Archive of Our Own ^beta

Buying that Walkman was one of the best ideas Dean ever had. Granted, his ratio of good ideas to bad ideas didn’t have much to say about his track record. At least, it didn’t have nice things to say about his track record.

But that Walkman? Good idea. Great, even.

It wasn’t even something he’d had to think about.

He wasn’t thinking about much of anything when he sat in the library with a beer in one hand and his laptop out in front of him. Robe warm around his shoulders, flannel pajama pants soft against his thighs. The air light and sleepy, quiet like it always was late at night in the bunker.

The tap of his fingers against the keyboard the only sound for what had to be miles.

Googling it was easy in the same way navigating Amazon wasn’t, easy to tough, simple to complex in less time than it took for Dean to bring the bottle up to his lips for a good pull, but 45 minutes and eight different vendors later, he had an empty bottle sitting on the table and a brand-new Walkman sitting in the cart.

He’d considered buying a used one. Spent a little too long blinking at the screen, throwing words like vintage and refurbished and classic around in his head until he remembered when he’d first gotten into music.

When he’d first really gotten into music.

Was so hopped up on Zeppelin II and III and IV that when his father handed him a Walkman and used words like vintage and refurbished and classic, he didn’t hear them. He was a little too busy being nine.

He wasn’t all that good at being nine, but Sammy was great at being five and if Dean wasn’t careful, Sam would turn his Zepp IV into a necklace the same way he’d done with his Quadrophenia.

It didn’t really matter. In the long run.

It only took around a month for Zepp IV to sound less like music and more like static. For Dean to remember words like vintage and refurbished and classic with a huff, a hard breath that tore itself from his chest while he ripped off his headphones and slammed that stupid old Walkman down on the bed.

Not his bed. But a stupid old bed in a stupid old motel in stupid old Louisiana.

That stupid old Walkman ended up making a better EMF meter than it ever did a music player.

Dean needed something better than that.

He wasn’t thinking about money, when he went for something new. He wasn’t thinking about limitless credit cards or bottomless bank accounts or Charlie’s gigantic, wonderful brain. He wasn’t trying to go above and beyond for the hell of it. Because that was a thing he could do now. Whenever he felt like it.

It was just that.

It was just that Cas deserved something that wasn’t going to crap out on him after a month. Was all.

Because ever since Cas had fallen, since his grace had finally faded, and he’d fallen and landed and picked most of his pieces up out of the dirt, he was more interested in music than he’d ever been. Had a penchant for classic rock that knocked Dean flat on his ass.

He didn’t know what to make of it at first. Cas’ sudden interest.

It wasn’t that he minded. If anything, he. He kinda liked it. A little. Or a lot.

He liked that Cas always had some sort of question ready on the tip of his tongue, about a band or a singer or a song.

He liked that Cas usually waited for the song to change or for the album to finish before he asked, like if he asked in the middle, it might interfere with the full experience.

He liked that Cas always wanted to check out a record store or a thrift shop with him if they passed through a town that had one. Some sort of place where they could spend an hour or two and sift through stacks of old tunes, for ones they might like, for ones with dumb album covers they could show each other for a good laugh.

He liked that Cas had a note open on his phone that kept track of which of the cassettes in Dean’s old cardboard box they’d already listened to. That Cas marked the albums he liked with an asterisk, that he marked the ones he really liked with two.

There was so much to like about what was going on here.

Dean just. Didn’t get it. Wanted to get it.

He’d asked once. A couple days ago. Somewhere between Oklahoma and Arkansas, with the sun setting somewhere up ahead, a final burst of light to paint the sky orange and red.

He reached out to turn the song down a click or two. Just enough for his voice to carry across the front bench.

“So,” he started. A lazy attempt at casual. A tip of his chin towards the radio when Cas turned his head, when Cas took his temple away from the glass of the passenger side window to look at him. “Classic rock, huh?”

Cas narrowed his eyes at that, burned the line of Dean’s jaw with the weight of his gaze. “What about it?”

Dean was quick to say, “Nothin’,” because it was. Nothin’. Shook his head a little to emphasize the word. “I just never knew you were a fan. Always had you pegged as more of a bagpipes and church organs kinda guy.”

Cas’ response came after a long few seconds. So long that Dean wasn’t sure he was even going to answer at all.

“Those can be nice,” he said. With a nod, and another long pause. “But I.”

He didn’t make any move to finish that thought, though. He let the words go and let them hang there. Out in the open.

Dean took his eyes off the road to watch Cas shake his head. To watch his brow pinch. To watch his lips part and search for words he didn’t quite know how to say. Warm and human in a way Cas hadn’t always been capable of.

Made Dean think about simpler times. Made him think of how glad he was that they were gone. How guilty he was for being glad.

“I don’t know. This-” Cas gestured towards the radio with his chin, the same way Dean had done just seconds ago. “What you listen to. I never paid it much attention before.” Before I fell. Before my wings broke and my halo shattered. “I suppose it can be sort of noisy, but I-” He cut himself off to swallow. To blink. Hard. “I like it. That it’s noisy.”

Now that, Dean could understand.

He didn’t push it.

He reached out and turned the radio back up. The Eagles, halfway through Hotel California. Gave him as good a reason as any to turn the dial a couple extra clicks. So that noisy could get noisier.

Because Cas liked music, and he liked it noisy.

Dean didn’t know if there was more to it than that. With Cas, there usually was. Which meant he was probably trying to use music somehow, in some way, for some higher purpose. Was probably trying to use noisy to fill all the newfound silence that came with getting grounded. Was probably trying to replace angel radio with other sounds and voices, but it didn’t really matter.

Cas liked music. He liked Dean’s music.

And Dean’s music, in its purest, rawest form, was made for cassettes and vinyl, and unless Cas intended to sit next to the record player in Dean’s room or lounge on the front seat of the Impala for hours on end, he needed a Walkman.

A good Walkman.

Something he could rely on.

Dean threw a pair of headphones into the cart, too. Thick ones. Sturdy. The same kind as he had, that went over his ears and matted his hair down. Except. Where his were black, the ones he picked out for Cas were silver and grey. You know. So that they wouldn’t get mixed up or whatever.

If Cas had told him a couple weeks ago that he liked the silver ring Dean kept on the shelf above his bed, the ring he used to wear everywhere. The one he used to wear every day before he got too afraid of ruining it, or losing it.

If Cas told Dean he thought that ring was beautiful, it had nothing to do with it.

It was just a ring. They were just headphones.

Five days later, Dean got the email that the Walkman and the headphones had both been delivered to their PO box in Lebanon. He picked the package up when he went out on his usual Tuesday grocery run later that afternoon.

Got back to the bunker just as the sun was going down. Passed Sam and Cas in the war room on his way to the kitchen, four full bags of groceries, two in each hand because he was too stubborn to make two trips.

Too stubborn to bring the Amazon box in with him and subject himself to Sam’s dumb, knowing smile. The way his voice would perk at the edges and the inevitability of ‘Watcha got there?’ and ‘Who’s that for?’

Dean had enough butterflies in his stomach without Sam embarrassing him to high holy hell and blowing fire on the flames like some primordial dragon.

The way Sam’s eyebrows lifted when he saw the bags Dean had in his hands was bad enough.

Because apparently Dean was the type of person that brought canvas bags with him to go grocery shopping now. That had seen one too many nature documentaries and sat through two too many breakfast conversations where Cas had sad eyes set on his coffee mug and a frown on his lips while he talked about how beautiful the ocean was and what a danger plastic was to the ecosystem.

So, yeah. Dean used canvas bags. Whenever he could remember them. Because they were better for the ocean he’d only ever seen and never touched.

He wanted to protect the goddamn sea turtles, alright? Sue him.

He found Sam and Cas in the same place he’d left them, after he finished with the groceries and went back into the war room. Sam, with his laptop out in front of him, shoulders hunched, mouth pulled tight to one side while his eyes went back and forth and back and forth and back again. Cas, with one elbow on the table, cheek pillowed against his fist, nose buried in a book that’d probably come from the stack of five off to his left.

His hair was a mess, like he’d been tugging on it. Or running his hands through it. An absent gesture he’d picked up somewhere along the way, that Dean had always wanted to tease him for, but never did. Needed him to keep doing it more than he needed to make fun of him.

The same sort of logic applied to the clothes thing. The thing where, more often than not, Cas chose to steal a shirt from Dean’s dresser or a flannel from his closet instead of wearing anything of his own.

Cas didn’t have a whole lot to call his own. Dean couldn’t find it in himself to mind sharing.

The one he’d picked out today was heathered grey and slightly wrinkled, soft fabric pulled tight across his chest, around his arms.

It was one of Dean’s favorites. One he’d worn a million times, that he’d know blind, just from the way it felt on his skin, but it didn’t stop him from reaching out to touch, to feel when he finally got close enough. Clapped a hand on Cas’ shoulder and let it linger a second too long.

Because the fabric felt different on his palm. Warmer. Softer.

Better.

Cas tipped his head up at the touch. Lifted his chin and let his neck go long so that his eyes could find Dean’s. A silent question hidden in the set of his mouth, the pinch of his brow.

“You busy?” Dean asked.

Cas shook his head, like he didn’t have a book out in front of him, or five more off to his left. “Not particularly.”

“Awesome.” Dean slid his hand from Cas’ shoulder before he could do something stupid. Like touch the backs of his knuckles to the stubble on Cas’ jaw. “I uh- wanna show you something,” he said. Motioned with a tip of his head towards the doorway. The one that would lead them to the garage. “C’mon.”

He made to step away, to push off his heel and make his way out of the room, but Sam’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Hey, Dean?” The words were light. Too light. Lit every nerve in Dean’s body with echoes of uh oh and oh no and danger, Will Robinson.

Cas clearly didn’t think much of it. If the way he pushed back in his seat and stood was any indication.

Dean ignored the way Cas’ shoulder brushed his when he stepped past him. Ignored the pad of Cas’ footsteps against the floor, a sound that grew softer as he set off in the direction of the garage. Focused instead on keeping cool, on keeping his voice even.

“Yeah?”

Sam was already looking at him when he turned his head. Mouth pulled into a smile he was clearly trying to fight, betrayed by bright eyes that made Dean want to strangle him.

“You know,” he said, and it was casual. Same kinda casual he’d been using to tease Dean his whole life. Made Dean ball his hands into fists at his sides. “You should really put the canvas bags back in the trunk while you’re out there. That way you already have ‘em with you next time you stop in town.”

Dean was going to kill him.

“You-”

He lifted a harsh finger to point at Sam, had a threat ready on the tip of his tongue, an impulse that begged him to bark and bite and burn with sharp words, but the urge fell away as quickly as it came. Hot to cold, 60 to zero in half a second, a heavy foot on the proverbial break because threatening Sam meant that Dean had something to be defensive about. Meant that he had something to hide. Something to admit.

There was nothing for him to be defensive about, or hide, or admit.

He let a hard breath go, out through his nose. Raised his other hand and held them both up, palms exposed.

“You know what?” He shook his head as he dropped his hands back down to his sides. Deflated. Deflected. “Just shut up, okay? Stop talking. Forever.”

He was already halfway across the room by the time Sam’s muffled laugh hit his back. By the time Sam was calling after him.

“I’m just saying,” he said, and Dean could hear in the words that he’d finally let that smile crack his whole face. Now that Dean wasn’t looking. “I think it’s really great what you’re trying to do for the environment, Dean-”

“Bite me, Sam.”

He was really never gonna live this next bit down.

Cas was already sitting on the hood of the Impala by the time Dean made it to the garage. He had his hands braced back behind him, ankles crossed below him, chin tipped so that he could look up at the ceiling.

The picture of comfortable and casual. Quiet, while he sat and waited. Something slow, lazy in the way he blinked, the way he breathed.

Dean would’ve been more afraid of sneaking up on him, more careful about scaring him if his boots didn’t smack so heavy, echo hollow against the concrete. If the slight tip of Cas’ head didn’t make it perfectly clear that he knew Dean was there.

Some things might have changed since he’d fallen, but it didn’t seem like that sixth sense was going away any time soon.

Dean didn’t know what he was going to do if it ever did. He didn’t like to think about it.

He resolutely was not thinking about it when he ducked into the front seat to grab the Amazon box off the bench. Bent down to get his box of cassettes out from underneath it. Shut the door behind him with an easy jerk of his elbow and went around to the front so that he could lift himself up onto the hood next to Cas.

Hip to hip. Shoulder to shoulder.

Not quite touching, but almost. Almost.

He handed Cas the cassette box before anything else. Mostly to free up his hands, but also to give Cas something to do. Something to focus on that wasn’t Dean. The heat Dean could feel had already spread up along his neck. The slight shake he could feel wreaking subtle havoc on his hands.

“Pick one,” he said, but Cas didn’t move.

Dean didn’t lift his head up to find whatever question was waiting in his eyes. Chose instead to start working at the Amazon box, to watch a blurry half-image of Cas in his peripheral vision.

A blurry, static half-image.

Dean pursed his lips. Paused. Flicked his eyes over towards the box in Cas’ hands and let them linger half a second. Over the curl of his fingers, the gentle flex of his forearms. Tanned and toned in a way they hadn’t always been.

In a way that made Dean’s jigsaw heart beat that much faster.

“A tape, Cas.” To pull himself from the thought. To help give Cas a clue. “Pick one.”

That seemed to knock Cas’ ass into gear, at least a little bit. Dean had already shifted his gaze, refocused his eyes on the box in his lap, but the soft, familiar sound of Cas sifting through the cassettes eased itself into the air, replaced some of the silence. The light smack of plastic against plastic, the dull thud of plastic against cardboard.

Which. Did the trick in more ways than one. Helped loosen the vice in Dean’s chest, helped knock his own ass into gear, too.

Found himself glad for the first time in his life that something had been shipped to him with flimsy cardboard, cheap tape. Cheap enough that he could rip it apart with his hands, pull it open without so much as losing his breath.

Yeah. He was in his forties. He lost his breath ripping open a box sometimes. Shut the hell up about it.

He needed his pocketknife for the two smaller boxes he found waiting for him on the inside. Flicked it open and dragged the blade along the edge, cut into the thin plastic with one hand and pulled it off, balled it up in the other.

Lather, rinse, and repeat for the other box.

He’d thrown all the boxes, tossed all the plastic odds and ends down onto the ground for future cleanup, had both the Walkman and the headphones out and free on his lap by the time Cas was putting the cassette box down onto the hood next to him. Approximately thirty seconds after he’d finished picking a tape to listen to.

Pink Floyd, The Wall.

That was a two-asterisk album for Cas. One of his favorites. Dean had to fight against the smile he could feel trying to claw its way up.

Spoke to try and save himself.

“It’s pretty simple,” he said, and held the Walkman up into the air between them. Watched Cas tilt his chin out of the corner of his eye. Curious. “This one’s eject.”

He angled his hand so that Cas could see what button he was pushing, felt Cas’ shoulder knock into his when he leaned in closer. So that he could get a better look. Had his eyes on Dean’s hand when the Walkman popped open with a good click.

Dean nodded towards the sound as he said, “That’s where the tape goes.”

Cas was perceptive enough to take that hint for what it was. Pulled the winning cassette out of its case and handed it to Dean. Closed the case with a smack, pushed their shoulders together again. So that he could keep looking. Keep learning.

Dean was slightly more than glad for the flannel he had on over his t-shirt. A warm layer that kept Cas’ skin from finding his. Made it easier for him to focus. To keep going.

“Now. Whatever side you wanna listen to, that’s which one goes up.” He held the tape up next to the Walkman, flipped it over with a twist of his wrist, as if to say, that’s what ‘up’ looks like. “Which one you want? A or B?”

Cas’ breath was soft against his cheek. The words, even softer. “A, please.”

Dean ignored the goosebumps he could feel prickling on his arms and slid the tape in A-side up. Closed it with another good click. Turned it sideways so that Cas could see all the buttons again, could watch as Dean clicked each of them with his thumb. Could listen as Dean talked him through the basics.

“Okay. So that one right there-” click, “-that one’s play.” Click. “That one’s stop. Then you got-” click, “fast forward.” Click. “Stop again.” Click. “Rewind.” Click. “Stop. And-” click, “eject.”

The Walkman popped open again, and only then did Dean chance looking over. Did Dean turn his head and find Cas’ eyes, only a short, few inches away from his own. Deep blue locked low, focused, still intent on Dean’s hand, the Walkman held steady in his palm.

But Dean’s eyes were already wandering. Drifting. Falling to trace the line of his nose, the purse of his lips. Asked, “Make sense?” and watched Cas’ Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed, nodded.

“Yes.” Serious. Almost a little. A little reverent. Maybe. Tentative, definitely. “Can I-”

Dean didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence before he pushed the Walkman into Cas’ hand. Ignored the way his pulse jumped when their fingertips brushed. When Cas lifted his head. Found his eyes.

Brought Dean so close to that deep, deep blue, it was almost like he could smell the salt of the ocean in them.

Could taste the sea on his tongue. Could feel it burning heavy, harsh in his lungs.

“Knock yourself out,” he said, voice rough. A ragged scratch in the back of his throat. A scratch he couldn’t bring himself to clear it as he tore his eyes away from Cas’. “It’s yours.”

And the only thing that could justify what came next was that old phrase Bobby always liked to say. The one he liked to sigh whenever he was about to do something particularly stupid.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Dean picked the headphones up off his lap and wrapped them around the back of Cas’ neck. To help him understand. To drive the point home.

It’s yours. It’s all yours.

The headband stood out bright silver against his dark hair, his tanned skin. Cushions soft, slightly smushed against the corner of his jaw, snug on either side of his throat.

Cas made it easy. He made it so easy. Made himself malleable, pliant. Followed and moved and leaned with Dean the same way he always did. The same way he breathed. With ease. Without question.

Tangible trust that slid too smooth for Dean’s calloused hands.

He tried to break the moment with a playful tap of his knuckle to Cas’ chin. A half-assed attempt at distracting himself from the proximity, from a strong brow and salt water and deep blue.

A loud click of the plug into the Walkman’s jack, just at the edge of Cas’ palm. A huff of a laugh that twitched at the corner of his lips, and then at the corner of Cas’, too.

Dean used that same knuckle to tap on the side of the Walkman, to push it harder into Cas’ hand. “What are you waiting for, man? Take her for a spin.”

Ten seconds later, the opening strain of In the Flesh flew from the headphones and found its way to Dean’s ears. On and off again, came and went as Cas clicked through the buttons, one by one by one, just like Dean had done.

Play. Stop. Fast forward. Rewind.

Play. Stop. Fast forward. Rewind.

A steady cadence had Dean’s pulse going fast, had his heart climbing high over a solid, few minutes of click, click, click, click-

He slid off the hood before he could choke on it. His heart. His breath. The words that were threatening to crawl their way up, up, up.

He wasn’t expecting it. The way Cas reached out and grabbed onto his sleeve. A jump, a jerk of a movement that stopped Dean on a dime.

“Dean,” Cas said, and there was some kind of plea hidden in his voice, more a gasp than a word. Grip tight on Dean’s shirt, like he was afraid Dean was going to disappear into thin air if he wasn’t careful.

As if Cas didn’t know. As if he didn’t know just how malleable Dean was in his hands, too. How pliant. How easy it was for Dean to follow, to move, to lean when Cas tugged on his sleeve and pulled him back in. Pulled him in close.

Wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders and buried his nose in Dean’s neck and just. Held on. Tickled Dean’s skin with the even puff of his breath, the soft fan of his eyelashes that fluttered open and closed, open and closed and sent a fresh wave of goosebumps up Dean’s arms, a shiver up his spine.

Dean had Cas’ knee pushing into his stomach, the band of the headphones pressing an uncomfortable line into his cheek, but he didn’t mind. Not when it was so easy to fix.

Almost too easy. To step to one side. To step into the space between Cas’ knees. To wrap his arms around Cas’ waist and rest his hands on Cas’ back.

He moved without a thought. Without a chance to talk himself out of it, or think better of it.

Gave himself no choice but to hold on.

But to hold still.

He didn’t curl his hands in the soft fabric of Cas’ t-shirt-his t-shirt-the way he wanted. He didn’t turn his face and bury his nose in Cas’ hair. He didn’t press his lips to the warm skin below Cas’ ear.

He held on, and held still, and let that be enough. Because it was. Enough.

It was enough to have Cas’ hands holding onto his shoulders. And Cas’ hair tickling at his temple. And Cas’ heartbeat pressed to his.

It was enough, to hear the faint hum of ‘Daddy’s flown across the ocean, leaving just a memory,’ even though the melody was barely audible beneath Cas’ voice.

A whisper of, “Thank you,” that Dean could feel all the way down to his toes.

Dean gave himself one more long breath. Two more seconds. Three more beats of his heart before he took a step back. Before he clapped a hand to Cas’ shoulder and said, “No problem.”

A hand he shoved into his pocket when he left the garage and made his way back towards the kitchen. Ignored Cas’ eyes on his back, Sam’s on the side of his face in favor of looking out into the space dead ahead of him. Walked with his head up, shoulders back.

Posture poised and confident, and not at all like his heart was in the process of trying to break its way out past his ribs.

He spent a while in the kitchen. After all that. Focused less on Pink Floyd and fear and yours and you’re welcome and more on getting dinner ready and set. Peeled and cut potatoes for homemade French fries, the way that Sam liked. Seasoned and shaped ground beef for burgers, the way that Cas liked.

Cas, who, again, was sitting at the table in the war room with Sam when Dean poked his head in to ask how many burgers they wanted.

He still had that same book out in front of him, still had five more off to his left.

His hair was still a mess. Stuck up in some places and flat in others, but not because he’d been pulling on it, or worrying his hands through it.

His hair was a mess from the headphones.

Because Cas had a book out in front of him, five more off to his left, and the Walkman over to his right.

Totally aloof, and completely at ease in his own little world. Like the very sight of him didn’t drag a match across Dean’s skin. A match that sparked and lit and crackled too close for all the kerosine Dean had in his veins.

Cas didn’t lift his head, didn’t take his eyes up off his book when Sam acknowledged Dean and said, “Just one’s fine.”

But he did reach up to slide the headphones off one ear. Song up high enough that ‘I am just a new boy, a stranger in this town’ almost drowned out the words when Cas said, “Two, please,” and waited for Dean’s, “Sure thing,” before he slid them back into place.

Dean walked back to the kitchen with a head full of static. White noise that hummed near deafening. Nothing like what was coming out of Cas’ headphones, all, ‘Where are all the good times? Who’s gonna show this stranger around?’

His head was buzzing like a broken radio, a run-down hunk of junk with a dial that turned and turned and turned and never quite tuned, but he’d be lying if he said the sound, the feeling that came along with it was brand-new.

How could you call anything that was over a decade old brand-new?

You couldn’t. Dean couldn’t.

Sure, the feeling was louder now than it used to be. Easier to identify. Harder to ignore. Insistent as all hell.

But that didn’t mean Dean had any kind of a name for it. The feeling. The flame he could feel licking heat up the side of his neck. The fire simmering low in the pit of his stomach, twisting and turning and burning in the hollow of his chest.

He didn’t know what to call it, but he wasn’t really sure that mattered. Naming something didn’t matter so long as that unnamed something stuck around, and Dean knew that sometimes, giving something a name was as good as jinxing it. Like there was some funny, little paradox that existed between permanence and impermanence that he didn’t quite understand.

He didn’t need to, though, because what he did understand? What he had spent a decade coming to realize? Was that he didn’t want the feeling, he didn’t want that unnamed, Cas-shaped something to go away. Ever.

Which. It didn’t.

If anything, it only got worse because from that day on, Cas and that Walkman were attached at the hip. Literally.

Wherever he went, it went with him. And with it, that bright-hot, Cas-shaped something that Dean refused to name.

It didn’t matter if Cas was doing research, or reading a book, or making a cup of coffee, or sitting up on the roof to soak up all the sunlight that living in an underground bunker obviously left him missing. He brought that Walkman, and a tape from Dean’s ever-expanding cardboard box of cassettes, along with him.

With three exceptions. Breakfast time. Dinner time. And anytime Sam sat out on a hunt. As if the hours Cas spent at the kitchen table or up on the front bench next to Dean were the only times he could bear to sit with the sound of his own thoughts.

Dean didn’t think too hard about that. Or, at least. He tried not to.

He cooked. He drove. He didn’t think. He didn’t complain.

He didn’t complain when he realized his cassette box spent more time on Cas’ desk than it did in the Impala. He didn’t complain when the Walkman died for the first time, and Cas knocked on his door at 3AM to ask where they kept new batteries. He didn’t complain when hour-long trips to the record store became two, became three.

He didn’t complain when he was sitting on the couch with a beer in one hand and the opening credits of A Fistful of Dollars whistling up on the TV. When Cas came in, sat down sideways on the couch next to him, pressed his cheek into the cushion in a way that had to make the headphones too tight for comfort, and tucked his toes under Dean’s thigh.

He didn’t complain when Cas fell asleep like that, when the soft rhythm of Cas’ breath, the easy rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of somebody safe and comfortable less than an arm’s length away eventually lulled him to sleep, too.

He didn’t complain when he woke up the next morning in the very same place, only. With Cas’ feet across his lap, a hand pushed up Cas’ pantleg to hold onto his shin, and a crick in his neck that he couldn’t find in himself to damn.

He just. Couldn’t.

Because honestly, there was something sorta nice about it. About seeing Cas so at ease. About seeing Cas fall asleep mid-song. About seeing Cas’ smile light up when he put an asterisk next to an album title in his notes app and seeing his nose crinkle when he threw a tape back into the box with an exaggerated frown and an, “I’m not sure I’ll be revisiting that one.”

Because he was a person, with interests, with likes and dislikes. With hopes and dreams and wants and needs just like everybody else.

He was human, and sure, there were days Dean could tell he was struggling with it. When he slept until noon and still looked like he hadn’t caught a single moment of rest. When the headphones stayed on all day and didn’t come off until dinner, and even then, his voice was quiet, and his eyes were somewhere far away.

But there were also days when Dean caught Cas humming. When he caught Cas in the kitchen making a PB&J, humming softly to himself and bopping his head back and forth. When he caught Cas in the library with his eyes on a book, a smile on his lips, and a song under his breath.

Those days, Cas looked something like content. Maybe even something like happy.

Cas deserved to be happy.

More than that, he deserved peace, and he deserved peace in being human.

Dean knew better than anybody what a balm music could be. He could only be glad that Cas had figured it out, too.

One morning, about six weeks after Dean first got Cas the Walkman. Dean was sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a near-empty plate, stained purple with the scattered ruins of what had, at one point, been blueberry pancakes. A mug full of lukewarm coffee that he’d poured and ignored in favor of the funnies.

Sam was out on a run. Cas had a sleep schedule like a college kid home for winter break.

Dean was almost used to these quiet hours in the morning, now. Late enough that Sam was already up and out, but early enough that Cas was still busy dreaming. Dean alone at the table, in no particular rush to do anything, to be anything at all.

It was a luxury, to be able to sit in his own kitchen and make his own breakfast while he was still in his pajamas. To be able to read a newspaper for something other than a case, to regret having that fifth pancake, to stay still so long that his coffee went cold.

He wasn’t quite used to it, wasn’t sure it was something he’d ever get used to, or something he even wanted to get used to, but almost. Almost.

He heard Cas before he saw him. Slow footsteps. Noise dampened by the drag of pajama pants beneath his heels. Feet bare against the floor.

Dean looked up when he saw Cas’ shadow over by the door, a shadow that stepped into the light and gave way to sleepy eyes, pink mouth a neutral, flat line, but Cas didn’t pay him any mind. Went right over to the cabinet for a clean mug and then to the counter for the coffee pot.

Oblivious to the world, with the headphones secure over his ears and the Walkman tucked away in his pocket.

The headphones did little to tame his sleep-wrecked hair. Even from the back, it was a disaster. Dean’s hands tightened around the newspaper, felt it, heard it crinkle and crease with the movement. The ache, the instinct to reach out and touch and run his hands through Cas’ dark hair and make it neater.

Maybe messier.

He let his eyes fall further as Cas picked up the coffee pot. Let them trail down the nape of his neck, the line of his shoulders, the stretch and flex of his back beneath a dark, black long-sleeve.

A dark, black long-sleeve that Dean got a better look at once Cas turned around and walked over towards the table, mug in tow, to sit across from him. A Henley, with all three buttons undone at the top. Showed off the skin that had gone tan, from all the hours he spent up on the roof. Showed off muscle he’d built, solid and natural. His body’s way of learning, of adjusting to life without grace.

Dean looked back down at the newspaper before he could linger in any of those thoughts for too long. Before that familiar ache-an ache called guilt, for Cas losing his grace, for not missing it more-could twist and curl around his bones. Before that wave of heat could climb its way up his neck.

That feeling without a name. That bright-hot, Cas-shaped something.

He still wasn’t looking when Cas settled in his chair and took the headphones off his ears, the same way he did every morning. Was busy trying to make sense of fuzzy, unfocused black letters on grey paper when Cas set them down on the table, reached into his pocket for the Walkman, and subsequently gave Dean a good, few seconds to hear what he’d been listening to.

The words rang clear as a bell.

But she’s no drag, just watch the way she walks.

She’s a twentieth century fox.

She’s a twentieth century fox.

The Doors. Cas was listening to the Doors.

More specifically. He was listening to their first album, the tape Dean bought when he was 24. The tape he bought instead of dinner, and turned up high to drown out the growl of an empty stomach, to kill the silence of an empty passenger seat. The tape he bought when he was young and dumb and alone and Jim Morrison was the only person in the world who could understand him.

A soft click, a soft set of words pulled him from the thought.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas’ voice was still thick with sleep, but his tone was warm. So were his eyes.

“Morning, sunshine.” Dean looked up to find Cas already looking back. Vast blue that put the taste of salt water on his tongue. That washed away memories of hungry nights and long drives that felt bone-deep lonely. “Sleep okay?”

“Mhm,” Cas hummed. Nodded, too. Tilted his head to one side with it, sighed when the stretch got him a couple good cracks.

Dean watched it all the way down. Down the cut of his jaw, the purse and part of his lips, the stretch of his neck, the line of his throat.

He swallowed hard. Blinked harder. Brought his eyes back up to Cas’ and didn’t know what to do with the way Cas was watching him. The lazy tip of his head, the comfortable set of his shoulders, the curl of soft hair around his ears.

Dean didn’t know what to do but change the subject. Steer it somewhere safe.

“There’s pancakes over in the oven if you want some.”

Cas’ eyes dropped to Dean’s plate so fast that Dean couldn’t push down the laugh that bubbled its way up. Watched Cas’ eyes widen at the mess of purple they landed on, watched the corner of his mouth twitch into half a smile.

Almost cheeky, almost excited. Brighter than Dean had seen it in days.

“Blueberry?”

“Blueberry.”

Cas got up without another word. Dean hid another laugh behind a quick sip from Cas’ mug. White, patterned gold with thin honeycomb and tiny, grey bees.

Because the coffee in his mug had long passed room temperature, and there wasn’t a single piece of him that thought Cas would mind.

Cas, who always took his headphones off for breakfast. Who jumped at the prospect of blueberry pancakes. Who was in the middle of listening to a tape that Dean had played so many times, it should have worn out years ago.

He couldn’t help the curiosity.

Waited until Cas was back and settled, plate stacked high with pancakes that he proceeded to cut into about a thousand pieces and cover in syrup.

Waited one, two, three big bites that puffed Cas’ cheeks like a chipmunk before he put the newspaper down flat on the table, flicked his eyes over towards the Walkman.

“Guess you finally found the Doors, then,” he started. Put his elbow down on top of the paper, pillowed his cheek against his fist. “What do you think?”

Cas still had his mouth full when he said, “I only just started the A-side,” and yeah, Dean should have expected that answer, knew it from the song he was on, felt his stomach start to drop with it, started to feel stupid for asking, but Cas kept going after he swallowed, “but so far, I like them very much.”

Dean’s mouth tugged itself into a smile before he could bite the impulse back. Was almost glad he didn’t when Cas’ eyes fell to watch it pull at his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Cas said, almost serious. Like he needed Dean to know how much he meant it. “Is that so surprising?”

“I mean, a little.” Dean leaned his head heavier on his hand, felt his knuckles press harder into his cheek with it. “Said it yourself. You’ve only heard a couple songs.”

“True.” Cas seemed to consider this, but only for a moment. “Although, I don’t think I need to listen to their whole discography to know that I understand them. Or that they understand me. I can-I can feel it.” He took his right hand off his fork and put it on his chest, palm flat, fingers spread wide. “When he sings, I can feel it.”

Dean knew that feeling better than anybody. Found himself asking anyway. “What’s it feel like?”

“Dark.” Without hesitation. “Like navy blue. Or maroon. Melancholy, but angry. Self-aware in its anger.”

“And you can relate to that.” He’d meant it as a question, but it came out as more of a statement. One he couldn’t bring himself to regret when it made Cas nod. When it made Cas take his hand off his chest and focus his attention back on his plate.

“I have a lot of things to be angry about.”

It sounded so simple, when he said it like that. Too simple. For the lives they all lived.

For an angel that fell from heaven and landed in Lebanon, Kansas.

Whatever Dean was going to say next got lost when Sam walked into the room. Still slightly out of breath from his run, long hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Face bright red as he ducked into the fridge for a cold bottle of water and walked over towards the stove.

“Hey. Did you save me any-”

“Pancakes,” Dean said.

“Blueberry,” Cas added, mouth full after another big bite. Dean rolled his eyes to hide the way his smile wanted to widen.

“What he said,” and took his cheek from his fist so that he could reach over again for Cas’ honeycomb mug. “Check in the oven.”

Sam busied himself with stacking pancakes, Cas with eating them, and Dean with taking a long sip of coffee. Closed his eyes with it. Felt the warmth of it all the way down to his stomach, to the tips of his toes and back up to the crown of his head, and sighed. Softly.

A breath that caught in his throat when Cas caught his hand and took the mug from him. Brushed their fingertips together for a fleeting moment, brought it up to his own mouth for a sip.

Without a thought or an ounce of hesitation. Natural as anything.

Like it was something they did every day.

Dean wouldn’t mind. If it was. If he started every day with blueberry pancakes, philosophical conversations about classic rock, a cup of coffee passed back and forth between the two of them.

It wasn’t something they did every day. But Dean wouldn’t mind. If it was.

Was pretty sure that thought was written all over his face with the way Cas was looking back at him. Blue eyes all half-lidded and sleepy, smile pulled soft at the corners. Slightly purple and probably sweet.

Dean licked his lips to chase the taste of it.

Spoke, to put words on his tongue, instead.

“Let me know what you think,” he said, and gestured with his chin towards the Walkman so that he didn’t have to take his eyes away from Cas’, “when you’re done with it.”

Cas nodded around another sip from his-their-mug.

Sam’s voice was a bucket of cold water to Dean’s system. A shock that nearly made him flinch.

“Done with what?” Sam leaned over once he sat so that he could look into the space between them. Dean tore his eyes away from Cas’ face just in time to watch Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh man. You finally made it to the Doors? You have got to listen to The Soft Parade sometime-”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Sam.” Dean felt his face twist up the same way it did whenever he smelled something bad. “The Soft Parade? Really? Is nothing sacred?”

“What?” Sam’s voice pitched up with it. Offended. “What’s wrong with The Soft Parade?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Dean laughed, watched Cas tilt his head out of the corner of his eye at the sound. “You want a list?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re serious,” Dean deadpanned, and shook his head at the wide-eyed look in Sam’s eye that told him he was dead serious. “Dude. What makes the Doors fun is that they were whacked when they wanted to be. Just totally ass over teakettle, did-not-give-a-fuck levels of weird.”

“And?”

“And compared to all that, The Soft Parade is bland. Boring. You know. Like white bread.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Some people might say that about classic rock in general.”

“And there are plenty of people that like white bread,” Cas cut in.

It took near Herculean strength for Dean not to roll his eyes.

“Buddy, that’s just an expression. I didn’t mean it literally.” He almost laughed at the way Cas nodded, expression cool and contemplative. Caught it, before it could fall from his lips. “And anyway, the problem’s not whether or not anybody likes it. The problem’s that it’s generic. It-it’s got no heart. Like glorified pop with an electric guitar.”

Sam again. “So?”

“So, that means it sucks.”

“Says you.”

“Hell yeah, says me,” Dean stated, “and every other sorry son of a bitch with clean ears and half a brain.”

“Whatever.” Sam huffed, and started at cutting his pancakes. “I don’t even know why I asked. You’re such a snob when it comes to this shit.”

Dean felt his smile broaden at the words. Smug. “Can’t help it if I’ve got taste, Sammy.”

Sam scoffed then. Said, “Yeah,” under his breath and made a point of looking Dean in the eyes, looking over at Cas, and then looking back at Dean. “Sure you do.”

Dean’s smile dropped, which made Sam’s widen. Which made Dean want to strangle him with his bare hands.

He didn’t. No matter how bad he wanted to.

He let it go, they moved on, and when they all were done, they each went their separate ways. Sam, to go shower, Cas, to go find a book in the library, and Dean, to go do some research at the desk in his room.

Not that there was anything wrong with the library or the war room or even the kitchen table, but sometimes it was easier to focus behind a closed door. By himself. With no distractions.

No bright-hot, Cas-shaped something to steal all his attention.

That was, until Cas knocked on his door a few hours later, tape in hand. Smile small and bashful while he said, “If I wasn’t so afraid of undermining the integrity of the asterisk system, I would give it three.”

Dean was beaming.

Beaming still, when they caught news of a haunting in Tulsa later that week and Sam decided to stay back.

Had nothing but open road in front of him, sunshine on his face, wind on his cheeks when he told Cas to reach into the tape box for Morrison Hotel because, “If you liked their first album, you’re gonna go nuts for this one. Trust me.”

Cas popped it into the tape deck without a word.

Smiled the moment the guitar came thundering in and let out a small laugh after the first verse.

Yeah, keep your eyes on the road, your hand upon the wheel.

Keep your eyes on the road, your hand upon the wheel.

Yeah, we’re goin’ to the Roadhouse, gonna have a real good time.

Dean looked towards the passenger side at the sound. Took in the way Cas’ cheeks pulled high with it, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“What?” he asked, and felt his pulse jump when Cas focused that smile in his direction.

“Sounds like you,” he said. Simple. Pleased.

There wasn’t any doubt that Cas meant it as a compliment. Dean said, “Shut up,” anyway.

Got him back a minute or two later, when Jim Morrison started babbling incoherent nonsense mid-verse and it was Dean’s turn to laugh.

Cas’ turn to look at him with his head tipped to one side. To say, “What?”

Dean’s, to let his smile pull high and say, “Sounds like you.” Teasing.

Earned him a solid push and a huff that quickly dissolved into another laugh.

And another. And another.

Dean held his breath through Indian Summer.

The car was too small, the air was too calm, the rest of the world was too far away for words like, ‘I love you the best, better than all the rest.’

Too close. It was too close to a name. Too close to whatever that bright-hot, Cas-shaped something might be called.

Two and a half minutes of butterflies, chest tight with heavy pressure, throat tight with fear. With words he couldn’t say, and feelings he refused to name.

Dean had never been more grateful to Maggie McGill in his whole life.

And then one album became two became three, as Morrison Hotel became Let it Bleed by the Rolling Stones became Blackout by the Scorpions became Zeppelin II and III and IV. Five hours from Lebanon to Tulsa, ten if you made it round trip.

48 in total, salt and burn included, until Dean was back home, on the couch in the bunker. Glass of whiskey in his left hand, remote in his right. Butch and Sundance as good a company now as they were when he was 8, and 13, and 26, and 35, and-

‘Listen, I don’t mean to be a sore loser, but, uh, when it’s done, if I’m dead- kill him.’

‘Love to.’

Somebody was getting ready to say ‘1, 2, 3, go’ when Cas wandered into the room. Hair dripping, skin pink from a hot shower. Posture loose and lax, the way it got whenever he was particularly tired. Proved the point with a long yawn as he sat down on the other side of the couch and squinted up at the TV.

His pajamas for the night were a pair of plaid blue pants and a pale, pink t-shirt. One of Dean’s, that had been white once upon a time, but had accidentally gotten tossed into the wash with a brand-new red flannel and got wrecked in the crossfire.

Dean didn’t know why he never got around to throwing it out. Now that he’d seen Cas in it, he never would.

It was tinny, the sound that was drifting from Cas’ headphones tonight. Almost hollow. If Dean had to guess, he’d put his money on an old guitar. One of those real shitty ones that always sounded slightly out of tune.

He knocked his elbow into Cas’, fought against the way his heart wanted to skip a beat when Cas turned his head, when Cas’ eyes fell to his mouth so that he could read his lips without having to pause the music.

If he was braver, or weaker, he would have run his tongue over his lips before he spoke. Slow. Just to see what Cas would do.

He didn’t, though. All he did was ask.

“What’s the jukebox playing tonight?”

Cas didn’t answer right away. Let the question hang there so long that Dean considered asking again, considered repeating the question louder, considered phrasing it differently.

But Cas shifted before he could. Closer. Scooted across the couch until they were knee to knee, elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder. Touching all the way up.

Instead of speaking, he pulled the headphones off his ears and let them rest, wrapped around his neck. Fiddled with the Walkman until the volume was all the way up, as high as it could go.

Leaned in even closer. Not quite cheek to cheek, but almost. Almost. So that Dean could hear, too.

I don't care who tells me salvation is not real,

Though the world may argue that we cannot feel.

The heavy burden’s lifted and the vile sins go,

I was there when it happened and so I guess I ought to know.

The B-side of Johnny Cash With His Hot And Blue Guitar. One of John’s old tapes that he’d picked up somewhere on the road, that he would play to keep himself awake at 3AM and ten-year-old Dean would listen to with his eyes closed while he pretended to be asleep, with Sammy’s head on his shoulder and the soft taptaptap of rain against the windows.

It was as close to a lullaby as he’d ever gotten.

He would know it anywhere.

It was that intimate familiarity, and that intimate familiarity only, that helped him process what he was hearing. Couldn’t focus on much of anything with Cas so close. Cas’ thigh pressed to his, Cas’ day-old stubble nearly scratching at his cheek, the clean, sweet smell of Cas’ shampoo in his nose.

“What are you watching?” Cas’ voice was rough, but soft. A deep growl that never failed to warm Dean from the inside out.

“Oh, just uh-”

Dean’s breath caught, faltered when Cas reached over him to steal the whiskey glass out of his hand. Felt his entire system shut down and restart with Cas’ back pressed to his chest, a heat gone all too soon as Cas settled back in his seat, still snug along Dean’s side.

“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Dean said. The words hanging a little uselessly in the air compared to how hard his heart was beating. Even more useless. “Supposed to be Paul Newman Day on TCM or something.”

Cas nodded behind a slow sip that Dean followed in his peripheral vision. Refused to turn his head and watch him put his lips on the glass.

Refused to watch the words leave Cas’ mouth when he spoke. Slow, smooth. “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.”

Because of course the fucker would quote Cool Hand Luke while Dean was in the middle of fighting off a mental breakdown.

“Yeah.” Dean said. Swallowed hard, held his breath to keep it from hitching again when Cas reached over to put the glass back into his hand, and let it go with a silent, shaky exhale once Cas was back over at his side. “Him.”

It was only another beat, another breath before Cas was reaching up to put the headphones back around his ears. Conversation over. Time to go back to their own little worlds, but Dean didn’t feel like popping the bubble quite yet. Stopped him with a hand on his thigh. A split-second decision.

“No, it- you can leave it,” he said. Tried not to sound too frantic about it, too desperate. Tried not to think about how strong Cas’ leg was, how soft the material of his pants was under his palm. “I don’t mind.”

He met Cas’ eyes when he turned his head this time. Looked and found that Cas had a tight crease between his brow that Dean wanted to ease with the pad of his thumb. Or the tip of his nose. Or the press of his lips.

“You’re watching a movie.”

True. But.

“Nothin’ I haven’t seen a million times.”

As if the same didn’t go for that crackly, old tape. Nothin’ he hadn’t heard a million times.

What Cas didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

And apparently, that was enough for him. Because he nodded, eyes softened, brow smoothed. Turned his head to face forward and took his hands away from the headphones so that he could fold them in his lap. Shifted, settled deeper into the couch. Made no move to leave Dean’s side.

Let the sound of that tinny, out-of-tune guitar blend with Butch and Sundance.

Though, not so loud as to drown out everything in Dean’s head that was screaming at him to take his hand away. That told him it didn’t need to be there. That said the moment had long passed and that keeping it there was a surefire way to give away something. Maybe give away everything.

But Dean couldn’t move. Couldn’t find a concrete reason to. Cas didn’t knock his hand out of place or tense beneath it. Didn’t seem uncomfortable or do anything to make it seem like the touch was unwelcome, so Dean. Didn’t.

Didn’t move. Didn’t let go.

Held on to Cas’ thigh in a loose grip and didn’t overthink it. Didn’t do anything that could get him into any sort of trouble.

Didn’t squeeze, so that he could feel Cas, warm and solid and strong, beneath him. Didn’t let his fingers go long, so that he could feel as much of him as humanly possible. Didn’t swipe his thumb back and forth, so that he could feel Cas shiver.

Was so focused on holding still, on keeping calm that he didn’t notice the song had changed. Not until the words came in.

Not until it was already too late.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.

I keep my eyes wide open all the time.

Dean was so focused on keeping his breathing even, on keeping his heart from leaping out of his throat that he almost missed it when Cas lowered his head and let his cheek fall to his shoulder. Temple against the corner of his jaw.

He almost missed it. Not quite, but almost. Almost.

I keep the ends out for the tie that binds

Because you’re mine, I walk the line.

There they were. Just sitting there, hanging there. Stark naked and bare, out there in the open like that.

All the words Dean couldn’t say. Bright-hot and Cas-shaped. Teasing him, mocking him. He wanted to scream. Wanted to whisper this, this, this and listen and someday I’ll say it, but you gotta know it, don’t you? You gotta know.

For you I know I’d even try to turn the tide

Because you’re mine, I walk the line.

But the words stuck tight to the roof of his mouth, the same way they always did, and the song always ended after two and a half minutes.

What were two and a half minutes compared to a decade?

They stayed like that a long time. Tucked together, Dean’s hand on Cas’ thigh, Cas’ head on Dean’s shoulder. A whiskey glass passed between the two of them until it was empty.

They stayed like that long after the song was over. Long after the album was over. Through the rest of the movie. Dean’s eyes on the screen, but his focus on the warm weight of Cas at his side. Cas’ breath tickling his neck. Cas’ hair, now dry, against his cheek.

They stayed like that through Lord Baltimore, to Bolivia, to bank robberies with language barriers all the way to a freeze frame in the middle of gunfire.

Careful to keep their voices soft for comments and questions. In a way they never were.

Like when Cas adjusted his cheek on Dean’s shoulder and wondered, “Why should Sundance know how to swim?” A question that made Dean want to laugh as much as it made him want to rewind and watch the scene again. “It doesn’t seem like a necessary skill for a cowboy to have.”

“Y’never know.” Dean didn’t hold a smile back like he did with a laugh. Let it pull his lips and was careful not to let it pull his tone, too. “Lives like they got, it might come in handy sometimes.”

Playing dumb was worth it for the way Cas huffed. The way Dean could hear in his voice that he wanted to roll his eyes. Dry. “They spend most of their time in the desert, Dean. How often could that come in handy?”

“Well, if you look towards the right side of the vehicle-” Dean raised his pointer finger off of Cas’ leg to point at the screen, towards Butch and Sundance standing on the side of a side of a cliff, water down below and bad guys all too close, “-you’ll find exhibit A.”

Tone clipped. “Yes, I can see that.”

Dean wanted to be more difficult about it, wanted to keep pushing his buttons, but he didn’t get the chance to.

Didn’t get the chance to get his mouth halfway open before he felt Cas wrap a hand around his bicep. Just above his elbow, just below the sleeve of his t-shirt. Calloused palm, calloused fingers rough against his skin. A thumb that dragged and scratched and felt so much like a match that Dean couldn’t help the fire that lit beneath it.

He kept perfectly still. Ignored the way Cas reached that thumb up under his sleeve. The way Cas trailed his fingertips back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, an easy rhythm that made Dean’s mind go slow the same way it made his heart go fast.

So fast that he wondered if Cas could feel it.

So slow that he couldn’t find the words to bite back when Cas dropped his voice down low and mumbled, “Smart ass.”

He was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Trying to remind himself that this was enough. The same way he always did. Told himself that having Cas at all was enough.

It didn’t matter how badly he wanted to lean his cheek against the top of Cas’ head. How badly he wanted to slide his hand from Cas’ thigh and wrap it around his shoulders. How badly he wanted to pull Cas into his side and never let go.

Cas was warm, and here, and safe, and alive, and that was so much better than Dean ever thought he was going to get. More than he thought he deserved. He’d never been the type to look a gift horse in the mouth and he wasn’t about to start now.

Breathe. He just needed to breathe. Needed to relearn how.

Had mostly figured it back out by the time the credits started rolling.

Just in time to forget all over again.

Because it was then, and only then, only once the credits started rolling that Cas shifted, just slightly. Like he was getting ready to leave.

Dean wasn’t ready for any of it to end, tried not to deflate at the thought of him and Cas going their separate ways after the last couple hours, the last couple days. Felt his stomach begin to twist with it, felt knots coil in the face of the inevitable, but.

But Cas didn’t get up. He didn’t get off the couch.

Dean didn’t look, didn’t quite know what was happening when Cas turned his head, slow. Even slower, how he tilted it, to rest his forehead against the line of Dean’s jaw. Something just shy of hesitant.

Dean could only be proud that he didn’t gasp at the touch. At all the points of contact between him and Cas-him and Cas-that felt laser sharp and blurry and crystal clear and hazy all at once.

Cas’ eyelashes, soft, fluttering against his cheek. Cas’ nose, blunt, brushing against his throat. Cas’ lips, rough, ghosting over his collarbone. Cas’ hand, strong, tightening in his sleeve.

Dean had no idea what to focus on. No idea where to start. Where he started, where Cas ended.

Didn’t know how it was possible to feel too big and too small for his body at the same time.

Was so wrapped up in a hundred different sensations, was so busy trying to remember which way was up that he couldn’t tell you when his eyes had closed. When his lips had parted. When his heart had started to beat a painful, steady tattoo against his ribs.

He didn’t know what was happening.

He didn’t have a goddamn clue, but he did have enough sense to be grateful that he still had the empty whiskey glass in his left hand. Was grateful to have something to hold on to. Something to keep him from reaching out, from putting a hand on the side of Cas’ neck and holding him there. Holding Cas still so that Dean could turn his head and lift his chin and touch his lips to Cas’ forehead, or his cheek, or the corner of his mouth.

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted-

But as quickly as it all came, it was gone again.

Another flutter of his eyelashes, a brush of his nose up Dean’s cheek so light that Dean wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it, Cas pulled back.

Dean’s entire body went cold with it. Numb with it.

Opened his eyes just in time to watch Cas swallow, followed the way his throat bobbed with it. Gaze set low, mouth a tight line. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say that Cas’ skin had gone red, that he had a flush across his cheeks, down the side of his neck.

Dean wondered if it felt as warm as it looked. If it would burn to touch. If it would taste like sunshine.

In one swift movement, Cas slid his hand from Dean’s arm and stood, forced Dean’s to slip from his thigh and fall to the couch with a soft thud. Empty. A space Dean tried to fill by curling it into a fist. To fight off how badly it ached at the loss.

Cas didn’t look at him. Had his eyes on the floor, body already angled in the direction of the door when he whispered, “Goodnight, Dean.” The words barely audible over the sound of the credits.

Dean couldn’t get his mouth open to answer.

Cas left the room before Dean could even begin to try, but maybe that was a good thing. Maybe silence was better than what Dean wanted to say.

Maybe silence was better than c’mere or stay a while or sleep tight, sweetheart.

Cas left. Dean didn’t move a muscle until The Hustler was halfway over.

Spent a long hour with his eyes on the screen, familiar voices in the air, but he didn’t see it. Didn’t hear it. When he listened hard, he heard Johnny Cash. When he blinked, he saw Cas, in shades of black and blue. Dark hair, warm eyes, a bruise with a pulse that hurt to touch.

He flexed his hand, curled and uncurled it, tensed and relaxed and left crescent moons where his nails cut into his palm. Nothing like the worn material of Cas’ pants. Not soft, but sharp.

Sharper, the pain in Dean’s chest. A dark, aching thing that curled in the spaces between his ribs and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed and sounded so much like you don’t deserve him, you don’t deserve to want him that he could barely see.

He couldn’t even say goodnight.

How was he ever supposed to deserve anything, how was he ever supposed to find the right words when he couldn’t even say goodnight?

It was nearing 2 AM by the time he finally turned the TV off and went back to his room. Rubbed his knuckles over his eyes as he shut the door behind him. Pressed and pushed and dug them in until he saw stars, until his vision went blurry.

So blurry, made his head spin so fast that when he stripped down to his briefs and went to throw his jeans over his desk chair, he nearly missed it.

The tape in the middle of his desk.

Johnny Cash With His Hot And Blue Guitar, back in its case. Baby blue gone slightly green with age, but bright against the dark wood. Which. Wasn’t surprising in and of itself. Cas returning a tape when he was done with it.

What was surprising, however, was the neon pink Post-it that Dean could see peeking out from underneath it.

Exhaustion, desperation made it easy for confusion to twist his face. Made it easy for him to reach out and push the cassette over to the side, so that he could see what was hiding beneath it. Felt his face smooth back out, felt his heart creep up at what he found looking back at him.

An asterisk in the middle of neon pink, black ink. A crooked smiley face drawn next to it. The whole Post-it freckled with tiny music notes.

Because apparently Cas liked the album, and he wanted Dean to know. And he didn’t want to wait until morning to tell him.

He didn’t want Dean to go to sleep without knowing.

Something in Dean settled, when he thought about Cas with a cheap, black pen in his hand and a thick stack of Post-its in front of him. When he thought about Cas sitting there with his brow pinched, his eyes narrowed, his shoulders hunched while he took the time to ensure that every line was perfect, to make sure the note was crystal clear in its meaning.

It didn’t erase the last hour. It didn’t get rid of any of the nasty, self-deprecating thoughts Dean had had since Cas walked away. Those thoughts didn’t just leave, because they never did, because his atoms were glued together with guilt and doubt and need, but his mind was definitely quieter. The knots in his stomach were definitely looser.

He was definitely smiling. It was small, higher at the left side of his mouth than the right, a soft thing that only just crinkled his eyes, but it was a smile.

Bright-hot, Cas-shaped.

He pulled the Post-it off his desk and stuck it to the shelf that lined the wall above his bed.

Clicked off the lamp in the corner, climbed into bed. Pulled the sheets up to his chest and stared up at the ceiling while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

Could almost see clear across the room by the time he realized that the Post-it didn’t have a single word on it. Not one. And yet, Dean knew exactly what Cas was trying to say.

Somehow, Cas had managed to say the right thing without saying anything at all.

If only Dean could figure out how the fuck to do that, too.

It was naïve, maybe, to think that Cas would stay on classic rock forever. That it would be this, just him and Cas on the couch or on a long stretch of road while they listened to the soundtrack of Dean’s whole life together. Forever.

All good things or whatever.

It wasn’t long after that night, after Butch and Sundance and that bright pink Post-it, that Cas’ hand lingered a little longer on the radio dial.

They were on their way to the grocery store. Dean’s usual Tuesday run.

“The hell are you doing?” Dean had asked, when he got to the Impala and found Cas there, waiting for him.

Cas had just blinked. Just said, “Going with you,” and waited quietly while Dean unlocked the doors. Climbed into the passenger seat without an ounce of hesitation.

Like that was exactly where he belonged.

He reached for the radio the moment they were out of the bunker and within range, twisted the dial between his thumb and his pointer finger. Passed over Pink Floyd on the classic rock station, passed over Elvis on oldies and landed on an unfamiliar station with an unfamiliar voice counting down today’s Top 15 on the pop charts and left it there.

Dean didn’t think all that much of it, if he was being honest. He thought they’d make it one, maybe two songs before Cas got bored and went back to their usual rotation of stations and tunes. He thought Cas would take a couple minutes to satisfy some good, old-fashioned curiosity and then they’d go back to normal. Business as usual.

He really should have known better.

He shouldn’t have been so surprised to be wrong.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Cas slapped his hand away with a sharp look when Dean reached over in the middle of some overproduced, autotuned horseshit and tried to change it. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Cas pulled his phone out to make note of a song, and then another. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Cas kept that same station on the rest of the ride, all the way to the grocery store.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when they got back in the car after an hour. Canvas bags spread out across the back seat. Air warm, windows down, breeze cool, sunshine bright on their cheeks. Cas reached up again and put his hand on the volume, turned it up, up, up until the sound of that stupid, pop radio station drowned out the growl of the engine.

He shouldn’t have been surprised a week later. When they were in the record store two towns over from Lebanon and Cas pushed a cassette copy of Lemonade into his hands on their way up to the register.

Dean’s step faltered mid-stride. Felt his eyebrows lift before he could think to keep his face neutral.

His instinct was to shake his head and tell Cas nuh-uh. No way. He wanted to say that there was no way Beyonce was mixed for a cassette and that the album would sound just as good, if not better, on YouTube.

He wanted to say that the tape had probably belonged to some teenage girl who’d bought it at an Urban Outfitters because she thought it would be cool to have something that seemed vintage. That she’d probably listened to it once, realized how annoying tapes could be, and gave it to her dad to get rid of because it was just that much easier to stream.

He wanted to say that they were probably holding the hand-me-downs of some popular high school sophomore and that they didn’t need it. That they could find some other, easier, cheaper way for Cas to listen to it, if he really wanted.

Dean had all of that waiting on the tip of his tongue, fighting break free when he looked up and met Cas’ eyes. Wide and blue and ocean-deep. Calm waves that Dean couldn’t watch turn to white caps.

Couldn’t bring himself to say any of the things he was thinking. Not with Cas standing there, looking like that.

Could only hold the tape up, label side out, and wonder, “This it?”

A question that made Cas’ eyes brighten. A nod that made his hair move and sway. A smile that showed teeth when he opened his mouth to say, “Yes,” and then, “Thank you,” when they got out to the parking lot and Dean handed him the tape.

He’d deny it if anybody ever pointed it out, but Dean would do just about anything to keep Cas smiling like that. Even if it meant listening to Beyonce all the way back to the bunker.

Even if it meant there was a rock the size of a small boulder sitting in Dean’s gut. Heavy. Huge.

The same boulder that had sat in his gut when he was 21, and he’d found college pamphlets at the bottom of Sam’s duffel.

Because as stupid as it was to admit, Dean’s music was a part of him. As much a part of him as hunting was, or watching movies, or pulling Sam’s ass out of the fire time and time again. He was born and bred, raised by rock ‘n roll and the smart part of him knew that not everybody could stick with it the same way he did. That it was natural for Cas’ interests to ebb and flow and change and evolve over time.

The smart part was glad for how often Cas was smiling these days.

The dumb part was afraid that Cas drifting away from his music meant Cas would drift away from him, too.

Everybody drifted away eventually. All Dean could do was brace for impact.

All he could do was hang on to what he had while he still had it.

All he could do was hang on while a day turned into a week turned into another, turned into another.

Beyonce faded into Miley, faded into Gaga, faded into Lana, faded into Kesha and Lizzo and Taylor and Rihanna.

Cas and that Walkman were still attached to the hip. He still brought it with him everywhere he went, but more often than not, he was listening to some thrift store, pop hand-me-down. One of the many he’d picked up over the last few weeks. The covers all pinks and purples and oranges and blues that clashed something awful inside Dean’s old cardboard box. Vibrant against a sea of blacks and whites and greys and reds.

Against the patchwork of art that blanketed Dean’s soul.

It was weird. Awful, and weird. Not being able to recognize the song that Cas was singing under his breath. Not being able to tell what he was listening to just from the dull hum coming out of his headphones. Not being able to cut in with an opinion when Cas and Sam went back and forth about a song or an album or a singer over dinner.

It made Dean feel small. Stupid.

It made Cas feel far away. Out of reach.

He still sat on the couch with Dean and tucked his toes under his thigh. He still stole Dean’s whiskey glass or his beer out of his hand and let Dean drink from his coffee mug. He still stood too close and looked too long and all the hundreds of other little things Dean had spent a decade learning to live with.

But all of a sudden, it was like too close wasn’t close enough. Too long wasn’t long enough.

Cas was right there, the same way he always was, but the word on Dean’s tongue was starting to taste less enough, less like want and more like need.

I need you, I need you, I need you.

Dean did what he could not to push him away any further. Not to deepen the cracks he could feel splintering beneath his feet.

He did his best to keep his mouth shut. To let Cas fill the silence, to let Cas fill those cracks before Dean could make them worse.

Because Dean being Dean meant he was going to make them worse. Somehow. Dean being Dean meant he was going to put his foot in his mouth eventually, meant he was going to say something he didn’t mean and push Cas away for good.

Because he was dumb and afraid, with a nonexistent filter and a temper like a hairpin trigger.

So he kept quiet and let Cas play that godawful radio station whenever they were in the car. He bought whatever Cas handed him at the record store and didn’t poke fun at any of the covers. He listened to Cas talk about this artist and that album and kept his mouth shut tight so that he didn’t get in the way.

Every so often he’d ask.

Who’s this? What’s that song about? When did that album come out?

Vague, open-ended questions that kept Cas talking and kept Cas close, but made it so Dean didn’t have to contribute. Made it so Dean could seem interested without giving himself the opportunity to say the wrong thing.

Dean would ask, Cas would answer. Cas would talk, Dean would listen. It was a perfect system.

Except.

Except one afternoon. They were sitting in the library. Beers off to one side, hardcovers off to another. Research long forgotten as the bottles began to outnumber the books.

Cas was knee deep in a rant about the merits of singers that wrote their own songs versus those that didn’t. His cheeks were flushed a rosy shade of pink, dark hair gone wild. Eyes half-lidded, slumped back in his chair as he argued, mostly with himself, over whether or not artists that didn’t write their own songs could be called true artists, or if they were simply performers.

To him, there was a difference.

Dean had just enough alcohol in his system to cloud his judgement, to loosen his tongue. To lose himself in the rugged lilt of Cas’ voice and put himself out on a limb with a comment about Freddie Mercury that he wasn’t sure would be all that relevant.

Said it anyway.

Swallowed his pride. Waited for Cas to squint, shake his head, say that it didn’t matter what Freddie Mercury did when they were talking about pop of the mid-2000’s.

But Cas surprised him with a bright smile, with an enthusiastic nod and a, “Yes, exactly,” as he brought Queen into the argument and Dean into the conversation more fully. Without missing a beat.

Closed the gap and chipped away at the boulder in Dean’s gut with two simple words.

Made Dean wonder, almost distantly, if maybe. Maybe the cracks weren’t so wide. Maybe Cas wasn’t drifting as far away as Dean thought he might be. Maybe expanding didn’t mean drifting at all.

Maybe Dean didn’t have to be quite so afraid.

He didn’t say a whole lot else. At least, not a whole lot else that he thought was helpful, or thoughtful, but he answered whenever Cas asked him a question. Chimed in with a comment whenever Cas left a beat open for him to speak.

Hooked his ankle around Cas’ under the table and felt his heart slam into his ribs when it made Cas trip over his words. When Cas’ cheeks went from pink to red and his smile went sideways. Bashful, with his lips pulled tight and his head ducked, blue eyes focused on the table.

Like he had no idea he was lighting a stick of dynamite beneath the boulder in Dean’s gut and blowing it to pieces.

Piece by piece, Dean got braver.

The words on his tongue, looser. The storm in his chest, calmer.

Easier, to stand on uneven ground. To voice an opinion, if or when he had one. To sit in the car and listen and let himself like what he heard, even if his interest wasn’t anything other than casual.

Because the shit Cas listened to wasn’t so bad. All the time.

Beyonce obviously knew she was all that and a bag of chips. Miley’s new sound was actually pretty cool. Early Gaga had a bit of a Bowie thing going on. Lana made Dean want to wrap his car around a tree, but Kesha was almost unfairly catchy. Lizzo was a powerhouse. Anybody with ears could admit that Rihanna had style.

None of it was really Dean’s style. He wasn’t gonna be waiting on line for concert tickets anytime soon, but he could grin and bear it. So long as Cas was smiling in the passenger seat.

Or, for that matter, sneaking up behind Dean at the stove.

It was French toast this morning. A quiet Sunday. Wonderfully slow, after a four-day vamp case in Omaha that had left Dean with nothing but tired muscles and a sore back.

The smell of coffee, of cinnamon helped ease the aches and pains. Warm and sharp and sweet from the batter, and the bread, and the apples he had frying in a skillet over on the other side of the stove.

It didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t really slept. That he’d been too wired, still had too much adrenaline in his system when they got back to the bunker to do anything but lie in his bed, but stare at the ceiling while the rest of the world caught all the z’s he couldn’t hold onto.

His eyes were on fire. The circles beneath them were starting to look like bruises, like the blacks and blues he had staining his shoulders from a nasty slam into a wall.

But it helped. The distraction, the simplicity, the domesticity that cooking in a quiet kitchen provided. Every little bit of it helped.

He had one hand on a spatula, ready to flip the French toast over when the time came, and the other wrapped around his coffee mug. Navy blue, speckled white. From a Target in Kansas City, that Cas insisted he buy because he thought it would go well with his robe.

He was halfway through a flip, had brought the mug up to his mouth for a sip when he felt a warm weight at his back. A chin on his shoulder. An instinct that told him to flinch away from it, another that told him to lean into it. A third that told him not to react at all. To finish flipping the French toast and taking a sip and pretend like he wasn’t half a second from jumping out of his skin.

That last one sounded like his best bet.

Cool. He could play it cool.

He could finish his sip, and hold the mug up for Cas to take, and focus on the hum coming from his headphones rather than the brush of their fingers, than the wave of ice that crashed over his body when Cas stepped away and over to the side.

Stood with his hip against the counter, body still angled towards Dean. And the food.

If Dean looked out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Cas’ big blues were still half closed. That his cheek was covered with creases from the material of his pillow, the soft weight of sleep etched into his skin. His shoulders, his chest blanketed in maroon. A cozy, cable knit sweater that Dean wanted to bury his nose in and breathe in deep.

“Morning, Dean.”

Dean thanked all his lucky stars that Cas couldn’t hear the way his breath caught. That he had a safe second to regain control, to focus his attention back on the stove and the task at hand while Cas slid the headphones from his ears to his neck.

“Hey,” he said, and tried to remember cool. Play it cool.

Cool, like the lazy tip of Cas’ head, the hip he had pressed against the counter. The hand he had shoved in the pocket of his pajama pants and the other he had wrapped around a navy blue mug.

“You’re up early.” A casual observation. Cool. Same way somebody might say the sky is blue, or grass is green. Kept going before Dean could volley back and say so are you. “How long have you been awake?”

Since yesterday.

“Little while.” Dean ignored the way his throat tightened around the words and reached across the stove to stir the apples when he heard them start to sizzle, hoped the noise could help cover up the lie. “Somebody had to get their ass up and make breakfast, right?”

He turned his head to shoot Cas a bright smile, to hit him with a little charm. To distract Cas from the fact that Dean already knew he was standing there looking like the walking dead and prove that he was fine, that there was nothing to worry about, but Cas’ mouth was already locked into a frown. Crease tight between his brow while he searched Dean’s face for the lie.

Probably found it hidden in dark circles and bloodshot eyes.

“You look tired.”

Dean tried to shrug it off. “Ain’t doin’ my job right if I’m not tired.”

But Cas’ expression didn’t move an inch. Dean should have known Cas would see right through him. Because Cas always saw right through him.

Didn’t mean Dean had to admit it, though.

Cas was close enough that Dean could nudge him in the stomach with his elbow, so he did. Nudged him. Tried to nudge away the concern along with it.

“Seriously, Cas. Quit worrying. I’m fine.” Dean took the mug back from him and took a long sip, tried to drive the point home with a satisfied ahhh and a caffeine warm smile, more genuine than the last. “See? Fine.”

Cas’ face. Flat as ever. “Dean-”

“You know,” he butted in. With all the tact of a bratty 12-year-old. Growing up with Sam meant he’d learned from the best. “Your face is gonna get stuck like that if you’re not careful.”

Cas’ eyes narrowed to a squint, a quiet threat, but the corner of his lips twitched like he was trying to fight something. A smile, maybe. A laugh he couldn’t let free because that would mean a victory for Dean.

“That’s a lie they tell to scare children.”

“You willing to take that chance?” he baited, but Cas still didn’t bite. Dean shook his head, huffed a laugh, nudged him again. Did what he did best and tried to deflect. “Come on, Squint Eastwood. Lighten up. Tell me what you’re listening to.”

The ten seconds it took for Cas to roll his eyes and run a rough hand through his hair gave Dean enough time to finally catch a couple of the words. To recognize the voice, a little of the tune.

But that’s not what I see.

So look what I got,

Look at what you taught me,

And for that I say,

Thank u, next-

“Ariana Grande,” Cas said. Dean didn’t know what it said about him that he already knew that, but he didn’t really care. “It’s a song about growth.”

Dean had his eyes on the stove, was getting ready to take a piece of French toast out of the pan and put a new one on when he tipped his head to one side.

“Oh yeah?” To let Cas know he was listening. To give Cas the room he needed to keep going.

To give Cas the chance to blow his whole fucking, sleep-deprived mind.

“She’s thanking her ex-boyfriends. Saying that she’s grateful to have had the chance to love them even though those relationships didn’t necessarily work out.” A pause. A steady breath in, and out. “Because in losing them and in spending time alone, she learned to love herself.”

If Dean were more of a douchebag, he might have scoffed. Might have told Cas it was silly to look for that much meaning in some girly pop song. That he was taking two and two and turning it into four hundred, but Cas wasn’t usually one for subtext like that.

He didn’t find meaning in yellow carpets, or red curtains, or blue wallpaper.

He was much more of a main text kind of guy, and knowing that helped smooth whatever teasing smile had started to pull at Dean’s lips. Felt it go smoother, felt his whole expression fall flatter the longer those words rattled around inside his skull.

“And that’s,” Dean started, tried to process the word as he let it go, “growth.” Hesitant. A statement and a question.

Cas hummed a soft note. A yes of a note. “Loss can be destructive,” he started, “but she chose to learn from it rather than let it destroy her.”

Loss can be destructive.

Dean learned that lesson at age four, and had been facing the consequences of it ever since.

Sometimes, if he breathed in real deep, he could still smell the smoke.

Cas’ voice was softer when he kept going. Smaller. Like a secret.

“I think it’s very brave to turn all that pain into something as beautiful as gratitude, or self-love.” He paused another good second, and Dean knew that if looked over, he would find a wry smile looking back at him. “Or a song.”

But Dean couldn’t look over. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t really breathe.

His head was spinning. Whether it was from the lack of sleep or the phantom smell of fire or the fact that he could actually sort of understand what Cas saw in a stupid, girly, 21st century pop song, he wasn’t sure. Found himself speaking anyway.

Tentative. Stomach knotted too tight to do much more than wonder.

“And you can-you can relate to that.” An echo of a conversation they’d had weeks ago. When the ground was more even, and the room didn’t feel so small, and Dean could stand more comfortably on his own two feet. “What she’s singing about. You can feel it.”

“Of course.”

He didn’t say it. He didn’t say I’ve lost almost everything because he didn’t need to.

Not when Dean could already hear it. Not when Dean had already heard it a thousand times before.

I’m hunted. I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you.

I gave everything for you. And this is what you give to me.

I’m doing this for you, Dean. I’m doing this because of you.

You just gave up an entire army for one guy.

And now Cas’ halo was gone for good and the guilt that wrapped itself around Dean’s atoms had climbed so high in the back of his throat that he could taste it. Could choke on it. Could feel the telltale prick of tears burning his eyes, threatening to fall because it was his fault, his fault, it was always his fault, Cas had lost everything and it was always gonna be Dean’s fault.

A soft click at the edge of Dean’s consciousness helped the kitchen go silent. A gentle hand on his neck stopped the tears cold. Clean.

A calloused thumb out long, to push at his chin. Angled his head so that he had no choice but to look Cas in the eyes. But to let calm waves wash away the threat of tears.

At some point, Cas must have pushed away from the counter, because his front was nearly flush with Dean’s side, chest only a short inch from Dean’s shoulder.

Dean could smell the mint of his toothpaste this close, the fresh scent of the detergent he’d used to wash his sweater.

Dean could count the onetwothreefourfivesix hairs that had gone grey at his temple, could count the lines that crinkled at the corners of eyes. Proof of life and loss, and laughter. And a smile.

A smile Dean could see there, could find in the lines near his eyes rather than in the pale, chapped lips that parted to say, “I have so much to be thankful for.”

And Dean didn’t understand that. He was pretty sure he would never understand that, ever, but Cas didn’t try to explain what he meant. He made no attempt to clarify what he said, except to flick his eyes over towards the stove and gesture with a tip of his chin towards what Dean knew were the apples sizzling again, over in the skillet.

Crinkles firmly set at the corners of his eyes. “Those are my favorite.”

“I know.” In a voice so breathless, Dean could barely recognize it as his own.

Cas’ eyes softened. His thumb featherlight, as it scratched over Dean’s stubble and swept a steady path across his chin.

Dean knew how easy it would be, to take a deep breath and tilt his head down, to purse his lips and press them to the pad of Cas’ thumb. Two parts tender, three parts need.

He wondered what Cas would do. If his eyes would go wide. If he would gasp. If he would leave it there and let it be enough or if he would want more, if he would push into the wet heat of his mouth and press down on his tongue.

The shiver that crawled up Dean’s spine was nothing short of electric. Bright-hot. Cas-shaped.

Warm and wild and pure and perfect, but it was too much. Dean always wanted too much. He always wanted what he couldn’t have.

He broke the moment with a soft cough. Ducked his head. Stepped away from Cas and out of his hold and over to the side so that he could put his mug down, put the spatula down, turn the burners off, and take the skillet off the heat.

The kitchen was quiet, with no more crackly sounds rolling off the stove. With Cas’ eyes on the side of his face. Cas’ whole body less than an arm’s length away.

Silence usually meant safety and Dean had no problem keeping quiet, but it was too quiet.

Too quiet for daydreams. Too quiet for desire. For everything Dean wanted and couldn’t quite have.

It was the only reason he opened his mouth and said, “I haven’t-uh. I haven’t slept. Since we got back last night,” even though he regretted it the moment he said it. Wanted to swallow the words and put them back on the bed of his tongue where they belonged. “Been up for a while.”

It hadn’t even been five minutes since he’d lied, since he’d plastered on a fake smile and told Cas he was fine, he was fine, and here he was spilling his guts, telling the truth like it was nothing.

If Cas had something to say about it, he kept it to himself.

If anything, his eyes just got softer. His voice did, too, when he nodded, just once, and said, “I know.”

Dean’s answering nod was a little slow, because of course Cas knew. Of course Cas could cut through the bullshit and see the truth, but he didn’t know how to respond without looking like a complete and total dumbass.

Nor did he know what was happening when Cas started to move. When Cas reached up into the cabinet, pulled out two plates, and knocked their shoulders together, pushed Dean over to the side so that he could get at the stove.

He watched Cas’ hands while he stacked three pieces of French toast on each plate. While he picked up the spatula, scooped apples out of the skillet, and put some on top of one stack, and then the other. The way they both liked.

Cas had a plate in each hand, had taken a step away from the stove and out into the middle of the room when he said, “Come on,” and kept walking. Towards the doorway. Away from Dean.

Dean sputtered. “Wha-what are you-where are you going?”

Cas didn’t stop.

“Inside. You have a record player in your room, don’t you?” Simple. Muffled, now that they weren’t facing each other. Didn’t wait for an answer before he kept going. “Bring forks and knives with you on your way in.”

He disappeared in the direction of Dean’s bedroom and left Dean wide-eyed, slack-jawed at the stove.

When he finally had enough sense to follow, it was with two forks and two knives. And two full mugs of coffee.

A small smile. A silent thank you.

Cas had already made his pick by the time Dean made it to his room. Stood there with his head up, shoulders back. Self-assured. Confident in his choice as he handed Dean a vinyl copy of the Doobie Brothers. The Captain and Me. A beat-down, scratched-up thing that Bobby had given him for his sixteenth birthday, that Dean suspected he’d bought at some garage sale for nothing more than two bucks and a good smile.

Dean took it from him and dropped the pin without a word.

They ate side-by-side on the floor, with their legs out long and their backs to Dean’s bed. Pressed together from ankle, to knee, to elbow, to shoulder.

With every passing second, every warm bite, every familiar note, Dean felt the tension in his shoulders unwind a little more. Felt the knots in his stomach uncurl. Felt the dull throb in the back of his skull go smooth and the steady ache in his tired muscles go quiet.

Cas stuck tight to his side. Sat calm, breathed easy. Hummed, whenever he recognized a song. Jiggled his foot in time with the beat, rhythm perfect, but somehow subconscious in its movement. Like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

Dean might have teased him for it, if he had an ounce more energy.

If it didn’t help just as much as the music. Maybe even more.

He had this kinda far-away look in his eye, though. Dean first caught it at the tail end of Long Train Runnin’, and again midway through Without You.

Baby, baby

I can’t live without you.

Dean kicked at Cas’ foot. Caught his far-away lookin’ eyes and wondered, “What’s goin’ on up there?”

“I-” He hesitated, voice little more than a rasp. “I’ve never been on a train before, I don’t think.”

Of all the things Dean thought he might say, that definitely wasn’t one of them.

Found it funny, fitting, that that sort of summed up the extent of their problems these days.

“You know, if you want,” he lowered his eyes, to watch Cas’ smile form and pull, “that’s something we could change.”

Cas’ eyes were closer to home when he whispered, “I’d like that.”

Dean would, too, but he didn’t say so out loud.

When it was time to flip to the B-side, Dean took it as a chance to bring all their dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Dumped them in the sink for a future version of himself to deal with, filled his mug back up to the brim with coffee, and went back to his room.

Flipped to the B-side with a well-practice ease, dropped the pin, and sat back down next to Cas.

He held the mug in his left hand. The hand caught between them. Let Cas know it was theirs to share when he leaned just a little bit further into Cas’ space and rested the mug on Cas’ flannel-clad left knee.

Cas let him know he got the message when he took the mug from him a minute later, took a short sip, and put it back in Dean’s hand, guided it to rest again on his knee.

If Dean took that as an invitation, if he gave into some of the leftover exhaustion and angled his body so that he could rest his cheek on Cas’ shoulder, so that he could bury his face in the curve of Cas’ neck, nobody needed to know.

Nobody needed to know the way he nearly gasped when Cas’ cheek came to rest against the top of his head. When Cas shifted to adjust to Dean’s weight, twined his arm over Dean’s so that he could settle more comfortably against him, and reached out to help Dean hold the mug at his knee.

Wrapped his hand around the empty space Dean’s didn’t quite cover, let their fingers overlap where they did. Traced over Dean’s hunt-shredded, scabbed-up knuckles with his fingertips, warm, rough. Scratched something pleasant, perfect against the mess that tore up Dean’s hand.

Less than a year ago, the touch would have healed him. Would have stitched his skin back together with a rush of blinding warmth and made him whole again. Like he’d never been broken at all.

There was something slow in Cas’ movements. If Dean closed his eyes and thought about it real hard. Not hesitant, or careful, but almost. Almost sorry. Somehow. An apology Cas was trying to engrave into his skin. Like Cas was trying to tell him.

I would. I would heal you if I could.

Dean didn’t know how to say it, he would never know how to say it, but grace or no grace, Cas was still healing him.

His knuckles were raw, red, and his shoulders were black and blue like all those bruises had come in a matching set with the circles under his eyes, but with every passing moment, every swipe of Cas’ fingertips. Every breath, every beat, he felt less and less broken.

Warm, and whole, and healed.

Dean tried to tell him. Tried to say thank you when he laced their fingers together, around the mug. When he caught Cas’ thumb on the other side and tapped on his knuckle. Once, twice. Barely there. Blink and you miss it.

Cas never missed anything.

Circled his thumb so that it was sitting on top of Dean’s, tapped on his knuckle, once, twice, and tried to say you’re welcome. Barely there. Blink and you miss it.

Dean couldn’t think of a single place in the world he’d rather be. A single person he’d rather be with.

Spent the rest of the day thinking about gratitude. About what Cas had said in the kitchen that morning. Sure as anything.

I have so much to be thankful for.

He still didn’t get it. How Cas could have anything to be thankful for when he’d lost so much. Dean was fairly certain that if it were him in Cas’ shoes, he’d have been crushed, suffocated, and dead under the weight of all that loss, all that pain within days.

Maybe Dean would never be able to understand Cas’ side of all this. Maybe he was just gonna have to learn to live with that.

But if he looked in the mirror. If he looked long and hard at his scars and his eyes and his chest and his life, he could see that Cas sort of had a point. Shit, Cas definitely had a point.

Dean knew loss. Intimately. He knew what it could do to people. Knew what it could drive them to.

Loss can be destructive.

His whole life, he’d associated loss with anger. With pain, and revenge. With emotions so hot they’d long passed red and faded into white. Emotions that cut you and split you and tore you into so many pieces, you’d never be able to put yourself back together the right way ever again.

There were times Dean looked around and found ghosts waiting at every corner. Times where he looked around and saw everyone he’d ever loved, everyone he’d ever lost. Times he was afraid he wouldn’t be long behind.

But she chose to learn from it rather than let it destroy her.

There were also times Dean looked around and saw a brother. Saw Sam. Alive, and happy, and healthy. Face red and bright after a long run, eyes poised and ready to roll while he made some kind of disgusting green smoothie to a chorus of teasing. Laughter lines etched into his forehead, and his eyes, and his mouth.

Lines Dean looked on with pride.

Grateful every day that Sam was happy enough to have them, safe enough to keep them.

Safe with Dean watching his back. In a place they could call home. A home. A real home. With a kitchen to clean and floors to sweep and couches to take lazy naps on. A room Dean could look forward to at the end of long trips or long days. A shelf lined with things that made him smile. A bed that remembered him.

Sure, that bed that felt too big sometimes, but Dean guessed he was supposed to be grateful for that, too. That he could fall asleep knowing Cas was here with them, finally. That Cas stayed and called the bunker home and was always nearby, even if he wasn’t as close as Dean wanted him to be.

Dean was grateful he got to see Cas’ smile every morning, and before he went to sleep every night.

He was grateful to have Cas around at all. Even if he did have shitty taste in music sometimes.

Dean just wanted to show him. Somehow.

Spent the next two days with that feeling, that self-awareness, that dizzying sense of gratitude heavy in his gut. Not the foggiest clue of how he could possibly show Cas, tell Cas without making a complete asshole of himself.

It wasn’t until he was out on his usual Tuesday grocery run that the idea hit him. That the proverbial lightbulb flashed bright above his head. Right there in the middle of the cereal aisle.

Where all great men had all their great ideas. Or whatever.

Once he was done stocking up for the week, once the back seat was lined with canvas bags and his wallet was a little lighter, he tore out of the parking lot and turned onto a familiar road. Not the one that would lead him back to the bunker, but the one that would lead him two towns over.

A drive he’d made so many times, he could do it with his eyes closed.

Half an hour later, he was back on the road. The one that would lead him home this time. His wallet was even lighter, his chest a little tighter, but his hands were a little steadier, and his jacket pocket was a little heavier.

Now came the hard part.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t putting it off. If he wasn’t purposefully coming up with a million and one other things he had to do first before he could go down to Cas’ room.

He had to bring all the canvas bags to the kitchen, because the detour meant they’d already been sitting in the car too long. He had to put everything away, because a messy kitchen was bad for the mind. He had to start dinner, because it was already 5 o’clock and three guys had the capacity to kill each other if they got hungry enough. He had to call Sam and Cas to come eat as soon as it was ready, because he didn’t spend two hours on eggplant parm just to serve it cold.

The excuses got thinner, after that. No less abundant, but thinner.

He had to wait until his beer was empty, because he didn’t believe in wasting booze. He had to have a second, because one wasn’t good enough for a buzz. He had to go sit on the couch, because he’d been on his feet all night and he deserved a couple minutes to relax. He had to turn on The Philadelphia Story, because he saw that it was playing on TCM when he flicked through the channels. He had to watch an hour of it, at the very, very least, because it was awesome.

He didn’t realize how long he’d been putting everything off until Sam stuck his head in to say goodnight.

Cas’ college-kid-sleep-schedule meant he wouldn’t be going to bed for a while, but if it was late enough for Sam to be going to sleep, it meant Dean had waited long enough. Meant if it waited any longer, he might lose his window of opportunity.

Might lose his nerve completely.

He walked to his room on nervous legs. Picked his jacket up off his bed, reached into the pocket and curled his right hand around what was waiting for him inside.

Knocked on Cas’ door with his left. Pushed the door open instead of waiting for an answer. Before he could psyche himself out.

Cas had his eyes closed, headphones secure over his ears. A sight that sparked heat in Dean’s chest no matter how familiar it was.

He was lying back on his bed, down towards the end with his legs hanging long over the edge. Thin strip of tanned skin exposed where his t-shirt had ridden up.

It was another one of Dean’s. So old that the black had almost gone grey with time, with the album cover for Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon stretched and cracked and faded across the front.

Dean’s pulse just about went through the roof. Stomach so tight with knots, with nerves that he might have buckled if he had to wait another second.

Cas’ sixth sense saved him the same way it always did.

“Hello, Dean.” He didn’t even have his eyes open yet.

Dean waited for him to take the headphones off his ears before he said, “Heya, Cas,” and hated the way his voice shook. Hated how uncertain he sounded. How tentative.

Cas opened his eyes and sat up in one smooth movement. Gaze already heavy, half-narrowed by the time he settled it on Dean. Crushed any hope Dean had that his anxiety had gone unnoticed.

Spoke, before Cas could make this any harder. Before Cas could ask him if he was alright like it looked like he might.

Slid his eyes past Cas and gestured aimlessly, stupidly towards the bed. “M’not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No.” Cas kept looking at him, even as he reached into his pocket to turn the Walkman off with a soft click.

Dean huffed a short laugh, more nervous than amused. Muttered, “Right,” and took that as his chance to walk further into the room.

He considered the space next to Cas for a second, but ended up stopping at his desk, directly across from where Cas was sitting. Leaned with his weight back against it. Left barely more than an arm’s length of space between them, but it was better than sitting down on the bed next to him. Gave Dean more room to breathe, to be.

It was subconscious, the way he avoided Cas’ eyes. A survival instinct that kept him from falling in and drowning. Chose instead to watch Cas’ hands. Followed them up and back down as he took the headphones off his neck and placed them on the bed.

A silent signal to Dean that he had his full attention.

Dean didn’t have to look up to know there was a curious set to Cas’ mouth, a question waiting for him in the corners. He could feel Cas’ eyes on his face. Just watching, waiting. Could feel the heat, could smell, taste the salt of the ocean.

Perfect, for the storm destroying Dean’s insides.

He braced his left hand around the edge of the desk to give himself something to hold onto. Something to anchor himself with. Was careful to keep his other hand loose, lax so that he couldn’t fuck this up before he even started.

Started, before his legs could win the battle between fight and flight and send him running in the other direction.

“So I stopped quick at the record store earlier. While I had a couple extra minutes to kill in town.”

Which. Was total bullshit. Right out of the gate, Dean was going with bullshit. A lie Cas didn’t even have to work to clock.

Cas had been on enough grocery runs with him to know that the record store wasn’t just a quick stop, not when it was it was twenty minutes and two whole towns over from Lebanon.

Dean didn’t say it because he thought Cas was stupid, though, or because he thought he could pull a fast one over on him. He just needed to play it off a little. Needed to make it seem like this wasn’t as big a deal as the voice in the back of his head was trying to make it out to be.

Cas must have recognized the statement as the security blanket it was, because he didn’t call Dean on it.

Didn’t say anything other than, “Oh?” with an easy lilt to his voice that Dean would’ve found soothing any other day. Any other day.

“Yeah,” Dean said, and there was that nervous laugh again. Too loud in the short space between them. A sound he needed to cover up as quickly as possible. “I uh-I got you somethin’.”

Exposure therapy, right? Best to face your fears, jump in head-first, and let the chips fall where they may.

Right?

Dean held his right hand up into the air between them, palm up. A cassette copy of Taylor Swift's 1989 pinched between the bend of his pointer finger and his thumb. Not used, or hand-me-down, or vintage or refurbished or classic, but new.

Brand-new.

Dean had made sure of that.

Couldn’t help but feel a bit like he was holding his soul in his hand with how terrified he was. He really should have known better than to think Cas would laugh at him, or call him dumb, but nobody ever said fear turned you into a genius.

He couldn’t name the emotion he heard in Cas’ voice the next time he spoke. Wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Cas sound like that in all the time they’d known each other.

If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say Cas sounded breathless.

“That’s,” Cas started, trailed off at the end of it. Took a good few seconds before he kept going. “For me?”

“Pretty cheesy, I know.” More forced nonchalance. More of that security blanket, wrapped around sharp fragments of truth. “But the way I figured, Taylor Swift doesn’t totally suck and everything I’ve heard off here’s got kinda like an 80’s vibe to it, so I-I thought-I.” Dean sighed. Tongue-tied. Face hot, neck hot, desperate to keep calm, cool. “I thought you might like it.”

Dean hadn’t heard Cas stand up. If he had, his heart might not have jumped and landed in his throat when he saw Cas’ feet enter the top of his vision. His jaw might not have gone slack when Cas lifted his arm, when Cas took Dean’s hand into his own and curled his palm around the back of it.

So that he wasn’t taking the tape from him, but rather that they were holding it. Together.

As if they were holding something important, something meaningful, and not just some dumb Taylor Swift cassette.

Cas lowered their hands. Rested the back of his against Dean’s thigh, just short of his hip. Dean ducked his head. Trailed his eyes from Cas’ shoulder, to his elbow, to his wrist, to his hand.

Their hands.

All the air had long left his lungs at how they looked together. How much bigger Cas’ hand was. How much thicker his fingers were. Tanner.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Cas’ voice was soft. Didn’t need to be much more than a whisper with how close they were.

Dean’s nod came natural. A jerk of a movement.

“I know,” and he did. Really, he did. “I just-wanted to get you something.”

Sincere as ever. “I thought there were still another few months left until Christmas.”

Dean wasn’t quick enough to catch the laugh that crawled its way up.

“It’s not a Christmas gift, dumbass.” Even so, Dean officially understood the Grinch better at this very moment than he ever did. Was afraid he might scream if his heart grew any bigger. “It’s to say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Cas repeated. Slow. So slow that Dean had no choice but to tilt his head back, but to tip his chin and let his neck go long and look up at him. “For what?”

Dean’s chest tightened almost impossibly at the look in Cas’ eyes. Some deadly combination of soft and confused and fond that Dean could feel in the base of his skull and the curve of his ribs and every single place they were touching.

“I don’t know,” he lied. Breathed. Amended, atoned. “For staying, I guess. For stickin’ around and calling this place home.”

He had no idea how it was possible for that look in Cas’ eyes to get softer, but it did. Jesus Christ, it did. Dean had no idea what to do with such rapt attention, such raw affection.

He’d never deserved the way Cas looked at him.

“Where else would I be?”

“Anywhere.” Dean inhaled. “Everywhere.” He exhaled. “I don’t know, man. You and that Walkman coulda hopped on a plane anytime you wanted. Hell, you could be listening to tunes at the top of the Eiffel tower right about now. Not in some stupid bunker in the middle of bumble-fuck Kansas.”

“I can’t afford Paris,” Cas stated, with the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “and my Walkman isn’t very useful on the other side of the world if your cassette box is here.”

“Cas.”

Dean let his next few words go slowly, and watched Cas’ smile fall with every syllable.

“If it would make you happy to go listen to music on the other side of the world,” he said, “I’d let you take it with you.”

Cas closed the gap and kissed him before Dean could even think to say I’d let you take the heart out of my chest if you asked.

Cas kissed him, and took those words right off the tip of his tongue.

The hand Cas placed at the nape of his neck was soft. Gentle. Held Dean steady, helped angle his head so that their lips would fit just right.

Cas’ were rough against his. Chapped and dry and so insanely perfect that Dean couldn’t help but melt against them. But melt against him. But reach his free hand up and hold Cas’ jaw in his palm. Like he was something precious. Something that might break if Dean wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t in Cas’ DNA to break, he’d proven that over and over and over again, but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Dean had waited over a decade for this moment. He’d waited a lifetime for Cas and Cas had waited eons for him and he was done pretending otherwise.

He was done pretending they hadn’t been heading towards this from the moment they met.

He didn’t care that it was a stupid Taylor Swift cassette that got them there. He didn’t care that that, of all things, was the thing that pushed them over the edge.

He was grateful for the push, and he was grateful to fall. And fall, and fall, and fall.

When they broke apart, it was only because they’d run out of air.

Dean could feel his pulse all the way down in his fingertips. Had fire licking at his cheeks, stars dancing behind his eyelids.

Cas only moved so far as to rest their foreheads together, brushed their noses together with it. Matched Dean breath for breath. Inhale for exhale. Heart, beat for beat.

Whispered, “Wherever you are, that is where God will find me,” so softly, Dean felt the words more than he heard them. On his cheeks, on his lips. So sweet, he wished he could taste them. “I would walk to the ends of this earth if it meant staying with you.”

His voice was rough, wrecked. As rough, as wrecked as Dean felt. Like it was just as world-shattering a thing for him to say out loud as it was for Dean to hear.

He would never make Cas walk to the ends of the earth, told him that with a long, slow stroke of his thumb, from the corner of Cas’ jaw to the corner of his mouth. Told him again with another kiss, a tip of his chin, a press of his lips. Caught Cas’ gasp from him, and buried it deep in the marrow of his bones.

Dean was the one that spoke first, when they pulled away this time. Lifted his chin to press his lips to the ever-present crease in Cas’ brow and said, “You’re just using me for my cassette box.”

Almost grave. Dry. Just shy of sincere. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”

Cas pulled back so that they could look each other in the eye, but stayed close enough that they didn’t have to let go.

He squeezed Dean’s hand, the one he was still cradling in his palm. The one with the tape.

“Listen with me?” he asked.

Dean nodded. Could only describe the smile that brightened Cas’ face as blinding.

He wanted to bottle that smile up for rainy days. Wanted to catch his laugh in a jar the same way little kids did with lightning bugs and keep it on the shelf above his bed. With all the other little things that made him happy.

“Where?”

Cas smiled, and laughed, and ran a hand through Dean’s hair, and said, “Anywhere.”

Anywhere ended up being an abandoned stretch of farmland a couple miles south of the bunker. Baby parked out in the middle of nowhere, blanketed in hundreds of thousands of millions of stars.

Not quite the ends of the earth, but almost. Almost.

They were up front, stretched out across the hood. Tangled together. Oblivious to anything that wasn’t the brush of their lips, the press of their bodies.

Dean’s hands buried in Cas’ hair. Cas’ hands pushed up under Dean’s shirt. The moans that started in Dean’s throat and sang their way up when Cas dug his fingers in the skin at the small of his back and traced his tongue over the seam of his lips. The sighs Cas would let out when Dean twisted his fingers in his hair and tugged just the right way. This ragged, breathy sound that he didn’t know Cas could make, didn’t want to live without.

The music was distant. A faint thing that held on at the edge of Dean’s consciousness. He’d popped that brand-new 1989 cassette into the tape deck just before they got out of the car, turned it all the way up so that they’d be able to hear it over the crickets.

They only made it about a minute and a half on their own sides of the car. Had been like this ever since. All wandering hands and rapid heartbeats and soft lips and soft sounds. Kissing long and slow under the stars. Without a care in the world, and Taylor friggen Swift singing somewhere in the background.

This love left a permanent mark

This love is glowing in the dark,

These hands had to let it go free, and

This love came back to me.

It was love. That bright-hot, Cas-shaped thing that lived in Dean. That fire that simmered low in the pit of his stomach, that twisted and turned and burned in the hollow of his chest.

It was love. It had always been love.

Dean still didn’t know how to say it. One day he would. Say it. He’d find the words, and they’d be simple, and he’d throw a thank you to the sky for Kerouac and roll his eyes when the answering breeze felt like an I told you so.

He was pretty sure Cas already knew. He was pretty sure Cas could hear it in every song Dean showed him, every cassette he handed over. Every laugh he let ring and every shared mug of coffee.

Cas already knew Dean was trying to say I love you.

Dean would find the words someday. For now, he would keep letting the music speak for him.

It would keep saying I love you.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

And Cas would hear it, and Cas would know.

So long as he kept listening.