Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dean doesn’t leave Castiel’s room for three days.

In here it smells like him, and the last fading remnants of his magic are comforting in a way that, late at night when Dean is curled up in the bed, he can imagine that Castiel is there with him. It’s safe, it’s quiet, and no one bothers him. He comes out at night when everyone else is sleeping so he can eat, but he stays scarce during the day. He knows that the lavender and patchouli scent will fade, knows that Castiel’s magic will disperse and disappear, and he wants to cling onto it for as long as possible. He catches sleep in catnaps, the nightmares too frequent to offer him any sort of real rest.

Nightmares about that bloody sigil carved into Castiel’s flesh, about that last, melancholy look in blue eyes.

Castiel had used the last of his magic to transport Dean to safety before he blew a crater into the Earth.

The media has been all over the cemetery. The very day of the battle, after everything was over and Dean had stumbled inside, Rowena turned on the television. The magical sphere kept anything outside of the cemetery from being damaged. The blast was felt for miles. The hole it left behind had everyone scratching their heads. Freak meteor strike, someone had suggested. Dean couldn’t watch any longer, unwilling to listen to debates over what happened when he knew exactly what went down.

What’s more is that all the missing husbands that Castiel had promised to return all appeared on their own doorstep with seemingly no recollection of having been gone, or taken. Benny had reported that news on his own and Dean felt thankful that the wives had closure and happiness, but a dark part of him felt bitter about the fact that they got their happy ending and he was left… empty.

He keeps the bedroom dark. He showers by candlelight. The book Castiel left on the vanity is still there, untouched, and Dean can barely look at it. He feels Castiel’s absence like a hole in his head. He doesn’t know what happens to magical people when they die. Do they go to Heaven? Lucifer went to Hell, bound to the deal Gabriel made with the Devil. But what about Castiel and Jack? Is there a witch Heaven? Or maybe some sort of alternate reality, similar to Heaven, where white witches gather in the afterlife?

Dean doesn’t cry. He oscillates between mind-numbing nothingness and bouts of rage, either staring into the darkness or taking out his anger on anything breakable. When he breaks things, though, that leads to guilt, so he uses what little magic he knows to mend vases and bookshelves and figurines.

Someone has cleared all of the alcohol out of the house, Dean discovered the first night.

Probably Sam.

No one interrupts him, no one tries to talk to him or console him. His despair is a blanket over the entire house, his broken bond a nasty, shattered thing, contagious in its negativity. Sometimes Dean is pretty sure he’s totally alone in the house, but most times Dean knows that, at the minimum, Sam is down the hall in the guest room.

He doesn’t always dream about Castiel.

He dreams about Jack, too.

Pragmatic Jack, who thought so simply in black and white. Jack, whose strongest power and greatest curse was the power of Sight.

He knew how things were going to end. Knew every possible outcome. Castiel didn’t trigger that blood sigil on his own.

On the fourth day of solitude, Dean decides to leave the bedroom while the sun shines high in the sky. He’s wearing clean sweats and a clean t-shirt, quietly walking down the hallway, ears pricked. No sound from the second floor. It’s just after eleven, so if he’s lucky, everyone is off busy doing something else. The bookstore is still open and Sam is still its owner, and Dean knows he’s probably been ensuring that everything's still fine there.

He makes it all the way to the kitchen without seeing anyone. Lavender and patchouli cling to his clothes and he holds onto that comforting scent, turning away from the kitchen island and walking towards the french doors, suddenly not hungry. Opening them takes a lot of mental fortitude, since Dean hasn’t set foot outside since locking himself in Castiel’s room, but once he feels the sun on his skin he lets out a pleased sigh, walking out onto the porch. The wood is warm under his bare feet and he stands at the railing, bending to fold his arms on it as he peers out at the backyard. It’s calm today. Warm, sunny. Deceptively peaceful.

Some parts of Castiel’s garden have died.

Dean pointedly doesn’t look at the dead flowers, instead surveying the treeline. He doesn’t feel any less depressed about Castiel being gone, but this is at least a step towards healing, he thinks. One step at a time. He knows he shouldn’t try to do it alone, but he’s still nervous to see anyone. He knows they’ll look at him with guilt, with pity, and he doesn’t think he can stomach that.

He already feels guilty and pitiful enough.

His chest feels empty. He hasn’t looked at himself in the mirror at all; he’ll see Castiel’s brand, his marks. He’ll see the ghost he can’t face.

His eyes sting. Hanging his head, Dean stares at the grain of the wood under his arms, fighting back the tears. Anger starts bubbling up in his gut once more and he straightens, gripping the railing tightly as he tips his head back. He stares at the ceiling of the porch, takes in a few shuddery breaths, and then clenches his fist to punch the wood pillar in a spark of fury. Pain blossoms up from his knuckles all the way to his shoulder but he ignores it, swinging with his other hand. The wood barely budges.

Dean lets out an anguished sound and sinks to his knees, one hand still up on the railing, his other palm pressing against the ache behind his sternum, head hanging.

“You fucking idiot,” Dean says out loud. “You could have lived.” He sits back on his haunches, staring out at the sky. “I was gonna make a deal, man. I was gonna save your life and you-” he scrubs a hand over his mouth, then yells furiously. “You took that away from me! You fucking asshole!”

A few birds scatter from the surrounding trees. Feeling his energy drain from his body, Dean slumps and presses his head to one of the slats of the porch railing. Closing his eyes, Dean feels a fine tremble run through his frame, his breath hitching with a choked back sob.

“You asshole,” he says quieter, weaker.

He doesn’t know how long he kneels there. When he shifts his knees protest and his thighs burn as he stands, using the railing to help heft himself up. He wearily walks back inside, shutting the french doors behind him. The basement door stares at him and without really thinking about it Dean opens the door, mildly surprised that it’s not locked. He goes down the stairs slowly, and is once again hit with that lavender and patchouli smell, along with a faint trace of burning embers and ozone. He checks the candles to make sure they’re not lit, because the extra layers of the scent seem a little too fresh, and then he stands in the center of the room in front of the altar. Very slowly he lowers himself to kneel on the cushion left there from whenever Castiel meditated last, his legs unwilling to bend again so soon after kneeling on the hard wood of the porch. Shifting himself to sit cross-legged, Dean rests his palms on his knees, staring at the altar.

Castiel used to meditate frequently. Dean was never any good at it, unable to shut off his brain long enough to feel any sort of true calm. Right now, sitting in front of Castiel’s altar, on Castiel’s cushion, surrounded by Castiel’s magic, Dean closes his eyes and wills himself to calm down.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Find calm.

A slight popping noise makes him open his eyes. One of the candles on the altar has been lit. Brow furrowing in confusion, Dean stares at the candle for a minute before closing his eyes again, relaxing once more.

Two more pops.

Dean’s eyes open again. Three of the seven candles are lit. Drumming his fingers over his knee thoughtfully, Dean closes his eyes once more. This time he keeps them closed, breathing deeply and thoroughly, feeling the air cleanse his lungs and purify him from the inside out. More pops, and then a loud crack!, which has Dean jumping slightly and opening his eyes to look at the altar.

All of the candles are lit, including the black one in the center.

Dean didn’t do it. At least- he’s pretty sure he didn’t do it. Tilting his head, he gets up off of the cushion and walks towards the altar. The wood frame of it trembles slightly and when Dean reaches out to touch it, an electric shock passes through his hand. Hissing and drawing back, Dean purses his lips to blow out the candles - but then the floorboards beneath him rumble slightly. Looking down at his feet, Dean turns around slowly so he can face the rest of the room. Underneath the cushion the rattling intensifies, and Dean sees some of the boards actually lift - a strategic shape and amount of them, actually.

It looks like a trap door.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The rattling intensifies and he feels the heat of the flames behind him, and then just as quickly as it started, everything stops. Glancing around, suspicious, Dean steps towards the trap door. He moves the cushion aside and sees the tiniest knothole in the wood; curiously, he reaches down and puts his pinky finger inside, hooking and lifting gently.

The trap door bursts open with such force Dean gets knocked back on his ass, dust swirling in the sunlight streaming in from the egress windows. He watches a shrouded figure levitate out of the hole, draped in black robes, and fear grips him tightly. He’s not powerful enough to fight. What can he do without Castiel? Scrambling backwards, Dean’s shoulders bumps against the altar, nearly knocking it over. The shrouded figure lands on the floor, blue smoke flowing sinuously from beneath its robes. Gloved hands reach up to its hood and Dean clenches his teeth, finding the irony of surviving Lucifer only to die in his own frigging basement a bit too much to handle.

The hood lowers, and all of the breath gets sucked out of Dean’s lungs.

It’s Castiel.

It’s Castiel.

Dean is frozen. His heart isn’t beating, his lungs aren’t breathing. From the trap door another figure emerges wearing blue robes and when its hood lowers it’s Jack, cheeks dimpled as he smiles at Dean. Castiel’s expression is soft, open, and Dean feels a pulse behind his sternum.

Castiel and Jack are dirty, smudged in dust and dirt, hair stuck in clumps.

For a heart stopping moment, Dean isn’t sure if what he’s seeing is real. But then the pulse behind his sternum blooms, the bond between hunter and warlock solidifying once more and filling him in every way that only Castiel can, and the air leaves Dean’s lungs in a pained woosh.

It’s really them.

This isn’t a trick.

They meet halfway, Dean awkwardly launching himself up on weak legs as Castiel bends. Arms around each other they sink to the floor, Dean sobbing in relief, clutching tightly to Castiel and holding him so tight he might actually break him. Castiel takes it in stride, petting his hair, rubbing his shoulders, rocking them gently from side to side. All the pain, all the loss and sorrow, it vanishes. Castiel murmurs Russian words in Dean’s ear that he can’t decipher but feels them deep in his soul, and when they finally break away Dean looks up at the warlock through tears, clutching to the material of his black robes.

“Cas,” he breathes out.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets in that low voice of his, calm and serene.

Dean winds up and punches him square in the jaw. Castiel falls onto his butt in surprise and Jack hurries to his side, sending wide eyes to Dean.

“You idiot,” Dean hiccups through a sob. “You fucking asshole, don’t you ever do anything like that again!”

Castiel actually manages to laugh, reaching up to tenderly touch his jaw, blue eyes alight as he regards Dean. “It won’t be necessary.”

Dean slumps back against the altar, pressing his hands over his eyes. “Jesus. Tell me it worked.”

“It did,” Jack says cheerfully. “Thanks to your distraction, Castiel was able to detonate my bomb. Lucifer is gone.”

The images flash in Dean’s mind, causing him to press the heels of his palms harder into his sockets. “Yeah, still kinda messed up from it.” He saw them die.

“Dean,” Castiel kneels in front of the hunter, reaching out to grasp his wrists gently to lower his hands from his face. He catches his eye and says, “I am sorry you had to see that. And I am sorry I could not return to you until now.”

“Where did you even come from?” Dean asks, gaze sliding towards the trap door, which Jack is currently shutting. “Did you really die?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, his tone heavy. “We did. The instant Jack detonated, I transported our souls here.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “What?”

Castiel helps him to his feet, holding his hands gently. “Our bodies perished, but I managed to save our souls. Under this house is sacred ground. As long as a soul gets buried in the dirt, new body may arise.”

“You’ve got magic dirt under the house?” Dean asks incredulously.

Castiel smiles wryly. “I have many tricks up my sleeve, Dean. Our souls burrowed in the dirt and had to rest for two days and two nights. Then, our bodies formed. And once we were strong enough, we were able to dig ourselves out of our graves… and now we are here.” Castiel says, using their joined hands to gesture to the here and now.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Dean asks, hurt and anger lacing his voice. “I spent all that time- I- I mourned you.”

“Ritual magic is finicky,” Castiel says softly, “and raising someone from the dead crosses a line. Since you and I are bonded, it was necessary for you to believe me dead for the magic to work.”

Dean tenses his jaw. Forced necromancy. “That’s shitty. That’s fucking shitty Cas, and you know it.”

“I do not make the rules,” Castiel says, apology in his voice. “But Jack and I are here now, reborn, and you needn’t mourn any longer.”

Dean huffs out a watery laugh. Castiel is still so Cas and he’s infinitely thankful that dying and coming back to life doesn’t seem to have changed him at all. Feeling himself growing weak, Dean leans forward and rests his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder. Closing his eyes, he inhales lavender and patchouli, fire and ozone, earth and dirt. Castiel holds tightly to him.

For the first time since the explosion, Dean allows the weariness and exhaustion in his bones to sweep him away into slumber.

Castiel is back.

Castiel is alive.

--**--

Castiel had suspected that as soon as Dean knew he was alive and safe, he would pass out. Castiel knows Dean well enough to know that Dean had kept himself up to all sorts of odd hours and probably rarely slept. He also knows Dean well enough to know that he would have neglected himself in some warped display of guilt. So Dean is slightly thinner, paler, and there are heavy bags under his eyes - all things Castiel had expected, but is still pained to see. After tucking Dean into bed and murmuring a spell to keep him asleep until his body is sufficiently recharged, Castiel descends the stairs.

Gabriel bursts into the front door, Sam in tow, and punches Castiel exactly where Dean had earlier.

“You IMBECILE,” Gabriel yells.

Sam places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Gabriel’s eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks puffy and swollen, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Sam doesn’t look much better, his tall form hunched slightly from tiredness and emotional wear. Castiel rubs his jaw, works it around a bit with his fingers, and then sends Gabriel a soft smile.

“Good afternoon, Gabriel.”

“You,” Gabriel puts his pointer finger directly in Castiel’s chest, “got a lotta fuckin’ nerve.” He gestures at the black robes hanging from Castiel’s body. “You preach all the time about necromancy being the point of no return, and look at this!”

“It was not necromancy, Gabriel,” Castiel says patiently. He looks towards Sam, “Would you like some lunch?”

Jack comes from the living room and brightens considerably, walking over towards Sam and immediately pressing himself into the man’s side for a hug, which is returned tenderly. From over Jack’s head Sam nods, and they all shuffle into the kitchen, Gabriel still muttering under his breath.

“You said the soil was still in its trial stages,” Gabriel says as he sits on a stool, arms folded petulantly over his chest. “Said you couldn’t even bring back a flower.”

“That is true,” Castiel says as he puts the kettle on. “I wasn’t sure I could do it. Transporting Dean back here and then also moving our souls… I thought for sure I wouldn’t be able to come back.”

“So then what was different?” Sam asks. Jack is still glued to his side, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Dean,” Castiel says simply. “He mourned our broken bond so strongly it reached me in Limbo, which is how far our souls initially got.” Gabriel shudders at the mention of that place. “Drawing on his power from there, I was able to guide us back here. I think without Dean… we would have been dead for good.”

Gabriel snorts, “How cliche. ‘Love will save us all’. What bullshit.”

Castiel sends him an even look, “You know as well as I that our magic thrives off of pure connections.”

“That’s a pretty boring way to say Dean’s bleeding heart brought you back from the dead,” Gabriel mutters.

“Are you going to give me attitude for my magic, or are you happy to see me?” Castiel grouses. “With Lucifer gone I am the most powerful warlock. Is it really so unbelievable that I could bring myself back from the dead?”

“Well when you put it like that,” Gabriel huffs. “Also: check your ego.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “If it weren’t for Dean’s will, I would not be here. Is that less ego?”

“Back from the dead for less than a day and back to being a pain in my ass,” Gabriel mutters, even though his eyes are bright with amusement.

The kettle squeals and Castiel steeps four mugs of tea, passing them out. He then sets about making sandwiches for everyone; just simple things, nothing too extravagant. It’s clear groceries haven’t been replenished in the past week so pickings are slim. No one complains though and once their plates are picked clean and cleared, Castiel lets out a little breath.

“I do feel guilty for leaving you all in the dark,” he admits. “But you would not have let me carry out the plan and we would have lost.”

He’s met with silence.

After a beat, Sam says quietly, “Dean was gonna sacrifice himself for you. Bond to Lucifer so the rest of us could go free.”

Castiel smiles grimly. “I heard him. I am only glad we were able to detonate the bomb before Lucifer could take hold of him.”

“It was a close call. Too close.” Gabriel continues. “Your boy was dumb enough to even come up with that plan.”

“I don’t think it was stupid,” Castiel counters. “I thought it was admirable. Through everything we have gone through… with the possible outcome being either apocalypse or join with evil, Dean was ready to make a righteous sacrifice. It wouldn’t have stopped Lucifer entirely, but it would have slowed him down enough for us to come up with another plan. It may have seemed like an irrational decision to you, Gabriel, but I know Dean was thinking at least two steps ahead in offering himself to Lucifer. He shot him with witch killing bullet at the last second, cementing his death, you know.” His eyes narrow. “You don’t give him enough credit.”

Gabriel raises his hands in innocence, “I’m not dissing him Cassie. I’m just saying, it was reckless.”

“And no matter what he did, the outcome was still the same. We defeated Lucifer and stopped the apocalypse.” Castiel replies evenly. “It would do you some good to show Dean respect, Gabriel. He was willing to give his life for you. For all of us.”

Gabriel is properly cowed by Castiel’s words. Sam looks fairly solemn, and Castiel catches him sending a long glance towards the staircase.

“He needs rest,” Castiel says softly. “You are welcome to stay here until he wakes, but it might be a day or so.”

Sam shakes his head, grimacing. “No, I gotta get back to the bookstore. Kevin and Alfie are running it but I don’t want to leave them alone for too long.”

Castiel warms at the mention of Dean’s employees back to work. “Of course, Sam. Come back when you can.”

Nodding, Sam gets off of his stool and sends a meaningful look to Gabriel, who looks like he’s gearing up for an argument - but he deflates at the last second, grumbling.

“Fine, fine. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

Jack sends Castiel a curious glance, and then seems to make a decision as he too stands from his stool. “Sam, may I come with you?”

Sam blinks curiously, looking over at Castiel, who also looks mildly confused. “Sure, Jack. Need to pack a bag?”

Jack shakes his head, “No, I left one at your house.”

Sam offers Jack a small smile. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Gabriel is the last to leave the kitchen. He hovers in the doorway as Sam and Jack head outside, and Castiel is busy steeping another teabag, not giving in to Gabriel’s puppy dog eyes. After a moment Gabriel lets out a blustery sigh, and then says under his breath, “I’m glad you’re back, Castiel.”

Castiel smiles at his mug when he hears the front door shut. He has a few phone calls to make.

--

Dean wakes approximately twenty-four hours later. Castiel senses his awareness immediately and gets up from the couch to head up the stairs, peeking into the master bedroom. Dean is sitting up against the padded headboard rubbing his eyes and Castiel’s heart melts as he slips into the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Dean looks up with surprised eyes, like he can’t believe it all over again, and Castiel is at his side in the next moment, wrapping Dean up in his arms. Again Dean weeps, openly and brokenly, clinging to Castiel with his face pressed into the crook of his neck, and Castiel feels the loss all at once, feels all the pain Dean went through alone in his absence.

He lets Dean cry until the tears won’t come anymore, and then he helps Dean up to lead him to the bathroom. He sets Dean down on the stool and then works on drawing the bath, dumping all of the calming salts into the water, and all of the aches and pains for good measure. He murmurs a prayer under his breath and then kisses his fingertips, bending to run them through the milky water, watching the color shift from white to soft orchid. Turning towards Dean it’s a little concerning to see green eyes fixated on the floor, Castiel’s heart clenching in reply.

“Let us get you undressed,” Castiel speaks softly, barely heard over the rush of the bath water.

Carefully, Castiel pulls the shirt off over Dean’s head, dropping it to the floor. He helps Dean stand, dropping a kiss to a freckled shoulder as he pushes down rumpled sweatpants and boxers. Dean’s lack of reaction to being naked is worrisome. But he goes willingly when Castiel guides him to the bath, sinking down into the steaming water with a flutter of his long, golden lashes. It only takes a moment of deliberation before Castiel strips as well, climbing into the bathtub behind Dean, drawing the man’s back to his chest, his legs bracketing his frame.

Dean settles into him. He comes to himself with every deep breath of the crystals, and Castiel feels the tension physically leaving his body as he relaxes. Dean’s head tips back against Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel grabs a washcloth, wetting it and dragging it slowly across Dean’s torso, his fingertips following the milky trail to press into the magical marks burned into Dean’s skin. It’s intimate. It’s the closest they’ve ever been with no expectations, and Castiel cherishes it. Dean is still upset over Castiel’s decisions, he knows, but the bath will help him let go of the negativity that had infiltrated his brain - negativity that not only brewed from Lucifer’s dark magic touching his mind, but negativity brought by a broken bond.

They sit in silence for fifteen minutes, Castiel aimlessly dragging the cloth over Dean’s skin.

“Jack said he’s able to see all possibilities of a future,” Dean says, low voice breaking the silence. “That nothing is set in stone, because people can change their own destiny. So he can’t predict the exact future, but he can see all the different timelines.”

Castiel hums. He’d been wondering if Dean had gotten around to asking Jack what his powers were, and he’s glad he’s not disappointed. “This is true.”

“Did he tell you what he saw?” Dean asks. “Before you carved that sigil into your chest… did you know I was gonna offer myself to Lucifer?”

“It had been brought up as a possibility,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “I had thought of it before Jack had even said anything.”

“When did you know you were gonna do it?” Dean’s voice is still soft. Tired. There’s no heat in his words, just genuine curiosity.

“When Rowena performed the spell to give me power over the bomb,” Castiel says.

Dean’s head lolls a bit, turning towards Castiel’s neck. “You’re such an asshole,” he whispers, breath puffing over the slope of Castiel’s throat. He shifts a little, water sloshing as he turns to face Castiel. Instead of angry his eyes are desperate, brows knit. “Don’t ever do anything like that again without talkin’ to me about it. I don’t care what stupid plan you come up with, you can’t leave me in the dark like that again.”

Smiling softly Castiel reaches up to cup Dean’s chin, stroking wet thumbs over freckled cheekbones. “I won’t, Dean. The war is over. I am by your side, always.”

Dean’s eyes glisten but he doesn’t cry, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. After a shaky inhale and long exhale, “If you think dying and coming back to life is a ticket into my pants, you’re in for a big surprise, bud.”

Castiel huffs out a surprised laugh, pulling back slightly to look at Dean, whose expression has turned soft and amused, despite the quiver in his lips. Moving a thumb to press gently against Dean’s plush lower lip, Castiel drags his gaze over Dean’s face, committing every curve and shadow to memory. “I have no such expectations.”

Dean shifts again to resume his position reclined against Castiel’s chest. He’s breathing steadier, his heartbeat regulated, and when he lets out a soft breath, Castiel knows he’s finally feeling more like himself.

They stay in the bath, the milky orchid-colored water cleansing them of their ailments, emotional and physical, their bond strengthening and reaching towards one another to entwine them stronger than before. The road to recovery will be a long one. Castiel isn’t naive enough to think that Dean will forgive him so easily, but he’s brave enough to know that the day will come.

For now, he is thankful to be alive.

For now, he is thankful to have Dean with him once more.

The rest they will take on together.

--**--

It takes Dean another few days to come back to his true self. A lot of food, a lot of bad movies, some beer, and nights cuddled up in the safety of Castiel’s embrace have him right as rain, more or less. He heads back to town to finally meet with his landlord and insurance providers to talk about rebuilding, and even though the site of his cafe is cleared of all the rubble and now just an empty slab, he still vividly remembers the wreckage and the blood stains of his employee’s lifeless body. But he soldiers on, signs a few pieces of paper, and changes the name of the cafe to Mik’s, grand opening set for a year from now. Since it will be an entirely new building Dean has been given permission to draw up new blueprints, which he’s definitely excited about. Alfie and Kevin remain at Uncle Bobby’s Books to help Sam until the cafe is back up and running, and on the non-magic front, things are looking good.

Sam moves in with Gabriel, and it doesn’t take a lot of thought for Dean to decide to sell the townhouse and move in with Castiel. He sees less of Charlie, which Castiel mentions is actually pretty normal; aside from being one of Castiel’s best confidants, Charlie also runs an IT business out of her home. Rowena disappears again, another thing Castiel says is normal, and Dean isn’t exactly sad to see her go.

Every time Dean spends a moment with Jack he finds himself softening, warming. He pats Jack’s shoulder, ruffles his hair, draws him into one-armed hugs. That paternal instinct rears strong whenever they’re together and instead of fighting it and pretending it doesn’t exist, he welcomes it. Jack does, too. It’s a good feeling. Despite everyone being well aware that Jack can take care of himself, Dean is thankful that Jack allows him to be protective over him and, on occasion, mother hen him.

Three months after what was almost the apocalypse, snow falls. It blankets the city in white, and Dean takes the time to admire the Quincy neighborhood for the short time it will be untouched. After the initial snowfall the residents will be out and about once more, footprints in powder, the streets turning slushy and grey from cars passing and Christmas decorations hung proudly. Dean’s got a satchel draped over his shoulder along with plastic tubes holding his completed blueprints and when he enters the cafe he’s surprised to see Castiel inside, alone among the bare bones of the foundation and outside structure. With all of the external walls erected and insulated it’s time to figure out the internal layout and decide what goes where, something Dean has been all too excited about.

It’s normal. It’s mundane.

Castiel has gone back to being Dmitri, though he has a greatly different reputation now that news has gotten around that Lucifer will never be back. He still visits the housewives, even though their missing husbands have returned, and Benny still flanks him, looking intimidating as ever. Now Dmitri Krushnic is a force for good all on his own, operating in ways that the police cannot; it had only taken him two months to clear out any and all crime and drug lords in the greater Boston area, and aside from petty crimes, the city is as peaceful as it’s ever been.

“Hey,” Dean greets, shutting the door behind him. There’s no bell above it yet, but Dean has already decided that it would be the last touch on the cafe, right before the grand opening.

Castiel turns around, blue eyes warm. He’s draped in that damn trench coat, the front of it buttoned up and fastened tightly. The cafe is insulated and enclosed, but until Dean gets an HVAC guy in, they’re keeping the place warm with space heaters and the newly installed fireplace whenever there’s people inside. Castiel’s already got the fireplace glowing, the base of the flames an iridescent blue. “Hello, Dean.”

“What’s up?” Dean asks. Castiel doesn’t normally drop by the cafe, even when he’s in town doing his rounds. Dean pulls the satchel over his head and off his body, setting it on a makeshift table made of sawhorses and plywood. The tubes make an empty, hollow sound when he sets them down, and when he’s sure they won’t roll off the table he turns his attention back to Castiel.

“You’ve made lot of progress,” Castiel says. His hands are in the pocket of his trench coat and Dean gets thrown back to a year and a half ago, meeting Castiel for the first time and hating his guts. It’s a little amazing how much has changed. Castiel nods his head towards the back of the building, where plumbing had been installed earlier in the day. “You are here to measure for interior?”

Dean quirks his lips at Castiel’s sentence structure, taking a rare moment to appreciate his accent and the way his r’s roll off of his tongue. It’s easy to listen to Castiel without registering his accent, mostly because Dean has spent so long listening to him in general. But sometimes Dean’s ears prick in interest, sometimes he catches Castiel’s grammatical failings, and it makes his insides squirm pleasantly. “Yeah, I am.” He finally says.

Nodding, Castiel walks over towards where Dean put down his stuff. “Things will go quickly from here on out, yes?”

“They should,” Dean says. He uncaps one of the tubes and unrolls it so Castiel can see. They stand close together, familiar and comfortable.

“This is different layout,” Castiel murmurs as he traces his fingers over the white lines. “Is this what you originally wanted?”

“Yeah,” Dean grins. “The old layout wasn’t bad, but I didn’t like that the kitchen was so closed off. I think it’s cool when the customers can get a little view of what’s happening behind the scenes. Not a totally open concept, but it’s kinda neat to see the chef kneading dough or frosting cupcakes.”

Castiel seems to think about it for a moment, before nodding. “It does have charm.” His gaze focuses on Dean, his pink lips quirked at the corners. “Especially when the chef is so nice to look at.”

Dean feels a flush spread from his cheeks to his ears, and he covers it by bringing his hands up to his mouth, cupping them and blowing into them. He can pass off the flush as him being cold, hopefully. “So what are you doing here?”

Castiel shrugs and on him, the gesture seems so… foreign. He’s always decisive when he speaks or acts, no hesitation, and whenever he shrugs or seems to debate an answer, it makes Dean’s stomach swoop. Scary as he knows Castiel to be, he knows the guy is still human, even if sometimes Dean thinks about checking for a power switch. But ever since the apocalypse-that-never-was, something about Castiel has… softened. Not only towards Dean (which, of course, Dean knows Castiel has softened towards him because of the bond) but towards everyone else. Everything else. And yeah, alright, Dean has always known that underneath that strong jaw and narrowed brow Castiel is a huge teddy bear, but it’s different to see him express his emotions so… openly.

Almost like the weight of the world was lifted off of his shoulders.

And, Dean thinks, maybe it has been.

“You’ve been so busy,” Castiel finally answers Dean’s question, “and I’ve been so busy. We haven’t seen each other much.”

“We live together,” Dean counters, even though Castiel isn’t wrong. He occupies his hands by spreading out the blueprints and putting weights on the corners so they don’t roll back up, unsure as to why his stomach is doing all this weird fluttering. His relationship with Castiel has been tumultuous at best, and even after bonding and that hurried frotting session in the kitchen, it’s still difficult to navigate things. Castiel still pisses him off, Dean still pisses Castiel off, and now that there’s not a war looming over their heads things seem less… urgent. They no longer need to ‘get along or else the world explodes’. They’ve settled into the ‘after’ era, the ‘after’ that Castiel had once softly, implicitly asked Dean about in a quiet moment of companionship, the ‘after’ that neither of them knew they were dreading.

The era that Dean said wouldn’t change things between them. The era that Dean had said wouldn’t be so difficult; they went back to their regular lives, not necessarily like nothing happened, but it’s turning out to be rather… directionless. Not to say that they aren’t doing anything important - Castiel’s role as Dmitri is still nothing to sneeze at, especially when non-magic affiliates of Lucifer’s gang are still roaming around and need to be taken out. And Dean’s rebuilding the cafe, so it’s not like he’s got idle hands.

But aside from the bond, suddenly it feels like there’s nothing tying them together.

Dean blinks down at the blueprints, the realization settling heavy in his gut. Swallowing thickly, he looks over towards Castiel, who has his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and is staring off into the bare bones of the cafe with a little smile on his features. Dean’s heart squeezes, his jaw tenses, and then he straightens up. Castiel must sense the change in his mood because he turns around, head tilted, blue eyes concerned.

“Dean?”

“Do I still annoy you?”

Castiel blinks rapidly at the question, head tilting further as he squints. “...Sometimes, yes.”

“What annoys you?” Dean asks, and the desperation to know is starting to churn violently in his stomach.

Exhaling, Castiel’s shoulders relax slightly. The asshole then lifts a hand to start ticking things off on his fingers as he says them, “You completely rearranged my kitchen; you take too long in shower; you manicure my lawn by hand instead of magic, which takes much longer; you chew with your mouth open; you-”

“Jesus-” Dean cuts him off, waving a hand and letting out a delirious laugh. “Seriously?”

Castiel sends Dean a blasé look. “You asked. I told.”

Running a hand down his face, Dean takes a moment to look at Castiel. With his trench coat fastened all the way up and his hands in his pockets the only tattoos visible are the cirrus clouds stretching up his throat. In passing they could just look like shadows from the collar of his coat, strangers none the wiser. His hair is windswept, the stubble on his jaw is neatly trimmed, and he looks like just a regular guy. Not like a powerful mafia boss, not even like the most powerful warlock in the world.

More like a tax accountant ready to unwind after a long day of crunching numbers.

There’s the tiniest of smiles playing on Castiel’s lips. “And you? What annoys you?”

Dean wasn’t really expecting the question to be turned on him, but he replies anyway. Without ticking things off on his fingers, thanks. “You wake up way too fuckin’ early. When I rearrange the kitchen you put things back where they were, and-” he holds up his hand to cut off Castiel’s protest, “I don’t care what you say, my way is better, and I’m the one doin’ most of the cooking anyway. You leave wet towels on the floor in the bathroom, your jewelry box is basically useless because you just leave your rings and necklaces on the top of the dresser in a tangle, and you always, always neglect to tell me when you’ve drank the last of the milk, and that’s always a rude surprise when I’m tryna make food.”

Castiel blinks slowly at Dean. Both of them stare at each other for a moment, tense, and Dean thinks that pointing out each other’s flaws was a fucking stupid thing to do and hates his brain (and his gut) for steering the conversation in this direction. Castiel is rigid, shoulders hunched a little, brow set and eyes narrowed. He takes a step forward and Dean takes a step back, his hip hitting the makeshift table. He drops a hand to steady it and make sure the plywood doesn’t fall off the sawhorses, his stomach lurching in a mix of trepidation and curiosity.

“One more thing that annoys me,” Castiel says, his voice almost a growl. He continues to step forward and Dean starts shuffling to the side, trying to get his work out of the blast zone. In an instant the gap closes between them and Castiel grabs at the front of Dean’s coat, twisting it up a little, his rings glinting in the low light; Dean is always shocked at Castiel’s physical strength and he can’t help but let out a little whimper in reply. Castiel’s eyes narrow. “You never shut up.”

The startled laugh Dean tries to let out gets swallowed by Castiel’s lips. The levee breaks, the tension snaps and Dean kisses him back hungrily, mouth opening, tongue sliding, teeth clacking. The makeshift table gets bumped again and Dean tries to get his feet to work and get away from the table but Castiel is crowding him, devouring him, and Dean barely manages to get away from the plywood only for Castiel to push him up against a support pillar. The breath leaves him in a needy moan and Dean flushes from head to toe at the pitch of it. Castiel only crowds him more, sliding a thigh between his legs, sparks falling from their lips as they kiss, a shower of green and blue. Dean pulls back for a second to check to make sure that he’s not imagining the static and sees Castiel’s eyes glowing, arousal pulsing through his body in reply.

“Cas, wait-” Dean huffs out, even though he doesn’t try to push Castiel away. Instead he’s trying to pull the man closer, wanting to feel more of that strong thigh against his groin. “Not here.”

Castiel’s eyes flash and then suddenly the air cracks around them, Dean’s stomach lurching, and then they’re falling into their bed at home. One of these days magic won’t make him nauseous. The resulting burst of wind knocks off the bedside lamp, books go scattering, and half of the bedding falls to the floor. Castiel has Dean pinned down on the mattress and wastes no more time, attacking his mouth, bejeweled hands pulling at Dean’s clothes. Dizzy from the transport Dean only manages to wiggle around a little so Castiel can get him naked, and when his brain finally comes back online he reaches out to give the man the same treatment.

Starting with that fucking trench coat.

He manages to not pop any of the buttons but he fumbles with them anyway, arousal coursing through his system causing his limbs to shake and fingers to tremble. He fights the sash for about ten seconds before huffing and dropping back against the bed; Castiel smirks and snaps his fingers, the trenchcoat disappearing altogether.

“Neat trick,” Dean breathes. “Get naked.”

Another snap, and Dean wants to make fun of Castiel breaking his fairly rigid “no magic for trivial tasks” rule but since he’s benefitting from this particular use of magic, he’s not gonna say a word. Suddenly Castiel is naked, tan skin and tattoos on display. He magicked away his jewelry too and Dean reaches up to greedily run his palms over the breadth of Castiel’s chest, marveling at the solidity of it, partially unable to believe that this man - this infuriating, frustrating man - is allowing him to see this part of him. Castiel seems to be experiencing similar emotions and through their bond there’s a volley of rapture and awe and affection, Dean getting slightly lightheaded from it.

Castiel starts settling between Dean’s legs and Dean tenses just a smidge, fingers curling around Castiel’s strong shoulders.

“Wait, wait,” Dean protests. “You- you’re not gonna top.”

Settling back on his haunches, Castiel rolls his eyes. “Are you really going to argue this?”

Dean glares.

“Ah this is…” Castiel gestures vaguely with his hand, frowning thoughtfully as he reaches for the English words. “Fragile masculinity that Gabriel told about.”

Dean bristles, hackles raising. “Woah, that is not-”

“If that is how you prefer,” Castiel shrugs. His cock is hard between his legs, wide at the base and dripping at the head, and Dean can’t help but stare at it.

Dean lifts his gaze back up to Castiel’s eyes with great effort. “You’re giving up that easy?”

Castiel arches a brow, but the curl of his lips is infuriating when he says, “You are sore loser. I would rather not hear you whine before sex.”

Dean’s jaw drops. “What?”

Castiel shrugs, leaning over Dean to reach the nightstand and open the drawer. His cock slides into the vee of Dean’s pelvis and his hips twitch reflexively, seeking out the heat and friction. His own cock is hard, the length of it lying against his stomach, and on impulse he reaches up to grab Castiel’s shoulders once he grabs the lube, flipping them over to pin Castiel down to the bed. Castiel lands with a breathless chuckle, hair dark and wild as it fans over the pillow, blue eyes bright as he looks up at Dean. Dean’s heart trips up into his throat at the expression, and for a moment they just stare at each other - until Dean’s traitorous mouth decides to break the silence.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, why do I love you?”

Castiel’s eyes widen slightly.

Dean’s eyes widen slightly.

A beat passes, and then Castiel says, “I could say same about you.”

Dean feels a little less like puking, knowing the sentiment is returned, even in an unconventional way. But things between him and Castiel have never been cut and dry; if they can have a conversation without arguing it’s a miracle, and it figures that a moment like this would be no different. As far as love confessions go it’s pretty on par and barely puts a hitch in their imminent plans because Castiel wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, drawing him in so their cocks glide together, his hands lifting to tangle his fingers into Dean’s hair.

“Now, will you fuck me?” Castiel asks, his voice iron in a forge as it ricochets down Dean’s spine.

Huffing a laugh, Dean takes the lube from Castiel’s hand and sets it aside. He kneels between Castiel’s legs and runs his hands over the tops of those strong thighs, feeling the soft downy hair beneath his palm, coming to the decision that from now on out he’s going to do his best to memorize every tattoo placement on Castiel’s body. Castiel seems content to let him look, so Dean does. His fingers trail where his eyes go, and it’s a quiet appreciation and admiration of Castiel’s body. The tattoos he had to get to signify himself as a mafia man mixed in with the tattoos he got to ward himself would look like a mish-mash to anyone else, but to Dean he understands the importance and necessity of each of them. From his ankles up to his groin, and then from his hips to his fingertips, the ink on Castiel’s body is just another thing to admire. And Dean will save the sappiness for a later time - but he still takes a moment to look his fill.

“Roll over,” Dean instructs.

Castiel sends him a sly smirk but does as told, his movement graceful and fluid as he lies on his stomach. His knees spread a little and Dean curls his fingers around his sharp hips to lift him up, and then he’s staring down the length of Castiel’s naked back for the first time. The charred feathers that intersperse the sigils and Cyrillic letters accumulate on Castiel’s back in an image of broken wings on either shoulder blade. There are more clouds, these ones a bit fluffier until they meet the dark cirrus clouds that wind up and around his throat, and at the knob in Castiel’s spine is what is, undoubtedly, an angel halo.

Dean’s fingers reach down to trace the wings, and then press gently against the halo. Castiel hums at the touch, shifts his body so he braces himself properly on spread knees, cock hanging heavy between his legs as he reaches to grab a pillow so he can bring it under his chest. Dean wants to ask about the angel halo but his eyes get distracted by his handprint on Castiel’s shoulder and he reaches to lay his palm over it - Castiel hisses sharply and the handprint on Dean’s shoulder gives an answering throb.

The bond sings.

Spreading Castiel’s cheeks with his palms, Dean leans down and mouths over his hole a bit sloppily at first, tongue giving a fat, broad stroke. Castiel’s spine dips a little and Dean catalogues every sensation; the ridges of his pucker, the light dusting of hair, the warmth radiating from his skin. Dean takes his time licking Castiel open because the sounds Castiel makes go straight to his cock, and Castiel probably thinks he’s so cool and calm and collected, but the way he’s responding to Dean eating him out breaks down barriers that Dean has been trying to get through since they’ve met.

The way to a man’s heart is through his ass, it seems.

Dean pulls away to spit directly on Castiel’s hole, his thumb sliding over to catch and tug on the rim. Castiel squirms, his hips rocking, cock leaking, and Dean watches with rapt attention as the muscles in his back twitch and flex. His other hand moves to Castiel’s cock, stroking it, and fuck, his fingers can barely wrap around the girth of it. He briefly imagines trying to fit it inside of himself and while the idea is daunting, a little thrill zings through him anyway, and he figures he’ll have to prove Castiel wrong about that whole fragile masculinity thing… later.

He uncaps the lube and Castiel seems to get impatient, propping himself up on his hands and twisting slightly so he can look at Dean over his shoulder. His pupils are blown, cheeks flushed and lips bitten red, and Dean almost drops the lube before he can cap it. Once his fingers are slicked he brushes them over Castiel’s hole; Castiel rolls his eyes and pushes his hips back, reaching behind himself to grab Dean’s wrist and force his index finger to slide in.

“I won’t break,” Castiel says in that earth-shattering voice, the timbre of it raspier and thicker with arousal.

Well, then. Swallowing the lump in his throat Dean works his finger in carefully, and he knows the mechanics of how this works but honestly, he’s never gotten this far with a guy before. Experimental college dates usually ended with mutual handjobs and he’d been ok with that. But the need, the desire to unite with Castiel physically is way too strong to ignore, bond or not. He wants to see this man come undone beneath him, he wants to shatter his control and his ego, wants to pull him apart piece by piece and then put him back together. Two fingers in has Castiel dropping his chest back down towards the pillow and exhaling hotly, his knees digging into the mattress and spreading farther apart.

“Dean,” Castiel moans.

Dean’s world has narrowed down to the sensation of Castiel’s body clenched tight around his fingers. The clench of his walls so unyielding and so soft at the same time has Dean flushed all the way down to his chest with anticipation, and then Castiel is reaching back once more to pull Dean’s fingers out by his wrist. Castiel uses one hand to spread his left cheek, exposing his fluttering hole, smearing lube across his skin. Understanding the invitation Dean slicks up his own cock and positions himself, at first sliding the length of it up and down Castiel’s crack, pressing the head against his perineum and watching his balls tense up in reply. But Castiel gets impatient, of course, and before Dean can slip his cock into that sweet, stretched hole Castiel is suddenly sitting up and turning his body around.

The sudden movement catches Dean off-guard and before he knows it he’s on his back, upside down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as Castiel climbs over him to straddle his lap and sink down onto his cock. Dean lets out an undignified yelp of surprise/pleasure and his hands slap against Castiel’s thighs for purchase, the sound of skin on skin almost deafening in the room. It doesn’t phase Castiel, whose ass is resting against Dean’s pelvis, his hands on Dean’s chest to keep him pinned as he looms over him, sapphire eyes nearly as heavy as the man on top of him.

“I will not break,” Castiel practically growls. He swivels his hips, grinding down on Dean’s cock, and Dean feels his erection press up against every millimeter of Castiel’s body with the torturous movement. Castiel takes control, barely lifting himself, his thighs squeezing Dean’s hips hard enough to bruise as he rolls his body, perfectly content to just use Dean’s cock as he pleases.

Dean’s a big enough man to let it happen.

Besides, it feels fucking incredible being pinned down by Castiel’s weight and strength, six feet of muscle reminding Dean that while he’s gotten fit over the past year, he still couldn’t best Castiel in a fight. Dean tips his head back, but he’s too close to the edge of the bed so his neck cranes nearly all the way back over the mattress. His eyelids close as he gets lost in the sensation of Castiel moving over him, blood starting to rush to his head, and then his lashes flutter open when he feels Castiel’s lips pressing sloppy kisses down the length of his arched and exposed throat. Groaning low, Dean reaches to where Castiel’s hands are planted on his chest, circling his fingers around those thick wrists and then tugging slightly, trying to encourage Castiel to move his hands. He manages to tip his head up enough to lock eyes with Castiel when his fingers brush his throat and Castiel’s lips part as realization dawns in his cobalt eyes, and Dean manages the tiniest of smirks before Castiel gets with the program.

Castiel’s fingers wrapping around his throat are anything but dangerous. As Castiel fucks him, using his cock just the way he wants, Dean hands over any and all control to him. He’s under no illusion that he’s got an ounce of authority here. Dean’s balls are heavy and his cock is so hard he’s sure Castiel can feel his heartbeat in his asshole. Perhaps their first time having sex should be a little bit more tender, passionate- but their tryst in the kitchen was messy and aggressive and if that’s what sets the tone for the bedroom, Dean is happy to climb aboard, so to speak. And it just feels right, handing over the reins to Castiel. Differences aside, bond notwithstanding, Dean has learned to trust Castiel implicitly with everything he is.

Figures as soon as he gets Castiel in the sack the first thing he asks for is to be choked.

But it’s doing it for Castiel, too, and the man carefully adjusts his grip on Dean’s throat as he adjusts his body, shifting his legs and feet so he can finally properly lift himself up and drop himself back down onto Dean’s cock. The sensation of Castiel’s ass clenching around his shaft and his fingers around his throat has Dean seeing stars and hey, he didn’t think he was going to last long anyway. He doesn’t think Castiel will be that surprised either - if the way Castiel is increasing his pace is indicative of him quickly reaching his end, too.

Blearily, with eyes closed, Dean moves a hand to grip Castiel’s cock. He marvels again at the thickness of it before he starts clumsily stroking it, thumb swiping over the head occasionally to smear the precum since he can’t get a good grip on the girth of it. It seems to do the trick, anyway, but then Castiel bats his hand away; he chokes him with one hand and jerks himself off with the other and that’s it, that sight and thought alone makes Dean’s hips stutter and his orgasm rip through him. Stars explode behind his closed eyelids and he bucks his hips up into Castiel; Castiel releases his throat from his grip and the sudden influx of oxygen gives Dean a headrush and causes another wave of ecstasy to crash through him, more cum dribbling out of his flexing dick. He opens his eyes just in time to see Castiel spill over his own fist, ass clamping Dean’s cock, his head tipped back, his whole body on display for Dean to greedily drink up.

The cut of his jaw, the line of his throat, his flushed, tan skin. His heaving chest, the flex of his abs, the twitch in his thighs.

The faint scarring from Dean’s teeth where they sank into the meat of his neck, disrupting the ink of the cirrus clouds.

He’s fucking beautiful.

And apparently still strong enough to haul Dean up and put him rightside up on the bed. Dean lets out a tiny warbled sound when his softening cock slips free from Castiel’s body, and with a snap of the warlocks fingers they’re clean and dry. Letting out a whoosh of breath Dean sinks down into the disarray of blankets and pillows, a smile tugging on his lips.

“Damn,” he says uselessly.

“Dean,” Castiel’s finger on his chin tips his head towards blue eyes, their gazes meeting.

Dean’s expression softens minutely. “Yeah?”

“Did you mean what you said?” Castiel murmurs.

Dean wracks his brain for a second, belatedly remembering his love confession. “Uh-” he clears his throat a bit. “Yeah, I did. Do. Mean it.”

The smile that Castiel gives him is full of teeth and gums, some wrinkles bunching the skin at the bridge of his nose. “Good.”

“You gonna say it back?” Dean asks, arching a brow.

Castiel pats his thigh a bit patronizingly. “You speak enough for both of us, remember? Never shut up.”

Dean gapes after Castiel as the man gets out of bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Are you-? Seriously?”

Castiel chuckles a little, rolling his shoulders. “Quiet down. Let’s take a shower and then go back to cafe to work.”

Dean sits up, head turning to watch as Castiel disappears into the bathroom. After a moment he scrambles to get out of the bed, kicking away the blankets trying to tangle his feet up.

“The apocalypse is over, y’know- you could be less of a dick.”

From where he’s standing at the shower testing the temperature of the water, Castiel sends Dean a soft look over his shoulder. “Dean, I love you.”

Dean pauses in the doorway, blinking in surprise.

Castiel rolls his eyes, his expression still fond. “Now, join me.”

As they climb into the shower together, the spray hitting them on all sides, the fragrant scent of lavender and patchouli materializing in the haze; Dean draws Castiel in to press a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.

“I am happy you are here,” Castiel murmurs against Dean’s mouth. “My solnyshka.”

“What’s that mean?” Dean asks a bit distractedly as Castiel kisses down his jaw.

“My sunshine,” Castiel says against his wet skin, “the sun I have been waiting to feel the warmth of.”

Chuckling lowly, the sound reverberating in his chest, Dean slides wet hands down Castiel’s spine to the dip in the small of his back. “We should have a celebratory drink. Cheers to a new life.”

“What would you like?” Castiel’s voice mimics Dean’s softness and richness as he picks up the shampoo bottle. “I could open a vintage bottle of wine I have been saving for long time.”

“Maybe something a little classier,” Dean suggests. His head tips back a little as Castiel starts lathering his hair, green eyes regarding the warlock through his lashes. The corner of his lips quirk, the volley of warmth and buoyancy in his chest making him feel light on his feet. “I make a pretty good white russian.”

Castiel’s eyes light with humor, his lips parting in a gummy smile as he absorbs Dean’s words. “That you do.” He uses his fingers in Dean’s hair to tip his head down for a soft, tender kiss, the gentle touch tingling Dean’s lips. “That you do.”