tw's: smut. blood kink (kind of), religious trauma type sex
When Dean was six and his dad put a shot gun into his hands, Dean was okay with it. He was happy to do it, actually, thinking, This means he trusts me. My dad thinks I'm a man. I am a man. So, Dean was content to sit there in their motel room with the shotgun, guarding Sammy while he slept. He was fine with watching Scooby Doo with the volume muted in case he heard a sound. After all, monsters were real, and their dad hunted them. He was a hero.
Besides, it was never supposed to be permanent.
At nine, his dad sat him down and said, with eyes finally bright, face finally alive, that he was close to the thing that killed their mom. So, when dad gave him the shot gun and told him to keep his nose clean and watch out for Sammy, again, Dean was happy to do it. He was a kid after all, and their dad was a hero. A superhero.
When Dean turned eleven, they weren't any closer to finding the thing that killed their mom. But Dean kept on telling Sammy that their dad was a hero, that he was doing important stuff, and they just had to be patient. This wouldn't be forever, and they could go home eventually, if they still had a home to go back to.
Dean was twelve and a half when he saw his first dead body. He had a zit on his chin, and his knees wobbled as he stood there, holding the flashlight, watching his dad lift the coffin lid of John Gutenberg and burn the man's corpse. It smelled awful, the burning of rotting flesh, the smoke from the liquified bag of bones and skin. Good job son, his dad had said. But Dean had just stood there holding the flashlight, petrified and scared. So so scared. Afterwards, Dean had thrown up in their motel bathroom.
It was Dean's fourteenth birthday when he killed something for the first time.
"Shoot it son!" John yells across the room, his father's voice thundering through the massive warehouse.
Dean whips his eyes from his father, covered in blood and grime, and to the creature, snarling loudly with crackles in its growls. He can see it twitching, can smell the rotting meat from its yellow and grey fangs. And still, Dean does nothing, his eyes wide and teary. His gun is trembling in his hands, shaking and uncoordinated despite the hours Dean's spent at the shooting range with his father, even though he's known how to use a gun as long as he's been able to write his name.
"SHOOT IT!" John bellows, and Dean jumps in fright at the sound. Not from the growling, not from the stench of the monster's teeth, and Dean shoots, striking the creature in the chest.
The creature falls to the ground, wailing and choking out blood. It twitches as it dies, its eyes rolling backwards in pain and blood trickling from its cracked lips. The creature doesn't die quickly, and Dean's too horrified to shoot it again, watching helplessly as the creature looks at him with a human sort of pain in its eyes.
John grabs him by the back of the shirt, and Dean almost drops the gun in surprise, in fear. "What the hell were you doing? When I say to shoot something. You. Shoot. It." John yells at him, spit flying in Dean's face.
"Yessir." Dean says, his voice no louder than a whisper. He clears his throat, trying again. "Sorry sir."
John shakes him again, his breath hot in Dean's face. "This is life or death, son. I can't have you hesitating."
"Yessir." Dean repeats.
And when Dean turned fifteen, he didn't hesitate anymore.
Eventually, the monsters began to blur together. All the motels and roads. The sketchy truck stops and the diners with suspiciously easy waitresses. Dean didn't know when he stopped thinking about how much he hated hunting, he just knew that the delusions of a picket fence stopped one day, and he never thought about wanting a normal life again.
And then their dad died, and for one fleeting second, the thought crossed his mind, I could be done.
But the Yellow-Eyed demon was still out there, and now Sammy had the bloodlust look of vengeance in his eyes. It would be selfish of Dean to stop now, after he had pulled Sam back into the life, after he brought all this on themselves. And now, instead of looking after Sam, he was supposed to kill him. Ironic.
So, Dean hunted. And he liked it. He liked being with his brother again. He liked having something to do with his hands. And if he was a good killer? Then at least he was good at something.
They saved the world. And again. And then again. And every apocalypse that loomed over the horizon somehow was their fault and their responsibility. So, Dean pushed the thought of a normal life out of his head, again. And again. And then again.
Dean held a gun at six years old. He killed monsters. He wasn't normal, and he stopped pretending he could be. After a while, he didn't have to pretend anymore. That life just wasn't for him.
"Do you have any idea how much of a dumbass you're being?" Dean spits, tugging his hand away from where it rests in Cas's lap on the couch.
Cas only rolls his eyes, and oh—hell no. Not the full body eye roll. The angel's got it coming.
"You can't possibly think that Dr. Piccolo is into Dr. Smith. She's with Dr. Sexy!" Dean rages, hissing at him in the dark living room.
Cas lifts a hand to the remote and pauses the screen. He turns to Dean and picks up his hand, pressing it to his lips so he can murmur into Dean's skin. "I love you and think you are incredibly intelligent. That being said, you are acting like a Behemoth. Piccolo and Sexy are not going to last. His lifestyle is too wild outside of work, and she craves stability, which it why she will end up with Dr. Smith at the end of the series."
"You gotta be kidding me." Dean points to the screen where Dr. Smith is currently performing an appendectomy. "This guy. You're rooting for this guy. Dr. Sexy and his cowboy boots, are literally right there!"
"You are the one with the cowboy fetish, Dean. Not me."
Dean sputters, but he doesn't deny it. "Yeah well, remember when I rode that mechanical bull in Nashville? You were all over that."
Cas's raises an eyebrow at him, as if saying, don't tease the bull unless you want the horns. "If I remember correctly, immediately after, you looked me up and down and implied that you were great at rid—"
Sam groans from across the room. "You know, the rest of us are still here, by the way."
Eileen peeps her head up from Sam's chest, where she had been dozing softly. She yawns, her voice sleepy. "Are they being gross again?"
"Again?" Dean asks, incredulously.
"We are not gross," Cas backs him up, and then immediately makes it worse. "I am not human. Dean is barely human. You just think we're gross. We are completely normal for how strange—"
Dean clamps a hand on Cas's mouth, "Okay, they get it. We double dipped in the soul-grace salsa."
"That phrasing is exactly why everyone thinks you're gross." Claire says, tossing popcorn at them. A popped kernel hits Dean on the bridge of his nose and falls into his lap. He picks it up and eats it, but not after sticking his tongue out at Claire.
Kaia looks at him, unimpressed. "She licked that kernel, by the way."
Dean spits it out into a napkin.
Claire groans, Jack's dozing head in her lap, "Can you play the stupid show already?"
Dean gasps. "How dare you." But next to him, Cas hums and plays the rest of the episode. Though Cas continues to mutter in Dean's ear horrible and off-kilter takes about the show, Dean refrains from accusing him of blasphemy in front of their family again for the rest of the night. If only because he gets to hold Cas's hand under the blankets.
When the show's over, Cas takes popcorn bowls to the kitchen and talks to Eileen and Sam about their group plans to head to a Florida beach next week. Not Alligator Point, was all the input Dean had given. Not willing to go back to the same beach they were at together two years ago. Dean walks the rest of their guests to the door.
Jack excuses himself first, explaining that he has a night of 'God duties,' but that he'll be back tomorrow night for dinner. Dean ruffles his hair and pulls him into a hug before the kid waves a hand in goodbye.
Dean offered for Claire and Kaia to stick around in their guest bedroom, but Claire had shaken her head, a sly smile on her lips as she pats her jacket pocket. "I've got plans, Dean." She waggles her eyebrows. "Big plans."
When Dean just looks at her confused, she rolls her eyes, the motion so similar to Cas's eye roll that Dean grins a bit. Claire peeks over Dean's shoulder, but Kaia's still in the kitchen with everyone else. Smiling, Claire pulls out a tiny drawstring leather bag from her jacket pocket. He unfolds it, and pulls out a polished, silver ring.
"Holy shit," Dean whispers, and Claire's eyes widen in excitement.
"I know right? Holy shit." She agrees and tucks it back into her jacket pocket.
Dean wraps her in a hug before she can even think to protest. But Claire just lets herself be hugged, and hugs Dean back just as fiercely. She's warm, her blonde hair tickling his face.
Footsteps approach. He steps away and clears his throat, nodding to Claire nonchalantly. (Probably with a lot of chalant).
Kaia comes through the kitchen to the entryway, and stares at the two of them trying not to smile and failing miserably. She flicks her gaze between them suspiciously. "Are you two crying?"
Dean sputters, his eyes definitely not itching at all. "Nope," he says, Claire echoing him.
Kaia turns her dark eyes to Claire, then back to Dean. "You are shitty liars," She says. "But I'll humor you because I'm tired and I want to go to bed." She holds the keys out for Claire, and she takes them, saluting Dean with a wink.
Once Kaia is out the door, Dean puts a hand on Claire's shoulder, tugging her back briefly. She turns to her up to him, smiling softly.
"I'm proud of you," He says, his chest squeezing.
Claire's lips twitch at the corners, and she throws her arms around him once more time. It's longer this time, and Claire's arms suffocate him as they squeeze him tightly. She breathes shakily in his chest, her face buried in his shirt, and Dean tilts his head down to press a kiss to the top of her head.
"This hug is for Cas," She whispers. "Just so you know."
"Of course." Dean agrees. "For Cas."
Claire steps away, clearing her throat and running a hand through her hair. "Bye grandpa." She says and disappears out the door.
Dean flips her off, but then waves as their car drives down the dirt road towards the city.
He shuts the door, and heads into the kitchen, where Sam, Eileen, and Cas are still planning their beach trip, so he dawdles. He flicks off the living room light, folds the blankets and lays them on the back of the couch. He runs the dishwasher and fills the timed coffee pot with water and coffee beans for their early morning tomorrow. Cas is planning on dragging him to the farmer's market. Well, not dragging. Dean's actually very excited to go, especially now that his Baby is fixed, up and running again after a year of fixing her.
Pulling the Impala from the rubble of the bunker had been difficult, and Cas only managed it once he was sure that every monster, and demon inside had been dead, and dead for a while. Cas had flown over the rubble for days, checking for forms of life, listening for heartbeats or ragged breath, but if Lucifer had not survived, then the likelihood of the local vamp surviving was abysmal.
Cas had lifted Baby's carcass from the bunker's collapsed garage in March, and Dean had nearly cried at the sight of her wreckage. It was worse than Dean had ever seen her. Worse than the car crash with their dad. Worse than when Sam had defiled her with douchey tech.
So, Dean spent a year rebuilding her, and it took that long because she was mostly shrapnel when Cas pulled her out, and well, because it was a busy year.
With no bunker, they didn't have a home at all. That is, until Cas found a little, yellow, abandoned house that hadn't sold in years, the owners of it lowering the price of it each year, almost begging for someone to take it off their hands because there were strange noises in the house at night. Cold spots and eerie whisperings. He and Cas burned the bones of the ghost inhabiting the house and bought it for dirt cheap.
Dean spent the first half of that year fixing things around the house, re-doing the shingles on the roof, digging muck from the gutters, adding shelves to closets and building bed frames and furniture. He didn't mind doing it, and rather liked being able to build and fix things with his hands. He liked providing a home, making it for Cas.
Cas spent a lot of his time helping Dean when he needed it. He picked out paint for each room and painted each wall, adding sigils behind each layer of paint to protect their house from angels, demons, and more. While Dean worked on the roof, Cas tiled the floors in each bathroom and the kitchen, adding something called backsplash to the kitchen walls, and staining the wooden cabinets a dark, chestnut color.
Even now in the kitchen, they were still missing random items like a colander, or a ladle, but Cas had filled it the kitchen with love and life at every corner. Plants hung from the kitchen window next to the sink, and herbs lined that same windowsill. Parsley, chives, cilantro, and basil. Pictures hung along the walls in dark frames against the yellow of the kitchen. Jack, Claire, and Kaia, posing for a picture on a hunt together. Sam, Eileen, Dean and Cas on a beach. Dean and Cas again, sitting on a dock together at sunset, only their silhouettes visible.
Cas is looking over a notepad on the countertop while Sam and Eileen discuss the merits of Daytona Beach or Tampa Bay. Cas is wearing his own jeans, Dean had gotten him plenty of his own pairs in the past year and a half, but he's wearing a Kelly Clarkson t shirt under Dean's plain blue flannel.
Dean skates around the kitchen island, yawning, and folds himself around Cas, one hand laying on his hip, thumb tucked into the beltloop of Cas's jeans, the other holding onto the tile countertop. He rests his chin on Cas's shoulder, knocking his temple gently against Cas's hair. Voices continue talking around him, and he lets his eyes fall shut and listens to the conversation best he can. (He does not listen one bit).
Inhaling, Cas still smells like a static shock, like electricity and ozone. He wonders (he never got close like this to Cas while he was human) what Cas would smell like then, if it would be the same or something different entirely.
Sam finally yawns and says that it's time for bed, and Dean internally agrees but makes fun of Sam for getting old anyways.
Sam only rolls his eyes and pulls his car keys from his pocket. Eileen and Cas say their goodbyes in the kitchen as Dean walks Sam to the door.
"Are we still on for pool on Tuesday?" Dean asks, sticking his hands in his pockets.
Sam rolls his eyes again. "You ask me that every Friday, Dean. Yes, we are still on for pool on Tuesday."
Dean shrugs. "Can't blame me. It's weird, don't you think?" He pulls a hand from his pocket and gestures to them both. "We've lived together all our lives, and now you live down the dirt road from me. We're practically civilized."
Sam gives him a look. "I doubt you and Cas are what I would call civilized, but yeah, sure."
"Hey!"
"I mean, two years ago, you would've run for the hills if I told you that you and Cas were married and bought a house together. I would've freaked out if you told me that Eileen and I were living together, too."
"So, you're saying that the two of us are just scaredy cats?"
Sam pulls off his jacket from the coat hook and tugs it on. "I'm saying that, a lot's changed. Really fast. But it's good change. I'm happy with how my life has changed for the better. Are you?"
In the kitchen, Dean can hear Cas turning on the facet to water his plants in the kitchen.
"Yeah. I am." Dean agrees.
Eileen snatches the keys from Sam's grip and smiles at Dean. "Get ready to get your ass kicked on Tuesday, Winchester."
Dean gives her a wolfish smile. "You're going down... Mrs. Leahy-Winchester."
Eileen waggles her fingers at him, where a silver ring glistens in the overhead lighting. "Not until September!" She waves and pulls Sam out the front door. "Bye, Dean."
Dean closes the door behind his brother and his fiancée, and heads to the kitchen where Castiel is still watering his plants. He yawns, stretching his arms high and waits, his chores done for the night, and leans against the kitchen island.
Cas buzzes around the kitchen, watering his plants, adjusting the little towels that hang from the dishwasher and oven handles. And while Cas finishes up, Dean jabbers.
He tells Cas what's going on at the garage. How Dean's working a double on Thursday, so he won't be back until late, but that means he's off on Friday if they want to take Jack to the library. The laundry room door has been squeaky, so Dean's going to pick up some lubricant tomorrow at the store so he can fix it.
Cas snorts at that, but doesn't take the bait, so Dean's going to have to try harder.
"We're watching Tombstone tonight before we go to bed, by the way," Dean says.
"I have seen that movie eight times, Dean. Pick another one."
Ah yes. Hook.
"It's my favorite movie though."
"I love you, but I do not care. I can quote the entire thing, and so can you. There is no purpose to watching it, and I will not."
"We can cuddle though."
"We could just simply give up the pretense of watching a movie at all," Cas offers, finishing with his tasks and leaning against the opposite kitchen counter, his gaze unimpressed as he rests his hands on the tile.
Line.
"Oh?" Dean plays into it. "And what would we do instead?"
Cas's eyes twinkle. "We could talk about the economic state of the world."
Dean blinks. This got off track quickly. He taps his fingers against the tile and tries again.
"Oh, the economic state of the world! It's ruined!"
Cas hums, "So ruined. Abysmal really."
Okay, Dean can work with this. "It sounds like we agree. I don't think there's much else to say about the economic state of the world."
"It would seem so," Cas nods.
"What should we talk about instead?"
Cas taps his fingers against the tile. "We could talk about your cowboy fetish."
Sinker!
"Ah right, my cowboy fetish." Dean agrees. "What do you have to say about that?"
"Not much." Cas shrugs.
Dean frowns.
Cas sighs, glancing away from Dean and looking at nothing across the room. "I suppose, if we run out of things to talk about, we could always take up knitting."
Dean blinks, absolutely no thoughts in his head, and once he realizes what Cas is doing, he groans, and strides forward towards his stupid angel.
Dean steps across the kitchen floor to him, his expression annoyed, and his soul twisting with sour irritation, and Castiel wills his face into a neutral expression as Dean stops in front of him, eyes narrowed.
"You wanna knit, Cas?" Dean asks him.
Careful to maintain calamity, Castiel nods. "Yes, knitting is a wonderful activity. Very relaxing. I—"
Without warning, the Righteous Man sinks to his knees. The sound of knee bone against tile is both jarring and a promise of the sweetest submission to Castiel's ears, and he stiffens minutely as Dean looks up at him, his face eye level with Castiel's groin.
In a second, Castiel has been rendered completely mute, and he struggles to find his sentence. He's lost it, the rail of thought. Or is it trial of thought? No... Train! It's train of thought. Which has been lost, derailed if you will.
Castiel open his mouth to continue his train of sentence, but Dean's beats him to it by putting nimble fingers on Castiel's jeans and undoing the button, pulling down the zipper.
"Tell me about knitting," Dean says, and hucks up Castiel's shirt to press his lips to Castiel's hips.
Knitting... knitting... what does Castiel know about knitting?
"Knitting is a very old task, originated in the eleventh century in Egypt as a means of creating cloth and clothing, predominately done by weavers, most likely women, as the men hunted at the time..."
Dean has taken out Castiel's length and gripped him at the base. He is firm now, lengthening and growing harder with each pump of blood through Castiel's veins, with each word leaving his mouth as Castiel rambles and tells Dean everything there is to know about knitting. Dean's hot breath envelops him as Dean hovers his open mouth over the end. Castiel tries not to squirm, tries not to thrust forward into Dean's open and wet mouth.
Castiel has paused in his rambling for breath, and Dean waits. One second. Five seconds. He does not move, does not stroke Castiel or put his mouth on him. Castiel yearns.
"Do you still wanna knit, Cas?" Dean asks, his voice hoarse and lovely.
"No," Castiel answers honestly, and Dean blesses him with his mouth.
It is lovely and warm inside Dean's mouth, and Castiel drops his gaze to watch Dean's lips stretch over him, watch how Dean's green eyes droop lazily as he sucks, drool forming at the corners of his mouth. Castiel reaches out and caresses fingers over Dean's cheek, feeling the harsh prickling of stubble, the softness of skin. He takes the pad of his thumb and wipes the drool at Dean's mouth, watching intently as Dean looks up at him through half lidded eyes.
Castiel loves that Dean trusts him with this. He loves that Dean trusts him to be gentle, to not test or push Dean's limits and to call upon him lovingly.
"So beautiful," The praise falls from Castiel's lips like golden honey. "So good and perfect, Dean. The way you take me. How good you make me feel."
Dean moans around Castiel, his eyes fluttering, and the vibration makes Castiel's blood sing. He holds on tight to his grace that begs to burst forward. It used to be difficult, controlling the power inside him, but it is easier now, easier with Dean.
He sees Dean's palm pressing into the front of his own jeans, and Castiel does not know if Dean is consciously doing it, or if he is reduced to a vessel of touch and feeling.
He finds his answer when he runs his hands through Dean's hair. Gently. Not pulling or tugging. Dean has had enough harshness in his life to warrant a sweet fragility of Castiel's hands. He'd be deserving of it either way, Castiel supposes. He says, "You are so good, Dean. So good for me." And the man on his knees moans, loud and high pitched.
Castiel is so close, but he knows that Dean wants more. Castiel himself, wants more, so he puts his hands on Dean's cheeks, and draws his lover off, bending over so he may admire the trail of spit on Dean's lips, the white stain of a promise of more on Dean's bottom lip. He watches Dean's eyes blink open, the daze clearing from them, and he kisses Dean thoroughly, tasting himself on Dean's lips. He bites them.
Dean makes a noise then, and Castiel helps him up. There is no sound of Dean's knee popping anymore, and for that, Castiel is thankful. He tucks himself back into his underwear, and he shoves Dean into the fridge, magnets and photographs falling with a clatter to the floor.
"Fuck, Cas." Dean mutters into his mouth, and Castiel drinks it up, digging his hands into Dean's shirt and finding skin. He roams Dean's torso, skimming over scars and ribs and up, up. He lets his thumbs run over Dean's nipples, and the man hisses into Castiel's mouth. He drinks up the sound and does it again, and again, again.
Dean makes another sound, this one desperate and high, and Castiel shows him mercy by letting Dean shove him away so that Dean may strip off his shirt and flannel. Castiel lowers a disapproving brow. He likes to take of Dean's clothes. That's his job.
"Too bad," Dean says, reading his face, or mind, Castiel does not know these days. Dean pulls him by the belt loop to the stairs and leads him up to their bedroom. "You are such a tease, anyway. It's what you get. Karma, and stuff."
Castiel does not know of Karma, but if Karma gets Dean Winchester naked in the bed they share, perhaps Karma is a god he should pray to.
"I am the tease?" Castiel echoes, and he shuts the door behind them, watching as Dean shucks off his jeans at the edge of their rather large bed in the middle of their bedroom. "Somebody left their panties in the cab of my truck last night for me to find this morning. Dean."
Dean's lips twitch, and he says, "Wasn't me. Must've been one of your other husbands."
"You are insufferable." Castiel growls, and strides forward to throw Dean onto their bed. Dean bounces where he lands, grinning triumphantly as Castiel allows himself to be manipulated by Dean's seductive antics. Castiel had tried earlier in the kitchen, playing the game they like to play at each other's sakes, and now he throws the blanket in. The towel? He throws the towel in.
Castiel crawls up Dean's almost naked body, and he kneels across Dean's thighs. He peels off his—Dean's—flannel, and then his undershirt, tossing them to the floor to be picked up tomorrow. He leans forward and licks over Dean's Union Scar, thrilled as Dean's body shivers like Castiel has lit him ablaze.
"Fucking hell," Dean breathes. "Every damn time."
"I take great joy in it," Castiel explains, and takes a long moment to look. Dean is a beautiful creature. His soul, golden and bursting with light. It's the first notes of symphony, it's the sunlight through morning fog, it's snow on lashes, and boisterous, budding laughter. His freckles, too. Castiel could compare them to stars, but he's flown amongst them, and these irregular speckles of melanin in Dean's flushed, pink skin are more ethereal than the spheres of heat and dust billions of light years away.
He pauses though and sits back on Dean's thighs. He traces the skin of Dean's Union Scar, and he longs. There are so many things Castiel wants. There are many more of his wishes that have been granted in the past year, and still, Castiel is selfish. He wants and has the insolence to want more.
"Cas?" Dean says under him, lifting himself to his elbows. "What is it, sweetheart?"
Oh, that word, that beautiful and sacred word that falls from Dean's lips like rain in a desert, as if it's not a water that Castiel would beg to gulp in starving, parched mouthfuls.
Still, Castiel says nothing. It is no use anyways to ask, Dean is not an angel, though he heals quicker than a human, though he swears he sees better in the dark, though he can fight against Castiel's holds with more strength. His fingers linger over the crescent-shaped imprint of Castiel's teeth, and Dean catches his wrist in a firm hand, firmer than Castiel is used to, with Dean's new strength.
"Do you think it will work?" Dean asks, their eyes meeting. "I'm not exactly the weak little human I used to be."
Castiel shakes his head. "You were never weak, Dean. You are just not an angel."
Dean turns Castiel's hand in his and bestows a kiss to Castiel's palm. "Let me try, Cas. I want to... especially if it means a lot to you."
Castiel is not hopeful, but he nods, and Dean sits up fully, his hands holding to Castiel's hips. Dean trails his lips over Castiel's neck, and already, he shivers under Dean's ministrations. Dean kisses wetly under Castiel's ear, his warm, calloused hands running over skin.
Teeth at Castiel's ear, lips pressed to the cartilage. Dean's voice is warm, husky. "You wanna get your wings out for me?"
Castiel obliges, reaching down inside himself, pulling that thread of grace and soul. His body shivers and erupts. With a sigh, Castiel allows his wings to breathe, for them to flex freely on their own. Their room is big enough for Castiel's wings to span comfortably, and for that, his wings are grateful, stretching far, feathers shivering as Dean's hands shift to comb through his feathers.
His body shudders, as Dean worms his fingers through the outer layers of feathers and to the soft down underneath, pressing at muscle and parts of Castiel that only Dean touches. He sighs, his head falling backwards, baring his neck to Dean.
"Beautiful, Cas." Dean murmurs against the skin of his neck where Dean kisses, and Castiel shudders again, loving this feeling, of baring himself to Dean, giving himself over to be claimed with Dean's touch, his teeth.
And as Dean sinks his teeth into Castiel's skin, sharp pain sparks, but relents to a flurry of—of—of
Castiel has no words for it. Only that his wings flare outwards, shivering and twitching, that his grace explodes to the surface, his soul urging it on, and he can't—he can't—
Lightbulbs in their room burst, shattering glass on the nightstand. The nearest towns go dark, as Castiel's eyes snap open, and he grasps for Dean, holding tightly to the love of his very long existence. He feels threads of grace inside him strengthen, turning into cables of gold, of silk, of feathers and leather. It is entirely too much. It is absolutely perfect.
Dean draws back gently, and it is only as Dean must press his hands to Castiel's chest to move himself, that Castiel realizes he has thrown a hand around Dean's head, holding him there, his other digging fingernails into Dean's back. Astounded by his own carelessness, at causing Dean pain, Castiel's eyes go wide, staring at Dean. But Dean only smiles. It is that cocky grin of his that makes Castiel's wings flutter. Castiel's blood is in his teeth, turning his smile red. Castiel blinks, going completely still with shock at his most selfish prayers being answered.
"You—" Castiel pants, unable to draw breath.
"I think whatever I am, I'm close enough," Dean explains away, and his hands slip under Castiel's underwear and take him out, stroking slowly over Castiel's hardness. "I haven't seen you lose control like that in over a year."
Dean will be the death of him, Castiel is sure. The man doesn't give him one second to breathe as he strokes him, as if he didn't claim Castiel for forever just mere seconds ago.
Castiel pants, his hands gripping Dean's shoulders. "I'm sorry—I didn't expect it to—"
Dean kisses him, tasting like the iron in Castiel's blood, and Castiel's eyes roll to the back of his head. "It was hot, Cas. Don't apologize. Love seeing you like that."
Castiel groans, pitting his forehead against Dean's, "You are sacred, Dean."
Dean snorts, continuing to touch him so sinfully. "I thought I was an insufferable tease?"
Rolling his eyes, Castiel pushes Dean back down to the mattress. Dean lands in a flurry of pillows, Castiel's wings shade him from the moonlight that streams in from the open window. Though Dean is nothing but caring, nothing but a beacon of light and warmth, sensitive, loving words fall upon his deaf ears, and he deflects. For now, Castiel will oblige him. He knows he'll get Dean to take them willingly someday.
"I didn't call you a tease," Castiel goads, blood from his Union Bite leaking down his collarbone, he will allow this to heal on its own, loving every second it stings and scabs. "You did that all on your own."
"You implied it." Dean points out, his hands in Castiel's wings, making him shudder with pleasure as Dean wants him to.
"Hmm, yes I did."
"Yeah yeah," Dean says, eyes looking up at him with love and elation. "Now that I'm back to being an insufferable tease. Care to elaborate?"
"Yes," Castiel leans down and sucks bruises and marks onto Dean's neck that will be healed by morning. Though they never stay as long as Castiel likes, it means he gets to mark Dean every single night, and that, he supposes, is a quite wonderful gift.
"You left your panties in my car." Cas mouths against his neck. "Do you even remember which pair?"
Dean closes his eyes and pretends to think. Well, if Dean wants to play that game, Castiel will play with him.
Castiel moves downward, and spreads Dean's legs apart. When he returns his gaze to Dean, the man's eyes are greedily taking him in, his wings, his divinity. That is, until Castiel wraps a hand, now slick with wing oil, over Dean's length. Dean groans, biting his bottom lip while the wing oil tingles.
"I believe you were attempting to recall which panties of yours you left in my truck," Castiel offers, stroking Dean slowly twice before letting go, trailing his fingers lower.
"Right, yeah." Dean breathes, his hips squirming. "Uh. Blue?"
Castiel pushes the pad of his middle finger into Dean, feeling the tight heat encircle him. "Wrong."
"Pink?"
Castiel pushes that finger all the way inside, and lets Dean adjust to it. He loves the feeling of Dean opening up for him, the way Dean relaxes and lets him inside. "Try again."
He also loves making Dean squirm, so when Dean opens his mouth to guess again, he crooks his finger just right, and Dean's voice comes out crackling.
"R-red?"
Castiel leans forward, pulling out his one finger and circling with two of them. His wings arch high above him, helping steady him as he keeps his fingers where he wants them, and murmurs in Dean's ear.
"They were black." He says and pushes inside.
"Fuck." Dean chokes.
"Mhm," Cas nods, and begins scissoring his fingers inside, watching as the sweat on Dean's brow begins to bead, as Dean's chest rises and falls with anticipation. "Can you believe that was the first time we had sex in my truck?"
"Shit." Dean groans, his body pulsing as Castiel crooks his fingers.
"We've had sex in the Impala many times," Castiel observes. "And yet, only once in my truck. I thought you had a thing for cowboys, Dean."
Dean manages to laugh while Castiel moves his fingers. "Your truck... is more hick than cowboy."
Castiel tsks. "What a shame." He withdraws his fingers, and adds a third, watching Dean keen for him, the arch of his neck as he throws his head back in pleasure. "I bought cowboy boots just a few days ago."
Dean groans, and Castiel doesn't have to peer inside his head to know that Dean is imagining exactly what Castiel wants him to.
"Fuck. Can—Can you—"
Castiel crooks his fingers again, watching as Dean arches and moans. "Another time, Dean. Remember, you're still an insufferable tease."
Dean's answering laugh is chased away by a moan as Castiel moves his fingers.
Then, once Dean is ready, Castiel removes his fingers, cleans them, and gathers more oil onto both of his hands.
"Cas—" Dean voices, his words like prayer in their little church on a dirt road in rural Kansas.
"C'mon, c'mon," Dean urges, impatient as ever as Castiel readies himself. To satisfy his impatient partner, Castiel presses oil into Dean's mouth with the pad of two clean fingers, watching his fingers disappear into Dean's mouth, the slick, textured slide of Dean's tongue over his digits. Castiel presses them in further, exploring the mouth he's claimed. Dean groans around him, and Castiel presses his fingers on Dean's tongue, trapping the muscle there, watching as Dean's eyes close in perfect exhalation.
Here, in their bed, Dean is holy. He is holy regardless, Castiel knows, but here in the church they have built together, Dean is both the altar and the subject of worship. Castiel withdraws his fingers, leaning down to kiss him.
Dean tastes like love, like the leftover iron from Castiel's blood in his mouth, like the oil of Castiel's wings, the winds of Mt. Sinai where Moses received the commandments from a God who abandoned them all. Oh, Dean is holy in so many ways tonight. Dean is divine regardless, but with Castiel's blood in his mouth, his oil, his hands on Dean's body—
Oh—
Oh—
It is Castiel that is holy now. Castiel is saved. He is saved in the arms and embrace of Dean Winchester, and—was that his holy mission this entire time? To save Dean and be saved by him? These past ten years, Castiel has devoted his life, his purpose, to saving Dean, and maybe he should've been letting Dean save him.
Castiel receives Salvation in Dean's body, gasping into Dean's mouth and clenching his fists into their sheets. His own blood drips over his chest from Dean's bite, his wings soaring as Castiel loves him in every way.
Inside Castiel, there are two creatures, one of them wants to put his hands on Dean and bend him to Castiel's will, to arrange Dean exactly how he wants him and take what he wants. He knows Dean likes that, the roughness, that to Dean, it is easier than the other gentle touches Castiel gives him. Part of him wants to—with Dean's consent—take this man apart. To wreck, ruin, and break him down until Dean's mouth is parted, open and longing, moaning his name just for him. His name. Part of him wants to make Dean cry with tears of sensitivity down his face, wants to feel Dean's limbs shaking, wants to mark him, to claim him, to shatter him. He could. Dean is only human, Castiel is something angelic and unnamed.
The other creature inside Castiel wants to put his hands on Dean and worship him in only the gentlest, most loving ways that Dean's never been touched with. He wants to lay this man down and make love to him in wondrous ways, to press his thumbs to the indent of Dean's hips, to lay kisses on his open mouth, to caress the underside of Dean's knees, his ribs, his elbows, Castiel wants to drink him in like the blood of Christ, like wine, like honey.
Both parts of him love Dean entirely, with every fragment of soul and wavelength of grace. Neither creature wins out, because Castiel is unable to be just one. He loves Dean gently and violently. He thinks that was always how they were meant to be.
"Cas—" Dean moans his name, sweat gathering on his brow, and Castiel leans down to kiss his eyes where tears gather. "Fucking—Fuck—I—"
"Beautiful," Castiel marvels, out of breath, yet never out of love. He watches Dean's soul twist and dance, shuddering as Castiel loves him. His blood drips on Dean's chest like the blood of a lamb on the door, asking the world to pass over them.
Castiel adjusts, and he lifts Dean's knee, changing the angle, and Dean cries out beautiful filth in the form of curses as Castiel licks along his Union Scar, reminding him of their bond, that Dean is his, that Castiel now belongs to him, too.
It is holy here in their church on a dirt road in Kansas. It is holy here inside Dean's body. Castiel is a fallen angel, but here he has found heaven. Heaven in Dean Winchester's golden, glowing eyes as the Righteous Man arches off the bed, Castiel's name on his tongue. Heaven is here, watching the evidence of their love wet Dean's chest as Castiel, too, finishes with a supernova lighting inside him, with his grace exploding, his soul screaming in joy. Lightbulbs in their room shatter and break, and Castiel does not know who is at fault for the glass on their floor.
Dean sleeps in Castiel's arms, and he is happy. He is in love with Dean Winchester and with humanity. Not only is he allowed to share Dean's space, but he is wanted there. The Empty does not come as he kisses Dean, as Dean sinks to his knees for him, as Dean holds his hand, as Dean sleeps in their bed that Castiel is needed and wanted in. He is happy with his life. With his son, proud to the depths of his soul of the man, the kind God that his son is becoming. He is happy. He is alive and happy about it, and so, so very in love that he burns with it, brighter than the sun.
Their morning is lazy, and Dean brings Cas breakfast in bed, as per his Prenup agreement, which lies in a drawer in their room with their angel blades. Cas smiles sleepily, his hair fucked to hell and back, sticking straight up on one side and flat on the other. Dean runs his hands through it as he kisses him lazily, Cas tasting like pancakes and syrup.
They go to the farmers market, and though Dean's not particularly a fan, he likes watching Castiel in his element doing Castiel things. He buys honey and cheese, a special rosemary and apple butter, and a tiny, carved, wooden shark for Jack, since the kid is coming over for the night.
He's gotta hand it to Cas. The sun shines downwards on them, filling the lanes between stalls of farmers and artisans selling their products. It's busy, and Dean's lucky not to lose Cas in the crowd as the angel walks along, studying signs and carts full of flowers and fruit.
They pass a familiar booth, and Cas gives the vendors a smile. They're regulars here, Cas buys seeds and little baby plants to put into the garden in their backyard. Cas started it one morning while Dean was rebuilding Baby.
"Dean, I acquire your assistance." Cas says, his pineapple flip flops a mere six inches from Dean's knee. He rolls out from under Baby's engine, so close to being done. Only a few more weeks, and he'd be able to stop having to drive Cas's shit-hick truck. He just needed those parts to come in, those really, damn expensive parts.
He sits up, rests his back against Baby's grill. He's covered in sweat, grime, and frankly, if he's honest, also very stinky. Rolling his wrist, he checks his watch, eyebrows lifting in surprise. Yeah, he'd been out here for longer than he anticipated, but there's something about the Led Zeppelin in the radio, working on his car, and getting his hands dirty in something that's not a grave that makes him happy.
"Sorry I forgot about dinner, sunshine," Dean says, wiping his forehead with the dirty edge of his t shirt. It comes away wet with sweat. "I'll clean up and get on it. Spaghetti, right?"
But Cas is just standing there, looking quite struck into stillness. Dean raises his brows. "Got something on my face? What are you staring at?"
Cas just blinks, and squints, like Dean's too bright to look at. Which is wrong, the sun's going down, after all.
"Dude." Dean says, "You need help with something? Sorry I forgot about dinner. Lost track of time."
Cas shakes his head. "I do need your help, but not with dinner. I um... You're rather distracting, but I needed your help. I'm making a garden, and I was wondering what part of the backyard you are least inclined to, so I may dig it up and plant tomatoes there."
Blinking, Dean doesn't really hear much else after the 'You're rather distracting,' part.
"I'm distracting?" Dean echoes. "I'm disgusting right now. I'm covered in grease and dirt, man."
"It appears so," Cas agrees, and he starts undoing the buttons on his white dress shirt. "And I want to taste it."
After a long sidetracked, night, Dean had woken up before Cas the next morning and sectioned off a square of land in their backyard for Cas to have eight neat rows of plants. He left the coffee pot on for Cas and borrowed his truck for a trip to Home Depot. Two hours later, and several minutes listening to a particularly helpful Home Depot employee's advice, Dean was back with several yards of fencing to keep birds, raccoons, and other little critters out of Cas's project.
When he came back, Cas was half blinking into a coffee mug, hair fucked to hell and back again, so Dean started planting stakes into the ground and building the structured fence for Cas's garden.
Now, Cas takes his angelic focus to the farmer's market, picking out plants and seeds and little knick knacks and stuff they need or don't need. Dean follows behind closely with his credit card. They're a perfect team, and Dean's more than happy to make Cas happy. It's far too easy, he's realized, a little touch here, a comment there. Happiness is in the being.
Stepping around the corner, they find a familiar booth where two red headed girls are selling handmade jewelry and tie blankets.
Charlie grins at them, wide and excited. She scurries around the booth and gives Dean a hug that takes his breath away with how tight it is. "We've been waiting for you guys! All morning!"
Charlie steps away, her eyes bright and the sun shining on her face. She gives Cas the same hug treatment, and Dean sees Anna watching from afar, still just as awkward, still standoffishly unsure, yet kind.
"Hey Anna," Dean greets her, and gives her a two-finger wave. She smiles, just a barely-there tilt of her lips, and she nods her greeting at Cas.
Cas to his credit, doesn't let his jealousy show anymore. When they first saw the two red headed girls here, Castiel's eyes had flickered as Dean shook Anna's hand, and well, the sex that night had been fantastic, but Cas steps around the table and gives his sister a short and slightly awkward hug, like forcing two magnets together whose magnetism has mostly weakened to a slight pat on the back.
Besides, Charlie's nothing but the best kind of buffer, and she practically frizzles with excitement and restless energy. "I saved that blanket you wanted Cas," She says, and bustles around the booth again to grab for a bright blue fleece blanket with lots of little, yellow bees zipping around the cloth. It's large, big enough that Charlie has to hold her hands above her head so that the long frills along the edges don't drag along the ground. It's hideous. It's the ugliest blanket he has ever seen.
"It's perfect," Dean says, lying through his teeth as Cas's face splits into the biggest, gummiest grin that Dean's ever had the pleasure of seeing on a random day of the summer in a farmer's market in Kansas. Charlie hands Cas the horrible monstrosity of a blanket, and Dean whips out his credit card of endless money and asks Charlie if the card reader is tap or insert.
"Don't be ridiculous," Charlie laughs. "You literally exploded your home to kill the devil. You can take our homemade blanket for the friend discount of F-R-E-E. Right, Anna?"
Next to her, Anna nods. "Yes. We made it just for you."
Cas flounders, his hands petting over the soft fleece. He folds the fugly blanket until it sits in his arms neatly. "We can't take this!" Then, because Dean is a walking wallet. "Dean, give them your card."
Anna only shakes her head, and tilts her head forward, almost like a bow, "Castiel, please take this gift and build your nest with it."
Next to him, Cas stiffens, a look of dizzying perplexity on his face. Dean raises his brows in confusion and looks at Charlie, but she only grins like she knows something Dean doesn't. Dean squints at her, then looks back at Cas, who's recovered to his regular, rather stoic expression. He nods his thanks at Anna, and then whispers in a very quiet voice, "Thank you, sister."
Dean squints again and resolves that he's definitely bringing this up later. They chat with Anna and Charlie for several minutes about their little side hustle and retired life.
After one more stop at a booth selling various candied nuts, the two of them head home, and Dean takes the moment of them sitting alone in Baby on the ride home to bring up Anna's comment effortlessly and subtly. "It always struck me as strange that those two became friends out of everyone in our hunting party, you know? That day we killed Lucifer, I mean."
Cas only hums, and fiddles through the cassettes that had luckily been in Baby's trunk the day the bunker came down. The angel digs through the collection and pulls out one he likes, then pops it in the stereo that Dean spent an entire three weeks fixing.
Leaves are fallin' all around
Time I was on my way
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged
For such a pleasant stay
"Anna helped Charlie during the fight," Cas offers, looking out the window as farmlands and trees skate on by. "And Charlie helped her afterwards, I suppose. They are both very kind people. I can see a glimmer of light in Anna's grace, though I do not know if she realizes it yet."
"She's also growing a soul?"
"It appears that I have... what did Claire call it? I have started a trend."
Dean sputters with laughter.
Oh, sometimes I grow so tired,
But I know one thing I got to do!
Ramble on!
"What did Anna mean, by the way? The nest thing? You looked weirded out by it."
Cas blushes. Actually, blushes.
And now's the time, the time is now
To sing my song
I'm goin' round the world I gotta find my girl
"It's an angel thing." Dean guesses.
Cas nods. "It's a... form of blessing. A nest is something only constructed between Union Mates."
On my way
I've been this way ten years to the day
Ramble on!
To find the queen of all my dreams
"Okay?"
"An angel's residence is Heaven, obviously, and since most of us are soldiers, most angels do not form bonds strong enough to warrant an Ether Union." Cas's knee begins to bounce up and down in the passenger seat, as he looks out the window. "Ether Unions are across garrisons, too, since the bonds formed within garrisons are closer to siblinghood."
Dean nods, following along.
"Well, out of the few Ether Unions I have heard of or seen in Heaven, only one of them has been approved by each angel's garrison leader, allowing them to nest, to leave their garrisons with honorable discharge."
"What?" Dean blinks hard, remembering that Anna had been Cas's garrison leader so very long ago. "You guys can do that?"
"Like I said, Ether Unions are rare—likely in part because most angels are so hostile to one another and born to fight. Very few angels seek out Ether Unions at all, preferring the violence and glory of war. So, nesting is even more rare."
"Okay..." Dean's head spins. "What's so cool about nesting then?"
Cas looks out the window with even more focus, his lips tightly pressed together. "A nest is a home, Dean. It is a retirement from servitude in Heaven's wars."
Dean lets the words sink in, his hands gripping the leather of Baby's wheel.
Mine's a tale that can't be told
My freedom I hold dear
How many days in the years ago
When magic filled the air
"So, you're retired?" Dean finally asks.
Cas looks at him, a glistening warmth in his eyes that sets Dean's heart skipping up to squeeze in his throat. His chin wobbles, voice nothing more than a whisper in the car.
"Yes."
Once home, Dean makes rolls of bread using their KitchenAid mixer gifted to them by Gabriel, and Castiel hugs him from behind before he goes out to tend to their garden.
There are headstones in the garden for bodies that couldn't be recovered—little rocks with chiseled initials. Michael sits among the cucumbers, Gabriel with the jalapeños. Jo, and Ellen lie with the flowering tulips. John and Mary Winchester rest under the shade from large leaves that sprout with the tomatoes. There's many more, people they've loved and lost.
Dean watches Cas from the kitchen sink window, his enemy turned ally turned friend turned non-platonic bffs with benefits. Cas has gotten tan, working in the garden without a shirt on in the summer months, and Dean can see a splattering of pink along Cas's shoulders from the sun.
Jack comes over for dinner and tells Dean and Cas that tomorrow he's going to go on a hunt with Claire and Kaia. Dean blinks, swallowing his pot roast in one painfully large bite, and looks to Cas to lead this one. But Cas just nods and tells him to grab the extra gear from the garage before he leaves. Their kid is God, there's not really a way to tell him no, Dean guesses. Even if he doesn't want Jack to hunt, the kid is going to do what he wants. Besides, he'll be with Claire and Kaia, and the kid is indestructible. Silver linings and such.
The three of them watch Harry Potter on the couch. They started the series a few weeks ago, since Jack still hadn't seen them, and now their tradition of watching movies on Saturday nights with Jack has turned into introducing the kid to the wizarding world. Jack sits squeezed between Dean and Cas, their shoulders pressed together, the hideous bee blanket stretching across their legs, the popcorn bowl resting on Jack's lap.
And when Jack falls asleep as Dumbledore's Army invades the ministry, he drools on Dean's shirt, which is fine, it's perfect, actually.
Closing the door to Jack's bedroom, the kid snoozing away inside, the two of them head to the bathroom, brushing teeth and washing faces with elbows bumping together. When Dean slips under the covers, Cas entangles their legs, and holds Dean's face with his palms.
"I would like to ask you something," Cas starts, his face precarious. "I would like for you to wait until I am finished speaking before you make up your mind."
Dean blinks, his brows coming together. "Okay."
Cas inhales, staring into Dean's eyes with a blinding intensity. "I would like to become human. I would like to pull out my grace and grow old with you. I would keep it still, likely somewhere in our home in a bottle or vase just in case I ever needed it. After all, I have much more experience with humanity than I did the first time, and I—I have a soul now too. I believe that makes a difference.
"I would like to grow old with you, I would like to sit on our porch one day when you have more grey than brown in your hair, with a similar greyness to my own. I would like to sit with you and watch the sun set on the field. If Jack or Claire have kids, I would like to be their grandfather. I would like to experience humanity, experience the adventure of aging with you. I have lived far longer than necessary. I think aging would be a gift if I could spend it with you."
Dean stares at him. "You think I'm a brunette?"
"Dean."
"I—" Dean closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of their sheets, the taste of Cas's cool mint breath. "What about your wings?"
Cas nods. "I will miss them, but I spent millions of years flying. I would like to spend however long you have left by your side. And when you finally do pass away, after many, many years, I will see you in Heaven. Either as a soul, or an angel."
Dean presses his hands to Cas's sides. He thinks of his quickened healing, of his glowing eyes as he threw Azazel across the room last year. He thinks of the lights that glow brighter and brighter when they touch, never quite strong enough to burst. "What about me? Am I—?"
Cas caresses the cheekbones of Dean's face, "You are still human, Dean. You simply have scraps of my grace inside you, from our bond, yes, but I think, once I pull out my grace, that whatever growth or power you may have will become stagnant, because you will no longer be bonded to an angel. Just another human."
Dean bites his lips. "Are you sure, Cas? There's like downsides of humanity, age especially."
"Like what?"
"Like, I don't know. Wrinkles. Sciatica. Smelling like prunes. General uncoolness with the younger generation."
Cas kisses him, a soft touch of lips that makes Dean's chest palpitate. "Again, an adventure to tackle with you, Dean."
"Cellulite, Cas." Dean reminds him.
"Can't wait."
"Sunspots! Back pain!" Dean exclaims.
Cas kisses him again, "Is that your only objection? That I won't like the symptoms that come with age?"
Dean squints at him. "You hated having to piss constantly, too. Remember?"
Cas smiles, wide and gummy, like he's won something Dean didn't know he was competing for. Then Dean's getting kissed again. Fully this time, Cas's mouth parting in a smile as he tries to work himself into Dean's mouth.
"It's settled then," Cas murmurs, his lips dragging along Dean's cheek. "I will pull out my grace tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?!"
Cas smiles against Dean's neck, right above his Union scar. "Jimmy's vessel is only thirty-six, Dean. You are already physically older than me. I'd rather not wait a day longer than I already have. Not when time is precious and limited."
Dean leans back, staring at Cas. The crow's feet at his eyes that have been there for ten years without moving, the stubble on his jaw that stays constant no matter what time it is. He hasn't seen Cas with a beard since purgatory.
"And you're sure," Dean checks. "You're sure you want to grow old and have back pain like the rest of us?"
Cas kisses him. "Yes, Dean." He presses his lips to Dean's shoulder, where the handprint faintly glows. "I'm ready for the rest of my life with you."
When Dean wakes, Cas kisses him despite his morning breath, despite the drool encrusted at the corner of his mouth, and despite Dean's protests that he doesn't need to be coddled.
Together, in the darkness of dawn that gives way to the sunlight through trees in their garden, Dean carefully slices across Castiel's neck with his angel blade, watching as the blue-ish white of angel grace flows from his neck like ribbons, and settles into the glass vial Dean holds. Once the last of the grace has gone, Dean slides his hand over Cas's neck, closing his eyes, breathing hard and pulling, pulling, pulling on that tiny thread inside him. When he removes his hand, Dean steps back, breathing hard and dizzy. Cas's neck is perfectly healed, and Cas blinks at him, a distinct humanness there that Dean hasn't seen in years but will see in the former angel for the rest of his life.
Eventually, after enough mornings with Cas sleeping right there next to him, or sometimes watching over him, the protests that Dean 'doesn't need to be coddled' die off. He lets himself be loved, to love at all. He lets himself bask in it, lets it wash over him, like syrup over breakfast, like rain over desert—because Dean is parched when it comes to love—and he fills with it. Fills and Fills.
Though Dean's hands will always be scarred, will always bear the weight of his years and years of fighting for his life and for his world, his hands begin to lose their callousness. It's not over night, or even over a few years, as Dean can't quite shake the hunting habit outright, and he can never stop working on his car, but even the toughest of callouses begin to soften over time.
For now, though, Dean slides his calloused hands along Cas's ribs, pressing his love there, skin to skin. He presses his lips to Cas's healing scar, and he tells him he loves him with his hands, and then, when he turns his face up from the warmth in Cas's chest, he says it with his voice.
I love you too.