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It starts when Cas comes back from The Empty.
Jack had used his new Godly powers to drag him out, making Cas mostly human in the process but assuring them that there were no deals or repercussions to worry about.
Dean had been horribly relieved and grateful for Cas' return, but even though they'd all hugged and fucking celebrated—Dean had known that he and Cas needed to have a talk. A private talk. Because a death-bunker confession couldn't exactly get swept under the rug like a pile of inconvenient dust.
So, after Sam had gone to bed and Jack had returned to Heaven, Dean had stiffened his shoulders and visited Cas in the former angel's bedroom. The door had been ajar so he'd knocked lightly, pushing it a little further open.
Cas had been seated on the bed, gently pressing his hands against the mattress as if judging its springiness. He'd lifted his head to look at Dean and although he hadn't really smiled, his eyes had softened.
"Hello Dean."
"Uh, hey, Cas."
He'd cleared his throat, not entirely sure what to say or how to start it. He hadn’t exactly planned a speech while Cas had been gone. He’d been grieving, getting through each day one step at a time—pushing the whole ‘love confession’ thing down so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge how he felt about it.
Now though, he’d lost that luxury.
And, as if he'd sensed something in the tense silence or Dean's awkward posture, Cas had folded his hands, resting them gently in his lap.
"Dean,” he’d said calmly, “I am very grateful to have you as my friend."
"Yeah, uh, I mean, me. Me too, man. Fuckin’—" he’d swallowed. “You’re my best friend, Cas.”
Cas had continued to look at him, all gentle and fond. "That makes me very happy to hear."
Dean hadn’t been able to hold back his flinch or his small, choked sound. Because Cas had made it very fucking clear what made him happy. And what the fuck was he meant to say to that?
‘Glad being my best friend works for you?’
‘You sure my dick wouldn’t make you happier?’
‘Are you going to leave me because it’s not really enough?’
But even though he'd been mentally flailing, Cas had just sighed and stood, walking up to him but stopping just outside of touching distance.
"I know how you feel about me, Dean," he'd begun, voice so gentle as if he was offering Dean comfort. "I do not regret what I said or how I feel, but your friendship is the greatest honour I could gain. Please, allow me to keep it."
"I'm not going to stop being your friend," he'd wrenched out, harsh yet adamant.
Cas had brightened, an expression of outright joy and it had been so reminiscent of how he'd looked before The Empty had taken him that Dean had been unable to stop himself from doing what he hadn’t done then: reaching out and dragging Cas into a tight hug.
Cas had immediately hugged him back, a familiar enveloping closeness that had always made Dean want to melt and stay tucked within it for hours. Normally, he'd have ignored that urge; pulling back and slapping Cas’ shoulder before wandering away, anything to keep that feeling from taking root.
But in that moment? He hadn't. He'd stayed in Cas' arms for a long time, hoping desperately that they could really be okay.
And it had seemed that they were.
In the weeks that had followed, despite Dean worries—his fear of the other shoe dropping or Cas storming off to never return—things had seemed to go back to normal. Cas hadn’t brought up his feelings or behaved any differently. He was the same old funny, grumpy, squinty Castiel and Dean had started to tentatively relax into their familiar friendship. He even started to enjoy the long stretches without hunts—into feeling like he was truly, finally free.
And then Cas had started… wingmanning him.
It had been so far out of left-field that the first time, Dean had whipped his head around in blatant shock, thinking he’d misheard, but Cas had looked so goddamn sincere as he’d pointed out that the 'aesthetically pleasing' woman had been admiring him. Dean had been left to gape, and then pretend it hadn’t happened.
But Cas hadn't stopped. Instead, he'd seemed to take it upon himself to offer the kind of continual and hearty encouragement required of any good wingman. He pointed out flirtatious smiles, nice curves, shy glances—as if his experience in reading the intent of people around him was being put to a very different use.
Dean had tried to ignore it, fervently hoping it would go away quickly if he just didn’t react beyond offering non-committal grunts or half-hearted shrugs. It wasn’t that Cas was a social awkward former angel who wasn’t very good at flirting (which, he was.) No, it was that Cas shouldn't be his wingman. Ever.
Dean might be an asshole in a lot of ways. He might have even been an asshole to Cas during a good portion of their friendship, but he wasn’t so much of a dick that he'd knowingly ask his best friend who was in love with him to try and help him hook up with chicks.
But Cas didn’t seem to get that memo.
‘She had a very nice laugh’ he’d say.
‘I believe she was showing interest in you’ he’d point out.
‘That woman has visually appreciated you three times, you may wish to approach her’ he’d encourage.
It's hardly surprising that, after three weeks of these near-constant fucking suggestions, Dean finally snaps.
Cas had made another comment about a woman at the grocery store and Dean had waited until they’d climbed back into the Impala to whirl on his friend.
“What the fuck, man?” he demands.
Cas blinks at him, looking startled and uncomprehending. A picture of innocence. “Is something the matter, Dean?”
Dean clenches one hand on the steering wheel, with the other he thrusts a finger towards Cas’ nose. “This whole thing. What the hell is your deal?”
Cas almost goes cross-eyed looking at his fingertip, but only continues to look puzzled. “I do not know what—”
“‘She works with children, Dean,’” he parrots. “‘That would be lovely for you.’”
Cas finally frowns. “Yes. I thought my meaning was quite clear. You are very good with children and—”
"So, what?” He snaps, hand moving to gesture vaguely at the store they’d just left. “I should just go over there, ask her out?"
"If you wish it,” he agrees simply, even looking out the windscreen, as if trying to locate the pretty brunette.
It riles something in Dean, and the words tumble out before he can second-guess them. "And then, what? Go get married, have kids, be horrifically happy, is that what you want?"
Cas gives his small little half-smile, Dean can see it even just looking at his profile. There isn’t an ounce of resentment or envy on his face.
"I always enjoy seeing you happy, Dean."
It’s so fucking sincere and it just... it deflates something in Dean, his shoulders slumping. Because maybe they hadn’t talked enough after all? Maybe that conversation in Cas’ room and their extended hug hadn’t patched up the wounds that had ripped through their friendship before Cas’ last not-death.
"Cas," he whispers, his hand finally lowering to flop down in his lap. “You're not... you're not meant to encourage me, man."
Cas turns back, puzzled for a moment before his expression clears with comprehension—and, for just a moment, there is that flash of sadness he'd been expecting long before now.
"Oh, I see," he murmurs, but then he shakes his head. He smiles but Dean still catches a hint of that same sorrow around his eyes. "Dean, your happiness is all I have ever wanted. That it comes through another is not something to be upset over. I have known it to be the case all along." His gaze lowers, his hands folding neatly in his lap. "If someone made you happy? If they could give you the peace and love that you seek and deserve? I would be indebted to them for giving that gift."
Dean’s throat feels dry, his heart starting up a harsh beat in his chest.
"Even when they're not you?" he croaks out.
It's insensitive, it's a fucking asshole comment, and Dean would deserve Cas getting angry, refusing to answer, maybe even working out he isn’t anyone worth loving after all.
But Cas continues to stare at his lap, to smile gently.
There is something so tender in his voice when he says, "Of course, Dean."
It shuts Dean up, hell it fucking floors him, that this person, this angel could so selflessly wish him love, happiness and a family. That he could do it, all while yearning for the very same thing.
Dean stares at Cas for a very long time before forcing his gaze away. He clenches and unclenches his hand around the wheel. When he sees the very brunette that started it all walk past the car with her shopping, Dean watches her but makes no move to get out of the car.
He waits until she’s out of sight to turn on the engine and drive them back to the bunker.
Cas doesn’t say anything, but he hums along quietly when Dean puts some Led Zepplin on to break the silence.
Dean has a dream that night.
He's at a wedding, his own wedding. He’s waiting for a bride to arrive. He knows the pews are filled with friends and family, both dead and living, even if he can’t make out individual faces.
It’s a big church with a long aisle to walk up. Sam is beside him, his best man, unquestioningly… but Castiel is there too. He’s in Jimmy’s original suit, minus the trenchcoat. His tie is still askew, even at a wedding.
When they lock gazes, Castiel smiles at him. There are tears streaming down his face and he looks just like he did before The Empty took him. Dean’s heart races with remembered fear, but he doesn’t move from his position. His hands are clasped in front of him and he’s still tilted towards his soon-to-be-bride, rather than his best friend.
Cas, he wants to say, but no words escape. Cas speaks instead.
"I want you to be happy, Dean,” he says.
The wedding march starts to play and Cas is suddenly in front of him, where the bride would stand. He touches Dean's chest, still looking at him with a mixture of happiness and heartbreak.
"I can't have you, Dean."
He lets Dean go and steps backwards. Dean finally moves. He half-extends a hand, wanting to keep him from leaving.
"I love you, Dean."
Dean wakes up in a cold sweat, feeling like he's just had a nightmare. He doesn’t realise until hours later that he never once saw the face of the bride.
Dean tries to put the dream out of his mind.
It had obviously been a product of his and Cas’ conversation: his discomfort at Cas’ encouragements, and his guilt about what will happen when he finally does find a woman that he likes enough to date.
It’s just been hard to get interested lately.
There’s been so much shit in his past that connecting on any deep level with someone outside the Life just seems impossible. He also has a not insignificant fear that he’ll ruin the life of anyone he dares to trust and love, just by being Dean fucking Winchester.
It means his options for romance are decidedly slim.
Frankly, any sane person should turn tail and run the moment they get too close. It’s a fucking miracle more people haven’t. It’s… well, it’s still shocking that Cas is one of them, that he’s even gone so far as to fall in love.
You’d think the angel would have been around long enough to know better? Instead, he’d said so much stuff. Things that Dean would love to deny until he’s blue in the face, but that he knows Cas believes.
It’s unsettling to be loved so wholly, so unflinchingly. Dean often pokes at it like a bruise, trying to understand why.
And maybe, having a literal angel fall in love with you should have given him some kind of ego or self-esteem boost. It should have made him believe that making a celestial wave of intent have feelings at all meant convincing a pretty midwestern girl to do it would be as easy as snapping his fingers.
But, it doesn’t.
Because, maybe the only reason Cas loves him is because he’s held his soul in his palm? He's been able to filter out the bad stuff to see the shreds of good buried underneath.
Who else would have the patience? Who else would give a damn?
Who else would sit with him watching Dr Sexy when he can’t sleep? Or follow him around with minimal complaints, tilting his head in confusion or flashing small amused grins, just happy to spend time together?
Who else could he have a decade plus worth of history with and still come out the other end never wanting to let them go?
And when Dean pokes the bruise enough to think about all of that, Dean starts to wonder if any girl is ever going to be able to compete. He starts to wonder if maybe, the best thing that could ever happen to him, isn’t already head over heels for his broken, battered ass.
And when Dean thinks that he goes and grabs the whiskey bottle because holy fucking shit, he is not at all ready to have that thought when he is remotely sober.
"It's okay to be uncertain about forming romantic connections, Dean."
Dean tenses, very much not wanting this conversation after the last two days of trying hard not to acknowledge the thoughts he’s been having about Cas. He clenches his hand around the beer he’s been drinking.
Cas remains undeterred, sitting with him in the Dean Cave with his own beer. Goddamn it. He’d been hoping to have a normal fucking night, not whatever bullshit this is.
Thank God Sam isn’t here to witness it and chime in with his own two cents.
"You have felt unable to have them your whole life—”
"Fucking hell, Cas,” he mutters, because it is way too close to the thoughts that had spiralled him into thinking about Cas in the first place.
“Doing so now is—"
"Just shut up, Cas,” he snaps.
His friend looks a little hurt, but Dean cannot deal with it right now. The bruise he’s been prodding is angry, and if he stays any longer, he’ll say something he’ll regret.
Dean pushes up from the chair and stalks away, not looking back at the former angel. He feels Cas’ gaze heavy on his back.
"She seems rather lovely, Dean."
It’s been almost a week since their argument and Dean tenses instinctively.
"... Cas."
But his best friend is unswayed. He stirs more sugar into his diner coffee and continues, “I meant what I said: you are allowed to want these things Dean. You can allow yourself to settle and find happiness."
Dean grits his teeth, staring down at the table rather than the former angel in front of him. Because he just... fuck.
He can't admit that the reason he's gotten so on edge lately isn’t just because he thinks he’ll fuck up and lose anyone he dares to love, but it’s because he… well… he…
Goddamn it, but he’s maybe trying to see if that space in his life he'd half-heartedly imagined for a gorgeous woman couldn't be held by a dorky male best friend.
He’s not sure if he’s more terrified to find out it can’t, or to find out it can.
Before he can answer, their ‘rather lovely’ waitress comes back to take their orders and their menus. Dean smiles tightly and doesn’t flirt back. When she leaves, Cas actually has the audacity to huff.
“Really, Dean. She was—”
“I’m just not interested in her, okay?” he snaps. “Why don’t you just take the fucking win and enjoy me not chasing skirt in front of you?”
The second after he says it, he winces. Cas’ lips pinch and his brow furrows, not so much in displeasure but… disappointment.
“I told you I want you to be happy.”
“Shit, Cas, I…I know.”
“I am trying to be a good friend.”
“You are a good friend.”
“Then let me do this,” he insists, abruptly earnest. His palms press to the table and he even leans forward. His eyes are so fucking blue. “It is an important part of the role of friend and I…” his face twitches subtly, some string of emotion Dean can’t catch, “I can… I can do this for you, Dean.” His eyes go wide with hope and sincerity. “I can help you.”
It is not the most heartbreaking things Dean has ever watched, but fuck if it doesn’t feel right up there.
And for a moment, Dean’s gaze flicks down to Cas’ hands on the table—strong hands, male hands, and yet, it doesn’t quell the sharp urge he feels to cover them with his own and squeeze.
Maybe, I don’t want to let you do this, he thinks. Maybe, you should be a little fucking selfish and try and win me instead.
But he is absolutely not ready for that. So, he curls his hands into fists on his thighs and looks at Cas’ empty sugar packets.
“You help me enough, Cas,” he mumbles. “Don’t need you to set me up with random people.”
There is a brief quiet before Cas says, just as softly, “I just want you to be happy, Dean.”
Dean’s gaze jerks up, meeting Cas’ and seeing a swirl of emotion there: tenderness and devotion, yeah, but also a desperate desire to be believed.
“I know, Cas,” he promises. He also quirks a small, slightly shy smile. “But, I’m uh, pretty happy just having lunch with you, man.”
It’s actually a little endearing, a little cute when Cas’ cheeks go a very faint pink before he looks away and busies himself with tidying up his mess. He doesn't mention the waitress again, and Dean pokes at his relief as incessantly as he pokes at everything else.
It’s another dream.
He’s in a house this time and although it’s familiar—from when he lived with Lisa?—it’s the waitress from the diner who comes into the room with a bright smile and a tray of coffee.
She’s blonde, a petite slip of a thing and there are two boys with her. They’re both younger than Ben and one of them looks so much like Sammy as a kid that he knows, without a doubt, that they’re his sons.
He hugs his wife to his side, because he knows instinctively that’s who she is. She’s small and fragile, but she titters with a laugh and he kisses her cheek as his sons laugh and play in front of him.
It feels like someone else’s happy ending.
Because, he’s abruptly outside looking in—only, he can’t see the happy family, because he’s standing next to Cas. They’re in the front yard and Cas’ hands are in the pockets of his coat. It’s clear he’s watching them and as Dean stands there, rain starts to fall like tears, but Cas doesn’t get wet.
Cas stares at the picture-perfect family with sorrow and longing and Dean's heart clenches at the sight.
“Cas,” Dean whispers, but his best friend doesn't see or hear him. Cas only has eyes for the domestic bliss in front of him; the happily ever after playing out like his own personal torment.
He starts to trudge forward and Dean almost wants to say ‘don’t’ to protect his friend from the nightmare he’s sure to face if he goes inside—but dreams are funny like that, because Cas reaches the door too fast.
Cas rings the bell and Dean braces as it opens. He can’t see who greets him, or his best friend’s face, but he hears a child yell “Uncle Cas!” and swears he hears the sound of someone’s heart breaking.
Dean wakes up and rolls over, coughing over the side of the bed, feeling like there is a weight on his chest and that if he just gags enough, it will dislodge and let him fucking breathe.
Cas remains insistent.
It’s as if he's decided that the keys to Dean's happiness lie in a loving romantic relationship, possibly with kids.
Dean tries really hard not to think why Cas has decided that. Why he thinks it’s the pinnacle of happiness.
(That’s a lie, Dean knows why, and he thinks a lot about Cas imagining that conclusion. If he's pictured it between the two of them and how it would look to Cas? For his part, Dean finds it horribly easy to switch that blonde waitress out of his mind’s eye and put Cas into his arms. He’s still not sure about kissing a guy but… watching their two young sons play in the house they made into their own? Yeah that… that sounds kinda… kinda nice.)
The point is that Cas seems kind of… set on this whole ‘getting him a girlfriend’ thing and he just... he feels uncomfortable. Even pained at times—because every time Cas touches his arm and tilts his head in a not-very-subtle gesture at a potential lover, his gut churns.
When Cas actually says, sounding more earnest than teasing ‘this is my handsome friend, Dean’ like a throwback to when Dean had stupidly said a similar thing, he just about wants to storm away.
Because Cas means it. Cas thinks he’s handsome and wonderful and a bunch of other mushy things, and there is no way the latest woman thinks half of that. She probably thinks he’s hot and might be a good fuck.
Cas doesn’t understand any of the fucking nuances of snagging a wife—and hell, Dean ain’t exactly hot shit either—but Cas is so fucking determined about it and Dean is… Dean doesn’t even know anymore.
And that means, he gets snappish.
“Stop fucking throwing me at them,” he growls, shoving open the bar’s door where he’d been stupid enough to take Cas.
All he’d wanted was some beer and pool, was that too much to ask?
His friend follows him out, a deep frown on his brow. “But they seemed nice—”
“Of course they were fucking nice,” he spits. “They were looking for a hook up, Cas. And, just so you know, two of the fucking three were a lot more interested in fucking you.”
Cas blinks rapidly, looking startled by this piece of information. He then frowns. “I did not want to sleep with them, Dean.”
Don’t I fucking know it.
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not sure he likes the fact that relief had curled through his gut at hearing those words. The same way jealousy had flashed through him hot and searing when he’d noticed the attention Cas was receiving tonight.
“Well, I didn’t want to sleep with them either, you ever think of that?”
Cas is silent, and that silence feels fucking heavy. Dean doesn’t lower his hand, doesn’t really want to look and see.
“Is it because you’re with me?” He sounds so sad that Dean finally jerks to look at his friend.
Cas looks decidedly small. He’s not hugging himself but it looks like a near thing. His eyes are so deep that Dean swears they’d give the ocean a run for their money.
“I never wanted…” he swallows. “It wasn’t meant to harm you, Dean.”
He sounds so genuinely distressed that Dean fucking crumples. He takes the few steps needed to wrap one arm around Cas’ shoulders and draw him into a half-hug.
“S’not that, Cas.” Not exactly, he adds silently. Still not ready to say it out loud. “You don’t pick up a long-term thing at a bar, okay?”
Cas’ brow furrows like he’s weighing the truth of the words. He does however lean a little more into Dean.
“So, it was the location,” he says, still sounding a little sceptical.
Dean sighs. “It was a lot of things.” He lets Cas go and shuffles away. “Now, come on. Let’s just head home. Can get some beers and put on a movie. Whatcha’ say, Cas?”
He looks at the former angel; his perpetually messy hair, his borrowed clothes (they really need to take him shopping) and Dean briefly thinks that in another life or universe or whatever, this could have been the person he picked up at bar. Instead of an arm around Cas’ shoulders, it could have been around his waist. He could have pulled him close, their hips flush…
It sends a jolt through him, but Cas is oblivious. He just nods. “Okay, Dean.”
Dean nods back and forces himself to walk calmly towards the Impala, trying not to feel uneasy over his thoughts. He’s been trying to think about Cas like that, right? Acknowledging that Cas could have been his hook up is a good thing, isn’t it?
Although, he does still shy away from where that would have inevitably ended: kissing, hands under clothes, sex.
He’s not sure he’s ready for that.
He is, however, ready to debate music and what they’re going to watch. He can sink into that with ease because that’s always been something they do—and if his palms feel sweaty on the wheel and he has to wipe them on his pants when he gets back to the bunker, no one needs to know.
Dean would be the first to admit that what happens a few days later is… a mistake.
A big one.
But he’d had a shit night sleep—nightmares this time—and he’d seen Cas in the kitchen and they’d somehow got into an argument and Dean might have snapped something about no one being willing to lay next to someone who dreamt about literal hell.
Sam had come in sometime at the beginning and walked back out with raised hands and a refusal to get involved. It had probably been for the better. Dean had already known that one person would lay beside him, would understand his worst nightmares, soothe and never judge him for them.
That person was the very guy who kept insisting some kind-hearted woman out there would do it, he just had to take a chance and let them.
Yeah, so, he’d been in a fabulous mood when he’d stormed out of the bunker.
And, when he’d run into the pretty brunette from way back in the beginning, well, Dean had done the monumentally stupid thing and taken Cas’ advice. He'd asked for her number, asked her on a date, and she’d said yes.
He’d gone through the motions of arranging a time to see her, not quite able to wrap his mind around it, even as he’d smiled automatically and left with his bags of shopping.
Everything had kind of felt like it was on autopilot, even when he’d returned home and put everything away in the kitchen. It hadn’t been until he was walking by the war room and saw Cas inside that it had hit him with shocking clarity.
He pauses in the doorway, feeling frozen to the spot—but when Cas lifts his head, he doesn’t look soft or sweet or loving. Instead, he tilts his chin, expression stubborn and still clearly believing he’s in the right, that their argument had never resolved.
And fuck if Cas can’t still rub him the wrong fucking way sometimes.
"I'm taking her out,” he says, blurting it before he can think any better of it.
Cas blinks, his haughty expression melting for puzzlement.
"Holly,” Dean presses. “You know. The one who works with kids. Ran into her when I was out." His mouth just won't stop running: “Just as gorgeous and flirty as ever.”
For a beat, Cas' face is set in stone, and Dean feels a surge of something almost triumphant until—he smiles. It’s so gentle, so tender.
"I hope you have a lovely evening, Dean. You would deserve that and she seems very friendly.”
Dean cannot reasonably explain (or no, he doesn’t want to explain) why he wants to curls his hands into fists, maybe shove Cas until he fucking does something.
Like tells him he shouldn’t go, that he has to stay here with Cas. Or acts unhappy, because no one can understand Dean like he can. Or kisses him, because Cas wants him all to himself, because Cas loves him and wants him and…
But Cas does none of that, because of course not. He’s the perfect best friend, not about to let some inconvenient, unrequited feelings get in the way. He wants Dean happy, wants him to get a girlfriend and some kind of apple pie life: a domestically sappy future that doesn’t involve a former angel who willingly sacrificed himself to black fucking goop for the human he loved.
Dean has to resist stomping down the hall like a sulking teenager when he leaves the room.
His insides continue to churn for the rest of the day and when Sam gently punches his shoulder later, congratulating him because Cas apparently shared the news, Dean feels nothing but a wish that something could come up to make him cancel the date.
But, if Jack is listening to prayers, he doesn’t deign to answer.
The date goes… well. He almost feels betrayed by it.
And, okay, it’s not perfect, but it goes as good as Dean can expect from any dinner with someone who doesn’t know the Life, doesn’t know his past, and isn’t looking for a one-night stand with the guy from out of town.
Maybe, this is what normal people would consider a success?
Dean is not normal. Hasn’t been for a long time—especially since… well, Cas.
The former angel is still up and reading in the library when Dean gets back. Despite being mostly human, Cas still sleeps less than him and Sam. He does have to wonder if Cas wasn’t waiting here for this very moment; hopeful and wary to see how the evening panned out.
He lowers his book, looking nothing but curious. "Did your evening go well, Dean?"
Luke fucking warm is the answer, and Dean knows it wasn’t the girl; it was all him. His mind too caught on Cas; on his soft smile, his dorky air quotes, and stubborn pride.
And perversely, Dean just wants to fucking push.
So, he flashes a bright smile, leans against the wall and says, “You betcha’, Cas. Did you know she loves to make pies?”
It’s not even a lie. She has a family apple pie recipe and everything. And for just a moment, one flicker of a second—that Dean could almost believe he imagined if he wasn’t looking—Cas’ face falls, hurt and sadness like a ripple in the otherwise calm surface.
He straightens, feeling the first sting of guilt. “Cas.”
But, Cas smiles; serene and impenetrable.
“I’m very pleased for you, Dean.” He exhales, and if it’s a little bit rougher than usual, it only makes Dean feel worse. “Please, continue.”
He even shuts his book, but Dean is closing the distance. “Hey, Cas, no—”
“Dean.” Cas holds up his hand, meeting Dean’s gaze and holding it. “I will not have you feeling uncomfortable. Do not ruin your night on my account.”
He shakes his head. “No, fuck, man. I didn’t… I was being an ass. The date wasn’t that good, really.”
Cas squints, sad and disappointed. “Dean, don’t lie to me.”
“I wasn’t, man. Seriously. It wasn’t that great. Kinda dull.” He ducks his head a little, flashes a sweet, hopeful smile before he realises what he’s doing. “Rather be here, watching some dumb documentary with you.”
He recognises, a little belatedly, that he’s… flirting. With Cas. Or well, doing the kind of thing he does automatically to charm a pretty lady into buying his bullshit, or letting him see some files he definitely wasn’t meant to see.
He’s never pulled that on Cas before, but he sees the way heat crawls up Cas’ neck, dusting his cheeks and even his ears. It’s kind of fascinating. And adorable.
“Dean,” he huffs out, sounding so horribly flustered.
He can’t meet Dean’s gaze as he lifts a hand, weakly pushing against his chest to try and make him step back. Dean feels too frozen to move—because, right here, right now? He feels the zipping excitement, attraction and fondness that he’d never had even a glimmer of with Holly.
It’s all here, all for Cas.
Dean licks his lips, and his hand twitches, wanting to reach up and do… something, but Sam’s heavy footfalls approaching makes Dean stiffen and jerk back, opening the distance between them again.
But even as he moves, he can’t look away from Cas: the way he shuts his eyes, shakily exhaling and looking both relieved and bereft.
Dean tosses and turns that night, getting tangling up in the sheets and falling into a fitful doze at some ungodly hour of the morning.
He dreams of a long road, the Impala and Cas at his side. There’s no music, but his best friend hums a soft, comforting tune.
“I might be terrible at this,” Dean confesses, starting in the middle because he knows Cas will get it.
Cas smiles and huffs a laugh.
“You wouldn’t be terrible,” he says confidently.
“I might be.” Dean glances over quickly. “You might regret it.”
You might leave, he doesn't add.
Cas shakes his head. “I would have spent our whole lives loving you from afar, Dean. Loving you any closer than I already am? It would be beyond my wildest hopes.”
“But you never tried,” Dean whispers, a small kernel of insecurity unfolding. “You kept giving me away.”
Cas looks over, smiling so tenderly, so lovingly. “Because you were never mine, Dean. I knew that all along.”
Dean swallows a choked noise and reaches out his hand across the space—this time, unlike in the diner, he clasps a warm, strong, masculine hand and feels a surge of elation and relief.
When he wakes up, his hand is stretched out across the bed, reaching for someone who isn’t there, but Dean can finally admit, he wants to be.
“Get up, Cas.”
It had taken Dean the better part of the morning and three cups of coffee (he barely resisted a shot of liquid courage), but he’s showered, paced his room and now he’s here and he’s refusing to back down.
Cas looks confused at his command, but he stands from his seat at the kitchen table regardless. “Dean?”
Dean curls his hands in and out of fists at his sides. He’d thought about the best way to do this, but he’s not a words guy. He can’t handle the mushy stuff. He’s got to do this quick and fast, like a bandaid.
“Farmer’s market,” he forces out. “You said… you said that would be a good place to take a… a date.”
He’d been suggesting Dean take a girl, but Dean hadn’t been interested. Truthfully, he’d really hated listening to Cas gush about a place he’d love to attend, but was voluntarily giving away the experience to someone else.
“Yes,” Cas says simply, smiling faintly—maybe even wistfully. “It has many nice things there.”
“Good,” Dean says, swallows. “Then go get ready or whatever.”
Cas blinks at him, multiple times, a frown beginning to form. “What am I getting ready for?”
“Farmers market,” Dean grunts out—pauses, takes a deep breath and adds, making sure his voice softens: “Date.”
He sees the moment it clicks. Cas goes eerily still. It’s like a throwback to when he was an angel and could become a living statue. But Cas is human now, so Dean watches his breath quicken and how he swallows harshly. Longing also flickers across his expression—enough of it to drown the world or fill the Chrysler building: an angel’s love, trapped in a flimsy mortal shell.
“Dean,” Cas whispers, so clearly afraid to be wrong.
Dean wasn’t going to waver, but that near-crumpled expression removes any doubt. He walks up to his best friend. Cas stares at him the entire time, expression almost too emotive, like looking in the sun or Cas’ true form; stare too long and it’ll burn out his retinas.
Dean stops in front of him and does what he’s been thinking about for ages and what was so easy in his dream: he takes Cas’ hand.
Cas jumps and looks down, so Dean goes further, pressing their palms together and linking their fingers. They’re holding hands, it’s a purely romantic gesture and Cas makes a small, strangled sound, his hand jerks but then he’s squeezing so tightly it nearly hurts.
“Dean,” he says again, and it sounds just as faltering and unsure.
“I keep hearing that I should try to be happy,” he murmurs. “That I should find someone to date, fall in love with and marry. All that chick-flick shit.”
He can hear Cas’ stuttered breathing and his best friend’s eyes are so wide. Dean tilts his head a little, smiles his best boyish smile.
Flirting, Cas, I’m flirting with you.
“So, what you say, sunshine? Wanna date me?”
Cas’ chin very faintly trembles and he shuts his eyes tightly. “Dean.”
There is a wealth of emotion in that word, a plea that Dean hears so clearly.
Because helping him find a woman and be happy didn’t hurt the same way. Cas had written himself off, exchanged his happiness for Dean’s without hesitation because it was out of the question to have both, so two out of three ain’t bad.
Dean much prefers a double-win.
And, to prove it, he tips forward and very gently presses his lips to Castiel’s.
Cas sucks in a sharp, gasping breath and then he just… chokes—not quite a sob, not quite a whine. His hand darts up and grips Dean’s jacket, fingers curling in tightly. Dean hums a small sound of comfort, thumb rubbing the back of Cas’ hand.
Cas gasps, and his parted lips against Dean’s give him a whole host of ideas—but Dean pushes them aside to peek open an eye and whisper, “Cas?”
“Say it again,” he whispers.
Dean blinks. “Uh. Date me?”
Cas shudders and Dean is starting to really worry he's miscalculated this whole thing—when Cas just… relaxes, so swiftly that Dean double-checks he didn’t just faint or something. But Cas is just… smiling, the expression getting bigger the longer Dean watches him.
“Cas?” he asks softly.
Cas bites his bottom lip, looks down at their hands, then up from under his eyelashes in a way that could have been coquettish but is really just sweetly shy. He looks so honestly joyful that it makes Dean feel a little dazed.
“I would like to date you,” Cas says, sincere and happier than Dean thinks he’s ever seen. “So very, very much.”
It makes him blush a little himself. Dean clears his throat and says, “Yeah? Well, cool.”
He clears it again, but Cas keeps beaming like he’s just won a million fucking bucks. Jesus.
“So, you uh, need to get changed or anything?”
Cas shakes his head, but doesn’t break eye-contact, like Dean is the only thing worth staring at in the entire world.
“Fuck, man,” he mutters, glancing away. “You gotta stop looking at me like that, I’m gonna get a fucking complex.”
“I apologise,” Cas says, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But I’m afraid that I will not be able to ‘wipe the smile off my face’ today.”
And God, he even does air quotes with one hand, seemingly unwilling to let Dean go to fully commit to the action. What a dork. What a lovesick fucking idiot. What a… a lucky asshole Dean is to have that, to have Cas.
“All right, all right,” he mumbles. “Stop sweet-talking, you already hooked me, okay?”
If possible, Cas only smiles wider. He also ducks his head a little, ears and cheeks going pink with a fetching blush. Dean can’t help smiling back, his heart fluttering in his chest, and it makes him think that maybe this whole domestic happiness thing isn’t going to be too hard to achieve.
He should probably thank his wingman for that.