s uncomfortable, and Dean ends up pressed so close to Castiel that it’s a struggle not to kiss him right then and there, but when the doors chime open again and Paris is spread before them like a brittle blanket, the night soaking thick and inky through the cracks and crevices, and Castiel presses close, taking his hand, Dean can scarcely breathe.
And it’s not really because the view is so picturesque, not because the lights of the tower look good on Castiel, coloring his hair and eyes eerily yellow in places, not because Dean is just swept off his feet with the romanticism of it all. Rather, it’s because all of a sudden, words are forcing their way up his throat again, and where everything was nebulous before, lacking form or real meaning, now it’s too distinct in his mind, almost sharp in its clarity, pressing uncomfortably into his every thought. It’s very simple, really, and he thinks he’s known for a while, but he doesn’t know what to do, not yet, except that he can’t say it, he definitely can’t say it.
He’s in love with Castiel, of course. He loves him profoundly, helplessly; unwittingly, he’s carved out a place for him in his heart that he thought he would give to nobody, somewhere just below Sam and Bobby, just before family, everything that’s ever mattered to him in his entire life. The realization settles heavily into his chest, but Dean knows that it’s been there for a good while, that he just hasn’t been listening hard enough to understand.
He loves Castiel, and not because Castiel can take him on a thousand tours of Europe, not because Castiel comes from an elite and frigid family, but because he gave Dean his own translation of La Vita Nuova, because he can command a classroom with as much affection as wisdom, because he doesn’t know anything about cars, because he knows everything about good wine, because he’s honest with everything he says and does down to the very expression on his face, and most of all because he knows Dean is just a poor boy with nothing to his name but a GED, a moldy apartment, trust issues, and a 1967 Chevy Impala, but wants him anyways, sees some fragment of good that the rest of the world overlooked long ago.
He loves Castiel for the right reasons, and that’s a problem.
-
They’re drunk. They stopped for dessert and Castiel got another bottle of red wine, and he promised not to finish it, so they finished it together, and now they are rather drunk, or perhaps very drunk - Dean’s not exactly sure. At least they got a taxi back to the hotel; otherwise, they would have probably wandered the city until dawn, hanging off of each other and maybe kissing sloppily every once in a while. Granted, that would have been alright, but Dean definitely prefers the hotel bed, where things are still sloppy, but not quite so aimless.
In fact, Castiel is very deliberate in cramming his fingers beneath the hem of Dean’s trousers, even if he’s forgotten to take off his belt first, and Dean vaguely remembers undoing half the buttons of his shirt in the back of the taxi - perhaps to the driver’s chagrin, he can’t remember - so that now the fabric falling from his shoulders and he can get at his chest. Dean bites into the smooth skin at the base of his throat and Castiel swears; he pushes Dean into the mattress, but lets Dean roll him over scarcely a moment later, gasping for breath, fingers fumbling at his shirt.
Dean kisses him relentlessly, head spinning with the wine and the smell of Castiel’s cologne; he presses his mouth down his throat, feels the reverberation of a heavy swallow, burrows into his collarbone. Castiel finally gets his shirt off and runs his hands down his sides, hooking his ankles up to the swell of his behind, digging his fingers into the small of his back. Dean feels the strain of his trousers and straddles Castiel so that he can kick them away, gasping for breath, blood pounding. Castiel groans and pushes his hips upwards; Dean swears and makes for the button on his jeans, kissing at the dip of his stomach, the curve of his hipbone.
He stops at the sweet spot just below the hemline and kisses back up Castiel’s chest until he can look at him properly, so close that their foreheads press together. Castiel grins deliriously and winds one hand into the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, hips bucking a bit already, eyes hooded. He’s a lovely drunk, flushed all over, shamelessly needy, and Dean loves him to pieces.
“What do you want, Cas?” he breathes. “You can have anything you want.”
“Do you want the truth?” Castiel draws his teeth along his ear and Dean shivers.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Castiel leans back to meet his eyes. “I would really like you to fuck me.”
Dean swallows; the idea settles heavy and exhilarating in his chest, and a painful jolt of heat splinters down his stomach. He pictures Castiel undone in his arms, imagines the soft give of his body, and wants that more than he’s ever wanted anything. He kisses Castiel tenderly.
“I can’t, Cas.”
“What? You said I could have anything.” Castiel frowns. “Don’t you want to?”
“Do you think I’m insane? Of course I want to.” Dean cradles Castiel’s cheek in his palm. “Just not right now. It’s not the right time.”
Castiel harrumphs, pressing his face into Dean’s shoulder.
“I’m not a girl, Dean.”
“Hey, now. Sexism.” Dean strokes the back of his neck. “I know, Cas. But you are drunk, and so am I. I’ll - we’ll do it soon, I promise. I’m ready. I just want to be sober, okay?”
Castiel pulls out of the crook of his shoulder to meet his eyes.
“And you say I’m the romantic one in this relationship.”
Dean shrugs. “So sue me.”
Castiel mumbles that he’s a tease, but Dean cuts off the end of the sentence with a kiss, and it’s not long before he’s easily worked the tension from Castiel’s body, kissing at his chin, his jaw, the crook of his neck until he’s pliable again, maybe a little grouchy, but still very drunk and rather wanting. His hips are pressing into Dean’s again, and pretty soon it’s almost too much to bear, and with the wine pounding in his blood and the reminder that he’s in love ringing too clear in his mind, Dean comes undone on nearly the same beat as Castiel, drowning a sigh against his mouth.
He rolls over and pulls Castiel into his chest, nestling his head under his chin. They’ll regret it in the morning, but right now they’re too tired to clean up and turn out the lights. Just as Dean’s drifting off, Castiel mumbles something into his chest, but he doesn’t catch it because he’s too absorbed in his own thoughts. One thought in particular, that is, and once he’s sure Castiel is asleep, he tries the words on for size, a silent admission to a nonexistent audience, just syllables dissolving in the dark.
I love you, Castiel.
He falls asleep with the echo clinging to his dreams.
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: As always, thanks for reading!
They took the afternoon train to Paris after a lazy morning spent wrapped up in each other in the hotel. Castiel ordered room service, a luxury that Dean had never so much as considered, and they actually ate breakfast in bed, with the sunlight drenching their tousled hair and pooling in the creases in the comforter. After that, they kissed for a while, soft and lazy at first, but more deliberate later on, hands and tongues and the indistinct outlines of words dropped between the sheets. Of course, that meant that they ended up dawdling in bed longer than intended, but Dean didn’t really mind missing a last tour of the city, because Castiel looks awfully good with his hair tousled and his lips a bit swollen at the edges, and it’s easier to relax on a train when you’re a little bit worn out, after all.
The ride is beautiful. Just outside the city, the countryside becomes a pastel blur of green and blue watercolor, punctuated occasionally by white streaks of sheep or clouds. Dean feels that it’s all so liquid that he could somehow drown himself in the sight. Castiel rests his head on Dean’s shoulder as he works on lesson plans for the rest of the year, and Dean thumbs slowly through La Vita Nuova, raising questions at his leisure and carefully noting down every answer. They have a light dinner just before pulling into the city, rested and content and absurdly comfortable.
Dean’s only ever thought of Paris as some housewife’s dream vacation, a destination for repressed women with unfulfilled ideas of grandeur and luxury, but his stomach swoops a bit at the sight of the city set aglow for the evening, a spread of brittle buildings and yellow light, antique and beautiful in a way he didn’t really expect. Castiel grins at him as they hail down a taxi, and Dean doesn’t even care that he’s being made fun of; he practically presses his nose to the window as they drive past.
“They really weren’t kidding when they said it was beautiful,” he mumbles.
“They?” Castiel sounds immensely amused, but Dean doesn’t really mind.
“Everyone!” Dean’s eyes widen as they speed past an enormous lawn turned gold in places by the light of the streetlamps. “I wasn’t expecting all this.”
Castiel shrugs. “It’s prettier by night. In the morning, it’s actually pretty dirty. But don’t let anyone overhear you saying that.”
“But I don’t speak French.”
“Oh, everyone speaks English. They’ll just never admit it.”
Dean laughs and leans across the seat to drop a kiss in Castiel’s hair; things have become so natural between them that he doesn’t even think twice, just does it, and revels in Castiel’s gentle smile afterwards. Even if it’s scary that this whole thing is getting so serious, that Dean is starting to place Castiel higher and higher in his heart until he might even reach that pedestal that Dean can’t acknowledge quite yet, he thinks for the umpteenth time that it’s worth all the trouble a thousand times over. Castiel is worth it, and Dean wants nothing more than to do right by him.
The hotel is in the center of the city, and Dean doesn’t even want to think about how much even a single night must cost. Supposedly it’s a famous spot, but he doesn’t want to think about that, either; it still makes him uncomfortable that Castiel goes to such lengths of excess without batting an eye. He knows that it’s not just for show, that Castiel is only trying to make things more enjoyable, that he doesn’t even think about the extravagance, but it’s easier to ignore the gold accents in the wallpaper and the lengthy history in the information brochures than compare the place to all the crummy motels that Dean’s been used to for his entire life.
The valet brings up their luggage and Castiel tips him lavishly. Even if it’s the second time Dean’s heard him speak French, this time the conversation is longer and untainted by the rumble of the city outside the taxi, and he shivers at the cadence of the syllables, the new richness in Castiel’s voice, a deep and electric roll like summer thunder. He busies himself unpacking as Castiel dallies with the valet, who is apparently an excellent conversationalist, and tries his best to ignore it. The effort is largely unsuccessful; when the valet finally leaves, Dean all but lunges across the room to grab Castiel by the waist and kiss him fiercely, swallowing his surprise and digging his hands into his hair.
Castiel’s eyes are luminous when Dean finally lets him go. “What was that for?”
“Nothing,” mumbles Dean, suddenly bashful. “You just - well, you make French sound really good.”
Castiel gazes at him wonderingly until Dean turns away, too embarrassed to stand his intensity much longer. At last, he hears Castiel chuckle, and when he looks over again he’s folding clothes out of the suitcase, smirking at nothing in particular.
“If that’s the case,” he says. “I’ll have to make conversation a little more often.”
“Shut the hell up.”
Castiel shakes his head fondly and Dean grins, helping him with the clothes for a while before he takes his shaving kit to the bathroom. He nearly spills it all over the floor in shock. The hotel in Rome had luxurious facilities, but it was nothing compared to this. There’s a full whirlpool tub, first of all, not to mention a shower in the corner, and a television mounted on the wall. There are stacks upon stacks of thick white towels, and even if Dean can only barely muddle through the labels on the toiletries, he can tell that they’re the ridiculously fancy sort.
He swears loudly, and Castiel materializes in the doorway a moment later, head tilted inquisitively. Dean throws his hands up in the air.
“Look at this place,” he exclaims. “Who the hell needs a sink that big?”
Castiel shrugs. “Someone, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, right. And look at this - a shower and a bathtub? Come on, Cas. It’s downright frivolous.”
“That’s a nice word.” Castiel comes inside and wraps his arms loosely around Dean’s waist, resting his chin in the bend of his shoulder. “I don’t know. I, for one, could think of at least one use for the bathtub, at least.”
Dean glances over his shoulder, and his stomach drops at Castiel’s expression.
“Really? Enlighten me.”
“Dean.” Castiel sounds like he’s frowning. “Don’t play dumb.”
Dean grins and turns around to take Castiel’s hands, sort of swinging their arms back and forth, tilting on the balls of his heels. “But it suits me so well.”
Castiel’s frown deepens. “Don’t say that. You know it’s not true.”
“Maybe.” Dean bends down to kiss him quickly, leaning back with a chuckle when Castiel stumbles forwards to get a better angle on his mouth.
“Dean-” Castiel sounds genuinely frustrated, and Dean laughs, pressing his lips to his forehead to cut off the rest of his sentence.
“I am feeling a little grimy from all that traveling,” he murmurs. “How about we finish unpacking while the water runs?”
Castiel bites down on his lower lip, but Dean can tell that he’s only trying to fight back a smile.
“Fine,” he grunts. “You win.”
Dean beams, and they get both suitcases unpacked before the water even reaches the halfway point of the tub. The bathroom is ripe with steam when they come back and Castiel winds his arms around Dean’s waist again. It’s comfortable at first, but after standing in the center of the floor kissing Castiel for a while, however, Dean starts to feel a little irrationally nervous. It’s an absurdly romantic idea, sex in the bathtub, and he’s not sure exactly what it entails. Maybe it’s silly to be worried, but he can’t help it.
He trusts Castiel, though, and lets him slip off his shirt and jeans and lead him into the steaming water. At first, it’s totally innocent; Dean is propped up against Castiel’s knees so that he can knead shampoo into his hair, and they have to wait for the suds to drain away twice before the water is clear again. Every once in a while, Castiel peppers a kiss at the bend of Dean’s neck, but it’s a long time before he turns him around by the shoulders and circles his arms around his neck to draw him in close.
Dean finds himself nestled at the juncture of Castiel’s legs, stretched up over his stomach and chest, knees pressed to the bottom of the tub. In any other situation, it might have been uncomfortable, but with Castiel fastened to his neck, carding his fingers slowly through his damp hair, surrounded by steaming water, it’s hard to care that he’s going to be sore later on. He cranes his neck to kiss Castiel properly, opening his mouth and winding his hands up beneath him to cradle his back, fingers splayed out at the powerful planes of his shoulders. This goes on for a while; the water laps softly at the edges of the tub and curls of steam twist into the air, and Dean drowns a little bit, lost in the water, lost in Castiel.
At some point, Castiel changes the rhythm, shifting upwards so that their hips slot closely together, and Dean realizes that they’re both already hard, pressing gently into each other. He drops his mouth to Castiel’s jaw and reaches down; Castiel gasps in surprise as he closes his hand, fingers contracting viciously into his hair.
“Is this alright?” Dean pulls away to get a good look at Castiel’s face, flushed with steam, mouth drawn askew. “I’m not sure - how, exactly.”
“Fuck, Dean - you’re an idiot.” Castiel kisses him sharply, biting down on his lower lip, one hand balanced at the back of his neck. “It’s perfect.”
Dean smiles and draws his hand upwards in one long stroke; Castiel sighs and Dean feels his hips jut forwards instinctively. He lets out a shuddering breath as they kiss again, and the steam is almost suffocating, yanking the breath up out of his lungs. It gets worse when Castiel finds purchase at the small of his back and pulls him forwards so that they press together so fiercely that water laps from the edge of the tub to form little puddles on the floor. Dean groans, flicking out his thumb, and Castiel sort of melts into his arms, fingertips digging hard into his skin.
At some point, Castiel drops to kiss the bend of his jaw, the soft skin of his neck; he bites softly at his thrumming pulse and Dean lurches forwards, chin jutting into the curve of his shoulder. Castiel murmurs his name, soft and indistinct, just the impression of sound, really, and Dean meets his gaze. Even through the haze of steam, his eyes are brilliant pinpricks of blue, crystallized and blown bright like new glass. Dean swallows. Words are bubbling to his lips, turned liquid by the hot water and Castiel’s expression, and he has to restrain them, even if he’s not sure he can.
Fortunately, Castiel chooses that moment for a kiss, stirringly passionate, truly unique in that regard, quite unlike anything Dean’s ever experienced, and when his hips ease forwards again Dean breaks down in his arms, breaking away to cry his name softly into the crook of his neck. He manages a few more rough strokes, and then Castiel comes apart, too, just bits and pieces wrapped up in Dean, murmuring nonsense against his mouth. For a long time they lie helplessly in the water, breathing against one another, limp and unwound.
“That was a good idea,” mumbles Dean after a long time, cheek pressed into the valley of Castiel’s chest. Castiel plucks his hand from the water and starts to toy with his fingers.
“I told you there was a good use for this tub.”
“You were right.” With no small effort, Dean props himself up for a kiss, and at last manages to clamber out of the tub, fumbling about for a towel. “Fuck me. I’m beat.”
“Me too.” Castiel lets Dean pull him from water, stretching up to kiss the tip of his nose before wrapping a towel around his waist. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Do we?” Dean goes ahead into the other room and finds a pair of flannel pajama pants in a drawer; he’s not sure if they’re his or Castiel’s, but it doesn’t really matter. He can’t help but stare as Castiel drops his towel and steps into old sweatpants, admiring the artful bend of his waist and the javelin of dark hair that runs down from his navel. Castiel catches him, of course, and kisses him fondly before clambering onto the bed without bothering to turn out the lights.
“We do,” he murmurs as Dean eases onto the mattress, curling one arm loosely around his shoulders. “There’s a lot to see and not a lot of time.”
“I trust you to make the most of it.” Dean gives a big yawn and tries to kiss Castiel on the forehead, but only ends up landing at his eyebrow. “Sorry.”
Castiel starts to run his hands through his hair, slow, rhythmic, and Dean sighs, trying to resist leaning into his fingertips without much success. Castiel chuckles.
“Go to sleep, Dean.”
Dean nods, burrowing halfway into the pillow and halfway into Castiel’s shoulder. He feels soft and sticky with exhaustion, like his arms and legs cling together whenever he moves. For a moment, his mind flickers to what he almost said to Castiel in the bathtub, but he pushes that out of his mind. He wants to sleep, and that’s too troubling for the moment, requires too much consideration.
“Bonne nuit, Cas.”
He hears a soft laugh, and then there’s the suggestion of a kiss at his forehead.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
-
He wakes to Castiel gazing down at him. It’s a little unnerving, the trained focus of his eyes, but it’s mostly endearing, and Dean smiles, reaching up to run his knuckles gently down his cheek because maybe he’s been turned into a giant girl and likes doing stuff like touch Castiel’s face over and over again just to learn the structure of his bones. Whatever; Castiel leans into the touch, and the softness in his gaze is worth a little emasculation. Dean props himself up onto one elbow for a kiss; it’s soft but lingering, and when he pulls back, Castiel is still staring, almost wonderingly, like Dean can’t be real.
“Good morning.” Dean pushes his hair from his forehead. “Were you watching me sleep?”
“Yes. I think you were dreaming.”
Dean smiles because he doesn’t know what else to say, and at the look in Castiel’s eyes, profoundly tender, what he hasn’t said is coming up in his chest again, threatening to break free. He doesn’t know quite what to do with it, so he makes his best effort to shove it down again, forget it in the wash of sunlight and the cottony taste of Castiel’s mouth as they kiss again.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” he murmurs. “Don’t tell me we have to get out of bed.”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “Dean, I am not wasting another morning solely because you have the libido of a sixteen-year-old. You can get yourself off if necessary. I’m going to experience culture.”
Dean groans as Castiel winds nimbly from his arms and goes over to the dresser to find some clothes, but eventually he gets out of bed, too, and rummages around for a comfortable shirt. He gets a whiff of coffee and realizes that there’s already breakfast set out on the balcony; Castiel is fixing two plates when he finishes shaving and comes out to get a glimpse of the city. They eat in companionable silence, letting the rush of the streets and the clink of silverware against china fill the air. Dean’s endlessly grateful that he and Castiel don’t always have to talk, that they’re both prone to long intervals of quiet, and maybe not quite introspection, but something close.
They leave the plates for the cleaning service and head out into the balmy morning. Castiel doesn’t even bother with a map; he lived in Paris for a few years when he was a child, and he’s come back to visit countless times since, so he knows the city almost by heart. Dean pesters him to figure out the plan for the day, but he doesn’t divulge much more than a grunt, and eventually there’s no other choice but to relent and enjoy the sun and the winding streets without knowing where they’re headed.
They’re not going to see the Mona Lisa; Castiel says that’s too cliché, not to mention underwhelming, and he outright rolls his eyes when Dean asks if they’re going to have baguettes for lunch. At first, it seems they’re simply on a prolonged walking tour - Dean catches a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe, and later on in the morning they even pass Notre Dame. Of course, the Eiffel Tower is always in the backdrop, but when Dean asks about that Castiel gets a shifty sort of look in his eye and only shrugs.
“Don’t be such a tourist.”
Dean takes that to mean he’s onto something.
But for the meantime, Castiel doesn’t seem to have a distinct destination in mind. They stop for lunch at a bakery, and Dean actually does buy a baguette; even if he stumbles over the French and the cashier looks less than impressed, it’s worth it to see the glower on Castiel’s face. They head down to Luxembourg Gardens and find a bench, and Dean chucks hunks of bread at the geese while Castiel watches, caught between amused and disapproving.
“You bought that to eat,” he says at some point.
“I ate some of it.” Dean nails a goose in the head with a lump and it squawks in alarm, sending the whole flock into a chaos of flapping wings. “Oops.”
“You’re a child.”
“Whatever.” Dean takes a bite of bread. “You love me anyways.”
Dean is in the middle of chewing and has to swallow too suddenly; the weight of the words settles uncomfortably in the back of his throat, a lump weighing down his breathing. Castiel, however, doesn’t seem to have noticed; there’s a half-smile on his face and an absent look in his eyes as he watches the geese settle down again, squawking amongst themselves and fanning out their wings like they’ve got someone to impress. At length, once Dean’s heartbeat has quieted and his breathing has evened, he reaches for Castiel’s hand and eases back into the quiet comfort of his presence.
They wander the gardens for a while, holding hands without quite realizing it, and the afternoon starts to wane away, the sunlight aging to a brassy sort of yellow that plays funny tricks on the blue of Castiel’s eyes. When Dean spots a group of children playing on one of the spacious lawns, shrieking and stumbling over each other, he’s painfully reminded of how badly he wants to share all of this with Sam. Maybe Castiel senses the sudden shift in his mood, because he draws closer so that their arms brush together, and Dean decides to take the gesture as a silent reassurance, pressing Castiel’s palm in gratitude.
Eventually, Castiel leads him out of the park with the promise of dinner, but they end up walking halfway across the city again before he shows any sign of stopping. Dean can’t complain, though - the city is beautiful at dusk, with the streetlamps gradually flickering to life and the streets otherwise cast in the murky penumbra that can only exist in that tiny slip of time just between afternoon and night. At last they cross a tile patio crammed with people and emerge onto a long green that swells up to the base of the Eiffel Tower. Dean grins like a madman.
“Come now, Cas. Don’t be such a tourist.”
“Shut up.” Castiel tugs him forwards. “Some clichés exist for a reason.”
Castiel, perhaps in a fit of insane romanticism, has actually booked a reservation for dinner on the first tier of the tower. If Dean thought the meal on the river cruise was corny, this is a new achievement to say the least. He bristles at the look on the hostess’ face when she spots them heading towards the front of the restaurant, but Castiel puts a hand on his arm and he swallows his anger, even though he hates it when people get off on the novelty of their relationship.
Castiel examines the wine list at length, but Dean just orders a beer; the waiter raises an eyebrow, but he honestly can’t be pressed to quell his lack of culture at the moment. It’s a bit dizzying to be here with Castiel in one of the most romantic spots in the world, living out pretty much every housewife’s dream with his boyfriend of scarcely two months, and he wants something a little more grounding. Castiel laughs for about a minute straight once the waiter has vanished with their drink orders, mumbling something about how Dean never fails to surprise him, and when Dean asks if he meant that in the good way or the bad way, he smiles softly and says he meant it in the best way possible.
It’s stupid, but Dean is thrilled, and they’re grinning at each other like fools, and don’t stop for the rest of the meal, no matter what sort of looks the waiter casts about from the corner of his eye. At some point, a couple dining at the next table over gets up to leave, but before they go the lady comes over and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder with a warm smile. Dean doesn’t catch what she says, but Castiel’s ears turn pink, and he mumbles merci with uncharacteristic shyness. Dean is, of course, ferociously curious.
“What did she say?”
Castiel exhales, still tinged pink in places. “She thinks we’re adorable.”
“Oh.” Dean takes a sip of beer. “How nice of her to comment. You know, that’ll look real good in the customer review section.”
“Stop. It was sweet.”
“It was unnecessary.”
Castiel shrugs. “It made me happy.”
“Well, you’re weird.”
The waiter cuts off the rest of Castiel’s argument, and Dean digs enthusiastically into dinner even if Castiel rolls his eyes and takes birdlike bites just to make some sort of inexplicable point. It’s a fond sort of discord, though, and by the end of dinner they’re stupid and affectionate again, and Castiel even taps at Dean’s ankle under the table even though he knows footsie makes Dean nervous. By the time Castiel very firmly denies dessert and pays the check, night has fully descended into the city, and the tower is aglow like you only see in pictures.
They take the stairs for as long as they can, and then cram into an elevator with what must be hundreds of other American tourists. It’s uncomfortable, and Dean ends up pressed so close to Castiel that it’s a struggle not to kiss him right then and there, but when the doors chime open again and Paris is spread before them like a brittle blanket, the night soaking thick and inky through the cracks and crevices, and Castiel presses close, taking his hand, Dean can scarcely breathe.
And it’s not really because the view is so picturesque, not because the lights of the tower look good on Castiel, coloring his hair and eyes eerily yellow in places, not because Dean is just swept off his feet with the romanticism of it all. Rather, it’s because all of a sudden, words are forcing their way up his throat again, and where everything was nebulous before, lacking form or real meaning, now it’s too distinct in his mind, almost sharp in its clarity, pressing uncomfortably into his every thought. It’s very simple, really, and he thinks he’s known for a while, but he doesn’t know what to do, not yet, except that he can’t say it, he definitely can’t say it.
He’s in love with Castiel, of course. He loves him profoundly, helplessly; unwittingly, he’s carved out a place for him in his heart that he thought he would give to nobody, somewhere just below Sam and Bobby, just before family, everything that’s ever mattered to him in his entire life. The realization settles heavily into his chest, but Dean knows that it’s been there for a good while, that he just hasn’t been listening hard enough to understand.
He loves Castiel, and not because Castiel can take him on a thousand tours of Europe, not because Castiel comes from an elite and frigid family, but because he gave Dean his own translation of La Vita Nuova, because he can command a classroom with as much affection as wisdom, because he doesn’t know anything about cars, because he knows everything about good wine, because he’s honest with everything he says and does down to the very expression on his face, and most of all because he knows Dean is just a poor boy with nothing to his name but a GED, a moldy apartment, trust issues, and a 1967 Chevy Impala, but wants him anyways, sees some fragment of good that the rest of the world overlooked long ago.
He loves Castiel for the right reasons, and that’s a problem.
-
They’re drunk. They stopped for dessert and Castiel got another bottle of red wine, and he promised not to finish it, so they finished it together, and now they are rather drunk, or perhaps very drunk - Dean’s not exactly sure. At least they got a taxi back to the hotel; otherwise, they would have probably wandered the city until dawn, hanging off of each other and maybe kissing sloppily every once in a while. Granted, that would have been alright, but Dean definitely prefers the hotel bed, where things are still sloppy, but not quite so aimless.
In fact, Castiel is very deliberate in cramming his fingers beneath the hem of Dean’s trousers, even if he’s forgotten to take off his belt first, and Dean vaguely remembers undoing half the buttons of his shirt in the back of the taxi - perhaps to the driver’s chagrin, he can’t remember - so that now the fabric falling from his shoulders and he can get at his chest. Dean bites into the smooth skin at the base of his throat and Castiel swears; he pushes Dean into the mattress, but lets Dean roll him over scarcely a moment later, gasping for breath, fingers fumbling at his shirt.
Dean kisses him relentlessly, head spinning with the wine and the smell of Castiel’s cologne; he presses his mouth down his throat, feels the reverberation of a heavy swallow, burrows into his collarbone. Castiel finally gets his shirt off and runs his hands down his sides, hooking his ankles up to the swell of his behind, digging his fingers into the small of his back. Dean feels the strain of his trousers and straddles Castiel so that he can kick them away, gasping for breath, blood pounding. Castiel groans and pushes his hips upwards; Dean swears and makes for the button on his jeans, kissing at the dip of his stomach, the curve of his hipbone.
He stops at the sweet spot just below the hemline and kisses back up Castiel’s chest until he can look at him properly, so close that their foreheads press together. Castiel grins deliriously and winds one hand into the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, hips bucking a bit already, eyes hooded. He’s a lovely drunk, flushed all over, shamelessly needy, and Dean loves him to pieces.
“What do you want, Cas?” he breathes. “You can have anything you want.”
“Do you want the truth?” Castiel draws his teeth along his ear and Dean shivers.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Castiel leans back to meet his eyes. “I would really like you to fuck me.”
Dean swallows; the idea settles heavy and exhilarating in his chest, and a painful jolt of heat splinters down his stomach. He pictures Castiel undone in his arms, imagines the soft give of his body, and wants that more than he’s ever wanted anything. He kisses Castiel tenderly.
“I can’t, Cas.”
“What? You said I could have anything.” Castiel frowns. “Don’t you want to?”
“Do you think I’m insane? Of course I want to.” Dean cradles Castiel’s cheek in his palm. “Just not right now. It’s not the right time.”
Castiel harrumphs, pressing his face into Dean’s shoulder.
“I’m not a girl, Dean.”
“Hey, now. Sexism.” Dean strokes the back of his neck. “I know, Cas. But you are drunk, and so am I. I’ll - we’ll do it soon, I promise. I’m ready. I just want to be sober, okay?”
Castiel pulls out of the crook of his shoulder to meet his eyes.
“And you say I’m the romantic one in this relationship.”
Dean shrugs. “So sue me.”
Castiel mumbles that he’s a tease, but Dean cuts off the end of the sentence with a kiss, and it’s not long before he’s easily worked the tension from Castiel’s body, kissing at his chin, his jaw, the crook of his neck until he’s pliable again, maybe a little grouchy, but still very drunk and rather wanting. His hips are pressing into Dean’s again, and pretty soon it’s almost too much to bear, and with the wine pounding in his blood and the reminder that he’s in love ringing too clear in his mind, Dean comes undone on nearly the same beat as Castiel, drowning a sigh against his mouth.
He rolls over and pulls Castiel into his chest, nestling his head under his chin. They’ll regret it in the morning, but right now they’re too tired to clean up and turn out the lights. Just as Dean’s drifting off, Castiel mumbles something into his chest, but he doesn’t catch it because he’s too absorbed in his own thoughts. One thought in particular, that is, and once he’s sure Castiel is asleep, he tries the words on for size, a silent admission to a nonexistent audience, just syllables dissolving in the dark.
I love you, Castiel.
He falls asleep with the echo clinging to his dreams.