Chapter Text
Castiel saw human life. Its progression and evolution. Ideas, wars and death that seemed significant. Greed and selfishness and wrongful doing. Despicable.
When he looked at Dean Winchester all he ever saw was light. Bright and blinding. Like nothing else. He considered himself a Sunflower, turning towards the Sun, its shine and warmth, to grow and live.
Dean, who cared so deeply and whose every emotion overwhelmed. Dean, after everything, still so beautiful. Who taught disobedience and sin. Love.
Even still, knowingly committing to something he could never have, he could not stop his soul, or the alike imitation of one his spoiled grace had created, from actualizing its purpose. Even if unreciprocated, he would love and he would worship.
He learned to want. But only ever for Dean Winchester.
He did not wish for uncomfortable silences but was helpless in preventing them. He could, however, influence them. With sweetness and kindness – and courtship. Only, he hadn’t considered, for all Dean’s sensitivity and heart, his hunter’s constipation with everything and anything that involved feelings.
Dean thought Cas was beautiful. He wasn't the first dude Dean considered as such, but he was the first Dean ever allowed himself to. Because that was just it. Cas was different. He cared so much. About everything. Even about Dean.
Cas was a brother. Only, brothers didn't think each other beautiful or have dreams of each other's lips. Cas was temptation and glory. Burning shame.
How could it then be that Dean only ever felt honour in his touch. Letting himself love Cas was revelment.
And it's not like Cas even was a dude. He was an angel. A celestial wavelength of something-something. Cas was his friend. And Dean was human. A filthy animal full of sin he had never believed in. How could he ever be worth saving. Much less, have a chance with him.
But all the things Cas said. All the sweetest and kindest things. Angels didn’t have lovers. Then again, they hadn’t had friends either.
So after drunken nights and unsatisfying hook-ups Dean decided, fuck it.
He would love him. Because Cas deserved to know, the vile truth.
He minded minding the touches, the closeness. Safety. But he would be honest. Despite the gutted feeling in his stomach as he buried himself into a unperceivably deceitful curtain, flirting and seducing, because it didn’t hurt like softness did. Only he hadn’t considered his angel’s obliviousness with everything and anything sexual.
A hunt, a simple salt-and-burn, was which made it real. One that made Dean grin with routine he thrived in, which in turn made Castiel’s chest feel tight and, if humans were to be believed, his heart skip a beat.
Castiel was out looking for information, wondering at the odd tightness of his frown at the thought of Dean unprotected. On his way back to the motel, just as he had finished a call to Sam in which he had relied forward all the necessary facts, and wasn’t it disappointing when the younger of the Winchesters was the one to answer the phone, he passed a flower shop.
In a way he was almost certain to be comical he paused and walked backwards to look at the display. He thought to girls in movies and their happiness at getting flowers. All he wanted in that moment was for Dean to smile like that. At him.
He went in only to look, admire as he always did with the works of bees, magnificent creatures, and exited with a bouquet of twenty red roses held tightly in his hand. Preciously cradling.
He intended to return to their motel room, only to be intercepted by a text, Sam again. They had already determined the identity of the ghost and located its grave.
A cemetery would not be ideal, but the Winchesters were never known for being ordinary. Besides, asking Castiel to return to the motel to drop off the flowers and lengthen the time until his next moment with Dean would simply be too much.
He arrived to a particularly chaotic scene, Sam with his back against a gravestone as the ghost of a young, mutilated girl pushed him against it. Dean stood above a freshly dug grave, dropping a lighter into the hole, sweaty and tired. How could he ever be anything but beautiful.
Just before fire engulfed her, the ghost turned to Castiel and with the remains of her strength pushed him to the edge of her grave. Not forceful enough to make him lose balance but enough to make him lighten his grip.
Castiel thought that maybe fate had resented him when Balthazar had unsunken the Titanic as the roses, all twenty of them, fell into the fire of the ghost’s burning bones, a last act of its bitterness.
Castiel’s sigh of haplessness was deep enough that Dean’s victorious mood dulled. A frown appeared on both their faces; Dean’s worry would forever be misplaced when intended for Castiel.
“You alright?” Dean asked him gruffly, displeasure for another misfortune clear but certainty to fix it overtaking. “Ghost dead, hunt done. No other dangerous creatures around here, right?”
“No.” He answered, tight-lipped. There was no point in lying. No heart either. “My flowers fell into the fire.”
“Flowers?” Dean questioned incredulously, eyebrows raising along with the pitch of his voice. His body turned towards Sam’s as he left, never inattentive towards his baby brother, but his eyes stayed on Castiel’s.
“They were meant for you, but I suppose you’ll not miss them much.” Castiel said with sadness yet determination to improve. “Flowers evolved, they cannot move and cannot attack or defend but they survive, thrive. They make their own food, and they produce oxygen to enable life, every life is depended on them, even with so many trying to eat them. They are resilient and kind. Like you, Dean.”
Dean’s spit caught in his throat. He chuckled throughout it, shaking his head in disbelief. He would have to teach Cas about romantic context. Though he himself enjoyed it, he wasn’t sure Cas was even aware of it.
“Well, sweetheart, as adorable as that it. You’re right, I’m not really a flower guy.” His smirk was kinder than it would have been to anyone else, though at the name there was shame and impulsiveness in his eyes. He looked to the floor, kicking the rocks in the grass with feigned boredom.
Castiel’s chest, perhaps meaning his heart, warmed but before his face could too, he transferred that warmth away. All flustering and embarrassment was avoided.
When Castiel’s eyes had met Dean’s and barely anything other existed, Sam, a few feet right from them, had straightened from his slouched stance, hands previously supporting his weight on his knees then turned upwards at his sides while his torso turned twice from side to side as if to ask an invisible crowd ‘Anybody seeing this? Nope, just me?’. With a forceful blink he had turned on his heels and stalked to the Impala, taking out from his bag an old copy of one of R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps books, a childhood favourite.
After only a chapter had been read, Sam’s book burst into flames in his hands. He let out a squawk as it fell to the floor, thankful he had kept the door open, and stomped on it until the flames went out. Defeated, he picked up the now ruined book, torn up and charred, and looked accusingly to Castiel. …Who didn’t notice him because he was too busy eye-fucking his older brother. Of course he was.
Perhaps the flowers weren’t the wisest decision. Comfort and tenderness were not things familiarly known or easily excepted by Dean. He thought back to a time when he had needed. When his body had been weak and human. He hadn’t felt much warmth in that time. In fact, he recalled vehemently fighting the biting cold that had been almost burning.
He never wanted that for Dean. Providing substance would be a gesture Dean could appreciate. Castiel knew it was part of the things Dean had never had in abundance.
He was unaware of much of it, or most of it, truthfully.
Well. Trial and error.
Which is how Castiel had ended up covered in flour, thankful he had taken his trenchcoat off beforehand. His hands, somehow up to the elbows, were slattered with the pie’s filling. He had put the pie, dough somewhat lumpy and contents, apples and cherries, if Dean loved both, he would likewise enjoy them at the same time, into the oven. He had considered himself knowledgeable until it was time to set a temperature for the pie to bake at. He wanted it to be done sooner so he turned it to the highest it went.
He waited until the pie was dark brown, he didn’t want it to be raw, and pulled it out without gloves, the heat only tickling. He placed it on the counter and tilted his head, unsure. He poked it with his finger and it felt hot and solid. Perhaps buying one would have been better.
“What’ve you got there, Cas?” Dean’s cheerful voice said from behind Castiel’s back.
He turned swiftly, smile already quirking. As an angel he could see the shine of souls, Dean’s seemed to be lighting up with happiness, though for what, Castiel wasn’t sure. His own breath fluttered. “Hello, Dean.”
When Castiel failed to say anything following his greeting, Dean raised him eyebrows and strolled to him, carefree, the remains of whatever weight dropping from his shoulders to be shared. “Heya, Cas.” He squinted at Cas’ gift. “Is that pie?”
“Yes.” Castiel’s back straightened, he had a habit of slouching, relaxing, when by Dean’s side. “I made it myself. It has cherries and apples. It should be sweet. Like you are.”
Dean turned his face away from Castiel, hands planted on the counter supporting his tilted stance. Castiel thought perhaps he had done something wrong.
Dean considered briefly scolding Cas, angrily yelling at him, that that wasn’t how friends spoke to each other, that it was inappropriate and could give people the wrong idea. But it was the right idea. He was suddenly overwhelmed with regret for all the possibilities of missed words and touches. No, Dean decided. His brother needed him alright. He would not starve himself of his angel. His salvation.
“Please tell me you’re not going to eat that?” Sam’s worried and uneasy voice came from beside Castiel. He hadn’t realised that Sam had come into the room, usually so alert, but only having thoughts for Dean.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Dean asked him, disgruntled. His brother’s words had the effect of forcing down the blush he had been trying to hide. Dammit, he was a badass hunter, he didn’t blush! But Cas was so pretty and so sweet…
“Dean, it’s completely burned. No offense Cas, but maybe you should ask for help next time.” Sam shook his head, still looking at the pie as if it would jump him.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, Samantha. Cas made it for me.” He beamed, unaware. “And I love me some pie!”
Sam made a disgusted noise as Dean rummaged around for a fork and shoved some pie into his mouth. He seemed to have some trouble biting through the burned dough but soon his eyes fell closed in bliss. The taste differed from the one pie normally had, bitter and somewhat sour but the knowledge that it was Cas who had made it for him, it was far sweeter than any other thing could ever be.
Sam shook his head and threw his hands up in defeat. He muttered something about Dean getting sick and picked up the books scattered around the dining table to take back to their places in the library.
Like he had with his entrance, Castiel barely noticed his exit. Dean ate a quarter of the pie in quick concession before stopping. He chewed somewhat thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing and smiling goofily. Fear was glinting in his eyes for the barest of seconds. There was pie filling all around his lips.
“Well, this pie is hot.” He said much to Castiel’s confusion. The pie had just been baked. “Kinda like–“ He clicked his tongue and pointed to Cas.
Castiel tilted his head then looked down at himself. “No. I would say my body is a perfectly acceptable temperature.”
“No, Cas, not like –“ Dean sighed in defeat. Resigned and unusually ashamed. “You know what? Forget it.” His voice turned forceful and his gaze hard. Daring. Terrified.
Castiel carefully considered him. “Perhaps it is your temperature that is abnormally elevated. That is quite an odd thing to say.” He lifted his hand to place it on Dean’s forehead.
Dean moved away, panicked, freezing when he noticed the mess of pie filling on Cas’ hand and up his arm. “Whoa, I’m fine! And how on earth did you even get so messy, dude? You even got flour in your hair.” He crackled for the shortest of seconds.
“I suppose I should go get himself cleaned up.” Castiel propositioned to himself, reluctant to give up Dean’s company.
Pick-up lines were apparently too subtle. But something that certainly wasn’t nestled in Dean’s mind. He smirked, grabbing Cas’ wrist and dragging him closer. “I got a better idea.”
He moved, with a harsh swallow down his suddenly dry throat, before he could hesitate, Cas’ adorable confusion reminding him of just what he could have. For once within reach. If only he would allow himself to uncurl and expose the insides of himself, things he had always hidden and dreaded. Much like Cas, a part of him.
He brought Cas’ hand to his mouth and licked the filling off his fingers, each calling to his attention individually. He moved on to Cas’ palm, tongue swift and hot as it returned into his mouth to no longer lick but kiss instead. His mind cleared, nothing but contact and warmth remained.
Castiel felt his breath stutter at the little wet presses to the single-layered epithelial tissue that made the pressure and heat all the more tender. A merciful caress.
When there was no more filling on his hand, Castiel pulled it out of Dean’s grasp. They both longed urgently for the proximity. Castiel who had not known longing, would never learn to deprive himself. His now unsullied hand reached behind Dean’s head and tugged him closer.
“There is pie on your lips.” He told him informatively. His tongue surpassed his lips to lick at Dean’s; it was quicker that the yearning overtook him than it did Dean. He kissed unhurried and revelling. Like there was nothing else to it. No greater honour nor feeling. Like the taste of Dean was his sole objective.
They parted for air though it seemed unimportant.
“I – I must go. Clean myself up.” Castiel spluttered, breathless though he did not need air and cold though he could not be so.
Watching Cas walk away with glossed-over eyes and a stunned smile, Dean hand came up to his lips, fingers barely gracing. He stayed locked in place for a moment then thumped his head on the kitchen counter. Relishing in his weakness as tears burned behind his eyes as punishment.
In the library Sam was looking over the shelves to find the place of the last book when all the lights went out. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Guys, seriously?”
Dean had been avoiding Cas for close to a week after their kisses. His stomach churned at the memory, turning painfully, too full, despite not having eating in almost a full day. He kept tasting the pie, and with it hearing words unsaid. Shame and spite-filled insults in voices that used to warm.
He kept to his room, away from Cas’ affections, away from Sam. He couldn’t protect Sam compromised as he was. He paced and rolled on the bed and paced again. The space felt too small but anything more open felt bare, exposed.
With all his isolation and worry, he couldn’t have had any clue as to what Cas had been planning.
The night he had baked the pie, Castiel lay on his bed in the dark, broodily thinking. What could mean more to Dean than providing him substance? Care? No. Castiel shook his head to himself. Dean would turn away from any comfort at the first glimpse of his own weakness. He was so good at hiding from himself. But perhaps – safety.
What family offered. Everything and anything Sam. The memories of his mother. John, in intervals shorter than Castiel could overlook to resent. Bobby.
But Castiel wasn’t family. And he wasn’t like in those movies Sam showed him, a strong and powerful hero. Due to his angelic nature the vessel of Jimmy Novak had gained significant improvement to the structure and power of his body. Likewise, his smiting and healing would be enough to consider him powerful. But he simply wasn’t a hero.
It was in his sadness and shame, as the tears prickled at his too-human eyes, that he realised Dean had always felt safe enough to fall into a deep sleep, and Castiel did know from watching him and syncing his grace, completely subconsciously and unintentionally, to Dean’s soul, with only Castiel by his side while watching movies. Westerns.
Castiel thought perhaps a movie night. But those were common and usually accompanied by exhaustion, an excuse to avoid nightmares. Courting was meant to be special and full of thoughts.
It wasn’t that night, but the sixth day of Dean’s avoidance Sam was the one to take action. He sent Dean off on a grocery run and sneakily directed Cas after him. It was hard to avoid someone sitting beside you in your car, with Bob Seger blasting on the radio much less. Dean would reach over and turn it off if Cas didn’t look so peacefully beautiful, head bobbing in rhythm.
Dean sighed as he rolled the car to a stop in front of the store. His hands tightened on the wheel along with his jaw, words at the tip of his tongue, voice stolen by something loathsome. He turned to Cas swiftly and breathed his name silently.
Castiel returned the gaze as he heard his name from Dean’s lips. It barely took him a moment to recognise it was not in words but in prayer. He leaned forward, desperate to hear. Feel. He studied Dean’s face and felt his own soften.
Their knees knocked together, jolting them from thought but not closeness.
Dean swallowed forcefully and turned away from Cas, pushing his door open harshly. “Let’s go.” He bit out, livid. He felt Cas’ eyes follow him and didn’t wait for him to get his ass out of the car. Let him rush after him, wanting yet depraved. He stopped in his tracks as Cas’ shoulder nudged his.
“Go get some new shirts. You need them. Can’t always be dressed in the same damn thing.” Dean ordered to Cas, feeling his fingers grab for the coat at his own order. He got himself under control, like the hunter he was and strolled forward, leaving Cas to frown after him.
Castiel had thought Dean had quite liked his outfit, but perhaps he was mistaken, he wasn’t always good with humans, but he considered himself good with Dean. More so, he felt Dean’s fear. No supernatural threat in the area and Dean was still so shakingly terrified. What he would give for Dean to see his wings, to wrap them around him and never let go if he so desired, if he so dared.
He recalled his thoughts some nights ago, unfinished ideas. How valuable safety is to those who had never had the choice of it. He could give Dean a choice. Would give Dean everything.
He found himself standing by the clothing store with no new clothes but a cowboy hat and boots. He revisited the idea that he might have gone overboard but recalled the wide-eyed smile the woman who had sold it to him had worn. Dean looked at him like that at times, so it must have been good.
He hesitated a moment more before slipping on his newly acquired items. He glanced at himself in the store’s display window and crocketed his tie, hopes of Dean fixing it still fresh on his mind even after years.
He walked to the Impala with his head high and eyes soft. A warrior diminished by a single man’s caring touch. Thought to be unmovable yet soothed by weakness.
Dean was sitting in the car, door open, with his elbows on his knees, pain-filled gaze set on the reflection of himself. Deceitful in its unmistakable honesty. He straightened as Cas approached him, not remembering when the threatening presence had become a comfort.
He caught sight of the boots first, quickening the movements of his head. The hat made his hand fall between his thighs, hiding the sudden unexpected warmth beneath itself. His mouth parted slightly, his head tilting.
“Cas?” He questioned, his throat suddenly parched.
“Yes, Dean?” Cas answered back, completely unbothered. His eyes narrowed, considering. “You know, your eyes used to seem like endless skies when you smiled. Now they shine like the clearest tear when they alight.”
And what was Dean supposed to say to that? Especially since Cas wasn’t looking at him with an expression of deadpan, oblivious to all inner turmoil, but instead fondly. “What’s going on?”
Cas gave him a smile that seemed wavering. He spoke in a whisper, each step taking him closer to Dean. “I used to want to preserve you. Though protect would be a better word for it. A human, so powerless and corruptible. But not you. You just didn’t give in. Not until I worshipped you and ever since.”
“You telling me you’re my guardian angel?” It was meant as a joke but stirred something deep in Dean’s chest. His mouth continued without his consent. “Because I already know that. You’ve saved me Cas. From hell, from myself. You’ve saved Sammy. You’re my –” everything “– family.”
Castiel considered him for another moment, unnaturally still, now less than a meter away. “I am not a guardian angel.” He said with absolute conviction. “I’m your huckleberry.”
Dean cackled. “Not quite.” He said, shaking his head along with the fluttering of his heart. He licked his lips and responded in kind with a trembling whisper. “I wish I knew how to quit you.”
Castiel’s brow furrowed in incomprehension. “I don’t believe you have shown me that movie, Dean.”
“No, I really haven’t, have I?” He laughed again, wetly and accompanied by a preventive sniffle. He considered the man before him and stood from the car. Now eye-to-eye with him he felt himself accept the angel’s warmth. He nodded to himself and threw the Impala’s keys in the air. “You’re driving.”
Castiel blinked in wonderment, just barely catching the keys. “But Dean.” He protested weakly, wide-eyed. So many things floated around in his mind, crashing into walls. His tongue itched with everything he wanted to say. He settled, in all his might, on one anguished word. “Why?”
“Because I trust you. You’re my Cas.”
Back in the bunker, Sam sat satisfied with himself, knowing his brother and best friend could not go long without talking, especially in the forced proximity. He sat back at the table in his room, hours of research neatly stacked in piles by creatures in alphabetical order. He had made notes, a condensed record of every important detail.
He stretched his arms over his head in accomplished relief. Just as he was about to move on to making lunch the lights flickered. His mind jumped to intruders foremost, thoughts interrupted by the sound of a wind-whirl. He looked to the surface of his table and found his notes spiralling wildly above it.
Their shapes distorted and folded in ways Sam was sure his tree-dimensionally designed sight-centre could not comprehend. The noises quieted before the movements stopped, the papers, intact but bent into each other fell back onto the table. Sam laughed in incredulity.
Hearts. Because of course they were.
“Go to hell, Cas!”