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Dust motes drift in and out of shafts of sunlight as the door creaks open and they step inside, the muffled tinkling of wind chimes meeting wood announcing their arrival. The door shuts behind them with a clang as they peer through the gloomy light of the shop, allowing the scent of pages grown old and ink run dry to wash over them.
“I’ll be with you in a moment!” They hear a voice call from midst of the labyrinth in front of them.
Cas forges ahead, floorboards creaking as he goes, eyes roving over the mismatched selection of shelves. Haphazard piles of books teeter here and there, shafts of light glinting and fracturing around the room. They pick out and illuminate every crease, every crack of a spine that tells the tale of a story well loved.
Dean hangs back, feigning disinterest. Books aren’t supposed to be his thing, he reminds himself. But the truth is, he feels at peace in here, content; the memory of last night’s argument with Sam fading as he gazes around. He watches Cas wandering about, the lean lines of his body softening as he bends under the beamed roof, all traces of the tension and possessiveness from the night before erased.
“I remember this book.” Cas runs a finger down a battered spine, and it takes everything Dean has to tear his gaze from those hands he loves so fondly. Cas’ voice is laced with melancholy, heavy with the weight of a history too vast to ever truly share.
Dean feels his own fair share of memory, eyes that have grown too used to checking for possible escape routes now picking out long-forgotten titles, his mother’s lilting voice soft in his mind. She used to read to him, when he was a child, the melody of her voice soothing to him even now.
“They’re like you, these books; heavy with the passage of time,” Dean finds himself saying, the words unbidden, murmured without a thought.
He glances up to find Cas tilting his head at him, the motion so intrinsically Cas that Dean feels his pulse pick up at the sight.
“In what way?” Cas asks, something guarded in his expression that Dean can’t quite work out.
“Well, they’ve lived, you know? Through the ages. Time has kept passing right on around them, but they’ve witnessed wars and the evolution of humanity. They’ve travelled, seen the world. Been held by many hands, broken by a few. And yet, they’re still here.”
Cas’ expression instantly clears, his hand reaching out to grasp Dean’s. Dean takes it, traces the familiar lines under his palm, before bringing it to his face to brush a kiss across the knuckles. He looks away, clearing his throat, embarrassed, and instead leans forward to peer at some of the more damaged books on the lower shelves. He fails to catch the softening of Cas’s eyes, adoration pouring out of every fibre.
“They’re torn in places, maybe,” Dean continues. “But still bound and strong,” he mumbles, half-hoping that Cas won’t hear him, knowing full well that he will.
They’re words that Cas needs to hear.
“Dean...”
A squeeze to Dean’s hand sends warmth flooding through his system, the love for the man who holds it eclipsing his self-consciousness. Cas’ gentle smile clouds his peripheral, and Dean squeezes back, looking away and swallowing down his embarrassment.
He sighs, feeling Cas’s shoulder bump against his as he leans ever so slightly closer, the gentle gesture enough for him to know that it’s okay, Cas understands. Understands that Dean’s never had a way with words. They stand there awhile, shoulder to shoulder, letting the moment hang between them to drift in and out of the books scattered around the shop. Dean just hopes Cas understands his sentiment; finding his tongue tied around the words he wishes he was able to say.
“Come on,” Dean says instead, “we’re never going to find it at this rate.”
They separate, eyes scanning the shelves in search of the book Cas was looking for. It’s as the store owner comes bustling out from the back, a short man with wiry glasses, that Dean spots it. He reaches out, fingers brushing the spine as he traces the golden script etched on it’s teal front.
“Cas, I found it,” he calls, feeling Cas’ presence already behind him.
They’re like magnets, unable to resist each other’s pull. Cas’ hands reach around him to take the book, momentarily holding Dean in between them; an act which long ago would have had him bristling with discontent, and which now speaks of protection and security.
Cas’ eyes light up as he cradles the book, and Dean can’t help the smug smirk spreading on his face. He knows he’ll get an appropriate thank you for that later.
Cas takes it over to the counter so he can pay, but Dean lingers, the thought of Cas’ attentive thank you to look forward to getting lost in the pensive spiral of his thoughts. It’s strange, this place. Full of an odd wistfulness that he can’t quite place, the scent of time resonating deep inside of him. Of how it can be wasted or how instead it can be spent savouring every moment.
His eyes follow Cas, watching him, admiring the way the light from the window reflects in his hair, the illumination of his profile stirring heat inside of him; heat and love where once there was only defeat.
He moves to join him at the register, his own hands reaching out to circle Cas’ hips. Cas leans into the touch, just enough for the back of his jacket to graze across Dean’s chest. He looks back over his shoulder, smiling gently up at Dean.
“I take it you found all you were looking for?” the shopkeeper asks.
“Oh, yes,” Cas murmurs as he hands the book over, his fond gaze is still trained on Dean. “Yes. I found what I was looking for.”
Cas finishes the transaction, and Dean feels the shopkeeper’s knowing smile following them as they walk away. Cas grabs Dean’s hand again, dropping a soft, quick kiss into his hair as he tugs him towards the door, wind chimes poised to ring out again as he turns the handle and they step back out onto the street.
The light out here is bright in contrast to the dim ambience of the store. The shock of it has Dean drawing short, his arm pulling at Cas to keep him close.
“Cas, wait…” Dean starts, not entirely sure what it is that he wants to say. He only knows that he’d felt different in that shop, suspended in some other time or place, and he wants to get the words out while he still can. Before he has to return to their reality, with its harsh lights and space mapped out between them across the abyss of things he will never say.
Cas pauses, turning to face him. His eyebrows are drawn together, frown forming, but his eyes are still soft as he tilts his head to look back at Dean.
“I… What I said inside… I…” Dean clears his throat, staring down at the cracks in the pavement, wishing one of them would open and save him from this. He huffs, mentally kicking himself for being so pathetic, willing the words out of his mouth. “I mean it, you know… You’re not… You’re not broken Cas. The things you’ve seen and done, they’re all just a part of you. And you’ve endured . You’re here, you’re still always here, stronger than anyone I know. All of those things, they just make up your story, and hell if that isn’t a book I want to read a thousand times over.”
Dean flushes madly, ducking his head to avoid looking Cas in the eye. The decision is taken from him though, strong hands coming up and gently holding the sides of his face as Cas pulls his head down to meet his own. Their lips graze, barely even a kiss, before Cas pulls away to smile up at him.
“I…” Dean begins, trembling with the weight of what he feels but just can’t say, but he’s saved again, always saved by his angel, as Cas cuts across him. His thumbs rub circles on Dean’s cheekbones, nothing but honesty and understanding shining from his eyes.
“I know, Dean,” Cas replies, “me too.”