Archive of Our Own

He was in the library, the smell of blood thick and coppery in his nose. Books made up a huge pile in the middle of the room, the Styne boy’s body lying at its feet. Blood seeped onto the polished hardwood in gory rivers. The Mark throbbed weakly on his forearm, the hollow ringing finally fading from his ears. His knuckles ached, his head throbbed, his skin burned with wounds and bruises. 

He looked down in his arms, feeling the heaviness lying across him. A heaving chest, warm thickness oozing through his jeans. Blue eyes staring into his, wide and piercing, a blood-stained mouth trying to form words—

Dean’s eyes flew open as his throat caught on a hoarse scream. His sweat-soaked sheets clung to his skin even as he sat bolt upright in his bed, gasping. His stomach was twisted into nauseating knots, and his head was spinning. 

He peeled back the sheets before jerking himself out of bed, bare feet padding against creaky floorboards as he stumbled downstairs for water.

It was just a dream, he told himself as he gulped down a glassful. 

But that didn’t make it any better, did it? It still happened, it was still his fault. Dean braced his elbows against the counter, flexing his fists to work out the aching memory. 

It had been six months and the dreams were relentless. Tonight’s was relatively tame compared to others Dean had gone through. Some were so bad he keep himself awake for days on end just to avoid going back to sleep. 

Six months ago Dean left the Bunker with nothing but Baby and the clothes on his back, driving in whatever direction took him as far away as possible from the dead angel in the library. The Mark had taken control while hunting the Stynes, and it was only after Dean had buried an angel blade into Cas’ chest had he finally gotten complete control over it. The Mark hadn’t made a peep since Dean left, no hollow ringing or sudden temptation to kill in over a half year. 

The sudden lack of influence the Mark had on him was either because he hadn’t seen a living soul since he left the Bunker, or because of the promise he’d made over Cas’ body. Dean was about six months into his self-isolation, and was determined to keep the Mark quiet.

He’d stumbled across the house by accident. Dean went up the dirt road on a whim that branched off from the back road of a back road, lined with forest and so congested with plant life that he’d almost missed it. Brush and low-hanging branches pressed past Baby as he pushed her up the windy road.

It was a charming little trail, despite the huge bumps that had Baby creaking and Dean wincing. The road led up through a thick patch of wood into a wide field filled with lavender and tall grass. Tucked up against the edge of the woods was an old, short house that Dean would call a cottage if it didn’t sound straight out of some prissy fairy tale. The graying brick was crawling with wild ivy and moss, the slate roof old but solid, and Dean was even surprised to see the chimney still intact. The dirt road leading to the house faded into overgrown grass. Willow and wisteria trees curled over the road and house like a protective embrace, shielding the remnants of someone’s life with their bodies. Sitting in the driveway was a busted pickup that hadn’t seen gas or oil in years.

There was a porch framing the front door with a creaky rocking chair and a pair of boots that wild flowers had inhabited. The front door was hanging off it’s hinges from weather damage, the windows were busted, and the wooden steps were splintered and gnarled. No one had been here for a long time.

The interior was bright considering the amount of shade the trees gave. Sunlight poured through the front windows in thick rays. A couch so well used it curved in the middle sat to the right, a busted TV facing it up against the wall. The sudo-living room turning openly into a kitchen and table that reminded him strongly of Bobby’s without any walls or doors. There was a short set of wood stairs that led up to three doors on the second level—two on either side and one at the end of a small landing. The door at the end was a bathroom that reeked of a busted sewage pipe and the other two were bedrooms that looked like no one had slept in for a least of decade. Going back down the creaky stairs, Dean found another set of stairs leading underground into a basement that looked like it had been used for storage and gardening. A grim thought at what exactly a basement might be useful for regarding him crossed his mind and he hurriedly went back into the main floor. 

There was a back door leading out to the trees, but towards the fields there was space cleared out for a garden. He spotted what looked like a few fruit trees already in blossom, as well as rather overgrown bed of vegetable plants. The lavender field next to it stretched out wide, covering a least a few acres before the surrounding forest swallowed it back up.

The place was a definite fixer upper, but he hadn’t minded. No one, not even Sam, would be able to find him there. He was going to turn this old place into his personal prison, and hopefully live out the rest of eternity in peace. That way, he would never risk hurting someone ever again.

Now, Dean had the place almost completely done up. After putting up every warding sigil he could think of, he’d started work on the house. It looked brand-spanking new, the garden was clear of invading weeds, and the once dust-covered interior was bright and airy. Baby sat in the driveway more often than she was on the road, her beautiful body too easily recognized in the small town a half hour away where he got supplies. Instead, he’d tuned up the old pickup for trips into the public, and hauling back replacement appliances or lumber. A part of him ached to see Baby stuck in the driveway all the time, but he kept her in tip-top shape as a way to apologize. 

Six months hadn’t been enough time to get everything around the house finished, however, especially since it was only Dean doing the work. The spare bedroom on the second floor was still untouched, and the project in the basement was only a quarter of the way finished. The winter months were closing in, and Dean needed to chop firewood, harvest the garden, and clean out the chimney before the cold really set in. 

A year ago, if anyone had told him he’d be this domestic, planning out seedlings for next year’s garden and chopping logs in the morning, he would’ve laughed bitterly and told them his future lay at the end of a gun and nowhere else. But here he was, considering getting chickens just so he didn’t have to drive a half hour for eggs. 

He’d turned into a regular Farmer Joe, and a part of him wondered if it was a Mark of Cain thing.  His predecessor had been a beekeeper after all. Tomato, tomāto, really. 

All of his efforts were the price of self sustainability. Dean couldn’t go to the town frequently, and risk being recognized as a regular, nor could he very well have visitors knowing where he lived. It was too risky, for the sake of their lives and because of Sam. He knew his little brother was probably looking for him, and any possibility of him coming across someone who knew who Dean was just meant more danger for Sam. And Dean refused to be the reason someone else he loved got hurt—or killed. 

His isolation was necessary for the safety of everyone. It was something Dean told himself every day. He repeated it to himself now as he bent over the kitchen sink, nursing the phantom ache in his knuckles. His isolation meant no more mistakes like Cas. No more blood on his hands. Dean was a plague with the Mark, and a sickness without it. It was better this way—it was necessary.

Pale pink stained the patch of sky he could see through the sink window. Dawn was rising, there was no point going back to sleep now. Dean let out a shaky exhale, scrubbing a hand down his scruff and shaking off the last echoes of the dream. He might as well get some work done, seeing how he was going to be up for the rest of the day. 

Work in the morning consisted of wood chopping and harvesting before the bugs and heat got bad. The sweet, musty smell of wood followed by the frosty coolness of dew-dotted grass was a scent Dean had grown to look forward to every morning. After building up a decent sweat from hauling an axe until the sun rose, he utilized the house’s excellent water pressure for a quick shower and then breakfast. 

Because he needed to do infrequent trips to town for groceries, Dean usually bought enough to last him a few weeks, longer with the food he got out of the garden and fruit trees. He hadn’t eaten so much healthy food  in his life, and he missed burgers and greasy diner food, but his stomach and gut had been thanking him for the change. 

Cooking breakfast was accompanied with the smell of brewing coffee and the crackling chatter of a radio he’d tinkered with. Pastel yellow rays of sunlight poured through the open windows, ushering in a sweet breeze that guaranteed a nice day. Dean would watch TV while he ate, the old set and the radio the only forms of technology he had after ditching his cell phone six months ago. He avoided the news channels, not wanting to hear about a mysterious death or disappearance that might tempt him out the door. He stuck to the sports and comedy channels, easily entertaining things that allowed him to live in the bubble he’d created. No technology, no wifi, no intel from the surrounding world meant no temptation to do something he shouldn’t—to convince himself “just one more case” and risk running into Sam or killing someone innocent. 

Dean’s days were filled with a lazy kind of schedule, work on the house or garden depending entirely on his mood. Some days he was on his feet all day doing things, and other days he did nothing but lay around in carelessness or depression. But one part of his schedule always remained the same—he always talked to Cas.

He didn’t know what happened to angels when they died—maybe they went back to Heaven, or maybe somewhere worse—but that didn’t stop him from talking to him, even if he knew Cas wouldn’t be able to hear him. The first day he’d left, Dean’s prayers were tear-filled and apology ridden, and they remained that way for a long time. 

But now, a half year in, he talked to Cas differently. He hadn’t forgiven himself, he never would, but he found more comfort in telling the angel about his day or thoughts rather than getting all worked up into tears and useless apologies. He’d tell Cas all sorts of things, anything from how he was doing on the house to something funny he saw on the TV that morning. Sometimes he’d talk to Cas for so long he’d forget he was really just talking to himself, and when he remembered his chest twisted bitterly. 

Today, while Dean was picking cherries for pie, he found himself leaning against the ladder and staring out at the lavender fields stretched before him, drenched in an early evening sun.

“Almost missed a damn good view tryin’ to get all these cherries picked.” Dean told Cas, hefting the basket of fruit under his arm and squinting at the bright purples bathing the ground. “I should cut some of that lavender, bring it inside. ‘Probably make the place smell nice, y’think?”

The radio spluttered out Billy Joel and a soft gust of sweet-smelling wind ruffled Dean’s longer hair, his middle part getting mussed up by invisible fingers rushing by. Other than that, there was no reply, but Dean had stopped expecting one the day he drove away. He hummed to himself, gathering up his things and heading back inside after cutting up a handful of lavender as promised. 

He was in the middle of making pie when a funny thought crossed his mind. Here he was, making pie after spending the day in a garden. He’d cut up lavender because it would make the house smell nice.

“When the fuck did I get so domestic?” Dean snorted to himself. “Actin’ like a cottage core, all-natural hippie.” Sam would have a field day if he ever found out about the gray water system that Dean was forced to live with.

The thought of Sam always put a damper on whatever Dean was doing when he thought of him. He missed his brother like a limb—he’d raised the kid from diapers, for fuck’s sake. Discounting the years Sam was at Stanford, he’d always had his little brother in his life. Thinking of Sam never seeing his little home hurt, but the idea of him ever finding Dean also terrified him. Who knows what seeing an old face, a face associated with his days of the Mark controlling him, would do. Seeing Sam might trigger Dean into another uncontrollable rage. But knowing he would never see the life Dean had built for himself here, to know he’d never get to share a beer with his brother again…well, it made him sad. There was so much Dean had left unsaid, important conversations he said they had time to talk about, but nothing could be done about it now. 

Many times, Dean had been tempted to dial Sam’s number on a burner phone or through an untraceable call just to see if he’d pick up, to make sure he was still alive. For all he knew, his little brother was strung up in a shack somewhere being drained by some monster and it would be Dean’s fault that he wasn’t there to save him—

No. He couldn’t go down that road. Going down that road meant panicking and calling Sam, meant risking the safety of the prison he’d made himself here, the necessary isolation required to keep the world safe from Dean—

“Just think about cherry pie.” Dean muttered through gritted teeth, mixing the bowl of sweet filling. “‘Wonder if you like cherry pie, Cas. Never got the chance to make you one.”

Talking to Cas always helped.

“I wish I could’ve cooked for you, just once. I’m pretty good at it. But I’m guessing no food would taste good with those angelic taste buds of yours. All molecules, right?”

That night, the smell of warm cherry pie still hanging in the air, Dean fell into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. A cool breeze floated through the open window and the sound of crickets echoed in the fields outside. And every night, the same prayer passed Dean’s lips before he fell asleep,

“Kept m’promise Cas, and I’ll keep it through tomorrow.”

——

Autumn brought changes that affected Dean’s daily routines. The last of the garden had been picked, and what he couldn’t eat right away was frozen for the winter. He had an entire wall of the living room taken up by stacks of firewood, and Dean had been working on an attached garage to shelter Baby from the harsh cold on its way. He spent more of his days inside the house now, the bitter wind nipping his nose without any trace of the warmth it had in the summer. He had more books than his little garage sale shelves could handle, spilling onto the floor in precarious towers, promising entertainment over winter. He planned on working on the basement as well, and had seedlings growing under heat lamps to get them ready for the spring. Dean had plenty to keep himself occupied, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to being stuck inside for three months while the snow battered down outside.

The biggest pain in the ass would be grocery trips. Dean knew he could push the pickup down the path if it was covered in snow, but he wondered if road maintenance would ever get around to cleaning the back road that took him into town. All his times driving and he never saw another car pass him.

The best he could do was stock up on as much food as he could and freeze most of it, along with stocking his pantry with non perishables. He had no idea how harsh winter was, and if the electricity went at least he would have something to eat. He’d spend a lot of years starving or stretching out food for as long as it could, he could do it again.

Dean finished the garage right as the winter season hit. He’d gotten Baby and the pickup safely inside just a day before the first frost. It covered everything in fine sheets of ice, crystalizing the world overnight. Dean pulled on a winter coat and trudged outside the following morning to assess the damage. The garden was stiff with ice, glittering against the morning sun like diamonds had encrusted the earth. The wind had settled, leaving the fields and woods unearthly still, so quiet that Dean felt he could hear the ice shimmering. 

“Ain’t this something, huh Cas?” He hummed to the clear blue sky above. “S’like Jack Frost came by to spruce up the place.” A thought crossed his mind and he snorted to himself. “Hey, y’think Jack Frost is real? I mean, Sam and I fought leprechauns once. Garth killed the Tooth Fairy. Maybe the icy bastard is real too. Did I ever tell you that Sam believed in the Easter Bunny until he was twelve?” Dean chuckled to himself, his breath puffing out in smoke as he crunched his way down the path mindlessly. “Yeah, the snot was so sure of himself, set up cameras and traps the night before tryin’ to catch him. Imagine his surprise when he watched the footage the next day and saw me hiding Dollar Tree eggs stuffed with coupons and bullets and anything I could find all over the motel room. I was actually kinda bummed he’d caught me, it was kinda like losing that last bit of childhood in him. It was nice giving him something to believe in, I guess. Something that wasn’t evil.” 

Dean found himself staring out at the woods that shrouded the rest of the path, covered in icy blue twinkles. 

“Anyway,” he grunted, shoving away foggy memories of childhood and trudging back towards the house. “gonna work on the basement today, I think. Wanna get that ready asap, ‘case something goes wrong, right?” A bitter feeling settled at the bottom of Dean’s stomach. In all honesty, he hated working on the basement. 

If the house and fields were his prison, the basement was death row. 

It was going to be his own personal lock box if the Mark took control again. A giant, underground panic room like Bobby’s lined with blessed iron walls, ceilings, and rock salt embedded behind them. He’d replaced the door to the basement with a heavy iron door, one that could only be locked from the outside and could be sealed permanently behind himself. There would be no other exit, no weakness that he could bust himself out of, no windows. Just a dark, cold condemnation. 

Best case scenario, the Mark took over again and Dean would maybe have enough warning beforehand to shut himself inside. There would be no going back once he did, no way to get out. It would contain whatever monster he’d become for the rest of eternity. He knew the Mark wouldn’t let him die, but he would get hungry and thirsty and he would have to bear with it as his penance until the house decayed around him and buried him for good. No one would ever find him, and no one would be able to open the door without the key Dean kept on him at all times. 

It was a necessary precaution, but he hated having to work on it. He couldn’t even go downstairs without propping up the door, terrified it would swing closed and trap him inside. The basement was cold and dark, lit only by a rack of work lights standing in a corner of the room. It was almost complete at this point—iron walls and ceilings, half of a Devil’s Trap carved into the floor, everything reinforced to ensure Dean couldn’t pry anything out to escape. The Devil’s Trap was more of a precaution, in case the Mark turned him into a demon. It wouldn’t do much if it didn’t, but Dean wasn’t taking any chances. 

Finishing the basement took a little over a month, and by that time the woods and fields were covered in a couple inches of snow. He’d closed and locked the basement door before hanging the little iron key around his neck, but the thick iron door mocked him every time he passed it, and the key hung a little heavier, both like a constant warning to keep himself in check.

But besides that, he was doing well. The little house stayed strong and warm, toasted by the roaring fire Dean had going almost every night. Considering it was the first house that he had total responsibility over, he was managing just fine. He read books, cooked meals, tried his hand at whittling, and even got back into sketching, something he hadn’t done since drawing monsters in John’s journal. He sketched the plants he had in the garden, labeling them and writing the instructions for growing, doing it for fun at first before realizing it could actually be helpful. So on came another project—a gardening journal. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his motivations for doing this were not just for himself. As he drew more and wrote more descriptions, he found himself writing as if he were talking to Cas.

The blueberries get picked once they turn a dark blue color. Don’t pick the damn purple ones, they’re not ready. 

Lettuce will bolt if you don’t cut them properly, but sometimes you can’t do anything about it.

Don’t eat the wisteria beans! Legumes have cyanide, real fucking toxic.

The raspberry bushes are prickly and wasps like to nest in them. Be careful harvesting or you’ll get stabbed by one or the other.

When new pages were added, Dean clipped them into a little three-ring, leather journal he picked up at a garage sale, and the book’s thickness grew as he learned more about his plants. Maybe he’d make a recipe book next.

All in all, winter was a cozy, dawdling experience for Dean. He considered it a vacation after working nonstop on the house and garden. A little break filled with good books, a crackling and warm hearth, little wooden carvings, and the chatter of radio and television. He wore sweatpants and ratty t-shirts almost every day, his beard grew out until Dean had some sense to cut off what he could with his knives, keeping it tamed to a scruff. His hair fell down around his eyes, still shorter than Sam’s but longer than he’d kept it in years. Cooped up inside had taken some of the golden glow summer had given him, but Dean could admit he looked healthier than he had his entire life. His gut had even shrunk a little given the lack of consistent greasy food and how infrequently he drank alcohol anymore. His muscles were more defined with months of heavy lifting and work, and the gaunt expression on his face had been replaced with a kind of weary, if not a little sad, health. 

Who knew imprisoning himself would be so good for him?

——

Spring came with new work and preparations. The seedlings had grown up strong and needed to be planted, but the garden had to be weeded and tilled before he could. The slate roof had taken a little damage over the winter that Dean would need to fix, and Baby would need her post-winter tune up. There would always be something to do, and he liked it that way. Work meant busy and busy meant distraction. 

He had a good thing going in the woods and he refused to let anything from his past ruin it.

——

Dean woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon. Warm sunlight poured through the open windows, and his bedroom door was open, allowing the soft sounds of dishes and music to float up from downstairs. Groggy, Dean rolled out of bed and followed the smell and noise.

The house seemed…lighter somehow. The melancholic weight that had settled over the place since Dean found it had been replaced by something intangibly bright and weightless. The sound of birdsong echoed from the woods through every open window, carried by sweet smelling wind. 

Someone was in the kitchen, pots and pans clanging softly as the radio sputtered out soft music. Bacon crackled and popped on the stove, and the toaster let out a pleasant chime as waffles bounced out. Dean squinted at the figure, who’s back was turned to him. Shirtless, the figure’s broad, tanned shoulders glowed against the morning sun, wet hair dripping tantalizing trails of water down defined muscles and dip of the spine only to disappear into the waistband of sweatpants. 

He didn’t know how long he ogled, but it was long enough for the figure to turn around. Dean choked on an inhale.

“Cas?”

Eyes crinkled, sparkling as plush lips quirked upwards.

“Good morning, Dean.”

Dean stared at him, eyes skipping entirely over the chiseled chest and arms that should have him so, so distracted. His gaze was stuck on that face—softer, now having lost the edge of alertness and danger they had both been so accustomed to.

“Why…how…y-you can’t be here.”

He wasn’t sure why, but something in the back of his head told him that Cas couldn’t be here, that it was impossible…

To make Dean feel even more uneasy, Cas completely ignored him, still smiling gently.

“I thought maybe we could stop by town today. I want to start planting herbs.”

“Cas—“

“Here, I made breakfast.”

“Cas, you don’t even know how to cook—“

Suddenly, they were outside standing around a ripe blueberry bush. Something told him that it wasn’t right, something was wrong, but Dean found himself allowing the change, not noticing or questioning it. Cas was standing on the other side of the bush, and both of them kept catching the other peeking at them. Cas’ eyes were so blue, dazzling in the sunlight, piercing through Dean with both precision and a touch of shyness. The scent of blueberries permeated the air, suddenly the bush between them was gone and Cas was right there, eyes flicking down to his lips and back up and Dean’s heart was racing as Cas drew closer—his lips only a breath away—

Blood suddenly flashed over Cas’ face, bruises and wounds slicing into golden skin—

“Wake up.”

Like a shotgun had gone off, Dean’s eyes snapped open. A bleak, pale light filled his bedroom, and he could feel his entire backside drenched in sweat. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut to shake away the last of yet another dream. 

“Fuck.” He cursed, whipping the sheets off and glaring at the puddle of sweat he’d been lying in. At this rate, he’d never get the stains out of them. Dean ripped the sheets off of his bed again, tossing them into the washer and stomping into the kitchen.

What the hell had that dream been? Dean thought as he fixed coffee. He’d never had a dream like that before, some fake paradise where Cas was still alive and they were happy—

When had his dreams turned from blood and hauntings to some mocking rendition of something Dean couldn’t have?

He felt a lonely clench in his chest when he realized he was standing right where Dream Cas had been in the dream kitchen, and felt the urge to skitter away.

“M’having dreams about you now, Cas.” Dean murmured as he sipped his coffee and stared blankly out the sink window. Talking to Cas always helped. “Dreamt ‘bout us being happy, living for ourselves. It was kinda nice for a while, until right at the end. You’re still gone, what’s the point of dreaming?”

There was no response other than tentative birdsong and the creak of floorboards under his feet. Who knew isolation could be so terribly lonely.

——

Dean hadn’t thought of it, but spring brought thunderstorms and rainfall heavy enough to wash away a lot of last’s season gardening soil. There hadn’t been as much coverage from the woods as Dean had hoped, which meant he needed to get soil from town before he could plant the seedlings.

He hated going to town. It wasn’t a huge place, big enough for a couple family-own businesses along with commercial ones. It was the central hub for most of the farming and rural community that lay further east than where Dean was, where everyone had thought there was nothing but wilderness. The few times he’d been down there, he felt like all eyes were on him, trying to get a look at his face, to figure out who he was. He knew he stuck out like a sore thumb, the town was too small not to notice outsiders, but so far no one had tried asking any questions. Maybe he came down infrequently enough that people thought he just passed through. 

The pickup rumbled under him as he made his way through the main road, businesses and stores moderately bustling with people. It was a warm day for spring, last night’s rainfall leaving a pleasant musty smell in the air, but the temperature was comfortable and people were happily walking around with bags or children on their arms.

Dean kept his head down in the grocery store, the brim of his hat keeping most of his face obscure from interested eyes. He piled the cart up with the usual things to last him a while, replenishing on the things he’d eaten over winter. 

A few little kids trailing after their parents stopped as they passed him, little enough to peek under his hat and blink at him. Dean felt his mouth twitch with a smile and gave them a look telling them keep up with their parents. The kids giggled and scampered off—the strange man was clearly very funny to them.

He lifted his eyes once a few times as he made his way through the aisles, only enough to find what he wanted on the upper shelves. Wandering down the bread aisle, he suddenly eyed an advertisement sitting between the jams and breads. It was an ad for Uncrustables, boasting something about great flavor and a 30% discount for the boxes of twelve, complete with the highly edited photo of the sandwich.

Cas had liked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Dean hadn’t been there, but Sam had told him later, how Cas said he’d had a fondness for them as a human but seemed put out that his grace made everything taste like molecules again, too overwhelming to enjoy.

The grief hit him right there, unexpectedly, as grief does. It hit him like a freight train, staring at an advertisement for Uncrustables. His eyes were stuck on the peanut butter and grape jelly oozing out of a bite in the photo, and the brightly colored background and cheesy one liner. Dean stared at it, images and memories flashing by his brain too fast to clearly see but powerful enough for him to feel. He gulped thickly against a sudden lump in his throat, blinking at that damn Uncrustable as he fought back tears. 

Before he could really lose it in the bread aisle of the grocery store, two footsteps approached, one the measured pace of an adult, the other the paddling of a little kid. Dean instantly ducked his head, sucking all the emotions back up and pretending to be very interested in the Uncrustables.

“Papa! Can we get orange jelly for Daddy?” The kid squealed, bouncing up and down from where he and his dad stood a little to Dean’s left. From his downcast angle, he could see the kid’s light-up sneakers blinking with every excited jump he took. The guy chuckled, stooping down to lift the kid into his arms.

“The marmalade? We both know how much Daddy likes those. Why don’t you grab one for him, squirt?”

“I want marma cookies!”

“Maybe we can convince Daddy to make it for dessert.” The dad chuckled, setting the kid down again, who’s little hands now clutched a jar of marmalade close to his chest like a treasure.

Dean waited for them to go, the hollow ache in his chest somehow more profound than before, and snatched a box of Uncrustables before he could convince himself not to.

The self checkout aisle was safer than getting rung up by a cashier, even though it took him longer. Endless products got shoved into the canvas bags he’d brought, filling up at least five before he got to the end of his shopping. He knew he looked like a maniac, using duffels instead of the store-supplied plastics, but damnit, if Dean had a gray water system to help the environment he wasn’t gonna use plastic bags. 

Food obtained, he made a quick round to the hardware store to restock on lumber and construction supplies, and then to the gardening store for soil. On his way to check out, his eyes caught seed packets sitting on a shelf—one boasting a photo of brilliant blue flowers under their name, Forget-Me-Nots. And because apparently today is a touchy one for Dean, he got choked up. Again.

It somehow made sense to him, blue that bright would earn such a name. And the name itself, almost a haunting promise that such a color could never be forgotten. It was so fitting for the angel, almost too well.

“Jesus, Cas…” Dean whispered. “Did you have a hand in making these?”

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?”

He nearly jumped a mile in the air at the voice next to him. Dean flinched, snapping his head around to see an old man in the gardening store’s uniform standing next to him. The man raised an eyebrow at him, and Dean suddenly realized he was expecting an answer.

“Uh,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “yeah.”

“They’ll grow well in a field, ya’know.” The man told him. “They’ll come back all on their own once y’plant ‘em.”

“Oh.” Dean managed, trying to duck his face out of the man’s view. “Yeah they, uh, just reminded me of someone.”

“A pretty someone, eh?”

Dean just swallowed thickly. The man chuckled at his apparent discomfort. 

“Well, like I said, they’ll grow back on their own every year. Might be worth the purchase.”

Dean lifted his head a little, letting the man see the amused look on his face.

“You tryin’ to sell me seeds, man?”

The guy threw back his head and laughed. “That’s why I work here, ain’t it?”

It was probably the first time Dean smiled genuinely in a long time. He shrugged, plucking a handful packets off the shelf. 

“At least you’re honest about it.” He conceded, and followed the man to the counter when he offered to ring him up. The man scanned the seeds, eyeing him and his truck parked just outside. 

“Seen you around here once in a blue moon.” He began, clearly trying to politely pry. “Nancy from the food store says you buy a hoard of things when you do.”

Dean was quiet, picking at the corner of a seed packet. 

“You got a place around here, boy?”

He cleared his throat, keeping his head duck under his hat.

“Nah, nothin’ permanent. ‘Stuff’s for my brother a few hours away, uh, this town’s the closest for miles.” He hefted the big bags of soil onto the counter for the guy to scan.

“You planting a garden for your brother too?”

“He’s sick.” Dean made up wildly, voice level. “Likes garden-grown things. Better for his health.”

“Hm.” The guy said. “Well, if your brother’s ever got extra produce, the town has a farmer’s market convention summer. Folks wouldn’t mind newcomers, buyers or sellers.”

Dean knew what the invitation meant. Turned out he wasn’t as discreet in this town as he’d thought. People wanted to talk to him, find out who he was, where he lived, why he was out here. 

Not like he’d ever go, though. Keeping a low profile meant less of a chance for Sam or anyone else finding him. The air of mystery around him that intrigued the town so much needed to be maintained, for Dean’s peace and everyone else’s safety. 

“Think I’ll pass, but I ‘preciate the offer.” He grunted, pocketing his seeds and throwing the soil bags onto his shoulder. He passed off some cash and hurried out, head ducked and avoiding eye contact. The pickup creaked and dipped when he threw the bags into the truck bed, and Dean quickly got behind the wheel and hightailed out of town, anxiously glancing in his rearview to make sure no one was following him. Maybe he needed to make his trips less frequent.

——

Dean spent the next morning tossing the Forget-Me-Not seeds all over the lavender fields, wandering the two or so acres and dropping them as he went. Each packet bulged with seed, so he had plenty to cover almost the entire field. Next year, he knew, they would spread and cover everything. He hoped he’d planted the seeds early enough to see them this summer, rather than waiting for next season. 

It was a quiet day, mostly restocking the house’s supplies. The seedlings needed to go in the ground, which meant tilling and soiling the garden beds was on the agenda today. Dean worked well into the evening, hands coated in sweet-smelling earth, dirt under his fingernails and sweat glistening on his body. 

“—wanted me to join their farmer’s market, can you believe that, Cas?” He was telling the dirt, imagining its silence was Castiel’s silence, thoughtful and attentive while Dean ranted. “Last thing I need is Karens and Steves from oh-just-down-the-road asking me where I live and who I am. How quick do you think Sammy’ll be on my ass if word gets out about me? Twenty bucks it’ll be three days, tops.”

He carefully spread the layer of rich topsoil, coating last season’s dirt with fresh nutrients and moisture. Birdsong was the only response to his musings.

“Spread some flower seeds in the fields today,” he continued anyway, carefully depositing the first of the seedlings from the little pots into the beds. “Forget-Me-Nots, they’re called. Kinda fitting for you, y’know? They’ll bloom these real nice blue flowers in bunches, and they got little yellow specks in the center. You’re all blue, man, it’s your thing—aesthetic, or whatever. Yellow too, don’t think I don’t remember you goin’ through that bees n’ honey phase. Everything about you back then was bright yellow—I think you carried some of it with you even after you got your bolts re-screwed. Blue n’ yellow, impossible to forget, Castiel—all the same thing if you ask me.”

The first row of tomato seedlings were planted, peppers were next.

“But what do I know, right? I ain’t the smart one, barely made it through high school. Hell, I got so little brain I’m comparing you to a flower.” Dean snorted. “When did I go soft, Cas? When did I start caring about plants and flowers? For fuck’s sake, I got sad the other day when I found one of the wisteria branches fell during that thunderstorm. Nearly cried in a goddamn gardening store when I saw those Forget-Me-Nots seeds and thought of you. I used to gut monsters without so much as a queasy stomach, what the hell happened to me? How did I fall so far when I didn’t even have a ledge to jump from? You did. You had this great purpose, this righteous dignity and responsibility. You fell from paradise to dirt. I fell from dirt to shit. Your jump makes mine seem kinda pathetic, huh?”

Dean blinked. He wasn’t sure he was making sense to even himself anymore.

“A whole year alone and I’m already rambling like a crazy person.” He muttered to himself, sitting back on his haunches to admire the seedlings, all planted in neat little rows that would grow wherever they damn well pleased.
 
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, wiping his earth-stained hands on his jeans and standing up with a groan, back and knees aching in protest. “I like living here and doin’ all this plant stuff helps keep me grounded.” He smirked at his own pun. “But sometimes I still feel like shit ‘cause I enjoy doing it. My dad would hate it, tell me gardening’s not manly, call me a housewife or something. He’s probably berate me for liking you so damn much, actually, comparing you to flowers an’ all. But I can’t help it, Cas, not when it comes to you. I can’t, and I’m tired of trying to stop myself.”

That night, under the warmth of his blankets, staring out at the starry sky over the lavender fields, 

“Kept my promise, Cas. And I’ll keep it through tomorrow.”

——

He was in the Bunker’s library, reliving the nightmare all over again. The horrible stench of blood that Dean hadn’t smelled outside his dreams, now back with a vengeful strength, burning his throat. The heavy, solid body lying in his lap, bloodied and beaten. 

Cas’ chest heaved against the angel blade sticking out of his stomach, one hand grasping Dean’s, still wrapped around the hilt, and the other lying limply at his side. 

Castiel was an angel, but not angel enough for the blade to kill him right away. The human part of him was the one that bled, the one that prolonged agony before death.

Terror gripped every cell in Dean’s body as his vision cleared. He yanked his hand away from the blade as if it had burned him, but Cas’ hand weakly followed his. 

“Cas!” Dean choked, gripping the angel’s hand with his own while the other fluttered frantically, cupping his cheek.

“D-Dean…” Cas spluttered, a trickle of blood escaping from the corner of his mouth towards his neck. 

“O-Oh god,” Dean rasped, throat hoarse from a threatening wave of desperate tears. “Oh god, what’ve I done, no, Cas please, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault—“

“Dean.” Cas growled, body trembling. The hand holding Dean’s gripped him tightly, the other finding strength to grip the front of his shirt. “P-Promise me…promise m-me…”

“Cas, please don’t do this.” Dean croaked. “Don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-I couldn’t stop—“

“Promise me, Dean—“

“Anything. Anything, just don’t leave me. Stay, don’t do this—“

“Promise me y-you’ll—“ Cas choked on a fresh wave of blood and Dean’s lungs wretched a dry sob, frantically wiping the blood with his thumb. “—you’ll s-stop. Promise. You’ll stop.”

“Cas, please—“

“Do it. Dean, do this for me.”

Dean heaved another sob, eyes unable to let the tears fall. He shakily looked at Cas, jaw trembling, eyes shining.

“Promise you’ll stay and everything will be alright.” He choked. “And I will.”

Cas just smiled at him, quiet and sad and in so much pain.

“Don’t make me go without this.”

Dean ducked his head, inhaling sharply against the pain in his heart and the lump in his throat.

“Dean…please.”

The wound around the angel blade had begun to glow, the grace beginning to collapse like a dying star. Dean looked into Cas’ eyes again, and he just couldn’t bear to cause the angel one more ounce of pain.

“I…I promise.” He choked. “Cas, I—“

A bright flare of white light and an ear-splitting ring. Cas’ head jerked back, his jaw falling open, light bursting out of his eyes and wound and mouth, body seizing. Dean instinctively shielded himself from the blinding brightness—

He woke up sobbing this time, screaming hoarsely. The blankets were too heavy on his legs, reminding him too vividly of Cas’ body, and he kicked them onto the floor with a gut-wrenching cry. Dean scrambled onto the headboard, his back hitting the solid wood with a soft thunk before he curled in on himself, hiding his face in the crook of his arms and drawing his legs up to his chest, sobbing until his skin itched with tears, until his soul was tired. So fucking tired.

——

The first thing Castiel remembered seeing was darkness. For one glorious second, he thought perhaps he was getting a glimpse at endless peace, silence and stillness for all eternity.

Then, he was being dumped rather unceremoniously onto polished hardwood, and Sam Winchester was standing in front of him. 
He blinked blearily, taking in familiar book-lined walls and tables and chairs. His grace still missing what Metatron stole, thrummed pleasantly within him, a presence that he’d hardly had any time to become reacquainted to before…well, before Dean killed him.

But none of this made sense. He had died, Castiel was sure of it, so why was he back here, and why was Sam Winchester helping him to his feet with a look of petrified relief on his face?

A mixed look he knew only too well. His brow deepened as the realization dawned.

“Where is Dean?”

——

“A year? He’s been gone a year?”

“And a couple months, yeah.” Sam sighed heavily, slumped in a chair, staring vaguely at the books and scrolls littering the table they sat it. “Nothing I’ve done can track him down, Crowley says he must’ve put up some pretty intense warding, and Rowena and the Book of the Damned came up empty—“

“You tried the Book of the Damned?”

“Yeah.” Sam said flatly, still staring blankly at the tabletop. “So what.”

Cas pursed his lips and didn’t press it.

“So what makes you think I can find out where he is? You said you’ve tried everything, even angels.”

“Yeah, I tried the angels.” Sam snorted derisively. “None of them will help. No one would even talk to me except your buddy Hannah. And she didn’t talk much either. So I figured if I could get the one angel on our side back…maybe. You’re my last option, Cas. If you can’t find him, Dean’s probably going to be gone for good.”

Cas nodded, a heaviness weighing on his chest. If Sam couldn’t find Dean, that meant there must not be any news of mass slaughterings or killings that might be caused by him, right?

“Have you tried looking into recent murders?” Cas asked anyway. Sam nodded wearily.

“Murders, cases, everything. The tracker on the Impala’s been disabled, Jody put out an APB months ago, and the entire hunter network hasn’t seen him. My guess? Dean hasn’t been killing or working jobs since he left. He’s just…gone.”

“You don’t think he would—?”

“I not thinking about that possibility until I see his body, Cas.” Sam told him firmly. “Besides, the Mark wouldn’t just let him die, right? It would want its host alive.”

“Yes, it would. But that doesn’t mean he hadn’t buried himself alive somewhere—“

“But he would still be alive, right?” Sam asked him, desperately. “Which means you can find him?”

Cas sighed. 

“I don’t know.” He replied. “Those carvings I put in your ribs are still there, which means I can’t immediately find him unless he tells me where he is. Without access to Heaven or my wings, I’m afraid I may be just as powerless as you.”

Sam closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. His face spasmed in a brief moment of hopelessness, and Cas wished he had better news. 

“It’s okay, Cas.” Sam said quietly. “It was a long shot anyway.”

“Sam, that doesn’t mean I won’t try—“

“No, I know.” The younger Winchester interrupted, giving Cas a tired smile. “Honestly? I’m just glad to have you back, man.”

Cas’ lips twitched with a smile.

“It’s good to see you too, Sam.”

——

After the night his subconscious decided to make him relive his memories, Dean had a rough few days. The sun shone just as brightly and the birdsong was just as sweet, but there was a sour edge to his vision that he just couldn’t shake. 

He hadn’t spoken to Cas since the dream. Every time he thought about it, all he could remember was the way his body seized in his arms, the light blasting out of the vessel as the very essence of who Castiel was was blown away.

Not speaking to Cas was probably contributing to Dean’s bad mood. For the first time since his self-imposed banishment, he wasn’t talking to anyone and as it turned out Dean was a blabbermouth when it came to Cas.

He spent more of his time inside, sketching new plants to add to his gardening journal, taking extra care for the Forget-Me-Nots page. His attempts at whittling were getting better—his bumblebee carving was actually starting to look like an insect and not a weird wooden blob.

When he got bored of carving, he switched to pies. Learning how to do a lattice top pie had been his excuse over the winter to make pies in general, an although he had mastered lattice on his second try, there were always new recipes to discover. 

Within an hour, the little house was smelling like spiced peach and apple pie with a pastry crust, and he had a tub of ice cream waiting in the freezer. Pie always put him in a better mood, and Dean was humming to himself by the time he’d popped that beauty in the oven. 

Another hour later and he was taking a generous slice al la mode to the rocking chair outside, settling in with a content groan. The evening was cool, the first of the fireflies starting to come out. Crickets and frogs joined the forest’s chorus, and as Dean ate his pie on his porch that he built from the ground up, attached to the house that he had breathed new life into.

God, when was the last time he’d felt like this? His life had been a perpetual state of terror and movement, never feeling secure enough to relax like this. Never feeling safe. Even in the Bunker, the safest place on Earth, Dean fell asleep with a gun under his pillow and tension in his shoulders. 

But here, there was security beyond the hundreds of sigils and protective wards he’d put up. He’d never had something like this before, a place of his own, somewhere hidden and quiet where no one could bother him. He’d only been here a year, one that had flown by with work and progress, but knew he would have a hard time leaving this life he’d built if he had to run. 

The fields rustled in hush whispers against a gentle wind, the air thick with the scent of earth and rainfall. There was a feeling in the atmosphere, a gentle and cradling feeling that Dean couldn’t place. It was incredibly unfamiliar, similar to fondness and safety but…deeper somehow.

He spent a lot of that evening and many slices of pie trying to give that feeling a name.

——

Cas sat alone in the library. He’d finally managed to convince Sam to get some sleep, something the younger Winchester had clearly been lacking for some time. The Bunker was quiet, and he’d spent the last hour putting away the hundreds of books spread out over the room. Now, he sat at a table, staring vaguely ahead as he thought.

No mass slaughterings or signs of Dean meant that he’d kept his promise, Cas could only hope. There was always the chance Dean had left the country to feed the Mark in a war zone where his killings would go unnoticed. He could be beyond Sam’s abilities to track. Cas didn’t doubt Dean—he knew he was true to his promises—but he wondered if the Mark would give him a choice. It was the first curse, after all. Just because Dean wanted to keep his promise didn’t mean the Mark was going to let him. 

Cas sighed, closing his eyes and trying to turn off his thoughts. Tomorrow, he’d start his search for Dean. There wasn’t much he could do that Sam hadn’t tried already, but perhaps he would get lucky. Something would give him a lead.

Then, ringing through his head, clear as day—

Kept my promise, Cas. And I’ll keep it through tomorrow.

Cas jolted, eyes snapping open. The voice had been so clear, he’d thought for a moment it had be spoken right behind him. The voice faded into an echo, a tone and gruffness that Cas had memorized by heart. 

Dean was praying to him.

How could he be praying to him if he thought Cas was dead?

Cas sat perfectly still, ears straining to hear more. He waited and waited, hoping Dean would say something else that might give clues of his location. But nothing else came, just a vague feeling of longing and sadness that rippled through his essence from far away. 

Dean was alive. He was safe. He was keeping his promise. A swell of pride filled Cas’ chest at the miracle Dean had pulled off. He’d gotten control of the Mark. 

——

Over the next few days, Cas and Sam hung on desperately to the little thread of a lead. Cas was constantly distracted, always waiting to hear Dean’s voice in his head again, and Sam kept glancing hopefully at him any time he moved. 

But Dean didn’t speak much, only ever sending out the same prayer at night that must be his kind of bedtime ritual—

Kept my promise, Cas. And I’ll keep it through tomorrow.

It was as if he were renewing his promise every night, proving that every day he was doing this for Cas and would continue to do it forever. He was beginning to look forward to the prayer every night, eager to hear even a moment of Dean’s voice. 

Despite the lack of immediate clues of his location, if Cas’ assumption that Dean prayed before he slept were correct, that meant he was still in the same time zone as the Bunker, somewhere in the Central range. It wasn’t much, but it was more than Sam had managed to find in a year.

It wasn’t until a few weeks of the same prayer every night did Dean start talking to Cas during the day. He’d startled Cas at first, his voice nearly making him drop the coffee he was getting for Sam. 

The Forget-Me-Nots came in, Cas. Dean hummed, as if Cas should know what he was talking about. They’re just as pretty as I thought they’d be with the lavender. Wish you could see it.

Cas stared blankly at the mug clutched between his hands. Tell me more, tell me more, his heart hammered. He wanted to know about the flowers, he wanted to know how Dean was doing, he wanted to know everything. 

“Cas?”

Sam appeared in the kitchen doorway, obviously confused. “You good, man?”

Cas blinked, turning his gaze to Sam, eyes wide.

“He’s talking to me.” He told him, stunned.

“What? But it’s not night yet—“

“He’s talking about flowers.” Cas continued as Sam stared at him. “He…he’s talking about Forget-Me-Nots and lavender. About them growing together. He’s talking like he’s been talking to me for months, like I should already know about them.”

These Uncrustables are actually kinda good, man. You have good taste.

Cas startled again at Dean’s voice, loud and echoey in his head.

“Cas?” Sam asked, rushing to grab the coffee out of his hands before he actually dropped it.

“Sam, what are Uncrustables?” 

He blinked, clearly as taken aback as Cas was.

“Uh, they’re like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without the crust. Grocery stores sell them.”

“He’s talking about them.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Just that I have good taste.”

“What else is he saying?” Sam asked eagerly, eyes wide. But Dean had gone quiet again, and Cas shook his head.

“Nothing. It’s like he’s just giving me little snippets of his day, commenting on something he’s doing.” Cas paused, once again feeling that aching sensation echoing from the remnants of Dean’s prayer. “He seems lonely.”

“This is good, this is really good, Cas.” Sam said, whipping out his phone and pulling up his notes app. “We’ll keep track of everything he says and maybe he’ll give us clues! Maybe an area code or geographical marker we can use to narrow down his location.”

Cas nodded, but he felt a kind of reluctance. Was it a betrayal of Dean’s trust to use his prayers to find him? Clearly he felt secure enough to talk to Cas, was it wrong to use these secret communications to drag him back to what he’d run from?

He worried what finding Dean might mean for Sam. It might trigger the Mark if Dean saw someone from his past, and Sam was much more vulnerable to sudden attack than Castiel was. Dean with the Mark of Cain matched Cas’ own angelic strength, but Sam had no supernatural protection. If they both found him together, the Mark might take over and do something to Sam. And if something happened to Sam, Castiel was sure Dean’s reaction in the aftermath would be far worse than it had been when he killed him. 

It wasn’t safe for Sam to see Dean, if they ever found him. Not until Cas could be sure there was no danger. Fortunately, he held all the cards this time. He could filter what prayers he would tell Sam, and keep any important clues for himself. For Sam’s own safety, Castiel would have to find Dean on his own.

——

It took months. Sometimes Dean would talk to Castiel multiple times a day, other days he would go quiet, apart from his nightly prayer. The prayers were almost always something mundane, talk of a garden and plants, of Forget-Me-Not and lavender fields, or a house. Somewhere, Dean had clearly made a sanctuary for himself. He talked about a wooden bumblebee he carved himself, a garden journal he created, and quite a bit about pie recipes he’d concocted himself. Sometimes it was something as simple as musings about the weather. 

Other days, Dean’s prayers were more personal. Castiel had learned quickly that the days Dean went quiet or talked about his emotions were the days he woke up from nightmares. He’d talk about them sometimes, never going into detail but with enough bitterness in his voice for Cas to guess what he’d been dreaming about.

You’re probably tired of me saying sorry all the damn time, but I’m gonna keep doing it anyway. What I did to you was unforgivable. I don’t know where angels go when they die, maybe back to Heaven, but I sure as hell ain’t going up if I ever kick the bucket. So that means I’ll never see you again to say sorry in person, so you’ll have to just deal with this. I’m sorry, Cas. I’m so damn sorry.

Every time Dean prayed something serious like this, Cas felt that distant ache grow stronger, and felt his own despair rise in return. He desperately wanted to comfort Dean, to be able to reach out and talk to him in return. He wanted to tell him he was alive, that he didn’t blame him, that what had happened to Cas wasn’t his fault.

Sam asked about Dean everyday now, usually followed closely after a greeting or if they’d been sitting in silence for too long. He knew Sam was just as desperate to hear from Dean as Cas was, so omitting and lying about the details Dean gave in his prayers was almost as painful as hearing his confessions.

As far as information, Cas had managed to gather a few context clues. Dean lived far away from a town, but not far enough that food runs took days of travel. He limited his time in public, visiting every four weeks or so for huge hoards of food and supplies. The townspeople were aware of him, but clearly had no idea who he was or where he lived. Cas was fairly certain none of them even knew what Dean looked like. 

He was almost completely self-sustained, recycling his own water and growing his own food. He had no internet connection or trackable devices that Cas knew of, just a satellite radio and a TV. He’d stopped driving Baby because she was too recognizable, and had been using a busted pickup for his trips outside his sanctuary. 

Cas knew Dean lived in a forest near a field. He knew the woods were thick and probably went on for miles, that he was far enough away from walking paths that no one saw smoke from his chimney or could accidentally stumble across his home. 

His mental review of clues was interrupted by Dean’s voice, and he tuned in eagerly.

Went into town on the wrong weekend, Cas. That farmer’s market I was telling you about was in full fucking swing when I got there. There were folks from outta town swarming the place, fruit stands lining the streets and every goddamn store was crowded like it was fucking Black Friday. Couldn’t restock on food or get what I needed for that damn leaky faucet. Decided just to leave before someone spotted me. They even had a banner hanging up over the street, Cas. A banner. Clearly no one in that town had anything better to celebrate when their beloved “Annual Midwest Farmer’s Market Convention”. Pfft. They’re real fucking proud ‘bout it too. Gets on my nerves. Like the fact that it stopped me from getting bacon for my burgers tonight. And that I have to hear that stupid faucet dripping water until the convention moves out.

Cas couldn’t help but smile, always fond of Dean’s bitching. Him complaining were some of Cas’ more entertaining prayers, and he wanted so desperately to hear them in person.

“Is he talking again?” Sam’s voice broke the silence, undoubtedly noticing Cas’ vague smile. Dean’s prayer faded and he opened his eyes. 

“He’s complaining about a leaky faucet.” He reported. “And that he doesn’t have bacon for his burgers.”

Sam huffed a laugh, sitting across the table from him and opening his laptop. 

“Sounds like Dean, alright. Any new clues?”

As Cas had been doing for the past few months, he neglected to tell Sam any identifying information, including what Dean had let slip in his prayer just then.

“Nothing yet. Complaining, as he seems to like doing when he prays to me.”

——

It wasn’t until after Sam had gone to sleep did Cas finally have access to the computer. Still somewhat unfamiliar with technology, he carefully typed Annual Midwest Farmer’s Convention into the search bar. A website popped up, boasting about locally grown products and family grown farm produce from a list of different states. Cas tried to find a location or address, but stumbled across a tab called Photos.

Multiple collections of pictures marked with different years popped up, and he tried the current year’s collection. It sprung up a couple dozen photos taken by different people at the convention. Some were of people, smiling and holding different produce for the camera. Other were just photos of what different stands were selling, or busy streets filled with people walking and buying and talking. Cas scrolled through the photos, scanning for addresses on buildings or road signs. 

The last photo was of a grinning family standing with their backs to the main road, holding gourds up to the camera. But something in the background caught Cas’ eye.

A busted, rusty blue pickup was driving by, slightly blurred with movement. Squinting, Cas enlarged the photo, focusing on the shadowy figure behind the wheel. The driver wasn’t looking at the camera, and his eyes were shielded by the brim of a hat, but Castiel knew that side profile anywhere. He knew the shape of that nose, the angle of that jaw, the curve of those lips. 

He had rebuilt them himself, down to every molecule. 

“Dean.” He breathed, staring at the blurry, pixelated photo. 

More quickly now, Cas grazed the website for any zip code or state. Surely this website had to have a location—

He found the Contact Us page, which lead him to a phone number. Hands shaking, Cas dialed it.

“Winton Gardening Center, how can I help you?” An old, gruff voice answered.

“Uh, hello.” Cas floundered for a moment, trying to think of something to say. “I am, uh, interested in the farm convention your town hosts but I can’t find the address on your website—“

“Oh yeah, sorry ‘bout that.” The man’s voice rasped, chuckling. “I keep tellin’ Debra to put a damn location on the front page, but she’s been having trouble with her computer lately. The Gardening Center takes all calls about the convention. Not sure why, but I’m guessing its ‘cause we deal with plants too.”

Cas stayed silent, unsure of what to say. The man, seemingly unbothered, continued.

“You lookin’ to sell or buy?”

“Buy.” Cas blurted. “I just need to know where—“

“We’re a small town in upper Minnesota, right by the border. Winton.”

“Thank you.” Cas said awkwardly and hung up before the man could rope him into more details.

Castiel would be on the road only five minutes later, his destination aimed for Winton, Minnesota.

——

Dean popped his head up from under the sink when he heard the dripping finally stop.

“Ha ha!” He shouted triumphantly, scrambling to his feet and flipping off the tap. “Fuck you!”

It had been two weeks of constant aggravation, riling Dean up so much he could’ve sworn he could hear it even outside the house. The farmer’s convention put off the repair for another week, and he had been two hours away from snapping and tearing the faucet out of the sink.

At first, he’d been worried his control over the Mark was slipping, and just a dripping faucet was setting him on the rampage, but now he was pretty sure the aggression was just plain ol’ him. The Mark wanted blood, not the disassembled parts of plumbing. Besides, this was a good thing, right? Dean could still get angry and not lose control.

With the damn sink finally fixed, he could finally move onto other things without the constant annoyance. Dean wandered outside, wearing only a baggy pair of jeans, padding barefoot through the soft grass towards the garden. The carrots hadn’t grown as well as he’d hoped, a little small and stubbly, but the potatoes made up for it with big, fat, plentiful spuds. 

Home fries were in Dean’s future, and he was so fucking excited. 

The tomatoes had been dealing with some worms and the little raspberry bushes had a serious wasp infestation, but he’d been doing his best to manage it. He had more fruit from the various trees than he knew what to do with, and the other vegetable plants were growing nicely. He was about a quarter until autumn, which meant another winter was coming and preparations needed to be made again. 

Dean was looking forward to a lazy season off, days spent in his house reading or tinkering. He’d put up insulation in the garage, giving him a comfortable space to work on Baby and the pickup while it kept out the winter freeze. 

The poor Impala looked dejected, sitting stock still in the garage Dean had built around her. His heart ached to see her trapped like that, knowing Baby was meant for the open road, but he didn’t have a choice. 1967 Chevy Impalas weren’t casually driven around, especially not in little towns like these. He almost wished he’d had the hindsight to leave Baby with Sam and take one of the other cars in the Bunker instead—at least she would be on the road, carrying Sam to wherever he was going. But at the same time, Dean couldn’t imagine leaving her behind. Baby was his car, she would’ve been the only set of wheels he trusted to take him away when he left that day. 

To make up for keeping her on lockdown, Dean took extra care of her. Like today, he backed Baby out of the garage and into the gravel driveway for a wash. 

Bathing his car was the same as working under her hood—it was meditative for him. He plunked the crackly old radio on the ground next to a bucket of soapy water and the hose from the gray water system and got to work. 

He’d changed into the only pair of shorts he owned—a ratty jean pair and nothing else, the late season sun brutal against his skin. The summer had done it’s work bringing out a nice tan in him, as well as extra freckles scattering his shoulders and back. His hair, which Dean refused to let grow past his eyes, hung freely down the sides of his face as he worked, giving Baby’s already flawless body another careful wash. His beard, cut short up against his face, was soon covered with bubbles—washing Baby basically meant a bath for Dean too, the long hood and trunk forcing him to sprawl on top of the soapy car with very little dignity to reach everything.

The plus side of it all was the lack of witnesses. He’d learned a long time ago how freeing it was to know no one was around for miles, no need for posturing or pretending to be someone he wasn’t. It left him to sing aloud to whatever the radio spluttered out, voice echoing across the blue and purple fields.

Currently, it was Blue Swede’s Hooked On A Feeling, and Dean was dancing in place as he hosed Baby down, hips and legs moving in a way that he was sure looked idiotic, but hey—no one around, right? 

——

Cas arrived in Winton, Minnesota a week ago and had nothing. He holed himself up in a motel room, ignoring Sam’s insistent phone calls and messages asking where Cas had gone to and why he wasn’t answering and if-you-went-after-Dean-alone-I-will-kill-you voice mails that Cas hadn’t replied to. Sam could be angry with him all he wanted once he found Dean.

The Farmer’s Convention had ended a day before Cas drove into town, and there hadn’t been a sign of Dean’s pickup at all since he’d arrived. He’d talked to the locals, asked about a strange man that came by every month or so, and the best he’d gotten was gossip from the knitting circle and curious questions from prying neighbors. 

He knew Dean had to be somewhere within a fifty mile radius, he just didn’t know where. Meanwhile, prayers kept coming in almost as frequently as Sam’s calls. It gave him some comfort that Dean appeared to be in good spirits—he hadn’t gone radio silence in a few months, and seemed to be preparing for winter. 

Cas, man, these strawberries are almost euphoric. I ain’t ever getting store bought again, holy hell. Who knew growing food in the backyard was so damn good? Too bad I’ll probably never know if those raspberries are good, the wasps are guarding that bush like it’s fucking Fort Knox. 

The prayer petered off while Cas entered the gardening center, where he’d first made the call that lead him to the town. Sitting behind the check out counter was an old man talking to a customer, and as Cas passed he recognized the voice from the phone call. Maybe he had seen Dean—it was far more likely considering the elder Winchester was into gardening now. 

After the customer left, Cas approached the man with steely determination.

“Hey there, can I help you with somethin’?”

“Yes,” he replied stiffly. “Have you seen a man around here recently? Comes to town every month or so, he might buy gardening supplies here?”

“Well, I sure hope he’s buying gardening supplies here.” The man chuckled, clearly in no rush to give out information. “This is the only place that sells the like for miles.”

“Yes,” Cas repeated awkwardly. “I just mean, have you seen someone that might fit that description? Someone outside the town’s community, keeps to himself?”

“I might, but I ain’t the kind to snitch. Who’s asking?” The man raised an eyebrow.

“He’s a friend of mine. A…hunting partner. His brother’s looking for him.”

The old man sniffed, eyeing Cas up and down for a moment, sizing him up. After a moment of deliberation, he gave himself a short nod.

“There’s a fella that comes by once in a while, yeah. Keeps his head low, doesn’t like showin’ his face. People gossip that he’d got some ugly scar or somethin’ that he want to hide, but I got a glimpse of ‘im when he stopped by a couple months ago. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with him that I could see.”

“What was he doing here? Do you know?”

“Eh,” the guy shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. “Nancy from the grocery store says he buys weeks worth of food there, must be enough so he doesn’t have to come down here often. He stopped by here for some soil and things. Managed to sell him on some flower seeds too.”

“Do you know which flower?” Cas asked, heart beating a taboo against his chest. The old man scratched his chin and thought about it hard for a minute.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Forget-Me-Nots, I reckon. I think he bought ‘em for some dead loved one ‘o his or something—looked ‘bout ready to cry when he saw ‘em. Seemed like a good man, just quiet. Mentioned that brother ‘o his too, said he was sick. How’s he doing?”

Cas blinked against the change of subject, but wildly made up a lie.

“Uh, not well.” He said. The man’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline and Cas saw the opportunity. “On the verge of death actually.” He leaned across the counter a little, pulling his face into a wince. “Doctor says he only has a few days left to live.”

“Oh my,” The old man breathed, eyes wide with concern. “that’s why you’re lookin’ for his brother, right?”

“Yes. His brother wants to see him one last time before he chokes on his own blood and dies.”

The old man gulped and Cas straightened, waiting expectantly. 

“Well, I can’t help you much with a location, no one knows where your friend lives.” The man told him. “But he takes the back road off Main every time I see ‘im drive off. Thing is, that back road’s a dead end. Don’t lead nowhere. People say he’s a ghost, driving down that road and disappearin’ somewhere ‘long the way.”

Cas debated that for a moment before squinting. “If he were a ghost, why would he need food?” 

With that, he turned on his heel, walking out the door and leaving the man stumped behind the counter.

He took the long, back road that branched off Main Street. There was no traffic, obviously since the road didn’t lead anywhere, so Cas drove slowly, eyeing the forest-lined road sides for any paths or tire tracks.

His first pass down the road gave up nothing, and neither did the second. Or third. Cas found himself glaring at the dead end sign every time he found himself in front of it, but he kept trying. 

Four, five passes and nothing. The back road was windy and long, promising a crash into a tree if he wasn’t careful. 

Six, seven, eight. 

Nine.

Ten.

Cas only made it halfway through his eleventh pass when his car spluttered and ran out of gas. It only served to frustrate him more. He got out, glaring at the car the entire time, before deciding to just leave it and go into the forest. 

It was midday, a sweltering autumn sun shielded from him by the thick canopy of leaves and branches above. The wood’s music was all around him, the hiss of leaves in wind, birdsong, frogs and crickets. Squirrels and chipmunks scampered up trees and chattered, disrupting the grass and fern as they scurried across the forest floor from one trunk to another. 

This was a healthy forest, teeming with life and seemingly untouched by man. Cas found himself wandering uphill with no apparent purpose, half-expecting to come across a log cabin or hut that perhaps Dean had built. 

The ground leveled out for a while, giving way to a decently sized stream cutting through the brush. A few yards away, Cas spotted a deer and her young drinking there, the mother’s watchful eyes raised and staring at him. He simply moved on, no threat to her or her foals.

After a while of mindless wandering, Cas had half the mind to turn back and return to town to grill some more locals. And, of course, that was when he found it. 

It almost wasn’t a path—the grass pressed down where tires had clearly been, the earth flattened slightly and the trees parted for the little road. He glanced both ways—downhill was twisted and disappeared around the slope, but uphill showed promise. The light was brighter that way, as if the woods gave way to a clearing.

He hiked up, shoes and pants getting splattered with mud from the stream. He didn’t care, hope blooming like hot air in his chest—

He had been right, the woods did stop into a clearing. A huge one. Acres wide, the clearing was an entire field of blue and purple, waist high, moving like waves in a gentle wind. The path faded into gravel, gray pebbles cutting a curved path around the fields and towards a little house tucked right up against the tree line. 

And low and behold, the Impala sat near the house, shining in the sun. Even from this far away, Cas could hear the faint sounds of music floating from the garage. He stood stock still, eyes boring into the shaded interior of that garage, waiting, hoping—

Someone emerged from within, singing loudly with the music, swinging a rag in the air and dancing seemingly without a care for who might be watching. Although the actions were foreign and near unbelievable, Castiel knew that figure the same way he’d recognized the face in that picture. 

Gloriously bare chested, tan skin no doubt popping with freckles and chiseled with health unlike anything Castiel had ever seen from him, was Dean Winchester. Gone was the sickly pale complexion that had haunted his features last he’d seen him. There was no sign of the tired slump in those shoulders or red-rimmed eyes, lidded with emotionless rage. Even his hair was different. 

He had changed in ways Castiel hadn’t expected. He had a beard now, thicker than stubble but not long enough grab ahold of. His hair was longer too, falling just below his eyes in a middle part and sweeping around in the early autumn wind. They were changes Castiel had never imagined Dean would allow, but now that he had, he already knew he would genuinely loath the day he decided to shave. He looked beautiful—even more so than Castiel remembered. There was something about it all that made he look so…soft. So rugged and gentle and worn, like years of beaten leather, the physical embodiment of the word cozy. 

Not only all those things, but Dean almost looked so…light. As if he were finally allowing the brightness of his soul that Castiel adored to show on the outside, to exert the joy and love and happiness that he’d never been able to show before. 

Everything about him, the changes and the things that remained the same, were petrifyingly  beautiful, freezing Castiel on the spot.

He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Cas had been too busy trying to find Dean that he hadn’t prepared himself for the different conditions in which he found him. Or what Dean would say when he saw him.

He knew from Dean’s prayers that his death was a…delicate topic at best. He’d mentioned apologizing a lot in the first few months after Cas died, which were prayers he never received, being dead and all. But the ones he had heard were laced with bitterness and guilt.

Seeing Castiel now, alive and walking towards him, would no doubt elicit rather strong reactions in him. But what other way was there to break the news other than to do it? You couldn’t shatter glass gently.

Should he let Dean see him approaching? Or get close enough to stop him from running away or doing something equally unhelpful?

Getting too close to Dean without his awareness had not ended well for Cas before, so the former it was. He could only hope his reaction wasn’t violent.

——

Dean had just finished waxing Baby, singing to some Taylor Swift song since no one was around to judge him for it. He stepped back, admiring the healthy gloss on Baby’s trunk, mind officially back in zen after the sink debacle. He raised his head, squinting at the sun, deciding it late enough in the afternoon for some lunch. 

As he lowered his gaze, his eyes caught a glimpse of movement in the distance, behind the curve of field that the driveway followed towards the woods. He stood still, eyes trained for any movement, hand slowly drifting towards the knife hidden under a worktable in the garage. Maybe it was just a deer looking for food, but he could’ve sworn he saw a splotch of black just below the tall grass.

The sound of footsteps crunching on gravel reached his ears, and the deer theory went flying out the window. Someone was here, in his space. Someone had found him—

Dean gripped the handle of the knife tightly, ducking slightly behind Baby’s frame, eyeing the rounded corner of the driveway through her windows. Who was it? Had a local finally found his secret path? A lost hiker looking for directions? Had a monster or demon finally hunted him down, looking for a slaughter? 

The first thing he saw was black pants and shoes, splattered with mud, quickly followed by the flapping hem of an equally dirty coat, a white collared shirt, blue tie…dark hair and piercing blue eyes that Dean could see even from so far away—

A static noise filled his brain. His heart tried to both explode and leapt into his throat. His feet started moving without his consent, stumbling out from behind Baby and back, scrambling to put room between him and a ghost. 

Dean tripped and fell, scraping his hands and legs in gravel and shit—he wasn’t wearing anything but shorts, like a total idiot. More flesh exposed for the ghost to tear up, clearly.

He thought he heard the ghost call out his name, but his ears refused to hear that voice again. He scrambled to his feet, clutching the knife in his hand and bolting inside, locking the door behind him. He lunged for the kitchen drawer by the sink where he kept his gun, shoving it in his back pocket before snatching the salt round-filled shotgun by the backdoor and cocking it, shaky hands aiming the barrel at the locked door to the garage.

For what felt like hours, there was nothing but silence. Dean’s ears, no less sharp, pricked at every sound, straining to hear the crunch of gravel under shoes, or the creaking of wood steps before the door—

His heart jumped as he saw the lock on the door flick and the knob turn. It swung open sharply, that hauntingly familiar body coming into view—

He pulled the trigger, the blast ringing his ears. The ghost stumbled back, shirt shredded with the spray of salt, but it didn’t disappear. 

Dean felt horror slice through him—it wasn’t a ghost. It had to be a shapeshifter or ghoul trying to taunt him. Salt rounds wouldn’t work. He dropped the shotgun, grabbing his gun and firing off several rounds of silver. And still, the thing didn’t die. It just looked at him, body jerking with the force of the bullets burying themselves into its chest.

Shit, shit, shit, why wouldn’t it die? What was this thing?

Breathing erratic, gun empty, Dean flicked his gaze to the iron door, the one that lead to the basement. God he didn’t want to, but if it meant trapping himself inside or getting his flesh ripped from his bones by a creature wearing that face…maybe locking himself up for eternity wouldn’t be so bad. At least he would be alive.

When the creature made no move to lunge and Dean’s panic blocking out anything the monster might be telling or taunting at him, he bolted for the door, key yanked from his neck and jabbing into lock.

The monster was saying something, but all he could hear were the footsteps getting closer and the hair was rising on the back of his neck—

He wretched the heavy door open just enough to squeeze himself through and dragged it shut on the creature, eyes firmly shut so as not to betray him and glimpse the face of the person he regretted the most. 

The door slammed shut with a foreboding clang, darkness falling over him. The words pouring from that mocking mouth were silenced by the iron between them, but Dean felt no relief. Instead, his panic increased almost immediately, his arms flailing in the darkness as his breathing turned into hyperventilation. He collapsed down the stairs, staggering towards the walls, clawing for light, for air. He was suffocating, the darkness was pressing from all sides, the cold mocking him, sneering that this was all he would feel and see for the rest of eternity. He was trapped, locked away, no escape, forever, he couldn’t breathe—

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Dean realized he was screaming, crying out for help. He would prefer being eaten alive, he would happily let some monster rip out his guts and feast while he was still alive if it meant he could see and he could look at the sky and know at least he had his freedom—

There was a thunderous explosion at the top of the stairs, and the heavy iron door disintegrated against a flood of blue-white light. Dean cowered immediately against the brightness, chest heaving rapidly against the panic that had gripped him the moment he’d shut the door. 

Smoke billowed down the steps and clouded the figure at the top of them, a figure who almost immediately barreled down the stairs and tackled him. 

Dean put up a fight immediately, the sudden outpour of light coming from the stairs giving him new resolve. He clawed and kicked, every single fiber of his being screaming to be let out into the light again, anywhere but the cold and dark. 

Strong arms wrapped around him, pinning him against the creature. His mind braced itself for pain, a chunk out of his neck or claws down his back, but he fought back anyway, despite how useless his efforts turned out to be. The monster just took every hit he landed, keeping them pressed together and saying something into his ear, but Dean didn’t want to listen—

It wasn’t until the monster’s head moved from the crook of his neck to pressing its forehead against his that Dean’s flailing faltered—what the hell was it doing? The shock at the contact cleared his mind a little, the panic wavering into confusion. After a moment, his brain came to the sudden, shocking realization that he was not being eaten. The hands clutching him didn’t have claws digging into his back. The arms weren’t trapping him, they were holding him. Hugging him. 

The creature’s breath, without the typical stench of flesh-eating monsters, puffed gently against Dean’s cheek. It’s forehead rested gently against his. Their noses brushed. 

The panic ringing through his mind faded, but still his eyes refused to open, to take in that face, to be reminded of what he’d done.

“Dean.”

The name was gentle, cradled with reverence and relief. The word penetrated through his mind and heart, sending him spiraling. More words followed, murmured with softness and care, soothing him like a balm.

“—you’re safe, it’s me, I’m sorry I scared you, I’m here Dean, it’s just me…”

The rise and fall of that warm chest pressed and lifted against his, and Dean found his own breath scrambling to match it. The panicking heave in his lungs was fading, slowing to keep in pace with the other set against it. 

“Please open your eyes, Dean. It’s me, I’m here.”

His throat let out a pained whimper, eyes still screwed shut. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t let this creature taunt him, lead him into false beliefs. He didn’t think he would survive it. 

“Dean,” the voice rumbled, soothing and safe. One of the hands hesitantly moved from his back to his face, cupping his cheek and brushing the skin just under his eye with a thumb. The name in that voice was spoken so coaxing, promising endless patience until Dean was ready. The—person—whispered his name over and over, as if he could never tire of it.

As the person murmured his name, more muscles began to relax in his body, and Dean felt himself pressing his forehead against the other, needing the contact. He couldn’t open his eyes yet, but the contact helped. 

Something washed over him, warm and tingling. He shuddered and gasped, recognizing that thrum of grace, that unique tempo of warmth. He recognized the swoop in his stomach, and from under his eyelids he could see light glowing from the palm cupping his face, healing his scraped up hands and legs, soothing his panic. 

He knew that grace. No monster, not even another angel, could replicate that.

With effort, his eyelids unglued themselves and allowed him to see. 

The face was so close to his, their noses still brushing. Those eyes were downcast but Dean could see the fading glow of grace in them, disappearing as his wounds healed and the ethereal warmth left his body. His eyes traced those slanted eye bags, those dark lashes. The lump in his throat grew and he felt his own eyes prick with tears.

“Cas.” He whispered, and his breath hitched when those eyes flicked up to meet his. A smile danced in the irises and teased the corners of that mouth, pleased and delighted and happy.

“Hello, Dean.”

——

It was dark out by the time they emerged from the basement onto the main landing. They hadn’t spoken much, both of them clinging to the other on the cold concrete floor, huddled forms lit by the light spilling down the stairs.

Dean had spent a lot of that time just breathing in the scent of Cas, unmistakable yet indescribable, arms wrapped around his back, nose planted in the crook of his neck. He didn’t care that it was weird, he didn’t care that they had never touched each other for this long. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, not when the safety of Cas’ arms quieted the aching in his chest for the first time in almost two years. 

He would say Cas indulged him, but the angel seemed to be clinging to him in equal fervor. The hand that had been cupping his cheek had moved to the back of his head, running fingers to his long hair, the other arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Over time, Cas’ body, which had been curled over his, slowly began to sink until he was lying fully on top of Dean, his weight a comforting pressure.

They were essentially cuddling at this point, but Dean didn’t point it out and neither did Cas. It was clear they both needed this, tangible proof that the other was there, and neither cared how they assured themselves.

Dean took deep, steady breaths, the scent of Cas filling his nose and mind. Ozone and lightning, something that suggested sharply of power, but also something soft and warm. Something almost earthy, mixing with the heaven. It was all heaven.

So it was borderline painful when they both unconsciously decided to split apart, hands dragging back, stretching out the touch until they couldn’t anymore. The moment Cas’ warmth was gone, Dean felt an overwhelming wave of exhaustion set in, the adrenaline and tidal wave of emotions enough to send a weaker man into a coma. 

When they got back upstairs, he could finally assess the damage up close. The iron door had been melted into nothing, the frame warped and twisted, the hinges completely busted. From the aftermath alone, Dean could see the panic in the damage, could tell by the other busted bulbs around the house that amount of power Cas had used on the door was one born of terror for Dean. 

“I could hear you screaming.” Cas murmured, the first words passed between them in hours. Dean didn’t look away from the door, taking in the crippled frame. “I could feel your fear and I…I couldn’t…” He faltered at his words, so unlike him, but Dean understood. He’d felt that kind of fear for Sam before, he knew what it was like to have a door separating him and the person he needed to rescue. He swallowed against a lump in his throat, turning to look at Cas.

“Thanks for gettin’ to me.” He croaked. “Sorry for shooting you.”

Cas’ face softened.

“You have every reason to not believe it was me. I was surprised myself when Sam brought me back.”

Dean nodded, the question burning on his tongue, but didn’t ask. Not today.

“I…I wanna hear how you got back and how you found me and…and Sam’s still…?”

“Sam is alive, Dean. He’s well…as well as he can be.”

Dean kept nodding.

“I wanna hear all of it, okay? Just…tonight I—I can’t. I feel like my knees are gonna give out.”

Cas moved even closer to him than he had been before, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“Of course, Dean. You need rest. I will…” Once again, Cas floundered, eyes darting around the room for some excuse. “I will wait for you—“

“Can you—“ Dean interrupted him, some visceral reaction rising at the idea of Cas staying downstairs while he slept, of staying too far away. He didn’t care how it looked or what it might imply. He just wanted. Needed.

“Can you just stay with me? In my room, at least, for the night? I…I don’t wanna wake up tomorrow thinking I’m alone.” He trailed off into a mumble at the end, cheeks burning as he ducked his head. Cas was quiet for a long moment before replying, voice soft.

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

He followed him upstairs. Dean kept itching to turn around every step to make sure Cas was still behind him, that he wouldn’t disappear and leave him alone again. 

He felt almost shy to reveal his bedroom to Cas, worried that he might wrinkle his nose and change his mind about staying. But Cas just smiled and step inside before glancing over his shoulder, waiting for Dean to follow. 

Trailing in after, both became hyper aware of each other’s movements. Cas moved to sit in the rocking armchair Dean had placed by the window, eyes scanning the room that had, over time, amassed a little clutter of trinkets and things. When Dean emerged from the bathroom having changed into sweatpants and a ratty shirt, Cas was inspecting the bumblebee carving he’d finished a few months ago. 

It wasn’t until Dean slid into bed did it strike him how awkward this was. Cas was just sitting in the chair, squinting at the carving like he’d been assigned to memorize every grain, and Dean was just…going to sleep. Just two bros, who had spent the entire evening clutching and breathing each other, now in the same room while one went to sleep because he couldn’t stand the thought of the other leaving.

Dean was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He could either tell Cas never mind and to wait downstairs in some attempt at salvaging the distanced dynamic from before, or he could go all for nothing and do what his mind and body really wanted, which was to ask Cas to get in bed with him. No funny business, since Dean hadn’t touched his dick in almost two years (killing your best friend and sequestering yourself into isolation really killed the mood), but he just fucking craved the relief Cas’ touch gave him. He wanted his warmth to take away the ache in his chest, to clear the fear clouding his mind every time he tried to close his eyes. Having Cas near meant Dean could still feel his warmth even if his eyes were too heavy to see.

Fuck it, he was going to be embarrassed anyway with all the cuddling and attachment issues. Might as well get more bang for his buck.

It took him several tries just to get his voice to work.

“Hey, uh, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Could you, uh, could you just sit in bed with me? You’re kinda creeping me out sitting in the shadows over there, man.” Okay, so he tried to save his dignity a little bit. Cas didn’t seem to mind, though, because a moment later the floorboards creaked as he kicked off his shoes and the mattress moved as he crawled into bed. Thank god Dean had bought a queen bed, with enough room for two with space in between. Cas shifted, leaning his back against the headboard.

“Are you comfortable?” He asked, voice low and soft between them. Dean closed his eyes, mind quieting as he was able to feel the warmth radiating from Cas’ body nearby.

“Yeah.”

“Sleep well, Dean.”

And just like that, he was out like a light. 

——

Sunlight poured to the windows just as it did every morning, rousing Dean from the most peaceful night of rest he’d had since living in the house. His dreams had been remarkably quiet, just nice silent sleep where it felt like no time had passed.

He woke up in increments, his mind lazily taking inventory of his surroundings. Something incredibly warm was underneath his head and part of his chest, like a wonderful pillow. His arms were wrapped around it, keeping the comforting heat tight against him. It smelled amazing, like fresh air and earth and it was…moving?

Dean frowned as he registered the warmth was rising up and down slowly—breathing—

His eyes snapped open, yanking himself away from Cas’ midsection that his stupid subconscious body had decided to wrap itself around like a goddamn octopus. He blinked blearily at Cas, who was sitting awkwardly, slouched halfway down onto the mattress no doubt to allow Dean to cuddle his stomach all night. 

Cas didn’t seem to be in pain, what with him being an angel and all. He was just slumped over oddly, looking at Dean with raised eyebrows. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He rumbled, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “You were sleeping well after I banished that nightmare.”

Dean frowned. “I had a nightmare?”

Cas blinked at him in surprise. He tilted his head, the action sending a shot of fondness through Dean’s chest. 

“Yes. I could sense your mind was troubled and took the nightmare away before it could get ahold of your dreams.”

“I-I don’t even remember dreaming.”

Cas frowned.

“You seemed fairly alert when you pinned me to the bed.”

Dean choked on his own indignation. The way Cas said that made it sound way more scandalous than it had been and he certainly had not pinned Cas to the bed—

“No I didn’t!” He spluttered, cheeks and ears burning. Cas just looked even more confused.

“You were very adamant that I not leave your side, Dean.” He pressed, apparently finding it of upmost importance that Dean knew this. “You very clearly told me to stay before pinning me.”

Absolutely fucking mortified at eight in the morning before coffee, Dean didn’t have much of a comeback besides flinging himself out of bed, mumbling something about breakfast.

Cas was thoughtful enough to give him ten minutes to regain his sanity before wandering downstairs after him. He took more time looking around than he had last night—probably preoccupied with Dean shooting him and all—as a small smile played on his lips. 

Dean had his back to him while he cracked some eggs, but he was aware of Cas’ presence wandering around, scanning his collection of books, the neat stacks of firewood, even the paint job on the walls. 

“This house,” Cas said after Dean sat down with him, breakfast in hand. “it’s very nice. Cozy.”

“Yeah, that’s the general idea.” Dean grunted into his coffee. “‘Place was pretty busted when I got to it.”

“It must have taken you a long time to restore it.”

“Yeah. Little under a year. Kept me busy though.”

Cas’ phone rang in his pocket, cutting him off from whatever he was about to say. He fumbled with it, frowning at the screen for only a moment before turning it off entirely.

“Crazy ex?” Dean joked dryly. 

“Your brother seems somewhat upset that I went to find you myself.” Cas replied, tucking his phone away. 

“I was surprised he hadn’t tagged along. You ditch him?”

“Yes. I did not want to overwhelm you.”

Dean gaped at him, indignant.

“What am I, a baby deer?”

“Oh, so you want Sam here.” Cas prompted innocently, already going for his phone again, eyebrows flicked up in challenge. “I’m sure if I call now, he would be here within the day—“

“No, no okay, hang on,” Dean scrambled, raising his hands in surrender. “Don’t do that. It’s fine.”

Cas slipped his phone away looking smug, the bastard.

“You, uh,” Dean hesitated. “you don’t have your GPS on, do you?”

Cas rolled his eyes.

“Sam wouldn’t have been calling me insistently if he already knew where I was.” 

“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist. How long ago did you leave?”

“A week. I arrived in Winton six days ago.”

Dean blinked.

“You’ve been here that long?”

Cas scowled, slightly offended.

“I don’t have as much experience looking for clues and you’ve had yourself well warded—“

“Ah, sorry about that.” Dean grimaced. “Figured Sam would contact anything for help, so I couldn’t skip any. I can take the angel warding down.”

“That would be helpful, thank you.” Cas nodded. “The warding hides the house from my grace, but the defensive sigils are making it…uncomfortable to be here.”

Dean was already up and moving, striding over to the fireplace and scratching out the defensive wardings carved into the mantle. He glanced over his shoulder, already noticing how the uncomfortable set in Cas’ shoulders disappeared, and he seemed to relax further into his chair.

“You shoulda told me last night.” He protested, sitting back down and glaring at Cas. 

“You were exhausted, Dean.” He replied. “Besides, I was not…entirely uncomfortable…last night.”

Dean could feel the blood rushing to his face again, and stared down at his half finished plate like eggs and toast were suddenly the most interesting things in the world. 

“So,” He coughed after he’d mustered the courage to look at Cas again. He was just watching him serenely. “How’d you find me?”

“The old man at the gardening store gave me some helpful tips.” Cas said. “The locals believe you are a ghost.”

“Do they now?” Dean asked in amusement. “Kinda nice being on the other side of the fence.”

“Apart from the ladies in the knitting circle having very…detailed opinions about your shoulders and backside—“ Dean choked on his coffee. “No one knew anything about you. I just drove up and down that back road until my car ran out of gas. Then I started walking through the woods until I saw the path.”

“And, uh,” he coughed, because there was no way Cas had found him that easily. “How’d you know I was near Winton?”

“Ah,” Cas shifted a little in his seat, glancing down at his hands folded on the tabletop. Dean narrowed his eyes in immediate suspicion. “Well, when Sam brought me back I…I could hear your prayers again.”

Oh shit. Dean hadn’t even thought of that. He hadn’t even thought that if he talked to Cas he could hear them. Of course, he had never expected Cas to actually come back in the first place. Which meant…how much did he know?

Dean had talked about a lot to Cas, vulnerably speaking his mind in ways he never would have had he known someone was listening. Did Cas know about the flowers he planted for him? Did he hear Dean apologizing between tears, or that he made the bumblebee carving with Cas on his mind? Or that the walls were painted various shade of blue and gray because it reminded him of the angel? Could Cas tell that everything in this house had touches of him all over it, that Dean couldn’t have stopped himself from subconsciously adding things that reminded him of Cas? The house’s very foundation had traces of him, and Dean was too weak to stop himself. 

He took a bite of toast to stop himself from asking Cas how much he’d heard. He wasn’t ready to know what kind of damage he’d caused.

“So…I gave myself away in one of ‘em?” He asked instead, avoiding Cas’ eyes. 

“Yes. You mentioned the farmer’s market in town when you were complaining about the dripping faucet. I found a website and called the gardening center for the location.”

“Smart.” He nodded, plucking down his cup. “And Sam doesn’t know?”

“When we realized your prayers might give us clues as to your location, it seemed safest for Sam that he did not find you right away.” Cas said. “I may have…omitted a few important details that lead me to you.”

“‘Probably a good thing y’didn’t.” Dean mumbled, eyes downcast in shame. “Dunno what I would’ve done if the two of you showed up. I probably would have shot Sam.”

“I knew your reaction would not be a welcoming one, initially. I did not want Sam to get hurt in the process.”

Dean was grateful, and he knew Cas could tell. He was grateful he had someone who knew him so well he could foresee his reaction before it happened, that Cas’ intimate knowledge of Dean meant he could keep Sam safe. His stomach twisted nauseously to think of shooting those rounds of silver into his little brother instead of Cas, silver or not they would’ve killed Sam in an instant. Dean would think he’d killed a shapeshifter until Cas told him and then—

“Hey.” Cas’ voice, deep and firm, cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Stop thinking about it, Dean. It didn’t happen.”

He gulped thickly, fist curling and uncurling from where it lay on the table. “Yeah.” He grunted, scooping up his empty plate and mug to wash. Cas stayed where he was, apparently content to just watch Dean move around. He ignored the heavy gaze on his back, quickly cleaning up after his cooking and trying to think of anything except the terrified thought of how much does Cas know.

“What are your plans for today?” Cas asked him after he set everything on the counter to dry. Dean shrugged.

“Figured we could get your car up here. Don’t want the locals to find it sitting near the path and follow it. Don’t like visitors, but you probably figured that out already.”

He heard Cas chuckle quietly, apparently unaffected that he’d been shot, kicked, and clawed at just a few hours ago. 

“I got some things to do in the back and I need to look at replacing the door you disintegrated—“

“Why do you have that door?” Cas asked abruptly. “There didn’t seem to be anything down there worth protecting. And why an iron door like that? Did it come with the house?”

Dean went still, grateful he had his back to Cas. Of course no one else knew why the basement was the way it was. Of course Cas would ask, especially after witnessing Dean’s immediate panic at the door closing between them. He tried to say something, muster up a weak excuse or a joke, but everything crumbled to ash in his mouth. 

The silence lingered, and still, Dean couldn’t find a way to answer.

“Dean?” Cas voice was soft, right behind him, and he flinched.

“Not now, Cas.” He mumbled, ducking his head and trying to hunch into himself. His words were so quiet and vulnerable, meant to be heard by Cas alone. If he spoke any louder he wouldn’t have been able to say it at all. 

“Okay.” Cas replied, just as quietly, letting the conversation exist in the privacy of whispers. He felt him waver, as if about to offer physical reassurance and deciding against it. In the moment, Dean would have welcomed the touch. 

At a normal level, Cas spoke as he stepped back.

“I would like a tour of the garden.”

Dean chuckled at his abrupt demand. 

“Yeah sure, man.” He replied, grateful for the distraction. He led him out the back door and into the early morning sunlight. His bare feet stepped into cool, dewy grass, soaking the hem of his sweatpants as he trudged towards the raised beds and fruit trees. The birds sang and chirped, a few flying out from where they had been pecking at the ground as Dean and Cas approached. The blue and purple fields were swaying in a vague breeze, sunlight glinting off the dew clinging to them.

“This is it.” Dean said lamely, waving a hand at the garden. “It’s no drive-through diner, but it ain’t bad.”

Cas leaned over, inspecting the neat rows of vegetables with clear interest. Dean wasn’t sure why, but somewhere deep in him he wanted the angel’s approve of his hard work. He’d spent a lot of time taking care of it, and wanted Cas’ praise and assurance he was doing something right.

“Just don’t tell Sam.” He continued with a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’d call me a hypocrite for bitching about his salads.”

Cas turned back to him, smiling.

“Well, he would be right.” He agreed, amused.

“Shut up.” Dean grunted, bending over to pluck a bad strawberry from the bed and chucking it far into the fields. “S’better than goin’ to town every week for food.”

“You grew all of this yourself?” Cas asked, moving on towards the cluster of assorted fruit trees.

“The trees were here when I found ‘em.” He shrugged. “Whoever lived here before had started a garden, but almost all of it was overgrown. So I started from scratch, built new beds, grew seedlings, y’know.”

“How did you learn to do all this without any experience?” Cas fingers grazed over a bundle of ripe cherries. “I didn’t see any phones or computers here, and I doubt you would have internet service, so you couldn’t have researched it.”

“I don’t have tech here.” Dean confirmed. “Didn’t wanna risk Sam tracking me, or to get tempted by a case. For the plants, I picked up some tips eavesdropping on people at the gardening center, and sometimes the TV has a channel. The rest…just flying by the seat of my pants, really.”

Cas turned back to him. His soft smile was brighter now, his eyes crinkling.

“It’s wonderful, Dean.” He told him, as if knowing exactly what worries were rolling through his head. “Truly. These plants are very happy.”

He blinked, startled.

“You can hear the plants?”

“I can feel their energies. Plants that lack faithful care are often dull and quiet. Yours are vibrant with joy. They have not known care in a long time, and are thanking you with plentiful harvests.”

“Well, damn.” Dean mumbled, staring down at his garden in surprise. He felt slightly awkward—could the plants hear him too? “Uh, thanks, I guess.” He told the cucumbers.

“There have been studies that plants growing with positive affirmations thrive more than those who receive negative ones.” Cas continued, crouching down to inspect the wasp hive in the raspberry bushes. 

“What?” Dean spluttered. “Plants grow better with pep talks?”

“It’s more about the intention behind your words.” Cas replied, lifting up a finger and allowing a wasp to land on it. It didn’t seem bothered or threatened by him, just crawling around and feeling him out. “But essentially, yes.”

“This bush seems aggravated that you aren’t harvesting it.” Cas reported, squinting up at Dean. “Is it because of the wasps?”

“Well, yeah.” He replied, glaring at the little nest bundled in the prickly vines. “I may not be able to die, but those stingers are still gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“They don’t seem to mind me.” Cas hummed. “They’re not interested in the berries themselves, just a place to raise their young.”

“Fine.” Dean grunted. “You’re on raspberry picking duty since they like you so damn much.”

Cas glanced at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Is this under the assumption that I can stay?”

Dean froze, heart pounding. He’d completely forgotten that Cas wasn’t supposed to be here, and instead had come to the immediate assumption that he was always going to be here, at home with Dean. And of course he wanted Cas to stay, he always would, but Cas wouldn’t want to. He would want to get back to Sam, report that Dean was alive. He would want to go back to Heaven where he belonged with his brothers and sisters. He would want his freedom…and staying with Dean would take all of that away. He couldn’t do that to Cas. He couldn’t be selfish and force him to do something he didn’t want to do. That he didn’t deserve to deal with.

“I, uh—“ He stammered, floundering for words. “I-I mean, I…I ain’t gonna kick you out but you’ve got things to do so—it ain’t like I was thinking permanent just…y’know while you’re here—you don’t gotta stay—“

“Dean.” Cas interrupted before he could embarrass himself more. “It’s okay. I understand.” But there was something off about his voice that linger under that aggravating understanding. It echoed in Dean’s mind, making his stomach squirm.

He opened his mouth to try and fix whatever he must’ve broken, but Cas had already begun picking the raspberries like nothing had happened. His protest died in his throat, and Dean decided to just take the out Cas had given him. Heart heavy for some reason, he trudged past the angel and started picking the cherries.

——

Cas’ phone had rung four more times before they headed back inside, arms laden with bowls and baskets of produce. The house was filled with the sweet scent of sun-ripen strawberries, cherries, and raspberries, so much so that Dean’s mouth began to water.

“What do you do with all of this food?” Cas asked, watching Dean methodically pour fruit into plastic bags.

“Freeze most of it.” He replied. “It’ll go bad if I don’t. I save some for snacking and the rest for pie and cobbler. Speaking of, whaddya say to strawberry shortcake tonight?”

Despite the fact that Dean knew Cas didn’t eat anymore, he felt something warm flare in his chest to see the angel smile fondly and nod, willing to suffer through the overwhelming taste of molecules because it was Dean’s cooking. 

Cas had only been there for a day, and already Dean could feel something in the air change. He had been plenty content with his life alone, the sun shone just as brightly and the birds sang just as sweet, but the house felt lighter somehow, like it had felt in his dreams. Cas was like a breath of fresh air, filling the cottage with a flood of oxygen and wiping away a stuffiness that Dean hadn’t even noticed until it was gone. 

Cas was sitting at the kitchen table, fingers idling flipping through the pages of a well-loved Vonnegut book. He hadn’t been away from Dean for more than a few moments the entire day, always a few feet away and always in his sights. He wondered if Cas was doing it for Dean’s sake or for his own. Either way, he appreciated the gesture because any time he wigged himself out, gaslighting his mind into fearing Cas would leave or that he wasn’t really alive at all, Dean only had to look around to see him again and feel that trickle of relief and reassurance. 

It was a quiet night, harmonious in a way that felt different than it had when Dean was alone. He and Cas ate their shortcake on the porch, both admiring the darkening sunset and the emergence of fireflies. The Forget-Me-Nots and lavender swayed in a cool breeze, just a few degrees too cold without proper layers. Cas was unbothered as usual, probably some angel-vessel temperature regulation thing, but Dean was starting to get goosebumps up his bare arms. He ignored the slight discomfort however, wanting to stretch this comfortable evening as long as he could. This was how he’d always imagined retirement—sitting outside somewhere with Sam and Cas, just admiring the world they’d sacrificed so much to save. His most guarded dreams were ones of the three of them relaxing on a beach somewhere, content to kick their feet back and bask in the sun. This moment here, with Cas, was the closest Dean would probably ever get to that dream.

——

He didn’t realize there was still a problem to solve before bed. Cas had followed Dean upstairs when he announced he was going to sleep, and was suddenly struck dumb with a terrifyingly awkward thought—was Cas expecting to lay in his bed again? 

Where else would he go? Dean didn’t have another mattress just lying around. Then again, Cas didn’t sleep, so he could probably just wait for him downstairs or something—

His heart clenched at the thought, apparently not ready to have Cas out of his sights yet. His mind—sans the panicking part—agreed. Without Cas nearby, Dean didn’t think he would get any sleep, afraid to forget or to dream darkly again.

So he didn’t stop Cas from following him into his room, he didn’t say anything when Cas sat on his bed like he owned it, and he didn’t mention it while he crawled under the covers and Cas immediately scooted into a horizontal position.

Dean turned to back to the angel lying next to him, in some halfhearted attempt to hide his burning face. Yet, he felt the tension coiled inside of him loosen as he registered the radiating warmth of Cas’ body nearby, of the faint ozone-lightning scent that settled over him.

He tried not to think about what embarrassing position his subconscious body would move him into tonight, to what part of Cas he would be wrapped around when he woke up. Instead, he fell asleep with his mind focused on the warmth and scent of the angel who had returned to him.

——

Every night Cas would follow Dean to bed and Dean would never say anything about it. They fell into an easy routine—harvesting the garden, Cas reading while Dean cooked, both doing repairs around the house. He put new gas into Cas’ car and they drove it up to the house to hide from prying eyes. 

One of the first few mornings, Cas came wandering into the house with a bundle of Forget-Me-Nots in his hand, a pleased smile dancing on his face. Dean’s cheeks and ears burned to see him cradling the flowers he’d picked out for him, but shoved a vase into Cas’ arms and told him to put them in water.

The flowers have been sitting on the kitchen table since.

The days felt like months at the slow, lazy pace they spent their days. There was no rush, nothing urgent that made time fly faster than it needed to. Dean started forgetting what it was like to be alone. 

One night while they sat outside for their routine sunset watch, Cas’ phone went off again. He usually kept it off nowadays, mostly because the only person who called him was the one person he was avoiding. Dean side-eyed him as he went to turn it off.

“You should answer it.”

Cas froze, hand hovering over the screen.

“Dean—“ He began, warning.

“Listen, you’re gonna give him some kinda complex from stressing him out. Just answer the call so he stops fretting.”

Cas hesitated, mouth open like he wanted to argue, before grunting and accepting the call. His eyes lifted to glare at the porch ceiling, his entire body pissed off. Dean grinned.

“Hello Sam.”

Even from where Dean sat, he could hear his little brother yelling over the speaker, slinging more curse words than he’d heard from Sam in years. Cas seemed entirely unaffected, still pissy. It was a few minutes before he even spoke.

“Because I didn’t want you to follow me. I have to do this alone, Sam.”

More yelling. Dean watched Cas with a raised eyebrow, highly amused by all of this.

“It is for your safety and Dean’s sanity that I leave you out of it.” Cas snapped. “I don’t care to hear you berating my intention to keep you both safe. I apologize for worrying you, but I am fine.”

Sam’s response was quieter this time, and Dean couldn’t hear him. Cas did glance at him, however, eyes and face softening.

“Yes. He’s alive. He’s doing well, Sam.”

Another pause.

“No. Not unless he wants to.”

Dean frowned, gesturing at Cas to explain. Completely ignoring any idea of secrecy, Cas said aloud,

“Sam would like to talk to you, Dean.”

There was more yelling this time, but it sounded more like Sam was trying to shout loudly enough for Dean to hear him. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Dean grunted, leaning over to swipe the phone away. “you’re gonna make him pass out or somethin’.”

“He is in not danger of fainting, Dean.” Cas snapped, trying to grab the phone again. “Are you sure you—?”

“Relax, I’m not gonna go full Michael Myers if I just talk to him.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Hiya, Sammy.”

“Dean!” Sam’s voice, louder with relief and excitement, made Dean blink a few times and pull the speaker a little ways away from his ear. 

“Jesus Sammy, take it down a few notches.” He complained.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Sam quieted almost immediately. “h-how are you?”

“Fine.” Dean shrugged, grinning at Cas who was glaring at him. “Me n’ Cas are doin’ fine. D’you know he can talk to plants?”

“Dean! Where are you?”

“Can’t tell ya that, Sammy.” He lost some of the bravado, ducking his head. “I…I don’t think I can deal with someone else around me yet, y’know?”

Sam was quiet.

“Is it…is it the Mark?”

Dean actually laughed at that. It was almost an absurd thought now, having spent almost two years without even worrying about it.

“Nah, man, the Mark’s been quiet ever since…well, y’know. But two years in isolation really knocks a man’s social skills. Cas only made it this far ‘cause his social skills are just as bad.”

He turned to grin at Cas again, who looked mildly insulted, fondly amused, and pissed off all at the same time. Dean winked before quickly darting his gaze away.

“That’s…good, right? You’re…you’re back?”

“I guess.” Dean shrugged. “It hasn’t been calling for me or anything. S’like it isn’t even there. Hey, I heard you were the one who brought Cas back.”

He knew Sam noticed the abrupt change of topic, but Dean didn’t want to talk about the Mark. He didn’t even like thinking about it. So, it his relief, Sam didn’t try to press him.

“Yeah. I, uh, found a spell to bring angels back from the Empty. It’s like the demon and angel equivalent of Purgatory.”

“No bad consequences, right? You didn’t sell your soul or something, d’ya?”

“What? No! It was just a spell.”

“Well, good. I’d hate to have to turn into a demon again to visit my little brother.”

“Dean…” He could hear the discomfort in Sam’s voice.

“Sorry.” He grunted, scuffing at the floorboards with his boot. “Listen, it was great hearing from you, Sammy. Really. But I’m good. I don’t need saving, and I don’t wanna go back to hunting.”

“But—“

“Sam.” Dean interrupted. “I’m out. I’m out and I’m good. I wanna stay that way.”

Silence for a moment.

“Okay.” Sam said quietly. “Can I…can I at least visit you? Someday?” He tacked the last word on hastily, but there was eagerness in his voice.

“Someday.” Dean promised him. “But I can’t guarantee it’ll be soon.”

“I understand.” There was sadness this time, hidden under Sam’s attempt at a reasonable tone. “It’s just…I miss you, man.”

Dean ducked his head, shoving down the lump in his throat.

“Yeah. Miss you too, brother.”

“I figured you’d ditched your cell phone but…call anytime, Dean. Anytime.”

“Okay, Sammy.”

“Talk to you later, jerk.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh.

“Yeah. Later, bitch.”

He hung up and gave the phone back to Cas. He didn’t say anything, just quietly took the phone and allowed Dean to collect his thoughts and emotions in peace. 

Hearing Sam’s voice was a relief. He was glad he had proof that his brother was alive and safe. The discovery settled some inner turmoil in his chest, a nagging he’d long since learned to ignore. He sat in his chair, shortcake forgotten, cataloguing everything in his mind.

Cas was alive. Sam was safe. Dean hadn’t killed anyone and the Mark hadn’t taken control. No one he cared about was in danger of being killed by him. Even Cas wasn’t in danger. Dean didn’t have any angel blades in the house, repulsed by them after sinking one into Cas’ chest. And since he couldn’t be killed by any weapon he had in the house, and Dean hadn’t been tempted by the Mark to do anything violent towards him, he was also safe. They were eating strawberry shortcake and the last two weeks had been some of the best in Dean’s life. 

It took him several minutes to realize he was sucking in lungfuls of air, eyes blinking against a sudden wetness. His hands shook from where they clutched his plate, but it wasn’t because he was afraid. That feeling swept over him again, that one that felt of fondness and safety, the warm sensation that Dean had once spent a long evening trying to define. 

“I’m glad—“ Dean croaked, swallowing thickly against a lump in his throat. “I’m glad you and Sam are…are okay.”

Cas was quiet beside him, and for a moment Dean wondered if he’d gone inside to give him space. But when he glanced over, the angel was still sitting there, watching him with concerned eyes. He expected Cas to ask for clarification, but he just sat there, waiting for Dean to summon the courage himself. Throat working for a moment, Dean spoke again.

“I think…a part of me was worried for so long. I was scared I’d break and call Sam one day and he wouldn’t pick up. That he was torn in pieces somewhere or strung up for a Jinn to feed off of. That he’d be there because I wasn’t there to save him. That you were d-dead…because of me…and couldn’t save him.”

“Dean,” Cas spoke gently, his voice low and gravelly but full of tenderness. “What happened to me was not your fault.”

“It was my hand around that blade into your chest, Cas.” Dean said sharply. 

“The Mark was controlling you.”

“I should have fought back.”

“There is only so much you could have done.” Cas insisted stubbornly. “You are not a Knight of Hell like Cain, or an archangel like Lucifer. Neither of them could resist the Mark and, frankly Dean, it was an astounding feat that you managed to fight it for as long as you did, being only human. It is a feat even now to sit here eating pie without the Mark tempting you.”

“I killed you, Cas.” Dean hissed, hands clenching his plate.

“The Mark killed me.” Cas corrected firmly. “And I will correct you every time until you believe me.”

“But it was my hands, and I couldn’t control it, which means it could happen again and I won’t be able to stop it.”

Cas was silent for a moment, and Dean had a moment of sudden panic. Now he’d gone and done it—he’d pushed too far, and now Cas was going to leave.

“Why do you have the basement, Dean?” He asked quietly instead.

He flinched, the memory of locking himself away rushing back.

“I don’t—“

“You said later, when I first asked. It is later, Dean, and I want to know. Why did you have the basement the way it was? Why did you have that door?”

Dean stared at him, his mind rifling through several different ways to brush it off. Anger and humor were the first that came to mind, but when he spoke, his words were neither.

“You know why.” He whispered, eyes wide. “You saw…you saw what it looked like.”

“It looked like a prison.” Cas snarled, spitting out that last word like it was something vile. “And I know you wouldn’t have—“

“I did.” Dean croaked, trying to push away the images of pit black darkness flitting through his mind’s eye. “I had to. Cas, I had to. It’s the only way I can make sure I don’t hurt somebody—“

“By locking yourself away like some rabid animal?” Cas demanded. 

“That’s what the Mark turned me into, Cas!” Dean snapped. “All I could think about was killing everything with a fucking heartbeat. All I wanted was to slice someone down! If I feel the Mark taking over again, I will damn myself into that basement and throw away the key.”

“You were screaming the moment that door closed behind you.” Cas growled. 

“I’d get over it eventually.” Spying the look of fury contorting Cas’ face, Dean pushed on. “Better me than the whole world.”

“No.” Cas said forcefully. “I would never let you—“

“I’m rebuilding that basement whether you like it or not, Cas.” Dean swore. “And I will blast your ass to Kentucky if you try to stop me.”

Despite the threat, Cas refused to back down, although his tone softened.

“You’ve lived with the Mark peacefully for almost two years now.” Cas told him, eyes round and lips tugged down. Dean swallowed harshly—already this made staying angry much more difficult. He wasn’t immune to Cas’ puppy eyes, and had no idea how to be angry with him like this. Bastard. “You don’t need to sacrifice yourself over and over for the world, Dean.”

He had to look away from those baby blues, heart and soul wrenching to do anything Cas wanted. 

“It’s just a precaution, Cas.” He mumbled, the anger fueling his stubbornness evaporating. “I might never need it.”

“You could at least make it somewhat welcoming.” Cas tried gently. “Light would be a good place to start.”

“I don’t wanna risk me finding a way out.” Dean said, picking at the hem of his jeans and avoiding Cas’ gaze. “Or make a weapon. Better if it’s bare.”

“If you won’t listen to me, you could at least compromise.” He pressed. “And eternity with nothing but four bare walls sounds terribly lonely.”

Dean glanced at him, that cracked, pleading expression still haunting Cas’ handsome features. His will wilted, just a little.

“I’ll think about it.” He muttered gruffly. Someday he would be a stronger man when it came to Cas, but it certainly wasn’t going to be today.

“Thank you.” Cas stood up, gathered their plates with his big, gentle hands, and disappeared inside. Dean let out a long breath, head knocking the back of the chair. 

——

Cas stayed for three weeks. Sam’s calls had become few and farther between now that he knew Dean was alive and Cas was with him. He called sparsely enough that Cas usually answered, but Dean hadn’t spoken to his brother since. 

Sam always had the worst timing. His whole life he’d been a cockblock or way too good at interrupting important conversations, and his calls were no different. Every time he’d called Cas, Dean was in a terrible mood. First, the truck hood slammed on his fingers, then another time he’d burned his pies, and this most recent time a flock of birds shat on Baby when he pulled her out of the garage for a bath.

Dean didn’t want Sam to be in the receiving end of his anger, and Cas seemed to agree it was probably best he take the call inside.

“Goddamn bird brain shitheads…” Dean grumbled under his breath as he yanked out the hose and started spraying the fresh bird shit away. 

Exempting those three instances, however, having Cas around was great. They had breakfast and coffee before harvesting in the morning, Dean did repairs around the house while Cas picked fresh lavender and Forge-Me-Nots for the table and made lunch. He’d gotten pretty good at sandwiches lately, and when they weren’t doing chores, Dean used the time to teach Cas how to cook—so far, it had been a disaster. 

In the evening, Dean made dinner while Cas prepped the harvest for storage, and they relaxed either on the porch or watching TV until they went to bed. Every night without fail, Cas followed Dean up to his bedroom and slid under his covers. It didn’t matter that Dean fell asleep with a foot of space between them, they both knew he’d wake up wrapped around Cas. He suspected Cas looked forward to it. 

Dean didn’t mind, not really. Not waking up alone anymore was a great start to his day. He’d forgotten how it made him feel, cold sheets and bleak light in the mornings, an empty feeling in his chest. 

It was nice to wander around the house and go about his day knowing Cas wasn’t far, that he didn’t have to look long before spotting his messy black hair or broad shoulders. Even when he failed to cook a grilled cheese, Dean felt nothing but fondness towards Cas. 

“Dean?”

He grunted, busy spraying the last of the bird shit off the windows. When Cas didn’t continue right away, Dean shut off the hose and glanced over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

Cas was standing by the garage, hand fiddling with something in his pocket. He shifted from foot to foot, his head tilted down just enough that he looked doe-eyed as he stared at him. He had his trench coat on. It put Dean on edge immediately.

“What is it? Is Sam okay?” He asked, already working himself up into a panic. 

“Everything’s fine.” Cas said quickly, throat clicking with a rough swallow. “But uh…he needs my help.”

And just like that, the warm feeling he’d been building in his chest since Cas arrived crumbled with the weight of reality. Cas wasn’t staying. 

Of course he wasn’t going to stay. Why would he want to spend so much time here, with nothing to do? Why stay and pick flowers and berries when he could be smiting demons and repairing the world? Why stay with Dean when he was so much better off with someone reliable, someone who didn’t have a track record of killing him? 

“Oh.” Dean said, his voice catching on an inexplicable lump in his throat. “Right.” 

Tomorrow he’d wake up with cold sheets and an empty house, like Cas had never been there at all. His vase of flowers would wither and die, his coat on the hangar would be gone. Dean would be just as alone as he’d been before. 

“It’s just—“ Cas ducked his head for a moment before snapping it back up. “Sam’s got a case. He doesn’t think it’s safe for him to go alone—“

God, Dean couldn’t bear to see the guilt on his face, the dejected slump of his shoulders, the regret. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, he had every right to leave whenever he wanted. God, he’d probably been just waiting for a valid excuse to leave Dean behind, and he couldn’t blame him. He didn’t want Cas to feel guilty over doing what was best for Sam.

“It’s okay, Cas.” Dean said, clearing away the disappointment on his features and rearranging them into what he hoped was a relaxed smile. “Hunts ain't’t safe flying solo, he’ll need you.”

Cas’ eyes narrowed in immediate suspicion upon seeing Dean’s smile, clearly not buying it for a second. 

“Dean—“

“It’s okay, Cas, really.” He repeated, already turning his back to him and spraying Baby with the hose. It gave him an excuse to let his smile fall, but his voice came out carefree and unbothered. “Knew you couldn’t stay for long, you’ve got more important things to do than hang around dumb ol’ me. Figured you were getting bored, I understand.”

“Dean—“

“Where are you leaving? I’ve got those steaks marinating for tonight if you can stick around.”

“Actually, I would need to depart now, the drive will place me around the time Sam wants to meet.”

Of course he wanted to get away from him as soon as possible. 

“Sure.” Dean said, voice chipper but his face flat. “Your car’s got gas and oil, you should be good to go.”

“Dean.”

Cas’ voice was right behind him, and a strong hand clamped his shoulder and spun him around. Dean instantly pulling his mouth up into another fake smile. Cas squinted at him critically, eyes darting across his face. His free hand grabbed the hose out of Dean’s grip and let it fall to the ground. 

“My leaving is not connected to any hypothetical desire to get away from you. I will come back.”

“Awh, Cas, you don’t gotta do that.” Dean chuckled, a cold tightness in his chest and a sour feeling at the pit of his stomach. “You’ve got things to do and I’m a big boy. Looked after myself for two whole years.”

“I would argue it’s been much longer than that.” Cas said quietly, but Dean pretended not to hear. “Do you…do you even want me to come back?”

His smile fell just a little. He couldn’t bring himself to lie even to keep up the bravado. Of course he wanted Cas to come back, he would always want him to come back. And if he lied, Cas would stay away, and Dean would be miserable—and he was a selfish son of a bitch.

“‘Course you can come back, Cas.” Dean said, still smiling but gentling his voice to let him know he really meant it. “Door’s always open.”

Cas studied him again, all squinty. Whatever he was looking for, he clearly found, because he nodded and took a step back. His hand fell away from Dean’s shoulder, leaving the skin cold.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He promised, heading towards his car. Dean gulped, heart heavy.

“Right.” He said, watching Cas duck into his pimpy old car. The engine rumbled to life, and the pebbled driveway crackled under the tires as he move backwards down the road. Dean watched him go, tracing the angles of Cas’ side profile as he looked in the rear window. 

“I’ll be here.” He said aloud to no one as the Continental disappeared around the bend of the road. 

——

The next morning, waking up with his arms wrapped around a pillow and not Cas instantly put Dean into a terrible mood. He skipped breakfast and drank an entire pot of coffee, a hollow feeling in his stomach. He took one look at the garden and noped out on doing any work outside, even though the blueberry bushes needed to be picked and there was garlic to dry. He stayed in his ratty pajamas, curled up on the couch and staring at the television. 

He was not pining. He was not missing Cas and miserably mourning his absence by moping around inside. Dean was tired and earned a break. The garden could wait one day. He was not sitting around like some housewife waiting for her husband to come home from the war.

Dean watched TV until the sun went down, the day flying by in a haze of disassociation. Only when it had grown too dark to see without lights did he finally rouse himself from the couch and to the kitchen. The steaks he’d been marinating for Cas to try (even though he didn’t eat), needed to be cooked today or they’d been a waste of forty five dollars. 

He grilled them up, the wonderful smell of steak and the marinade quickly filling the kitchen, accompanied by the sizzle and crackle of the oil in the pan. His stomach growled but he didn’t feel hungry—just numb. 

Dean forced himself to eat anyway, tossing one of the steaks into the fridge for tomorrow and eating the other in front of the TV. Despite the smell and reliable marinade recipe, the steak tasted like nothing to him.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he’d get back on his feet and do everything he usually did. The guest room needed work and the garden needed his attention. Tomorrow, he’d feel fine.

——

He did not feel fine the next day, or the day after that. Overripe berries and vegetables were falling off their plants as he ignored the garden, he hadn’t even looked at the guest room, and he was due for a run into town. 

Dean didn’t understand. Why did he still feel so shitty? He’d lived alone for almost two years, why was the solitude suddenly bothering him so much? 

Because you thought Cas was dead before, a voice in his head reminded him. And now you know he’s willingly staying away from you.

But it wasn’t like that. Cas was with Sam on a case. He was keeping him safe, which was all Dean ever wanted. He should be relieved Sammy wasn’t walking into the case alone. Dean couldn’t blame Cas if he didn’t want to come back to him right away—life with him was mundane and repetitive, he’d probably gotten bored.

Besides, Cas was his own person, he wasn’t required to be with Dean at all times. Even before the Mark, their friendship consisted of brief visits and sparse communication. Since when did Dean start thinking Cas was purposefully staying away from him when they were never close in the first place? Yeah, they cared and trusted each other, and Cas was the only best friend Dean had ever had, but Cas had his own life, his own problems. Staying with Dean had been a visit, a vacation from duties. There had never been any promise to stay, so there was no reason he should be feeling this way.

In his efforts to shake himself out of his funk, Dean forced himself to drive to the town for supplies. His mind remained far off, distanced with vague thoughts. He didn’t pay much attention to anyone around him as he entered the grocery store, feet moving mechanically through the aisles and hands plucking familiar items off the shelves as he went. 

Dean felt outside of his body, numbed with a lack of motivation and something that felt like depression. His body moved with the willpower of duty, like a soldier marching to a war he doesn’t want to fight. But instead of handling a gun, Dean tossed groceries into the cart. 

He went through self checkout as he always did, shoving food into duffels and barely listening to the machine rattled off his total before swiping his card.

By the time he got home, he was exhausted. He barely had the motivation to put all the food away before he was dragging his feet upstairs and hitting the mattress. 

Dean hadn’t prayed to Cas once since he left.

——

It took him a week to get adjusted to solitude again after three weeks of companionship. He’d caught up on the garden, finished the floorboards in the guest room, and was getting a new door for the one Cas blew up. He built a simple iron door that locked on the outside rather than risk bringing other people into his home. It would be sturdy and would hold up against any kind of force he might put on it if he locked himself inside.

By the time the new door was finished, it was mid August and he’d officially been living in the house for two years.. He hadn’t heard a word from Cas, and hadn’t prayed to him since he found out he was alive. Even his nightly promise had gone unsaid since he learned Cas could hear him. Without him talking to Cas every day like he used to when he was alone, sometimes it put him bad moods. Every time the urge to just talk aloud to Cas, reporting on the Forget-Me-Nots or the wasp nest in the raspberry bushes, had him biting his tongue and becoming suddenly aware of the silence around him. 

But, for the most part, he was doing just fine. Autumn would be setting in soon, and the garden was flourishing with its last burst of production before the cold took over. Dean repaired some patches to the house, secured the heater, and starting prepping for the colder months. 

He’d outfitted the basement with a few lights as Cas suggested, which flickered on dimly from a switch at the top of the stairs. They cast a warm yellow glow, lighting up the bare space and chasing away the darkness. The cold dampness still clung to his skin, and Dean couldn’t stand being down there for more than a few minutes if he could help it, but the basement felt less threatening than before. 

As August passed and September rolled in, the cold hit earlier than Dean was expecting. The last of the garden’s harvest died as an unexpected frost killed most of the plants. The Forget-Me-Nots and lavender died, leaving the field barren of color. In one night, the entire forest turned gray. Dean salvaged what he could from the garden, and would need to plant new seedlings to grow indoors until spring. 

No word from Cas. Not that he’d have any way of contacting Dean, but still—it had been months. He’d left to help Sam on a case, so that meant either the case was impossibly long, or Cas really was out doing his own thing because he didn’t want to stay with Dean. 

He liked to think it didn’t hurt him. 

Dean sat on the kitchen floor, hunched over trays of plastic pots filled with soil, meticulously labeling each with what plants he would need in the spring. Calloused, scarred hands carefully cupped each tiny seed, gently pushing them into the moist dirt, caring for each potential life far more than he would his own.

The house was quiet. He hadn’t turned the radio or television on, and the silence pressed against his ears. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the gently shushing of seeds in their paper packets.

Almost on a reflex, Dean thought to talk to Cas. As far as he knew, Cas couldn’t respond to him through prayer, but he would at least hear him. He could tell him about the garden and the early frost, something simple and easy that didn’t address how shitty he’d felt after he left. 

But he didn’t. Now that he knew Cas had his ears on, praying to him about his mundane life would probably just be an annoyance to him, a distraction from more important things. Dean shouldn’t do that to him. 

He just missed Cas. Goddamnit, did he miss him. A part of him had begun to believe those three weeks with Cas were hallucinations. There was no world in which he was allowed to be so happy. Dean had humanity’s first curse on his arm forever, his life should never have happiness or safety. How could he when the Mark could take those things away from him at any moment?

Dean hadn’t been happy in a long time. He couldn’t remember the feeling sometimes. There were moments of relief or hope, but never happiness. Out of the life or in it, he’d never felt happiness. 

But he knew without a doubt that those three weeks with Cas, Dean had been happy. He hadn’t felt so…light before. Smiling came easier, he told more jokes to make Cas laugh rather than to deflect a problem. 

He’d spent a long time ignoring the way Cas made him feel. There was never any time, and Dean didn’t need more drama in his life on top of all the times the world tried to end. Something worse just hit year after year, sometimes right after they solved the first problem. It wasn’t like he could have a big gay crisis or go through all the stages of acceptance while trying to stop the Apocalypse. 

Even when Cas died, Dean couldn’t bring himself to fully actualize the way he felt about him. He’d always known on some deep level of his psyche, but thinking about it, or speaking it…why bother when Cas had been gone? 

But things were different now, so much more different than any other time in his life. Dean’s wasn’t in the middle of a fight, and Cas was alive. Acknowledging the way he’d felt finally seemed less daunting than it had before. 

Dean’s known for a long time that he loved Cas. A part of him loved so much that panicking or denying felt pointless, because he’d just end up right where he started. He loved Cas. It was such a small thing, so quiet and soft, something deep but minuscule that he had learned to ignore for the sake of others. But it was intricate, complex, crafted carefully with years of love and labor that made it priceless. It was a little jewel that he’d kept hidden in the folds of his soul, and only once he found peace and safety could he admire its beauty. 

He found himself smiling sadly at the little pots filled with wet dirt, knowing one day they’d sprout tiny green leaves and flourish into something beautiful. It was one thing to acknowledge his love for Cas, and it was another to accept that it would never be reciprocated. Ignoring the way he felt made it easier for him to be around Cas because he could ignore how hopeless his love was. Cas was an angel, a multi-dimensional being of timeless grace and power. He could never love something as small and fleeting as Dean, something so minute by his perspective. He could be his friend, like a human befriends a caterpillar, but nothing beyond that, right? He wouldn’t waste his time.

It was probably the reason why he hadn’t come back to see Dean. He had more important things going on. He’d probably forgotten about him. After he’d found Dean and confirmed the Mark hadn’t corrupted him, he’d stayed for a while out of courtesy and ducked out as soon as he could. Dean was just another mission for him.

He sat on the creaky floor of his kitchen, staring at the seedling pots and trying to smile through the heaviness in his heart. He would learn to be okay with it, letting his love go unrequited. He just needed time. 

The Forget-Me-Nots in the vase had long since withered and died.

——

November rolled around, bringing bright colors into the forest and a bitter cold from the North. Dean was back to chopping logs, running behind on the usual amount he needed before the snow set in. 

He hadn’t heard from Cas since the day he left Dean in the garage. Since, he’d forgotten what it was like to wake up with him or live with him, falling back into his old routine of solitude. 

His breath puffed out of his mouth like smoke as he swung the axe back and up and down and again. The wood split and cracked with each stroke downwards, tumbling to his feet in perfect wedges. His hair had grown longer, his depressive state over the last few months leaving very little motivation to do anything about it. He certainly looked like a mountain man now—his beard was long enough to grab ahold of, and his hair could be tucked behind his ears. He didn’t have any mirrors in the house, but he was sure he no longer looked anything like the man he used to be.

His love for Cas existed as it always had, an ache in his chest that he could ignore and treasure. It was a pill of sadness that sat heavy in his stomach. His love existed in the house and the ways he’d built it with remnants of Cas in it, colors and shapes and things that on some subconscious level he’d associated the two with. And someday, it would be enough. 

Just not yet.

——

According to the vaguely annoying weatherman on the news channel, a big snowstorm was about to hit Winton. Dean hadn’t realized he was low on repair supplies and food until that morning, and rushed into town to get what he needed before he got stuck in his house for the winter. 

By the time he’d finished and was on his way back, snow had already started to fall. The truck’s heater rattled and barely spat out any warm air, and the path through the woods tossed him back and forth as the suspension creaked. 

Dean’s nose and cheeks were stinging with the cold, his back hurt from chopping wood, he was hungry—

There were several loud bangs, followed by a violent chorus of hisses.

“What the fuck—?”

The truck screeched to a stop, and Dean felt the whole thing sink a few inches.

“Goddamnit.” He grunted under his breath. “Fucking tires—“

He’d have to haul the supplies to house from there and leave the truck—but with the snow coming in he might not get it fixed until spring—

The door suddenly came flying off his hinges, and Dean himself was yanked several feet out of the truck, landing painfully on the cold forest floor. He groaned, his back and shoulder throbbing, as he heard the sound of footsteps crunching the dead leaves and frost on the ground.

Blearily wrenching one eye open, Dean saw two figures standing above him, sneering with twisted smiles and black eyes. Demons. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, trying to roll onto this good side to sit up. A foot came up, slamming on his chest and pining him. “Jesus fuck.”

“Well, well, well…” one of the demons drawled. “Dean Winchester. What our luck.”

“Listen,” Dean said, not even trying to fight the foot keeping him on the ground. “whatever you’re thinking about doing to me ain’t a good idea.”

“Last we heard of you, the Mark turned you into a maniac and wiped out the Styne clan.” The demon said, ignoring him. “That was two years ago. Whatcha doing way out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Dean didn’t respond. He didn’t have anything on him, all his weapons were back at the house. 

“Betcha wondering how poor little Sammy’s doing.” The other demon jeered. 

Fear reared up like vomit and strangled at his heart, a shot of horror slicing through him. Dean jerked his head up to stare at the demons in disbelief and panic.

“There he is.” The demon sneered. 

“What about Sam? What the fuck did you do to him?”

“Oh Sam? You wanna know about Sam?” The demon simpered. “Maybe you wanna know about Castiel too?”

The fear doubled over, an icy wave of imaginable horrors.

“What the fuck did you do? Where are they?” He bellowed, now fighting to get out from under the demon’s supernatural strength. 

“Ooh, you hit a nerve there.” The other demon giggled. 

“Where’s Cas? Where the fuck is he?” Dean bellowed, yanking at the demon’s ankle, clawing through the denim.

“Caught up with ‘em working a case.” The demon hummed, pressing down harder on Dean’s sternum until he wheezed. “Pokin’ their noses where they didn’t belong. We rounded ‘em up, got a nice cozy spot to hang out for a while. Your little brother liked to say a lot of funny insults, but your boy Castiel…well, he didn’t make a peep. Kept him nice and toasty in a ring of holy fire while we…had a little chat with Sammy.”

“You fuckers.” Dean hissed. “Where are they?”

“Right where we left ‘em.” The other demon sneered. 

The case Cas left for…that was months ago. He had been trapped and Sam had been tortured for months and Dean didn’t know…

This was all his fault. If he’d just stayed in contact a little more, gotten a phone, tried to call, he could’ve gotten to them. Now, they were god knows where and Dean was here—

“How’d you find me?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“There’s a downside to your wardings, y’know.” The demon grinned. “We could sense ‘em from miles away. Couldn’t help but wonder what they were hiding and looky-looky, we found you.”

“The complete set.” The other demon added. “Imagine having both Winchesters and their wingless sidekick as our hostages.”

Dean could barely hear what the demons were saying anymore. His forearm—the Mark—was burning horribly. The piercing wail was screeching in his head as the Mark surged to the surface for the first time in two years. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight against the urge to kill, kill, kill—

The demons were talking to each other, completely ignoring Dean’s crisis under them. His hands groped around for anything, fingers finding a decent sized rock—

He grabbed it and threw it at the demon pinning him down. It shouted in pain and stumbled back, losing its hold on Dean. He leapt to his feet as the other demon scrambled to get its knife, but he barreled into it, body-slamming it to the ground and straddling it, fighting for the knife it had in it’s hand. 

His fists slammed into the demon’s nose, the first sensation of flesh and bone under his knuckles causing the ringing to increase. It wailed in his head as Dean wrestled the knife free and buried it into the demon’s chest. It screamed, it’s demon form flickering under the skin.

The other demon tackled him from behind, knocking them both onto the forest floor. Cold hands wrapped around his neck and began choking him, the demon’s knees pining his hand and knife to the ground. 

Dean choked, free arm trying to land a punch. The Mark burned, flooding his veins with power and strength as the ringing got louder and louder—

His vision started to blacken—

His free hand grabbed the demon’s wrist and he twisted it back with more power than he had, feeling the bones snap. The demon screamed, hold loosening and Dean surged forward. He grabbed the demon by the neck, raising it into the air and slamming it against the nearest tree. 
He glared up at the writhing son of a bitch, pressing the point of the knife into its stomach.

“Where is Cas?” He snarled, slamming the demon back against the tree. “Where are they?”

“Fuck you.” It spat. 

“You better tell me, or I’ll make you my knife sharpener.” Dean growled, pressing the blade in a little harder. The demon just choked out a laugh.

“That Mark on your arm likes it when you kill, huh? When you hurt?” It sneered at him. “It would’ve loved to feel Sammy’s face breaking like it did under my fists, or Castiel’s flesh burning from the holy fire—oh, the screams they made—“

Dean drew the knife back and drove it into the demon’s stomach, shoving it up towards it’s chest. The demon howled, dying immediately. He let it fall to the ground, but the ringing in his head grew louder, he couldn’t think, all he could focus on was more blood, more flesh, more bone—

He stabbed and sliced and hacked into the dead meat suit, his mind and the Mark at war with each other. A hoarse scream was ripped from his throat as he mutilated the body, trying so hard to come back and stop his arm from driving in another stroke—

His mind grasped one second of clarity, and it was enough to throw himself away from the body and drop the knife. The Mark howled, battering against his skull, trying to regain control. It wanted more, it wanted to kill, it had been denied for so long…

Dean keeled over on the ground, gripping his head. Stop, stop, please stop…

The ringing was splitting his eardrums and searing hot pain was racing through his body. His muscles seized as the Mark screamed, furious when it didn’t get what it wanted. 

He curled up on the forest floor and whimpered through clenched teeth. There was nothing he could do, the Mark was going to take over and there was no basement to lock him away. He was going to kill again, he was going to go into the town and murder every single one of them, everything he’d worked so hard for was for nothing. He’d break yet another promise to Cas. Like he broke everything he ever cared about. 

Vaguely, distantly, Dean heard something beyond the thunderous ringing in his head. His vision was blurry, but he could make out someone running towards him. Someone was yelling, but it was too muted, he couldn’t understand…

Warm hands cupped his face, shocking against his frozen cheeks and nose. He flinched instinctively, the Mark and the ringing growing louder. The instinctive desire to break the hands sliced through him, and Dean balked at it. He whimpered, begging wordlessly for relief, for an end—

Something cool and strong rushed through him, tingling his skin and flooding his veins. The Mark’s burning subsided like water on lava, hissing and steaming as it cooled. The ringing dimmed almost at once, but it was still there, and Dean still wasn’t in complete control.

The voice was easier to hear now, and he recognized it immediately.

“Dean, Dean, it’s okay, just breathe, breathe, Dean—“ Cas was shouting. His presence almost immediately calmed the turmoil inside him, his grace combating the Mark as Dean’s soul welcomed him back. He tried to take sips of air between shuddering heaves, focusing on Cas’s warm hands on his face and his piercing blue eyes. 

He couldn’t be here, it was impossible. The demons said he was trapped in holy fire, that it had been slowing burning him away for months…he couldn’t be here.

“Come back, Dean. Come back.”

It took several more minutes of Dean trying to match Cas’ calm breathing and for the grace to finally quiet the Mark down. He wheezed several gulps of air when the ringing ebbed away and the convulses ceased. He didn’t move for a while even after he knew the Mark had released its hold on him. He didn’t want to move at all. 

“Cas?” He croaked, the angel just letting him lay there, his hands supporting his head. “How…the demons said—“

“Sam got us out.” Cas murmured, his free hand gently brushing stray hair from Dean’s face. “He wanted to come with me to ensure you were alright, but you hadn’t given permission and…I had a feeling…”

He trailed off, looking slightly guilty. 

“I had a feeling I’d find you in a condition that might put Sam at risk. I didn’t want to put either of you in that position.”

“You were right.” Dean rasped, gingerly moving to sit up. He barely moved even an inch before Cas’ arms were wrapping around him and pulling him into a crushing hug. 

“I didn’t want to be.” He whispered. “But finding you like this…Dean, I was terrified I was too late.”

Dean just almost collapsed into Cas’ chest, resting his forehead against his shoulder and just soaking in his warmth. God, it felt so nice just to be around him again. 

“M’okay,” he mumbled. “y’here now.”

“I’m so sorry I was gone for so long.”

“Not your fault.”

“You’re freezing. You need to get inside.”

Dean hadn’t even noticed he was shivering from the cold. There was a light dusting of snow around them as Cas hauled him to his feet. 

“The bodies—” He mumbled. He couldn’t bring himself to look at them, unwilling to risk the Mark rising up again. 

“I’ll take care of them. You need to get warm.” 

He snorted, a thought crossing his woozy, exhausted mind.

“Man, we gotta stop meeting like this, me in a crisis and you blowing in to save me.”

“That would be preferable. Come on.”

Dean didn’t protest, letting Cas help him into the Continental and up to the house. His sternum twinged painfully from the weight of the demon’s boot, and he had a gash on his arm from the knife. Cas helped him inside, warmth blasting both of them the moment they entered. Dean collapsed onto the couch with a groan. Fingers brushed his forehead and for a moment he thought Cas was fixing his hair, but the rushing coolness of grace washed over him again, and the aches and pains were gone. He was still exhausted, but the physical injuries had been healed. 

“Shouldn’t waste your grace,” he mumbled. “not on me.”

Cas didn’t respond, and was gone moments later, back out into the snow to take care of the bodies and the truck. Dean let his head fall back against the couch and he closed his eyes. 

Something that had nothing to do with the Mark settled inside him. 

——

He woke up to the sound of a loud crash, a thud, and a grunt of pain. Dean shot to his feet, scrambling around the couch and bolting into the kitchen.

His heart stopped when he saw the blood all over Cas. The flashback to him on the library floor flooded his mind. His angel was lying slumped on the kitchen tile, wide eyes staring down at all the red.

“Cas!” Dean shouted, the panic that had released him mere hours ago coming back with a vengeance. “What the fuck happened? Where are you bleeding?”

“Dean?” Cas grunted, blinking at him, a crease between his eyebrows. “What are you—?”

“Don't close your eyes, Cas” Dean cut him off, yanking up his stained shirt to look for the wound, hand pressing firmly down against what looked like the worst of the wound. “You gotta stay awake, I gotta stop the bleeding—I can’t—please don’t—I can’t—“

No, not again. Dean couldn’t let this happen again. How could it had happened? He didn’t have anything that could hurt angels in the house—why was he dying? Why was he always dying? 

“Dean, Dean.” Cas’ warm hand grabbed his wrist and held it tight, the contact bringing him back from his panic and terror. “I’m not injured. I’m fine.”

“Wha—?” Dean blinked. But there was blood everywhere, it looked too red, staining too much. There were chunks all over the place. Chunks…?

Dean’s shaky hand ran over Cas’ smooth stomach and chest, free of wounds. Then why—?

He realized the heavy smell of blood wasn’t in the air. The kitchen smelled rich and savory, like tomatoes. He looked around and saw a pot of noodles bubbling on the stove, and pan on the floor, splattering—

“P-Pasta sauce?” He choked, eyes wide. “This—what the fuck were you doing with pasta sauce?”

Cas’ face turned bright red, nearly matching the sauce—not blood—all over him. 

“I…I wanted to make you something. You were teaching me how to cook when I was here and after today…well, I fear I merely accomplished in scaring you.”

Dean closed his eyes, regaining his breath and sanity. Goddamn pasta sauce.

Cas wasn’t dying. He was just an idiot.

His hand was still rubbing a section of Cas’ stomach. It was solid and soft, muscles rippling and rising under his touch. There was no wound, and no blood, nothing but some sauce slipping and sliding against his hand.

Dean suddenly realized what he was doing and yanked his hand away. Cheeks burning, he avoided Cas’ curious gaze and started mopping up the mess with a towel. After a few moments, Cas moved to help. The sauce smeared and stained the tile, and several rounds of towels would be needed to get it all out. For a while, neither said anything—Cas giving Dean time to recover, and Dean trying to slow his hammering heart. 

“How’s Sam doing?” Dean asked quietly once the panic faded. 

“Sam is fine,” Cas assured him. “He got back to the Bunker an hour or so ago.”

Guilt twisted his stomach, and Dean stopped wiping up the sauce on the tile. He stared blankly down at the mess of red that still looked a little too much like blood.

“Dean?” 

“I’m sorry, Cas.” He said, tracing the smeared lines of red. “I should’ve been there, I should’ve called. I could’ve found you guys so much sooner—“

“Don’t.” Cas interrupted him firmly, grabbing his shoulder and turning Dean to face him. He kept his gaze low, ashamed. “Dean, what happened was not your fault. You couldn’t have known. It’s far better that you remained here rather than go with us and tempt the Mark. Look what happened just now—you killed two demons and it almost took you. If you had gone with us, something much worse might have happened.”

“But I could’ve saved you from months—months, Cas—of pain. Sam was tortured and you were in holy fire—“

“Sam’s endured far worse, and so have I.” Cas told him. “The best those lowlifes could do to us was measly compared to what we’ve been through. Sam and I are fine.”

“I didn’t think you were coming back.” Dean whispered, eyes fixed on a sauce stain on Cas’ pants. “You were gone so long and I didn’t even think it was because you couldn’t, I just thought…”

“I told you I was coming back.” Cas said gently. Dean shrugged.

“I thought you were just saying it to say it. I knew you have more important things to do than waste time here with me.”

“There is nothing I’d rather be doing than be here with you.” Cas told him without hesitation. Dean snapped his head up, startled by the blunt admission. His face was sincere and serious, gazing back at him steadily. “Every moment I was trapped in the fire, I thought of coming back to you. Of being in the garden with you, or walking in the fields with you, or lying in bed, listening to you breathe.” 

Dean could feel his face burning.

“I spent every day thinking about you. I spent even more time worrying about you. You…you never prayed to me, after I left. Dean…why did you never pray?”

Dean gulped, throat clicking. He ducked his head again, guilt and shame prickling his skin. All that time he’d refused to pray to Cas and there he’d been, hoping desperately for his voice.

“‘Didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.” He mumbled. “I talk a lot about stupid stuff, didn’t want to bother you.”

“Well, now that I have made it clear I am never bothered by your prayers or your presence, I would like you start doing it again.”

Dean blinked at him.

“O…kay.”

“Good.” Cas looked away from him, the conversation clearly over. “I do not want to clean this up.”

Dean snorted.

“Well, buddy, if you think I’m letting tomato sauce stain my kitchen—“

Cas snapped his fingers, and all the reddish stain was gone. 

“The noodles should be done by now, and you must be hungry.”

It took him a minute to recover from the sudden cleanliness, but he huffed another laugh.

“Sure, but I’m heating the sauce up this time.”

——

Emotional turmoil and chick flick moments left Dean with a monstrous appetite, so he polished off three plates of spaghetti before his stomach started protesting. Cas steadfastly refused to budge on his stance that the tomato sauce tasted bad, but tolerated a few plain noodles. 

Cas told him everything about the case, how he and Sam were investigating a cursed box that seemed unimportant until they were captured by demons. Apparently, the box had the last remains of the demons’ original bodies, and the curse they’d put on it to stop Hunters from burning them away had started killing people in an antique store. The demons held them hostage in a warehouse, tortured them for information and fun. Sam couldn’t pick his way out of his cuffs with one of the demons guarding them at all times. They were decent enough to feed him and keep him alive, even if it only was half-frozen Eggo waffles and lukewarm water. It wasn’t until a few days ago did the demons finally leave them alone, and Sam had broke out in minutes and released Cas from the holy fire. They split up from there and Cas drove right for Dean. 

It helped to know that Sam hadn’t be hurt so much that he couldn’t drive himself back to the Bunker, and Cas insisted once again that he was fine.

By the time they’d finished cleaning up after dinner, it was nearly dark out. Cas was sitting on the couch with a book he’d only gotten halfway through the last time he was here, and Dean was busy moving the pile of chopped logs in the garage to the stack by the fire. 

It was one of the times he passed by the windows that he caught sight of his reflection for the first time in nearly two years. He looked almost unrecognizable. Dean paused, his hand drifting up to tug at his too-long beard and squint at his hair. Jesus, it was nearly as long as Sam’s. 

He shifted uncomfortably as he studied himself. His reflection didn’t feel like him—not to mention Cas was here now. Dean didn’t want to look so wild—nearly deranged—with him. He wanted to look like himself.

Glancing around and seeing Cas still deeply immersed in his book, Dean quietly stopped what he was doing and slipped upstairs to the bathroom. It took him a minute to find his clippers, and as it buzzed to life, he got to work.

The scraggly beard he’d neglected fell off him chunks at his feet as he carefully shaved down the worst of it. He hadn’t minded the scruff he’d had before, enough to highlight his jaw but not enough to hide his skin, so he didn’t shave himself clean. Bit by bit, as more of his beard fell away and his fingers accustomed themselves with the short, sandpaper-like whiskers, the discomfort faded. 

Without a mirror, he had very little way of knowing if he’d shaved evenly, so he did his best through touch, doing the same with his hair. He carefully trimmed the parts that had gotten too long, keeping the length and the middle part. He felt like he’d cut the sides evenly, and trimmed the back of his neck as best he could. His hair hung just above his eyes, easy to sweep up and out of his face. 

Cool air pressed against the newly exposed back of his neck, and he carefully ran his fingers through his hair. He felt much better, less unkept. The long hair and beard had been trophies of his months of depression, and clearing it all away was almost therapeutic. A fresh start.

He headed back downstairs, quietly so he didn’t drawn Cas’ immediate attention. Dean hoped to sneak back into the garage and continue where he’d left off, but ever perceptive, sharp-eyed Cas noticed almost at once.

“You cut your hair.”

Dean could feel his cheeks burning.

“Yeah. The beard was starting to nest birds.”

Cas ignored his attempt at deflecting, peering at him with his piercing eyes.

“You look good. Lighter.”

Dean did his very best not to let his overeager heart take that as Cas complimenting his looks. He was remarking on his appearance, sure, but it was analytical. Objective. He didn’t mean it the way Dean wished he meant it. 

Telling himself that only succeed in sending a stab of hurt and rejection through him, a physical shot of pain from his chest down to his gut. His shoulders drooped, and Cas noticed before he could fix it.

“You’re upset. What was not the right thing to say?” He tilted his head, concerned.

Dean couldn’t help but love him uselessly.

“Nothing, Cas.” He replied, shooting him a smile he hoped was convincing. Giving the suspicious squint he received in return, it wasn’t. “Just tired moving logs. Probably gonna head to bed.”

He knew it didn’t make sense. He’d just come back downstairs to finishing moving the firewood just to announce he was done for the day. Dean pretended not to realize and headed upstairs, ears straining to head any sound of Cas following.

What if he didn’t come up with him to bed? What if he decided he didn’t want to spend the night awake with Dean asleep next to him? Would he have to continue sleeping alone?

He was about to close the door to his room, retiring to the fact that Cas was not joining him, when he heard the soft sound of feet on the stairs. Dean froze, door cracked open and his hand still on the knob. 

“Dean?”

He cleared his throat.

“Yeah?” He rasped.

The unspoken question hung between them as Cas reached the landing and looked at him through the crack in the door. Dean was still for a moment before letting it fall back open—a clear invitation. 

He left Cas there in the doorway, determined to act casual, and slid under the covers. The mattress creaked and sank under the weight of Cas joining him. Silence stretched between them.
Dean didn’t want to go to sleep like this.

Then he remembered what Cas had said about him praying. How he wanted him to, how sad he’d been when Dean stopped. 

Putting all his intention into his words, Dean prayed silently.

Kept my promise. I’ll keep it through tomorrow.

Beside him, Cas smiled.

“I know you will. Good night, Dean.”

——

A phone ringing woke Dean up from the deepest sleep he’d had in months. Cas was quick to answer it, but the shrill tone had officially dragged Dean back to the world of the living. 

He wasn’t even surprised to find his cheek pillowed on Cas’ chest, which was moving up and down in a slow rhythm, radiating warmth. Dean stayed put, not wanting to move, uncaring that they were just friends and shouldn’t be doing this as casually as they did. Groggy and without coffee, he could be convinced to sell his soul just to wake up every morning like this. 
Cas’ voice, deep and rumbling, vibrated in his chest, humming in Dean’s ear soothingly. As consciousness started to take hold, he began to register what he was saying. 

“—worried me last night, but he’s fine now—I burned their bodies last night—no, they didn’t say where they’d put the box—there’s no use looking for it until you’ve healed—Sam—“

“Tha’Sammy?” Dean grunted, cracking an eye open. Cas glanced down at him before his attention was taken by whatever Sam said, and whatever Sam said made him roll his eyes.

“Yes, I just said he’s fine, he’s right here. Dean, your brother wants to talk to you.”

Dean flapped his hand groggily, and felt the phone press into his palm.

“Hey, Sammy.” He yawned, sitting up against the headboard. 

“Dean! It’s good to hear from you. Cas told me what happened yesterday, are you alright?”

He threw Cas a glare, but the angel looked completely unapologetic, the bastard. 

“Cas toldya Sammy, I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“But if the Mark is—“

“Sammy,” Dean interrupted, with a tone he usually reserved for when his brother was being petulant. Sam clammed up immediately. “I’m good. More worried about you, actually. Cas caught me up. I’m sorry I wasn’t—“

“Don’t.” Sam said at once, their roles suddenly reversed. “Those demons couldn’t deal out much more than a couple bruises. Cas got the worst of it, I mean, the fire was starting to burn his grace near the end—“

Dean shot Cas a sharp look, and judging by the annoyed scowl on his face, Cas had heard. He had conveniently neglected to mention that. 

“—but I need to find that curse box before it killed anyone else—“

“Hey,” Dean said sharply. “Cas said not til you’re healed.”

Sam grunted, then went quiet for a moment.

“Can I,” he asked cautiously, hedging. “can I see you, Dean? Not right away but…maybe Christmas?”

Dean swallowed thickly. Having Sam over for Christmas after two years, it made him nervous. Inviting someone else into his sanctuary, even if that someone was Sam, had his stomach in knots. It didn’t help that the Mark had flared up just yesterday, showing just how little he needed to lose control. If Sam were here and it happened again…

“Maybe.” He croaked, trying not to sound dismissive and rejecting. 

“I don’t want to push you—“

“I’ll think about it, okay Sammy?” He said. “I will.”

“Okay, Dean.” Sam sighed. “Shit, I’ve gotta go, a stitch just ripped.”

“Be careful, Sam. Call if you need help.”

“I will.”

He ended the call and turned to Cas with a mild look.

“Burned your grace, huh? Don’t remember you telling me that.”

Cas narrowed his eyes. 

“My grace is fine.”

“You could’ve just told me.”

“It wasn’t important. I am fine, and I certainly did not want you worrying over the past.”

Dean scowled.

“That’s not the damn point, Cas. I asked you to tell me what happened and I wanted to know everything, not the highlights.” 

“You were recovering from the Mark, you had enough on your mind.”

“You should’ve told me anyway! Jesus, Cas, your grace was burning—“

“And I am fine.” Cas growled. 

Dean glared at him, but already the fight was draining out of his body. He didn’t want to screw up what had been such a nice morning with a fight. He didn't want to spend anymore of what might be limited time pissed off at Cas. 

So he deliberately gentled his voice and—while it might be a little manipulative—hit Cas with the wide-eye look that had worked countless of times before. 

It worked almost immediately. Cas deflated on the spot, face softening, matching Dean’s decline.

“I want to know, Cas. Keepin’ things from me only makes me worry more.”

Cas sighed, carefully tugging his phone from Dean’s grip. 

“I understand.”

“C’mon,” Dean said, gentle but with a note of humor. “there’s stumps outside that need chopping and I’ll bet your big, strong, angel muscles can make it quick work.”

Cas’ lip tugged up in a small smile.

——

As it turned out, Cas’ angelic strength did make chopping go faster—almost too fast. There was a few inches of snow on the ground, the worst of it blown away by the wind last night. The temperature was still freezing, and Dean was bundled up in his thicket coat and boots, but Cas had actually shed his coat and suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves and undoing the first couple buttons of his shirt. 

There was really no reason for him to be practically naked, he knew Cas didn’t get hot or cold. He was just being a showoff, but Dean couldn’t find it in himself to bitch about it.
Several times, he caught himself ogling Cas as he swung the axe up and down with more grace and force than humanly possible. Bulky muscles and wide shoulders rippled under his shirt, completely clean of sweat. A rogue hair flopped over his face, brushing his forehead and practically jeering at Dean. 

Once, he’d stopped dead in his tracks with an armful of wood, watching Cas bring the axe swinging down and splintering a log wider than Sam cleanly in two. 

Letting Cas chop wood was a terrible idea because Dean was now fighting between amazement and arousal. Every crack of the axe through wood had jolts running down his spine, and Dean had to run into the house multiple times under the guise of moving wood just to catch a break. 

Cas finished the entire pile in less than an hour, smiling pleasantly at the stunned look on Dean’s face. 

“Showoff,” he grumbled, cheeks pink and jeans tight.

They spent the rest of the day completely all the tasks Dean had been too depressed over the last five months to finish. They primed the guest room for painting. They planned out next year’s garden, where everything would go, what needed to be taken care of before the new seedlings were planted, and how to stop the squirrels from jumping into the blueberry bushes. Cas was particularly excited about the raspberries—with the wasp nest gone and the prickly vines as strong as ever, the berries would be bigger and bountiful in the summer. 

A shot of fondness struck Dean’s heart, watching the way Cas’ big hands gently cradling the tiny seedling leaves, or the way his eyes lit up at the mention of purple potatoes. He couldn’t help but love the way Cas could be so intimidatingly powerful and yet so gentle and kind. How he could split logs in two without mercy but stroke fledging plants with such tender care. 

It was one thing to acknowledge his love for Cas, alone and isolated, but it was something else entirely to acknowledge it while the recipient was right in front of him. Dean’s heart ached more, knowing he could love, love, love with all his heart and as silent as death, but could never breach the distance and do something to show it.

Loving from afar, mere inches away, was a torture Dean knew he couldn’t live with for long.

——

Castiel lay comfortably under the covers of the bed, one hand scrolling mindlessly through his phone while the other lay curled around Dean. Per usual, neither of them bothered to vocally confirm the continuation of their nights together. It was habitual by now, to slid under the blankets separately only for Dean to subconsciously seek him out in sleep. Cas always let him, eager to steal every moment he could with Dean like this, close and touching and safe.

He knew that permission would be withdrawn every morning, but even if he only ever had Dean like this, unable to control where he body sought comfort, Cas would take it. Sometimes, he would lay there and stare at the ceiling, imagining that he had permission all the time, that Dean wanted him the way Castiel did, that their nighttime touches could extend before and after sleep. He would pretend Dean had curled around him and pillowed his head on Cas’ chest before letting sleep take him, that he’d done it willingly. 

But there was something to be said that Dean didn’t freak out about it anymore, waking up with his limbs tangled with Castiel’s. They ignored the unspoken yet broken line of their previous friendship, of fleeting touches and personal space. Dean pretended it didn’t happen, and Castiel followed suit.

But he wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d tried to entice Dean. Shedding his coat and jacket to chop wood had been completely unnecessary, but it had been worth it to feel Dean’s eyes on his back and to catch him staring in a stupor. Cas wasn’t sure how to flirt or convey interest, but he knew how to push Dean’s buttons. 

His attempts at showing off worked, because ever since that morning of wood chopping, Cas had caught Dean looking at him, differently than he had before. There was a softness in his gaze, a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, a quirk of his lips that had Castiel’s heart flipping. Sometimes he looked at Cas like one might look at a masterpiece, eyes roving, eager to admire every single detail. 

Other times, he caught Dean staring at him, eyebrows pinched in thought, like he was weighing something in his mind. Once or twice, Castiel saw him staring sadly, and it was those quick moments—which Dean hastily covered up—that hurt him the most. He didn’t know what he was doing that would make Dean look at him like that, like he was watching a ship depart that he’d already said goodbye to.

Castiel worried about those looks, about what Dean might be thinking. He wanted to scream every assurance he could think of, beg him to tell him why he looked so resigned, why he looked like he ached—

But Dean clearly had a lot on his mind, and Cas would not push. He knew from experience that he only made him draw away further.

So he soaked up the few precious hours of Dean’s comforting weight on his chest, hoping as he looked down at the slumbering form pillowed on top of him, that he would tell him soon. 

The arm slung around Cas’ waist twitched. He dismissed it, going back for his phone. He’d been reading an article about edible orbs of water—

Dean’s arm suddenly tightened around Castiel like a vice, and if he had been a human, it would have been uncomfortable. A full-body twitch soon followed, and then a whimper that sent panic shooting through Cas’ chest. 

He was having another nightmare. 

“Dean.” Cas tried, hoping to wake him up before resorting to his grace. Dean had always expressed a distaste in invading his mind. “Dean, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

“No—don’t—please—“ Dean gasped between sharp breathes. 

“Dean.” Cas said, a little louder, jostling him. “Wake up.”

All he did was clamp his arm tighter around Cas’ waist and suddenly, he felt warm tears drip through his shirt. 

Unable to bear Dean in pain any longer, he lifted his fingers and gently brushed his sweaty forehead. Grace rushed eagerly into him, and Cas could feel Dean’s soul flare up in welcome. Almost immediately, the arm around him went loose and Dean let out a soft sigh. 

“…Cas…” he breathed, barely audible and still very much asleep. Castiel replied anyway.

“I’m right here, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

It would be boring as always to lay around and do nothing until morning, but for Dean Winchester, Castiel would do anything.

——

With the winter set in and nothing to tend to outside, their energy and focus was aimed within the house. Between breakfast and lunch, Cas would help Dean with the guest room, a project two years in the making. 

Months ago, Dean had bought cans of dark gray-blue, which could finally be rolled onto the walls. This time, Cas took a risk and borrowed a pair of Dean’s jeans and a shirt, which was just a little too small on him. He knew the cotton and denim were straining against his larger bulk, but the look on Dean’s face was absolutely worth the limited range of motion. Castiel watched in private amusement at the way his face went slack and his entire body froze, minus a hard swallow. He watched fondly as Dean struggled with himself for a minute, clearly thrown off, before he managed to form words.

“What…what’s with the wardrobe change, Cas?”

He played it off innocently, a part of him hoping Dean would always react like this when he wore different clothes.

“We are painting today, yes? I don’t want to get my coat dirty.”

Dean gaped at him a moment longer, then forced out a strained, high-pitched laugh. 

“Right. Okay.”

It turned out to be a relaxing work. Castiel enjoyed the way the rollers put up the paint in stripes, neatly covering the primer. It reminded him of the day God painted the sky—blank nothingness, and then a beautiful swipe of color to fill it. 

Dean, who Castiel had discovered could not do any task without music, plunked the old radio in the center of the room and let it play the rock station. Many of the songs were ones Cas had heard repeatedly, but it was always those that truly put Dean at ease, so he never complained. 

Completing all four walls are easier with two, but it still took most of the afternoon. Although, getting into a paint fight hadn’t exactly helped their productivity.

It started out innocently enough. Cas accidentally tipped his rolling stick too far back and smacked Dean upside the head, smearing half his face and hair with paint. Ten minutes later, Dean avenged himself by swiping the roller up Cas’ arm.

It quickly escalated until the rollers were abandoned and they started dunking their hands in the cans and swiping at each other. Cas managed to get a blue handprint on the clean side of Dean’s face while they grappled, and when he wasn’t looking, Dean smacked a handprint on his ass. Scandalized, Cas tackled him to the floor. 

The poor radio was kicked in the scuffle, both men grunting and laughing as they attempted to pin the other down. A voice in the back of Cas’ head marveled at how domestic—bordering on intimate—this was. That Dean was allowing this and enjoying it.

A paint-sticky hand hovered over his face threateningly, and Cas quickly smacked it out of the way and thrust his hips up to dislodge Dean from on top of him. He barely registered the surprised hitch of breath that earned before he was rolling them around, grabbing Dean’s wrists, and pinning them on either side of his head, straddling his waist. He grinned down in triumph, although at this point they had both suffered losses—both were covered nearly head to toe in paint.

Dean, however, didn’t look very upset at losing. Instead, he was staring up at Castiel with parted lips, breathing shallowly. His eyes were wide, and there was a flush staining his cheeks. Cas was instantly distracted, grin slipping as he felt himself getting pulled into Dean’s gaze. His grip on his wrists loosened, and suddenly he wasn’t very worried about the paint on their clothes anymore. 

How could he, when all he wanted was to count Dean’s freckles, to brush his fingers over his eyelashes, to curl up in his soul and never leave. How he wished he was allowed.

He watched in amazement as Dean’s eyes flicked down to his lips and back up, like he hadn’t even realized he’d done it. Cas didn’t know what it meant, too lost in studying the little flecks of brown in his eyes. 

The radio hiccuped, and suddenly spat out a loud screech of static. Both men flinched, startled out of their daze. Cas scrambled off of Dean just as quickly as Dean scrambled out from under him. They nearly catapulted themselves into different corners of the room, heaving and avoiding each other’s gaze. 

Cas’ head was spinning, reeling from the sudden distance between them. His skin burned at every point of contact he’d had with Dean, his fingers twitching against the ghost of his wrists.

Dean switched off the wailing radio and stumbled upright, mumbling, “shower” before leaving Cas sitting on the paint-smeared floor, dumbfounded.

——

They avoided each other that evening. Cas used his grace to clear the paint on his clothes, and had a feeling Dean would refuse the same treatment, so he didn’t say anything as he watched him dump the blue-streaked t-shirt and jeans into the wash.

They didn’t speak as Dean took his dinner onto the porch and Cas didn’t follow, and when it was time for bed, he came back inside. Cas looked up from his book on instinct and made eye contact with Dean for the first time in hours. It only took one look for him to understand that he wouldn’t be welcome to follow him upstairs tonight.

What they’d done has crossed another line of their blurred boundaries. Dean only accepted his closeness under the cover of darkness, and Castiel pushed those limits in daylight by letting their fight escalate when he should have stopped it. Now, Dean was still riding the waves of embarrassment and wouldn’t welcome his touch tonight—perhaps never again.

It cracked open Castiel’s heart to see that truth written all over the grimace on Dean’s face, but he understood. He’d broken the unspoken rule, and now he might never get to hold Dean again.

He carefully masked the hurt trying to rise up to his face, and slowly lowered his gaze back down to his book, the words looking jumbled and blurry and not like words at all. He heard Dean’s footsteps up the stairs, and the quiet click of his bedroom door closing. 

Castiel sat alone on the couch with nothing but the fire illuminating his surroundings, and he mourned the loss of those precious hours of Dean beside him, quietly accepting his new fate.

——

Castiel did not follow Dean up to bed the next night, or the night after that, until soon it was eradicated from their routine altogether. Dean never asked him to come back, and Castiel knew better than to push him again. 

Instead, he made sure he looked busy around the time Dean was going to sleep, so he didn’t have to see him go up without him. 

Besides those lonely evenings and nights, Dean pretended nothing had changed, and Cas followed suit. They finished painting the corners and ceiling—with no paint deliberately smeared on anyone this time—in near silence apart from the radio. Dean started wood carving in the garage, and Castiel began adding to the gardening journal. He added his own remarks on the different plants, his loose scrawl mingling with Dean’s blocky ones. It helped pass the time to both admire the amount of effort already put into the book, and adding his own advice and plants. 

When Dean emerged from the garage, the intoxicating scent of freshly cut wood mingling with his usual scent, Castiel usually moved to the couch to continue reading his way through the collection of books. More often than not, he wouldn’t be reading a word, his attention focused on every sound and clatter of Dean in the kitchen making his dinner. When the weather was nice, he would go onto the porch and eat alone. When it wasn’t, he would eat at the table alone. 

Even a week after their routine change indefinitely, Castiel could sense Dean was distant, not only in proximity but mentally as well. He seemed to be thinking through something very deeply, secluding himself in the garage to work and ponder. Castiel didn’t want to disturb him, so he carefully ensured he blended into the background as best he could. It still hurt, knowing Dean was distancing himself because Castiel made a mistake. It was akin to punishment, and now he was doubting if Dean still wanted him in the house at all, despite everything he’d told him when he first returned. 

Castiel was becoming miserable, missing Dean even with him in the same room. They had light conversations, nothing as relaxed as they used to be, like both of them were walking on proverbial eggshells. He didn’t understand why Dean would be hesitant—he held the reigns in this situation. He got to decide when Castiel was permitted to hold him at night again.

After another week, atmosphere around them unclenched slightly. Dean started eating on the couch with Castiel in the evenings if the TV was on, and the tension between them started to fade. He still didn’t risk following Dean to bed without his express permission, but after another week they settled—somewhat warily—into a kind of quiet companionship, similar to what they’d had before the Mark. It was distant and surface-level, but comfortable otherwise. If Castiel pretended that last two years never happened, the way they were around each other hadn’t changed at all. It didn’t make him happy, though, not when he knew how close they’d been before. 

The first day of December, Castiel sat alone in the living room when Dean came downstairs with a marching pace of purpose unlike anything he’d seen from him before coffee. He glanced up, immediately suspicious upon seeing none of the bear-like grumpiness Dean had in the mornings and instead, a bright-eyed, determined man. There was no telling what he was going to say. Perhaps he was finally going to tell Castiel to leave.

Instead, Dean opened his mouth to say something only to close it a second later. He marched into the garage, leaving the door wide open. Castiel stared after him, listening to the sounds of rummaging and loud thumps as Dean hauled something in from the depths. 

A few moments later, he reappeared with a busted cardboard box that he set on the floor by Castiel’s feet with a heavy thud. Peering down into it, he saw the box was filled with Christmas decorations still in their packaging—string lights, tinsel, miniature snowmen and Santa Clauses. 

Waiting for an explanation, Castiel looked back up at Dean, eyebrows raised. He watched him shuffle awkwardly in front of him before coughing out an embarrassed,

“Well, if Sam’s gonna be here…”

The corners of Cas’ mouth were lifting before he could even think to stop himself. He was so proud of Dean for trusting himself with this, letting Sam visit his sanctuary for the first time. He was happy Dean wanted to celebrate Christmas instead of worrying about putting his guard down for a holiday. He was happy Dean wanted to include him.

“Where would you like to start?”

——

Cas never understood why it was so important to decorate weeks before Christmas even arrived—(Because who decorates a day before just to take them down again, Cas?!)—but he found himself enjoying the experience. 

The first thing they did was go cut down a tree. The weather, which had been a mix of frost and snow, had graciously permitted a clear day, and they only had to deal with a few inches of snow rather than sleet or hail. 

“You sure the tree won’t mind?” Dean asked as they stared up at the seven footer they found in the woods. “Y’know, since you can talk to plants or whatever.”

“Plants don’t talk, Dean, don’t be ridiculous.” Cas said placidly. He pretended not to see Dean rolling his eyes. “This tree is sad. The nearby oaks require alkaline soil to survive, but pines turn it acidic. They’ve been combating each other for years.” He placed his hand on the bark, feeling its drooping, heavy energy. “It’s tired, and in its condition, it won’t last the winter. The number of oaks outweigh its abilities. I think it would be quite happy to decorate the house for a few weeks without anymore worries.”

Dean sniffed, nose red from the nose, and squinted at the tree.

“I use to make vamp heads roll without blinking an eye.” He grunted, crouching down to study the tree trunk. “Now I’m worrying about hurting a tree’s feelings.”

“I would argue those are two very different things.” Cas said gently, watching serenely as Dean laid down on his side and started sawing at the trunk. “And, again, it doesn’t have feelings.”

“Then quite talkin’ about it like it does.” Dean grunted, the saw’s teeth making a rough noise as it dug into the wood.

“If I tried to explain how a plant’s energy truly operated, I’m afraid your human mind would not be able to understand. I was simplifying.”

Dean snorted. “You were dumbing it down, you mean.”

Cas huffed, his turn to roll his eyes. “If you wish to see it that way, fine.”

Dean stopped sawing to lift his head and squint at him, a smile on his face that looked almost fond. He didn’t say anything, though, and continued cutting.

A few minutes later, the tree fell with a loud creak-snap-crash.

Heading back to the house with a seven foot tree in tow made the few inches of snow on the ground seem like feet. Dean was huffing, breath turned into frosty puffs of cold smoke, by the time they finally made it back home.

Because Dean was clearly wiped out from the journey, Cas took it upon himself to bring the tree inside, lifting it steadily with one hand and guiding it through the front door and into the waiting tree stand with ease. 

He caught Dean staring blankly at him again, mouth slacked open a little. Smug and pleased that he still could get that reaction out of him despite the weeks of distance, Castiel pretended not to notice.

Decorating the house took all day. Dean had bought all the decorations on a whim, he said, and never got around to putting them up the last couple years. ‘Never got around’ being Dean-speak for ‘too depressed and lonely to bother’, as Cas knew. 

The tree was decked to the nines in tinsel, twinkling lights, and generic ornaments. Dean cracked a joke about having Cas be the tree topper, which earned him an offended scowl, but there was little heat behind it. He was too busy being glad to see Dean smiling again. 

The radio crackled out Christmas songs (since apparently that was all radio stations were allowed to play once December came around), and after they’d finished off the tree, they decorated the house. The banister received tinsel coiled around the railings, and the fireplace was laden with strands of fake holly and some cheap stockings. They placed the snowmen and Santa statues around the house on any surface they could find, and by the time only the string lights were left to hang, night had long since fallen. 

Cas sat on the couch for a break. His restored grace still gifted him his strength and healing abilities, as well the lack of hunger, but because of Metatron’s spell and the holy fire, the missing parts took their toll. Every once in a while, it would wane if used for too long and leave him feeling almost human with exhaustion. Today was one of those days, using his grace constantly to avoid sleeping or eating, coupled with all the work they’d done today, Cas’ eyelids felt heavy and his head woozy. 

He slumped onto the couch and resigned himself to watching Dean potter around, carrying bundles of string lights to be hung from the rafters or around the windowsills, munching on gingersnaps he’d found in the pantry. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, its warmth pressing against Cas’ cheeks. The house still smelled like the leftovers Dean heated up sometime between the snowmen and the tinsel, and snow drifted down gently from outside the windows.

He watched the warm light from the fireplace cast Dean’s features into relief as he passed, still whistling cheerfully to whatever Christmas song was on. He would never tire of admiring how beautiful he was, his green eyes looked golden brown in the firelight, freckles smattered his nose and cheeks. Cas’ eyes traced a strand of hair that fell over his forehead in a gentle curve, he followed the outline of his nose and jaw. 

Even now, so many years later, he looked the same as he did when Castiel rescued him from Hell—his Righteous Man, weighed down with new cares since then but still just as beautiful. He wished he could admire Dean forever, could trace his cheekbone or the cut of his jaw like he had when he rebuilt him. 

Cas’ eyes fluttered shut, heavy with tiredness. He didn’t want to fall asleep, he didn’t want to miss a moment of Dean like this, comfortable and relaxed around him again. His head fell back against the couch after a losing battle. Perhaps a few moments of rest would give him the energy to stay up longer, at least until Dean disappeared upstairs to sleep and there wouldn’t be anything for Castiel to miss—

He wondered if Dean would ever allow him into his bed again, to hold him and stop his nightmares. For weeks, he’d sensed them going on upstairs but never tried to offer assistance, not wanting to scare him away again. But, oh how he yearned to be allowed to trail after Dean again, to bury himself under the covers, to hear Dean ask to hold him again…

Soft, hesitant lips pressed against his own, warm and far too quick to be anything more substantial than two mouths meeting. Cas’ eyes flew open in shock, the heavy sleep he’d felt moments before eradicated by the vision of Dean quickly stepping back from where he’d been behind the couch, kissing him upside down.

Cas snapped his head up and whipped around, staring in fascination and disbelief as Dean’s cheeks and ears turned red, looking like a deer in headlights. 

Dean had kissed him. He had kissed—.

His mind spun a million miles a second and yet his thoughts felt so slow. Why had Dean kissed him? After all those weeks of avoiding and making Castiel doubt everything? Mourned what he’d ruined? 

“You…” Cas breathed, the words dying in his throat, baffled. 

“I—I—um—“ Dean stammered. His hands were shaking as they clutched the string lights he still held. Cas could see the urge to flee in his eyes, that vacant, checked-out look that marked the beginning of another distant three weeks. And Castiel would sooner be back in holy fire before he let that happen again. 

He scrambled up from the couch, the sudden movement making Dean stumble back too, arms twitching upwards like he was shielding his face from an incoming punch. Cas’ mind wasn’t working, he didn’t understand why Dean would kiss him after avoiding him for so long. Was it even possible that Dean felt the same way he felt—after all these years—

All Castiel knew was he needed to kiss him again. He would not let Dean run away from what he started this time. 

Cas grabbed Dean’s waist before he could bolt, using the momentum of his sudden movement to slamming him back into the nearest wall. The frames hanging above their heads shook, but Cas’ didn’t care. He crowded Dean against the wall, hesitating for only a moment, looking for any sign of protest or discomfort before smashing their mouths together with the burning passion Cas had kept locked away for nearly six years.

The string lights clattered to the floor and Dean’s hands grabbed him by his collar, yanking him in closer. Cas kicked Dean’s legs apart and stepped right in between them, gripping him tightly by the hips and pinning him to the wall. He gave him no room to run away.

A shot of electricity went down his spine when he heard Dean whimper quietly into his mouth, his lips prying his own open and his tongue dipping in. Cas rumbled his approval, tasting Dean, hearing him breathing hard through his nose, his soft little gasps when their lips parted for mere moments before one tugged the other back in. 


Dean’s lips were soft and warm, he tasted like gingersnaps and something darker, something that was just simply Dean. He smelled like firewood and pine needles, his thicker beard scratched pleasantly against Cas’ evening scruff. Everything about him, every noise and smell and feeling of skin and lips against him, was heavenly. Cas could feel the hot heat of Dean’s cock against his leg, knew his own was pressing in return. God he wanted, he wanted so much—but only if Dean wanted too. If not, Castiel was more than happy to just continue this until he died. He didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to pull away even for breath, in case it ended. 

“Cas,” Dean gasped after what felt like hours, finally succeeding in wrenching his mouth away for much needed air. Castiel reeled himself back in, already ashamed of being so selfish, and buried his face in the crook of Dean’s shoulder, breathing in and out slowly. 

“Not that I want to stop, but I gotta breathe here, buddy.” Dean chuckled. Cas could feel the vibration in his chest. He wanted to curl up into it. 

“I apologize.” He murmured. “I got carried away.”

“Don’t apologize, man. You, uh, can get carried away with me anytime.” Dean’s voice was strained and hesitant. Cas lifted his head and squinted at him suspiciously.

“Anytime?” He echoed skeptically. “Then why do I get the feeling you wouldn’t have appreciated me getting “carried away” yesterday? Or a week ago? Or two weeks ago? Or that day in the guest room—“

“Alright, alright.” Dean relented, unsticking his hands from where they’d been clutching Cas’ collar. Not that he wanted to, but Castiel took a small step back. They were still very much in each other’s space, but no part of them were touching anymore. Dean squirmed under Cas’ gaze, clearly searching for words.

“I’m sorry about these past few weeks, alright?” He finally blurted. “There was a lotta shit I was trying to figure out and I had to be alone to do it so I pushed you away and you didn’t deserve that and I’m sorry.” He sighed, ducking his head and somehow looking smaller despite him being the taller of the two.

“S’just…after that day in the guest room, I-I got scared, man. I knew I could only stand being around you for so long before I totally lost it and…and I didn’t want you to have to deal with my shit.” He let out a sour laugh, a self-deprecating scoff that Cas immediately disliked. “Guess I did a good job of that, huh? Didn’t even ask if you wanted me to kiss you. I just got tired of standing around wanting and—“ He faltered, eyes widening in panic and guilt. “did you even want—?”

“Stop it, Dean.” Cas cut in, refusing to let him even think about that impossible possibility. 

“But I didn’t even ask!” Dean protested, looking two seconds away from having another crisis over something that wasn’t even true. “Shit, Cas, I fucking pushed myself on you and you didn’t even want to—“

Cas grabbed Dean’s hands, which were currently yanking at his hair, and slammed them against the wall above his head, snarling.

“Did you really think me pinning you to the wall and kissing you back meant I didn’t want it?” He ground out angrily. Dean gaped at him, pupils blown wide and lips parted. He didn’t even try wrestling his wrists away.

“Do you really think this—“ Cas pressed himself against him again, letting Dean feel the bulge in his pants and feeling his in return.  “—means I don’t want it? That I didn’t like it?” He demanded. When Dean only tore his gaze away with a desperate kind of whimper, hips jerking against the sudden contact, Cas lowered his head to meet his eyes again. “Answer the question, Dean.”

“Cas!” He gasped instead. His hips were moving of their own accord, his desperation fueling the action until Cas moved his wrists to one hand and pinned his hips to the wall with the other. Dean let out another breathless whine, a noise that went straight down to Cas’ cock. Pleased at having him trapped again, Cas leaned forward, brushing his nose tantalizingly against Dean’s neck, tracing up his jaw and cheek and nose, lips just barely passing by.

“Answer me, Dean.” He repeated against his ear. 

“I didn’t think you would.” Came the mumbled response. Cas could feel his heart hammering, could feel the heat on his cheeks against his own. “You never said anything and…and you’re a goddamn angel, Cas. What would you want with someone like me?”

“Everything.” Cas growled, pinning him down with a blazing stare. “Everything. Always. All the time. But how could I say anything when you made it clear what our relationship was? What clues did I have that you felt this way?”

“I didn’t give you any.” Dean replied, nearly wheezing with want as Cas brushed his lips under his jaw. “I didn’t give myself any. Didn’t want to admit anything, ‘cause then I’d have to deal with me wanting you and you not wanting me—“ He let out a high-pitched yelp when Cas rammed their hips together again in reminder, their cocks pressing against each other with a thrill of pleasure. 

“—w-which is obviously wrong.” Dean wheezed, correctly himself as Cas grounded them together in slow swivels, still not letting Dean move, only take. “Very wrong.” He added, strained. 

“Very wrong indeed.” Cas agreed lightly, unable to resist further and mouthing at a spot just behind Dean’s ear. He let out another whine.

“Cas,” he choked, body twitching with need. “Cas, you gotta—I need to—please—“

A possessive thrill ran through him at the sound of Dean begging, of needing him, and Cas couldn’t wait anymore. He wanted Dean spread out under him, he wanted their clothes off, wanted him panting and writhing—

“I want to take you to bed,” he murmured in Dean’s ear, smiling at the whimper that earned him. “is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Dean breathed. “God, Cas, yes. I promise we can talk about this more, I’ll tell you everything but later—Cas, I need—“

“It’s alright, Dean.” Cas told him. “I’ll take care of you.” He didn’t give him even a second to process that before he released Dean’s wrists and grabbed him under his thighs, hoisting him up smoothing in his arms by his ass. Dean yelped, arms and legs instinctively wrapped around him, but Cas could see and feel the arousal that he’d caused by it. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas.” He groaned. “Goddamn angels.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring.” Cas reminded him as he carried him upstairs with ease. His grace, which had been waning only a few minutes ago, was back at full strength from the adrenaline pumping through him.

Dean spluttered for a moment, no doubt about to deny, but gave up as Cas tossed him into the bed and plastered himself on top of him.

“Whatever,” he grunted, tugging him down by his collar again. “later,” he murmured against his lips before kissing him. Cas responded at once, pressing him into the mattress and slipping his tongue into his mouth. Dean groaned in approval and his bow legs hooked themselves around his waist, tugging their hips back together. 

Cas gasped at the glorious friction, exploring Dean’s mouth with his tongue, cleverly pulling all sorts of noises from him as he writhed beneath his bulk. Fingers were scrabbling for the hem of his shirt, yanking insistently. He wrenched himself away to pull off his shirt before he was diving back down, already addicted to Dean’s taste. He felt calloused and scarred hands carefully roam around his back and chest, felt fingers cataloguing every bump and dip of muscle. It felt nice, Dean’s hands were cool against his warm skin, his touch electrifying.

It wasn’t long until he wanted his turn, pushing a hand up Dean’s shirt, traveling up the endearingly small pudge from pie and hearty home cooking, feeling the rise of his ribs and pecs while Dean shuddered and thrust his tongue into Cas’ mouth. His thumb swept over a nipple, and another thrill went through him at the gasp that escaped Dean’s mouth. Grin almost feral, Cas yanked his shirt up further and broke the kiss just to dive down and lave his tongue over the stiff peak. Dean moaned and arched into the touch, fingers delving into Cas’ hair as he downright abused his nipple. 

“Holy shit, Cas.”

Hearing Dean’s noises and feeling him writhe and thrust under him made him feel more powerful than anything he’d ever experienced before. Cas bit down just to hear Dean whine, and licked and sucked apologetically afterwards, switching between the two and ensuring his nipples looked thoroughly abused when he was done. 

“Cas, Cas, fuck—c’mon—“ Dean panted, rutting desperately against Cas’ hip through his jeans. 

As much as Cas would have liked to go slow and torture Dean like this for hours, he was also growing impatient. There would be time for exploring and going slow later, once Cas knew exactly what every part of Dean felt like. 

He pulled off and helped Dean out of his shirt, and both men quickly tore off their pants, buckles rattling and clattering to the floor. Cas stared at the wet spot growing over the bulge in Dean’s briefs, knowing he was sporting his own but seeing the evidence of his arousal was so…so…

“How do you want to do this?” Dean’s voice was rough already. His hair stuck up wildly and his cheeks were flushed, looking utterly debauched and they hadn’t even done anything yet. Cas stared at him, wondering if what he wanted was too much. He wanted to do whatever Dean was comfortable with.

“What do you want?” He asked. “I do care what we do as long as I get to touch you.”

Dean’s cheeks burned hotter, either by that statement or that Cas was making him say what he wanted.

“I want you to fuck me.” He blurted. A wave of arousal crashed into him, so strong his muscles cramped. It took him a moment for his brain to reboot. God, Dean looked wrecked just saying it, and Cas wanted to devour him.

“Yes. I want that.” He rasped. “Have you ever—?”

“No.” Dean mumbled. “I mean…I’ve done stuff with dudes before just…not in the backdoor.”

“Okay.” Cas nodded. “Are you sure you want me to—?”

“Yeah.” He leaned forward and put his hand against Cas’ cheek. His thumb brushed just under his eye, achingly tender. “I want you to be the first, Cas.”

Another thrill of possessiveness ran up him, and he shuddered against Dean’s gentle touch. To be the first inside him, the first trusted enough…meant the world to him.

“Okay.” He repeated. “We’ll go slow. I won’t hurt you.”

“You never would.” Dean replied with a grin. “Not unless I deserved it.”

Cas smiled fondly, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“That night in the alley was not my proudest moment.” He said as he peppered kisses down his neck and collarbone until he found a good spot to suck at, scraping his teeth against the skin and marking his claim while Dean groaned. 

“I dunno,” he panted as Cas continued down his body, lips never leaving skin. “it was kinda hot.”

He lifted his head to frown at him.

“To get beaten up by me?” He asked incredulously. Dean shrugged, his face aflame again. 

“Yeah. I guess. I dunno.” He fumbled. “Always had a thing for people who were stronger or somethin’.”

“Oh? Like when I was chopping wood? Or lifting the tree? Or carrying you? Or—“ he pinned Dean’s hips to the bed again as he slithered down his torso, eyes fixed on the wet spot staining his boxers. “—holding you down however I want?”

Dean gulped, throat clicking. “Yeah.” He rasped.

Cas mouthed at his cock through the cotton, hearing Dean groan and half-heartedly try to wiggle free. He didn’t linger for long, his fingers curling beneath the waistband of his boxers and tugging them down, kissing the newly revealed skin as he pulled them down his legs. He stared at Dean, naked, legs spread and a beautiful blush spreading down his chest. The warm glow from string lights they’d hung in the room earlier cast a beautifully onto his skin, illuminating perfect features. Cas could study every pore and never get bored.

“Cas,” Dean mumbled, shifting uncomfortably under his heavy stare. He ignored him, his eyes falling on the Mark still branded on his forearm, the red slashes raised a little above the skin. Something cold and heavy weighed on him then, remembering how much hurt and pain it had caused. His fingers brushed over the raised brand, and he felt Dean twitch, felt him wanting to snatch his arm away and hide it. But he didn’t, just let Cas trace the markings with tender care.

He wished he could have stopped this from happening, from the Mark ever finding Dean. He wished he could have spared him so much suffering and horror. 

Dean sat up, letting Cas cradle his arm and stroke the brand, but he could feel those green eyes studying him. Cas recalled that day in the library, how Dean had been so pale and gaunt before, how red-rimmed eyes stared so blankly at him, blinded by rage. He remembered exactly where the blood had stained his shirts, how he’d looked while beating Castiel.

Dean’s other hand came down on top of his, pressing his palm into the Mark.

“I know I was a monster.” He said quietly, head bowed.

Cas looked at him and felt the way Dean’s hands trembled minutely on top of his. He gently tipped Dean’s chin up with his fingers, gazing into wide, sorry eyes.

“No,” he replied, gently but fiercely. “you were beautiful. You have always been beautiful.”

Dean blushed beet red at that, but his lips parted and his eyes widened in shock and surprise. Castiel could see the protest rising in him, but he didn’t want to argue now. Not when they’d finally made it here. He lifted Dean’s forearm, pressing his lips firmly on the Mark.

Then, he cupped his free hand around the back of Dean’s neck and drew him in for another kiss. It was soft and sweet and full of the love Cas hadn’t vocalized yet, but he needed him to know that tonight wasn’t about carnal lust. Tonight was about so much more. Cas had never been afraid of Dean, even while he ran a blade through his chest. No matter what happened, Mark or no Mark, he knew down to the very core of his being that Dean Winchester was beautiful and good. He would always be that, even to the end of the world.

He poured all of that into the kiss, his hand cradling the branded forearm and the other cupping his cheek. He could feel something vulnerable tremble and crack inside Dean, and desperate hands held him close, and Cas knew at part of him understood.

They broke apart, but neither allowed the other to get very far. Cas brought their foreheads together, giving Dean a moment to breathe and collect himself. He studied him adoringly, thumb brushing away the tears that dripped down his cheeks.

“I want to believe you.” Dean whispered.

“I’ll remind you.” Cas promised.

“You’ll get tired of it.”

“Impossible.” Cas leaned forward, guiding Dean back down onto the mattress. “You are beautiful, Dean Winchester.”

“…Okay.”

Cas ground their hips together again, steering them back in the direction they both were desperate to go, and Dean moaned his approval.

“You are going to look beautiful stretched around my cock.” He spoke in his ear. 

“Fucking hell.” Dean huffed.

“And you are going to look beautiful when you come on it.” He added, sliding down his body and brushing his lips on skin as he went.

Another fluid motion of grace, and Cas gave him a quick colon clean before summoning the lube from the nightstand. It was probably not such a good idea to use his grace so idly, but that concern was the furtherest from his mind right now.

He settled back over Dean, kissing him for a few moments and rubbing a lubed finger at his hole, getting him used to the sensation. He relaxed under him, content to stay in the familiar territory of kissing and twitching at the new feelings.

Dean’s lips began to wander, latching onto his collarbone and making their own marks.

“Dean,” Cas ground out, the motion of his finger faltering with every press of lips and scrap of teeth. “I’m going to put a finger in, now.”

Dean hummed in vague acknowledgement, apparently set to give him a hickey that would ache for days. Cas groaned and tried to concentrate again, gently pressing in a finger until he was up to the first knuckle. Dean’s hips twitched, but he didn’t protest. 

It was long and delicate work. Cas didn’t want to hurt him by going too fast, but proper stretching took quite a while. Several times, he had to stop pushing to let Dean adjust. More than happy to let him take his time, Cas would just bury his head in the crook of his shoulder or use his free hand to stroke Dean’s cock to distract him from the discomfort.

After a few breaks and a lot of lube, he had two fingers inside, carefully scissoring and stretching as Dean’s groans started turning into ones of pleasure. He started rocking his hips and pushing back when Cas pressed his fingers in, moaning and gasping occasionally whenever his fingers hit his prostate. 

Once he had three fingers in and Dean had been stretched a considerable amount, they both agreed it was enough. Cas’ dick almost hurt with arousal, and Dean was more than impatient. 

“Condom?” Cas asked, trying to remember the basic necessities of sex.

“Don’t want one.” Dean grunted, trying to tug him back in by the neck. “You’re an angel and I’m clean. Unless you got some supernatural STI I don’t know about—“

“No, not that.” Cas said. “I just…in case you weren’t comfortable…”

Dean blinked, and then it clicked.

“I’m pretty comfortable, Cas.” He grinned, this time succeeding in yanking him back down until their bodies pressed together. Dean’s lips brushed against his ear as he whispered,

“I wanna feel you.”

“Fuck,” Cas groaned, fingers clamping Dean’s hips as he cock twitched almost painfully with arousal. “okay.”

“Wanna do it from behind? Heard it a good way to do it hard.” Dean waggled his eyebrows.

As incredibly arousing as that would be—and definitely something Cas wanted to do—today was not it.

“Another time,” he said, hoping Dean would be willing for a ‘next time’. “This time, I want to see you.”

Dean’s grin softened, eyes shining fondly. He leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss.

“Fine with me. Ready to pop my last cherry?”

Cas couldn’t help but smile. He sat back and slicked up his cock, giving it a few relieving strokes while Dean shifted into a more comfortable position. Then, he bracketed his head with his elbows and lined up his cock, the head bumping against Dean’s hole.

 “Tell me if it hurts.” He ordered, and pushed in. 

Dean’s breath hitched and his hands scrambled to grab him, holding on tightly as Cas carefully and slowly push into glorious, slick heat. It was tight, Dean’s inner walls clenching around him with delicious pressure, and instantly Cas’ head was dizzy with sensation. It was almost indescribable, like all of his senses were amplified. He sudden became aware of everything little thing happening against his body—Dean’s thighs brushing his, his hands digging into his forearm and back, the soft warmth surrounding his cock. 

He was halfway in when Dean’s grip on him tightened just a little too much, and Cas instantly froze.

“Dean?” He asked, immediately worried.

“M’fine, Cas.” Dean grunted, eyes squeezed shut.

“You don’t look fine. I should stretch you some more—“

“Don’t,” he ground out, taking a couple sips of air. “I just need a minute.”

“Of course.” Cas lowered himself until their bodies were flush, happily obliging when Dean tilted his chin up for a kiss. They lay like that for a while, kissing and letting their hands wander. The urge to pull out and stretch him some more grew with every passing moment, but after a while Cas could feel Dean loosening around him, the ring of muscles relaxing minutely as they lay there. 

“Okay,” Dean whispered eventually. Cas had gotten lost counting his freckles, almost forgetting his cock was half inside him. “move.”

He pecked Dean quickly on the lips, which turned into a deep one, and pushed again. This time, incredibly, Cas could feel Dean relaxing as he moved inside, the inner walls flexing and allowing him inside. His head spun as his cock sunk into scorching wetness, and Dean let out a whimper once he was in to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he panted, freckled cheeks stained pink. “fuck, that feels good.”

“It does?” Cas asked. He’d been worried about this, whether Dean would enjoy it or not. By his imagination, he couldn’t imagine something up his ass would feel good at all.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, grinning up at him. His eyes were a little watery, most likely from the intense sensations, but he looked downright pleased with himself. “it didn’t at the beginning but…feels good now. Can’t wait to feel what it’s like to get nailed in my prostate.”

Cas pulled out halfway tentatively, testing the waters, and pushed back in. Dean moaned, back arching, a noise and sight Cas wanted burned into his mind forever. 

He did it again, a little faster and stronger this time. His cock made Dean’s lube-wet hole squelch  deliciously with every thrust, the sound downright sinful. He could feel Dean’s ass jiggle against his hips as they slapped together, he watched Dean’s cock bounce and throb between his legs. 

“Harder, Cas—fuck—fuck me—“ Dean panted between thrusts, spurring Cas on. His entire world narrowed down to the beautiful man beneath him, to the feeling of him stretched around his cock and his skin sliding against his. He obliged, grabbing Dean by his hips and pinning him to the mattress, letting him slam in harder and harder. 

The bed creaked and the headboard banged against the wall as he reared back again and again. Dean was crying out, moaning and gasping as Cas changed the angle and the head of his cock rammed into his prostate.

“Ah! Fuck—yeah, right there—“ Dean cried the first time he’d found it, and Cas didn’t change angle then, just brutally targeted his prostate to give him as much pleasure as possible. Dean’s body jostled with the mattress against every thrust, his arms were clawing down Cas’ back and leaving smarting streaks. His cock lay against his stomach, swollen and totally forgotten—Dean too busy reeling with pleasure and Cas too busy giving it to him. 

He could feel Dean trying to swivel and shove back with his hips, and after a while of keeping him pinned he decided to give him what he wanted. Cas let go of his hips in favor of catching his wrists and pinning them above his head with one hand, dipping down to suck at a nipple and rub the other between his fingers. Dean’s hips jerked delightfully and he let out a whine, pushing up his chest at the same time he shove down on Cas’ cock.

“F-Fuck,” he stammered, absolutely writhing with pleasure as Cas kept up the brutal pace with unnatural stamina. He wanted Dean to feel as much pleasure as possible, wanted to show him just how much Cas treasured and desired and wanted him. 

“Cas, please—“

“Please what, Dean?” He growled, voice rough and gravelly from exertion. He groaned, unable to stop the snapping of his hips, addicted to the sensation of slick heat around his cock—of Dean around his cock.

“Touch me,” Dean begged, tugging his bound wrists with no real desire to be set free. Cas could tell—he liked being at his mercy, at being pinned down and denied the freedom. He liked it when Cas took control. 

“Are you close?” He murmured, sucking another bruise into Dean’s collarbone. 

“Yes, yes, yes please—“

Cas reached down and took Dean’s cock in his hand, making a tight fist for him to fuck inside. Near-sobbing with relief, Dean started thrusting his hips up into Cas’ hand and back down on his cock, his ass slapping harder against his hips with the effort. Cas ducked down again to bite and suck at a nipple, and Dean cried out again.

He could feel he was getting close—his muscles were tightening and a tingling had begun to spread around his pelvis. Cas was on the edge, and any second he was going to fall. He pulled off Dean’s nipple, panting as he tried to stave off his orgasm, wanting Dean to get there first. 

And by the looks of it, he wasn’t far away either. The beautiful flush from his cheeks to chest had gotten darker and sweat beaded his skin as Dean’s purpling cockhead appeared and disappeared in Cas’ fist. His inner walls were clenching spastically around Cas’ cock, and his thighs were shaking.

“Inside,” Dean groaned, as if also sensing Cas was close. “come inside me, Cas.”

And if that didn’t almost knock him off the edge right there. Cas nodded, thrusting into him even harder, nailing his prostate every time.

“Come for me, Dean.” Cas ordered, almost on the verge of losing control. Dean whined and worked his hips faster. He looked a vision stretched out on the mattress, arms pinned above his head, leaving his entire body on display and vulnerable to Castiel. His face was screwed up in arousal and agitation, struggling to get himself there—

“Dean,” Cas growled, grip tightening on his wrists. Dean’s eyes popped open and locked onto his. “Come. Now.”

And just like that, Dean’s head slammed back into the pillows and he let out a cry, his hole clamping around Cas’ cock as he came, come spilling into Castiel’s hand and hitting their chests. He looked incredible, better than anything Cas could have possible imagined. Dean shuddered and twitched as Cas fucked him through his orgasm, the rhythmic clenching and rippling around his cock enough to set him off. Cas moaned as he released his load inside of him, fucking through it sharply until the sensation became too much. 

He collapsed on top of Dean with a groan, releasing his wrists. For a long time, both of them just lay there, panting and ignoring the cooling come between them. Cas’ ear was pressed against Dean’s chest and for the time they lay there, he listened to his heartbeat. It was an oddly soothing, and Cas felt his grace cut out again, exhaustion sweeping through him once more. 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice was quiet in the dark. He grunted in response. “Anything I can do to convince you to move?”

He didn’t want to move. As much as he loved holding Dean and feeling his body weighing him down, being on top was incredibly comfortable, and Cas didn’t want to move. However, even he couldn’t ignore the crusting come stuck between them and the sweat slicking their skin. 

With a groan, he rolled off of Dean, both of them scooting away from the wet spot. Dean immediately rolled with his back to Cas, who’s sleep-slowed mind assumed he didn’t want to be touched. It hurt a little, but he could understand needing a moment alone after what they’d done.

Before that thought could take root, however, Dean’s arm reached blindly out behind him, grabbing Cas and yanking at him until he shuffled over and slotted himself up against him. Dean hummed in satisfaction and Cas immediately wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him tightly.

With that, they both fell asleep.

——

Cas woke up alone, bleak light pouring through the windows. Snow fell passed the panes gently, a continuation from the storm last night. 

He groaned and stretched, loose-limbed and sated. A smile drifted across his face as the memories of last night came trickling back to him.

Reality followed close behind, and Cas became aware of the cold sheets next to him, and the lack of Dean anywhere to be seen. Frowning, he sat up and listened for the hiss of the shower or the television downstairs. 

Not hearing anything immediately, he rolled out of bed, tugging on some spare sweatpants, and wandering downstairs. The house was warm, a fire already crackling in the hearth. Soft noises were coming from the kitchen, and when Cas looked around he saw Dean in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. A small thrill of satisfaction went through him to see him limping slightly.

He edged closer, unsure of the boundaries he was allowed the cross. They had sex last night, yes, but that didn’t mean Dean wanted his touch in the morning. Their conversation before that had eluded to Dean wanting more than just sex, but Cas couldn’t know for sure. 

“‘Morning,’ sunshine.” Dean said quietly before Cas could decide what to do. He looked around, giving Cas a small smile. “I made extra in case you were hungry.”

Cas frowned.

“I don’t get hungry.”

“Yeah, sure. And you don’t sleep either.”

He had a point. Cas glanced down at his stomach at if it held the answers. It clenched uncomfortably, the sensation followed by a distinct rumbling. Dean grinned.

“Fuckin’ knew it. Bacon’s on the pan, but eggs and hash are over there.”

Cas rolled his eyes but headed for a plate. Passing Dean as he went, he took a chance and rested a hand on the small of Dean’s back as he shuffled by. He felt him jump, clearly surprised, but relaxed moments later. Just as Cas started to dish himself some food, Dean—apparently encouraged by his touch—leaned to the side and pressed a quick, somewhat hesitant kiss to his forehead.

Cas felt something do a happy wiggle in his chest, and he beamed at him. Dean’s cheeks turned pink, but he grinned back. 

“Sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up,” he said, taking the crackling bacon off the stove.

Not even five minutes in, and he was already apologizing. Cas couldn’t help but find it a little endearing.

“There’s no need to apologize,” He said, picking himself a few strips of bacon. “I know food is always your top priority.”

“Hey, fuck you.” Dean laughed. “Morning after breakfasts are always the best.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I enjoyed last night too.” Dean reminded him as they sat down at the table, knees pressing. Cas smiled softly.

“So did I.”

They were quiet for a while, too busy scarfing down their breakfast. Their activities last night were fresh between them, and Cas found himself admiring the hickies half-hidden under the collar of Dean’s shirt.

“So,” he said after they’d finished their food and were cleaning up together. “you said you’d explain everything to me later.”

He let the statement hang between them. Dean scrubbed at the bacon pan, ears and cheeks burning again. 

“Dean,” Cas tried again, setting down the plate he was drying and gently hooking a hand on his jaw, getting him to meet his eyes. “you don’t have to tell me now if you’d rather wait, but I do want to know.”

Dean sighed, leaning into the touch. “Yeah. Okay.”

Cas dropped his head, and Dean turned his focus back to the dishes. He was quiet for a moment, clearly trying to figure out what he was going to say. Cas waited patiently.

“I want more,” he blurted out, dropping the pan and turning to face Cas. His eyes were wide and earnest, but his hands shook with nerves. “I don’t just want to have sex with you, Cas, and I sure as hell hope you don’t just want sex either. I…I’ve been gone on you for years, man. And…and I think you were saying along the same lines last night. I want it all with you, Cas. Everything.”

Some warm and light was filling up Cas’ chest at the words, hearing them like a balm over a scorching heat. 

“I’m fucking miserable when you’re not here, I’ve always been. I was always the reason you weren’t there, either ‘cause I got you dead or I pushed you away. And I fucking hated it every time, but sometimes I can’t help it. I get so goddamn angry and I just gotta push you away so I don’t do something worse. And…and when you’re dead—“ Dean swallowed harshly. “—it’s like I go numb inside, like suddenly life’s just about going through the motions and trying not to get killed. God, Cas, when I killed you with my own hands—“

“The Mark killed me.” Cas corrected gently, crowding into Dean’s space.

“But—“

“I told you I would remind you every time until you believe me.” He cupped Dean’s face in his hands, feeling how he melted into the touch. 

“All that time alone, a part of me was mourning you.” Dean told him. “Everything I did, I did in your memory. I can’t shake you, man. I don’t want to.”

“I’m right here, Dean.” Cas whispered. “You’re not in mourning anymore. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Not ’til there’s another case.” Dean argued quietly. “Then you’ll leave me here again and something worse might happen. You might get killed and I’ll never know—“

“Don’t think like that.” Cas cut in firmly. “I won’t go hunting anymore. I’m more than happy to stay here with you.”

“You can’t do that. Sam needs you.”

“You need me, too. And I need you. Sam can call other hunters for help. If he truly needs me, then we’ll get you a phone and only Sam and I will have your number. We’ll call you if we need help.”

Dean blinked at him.

“Aren’t you worried about the Mark? What if it takes control?”

Cas tilted his head.

“Are you worried?”

“I lost control not even a month ago, Cas.”

“Last time was different.” Cas insisted. “I wasn’t there.”

Dean sighed, leaning back against the counter. Cas followed him, moving between his legs and pressing them both together. 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to hunt again.” He admitted. “If I can trust myself with the Mark.”

“Then we’ll deal with it if the time comes.” Cas said. “I want to stay here with you.”

“You’ll get sick of me.” 

“Again, impossible.” He tugged Dean closer, pressing kisses to his face and jaw. “I want to stay here and explore every inch of your body.” He whispered into his ear. Dean shuddered, his hands going to clutch Cas’ hips. “I want to plant the garden with you and hold you every night in our bed. I want to cook with you and read with you and walk through the forest with your hand in mine. I want to know what you feel like inside me, and I want to spend every day knowing you’re not far away. A life here with you would make me happy because I love you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean was breathing heavily in the crook of his neck, shoulders shaking. Cas didn’t point it out, just held him and kissed his freckles, giving him all the time he needed. 

“Me too, Cas. Every word.” The words were whispered into his skin.

“Then that’s all we need.”

——

Dean was nervous. He’d been a mess of cleaning and cooking and double checking for days, making sure the guest room had everything it needed, the house didn’t have any repairs that needed doing, and there was enough food. 

He was in the middle of stress-baking his tenth batch of cookies when strong arms wrapped around his waist. Chapped lips pressed dryly on the back of his neck, and Dean felt his body relax unconsciously as an ozone-like scent followed the touch.

“Dean,” Cas murmured gently, one hand stopping his manic stirring of batter. “Sam is just going to be happy to see you.”

“I wanna do Christmas right.” Dean insisted. He tried to keep stirring but Cas’ hand wouldn’t budge. “We’ve…I’ve never been able to give ‘im a real Christmas before.”

“Sam is going to appreciate your presence more than food or gifts.” Cas said. “You should let yourself relax and enjoy the holiday with your brother, not constantly distracted.”

Dean blew out a long breath.

“I’m scared he’s not gonna recognize me.” He confessed, a paranoid fear he’d had ever since he agreed to let Sam visit for Christmas. “Or he’s gonna trigger the Mark—“

“We already gave Sam the rules, remember?” Cas reminded him. “He’s not going to talk about hunting or anything that happened before you left. He’s promised that if the Mark does flare up to leave immediately without question. He’s going to be safe and he knows that, in the unlikely scenario that the Mark does act out, it’s not your fault. As far as him not recognizing you, I believe Sam has a good enough grasp on his object permanence to at least vaguely remember what his brother looks like.”

“You fucker.” Dean chuckled. He turned in Cas’ arms, stealing a much-needed kiss just because he could. Cas deepened it immediately like the horny bastard he is and—damn him—Dean’s mind completely forgot all about cookie batter and Christmas dinner.

Cas’ hands had just begun to wander to his belt when there was a loud knock on the door. They tore apart like kids getting caught with hands in the cookie jar.

“Two years since I’ve seen him and he’s still a fucking cockblock.” Dean groaned, tugging the towel off his shoulder and slapping it on the counter, ignoring the sudden rush of nerves. He turned to get the door, but Cas caught his hand and laced their fingers together. His anxiety lessened at once, more confident in answering the door with him.

He could already see the top of Sam’ mop through the door windows, and a grin was spreading across his face before he’d even grabbed the handle.

Dean yanked the door open, revealing his Bigfoot of a brother standing there with a carton of eggnog and vodka in his arms, along with a few presents.

Sam’s face split into a huge grin, and already Dean could see his eyes misting over.

“Hey, Dean.” He croaked, blinking rapidly. Cas stepped forward, not saying a word, gently taking the things out of Sam’s arms and disappearing into the house.

Dean raised his arms. “Alright, c’mon.” He grinned. “Bring it in, brother.”

Sam was already slamming into him before he’d even finished talking, and suddenly it was like Dean was holding his small, toddler kid brother. He held him back just as tightly, ignoring the way Sam’s shoulders shook and his own eyes stung. Being without Sam for so long and finally reuniting gave Dean distinct deja-vu to the day he picked his brother up from college to look for John. A feeling of coming home.

After a long while, the longest they’d ever gone hugging each other, they broke apart. Sam sniffled but was smiling.

“It’s really good to see you,” he said stuffily. “Nice hair.”

Dean snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Nicer than yours.” He countered, eyeing the shoulder-length style Sam was still rocking. “Y’know, I got some clippers around here somewhere—“

“Shut up and invite me in, jerk.”

“Bitch.” He stepped aside and closed the door behind Sam. 

“Hello, Sam.” Cas said, wandering back over.

“Hey, Cas.” Sam grinned. “Good to see you.”

“You as well. Did you find us okay?”

“That path is hard to spot, dude.” Sam grinned, plopping down on the couch closest to the fire. “I think I drove up and down that road five times before I saw it. My car nearly didn’t make it up that hill.”

“It’s tricky during the winter, yes.” Cas agreed. “But your struggle gave Dean more time to bake at least eight different kinds of cookies.”

Sam looked at him, surprised.

“You didn’t have to do that, man. I thought we were doing something lowkey.”

“I wanted to have a real Christmas.” Dean shrugged, elbowing Cas in the side. “Get ready for all the fixings for dinner.”

Sam’s eyes lit up, looking over at the kitchen in excitement.

“Later,” Cas insisted. “presents first.”

“Someone’s eager.” Dean teased.

“I have never partaken in the exchanging of gifts. I’m curious.”

“Or maybe you just wanna see what I got you.”

“Bite me.” 

“Maybe later, sweetheart.”

“You two are disgusting. I’m glad.” Sam interjected flatly. Dean and Cas turned to stare at him, surprised. Neither of them at necessarily told Sam that they were together. Dean had hoped to drop hints throughout Sam’s stay. Surely he couldn’t have caught on so quickly.

Though, judging by the unimpressed look on his face—

“Seriously?” Sam demanded. “I’ve been third-wheeling you two for years. It’s painfully obvious you’ve finally got your shit together.”

“There’s no way you figured it out already!” Dean complained. He turned to Cas desperately. “Are we really that transparent?”

“The hickies on your necks didn’t help.” Sam pointed out dryly. 

“Shit.” Dean grunted. Cas patted his back in condolences. 

“Yes, that’s very sad. Now, presents.”

Dean shook his head and laughed, as Cas snatched up the first present with his name on it. Sam dug around to find one, but Dean just sat back and watched.

Two years ago, he thought he’d live the rest of his life alone, imprisoned by his fears and past. But he’d made a makeshift home out of an old cottage and lavender fields, of wisteria and fruit trees and Forget-Me-Nots.

At one time, he thought his life would end buried under the rubble of the prison he’d built, screaming at iron walls as the mark of a murderer burned his humanity to ash. He thought he’d die bloody, or his eyes would turn black. Every outcome he’d seen was of darkness and blood and damnation.

But now, Dean could see hope. He’d made a new life for himself and let the people he loved back in, people who loved and forgave him at every turn. People he knew he didn’t deserve. He would live forever with the Mark on his arm, but at least Castiel would live on with him. He could live to see the world fall away around him with the angel beside him. He could be happy living in this shelter of lavender and willow, spending mindless days outside in the fields, running his fingers through messy black hair and getting lost in blue eyes and tan skin. 

As Dean sat by the fire, watching the two people he loved most opening gifts and talking joyfully, he felt that feeling again, that cradling, gentle feeling that had been with him so many times before, on firefly-speckled nights and dew-drop sunrises. Something that felt fond and safe and happy. A feeling he could finally give a name to. 

Dean Winchester had found peace.