Fic: Vita Nuova IX
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: We're approaching the end! As always, thanks for reading :)
The next morning brings thudding hangovers, so Dean forces Castiel into a greasy breakfast to assuage the pain before they take the train into the countryside. Even if the brilliant sunlight is a little too much for pounding heads and dry eyes, it’s nice to breathe fresh air, free of exhaust and cigarette smoke and the otherwise inescapable rumble of the city. They wander aimlessly about a village tucked away in the pleats of the hills, and Castiel speaks a rich, rolling dialect of French to the townspeople, drawing out every conversation to such an extent that Dean wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, trying to get under his collar.
They spent nearly the entire day in the countryside, exploring and even hiking a little bit in the late afternoon. At some point, they stumble across a curio shop. Dean buys a couple knick-knacks for Sam, and Castiel gets a few jars of fruit preserves for his kitchen and a huge bag of ribbon candy for Gabriel. Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Let Castiel’s family have their quirks. After all, the Winchesters certainly have plenty to speak of in that regard.
Dusk has started to fall over the hills like an indistinct grey cloak when they board the train for Spain. It’s a long ride and they won’t make it into the city until late, so Castiel has ordered a private car, and they settle down onto the seats sort of wrapped up in each other. Dean rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel strokes his hair; their legs are meshed at the ankles, and their hands sit entwined atop Dean’s knee. They only unwind to head to the dining car; otherwise, Dean either dozes or pushes through La Vita Nuova, and Castiel entertains a battered collection of Camus and Sartre for what seems like hours. Once in a while, lips might press into Dean’s hair, whisper against his forehead, but otherwise it’s comfortably still, wrapped in the sort of amiable silence that can only come from deep mutual understanding.
At last, Dean slips asleep for what must be a very long time, because he wakes to the hiss of brakes and Castiel pushing at his shoulder. He comes blearily awake and stretches over the seat to kiss Castiel on the forehead before heading to get their luggage down from the rack. Castiel follows, straightening the hem of his shirt and smoothing the wrinkles from his trousers, and takes a suitcase from Dean.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Perfectly.” Dean drops a brief kiss on his mouth before they leave the compartment. “You should know that you’re a very nice pillow.”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “I do try.”
For the last leg of the trip, Castiel has chosen a beach community (which to Dean seems a curious decision because he can’t honestly imagine Castiel lounging in the sun or splashing in the ocean or building sandcastles), and stepping from the train they’re buffeted with a wall of warm salty air. Dean breathes deeply, closing his eyes because there’s something about a breeze just kicked up from the sea that seems therapeutic no matter what. Castiel, on the other hand, looks at him like he’s insane.
“What are you doing?”
“Breathing.”
“Oh. Silly me.”
“Come on, Cas.” Dean grins as they head out of the station. “Live a little.”
Castiel shoots him a very skeptical look as he steps off the curb to hail a cab. “By breathing?”
Dean chuckles and winds an arm around Castiel’s waist, giving his hips a squeeze before a cab pulls up to the curb. Castiel loads the luggage into the trunk while Dean gives the driver directions, satisfied to hear that his Spanish hasn’t slipped in the least and that he can blend into the regional accent without a hitch. The cabbie drives like a madman and they’re at the hotel in what seems like nothing more than five minutes flat, a little flustered and vaguely terrified, but glad to have economized so well on the fare. Dean pays and goes to help Castiel unload the luggage.
By now, he’s accustomed to excessive hotels, and the sight of the clean, stylish façade and golden accents is no surprise. But Castiel has good tastes, and the place is a little homier than most of the monolithic resorts right on the beach, landscaped with shrubs rather than towering palms and befitted with an elaborate terrace and garden rather than an enormous pool. It’s classy, and Dean can tell that it’s a favorite of the locals just by the way the bellboy speaks. The room is understated, too, simple white linen and marble fixtures sculpted in rolling shapes that remind Dean of waves.
Dean tips the valet and talks to him a little while about the hotel and the coast. The man is really gregarious, and Dean even ends up asking for a couple restaurant recommendations even though he knows Castiel probably has the whole thing planned. About halfway through the conversation, he realizes that Castiel is fixed on him, watching intently from where he’s unpacking the suitcases, subtle in such a way that only someone as trained in his little habits and idioms as Dean would notice. Dean swallows and steers towards a closing point; the moment the valet is gone, Castiel sort of tiptoes across the room, moving with an impossibly fluid delicacy, like he’s dancing over broken class.
Without a word, he takes Dean’s face in both hands and kisses him, gently at first, but then more forcefully. Dean reels back a little, but manages to catch his balance and hook an arm around Castiel’s waist, surrendering to the kiss without much of a fight. Castiel is very deliberate, fastening Dean into place with hands digging into his hair, on tiptoes so that knees dig into thighs, and then Dean is pressed against the far wall with his arms full and heavy with Castiel. He tries to breathe, but Castiel just kisses him again, again and again and again until at last he breaks away, biting at Deans’ lower lip as he withdraws.
Dean wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “What was that about?”
Castiel leans forwards so that their foreheads press together, eyes aglow.
“Nothing. I’ve just been waiting to do that all night.”
Castiel is very close, and Dean kisses him without a second thought, testing the give of his mouth. Castiel is pliable but active, hands running every which way over Dean’s face and neck, pausing at his cheekbones, his chin, the thrum of his jugular. At last, Dean pulls away, dropping a kiss at the tip of Castiel’s nose with an affectionate hum in the back of his throat.
“That’s good to know. Me too, now that I think about it.”
“Indeed.” Castiel is toying with Dean’s shirt, plucking the fabric up and smoothing it out over and over again. “It’s unfortunately late at night.”
Dean laughs. “Or early in the morning. Are we going to the beach tomorrow? Or today, I guess.”
Castiel nods distractedly, trailing his thumb along the sinews in Dean’s neck, stopping at the point of his pulse, eyes unfocused. Dean shivers and rubs at Castiel’s arms, pushing his shirt up to his elbows without really thinking about it. This sort of easy intimacy is new and unprecedented, but it doesn’t require much consideration at all, and Dean absently heads to the buttons of Castiel’s shirt, letting his palms span the triangle of warm skin below his collarbone.
“Dean.”
It’s a question, of course. Dean ducks his chin, heat prickling his cheeks.
“I don’t want to be tired tomorrow.” It’s obvious what’s going unsaid between them. “How about tonight we just - Christ, you’ve turned me into the biggest girl ever, you know that?”
Castiel cracks a smile. “I would be happy just to cuddle, too, Dean.”
“Thanks.” Dean kisses Castiel gently. “Soon. I promise.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Castiel starts unbuttoning Dean’s shirt with total innocence, one hand still balanced in the curve of his neck. “I don’t mind if you’re the biggest girl ever.”
Dean chuckles and kisses Castiel again, nudging open his mouth and pressing forwards until everything is soft, blurred at the edges, and when Dean breaks away he can hear Castiel sigh, wistful, an insubstantial little noise. It occurs to Dean that it would be very easy to say it right then and there, what’s been haunting the back corner of his mind ever since he really looked at Castiel atop the Eiffel Tower. But he doesn’t; he can’t, he’s too afraid, and he doesn’t want to ruin the easy serenity of the moment.
Castiel turns out the lights as Dean steps out of his jeans; he comes over and undoes Castiel’s belt, pushing his slacks down to his knees before dragging him onto the mattress, splayed luxuriously over his chest with his elbows planted on either side of his head. Castiel bends to give him a long, thoughtful kiss that only ends up as just an indistinct mess of shadows and sensations in the dark. Dean bends into him, hands coursing down his sides, drawing him down.
“Under the covers,” mumbles Castiel against his mouth. “Let’s get under the covers, Dean. You said you just wanted to cuddle.”
Dean manages to shimmy under the comforter without letting go of Castiel, tugging him into his chest, cradling his head in the crook of his neck.
“I never said exactly that. And this is cuddling.”
“It’s borderline,” sniffs Castiel, but he props himself up onto one arm to get a better look at Dean, eyes wide and silver in the shadows. Unable to resist, Dean hooks an arm around his shoulders to draw him closer still, fingers splayed on the strong planes of his back. Castiel sighs and settles comfortably against him, sketching aimless little patterns over his bare chest with the tip of his index finger.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he mumbles into the dark. Dean groans.,p.“Pillow talk? Seriously? Come on, Cas. That’s a new achievement in gay.”
“Then I should congratulate myself.”
At that, Dean peers up at Castiel’s face, trying to pinpoint a note of bitterness, worried that he’s taken the joke a step too far, but all he finds is amusement, an easy affectionate glow in his eyes. It seems, he thinks breathlessly, that Castiel has an infinite tolerance for stupidity and foolish excuses, a tolerance that Dean doesn’t deserve. But then again, he considers, maybe that’s just love. The idea settles uncomfortably into his stomach and he pushes it into the corner of his mind for the time being because he really can’t handle the prospect that Castiel might love him, too. It’s simply too much, too immense a concept. Dean presses his thumb to the generous bow of Castiel’s lower lip.
“I’m not really thinking about much,” he whispers. “Just what’s at hand.”
Castiel seems to mull that over for a minute before his face splits into a grin. He leans down to drop a kiss on Dean’s chin, leisurely drifting up to his mouth, the tip of his nose. For his part, Dean pushes the thick dark hair from his forehead, running his thumbs along the little creases, the first signs of age.
“Your turn.”
Castiel smiles. “Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
Castiel rolls over a bit so that his cheek rests on the pillow just a hairsbreadth from Dean. “I haven’t been to the beach since I was two years old, and I am very excited.”
“What?” Dean raises himself onto one elbow. “You mean your family never took you?”
Castiel shakes his head. “My parents were always occupied.”
“Right, I remember you mentioning that.” Dean rolls over so that he gazes up at the ceiling and Castiel comes over instinctively to rest his head on his chest. “Well, if it’s any consolation, dad never took me and Sammy anywhere, either. We did go with Bobby a few times, though, and once with mom, but I don’t remember that time so well.”
“What was your mother like, Dean?”
Dean swallows. Words don’t exist that would describe Mary.
“Remind me to tell you some other time.”
“Alright.” Exhaustion is clouding Castiel’s voice, blurring together the syllables and words into a streak of sound. “Goodnight, Dean.”
Dean presses his cheek into Castiel’s hair and shuts his eyes. “Goodnight, Cas.”
-
They wake with the sun, far too early in Dean’s opinion, but Castiel is out of bed in a matter of seconds, hurrying to the shower with a palpable energy that saturates the room like morning sunlight. Dean follows grumblingly into the bathroom and crowds up beside Castiel beneath the stream of hot water. At some point while Castiel is washing his hair, Dean kisses him, pressing his shoulders against the slick wall of the shower, and he forgets the soap that runs down his body in thick rivulets. They both come quickly; it’s refreshing, to say the least, and Dean meets the morning in considerably better spirits.
Although breakfast is brief, just coffee and fruit from the complimentary bowl left out on the coffee table, Castiel spends what seems an hour slathering on sunscreen, and even though Dean is happy to get the unreachable spots on his back, dropping a kiss every few inches before he applies the lotion and feeling a shiver course up Castiel’s spine beneath his lips, it’s an otherwise dull process. To make matters worse, all the while Castiel gives extensive and informed lectures on the dangers of melanoma, and Dean has trouble looking at the faint freckles on his cheeks the same way afterwards. Even so, it’s sort of endearing that Castiel is so concerned, and Dean can’t help but smile when he insists that they bring the bottle along to reapply halfway through the day.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you hadn’t been to the beach since you were two.”
Dean presses Castiel’s palm to take any bite from the words; they’re stepping from the hotel into a brilliant day, and Castiel cups one hand over his eyes despite the fact that he’s already wearing sunglasses, little creases forming at his brow.
“Why would I kid about such a thing?”
“Forget it,” chuckles Dean. “It’s cute.”
Castiel turns to give him one of those trademark quizzical looks over the rim of his sunglasses. “What’s cute?”
“Hell if I know.” Dean shrugs. “You.”
Castiel looks away, but Dean can tell that he’s trying to fight down a smile. It’s at once reassuring and a little alarming that he can read Castiel so well nowadays, that even just the minutest movement holds a wealth of private meaning if he interprets it the right way. He likes it, though, because it makes Castiel less of a mystery and more of a man, not just a blue-eyed alien magnetic force from which Dean cannot hope to escape.
Halfway along the walk to the shore, Castiel sheepishly admits that he plans to spend the whole day at the beach, and Dean can’t help but laugh. At first, Castiel looks a little hurt, but then Dean leans down and kisses him in front of the entire beach because it doesn’t matter anymore if someone sees and he softens, turning more of curious than upset. He blinks up at Dean with too-wide eyes and Dean instinctively scratches at the back of his neck, still unnerved by the intensity of that gaze, but in a good way that curls warm in his stomach.
“Man, you’re such a dork.” He sort of cuffs Castiel gently about the neck, but drops a kiss into his hair at the same time, so in the end the sportsmanlike effect is somewhat lost. The boardwalk abruptly gives into sand and Dean kicks off his shoes, flexing his toes contentedly. This beach isn’t exactly like the ones back home; it’s much more crowded and not quite so clean and the sand isn’t so white, but it’s nice anyways, and Castiel is staring like he’s never seen anything quite like it before in his entire life.
“Come on, Cas.” Dean jerks his head towards the surf. “We gotta get set up. This was your idea, remember?”
Castiel seems to break out of a bit of a trance, blinking slowly up at Dean, shading his eyes with the sun. “Of course. I’m right behind you.”
They find a clear patch of sand and lay their towels out side by side. Castiel frets over the direct sunlight for a while, but Dean manages to coax him away from the bottle of sunscreen with the promise of the ocean. At that, the enthusiasm that suddenly shines in his eyes is infectious, spreading into Dean with nothing more than a fleeting glance. He’s still a little too proud to hold hands as their toes edge into the surf, but that’s alright; Castiel is too transfixed by the waves to notice. It’s almost as if he’d never seen the ocean, not even once, and Dean tells him so.
“Sorry.” Castiel almost blushes, running a hand through his hair in a jerky, nervous sort of movement that comes off as uncharacteristic. “It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Don’t apologize.” Dean gazes out across the ocean, at the crystalline waves, a blue just a shade deeper than the sky stretched taut and dizzyingly bright over their heads, at the sunlight glinting off the dimpled surface of the water. “It really is beautiful. Want to go out into the waves?”
Castiel looks at him and nods sort of wonderingly. Dean tries to swallow the enamored sort of ache that blooms in his chest and wades out deeper until the water is lapping at his waist, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that Castiel is following. The first wave crashes and sweeps Dean back a few feet so that they’re even with each other; Castiel is dragging his fingers through the rush of water, looking vaguely amazed at the wash of foam, gaze unfocused. Little droplets cling to his hair and eyelashes, trembling like unstable jewels in the sun, and Dean can barely resist kissing each one away.
“Come on.” He points further out. “Follow me.”
They head out until they’re almost up to their shoulders; not many people venture out that far, and it’s relatively private if you ignore the stretch of beach and the people floating in the water closer to the shore. Castiel tilts his face up so that the sun washes over him; the water frames him like a bolt of cloth, mirroring his eyes, that surreal impossible blue. Dean treads water and closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of the current, gentle but strong enough to toss him back and forth a little bit if he doesn’t hold his ground.
Eventually, he cracks one eye open to get a look at Castiel. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
“Yes.” Castiel paddles over closer to Dean, smiling breathlessly. “Pretty sweet, indeed.”
Dean laughs, and because there’s nobody else out that far so there’s the illusion of being alone, he reaches for Castiel, winding his arms around his waist until their foreheads touch. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s neck and leans into a kiss, mouth gritty, tasting of salt and sun and sand.
“Your family really never took you here?” murmurs Dean against his lips, carding one hand through the hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck, testing the heat of the sun on his skin.
“It would not have been advisable.” Another kiss. “Too many kids, too little parental involvement. The nannies could never handle all of us at once.”
Dean chuckles, running his hands down Castiel’s sides beneath the surface of the water. “Sounds like an interesting family.”
“To say the least.” Castiel meets his gaze, eyes aglow, and leans forwards so that their mouths are just a hairsbreadth apart. “I can’t kiss you when you’re talking, Dean.”
They only swim back to shore once they’re exhausted and pruned from the water; they eat at a food kiosk on the boardwalk and head back to the beach to sunbathe. Castiel reads his French existentialism and Dean flips through La Vita Nuova for what seems the umpteenth time, trying to make intelligent annotations but really only ending up with sand between the pages. Every once in a while Castiel will wordlessly duck his head towards Dean for a quick kiss, or visa-versa. Nobody on the beach bats an eye. It’s a nice setup.
At sunset, they gather their things and head back to the hotel for a shower and some dinner. They go out late, so the city is already in full-swing, vibrating with life. Dinner is quiet, however - good food in a secluded restaurant off the beaten track, and Dean smiles the whole time, even when Castiel forces him to at least try to wine. He’s careful not to get drunk, though; he has something in mind, and he’s pretty sure Castiel is thinking along the same lines as they walk slowly back to the hotel, enjoying the summer air and the roar of the city. It doesn’t really need saying.
It’s the epitome of silly, of course, to plan sex. It’s supposed to be spontaneous, a fit of passion, clothes melting away and limbs tangling magically together and mindboggling orgasms with no repercussions. But Dean knows the moment Castiel kisses him in the elevator heading up to their room that it’s not going to be like that, not at all. Castiel is eager but tentative at the same time, and Dean is already almost painfully nervous. He’s fucked plenty of girls before, maybe even loved a few, but he’s never done anything quite like this, and he doesn’t know where to start.
When they get into the room, Castiel shuts the door softly behind them and sort of seems to float over to Dean, hovering close without really touching him. He clears his throat, meets his eyes, unusually hesitant, and at last takes one of his hands, smoothing his thumb over the swell of his palm. Dean fights down a sudden panic; this isn’t some random girl he picked up at a bar, this is Castiel, whom he loves more than he can admit, and he wants nothing more than to do this the right way.
“Do you want to?” Castiel is focused on his hand. “We don’t have to right now. Anything is okay, really.”
“I know. Thanks.” Dean exhales unsteadily. “But I want to.”
Castiel meets his eyes and Dean swallows before fastening one hand into the collar of his shirt and drawing him upwards; there’s a moment of hesitation before the kiss, and then Castiel knits his fingers into Dean’s hair, and it’s gone from there. It’s not a fit of passion by any means; Dean fumbles with Castiel’s buttons, and for his part Castiel seems perplexed by his belt for a good while, but the whole mess it softened by the fact that they’re Dean and Castiel and they’re a little bit in love even if they haven’t said anything yet.
Eventually, Dean finds the backs of his knees pressed up against the edge of the bed. To his surprise, Castiel turns in his arms and pulls them both down onto the mattress, arching up a bit with a gentle sigh as Dean presses his mouth to his throat, his collarbone, the planes of his chest. He’s pliant, almost submissive, but his hands wander relentlessly over Dean, testing every nuance in his arms and shoulders and back and chest and stomach until they stall at the hem of his boxers, suddenly uncertain. Dean kisses him on the mouth and thumbs slide to the bare bones of his hips.
It’s good, really good, just like it’s always been, and Dean almost forgets the awkwardness, the uncertainty. He kisses down Castiel’s chest, the dip of his stomach, stops at the crux of his thigh, smiling into his skin when he groans and knits his fingers into Dean’s hair. He dallies for a while, littering kisses at the soft spots at Castiel’s hips and the insides of his thighs before taking him into his mouth, working until Castiel has to tear his head away, chest heaving, eyes blurred.
“Not like that,” he groans. “Come here.”
Dean’s stomach drops; he clambers up towards Castiel for another kiss, sighing as his hips jut upwards, jolting against Dean, jagged and unsteady. Castiel leans back to run his fingers through his hair, and he’s nervous again in a matter of seconds, realizing that the moment is at hand. Castiel’s already put lube and a condom handy on the nightstand, and Dean tears open the package with shaking fingers because Castiel is observing him with an unnerving air of calm, almost as if he trusts Dean completely, will give himself wholly without a second though, and this is it, this is really it.
Dean, however, has seen enough porn to hesitate, and glances back nervously over his shoulder at Castiel, spread flushed over the sheets.
“Shouldn’t I…” The words stick in his throat. Castiel regards him curiously all the while. Dean exhales sharply through his nose. “I don’t know, prepare you?”
Castiel smiles tenderly. “Not really. I used to do this a lot. Not nowadays, of course, but my body is still used to it. You’ll be fine.”
Dean takes a shaky breath. “Okay, but you have to tell me if I- ”
“You won’t hurt me,” murmurs Castiel. “But I’ll shout if you do.”
Dean swallows heavily, and he knows Castiel notices because the moment he climbs back across the mattress arms are encircling his neck with overwhelming tenderness, and a kiss somehow lands at his forehead, smoothing away the creases. Dean takes one of Castiel’s legs and hooks it over his shoulder, aligning their hips, one hand braced at his thigh. His pulse is screaming, but Castiel doesn’t seem worried, just leans up for a kiss, pressing one hand into his cheek. He’s ready. Dean grits his teeth.
He meets resistance at first, and that’s alarming to say the least, but Castiel only gasps and bucks his hips a bit, trying to ease him closer. Dean can’t breathe for a very long moment, terrified and amazed and paralyzed all at once, but Castiel hooks one ankle to his hip, fingers digging into his back, unsteady but eager. At last, Dean exhales gratingly; he’s never felt anything quite like this, the give of his body, the feel of his heart pounding so close. It’s a while before he pushes his hips forwards, then back, unsteady and jagged at first, but then it’s happening, it’s really happening, and it’s awkward and sloppy but it’s real, and that’s what matters.
Castiel starts mumbling his name over and over again until the syllables slur together into nonsense, and it occurs to Dean that he’s babbling too, nothing but broken noises caught between the groan of the bed and the rustle of the sheets. It’s probably something about love, he thinks hazily, but he’s pretty sure Castiel won’t remember, so that’s alright. He can feel his heartbeat, thudding frantically, trapped between their bodies, taste the sweat on his brow; he burrows into everything that is Castiel, immerses himself, never wants to emerge.
He’s never had sex like this before; it’s a mutual effort, and every once in a while Castiel pulls away to kiss Dean so tenderly that his chest aches, and he’s nearly out of his mind when he finally comes undone, just before Castiel, crumbling into his arms with a groan, head landing against his chest. Castiel arches from the mattress, nails biting into the small of Dean’s back, and goes limp with a sigh, eyes falling shut. They lie like that for a long time, Dean pressed into Castiel’s chest, hands still fastened onto his hips, Castiel against the pillows, smoothing the hair from his forehead again and again.
“Thank you, Dean.”
Dean lifts his head. “For what?”
“Everything.” Castiel is smiling and Dean’s chest hurts again, perhaps with the weight of all that is still going unsaid. “And, Dean - well, one more thing.”
Dean’s heart stutters. “Yeah?”
Castiel is quiet for a long time. “Nothing. It was stupid.”
Dean opens his mouth, but Castiel lunges down for a kiss before he can protest, and that’s the end of it. With that, they turn out the lights and clamber beneath the sheets; Castiel rests his head on Dean’s chest and Dean pulls him close by the shoulders, pressing his lips into his hair, inhaling sweat and cologne and the thick smell of sex. He loves Castiel so much it actually hurts, and he would like nothing more than to say it, especially now, but he can’t, he’s still too afraid. He damns himself and breathes Castiel in because he can do nothing else.
After a long time of silence in the dark with the rhythm of their combined heartbeats marking the time, Dean shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“My mother was beautiful,” he says. “And whenever I want to think of something good, I think of her. When I was a kid she used to let me help her bake, and she made the best apple pie, and she always gave me a taste of the brown sugar, and made it seem like a secret, just between us. She had blonde hair and she smelled like home; it’s something I can’t really describe, but I used to bury my face in her neck to get more of it. I haven’t smelled it since she died. When I was sick, she read to me and made my favorite foods even if I couldn’t eat them, and even slept in my room. She laughed all the time and sung me lullabies. Kansas and Led Zeppelin. The good stuff. You know. She was everything good in our lives and when she died nobody knew what to do. That was her. That was Mary.”
Dean opens his eyes again and Castiel is gazing at him with an expression that defies words.
“Thank you, Dean,” he says at long last. “I’m - thank you.”
Dean clears his throat. “Sure. I just thought, if you still wanted to know...well, now you know.”
Castiel kisses Dean with impossible tenderness, and they fall asleep wrapped up in each other, and Dean smiles stupidly into the dark because even if spring break is almost over and he has to go back to work and school and only really seeing Castiel on the weekends, now he has another time to look back on that was purely good, and that’s more than enough.
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: We're approaching the end! As always, thanks for reading :)
The next morning brings thudding hangovers, so Dean forces Castiel into a greasy breakfast to assuage the pain before they take the train into the countryside. Even if the brilliant sunlight is a little too much for pounding heads and dry eyes, it’s nice to breathe fresh air, free of exhaust and cigarette smoke and the otherwise inescapable rumble of the city. They wander aimlessly about a village tucked away in the pleats of the hills, and Castiel speaks a rich, rolling dialect of French to the townspeople, drawing out every conversation to such an extent that Dean wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, trying to get under his collar.
They spent nearly the entire day in the countryside, exploring and even hiking a little bit in the late afternoon. At some point, they stumble across a curio shop. Dean buys a couple knick-knacks for Sam, and Castiel gets a few jars of fruit preserves for his kitchen and a huge bag of ribbon candy for Gabriel. Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Let Castiel’s family have their quirks. After all, the Winchesters certainly have plenty to speak of in that regard.
Dusk has started to fall over the hills like an indistinct grey cloak when they board the train for Spain. It’s a long ride and they won’t make it into the city until late, so Castiel has ordered a private car, and they settle down onto the seats sort of wrapped up in each other. Dean rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel strokes his hair; their legs are meshed at the ankles, and their hands sit entwined atop Dean’s knee. They only unwind to head to the dining car; otherwise, Dean either dozes or pushes through La Vita Nuova, and Castiel entertains a battered collection of Camus and Sartre for what seems like hours. Once in a while, lips might press into Dean’s hair, whisper against his forehead, but otherwise it’s comfortably still, wrapped in the sort of amiable silence that can only come from deep mutual understanding.
At last, Dean slips asleep for what must be a very long time, because he wakes to the hiss of brakes and Castiel pushing at his shoulder. He comes blearily awake and stretches over the seat to kiss Castiel on the forehead before heading to get their luggage down from the rack. Castiel follows, straightening the hem of his shirt and smoothing the wrinkles from his trousers, and takes a suitcase from Dean.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Perfectly.” Dean drops a brief kiss on his mouth before they leave the compartment. “You should know that you’re a very nice pillow.”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “I do try.”
For the last leg of the trip, Castiel has chosen a beach community (which to Dean seems a curious decision because he can’t honestly imagine Castiel lounging in the sun or splashing in the ocean or building sandcastles), and stepping from the train they’re buffeted with a wall of warm salty air. Dean breathes deeply, closing his eyes because there’s something about a breeze just kicked up from the sea that seems therapeutic no matter what. Castiel, on the other hand, looks at him like he’s insane.
“What are you doing?”
“Breathing.”
“Oh. Silly me.”
“Come on, Cas.” Dean grins as they head out of the station. “Live a little.”
Castiel shoots him a very skeptical look as he steps off the curb to hail a cab. “By breathing?”
Dean chuckles and winds an arm around Castiel’s waist, giving his hips a squeeze before a cab pulls up to the curb. Castiel loads the luggage into the trunk while Dean gives the driver directions, satisfied to hear that his Spanish hasn’t slipped in the least and that he can blend into the regional accent without a hitch. The cabbie drives like a madman and they’re at the hotel in what seems like nothing more than five minutes flat, a little flustered and vaguely terrified, but glad to have economized so well on the fare. Dean pays and goes to help Castiel unload the luggage.
By now, he’s accustomed to excessive hotels, and the sight of the clean, stylish façade and golden accents is no surprise. But Castiel has good tastes, and the place is a little homier than most of the monolithic resorts right on the beach, landscaped with shrubs rather than towering palms and befitted with an elaborate terrace and garden rather than an enormous pool. It’s classy, and Dean can tell that it’s a favorite of the locals just by the way the bellboy speaks. The room is understated, too, simple white linen and marble fixtures sculpted in rolling shapes that remind Dean of waves.
Dean tips the valet and talks to him a little while about the hotel and the coast. The man is really gregarious, and Dean even ends up asking for a couple restaurant recommendations even though he knows Castiel probably has the whole thing planned. About halfway through the conversation, he realizes that Castiel is fixed on him, watching intently from where he’s unpacking the suitcases, subtle in such a way that only someone as trained in his little habits and idioms as Dean would notice. Dean swallows and steers towards a closing point; the moment the valet is gone, Castiel sort of tiptoes across the room, moving with an impossibly fluid delicacy, like he’s dancing over broken class.
Without a word, he takes Dean’s face in both hands and kisses him, gently at first, but then more forcefully. Dean reels back a little, but manages to catch his balance and hook an arm around Castiel’s waist, surrendering to the kiss without much of a fight. Castiel is very deliberate, fastening Dean into place with hands digging into his hair, on tiptoes so that knees dig into thighs, and then Dean is pressed against the far wall with his arms full and heavy with Castiel. He tries to breathe, but Castiel just kisses him again, again and again and again until at last he breaks away, biting at Deans’ lower lip as he withdraws.
Dean wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “What was that about?”
Castiel leans forwards so that their foreheads press together, eyes aglow.
“Nothing. I’ve just been waiting to do that all night.”
Castiel is very close, and Dean kisses him without a second thought, testing the give of his mouth. Castiel is pliable but active, hands running every which way over Dean’s face and neck, pausing at his cheekbones, his chin, the thrum of his jugular. At last, Dean pulls away, dropping a kiss at the tip of Castiel’s nose with an affectionate hum in the back of his throat.
“That’s good to know. Me too, now that I think about it.”
“Indeed.” Castiel is toying with Dean’s shirt, plucking the fabric up and smoothing it out over and over again. “It’s unfortunately late at night.”
Dean laughs. “Or early in the morning. Are we going to the beach tomorrow? Or today, I guess.”
Castiel nods distractedly, trailing his thumb along the sinews in Dean’s neck, stopping at the point of his pulse, eyes unfocused. Dean shivers and rubs at Castiel’s arms, pushing his shirt up to his elbows without really thinking about it. This sort of easy intimacy is new and unprecedented, but it doesn’t require much consideration at all, and Dean absently heads to the buttons of Castiel’s shirt, letting his palms span the triangle of warm skin below his collarbone.
“Dean.”
It’s a question, of course. Dean ducks his chin, heat prickling his cheeks.
“I don’t want to be tired tomorrow.” It’s obvious what’s going unsaid between them. “How about tonight we just - Christ, you’ve turned me into the biggest girl ever, you know that?”
Castiel cracks a smile. “I would be happy just to cuddle, too, Dean.”
“Thanks.” Dean kisses Castiel gently. “Soon. I promise.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Castiel starts unbuttoning Dean’s shirt with total innocence, one hand still balanced in the curve of his neck. “I don’t mind if you’re the biggest girl ever.”
Dean chuckles and kisses Castiel again, nudging open his mouth and pressing forwards until everything is soft, blurred at the edges, and when Dean breaks away he can hear Castiel sigh, wistful, an insubstantial little noise. It occurs to Dean that it would be very easy to say it right then and there, what’s been haunting the back corner of his mind ever since he really looked at Castiel atop the Eiffel Tower. But he doesn’t; he can’t, he’s too afraid, and he doesn’t want to ruin the easy serenity of the moment.
Castiel turns out the lights as Dean steps out of his jeans; he comes over and undoes Castiel’s belt, pushing his slacks down to his knees before dragging him onto the mattress, splayed luxuriously over his chest with his elbows planted on either side of his head. Castiel bends to give him a long, thoughtful kiss that only ends up as just an indistinct mess of shadows and sensations in the dark. Dean bends into him, hands coursing down his sides, drawing him down.
“Under the covers,” mumbles Castiel against his mouth. “Let’s get under the covers, Dean. You said you just wanted to cuddle.”
Dean manages to shimmy under the comforter without letting go of Castiel, tugging him into his chest, cradling his head in the crook of his neck.
“I never said exactly that. And this is cuddling.”
“It’s borderline,” sniffs Castiel, but he props himself up onto one arm to get a better look at Dean, eyes wide and silver in the shadows. Unable to resist, Dean hooks an arm around his shoulders to draw him closer still, fingers splayed on the strong planes of his back. Castiel sighs and settles comfortably against him, sketching aimless little patterns over his bare chest with the tip of his index finger.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he mumbles into the dark. Dean groans.,p.“Pillow talk? Seriously? Come on, Cas. That’s a new achievement in gay.”
“Then I should congratulate myself.”
At that, Dean peers up at Castiel’s face, trying to pinpoint a note of bitterness, worried that he’s taken the joke a step too far, but all he finds is amusement, an easy affectionate glow in his eyes. It seems, he thinks breathlessly, that Castiel has an infinite tolerance for stupidity and foolish excuses, a tolerance that Dean doesn’t deserve. But then again, he considers, maybe that’s just love. The idea settles uncomfortably into his stomach and he pushes it into the corner of his mind for the time being because he really can’t handle the prospect that Castiel might love him, too. It’s simply too much, too immense a concept. Dean presses his thumb to the generous bow of Castiel’s lower lip.
“I’m not really thinking about much,” he whispers. “Just what’s at hand.”
Castiel seems to mull that over for a minute before his face splits into a grin. He leans down to drop a kiss on Dean’s chin, leisurely drifting up to his mouth, the tip of his nose. For his part, Dean pushes the thick dark hair from his forehead, running his thumbs along the little creases, the first signs of age.
“Your turn.”
Castiel smiles. “Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
Castiel rolls over a bit so that his cheek rests on the pillow just a hairsbreadth from Dean. “I haven’t been to the beach since I was two years old, and I am very excited.”
“What?” Dean raises himself onto one elbow. “You mean your family never took you?”
Castiel shakes his head. “My parents were always occupied.”
“Right, I remember you mentioning that.” Dean rolls over so that he gazes up at the ceiling and Castiel comes over instinctively to rest his head on his chest. “Well, if it’s any consolation, dad never took me and Sammy anywhere, either. We did go with Bobby a few times, though, and once with mom, but I don’t remember that time so well.”
“What was your mother like, Dean?”
Dean swallows. Words don’t exist that would describe Mary.
“Remind me to tell you some other time.”
“Alright.” Exhaustion is clouding Castiel’s voice, blurring together the syllables and words into a streak of sound. “Goodnight, Dean.”
Dean presses his cheek into Castiel’s hair and shuts his eyes. “Goodnight, Cas.”
-
They wake with the sun, far too early in Dean’s opinion, but Castiel is out of bed in a matter of seconds, hurrying to the shower with a palpable energy that saturates the room like morning sunlight. Dean follows grumblingly into the bathroom and crowds up beside Castiel beneath the stream of hot water. At some point while Castiel is washing his hair, Dean kisses him, pressing his shoulders against the slick wall of the shower, and he forgets the soap that runs down his body in thick rivulets. They both come quickly; it’s refreshing, to say the least, and Dean meets the morning in considerably better spirits.
Although breakfast is brief, just coffee and fruit from the complimentary bowl left out on the coffee table, Castiel spends what seems an hour slathering on sunscreen, and even though Dean is happy to get the unreachable spots on his back, dropping a kiss every few inches before he applies the lotion and feeling a shiver course up Castiel’s spine beneath his lips, it’s an otherwise dull process. To make matters worse, all the while Castiel gives extensive and informed lectures on the dangers of melanoma, and Dean has trouble looking at the faint freckles on his cheeks the same way afterwards. Even so, it’s sort of endearing that Castiel is so concerned, and Dean can’t help but smile when he insists that they bring the bottle along to reapply halfway through the day.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you hadn’t been to the beach since you were two.”
Dean presses Castiel’s palm to take any bite from the words; they’re stepping from the hotel into a brilliant day, and Castiel cups one hand over his eyes despite the fact that he’s already wearing sunglasses, little creases forming at his brow.
“Why would I kid about such a thing?”
“Forget it,” chuckles Dean. “It’s cute.”
Castiel turns to give him one of those trademark quizzical looks over the rim of his sunglasses. “What’s cute?”
“Hell if I know.” Dean shrugs. “You.”
Castiel looks away, but Dean can tell that he’s trying to fight down a smile. It’s at once reassuring and a little alarming that he can read Castiel so well nowadays, that even just the minutest movement holds a wealth of private meaning if he interprets it the right way. He likes it, though, because it makes Castiel less of a mystery and more of a man, not just a blue-eyed alien magnetic force from which Dean cannot hope to escape.
Halfway along the walk to the shore, Castiel sheepishly admits that he plans to spend the whole day at the beach, and Dean can’t help but laugh. At first, Castiel looks a little hurt, but then Dean leans down and kisses him in front of the entire beach because it doesn’t matter anymore if someone sees and he softens, turning more of curious than upset. He blinks up at Dean with too-wide eyes and Dean instinctively scratches at the back of his neck, still unnerved by the intensity of that gaze, but in a good way that curls warm in his stomach.
“Man, you’re such a dork.” He sort of cuffs Castiel gently about the neck, but drops a kiss into his hair at the same time, so in the end the sportsmanlike effect is somewhat lost. The boardwalk abruptly gives into sand and Dean kicks off his shoes, flexing his toes contentedly. This beach isn’t exactly like the ones back home; it’s much more crowded and not quite so clean and the sand isn’t so white, but it’s nice anyways, and Castiel is staring like he’s never seen anything quite like it before in his entire life.
“Come on, Cas.” Dean jerks his head towards the surf. “We gotta get set up. This was your idea, remember?”
Castiel seems to break out of a bit of a trance, blinking slowly up at Dean, shading his eyes with the sun. “Of course. I’m right behind you.”
They find a clear patch of sand and lay their towels out side by side. Castiel frets over the direct sunlight for a while, but Dean manages to coax him away from the bottle of sunscreen with the promise of the ocean. At that, the enthusiasm that suddenly shines in his eyes is infectious, spreading into Dean with nothing more than a fleeting glance. He’s still a little too proud to hold hands as their toes edge into the surf, but that’s alright; Castiel is too transfixed by the waves to notice. It’s almost as if he’d never seen the ocean, not even once, and Dean tells him so.
“Sorry.” Castiel almost blushes, running a hand through his hair in a jerky, nervous sort of movement that comes off as uncharacteristic. “It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Don’t apologize.” Dean gazes out across the ocean, at the crystalline waves, a blue just a shade deeper than the sky stretched taut and dizzyingly bright over their heads, at the sunlight glinting off the dimpled surface of the water. “It really is beautiful. Want to go out into the waves?”
Castiel looks at him and nods sort of wonderingly. Dean tries to swallow the enamored sort of ache that blooms in his chest and wades out deeper until the water is lapping at his waist, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that Castiel is following. The first wave crashes and sweeps Dean back a few feet so that they’re even with each other; Castiel is dragging his fingers through the rush of water, looking vaguely amazed at the wash of foam, gaze unfocused. Little droplets cling to his hair and eyelashes, trembling like unstable jewels in the sun, and Dean can barely resist kissing each one away.
“Come on.” He points further out. “Follow me.”
They head out until they’re almost up to their shoulders; not many people venture out that far, and it’s relatively private if you ignore the stretch of beach and the people floating in the water closer to the shore. Castiel tilts his face up so that the sun washes over him; the water frames him like a bolt of cloth, mirroring his eyes, that surreal impossible blue. Dean treads water and closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of the current, gentle but strong enough to toss him back and forth a little bit if he doesn’t hold his ground.
Eventually, he cracks one eye open to get a look at Castiel. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
“Yes.” Castiel paddles over closer to Dean, smiling breathlessly. “Pretty sweet, indeed.”
Dean laughs, and because there’s nobody else out that far so there’s the illusion of being alone, he reaches for Castiel, winding his arms around his waist until their foreheads touch. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s neck and leans into a kiss, mouth gritty, tasting of salt and sun and sand.
“Your family really never took you here?” murmurs Dean against his lips, carding one hand through the hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck, testing the heat of the sun on his skin.
“It would not have been advisable.” Another kiss. “Too many kids, too little parental involvement. The nannies could never handle all of us at once.”
Dean chuckles, running his hands down Castiel’s sides beneath the surface of the water. “Sounds like an interesting family.”
“To say the least.” Castiel meets his gaze, eyes aglow, and leans forwards so that their mouths are just a hairsbreadth apart. “I can’t kiss you when you’re talking, Dean.”
They only swim back to shore once they’re exhausted and pruned from the water; they eat at a food kiosk on the boardwalk and head back to the beach to sunbathe. Castiel reads his French existentialism and Dean flips through La Vita Nuova for what seems the umpteenth time, trying to make intelligent annotations but really only ending up with sand between the pages. Every once in a while Castiel will wordlessly duck his head towards Dean for a quick kiss, or visa-versa. Nobody on the beach bats an eye. It’s a nice setup.
At sunset, they gather their things and head back to the hotel for a shower and some dinner. They go out late, so the city is already in full-swing, vibrating with life. Dinner is quiet, however - good food in a secluded restaurant off the beaten track, and Dean smiles the whole time, even when Castiel forces him to at least try to wine. He’s careful not to get drunk, though; he has something in mind, and he’s pretty sure Castiel is thinking along the same lines as they walk slowly back to the hotel, enjoying the summer air and the roar of the city. It doesn’t really need saying.
It’s the epitome of silly, of course, to plan sex. It’s supposed to be spontaneous, a fit of passion, clothes melting away and limbs tangling magically together and mindboggling orgasms with no repercussions. But Dean knows the moment Castiel kisses him in the elevator heading up to their room that it’s not going to be like that, not at all. Castiel is eager but tentative at the same time, and Dean is already almost painfully nervous. He’s fucked plenty of girls before, maybe even loved a few, but he’s never done anything quite like this, and he doesn’t know where to start.
When they get into the room, Castiel shuts the door softly behind them and sort of seems to float over to Dean, hovering close without really touching him. He clears his throat, meets his eyes, unusually hesitant, and at last takes one of his hands, smoothing his thumb over the swell of his palm. Dean fights down a sudden panic; this isn’t some random girl he picked up at a bar, this is Castiel, whom he loves more than he can admit, and he wants nothing more than to do this the right way.
“Do you want to?” Castiel is focused on his hand. “We don’t have to right now. Anything is okay, really.”
“I know. Thanks.” Dean exhales unsteadily. “But I want to.”
Castiel meets his eyes and Dean swallows before fastening one hand into the collar of his shirt and drawing him upwards; there’s a moment of hesitation before the kiss, and then Castiel knits his fingers into Dean’s hair, and it’s gone from there. It’s not a fit of passion by any means; Dean fumbles with Castiel’s buttons, and for his part Castiel seems perplexed by his belt for a good while, but the whole mess it softened by the fact that they’re Dean and Castiel and they’re a little bit in love even if they haven’t said anything yet.
Eventually, Dean finds the backs of his knees pressed up against the edge of the bed. To his surprise, Castiel turns in his arms and pulls them both down onto the mattress, arching up a bit with a gentle sigh as Dean presses his mouth to his throat, his collarbone, the planes of his chest. He’s pliant, almost submissive, but his hands wander relentlessly over Dean, testing every nuance in his arms and shoulders and back and chest and stomach until they stall at the hem of his boxers, suddenly uncertain. Dean kisses him on the mouth and thumbs slide to the bare bones of his hips.
It’s good, really good, just like it’s always been, and Dean almost forgets the awkwardness, the uncertainty. He kisses down Castiel’s chest, the dip of his stomach, stops at the crux of his thigh, smiling into his skin when he groans and knits his fingers into Dean’s hair. He dallies for a while, littering kisses at the soft spots at Castiel’s hips and the insides of his thighs before taking him into his mouth, working until Castiel has to tear his head away, chest heaving, eyes blurred.
“Not like that,” he groans. “Come here.”
Dean’s stomach drops; he clambers up towards Castiel for another kiss, sighing as his hips jut upwards, jolting against Dean, jagged and unsteady. Castiel leans back to run his fingers through his hair, and he’s nervous again in a matter of seconds, realizing that the moment is at hand. Castiel’s already put lube and a condom handy on the nightstand, and Dean tears open the package with shaking fingers because Castiel is observing him with an unnerving air of calm, almost as if he trusts Dean completely, will give himself wholly without a second though, and this is it, this is really it.
Dean, however, has seen enough porn to hesitate, and glances back nervously over his shoulder at Castiel, spread flushed over the sheets.
“Shouldn’t I…” The words stick in his throat. Castiel regards him curiously all the while. Dean exhales sharply through his nose. “I don’t know, prepare you?”
Castiel smiles tenderly. “Not really. I used to do this a lot. Not nowadays, of course, but my body is still used to it. You’ll be fine.”
Dean takes a shaky breath. “Okay, but you have to tell me if I- ”
“You won’t hurt me,” murmurs Castiel. “But I’ll shout if you do.”
Dean swallows heavily, and he knows Castiel notices because the moment he climbs back across the mattress arms are encircling his neck with overwhelming tenderness, and a kiss somehow lands at his forehead, smoothing away the creases. Dean takes one of Castiel’s legs and hooks it over his shoulder, aligning their hips, one hand braced at his thigh. His pulse is screaming, but Castiel doesn’t seem worried, just leans up for a kiss, pressing one hand into his cheek. He’s ready. Dean grits his teeth.
He meets resistance at first, and that’s alarming to say the least, but Castiel only gasps and bucks his hips a bit, trying to ease him closer. Dean can’t breathe for a very long moment, terrified and amazed and paralyzed all at once, but Castiel hooks one ankle to his hip, fingers digging into his back, unsteady but eager. At last, Dean exhales gratingly; he’s never felt anything quite like this, the give of his body, the feel of his heart pounding so close. It’s a while before he pushes his hips forwards, then back, unsteady and jagged at first, but then it’s happening, it’s really happening, and it’s awkward and sloppy but it’s real, and that’s what matters.
Castiel starts mumbling his name over and over again until the syllables slur together into nonsense, and it occurs to Dean that he’s babbling too, nothing but broken noises caught between the groan of the bed and the rustle of the sheets. It’s probably something about love, he thinks hazily, but he’s pretty sure Castiel won’t remember, so that’s alright. He can feel his heartbeat, thudding frantically, trapped between their bodies, taste the sweat on his brow; he burrows into everything that is Castiel, immerses himself, never wants to emerge.
He’s never had sex like this before; it’s a mutual effort, and every once in a while Castiel pulls away to kiss Dean so tenderly that his chest aches, and he’s nearly out of his mind when he finally comes undone, just before Castiel, crumbling into his arms with a groan, head landing against his chest. Castiel arches from the mattress, nails biting into the small of Dean’s back, and goes limp with a sigh, eyes falling shut. They lie like that for a long time, Dean pressed into Castiel’s chest, hands still fastened onto his hips, Castiel against the pillows, smoothing the hair from his forehead again and again.
“Thank you, Dean.”
Dean lifts his head. “For what?”
“Everything.” Castiel is smiling and Dean’s chest hurts again, perhaps with the weight of all that is still going unsaid. “And, Dean - well, one more thing.”
Dean’s heart stutters. “Yeah?”
Castiel is quiet for a long time. “Nothing. It was stupid.”
Dean opens his mouth, but Castiel lunges down for a kiss before he can protest, and that’s the end of it. With that, they turn out the lights and clamber beneath the sheets; Castiel rests his head on Dean’s chest and Dean pulls him close by the shoulders, pressing his lips into his hair, inhaling sweat and cologne and the thick smell of sex. He loves Castiel so much it actually hurts, and he would like nothing more than to say it, especially now, but he can’t, he’s still too afraid. He damns himself and breathes Castiel in because he can do nothing else.
After a long time of silence in the dark with the rhythm of their combined heartbeats marking the time, Dean shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“My mother was beautiful,” he says. “And whenever I want to think of something good, I think of her. When I was a kid she used to let me help her bake, and she made the best apple pie, and she always gave me a taste of the brown sugar, and made it seem like a secret, just between us. She had blonde hair and she smelled like home; it’s something I can’t really describe, but I used to bury my face in her neck to get more of it. I haven’t smelled it since she died. When I was sick, she read to me and made my favorite foods even if I couldn’t eat them, and even slept in my room. She laughed all the time and sung me lullabies. Kansas and Led Zeppelin. The good stuff. You know. She was everything good in our lives and when she died nobody knew what to do. That was her. That was Mary.”
Dean opens his eyes again and Castiel is gazing at him with an expression that defies words.
“Thank you, Dean,” he says at long last. “I’m - thank you.”
Dean clears his throat. “Sure. I just thought, if you still wanted to know...well, now you know.”
Castiel kisses Dean with impossible tenderness, and they fall asleep wrapped up in each other, and Dean smiles stupidly into the dark because even if spring break is almost over and he has to go back to work and school and only really seeing Castiel on the weekends, now he has another time to look back on that was purely good, and that’s more than enough.