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Sometimes the most momentous discoveries happen after years of diligent practice and effort. They are worked for with a sweat-furrowed brow and a sense of something great on the horizon boiling like lava in the depths of your stomach. The building anticipation of something you can't quite put a name to.
Other times the most dramatic realizations happen like a lightning strike, sharp and piercing as they hit the ground. An instantaneous shift in the atmosphere that tilts the world on its axis and threatens to spill you into space if you don't grasp it with both hands. A moment so surreal it seems to bend the fabric of reality and warp your perception of logic. As if you had never known the truth before this point in time.
However, when Dean saw Castiel without his signature trench coat on, both came true at once.
He watched as Cas walked over to the map table, shrugging out of his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair before unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves as he sat down. As he rolled each sleeve twice to cuff them just under his elbows revealing tanned skin and strong forearms, it hit. The instantaneous realization that Dean had rarely seen Cas in anything but layers upon layers of tax accountant appropriate apparel. The thought was immediately followed by a long-term—and somewhat devious—plan for the future, that feeling of victory approaching on the horizon streaking static through his veins with nervous anticipation.
It began innocently and innocuously enough, with Dean suggesting that when it was just them in the bunker, Cas wearing the full suit and coat was a bit much and that it made Dean feel underdressed in his own home. Cas had tilted his head with confusion, but had begun leaving his coat and suit jacket behind in his room when wandering the halls, or when joining them for a dinner he wouldn't eat.
Eventually the tie loosened around his neck to the point that it was pointless to wear and he ditched that, as well, opting instead to open another button at the throat revealing a sharp angle of skin and sparse chest hair peeking through the gap. It made Dean's body vibrate with the electric anticipation of when he would see Cas next and wondering if the man would eventually abandon the rest of the suit and choose something more comfortable and lived-in. The idea of Dean cooking up his signature burgers and seeing Cas walk into the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and soft knit pajama pants seemed to be more exciting than any of the milk-run hunts they'd been on lately, but Dean wasn't quite sure why he wanted to make it happen so badly.
Maybe it was his guilt over kicking Cas out of the bunker when he was human only to discover that the man was sleeping in the storeroom of his Gas-N-Sip job with only one outfit to his name. Sure, he and Sam had never had what anyone would consider a vast wardrobe—most were items snagged at the local thrift shops or a quick Wal-Mart run—but he at least had options that weren't a suit and tie.
Maybe it was that they'd defeated the latest evil threatening life as they knew it and Dean thought they deserved a moment of rest and relaxation, and that included Cas, too. After all the years of being on the road constantly, sleeping in Baby and waking up with a pinch in his neck and a stiff back, throwing on deodorant and hoping that his clothes had another day of wear in them, Dean had earned the luxury of dryer-fresh sweatpants instead of dirt encrusted jeans, and the sweet smell of fabric softener clinging to his shirts instead of the metallic scent of blood.
But most of it was probably that as the layers disappeared, Cas seemed to become softer, almost blurred around the edges. Regardless of what Cas wore there was still an otherworldly feeling to the way he carried himself; a strong and indomitable force that reminded everyone around him that he wasn't of this world. But as he took off the things that made him Castiel, he became infinitely more like Cas, and Dean was sure that if he tried to explain that concept to Sam, his brother would have no idea what he meant, so he kept the thought to himself. He let it curl around his spine and lace fingers of curiosity through his brain, tucked away safely as part of the newly formed long-term plan.
The plan, however, was taking too long. After a few weeks of Cas appearing to be stalled out at slacks and dress shoes, his white dress shirt without a tie, the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled to the elbows, Dean tried to (casually) nudge him a little further.
“Those shoes can't be comfortable, Cas.” He meant it as an offhand, very casual, comment, but when both Sam and Cas turned to look at him with confused, pinched brows, he realized he had interrupted what appeared to be a very serious discussion about translating one of the books from the library that dealt with curses and hexes. AKA the thing they were meant to be talking about right now, instead of fashion choices.
“Dean…” Cas began in a voice that sounded every bit like a millennia-old being who was tasked with reminding a toddler of a simple truth for the hundredth time. “I’m an angel. Clothing is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable to me.”
“Right.” Dean felt his cheeks heat in an embarrassed blush and he hoped the low yellow light of the library was enough to mask his sudden heated complexion. “I just meant that around here you could wear some, like, non-official stuff.”
Cas’ head tilted a bit as his brows furrowed, his eyes narrowing and attempting to decipher Dean's intentions. Dean stared right back, unable to break contact with the piercing blue that seemed to be able to read him from the inside out, until Sam cleared his throat.
“Anyway…” Sam said and returned his attention to the leatherbound book sitting between him and Cas. Dean's face flamed as he looked down at his own book, this one in perfect English that he couldn't focus his mind enough to read right now.
Dean hastily excused himself from the table, shutting the book and sliding it across the table towards his brother, before heading to his room. He sat at the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, elbows braced on his thighs, when a realization hit him. The thought of it was enough to excite him, but it also turned his stomach with guilt and shame, feelings he had buried deep and trapped beneath years of repressed emotion.
That night before turning in for bed, Dean knocked on Cas’ door. When he answered it, Dean thrust out his arms, filled to overflowing with clothes carefully selected and debated upon from his own closet. Flannels and worn-in jeans with ripped knees, pajama pants with cartoon animals and speech bubbles that told jokes, band T-shirts with faded logos, a pair of boots that had been too small for Dean to wear, and a dead-guy robe—the twin of his own—flung over his shoulder.
“I realized you don't have any,” Dean said, as if this explained anything. He shifted on his feet, his eyes anxiously flicking between Cas’ confused face and the abundance of clothing heaped between them. He felt that familiar heat of embarrassment pooling in his gut and swallowed against the fear rising in his throat.
“Dean?” Cas asked as Dean dumped the pile of clothes into the man’s arms. Dean smiled a bit at this, his stomach giving a slow churn at how Cas was able to convey an entire question, a full and complete sentence, just by uttering Dean's name. The simplicity of years worth of familiarity sparking like static between them.
“Clothes. You've only got that holy tax accountant outfit, and yeah you can use your mojo to clean it, and you don't feel if it's hot, or scratchy, or stiff, but…” He trailed off, his eyes dropping to the floor in shame. “You've been with us forever, man, and we never got you any clothes.”
“Oh.” Cas hummed a pleased noise at the back of his throat and turned to place the clothing stack on his bed, freeing his arms. “Thank you, Dean.”
Dean nodded sharply, his eyes darting between Cas and the pile of his own clothes sitting on top of the unused bed, and muttered ‘goodnight’ before he retreated to his own room quickly, attempting to avoid saying something stupid like ‘You'd look great in that ACDC shirt, it was too big for me but with your broad shoulders and wide chest…’ He shook his head to derail the thought process that would lead into dangerous territory he wasn't quite ready to face, and fell into bed fully clothed.
The next morning Dean had woken up early, recharged by getting more than his standard four hours, and had decided to cook breakfast. Standing at the stove with the pan handle in one hand and a spatula in the other, his world did, in fact, tilt off its axis and send him tumbling into the stars, his stomach floating somewhere behind his ribcage, fluttering with each pounding beat of his heart.
Clearing his throat to announce his presence, Cas walked in and opened his arms, palms wide and hands outstretched, as if to say ‘Is this okay?’ while gesturing at the length of his body. Dean’s eyes traced paths over the man's form, unable to focus, constantly darting between thick thighs encased in soft grey sweatpants and a firm chest behind a plain white T-shirt that was, admittedly, a size too small for a build like Cas’.
Sometimes it was easy to forget that Cas was an angel. He had gained some mannerisms from being around Dean, as well as his own personality that was emerging from behind the dutiful soldier who had chosen humanity instead of Heaven. But standing there in relaxed clothing, a pair of mismatched socks on his feet that were shoved into worn-down slippers, he definitely wasn't Castiel. He was Cas. Dean tried to suppress the shiver that threatened to ripple down his spine like keys on a piano, playing a tune he only heard when Cas smiled.
“It's good, Cas,” he choked out in a thick voice from a rough throat that seemed to have seized closed without his approval. “You look real good.”
The answering beaming smile on Cas’ face was reward enough for a plan well executed, but Dean's heart continued to beat a rapid tattoo behind his breastbone, a static filling the space between his ears as his brain checked out of the conversation and migrated to a far off land where angels wore trench coats and didn't look cuddly.
In hindsight, Dean should have used their fancy Charlie-hacked Dick Roman credit cards to purchase Cas some clothes of his own, because the visual of Cas standing there looking soft, so soft, in Dean's clothes was well over the line of what his mind could handle. It seemed to be a giant angelic middle finger to a father who had abandoned him, a deliberate choice of who Cas had decided to follow. To put his faith and respect in. The thought of it curled up like a cat warm and purring in Dean's chest, kneading its paws at the wall holding back his feelings. Cas wasn't his…but he was, in his own way.
Dean's fingers twitched with a barely contained need to touch and when the spatula dropped into the pan, bringing him sharply back to reality where he had burned the pancake, he felt the heat in his ears as a blush worked its way down his neck. In Dean's clothes with a fond smile curling on his lips, Cas looked as though his greatest duty and responsibility on this earth was to give Dean anything he wanted. That slow boil of heat echoed through his veins at the magnitude of how much had changed between them through the years.
Cas came up behind him, peering over his shoulder to watch as Dean attempted to save the pancake, flipping it and cringing as he saw the blackened side. When he shuffled over to the trash to tip the pancake in and mentally vowed to focus better on the next one, his arm brushed against Cas’. That warm and soft skin that had been hidden and off-limits before Dean had stupidly plotted and schemed to put it on display. He made a mental note to research the term ‘masochist’ a little better, silently admitting that maybe there was something to that psycho-babble bullshit Sam was always talking about.
As the weeks went on they were filled with movies in the Dean-Cave, Cas relaxed beside him wearing Scooby Doo pajama pants and a hoodie that was missing its strings. Researching in the library watching as Cas flipped through a book at lightning speed, wearing a thermal shirt that clung tightly across his chest and did nothing to hide his muscles tensing and flexing as he moved. Drinking a beer at dinner and staring across the table at Cas wearing the ACDC shirt that Dean had predicted would look great on his broad shoulders.
Sometimes he hated being right.
When Dean suggested a grocery run into town and asked Cas to come with, the man had come out of his room wearing a black t-shirt under a deep red flannel, a pair of dark wash jeans that clung to his thighs with a tear over one knee, and laced up boots. Dean’s breath caught in his throat, trapped between a thick tongue and an overbeating heart. Cas looked every bit a Winchester standing there in Dean’s clothes and lightning struck the soft place in Dean’s mind as he finally realized why he’d put the plan into motion to begin with.
Cas was a Winchester in every way that mattered, except the one that Dean had been burying and denying himself all along. It was easier to suppress his feelings, to hide behind that wall and not allow himself that traitorous feeling of hope when he looked like Castiel. Like the angel who had threatened to throw him back into Hell in Bobby’s dark kitchen in the middle of the night. But here in a warmly lit kitchen they called home—wearing clothes Dean had previously slept in—he was Cas, and the wall of denial and resistance crumbled into dust between his fingers. Full of false-bravado and a charm that hadn’t failed him yet, Dean skipped the chick-flick moment and went straight for the punchline at the end of the movie.
“You look good in my clothes, Cas.” Dean smirked and seized the moment with both hands. “You'd look better out of ‘em, though.”
If Dean had to guess, based on the sequence of expressions that crossed over Cas’ face in a matter of seconds, the man had experienced both the lightning strike of inspiration and his world tilting off-axis with long-awaited discovery simultaneously, too.